The Extinguished Guest (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 2) (7 page)

"Really?" I was genuinely intrigued by Otto's knowledge.

"Yes. It has useful aspects though. The bulb of the autumn crocus contains the alkaloid
colchicin, which is still used to treat gout. It's also used in genetics because of
its property to cause polyploidia."

"Polyploidia?"

Patty was yawning, but apparently content to let her husband discuss insignificant
matters with the feeble-minded maid while she polished off the doughnuts. I had to
stifle my own sudden desire to yawn.

"Having a chromosome number that is a multiple greater than two of the monoploid number—"

"Oh, I see." I had no clue what he was talking about, but I cut him off because I
didn't really have the time or desire to listen to the entire scientific spiel on
polyploidia. It was clear I'd misjudged Otto, who didn't look as if he had two brain
cells to keep each other company. Jack Sprat or not, Otto Poffenbarger was obviously
a highly intelligent individual.

"I'm impressed, Mr. Poffenbarger," I said, as Patty shook her head in obvious disgust
at my laudatory remark. "You should think about writing a book."

"Well, actually, my dear, I
am
writing a book—but it has nothing to do with botany. It concerns my other interest—restoring
historic homes. How to do it properly so as not to destroy the innate historical quality
of the structure. There's nothing more distressing than finding an old Tudor mansion
decorated with Victorian furniture from a later period, or any historic home being
restored with features from a different era than when the home was actually built.
Did you know the flying buttress evolved during the Gothic Era?"

"No, I didn't, but I do see your point. It sounds like such an interesting subject.
I'm sure your book will do extremely well once it hits the book stores."

"I doubt it, but it stands to do better, now that Mr. Prescott is deceased."

"Huh?" I asked, taken back by his unexpected remark. "What do you mean by 'now that
Mr. Prescott is deceased,' Otto?"

"He was working on a book about the same subject, but he'd progressed much farther
than I in its completion. It looked like his book would hit the market well in advance
of mine, thereby diminishing the success of my book. A first-rate publisher had just
offered him a contract, in fact. I haven't even queried agents yet."

"Did he begin his book first?" I didn't mean to imply that Otto had stolen Horatio's
idea or was being a copycat, but he seemed offended by my question. Even Patty appeared
irritated, but this was more likely spurred by her annoyance at my display of interest
in her husband's book, a subject she obviously found boring beyond belief.

"He certainly did not!" Otto said, with more emotion than I'd have thought he possessed.
"I started my book weeks before Prescott even thought of the idea. In fact, I truly
think he got the idea from me. Unfortunately, Horatio required much less sleep than
I do. Maybe three or four hours to be completely refreshed, but I require a full eight
hours of rest each evening. He told me once that he awoke at about four most mornings
and worked on his book until breakfast and then off and on, whenever he could throughout
the day. My job doesn't allow me such luxury. I can only devote a few hours each evening
to my writing. His book's progress soon overtook mine."

"I see," I said. The main thing I suddenly "saw" was the reason Mr. Prescott was already
up and dressed for the day at 5:08. He must have been up working on his manuscript
about restoring old homes when the killer entering his room interrupted him. There
was a ballpoint pen in his hand at the time of his death. I didn't recall a manuscript
being discovered at the crime scene, however. I would have to inquire about this,
whenever the opportunity arose.

"Shut up, Otto, you're boring me plum to death," Patty said. She pointed a half-eaten
glazed doughnut at me. "And her too, I'm sure."

"Yes, dear," Otto replied, and resumed his sifting through the potting soil in the
planter.

Chapter 5

I stood up, made a couple of comments to the Poffenbargers about the weather, frostbite,
and having work to do in the kitchen, and walked back into the inn. Passing the door
to the parlor, I heard Crystal speaking to Boris Dack. I was shocked to hear venom
in her voice as she said, "If you weren't so self-absorbed, Mr. Dack, you'd see I
was busy pouring coffee refills."

"What'd you say?" he asked, obviously surprised by her uncharacteristic attitude.
"You cheeky, little—"

"You heard me! If you need an ashtray, go to the kitchen and get one for yourself.
I spend half my time trying to keep them cleaned out, as it is. Some people don't
appreciate the smell of nasty, old cigar ashes, you know."

I was as taken aback as Boris. I would've never expected Crystal to stand up to the
domineering man the way she had. She was usually very patient and able to brush off
anything and everything demanding guests said to her. She probably was in desperate
need of a little respite, I concluded. The young woman had been rushing around all
morning in her attempts to take care of everyone's needs. With a pleasant lilt in
my voice I spoke through the parlor door. "Crystal, my dear, it's time for you to
take a much-deserved break as soon as you get a chance."

"Yes, ma'am," she replied. "I'm ready for one."

"I'm sure you are. You've been working hard all morning."

I continued down the hall. As I passed the library, I looked through the glass doors
and noticed Harry and Alma Turner sitting side by side in the ornate mahogany loveseat
that Stone and I had discovered in an antique shop in the nearby town of Weston. They
were both absorbed in the books resting on their laps, and were so identically positioned,
they looked like human bookends. I hadn't had a chance to speak with the pair since
they'd registered, so I decided to spend a few minutes with them now while I had the
opportunity.

I was reaching for the doorknob when I sensed, rather than felt, a hand brush across
my backside. I wasn't positive it had even happened or had been intentional if it
had, so I didn't know whether or not to be affronted when I saw Cornelius Walker slide
by me on his way to his own room. I chose to ignore the gesture on the chance the
tenuous groping had just been a figment. I was tired and stressed out, and my imagination
might have been working overtime.

"Let me know if you need help sleeping tonight," he said with a wink as he opened
the door and quickly disappeared. He was gone from sight before I could respond, which
was just as well because I'd been rendered speechless by his remark, which I knew
held a hidden sexual connotation. I shook my head in astonishment. Cornelius reminded
me of a stealth bomber. I never heard him coming, but he always made a big impression
on me before he left my sight. I took a long, deep breath and entered the library.

"Hello there, Ms. Starr," Harry greeted me as I entered the library.

"Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Turner. Please call me Lexie. What are the two of you reading?"
I asked, making my voice pleasantly cordial.

"Well, Lexie, I've found this interesting biographical book about one of my all-time
favorite groups, The Spice Girls," the sixty-something gentleman said, as he turned
the book toward me to display a photo of Posh Spice, aka Victoria Beckham, singing
into a microphone. "And Alma's looking through some tome regarding military strategies
employed in World War Two. Very dry stuff, if you ask me, but Alma's intrigued with
it for some reason. I guess it's due to her German background. Her family immigrated
to America when she was very young."

German background or not, I couldn't imagine either one of them being interested in
the book each had chosen, but I was continually amazed at the eccentricities of these
Historical Society people.

"So, are you two doing okay? Considering what happened this morning and all? I know
it had to be quite a shock to you. It certainly was to me."

"We're doing all right. But it was quite an unexpected turn of events, wasn't it?"
Harry asked.

"Yes," I agreed. "Very much so."

"The investigators asked us to be ready to give a statement this afternoon, but neither
of us heard or saw anything to report to them."

"Then that's what you should say in your statement."

"Have they come to any conclusions about who the perpetrator might be?" Harry spoke
louder as his voice was nearly drowned out by a sound outside the library. We all
looked up in time to catch a glimpse of Crystal through the glass doors. She was pushing
a self-propelled vacuum sweeper down the hallway. She carried a feather duster in
the other hand. I called out to her, and she looked startled. She must have been deep
in thought. She waved off my offer to help her make up the guests' rooms for the very
first time in her newly acquired position at the inn.

"It won't take me long," she said. "And I'll enjoy seeing how the suites are decorated,
if the rest of the inn is any indication of the effort you and Stone put into finding
and selecting furniture from the Victorian era."

"We scoured every antique store in the Midwest, or at least it feels as if we did.
We were fortunate to find most of the paintings at the antique mall on Sycamore Street,
right here in Rockdale. All but a few came from the same estate, the old Warrington
home on Garnett Drive."

"Are the paintings in the parlor from the Warrington home? They're exquisite."

"Yes, and they should be exquisite," I said. "The paintings and artwork in the inn
cost more than the furniture."

"I thought I recognized a few of them," Harry said, interrupting as he turned to his
wife. "See? I was right. Remember when we dined at the Warringtons', years ago?"

Alma nodded and went back to reading. Crystal excused herself to continue down the
hallway. I turned back to Harry as he repeated the question he'd asked earlier about
whether or not a perpetrator had been identified.

"The investigation has barely begun, of course, and no suspects have been named yet.
Do you or Alma have any thoughts about it at all? Do you know any reason why anyone
might have wanted to see Mr. Prescott dead?"

"Could be just about anybody, I'd say."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Don't know a single soul who had any use for the man. Excuse my language, but he
was a jackass, through and through. If I'd have thought I could get away with it,
I might've considered knocking off Prescott myself."

"Good heavens, Harry! Mind what you say!" Alma finally spoke aloud, swatting her husband
on the forearm with her book, which bore the likeness of Winston Churchill on its
cover.

"Well, my dear, it happens to be true. And you know yourself, it's the God-awful truth."

"Well, maybe so, but we must not speak ill of the dead. You know better," Alma admonished
her spouse with a look of indignation in her eyes. Then she lowered her voice to almost
a whisper, and hissed, "And we needn't air our dirty laundry in public, either. Some
things are just not meant to be shared."

Alma's last remarks were spoken as a definite warning. I caught it, and I'm sure Harry
Turner did, too. I had a feeling he'd been about to tell me more about their previous
dealings with the late Mr. Prescott, but now he'd been effectively squelched by his
spouse. Harry looked at Alma in alarm, as if realizing what he'd almost disclosed,
and then turned to me with an apprehensive expression on his lean, weathered face.

"I'm sorry, Lexie," he said. "Alma's right. I should be more respectful at a time
like this. Not even a loathsome man like Horatio Prescott deserved a fate like the
one he suffered. Alma and I both are very distressed by his untimely death."

Harry fell silent, and it was obvious I wouldn't be able to unearth any more information
about the Turner's dirty laundry at this time, so I changed the subject. "Were either
of you aware that Horatio was writing a book about restoring historic homes?"

"Oh, sure," Harry said. He seemed relieved to talk about something else. "We both
were. It was common knowledge. I'd heard that just last week he'd received a call
from his agent, who informed him he'd been offered a contract from a large publishing
house. Otto Poffenbarger, who's penning a book about the same thing, was mad enough
to spit. In fact, I think he did."