"Wow, it's no wonder someone wanted to kill Mr. Prescott."
Robert looked at me then with a curious expression, and said, "It didn't upset me to a degree of that magnitude, I promise you. I didn't dislike him enough to go to prison for killing him. In fact, I think the whole thing ruffled Ernestine's feathers more than mine, and she's no murderer either. It especially irked her when the property was recently selected as the site for the new shopping center, and Horatio was promised six and a half million clams for it. They are surveying the property right now, doing title search work, and ironing out the details of the contract."
"Goodness sakes! That's a lot of money, isn't it?" I said. "Phew! Surely your stock investments didn't perform quite as spectacularly, did they?"
"No, but they're adequate enough for our needs. And yes, it will be an incredible return on Horatio's money, I assure you. His heirs will be delighted, no doubt."
"So Ernestine wasn't too fond of Prescott?" I asked, in a thinly veiled attempt at prying. I wasn't overly concerned with anyone's constitutional rights. It was easier for me to consider every guest guilty until proven innocent.
"Ernestine considered Horatio to be crude and uncouth. He'd made a habit of referring to us as 'Bert and Ernie' in public, which infuriated Ernestine even further. She felt it was very disrespectful. He's gone now, and I look at the whole matter as water under the proverbial bridge, but it taught me not to trust a man like Horatio any farther than I could throw a water buffalo."
I smiled at the vision his remark invoked. And I had to agree with Ernestine's assessment of Horatio Prescott. The Sesame Street reference was childish, and being snookered out of six and half million bucks might ruffle anybody's feathers, I thought.
I patted Robert's forearm, shook my head in disapproval, and said, "Well, Robert, I can see why Ernestine felt the way she did about Mr. Prescott. It doesn't sound like Prescott was a man with much integrity or very high morals."
"No. Sadly, he wasn't very principled for a self-proclaimed God-fearing man. He was an elder at the Presbyterian church, as well."
"Jekyll and Hyde syndrome?"
"I think he felt as if his duty at the church would erase his misdeeds in the eyes of the Lord, and perhaps ease his conscience at the same time," Robert said.
"Hmm..."
"I'm sure there was a motive behind it. Horatio makes... er, made, very few moves that weren't calculated. Which explains, in part, anyway, the wealth he amassed over the years."
"As wealthy as he apparently was, he must have kept a substantial amount of money in the Rockdale Bank and Trust."
"A substantial amount by most people's standards, but the bulk of his amassed fortune is in Swiss accounts. A lot of his wealth comes from questionable sources, like black market trading. There have even been rumors of a mob connection. So my guess would be a lot of the money has been nicely cleaned and pressed—"
"Huh?"
"Laundered," he clarified.
"Oh, my. And Boris? Is he aware of this?"
"Oh, I'm quite certain he is. In fact, I'd imagine he's the man with the soap!"
Chapter 4
Robert dumped imaginary ashes beside his chair and then placed the well-worn pipe in a back pocket before excusing himself to re-enter the Alexandria Inn. I noticed while we talked that he'd been shivering from the cool March wind as it flapped the thin, orange material of his jumpsuit back and forth against his skin. He was a tall, lanky gentleman, with a slightly bent-over posture, and was probably in his mid to late eighties. He was much too thin. There wasn't much meat on his bones to insulate him against the cold.
I was feeling a bit chilled myself and lifted my camera from the table to go inside when I heard the distinct squeak of the patio door opening again. Patty Poffenbarger, holding a pastry, liberally covered in powdered sugar, swept out onto the back porch with her very reticent spouse in tow. They each carried a cup of steaming coffee Crystal had probably just refilled.
I was beginning to think of Otto and Patty as Jack Sprat and his wife. If Otto could eat fat, he wasn't eating enough of it. He made Robert Fischer look beefy in comparison. And if Patty, who easily outweighed Otto by a hundred and seventy pounds, could eat lean, she was apparently not too fond of it, or she was eating enough of it for six people.
"Otto, sit there!" she instructed, as she pointed at a barren, brick flower planter. Otto obediently sat down on the edge of the planter and immediately dug his hand into the potting soil, which I had recently prepared for the planting of spring flowers.
He let the soil sift through his fingers, studying its quality. "Needs potassium to be more fertile," he muttered. "A little potash and nitrogen, too."
Patty, meanwhile, had plopped her large frame in the chair Robert Fischer had recently vacated. I held my breath as the chair groaned but, fortunately, didn't collapse. She was wedged in tightly, filling every inch of it, and I wondered if it might require Crisco and a crowbar to extract her from it.
"Doing okay?" I asked.
"Fine, fine," Otto said, without even a glance in my direction.
Patty looked astounded, as if she couldn't quite believe her husband had the audacity to respond in such a manner or had even taken it upon himself to respond at all. She leaned forward and said, "We're not fine, Otto, not fine at all. We're being held here and made to look like criminals in the eyes of all Rockdale's citizens. I'm sure at this very moment we're being gossiped about all over town. I know all the members of my bridge club must think I'm a suspect in Prescott's murder, and I don't know how I'll ever face any of them again. It's humiliating to the core, Ms. Starr. Rosalinda Swift agrees totally with me about this, I might add. It is a travesty of justice, and I, for one, intend to sue somebody for this assassination of my character."
With a dramatic "Humph!" and a lot of exertion, Patty pushed herself back into the chair, which made creepy sounds as if struggling to support her weight.
"Oh, my, Mrs. Poffenbarger, I'm so sorry you and Ms. Swift feel that way," I said. Why did I feel I had to coddle this whiner when I really just wanted to slap the self-righteous look off her face? "I'm sure the detectives will let you leave if you prefer not to stay at the inn. Detective Johnston said it was a request, not a demand, and intended only to simplify matters."
"Humph!" Patty Poffenbarger repeated.
Slap, slap, slap, I said to myself.
"You and Mr. Poffenbarger are not suspects, nor is Ms. Swift, and I don't think anyone is under the impression that you are. The detectives just need to question you in case you heard or saw anything that might be useful in their investigation. That's really all there is to it."
"If we were to leave, we'd look like we were hesitant to speak with the investigators. As if we had something to hide," Patty said. "Isn't that right, Otto?"
Otto looked up, cocked his head and shrugged. "Yes, dear."
It was obvious to both him and me that Patty didn't really care about his opinion. He immediately went back to running his fingers through the soil in the planter.
But Patty had made a point I couldn't dispute. I know I'd move them up the ladder on my own suspect list if they refused to cooperate with the investigating team. "It will probably only be for one more day, anyway," I said. "They've already taken statements from Stone and me and a few of the guests, and fingerprints from all of us. Remember, Stone and I are in the same boat as you. I was the first one to be questioned, in fact. Besides, Mrs. Poffenbarger, would it be all that horrible to have to stay here one or two more days? It's what you had originally intended to do anyway, and now the accommodations are complimentary, and you'll be able to enjoy a little unexpected rest and relaxation."
"Oh, I suppose that's true," Patty said in resignation. She picked a coaster up from the sofa table and began to fan herself. "Goodness, it's hot!"
"Would you like me to get you some ice water or something?" I needed to go inside and get some more coffee, anyway. If it did nothing else, it would warm me up a bit.
"No, it's like
ly just a hot flash. This stress we're under is not good for me. I have a thyroid problem, you know. It's underactive, you understand—Hashimoto's Thyroiditis, the condition is called. It's the reason I have to contend with a few extra pounds. And I think it's been acting up this morning because I feel a bit light-headed, all of a sudden."
A few extra pounds? A hundred and fifty extra pounds, she must have meant to say. At least it was a comfort to know the sugar-covered pastries I'd helped Crystal deep-fry earlier had nothing to do with those "few extra pounds" Patty had to contend with.
"Yes, quite faint, actually. Perhaps I do need a little something to boost my metabolism." Patty's voice had dropped to a near inaudible level, as if the very effort of speaking normally was too much for her and her under-active thyroid. "Could you run to the kitchen and see what you can find for me to nibble on?"
"Yes, Mrs. Poffenbarger," I said.
"Yes, dear."
Otto and I had answered in unison. I motioned for Otto to sit down, and then waved to Crystal, standing beside the window and peering out at the porch. She instantly appeared at Patty's side and offered the tray of refreshments, as if by habit. She rolled her eyes as Patty selected several cream-filled doughnuts from the tray, while lamenting about her thyroid condition. I had to stifle a giggle as I watched Crystal refill the Poffenbargers' coffee cups. There was enough caffeine being consumed at the inn to the degree no one in the entire household should be able to sleep for a week. I poured myself another cup of the fragrant beverage before Crystal left to check on the rest of the guests.
To make idle chatter, I pointed toward a raised flowerbed in the backyard where small, light purple blossoms were poking up above the fresh layer of snow. "Look at those colorful little flowers out there. Poor things bloomed a little too early, didn't they?"
"Actually, they're right on schedule," Otto said. "Those are called snow crocuses, my dear. They always bloom in early spring and often come right up through the snow, hence, their name. With their violet petals, grayish veins, and yellow throats, I'd say those are what are known as 'firefly' crocuses."
I guess the surprise showed on my face. Patty explained matter-of-factly, between licks of the Bavarian creme oozing out onto her fingers, "Otto's a botanist. He usually spends most of his day in a lab, staring at silly old plants."
It was obvious Patty thought this was the most ridiculous waste of time imaginable, but as an amateur gardener, I was interested in "silly old" plants, too. "Do all of the crocuses come up this early in the spring?" I asked Otto.
"Well, the snow crocus, of course, comes up in early spring, as do most of the crocuses. But there's also an autumn crocus, found primarily in Europe and the Middle East. It blooms in autumn and bears fruit in the spring. All parts of that particular plant, however, are lethally poisonous."
"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."
&nbs
p; 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."
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