Lexie Starr Cozy Mysteries Boxed Set

by Jeanne Glidewell

  I nodded, and glanced up at the sound of my door creaking open. Crystal peered around it with a surprised expression. "Oh, uh, sorry. I didn't know anyone else was in here. Hello, Ms. Swift. Is everything okay, Lexie?" she asked me.

  "Everything's fine, Crystal. Rosalinda and I are just chatting. And I owe you a huge thanks for that breakfast. It was terrific, sweetie."

  Crystal smiled and asked me if I wanted another cup of coffee. She was balancing a carafe of a Colombian blend on a round serving tray. It wasn't espresso, but even a cup of regular coffee sounded appealing to me. I sniffed appreciatively at the fragrant aroma as she filled my cup. Nothing was as welcome to me in the morning as the scent of fresh coffee.

  There was a clean, empty cup on Crystal's tray that she filled for Rosalinda. Without having to ask, Crystal automatically dropped two sugar cubes and a dollop of cream into Rosalinda's coffee, and stirred it several times before handing the cup to the older woman.

  "Thank you," Rosalinda said. She blew on the edge of her cup and took a small sip. "It's perfect—as usual."

  "You're welcome. Let me know if you need anything, Lexie," Crystal said. As she slipped out the door, she left it noticeably ajar. I appreciated the young woman's show of concern and caution. She had no way of knowing whether or not Rosalinda Swift posed any danger to me. All the guests seemed harmless, but one of them wasn't as benign as he appeared. There was at least one book staying here that couldn't be judged by its cover, I realized. I couldn't let myself lose sight of that fact and become careless. After Crystal had departed, I prompted Rosalinda to continue.

  "So, anyway, I wanted to keep Lily Belle in the family, but Peter wanted to sell the home. It's worth a great deal of money, you know. And we've bickered about this all these years since Mother died. I just can't stand the thought of some outsider owning Lily Belle, the home I grew up in and loved dearly my entire life."

  "I can understand why you'd be so sentimental about the place," I said. "But I can see Peter's side of it, too. I imagine it is a lot to keep up."

  "Yes, it certainly can be nearly a full-time job and a great deal of expense. I'm beginning to understand his feelings about selling the place, also." Rosalinda continued to recite the rest of her story as if it was something she wasn't happy about disclosing. "Well, as I was saying, a year or so before Mother was diagnosed with liver disease, I was engaged to the late Mr. Prescott. Yes, we were lovers, believe it or not. But, I'm sorry to say, the relationship came to an abrupt end, and I was crushed. If we'd just broken up and gone our separate ways, it would've been one thing, but instead, he tarnished my reputation and made me a laughing stock among my peers, and that was unforgivable. I was humiliated in front of my family and friends."

  "Oh? How'd he tarnish your reputation?" I asked. "How'd he humiliate you?"

  "He insinuated I was only interested in him for his money and made comments to that effect all over town. I'll admit I did have a lot of debts, due to high restoration expenses at Lily Belle mainly, but I would've never lowered myself to marry merely for money. Never! I truly loved the arrogant ass, or at least I thought I did. But I vowed that one day I'd make Horatio regret having sullied my good name in public the way he did. I was determined to even the score and have the last laugh. And it took a long, long time, but eventually I did!"

  "Oh, my God! So it was you who killed him?" I asked, nearly gasping in shock. I couldn't hide my surprise or my disapproval. I glanced up to verify the door was still ajar in the event Rosalinda felt obliged to shoot me in the head with a small handgun she had concealed in her cleavage, after she'd finished her confession.

  "No, no, of course not, Ms. Starr. Don't be silly. I didn't want to see Horatio dead. I wanted to see him knocked off his high horse, so to speak. Publicly humiliated, as I'd been. But I certainly didn't want him killed. After all, there's no fun or satisfaction in humiliating a dead man. I wanted to see him suffer and sweat."

  "Oh, well, that's a relief," I said. My heart felt as if it was racing. "So, what did you do? How did you knock him off that high horse?"

  "I made a deal with my brother," Rosalinda said, nearly under her breath. I had to lean forward and ask her to repeat herself, which she did reluctantly.

  "I made a deal with Peter. If he'd engineer a plan that succeeded in bringing about considerable financial ruin to Horatio Prescott, I would agree to sell the Lily Belle so he could cash out his half of the estate. He declined my offer—again and again—until, finally, one day he agreed to encourage Horatio to invest heavily in a high-tech computer software company, the hottest new IPO on the NASDAQ. Peter had just received inside information regarding the company's finances. The company had become too big too fast and had bit off more than it could conceivably chew. Peter heard, from a reliable source inside the company, that the CEOs of the corporation were planning to liquidate and file Chapter Seven bankruptcy in the near future.

  "Peter told Horatio instead that the company was about to be bought out by Microsoft, and the stockholders would realize a huge profit. Horatio, naturally, rushed to jump on the bandwagon, invested heavily, and ultimately lost over half his net worth. It was the retribution I'd prayed for all those years. The only thing that would've brought me more satisfaction is if I could have somehow let him know I was responsible for his misfortune. But, of course, this was impossible, for my own safety, of course.

  "I felt justice had been served, however, and Peter's end of the bargain had been kept, so I placed the Lily Belle on the market, as promised. I currently have several potential buyers interested in purchasing the property. Due to the lawsuit Prescott had recently filed against Peter, it now appears to the authorities as if Peter had an intense hatred of Prescott and a fervent motive to kill him. But Peter would never have murdered him. It's not in his nature to physically harm anyone, and especially not Prescott. My brother wanted his half of the money from the Lily Belle too much to kill him. He knew I'd never uphold my end of the bargain if anything happened to Prescott."

  Rosalinda finally took a break from her recital. With a deep breath, she studied my face in an attempt to judge my reaction to her story. I believed her. I couldn't imagine anyone would make up a story like that. But I wasn't sure what she thought I could do to help her brother. I expressed my desire to see her brother cleared of the murder. What he'd done was morally, if not legally, wrong, but it wasn't murder. He shouldn't be held responsible for murder in the first degree if he was only guilty of a lesser crime. And shouldn't some of the responsibility of this lesser crime ultimately land in Rosalinda's lap?

  I instinctively knew from the beginning Peter Randall wasn't the killer. I knew for a fact he didn't poison me, and Peter didn't push me down the stairs, and I would bet whoever had done those things had also shot Horatio. I couldn't live with myself if I just sat back and let an innocent man be held responsible for a murder he didn't commit while the actual killer walked around as a free man. I had to at least attempt to do something to clear Peter Randall's name so the authorities would get back to the matter of finding and bringing the real killer to justice.

  "How can I help him? What can I do?" I asked Rosalinda.

  "I don't know, Ms. Starr. I was hoping you'd have an idea."

  I was afraid of that. "Where is Peter now?" I asked.

  "I imagine he's at home, due to the winter storm. Of course, he works out of his home the majority of the time, anyway. He has an office there and another one in a business building downtown. I can call and find out if he's at home."

  "So he's not in jail awaiting arraignment?"

  "No, I guess there wasn't strong enough evidence to hold him without bond. He'll plead not guilty, naturally, but I worry his alibi is so weak they'll manage to hang him with the murder, anyway. If Peter said he was at the movies, then I know that's where he was, regardless of whether or not he recognized all the actors or was recognized himself by the theatre's employees. Is there some way you can prove he was at the theatre that night? Is there anything
at all you can do that might help?"

  She was beginning to sound desperate, but I didn't want to promise anything I had no prayer of delivering. Still, I felt a sense of responsibility to try to help. I needed to do something, even if, in the end, it proved to be a lesson in futility.

  "Is your brother married?"

  "He's a widower. His wife June died of lymphoma many years ago, and he's been alone ever since."

  "Okay. Tell me Peter's address, and I'll go talk to him. Don't call him. I don't want him to know I'm coming or that I've spoken with you. For now, I think it's best to keep your name out of it. Agreed?"

  "Yes, I'd feel better if he didn't know I asked you to help him."

  "I don't expect to be gone any longer than an hour, and my Jeep will get through this snow just fine. I promised to loan the Jeep to Boris Dack this evening, but I'll be back in plenty of time for that. It's sure handy owning a four-wheel drive vehicle. In fact, I could probably deliver you to your home, which would give me an excuse to be out and about in this storm. You said you had some pressing reason to leave this morning, didn't you?"

  "Well—I—uh—no, not really. Actually, I'd prefer to stay so I can take my car home with me when I leave," Rosalinda said. "Tomorrow will be soon enough to go home."

  What happened to being disappointed at having her plans thwarted? I wondered.

  "Oh, all right. But Stone is not going to be happy with me if he notices I'm gone. I practically promised him I'd stay in bed and rest all day. So I'll need you to help cover for me, okay?"

  "Okay. What do you have in mind? I'll help any way I can."

  "Give me about ten minutes to get ready," I said. "Then find Stone and tell him you and I just had a nice chat. Tell him you left when you saw I was having trouble staying awake. He'll assume I'm sleeping and not want to bother me. Try to keep him away from the front windows and distracted long enough for me to back my Jeep down the driveway and up the street."

  "All right."

  "If Stone seems concerned, try to get Crystal to confirm that you and I were having a pleasant conversation when she popped in with the coffee."

  I had the feeling there'd be hell to pay later, but I sometimes think it's easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission.

  "Would it be all right with you if I enlisted Cornelius's help in detaining Stone? He'd be able to distract him easier than I because he's such a—"

  "Pervert?" I asked.

  "—beguiling character."

  Did I hear right? Did she say "beguiling character?" Did people actually use the word "beguiling" anymore? She was half-right, I concluded. Cornelius was, without doubt, a character. Rosalinda had not heard my own one-word, less-complimentary depiction of Cornelius, as she continued on with her own flattering description of the man. I was starting to feel nauseated, as if breakfast hadn't settled quite right.

  "And he's such a brilliant conversationalist, don't you think? The handsome devil is so charming and witty, and just brimming with all that natural charisma—"

  The over-imbibing was clearly rendering Rosalinda Swift clueless. It was almost enough to make me want to rush home and throw out whatever remained in my bottle of Kahlua and the three remaining Key Lime wine coolers in my fridge. It occurred to me that Rosalinda was not concerned about leaving her car at the inn, but rather about leaving the "handsome devil" behind.

  "Having Cornelius help would be fine, Rosalinda. But we must not let it go any further than the three of us," I said.

  "All right, Lexie. I give you my word. Thank you for helping me and my brother, Peter. After Cornelius and I detain Stone long enough for you to slip out, I think I'll go to the parlor and look for something to drink, uh, er, I mean to eat for lunch."

  Chapter 16

  The snow was deeper and tougher to navigate than I'd anticipated. The state plows were concentrating on clearing the snow off the major thoroughfares and leaving the residential streets until last. It took three attempts to drive my Jeep through the drift at the end of the driveway. I began to doubt my wisdom in even attempting to drive across town. I felt warm and flushed; a hot flash no doubt.

  Nearly a half hour passed before I reached Peter Randall's house, an all-brick ranch in a middle-class neighborhood. His corner house was directly across from the commercial district. I could see a strip shopping mall, an all-night diner, and a movie theatre. I was forced to park in the middle of the street due to the depth of snow along the curb.

  I'd seen almost no traffic the entire way over, and I doubted I'd be blocking anyone's path in the next ten or fifteen minutes. That was the maximum time I intended to stay, anyway. I left the Jeep running so it'd be warm inside when I got back and made my way down an unshoveled sidewalk to the icy steps leading up to Peter's front door. The intensity of the snow had increased. I could barely see three feet before me as I held tightly to the railing and climbed the steps of his tiny front porch.

  The weary-looking gentleman who answered the door didn't look like a killer. He looked like a defeated, remorseful man facing a firing squad. He had a badly fitted hairpiece lying askew on top of his head. He wore expensive but old-fashioned slacks and a sleeveless white t-shirt, the type my father had always jokingly referred to as a "wife-beater," for some reason that's still unclear to me. Nevertheless, it was obvious Peter Randall hadn't expected company in the midst of the worst blizzard of the season.

  "Yes?" he asked, as he opened the door.

  "Mr. Randall?"

  "Yes, I'm Peter Randall. Can I help you? Is your vehicle stuck?" he asked. He sounded convinced no one would be calling at his house except to borrow his phone to make an emergency phone call.

  "Hi, I'm Stacey Shryock, and no, I'm not stuck. I came to see you, hoping to hire you as my financial advisor."

  "Today? In this storm?" It was evident in his voice he thought my request was absurd.

  "Well, yes," I said. I hadn't given the bizarreness factor of my ruse much thought. It was time to punt, as I frequently found myself in need of doing. "Because of the weather, I had the day off work, and figured it'd be a good day to see you without a prior appointment. My Jeep was designed for extreme weather like this, and I thought I'd take advantage of the fact."

  "I see." The look on his face made it clear that what he saw was a deranged ninny.

  "I see," he said again. He looked up at my Jeep, still idling in the middle of the street. "Guess you better come on in, Ms. Shryock, and get in out of the cold."

  I followed Mr. Randall to a small room in the rear of the home. Mr. Randall was an immaculate housekeeper, I noticed. I doubted there was a single dust mote in the entire house. By the smell of Lysol in the air, I'd caught him in the act of disinfecting something. Was a house this clean a sign of a meticulous mind—a beneficial trait for a financial advisor—or a sign of an obsessive/compulsive disorder? I had to admit I'd feel a little more at ease if I spotted a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling, or a smudgy fingerprint on the plate-glass window. At least I'd feel more at home, anyway.

  Once we'd settled into a couple of chairs in his home office, I began lying through my teeth. I explained to him I was expecting a substantial windfall soon, an inheritance from a great aunt, on her deathbed, of course. I was very saddened by Auntie Lou's imminent passing but wanted to be prepared to handle the large sum of money she'd allocated for me in her will. The least I could do was to invest my inheritance wisely so I'd have a nest egg to fall back on in difficult times.

  I needed someone like Mr. Randall who could map out a wise investment course for me. As he responded to my plea, I could tell Mr. Randall was pleased at the opportunity to impress me with his financial expertise.

  "Are you looking for a long-term investment, such as an individual retirement account?" he asked. "Do you prefer safe, lower-yielding investments, like certificates of deposit or municipal bonds? Or are you, perhaps, looking for a higher rate of return on your money? Something a little riskier, but with greater earnings potential, in which case,
we'd want to consider a mutual fund or stock in some blue chip companies." I noticed while he spoke he was repeatedly rubbing his eyes, which were red and puffy. "There are a number of stocks that fall into this category. I could highly recommend a few of them for you."

  "Uh, I'll need to consider all the options. Maybe I should think about investing a portion into each of the different options."

  "That's actually what I was about to suggest, Ms. Shryock. It's never wise to put all your eggs in one basket, as I'm sure you've heard before. The smartest choice would be to diversify your portfolio." His eyes were beginning to water and tears were spilling over and running down the sides of his cheeks. He patted them with a handkerchief he'd pulled out of his top drawer.

  "Are you all right, Mr. Randall?" I asked.

  "Uh-huh."

  "Have I come at a bad time?"

  "No, my eyes are just bothering me today. Could you please excuse me for a few minutes, Ms. Shryock? My contacts must be dirty or scratched or something. They're really aggravating my eyes, even more than usual. I'm beginning to think I may have developed an allergy of some kind. I hope you won't mind if I go and remove them?"

  "Of course not. I'm in no particular hurry." I wanted to sustain the impression I thought this the perfect day to be out and about, running errands and hiring new financial advisors.

  "There's a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen if you'd like to help yourself," Mr. Randall said, standing up to leave the room. "The kitchen is right down the hall, and there are clean cups in the cabinet right above the coffee maker. I'll just be a minute or two."

  Coffee sounded good, as was normally the case with me, even when it was weak as I expected that Mr. Randall's would be. I was eager to see if his kitchen was a spotless as his office and living room. I wasn't surprised to find that it was. It looked as if it had never been cooked or eaten in. It had a rather depressing look to it.