Murder at the Dolphin Inn

by C. S. Challinor

  “Can I help you?” the man asked in a reedy voice. “I'm Walt, the manager. Well, actually the owner now.” He said this as though confronting a hard-to-acknowledge fact.

  Rex assessed the individual more closely: podgy midsection, thinning hair of graying brown, Buddy Holly glasses obscuring the upper side of his face. His plaid sport shirt exuded a smell of warm toast, and he wore a pair of old loafers.

  “Sorry to hear aboot your parents,” Rex commiserated as they moved along the dim passage and through the baize door leading into the main part of the guest house. The hall and narrow foyer were painted the same pale purple as the façade. The transom window above the front door irradiated color: a trio of leaping blue dolphins, curving waves in seafoam, a pearl white sky, and a yellow sun.

  “Is that a Scots accent?” the innkeeper asked, pleased when Rex confirmed his guess with a nod.

  “Are you still open for business?”

  “You need a room?” the man asked in surprise. “I’d be more than happy to accommodate you.”

  Rex thought Walt was taking the deaths of his parents rather well. He had not so much as acknowledged the fact of their demise. “Only if it's not an imposition. The room is for myself and my fiancée.”

  “No imposition,” the man said obsequiously. “None at all. And it helps to keep busy. This is what my parents would have wanted. It’s my way of honoring them.”

  This was said respectfully and without any show of emotion. Rex supposed everyone expressed their grief differently. He wondered how he would feel if his mother died; though, since she was approaching ninety, it was, sadly, more a question of when. “What are your rates?” he asked.

  Walt shuffled to the reception desk, which stood in a corner of the foyer by the front door. It resembled a pulpit and supported a large guest book, a roll of paper towels, and a polished chrome bell in the shape of a maple leaf, with a push-knob at the top. Rex supposed the deceased owners had brought this item with them from Vermont.

  “The Tennessee Williams Suite just became available,” the innkeeper said. “The two sisters—spinster librarians—were staying here on a literary tour, but are leaving. The Robert Frost Suite is vacant, but that faces the street. The Tennessee is one of our nicest. I could get it made up right away and give you a twenty percent discount owing to the inconvenience of law enforcement being here. But they'll be confined to that part of the house.” Walt pointed to the baize door through which he and Rex had entered the hall. “They've already interviewed our few guests. Not that it was any of them!” he hastened to add.

  He tore off a square of paper towel along the perforation and blotted his brow.

  “I would have thought you'd be fully booked for Fantasy Fest,” Rex remarked, looking about the narrow space encumbered by a steep flight of stairs.

  “Uh, not quite full.” Walt plucked at invisible lint on his plaid sport shirt. “The spinsters. Two college students. And the Shumakers from Ohio. A real nice middle-aged couple.” He gazed expectantly at Rex as though the Scotsman and his fiancée might find instantaneous friendship in the Shumakers. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he added, his face brightening. “We have a couple of writers from Kansas. A man-and-wife writing team. And a businessman by the name of Mr. Bill Reid, but he keeps himself very much to himself.”

  The innkeeper turned the guest register to face Rex. “If you could just fill in the blanks...”

  “Rex Graves is the name, but I had better clear it with my fiancée first. It’s ultimately her decision. We’re supposed to be on a cruise to Mexico, though I’d just as soon stop in Key West for a few days, if I can get out of it.”

  “Which cruise line?”

  “Carnival. The Fantasia.”

  “Leave it to me. I'll call them and see what I can do.”

  “Thanks so much,” Rex said, assuming the innkeeper had more experience with travel arrangements than he had. “I'll be back.” He paused with his hand on the front door knob. “I hope you don't mind my asking, but Helen will want to know what happened, and whether it's safe to stay here.”

  The two clowns had looked more like realistic wax replicas at Madame Tussaud’s in London than actual dead bodies. And Captain Diaz appeared to have everything under control. All the same, he should find out as much as he could before committing himself to a reservation.

  “Believe me, the murderer isn’t one of the guests,” Walt assured him for the second time. “And the only other person staying at the Dolphin Inn is my sister Diane—and her two kids,” he added as a quick aside while fumbling with the guest register. “I’m sure the killer has long since skipped town.”

  Rex sincerely hoped not. America was a big place, and he had no intention of going after the killer all the way to Kansas, or wherever. He was not sure he could even find Kansas on the map in a hurry.

  “But what was the motive?” he asked Walt speculatively. And, he pondered, could one person have subdued the owners of the Dolphin Inn, even if they were an older couple?

  “You get your fair share of psychos in Key West,” Walt said. “Might’ve been a random mugging. Or drug-related. Who knows with these addicts? They don’t even know themselves what they’re doing most of the time.”

  Rex thought this doubtful as the murders had appeared very methodical. “Was anything stolen?” he asked.

  “No, actually, and that is a bit odd, isn't it? Look, don't worry about your stuff. There's a safe in every room.”

  Rex hoped other security precautions were in place too.

  “Oh, that’s them now!” Walt blurted, his face blanching to a ghostly pallor as he directed his gaze toward the staircase.

  Two elderly ladies picked their way down the stairs, the plumper of the pair carrying the bags while the other negotiated the steps, a bony hand on the banister, a walking stick in the other. Since Walt was doing a good impersonation of a petrified rabbit and made no effort to move, Rex rushed to offer assistance, which the ladies blindly ignored.

  “My sister and I are leaving now and we demand a refund,” said the one with the cane, dressed much like the other in sensible flat shoes, dark velour pants, and a sateen lavender blouse. Though her words made it apparent she was addressing Walt, her eyes through the lenses of her pince-nez were cross-eyed, and it was impossible to tell for sure where she was looking. Pigeon-toed, she bore down on the reception desk with the aid of her walnut cane. Rex stood aside to give the women more room in the cramped hallway.

  “I’m afraid I can’t offer you a refund,” Walt stammered, cowering in his corner.

  “Of course you can. Can’t he, Emily?”

  “I should think so!” said the elderly woman in the pale blue blouse. “A double homicide, the police questioning us endlessly... We could have been murdered in our beds!”

  “Quite so, Emily. But what can you expect in this town? Fantasy Fest! Positively heathen. And now our vacation is ruined. Perfectly ruined!”

  “Circumstances beyond the guest house’s control,” Walt ventured, his body trembling like Jell-O. “But perhaps—”

  “We are volunteer librarians, with limited funds. We must find another place to stay at short notice. The inconvenience. Isn’t that so, Emily?”

  If only the Brimstone sisters had researched their destination more carefully, Rex reflected. “Forgive me,” he intervened. “But if you cannot be prevailed upon to stay, might I suggest you take your business elsewhere, as you propose, with minimum fuss. This man has just lost his parents and finds himself more inconvenienced than yourselves, surely.”

  Not-Emily stared in his general direction. “And who are you?”

  “A guest here.”

  “Well, more fool you, I say. Isn’t that right, Emily? However, we will pay our bill in full to avoid further unpleasantness.”

  With a shaking hand, Walt swiped the card through his portable machine and gave the cross-eyed lady the receipt to sign, which she managed to do without missing. He stapled the customer copy to the invoice. “Ma
y I call you a cab?”

  “No need. And we won’t be back,” she shrilled.

  Rex obligingly opened the front door, and her sister followed with the bags.

  They would not have made congenial companions. He hoped the other guests were more so. Walt mopped his moist brow with the paper towel and thanked Rex for coming to his rescue. Rex felt he’d had little choice. The poor man had been on the verge of a heart attack.

  “Och, a harmless pair of old biddies,” he said. “Bark worse than their bite. I’ll see you in a while.”

  He stepped out the door, turning to close it. Walt was gazing after him quite pitifully, as though he might never see his potential guest and savior again.

  ~FOUR~

  Walt was no longer at reception when Rex returned after seeing Helen off on her shopping spree. It had been touch and go convincing her to stay at the Dolphin Inn, when the owners had been served up for breakfast in their own kitchen, their grotesquely made-up faces preserved in plastic wrap. But fortunately, she had not seen them. He would try and make up for the cruise.

  Hearing voices from the room to his right, he found an older couple seated at table having breakfast. The dining room accommodated eight round tables covered with floral tablecloths, fresh posies in vases placed in the center. White crown molding decorated the pale lilac walls, putting Rex in mind of icing on a cake.

  The couple looked up from a street map spread out between them as he entered. They wore white shirts with ruffles down the front, red neckerchiefs, and black boleros. Rex assumed they were dressed up as pirates, and this was confirmed when he saw a gold-braided tricorn hat perched on the finial of a spare chair, a fake black beard and a sword lying across the seat. Apparently, Fantasy Fest wasn’t over quite yet.

  “Is Walt aboot?” he asked in his Scots burr.

  “He went to the pastry shop on Duval,” said the pixie-haired woman, who was in her late fifties, judging more from the silver streaks in her hair than her smooth skin and slim figure. “The kitchen is sealed off while the crime scene technicians finish up, so no hot breakfast today. We’re having ours late because of all the hoopla.”

  “There’s cereal over on that table and hot coffee in the urn.” This from her partner, a man of similar age with a sallow complexion and a gray goatee, which failed to disguise his weak chin.

  Rex thanked him and helped himself to a mug of coffee. The serving table ran alongside the interior wall of the dining room next to an elegant marble fireplace in pinkish white, heavily carved with a grape motif and topped with a sculpted mantelpiece. He added cream from a jug and two packets of raw sugar from the assortment of sweeteners in a basket.

  “Are you staying here?” the woman inquired, gazing at him through her sleek designer spectacles. “I don’t recall seeing you before.”

  “Hoping to stay. I spoke to Walt a short while ago regarding a reservation.”

  “Are you a reporter?” asked the man, his deep and resonant voice at odds with his undistinguished features. “Can’t imagine anyone wanting to stay here otherwise.”

  “No-oh.” Rex drew out the word cautiously. “I’m not a reporter. But there are not many vacancies in Key West at the moment.”

  “That’s the truth,” the woman said. “But people will start leaving now the parade is over. And, speaking for ourselves, we find the murder aspect quite exciting! I mean, it’s not likely to happen again with all the cops about, and it must have been someone who is miles away by now.”

  Rex selected a chair at a neighboring table, eager to pursue the topic of murder in the hope of new information. “I take it the owners are Walt’s parents?”

  “Yes, it’s horrible. Of course, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, especially under their own roof, but Taffy Dyer was a piece of work—though I do feel bad for her long-suffering husband.”

  The woman’s companion took her hand and gave it a brief consoling squeeze. They wore identical wedding bands. Rex decided it was time to introduce himself. She beamed at him and said they were Peggy and Dennis Barber from Wichita, Kansas. A few minutes ensued while she finished her muesli and Dennis his cornflakes.

  “I hope Walt won’t be long. We have a book signing at ten,” she said.

  “Not much longer,” her husband assured her. “He took his moped.”

  “Are you the writers?” Rex asked. “Walt mentioned something to that effect.”

  “We are,” Peggy all but gushed. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of us. We write the High Seas Pirate series. It follows the adventures of a seventeenth century buccaneer.”

  Hence the outfits, Rex surmised.

  “The costumes are a bit gimmicky, but it helps sell books,” Peggy echoed his thoughts. “The latest novel, which we’re here to promote, is The British Brigand. We’re doing stores in Key West. Borders Express closed, more’s the pity. Will you come to our Island Books signing today? It’s on Fleming Street.”

  “I’d love to,” Rex prevaricated, “However, I’m going to be rather occupied.” He saw the disappointment in Peggy’s face. “But if you have a spare copy of your novel, I’d love to buy one and have you sign it.”

  “Of course!” She reached into a large case on the floor and pulled out a trade paperback with a busy cover. “Who should we dedicate it to?”

  “To Helen—my fiancée.”

  They autographed it, and Dennis reached over the intervening table and presented it to him.

  “Oh, aye, verra nice,” Rex said, reviewing the swarthy pirate standing astride the quarterdeck of a captured Spanish galleon. He turned the book over, aghast when he saw the price. He handed over a twenty dollar bill, waving away the offer of small change due on the purchase.

  “Are you staying in Key West for long?” Peggy inquired, quick green eyes flashing with interest.

  “Not sure yet. We were on our way to Mexico via Miami, where we saw my son briefly. He’s pursuing his studies in Jacksonville. But we may stop here for a week.”

  “Before Key West, we were signing in St. Augustine, another popular venue for pirate fans. That’s just an hour from Jax. There’s a tradition of pirates and smugglers in Key West, as you’d expect from its proximity to Cuba and Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula.”

  “Rum from Cuba during Prohibition and drugs from South America,” Dennis contributed. “Cannabis and cocaine, mostly.”

  “Key West had an active drug-trafficking community in the seventies and eighties,” Peggy elaborated. “The authorities have really clamped down, but with thousands of boats to and from the island, and millions of tourists pouring in and out each year, law enforcement can’t realistically search every vessel and vehicle. And the delays wouldn’t be good for tourism. Oh, I think that’s Walt now.” She craned her neck toward the white gauze draping the bay window.

  A whine outside similar to a yard trimmer gave way to a faint rumble and stutter above the chatter of pedestrians waiting for the latest news on the murders.

  Peggy’s husband checked his watch. “About time.”

  A few minutes later Walt appeared with a clear plastic-covered tray of pastries, which he placed on the long table. He smiled in relief when he saw Rex.

  “Victorian?” The Scotsman leaned back in his chair and pointed to the arched opening of the fireplace mantel culminating in a carved pineapple.

  “Circa eighteen hundred and sixty-five. The owl andirons are slightly later.”

  The cast-iron log supports featured big round eyes glowing amber in the gloom of the swept hearth. From a pewter holder hung a set of fireplace tools—long-handled brush, shovel, poker, and prongs. Rex found it hard to imagine a blazing fire in Florida, but no doubt there were occasions for it.

  “The Tennessee Williams Suite is ready, and I called the cruise line,” the innkeeper informed him while the Barbers gravitated toward the pastries, Peggy’s boyish frame clad in black knickerbockers, her husband in flared black trousers reaching mid-calf. Both were shod in buckled shoes.

  “You si
mply need to see the purser on your ship and fill out some forms. I mean, it’s not like they can hold you against your will. Anyway, I told them it was a family emergency.” Walt coughed in apology. “Hope that’s okay.”

  “There is a family emergency,” Rex replied. “I’m just sorry it happens to be yours.”

  “You are bearing up amazingly well, Walt,” Peggy interjected as she passed on her way back to her table, nibbling on a flaky croissant.

  “The show must go on,” Walt crowed. “My parents wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  “Of course not,” Peggy consoled him. “And you’ll do just fine running this place. We have every confidence in you.”

  Dennis gave Walt a reassuring prod on the shoulder as he, too, returned to their table where they gathered up their belongings. “Duty calls!” he announced, taking his fruit tartlet with him.

  “Good luck,” Walt called after them. “Our resident writers,” he told Rex. “Ah, I see you have one of their books.” He looked even more pleased—until Captain Diaz appeared in the doorway.

  “Mr. Dyer, you got a minute?” the detective summoned, acknowledging Rex with a brief nod.

  Walt gazed back at Rex. “Are you staying?” he asked.

  “Aye, don’t worry. I’ll have one of those delicious-looking pastries and finish my coffee while I wait.”

  His host gestured toward a wooden rack stacked with fresh newspapers. “Help yourself.”

  The papers did not yet contain stories of the double homicide at the Dolphin Inn. Headlines abounded about the Fantasy Fest parade. Rex pulled out a copy of The Citizen, envisioning the cover page in the next edition: “Local Innkeepers Murdered at B & B!” or “Clowns Involved in Bizarre Death!” No doubt the editors would come up with something more imaginative, but that would be the gist. He wondered what details had been released to the press.

  Rex lifted the lid off the pastry tray and selected a chocolate-filled croissant, and returned to his table to enjoy his breakfast while he waited for Helen. His Key West vacation had truly begun and was shaping up to be most interesting. Most interesting indeed.