Rex pulled himself off the armrest and went to refill his glass for Helen, whom he calculated must be stirring by now. Wishing the two couples a pleasant evening, he made his way back down the hall with a clearer picture of the Dyer family dynamics and some valuable insights into the guests.
He recalled there was one other occupant Walt had mentioned, whom he had yet to meet.
~EIGHT~
Glass of chardonnay in hand, Rex approached the stairs. A glum Walt sat behind the reception desk on his stool, looking for all the world like an overgrown dunce relegated to a corner of the classroom.
“I wonder if you could recommend somewhere for dinner,” Rex inquired. “Perhaps with a view of the water.”
“Oh...” Walt came out of his reverie. “Sorry. My single gentleman skipped out without paying his bill, and I was just wondering what to do about it.”
“The business man you mentioned?”
“Bill Reid. He was due to leave today. Nice Canadian gentleman. I’m surprised he left without saying goodbye. I can charge his credit card for last night, but I'm not sure when he left. Could have been early this morning when I was busy with the detectives, or else some time yesterday. Taffy would have known as she kept tabs on all the guests. But he never officially checked out, so I can't be sure.”
“Are you certain he left?”
“I went into his room a moment ago with clean towels, and all his personal effects are gone. The cops were looking for him, wanting to question him same as everyone else.”
“Maybe he got scared off by the murders.” Rex thought it fortunate not more guests had booked into the Dolphin Inn. However, the bodies had not been found until seven this morning. The two couples he had just spoken with in the guest lounge were coming to the end of their stay, otherwise they might have checked out early.
“The only people not scared off are the press.” Walt ripped a sheet of paper towel off the roll and wiped away at the spotless mahogany surface of the desk. “The first flurry of cancellations has come in. I’m so glad you booked a room. Not sure why you did...considering.”
“Well, the, ehm, event occurred in a separate part of the building, after all. And your bed-and-breakfast is nice and central.”
“Oh, yes, very convenient. Within walking distance of all the major attractions.”
“Quite so.” Rex hesitated. He wanted to be upfront about the real reason he was here, or, at least, to not completely dissimulate it. “I should also mention that this is not the first time I find myself in a place where death had occurred.” Or the second, third, or fourth.
“Oh, I see.” Walt gazed at him questioningly through his black-framed glasses. “Well, that’s alright then,” he hemmed. “And your fiancée?”
“She’s used to it too.” Except that in her case, it wasn’t a matter of choice. Rex just happened to attract murder like a magnet, as she liked to put it. “And your sister? How is she handling your parents’ passing?”
“They weren’t close. Diane only came here because she had nowhere else to go after her divorce. She came for some peace and quiet, not that that’s happened.”
“The publicity will blow over once the culprit or culprits are apprehended,” Rex consoled him. “It might even ultimately work to your advantage.”
“That’s what I’ve been hoping,” Walt said on a pensive note. “A tie-in for Halloween...or a crime scene theme for mystery writers, going forward. Some people go in for that sort of thing.”
More to the point, who went in for murder right here in Key West? Rex wondered.
The innkeeper roused himself. “Oh, yes, you were asking about a restaurant. I would recommend Louie’s Afterdeck. The food is great, with a terrific view of the ocean, but I believe it’s closed for dinner Sundays and Mondays. I’ll see if I can get you a table at The Funky Parrot. It’s a lot of fun and very Key West, plus it’s closer. Is around seven okay? I’ll call your room and let you know.”
“That would be grand.”
Rex climbed the stairs, pausing when he heard a woman’s raspy voice declare, “I’m in the Hemingway Suite. I just know Taffy wanted to stick me and the kids in one of the attic rooms, but how would that have looked? Hemingway was married four times and committed suicide, you know. I suppose it could have been worse. My parents could have put me in the McCullers’.”
Rex took another step and glimpsed a pair of skinny legs beneath a shapeless gray dress. This must be the Dyers’ divorced daughter Diane, whom he had seen at the pool with the two rambunctious kids.
“Oh, I just love The Heart is a Lonely Hunter,” floated Helen’s response from around the corner. “Wonderful characters, especially the deaf mute. I forget his name.”
“John Singer. Carson McCullers wrote that when she was twenty-three. She wanted to be a concert pianist, but developed rheumatoid fever at an early age and eventually became paralyzed all down her left side. Every joint in her hand had to be operated on. And she lost her right breast to cancer. At some point she attempted suicide too. Her husband succeeded.”
What a depressing conversation, Rex thought, glad they had not been booked into the McCullers’ Suite. Or Hemingway’s.
“We love our suite,” Helen said in an upbeat tone. “Tennessee Williams’ house was around here, wasn’t it? I’m sure he led a happier life,” she trailed off with less assurance in her voice.
“Why would you think that?” Diane inquired. “Have you seen A Streetcar Named Desire? All that repressed longing and violence. And the playwright choked to death on a plastic cap from a bottle of eye drops. I think he...”
And Rex had always thought creative writing a hazard-free occupation. Enough! he decided, attacking the final steps before Diane Dyer could spew forth more of her gruesome literary lore. Interrupting the conversation, he said brightly, “Hello. You must be Diane.”
“How did you guess?” the woman with the scraggly blond ponytail asked, suspicion narrowing her viper-green eyes.
“Walt pointed you out at the pool.”
“Yeah? What did my brother say?”
“Only that you had just come through a difficult divorce.”
Diane's hard face cracked into a sardonic smile. “And thanks to my mother, I got full custody of the kids. She told the judge my ex beat them up. So now I have to raise them by myself while he swans about with his bimbo stripper in Minnesota.”
Unable to think of an appropriate response, Rex thrust the wine glass into Helen's hand and propelled her toward their door. “Walt is making dinner reservations for us. See you later, hen,” he addressed Diane kindly, using the Scots term of endearment and whisking Helen into their suite.
“That Diane is hard work,” she said when the door closed behind them.
A school counselor, she had an empathetic way of reaching out to people and a genuine desire to help with their problems. Consequently, she often attracted emotional and needy types. He feared Diane might be one of those people. And Helen could not resist helping them any more than he could resist trying to solve a murder.
“She’s writing a novel based on her personal experiences,” Helen informed him. “That’s how we got on the subject of authors. It’s a murder mystery.”
“Can it be healthy to be writing aboot murder so soon after her parents’ death?”
“She’d already started it. It’s called The Hollow Soul, a literary work about—in her words—a woman’s search to find herself after her useless, faithless, and callous husband abandons her and their children for a stripper from Minneapolis.”
“Ouch. So she is drawing from actual experience.”
“Many first novels are auto-biographical, she told me. She’s going through an extremely difficult divorce. I said the writing of her book could be therapeutic.”
“Especially if she gets to kill him off?” Rex asked.
He groped about in his pocket for his pipe to enjoy on the balcony before they went out to dinner. His fingers encountered a small round object he had foun
d across the street that morning before they learned of the dead bodies, and which he had forgotten about since then. “Let’s hope it’s a cathartic experience, like you said, and putting it down on paper prevents her from actually doing anything to her ex, even if he deserves it.”
“So, where did you disappear to?” Helen asked.
“I was in the lounge talking to the other guests, a nice couple from Ohio, and a pair of college students from Florida.”
He examined the embossed brass button while Helen sank on the bed and kicked off her sandals. “Did you find out anything new?” she asked.
“Only that someone's been leaving a calling card on the front door mat.”
“What sort of calling card?”
“Dead cats.”
Helen deposited her wine glass on the bedside table with a thunk. “I knew we shouldn’t have stayed here,” she muttered.
Rex helped himself to a small sherry from the decanter on the dresser. “I’m sure it won’t happen again. If it was a threat, the purpose for it has likely been served.”
“You think the cats and murders are connected?”
Rex joined her on the bed and folded his hands beneath his head on the pillows. “If I knew that for certain, I could eliminate the guests. They've only been here a week, at most. The first cat appeared a month ago.”
“Diane told me she’s been living here six weeks.”
“An ex-employee was terminated a week ago, but it’s unlikely he planted the cats if he valued his job. If it had started after his firing, that would be a different matter.”
Had Walt told the detectives about Taffy letting Raphael go? Perhaps not, if the man had been an undocumented worker. There were penalties in the States for employers who hired illegal immigrants. Rex thought if he could come up with a strong enough motive for murder, such as unjustified termination, to take to Captain Diaz without getting Walt into trouble, he might elicit some information in return; maybe find out what the autopsies had revealed. “And there’s a guest who did a moonlight flit,” he told Helen.
“Now that sounds suspicious.”
“It does indeed.”
Rex intended to get to the bottom of that mystery as well.
~NINE~
That evening, they strolled to The Funky Parrot by way of Duval, whose storefront windows proved an unending source of fascination for Helen. The air was soft and balmy, puffy clouds obscuring the sun and providing temporary relief from the heat. Urban roosters with gleaming feathers clucked and crowed at every intersection, with a total disregard for the time or for the crowds milling about them.
Rex steered his fiancée out of the way of a satin-bodiced ballerina erratically pushing a stroller stocked with beer cans cooling in slush. Other remnants from Fantasy Fest clustered outside the noisy neon-signed bars, bare torsos displaying intricate designs, from spider webs to nautical themes, while a couple of girls minimally dressed as mermaids attracted their fair share of attention. On the street, carloads of youths yelled from rolled down windows above deafening bass amplifiers, eager to get an eyeful of flesh.
“I'm losing my sense of reality,” Helen said.
“What is reality?”
“Now, Rex, don't get all philosophical on me. You know what I mean. There are so many oddballs in this place I'm beginning to feel abnormally normal.”
A posse of motorcycles roared past the storefront façades and café terraces, chrome handlebars splayed high and wide, bleached-blonde women sporting tattoos seated pillion. Leading the pack was a man wearing a red-check bandanna, legs thrust forward on the pedals of a low-slung machine. The suntanned faces sped by, powerful arms steering the pulsating machines. It made Rex feel a shade wistful. If only he could feel as carefree.
“Happy you stayed?” he asked Helen when the growling Harleys had retreated far enough for him to be clearly heard.
“Did I have a choice?”
“Aye, and I hope you made the right one.”
At that moment, he became aware of a pair of red stilettos striking the sidewalk ahead of them, their owner a tall brunette in a tight calf-length black skirt which impeded her progress. The impression was one of speed-walking. A scarlet silk scarf around her neck floated in the sultry air beneath her tumble of hair.
Helen tutted, following his line of vision. “Why, Rex, you old dog. I wonder… Is it a he or a she?”
“I think the new term for transvestite is a ‘he-she.’ ” He had learned a whole new vocabulary from Campbell. “Gay” now meant silly. “Bad” had a positive connotation, as did “sick” and “insane.” It was all rather confusing.
However, judging by the womanly cupped buttocks, he thought the person mincing ahead of them in the stilt heels had to be a she, but he didn't dare say so to Helen. In any case, he was spared further comment when, without warning, the brunette stepped into the street, hailed a bubblegum pink taxi with a flamingo on the roof, and hopped in the back in one fluid movement. The cab sprang forward and melted into the traffic.
“Wish I could attract a taxi that fast,” Helen marveled. “Perhaps if I dressed as provocatively...”
A man in a Hawaiian shirt and chinos ducked into a second taxi cab. It screeched away from the curb and ran a red light at the next intersection.
“Did you see that?” Helen exclaimed in indignation. “The driver almost knocked down a pedestrian. I hope he gets a ticket.”
“He won't. The passenger is a policeman.”
“How do you know?”
“He was wearing plain black shoes with rubber soles. He must be following that person.”
"How exciting! I wish I could’ve taken a picture. Of all the memories I take away from Key West, the scene I'll probably remember most vividly is that creature in high heels jumping into a pink taxi and careening away. I wonder who he-she is."
Another mystery, thought Rex, and it was only day one.
By the time they reached the restaurant, Rex was ready for a beer. Even though the heat had lost much of its humidity, it was still warm, and his short-sleeved shirt was beginning to stick to his skin. Helen had developed a sheen on her nose, which she deftly blotted with powder from her compact while they waited to be seated.
As they were led to their table, Rex spotted Captain Diaz with a raven-haired beauty in a black halter-neck top. In intimate conversation at table, they made an attractive couple, and clearly would not wish to be disturbed. Rex tried to avoid eye contact, but his size and red hair were conspicuous under any circumstances, and Captain Diaz, noticing him, waved the new arrivals over to his table. The detective looked even fresher than this morning, dressed in a starched white shirt that set off his clean-cut dark looks.
“Please join us. We got the best table,” he said. “And a four-top.”
“Och, we couldn’t possibly impose.”
“We were just finishing dinner.” Rex saw they were drinking coffee and sharing dessert. “This is my wife Rosa. Rosa, Mr. Rex Graves, from Scotland.”
Rex completed the introductions. “My fiancée, Helen. Helen, Captain Dan Diaz of the Key West Police Department. You must think I keep turning up like a bad penny,” he apologized to the detective.
Diaz smiled. “Key West is a small town, and the Funky Parrot is one of the best places to eat.”
“Walt Dyer at the Dolphin Inn recommended it.”
A steel band played a reggae pulse in a far corner by the bar, which hosted a lively crowd of patrons.
“It’s hoppin’, man,” Diaz quipped. Rex guessed he was referring to the bar-restaurant’s name. There was, however, no such tropical bird in sight.
A server pulled out chairs opposite the seated couple and added plates and silverware while the foursome exchanged pleasantries. Rosa, in a lilting accent, explained that her mother was watching the kids that night. Helen asked their ages. She adored children, but had none of her own, she explained ruefully—only the teenagers at her school, where she worked as a student counselor.
“Christi
an is ten and Maria seven.”
“My, you don’t look old enough to have a ten year-old!”
The women fell to discussing kids and became quite animated. Helen got on with everyone, which pleased Rex. The server set out menus in front of them.
“We had the Chilean Sea Bass,” Rosa said as the newcomers perused their menus. “It was delicious. So is this key lime pie.”
Rex ordered a Guinness and a Pinot Grigio for Helen, and then turned to Captain Diaz, who seemed relaxed after his meal, and more approachable than that morning. “Any progress in the case?” he inquired.
The detective shrugged. “Some.”
“Hmm. An obvious clue left at the scene?” Rex asked hopefully, waggling his eyebrows in humorous fashion.
Diaz laughed. “If you mean a cigarette butt or a torn item of clothing—no. Sorry.”
Rex produced the fake brass button wrapped in a clear plastic bag and held it to the light of the candle on the table.
The women paused in their conversation to look.
“What is it?” Rosa asked.
“Looks like a button off a costume,” Diaz said. “Where did you find it?”
“Across the street from the Dolphin Inn, when we first passed by this morning and saw the patrol car parked outside. This was before we knew about the murders and people started arriving. We’d made an early start to get in as much sightseeing as possible before we had to re-board ship. The bodies must have just been discovered.”
“It could be anybody’s who participated in Fantasy Fest,” Diaz said. “The Dolphin is three blocks from Duval.”
“I picked it up out of curiosity. I wasn’t acquainted with Fantasy Fest and the tradition of fancy dress at the time.”
Diaz shrugged again, this time dismissively. “If it had been found in the alley, it might be of more interest.”
“It was in between the street lights, in a dark spot facing the alley.” Diaz continued to look doubtful. “Who knows? Its owner may have seen something,” Rex said.
Murder at the Dolphin Inn Page 5