Murder at the Dolphin Inn

by C. S. Challinor

  “Morning,” he said to the man, who had been digging a rectangular hole, only slightly larger than the iron casket that stood beside it on the sparse grass. A mound of sandy topsoil sat on the opposite side of the open gravelet, which evinced a pungent smell of earth and decomposing leaves. “I keep running into your cat.”

  “Macavity,” the transient said.

  “ ‘You may meet him in a by-street,’ ” Rex quoted, “ ‘You may see him in the square/But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!’ I remember that poem from school.” It was one of the few, along with the poem by Coleridge about the albatross and Wordsworth’s rhyming verse describing a host of golden daffodils.

  “ ‘Macavity, the Mystery Cat,’ by T. S. Eliot,” the man in the blue coat acknowledged. “Macavity is the name I bestowed on him many years ago when we befriended each other.”

  The man, whose appearance and gruff voice were at acute odds with his diction, spoke through a hole in his russet beard and in so doing, displayed the brown roots of teeth missing all along the bottom row. Rex, remembering the packet of Life Savers in his pocket, offered him one. As he approached with the packet, he caught a mild whiff of mildew and unwashed flesh. The homeless man dug out an orange candy with a dirty fingernail, prompting Rex to suggest he take the whole packet.

  “Most kind. I’m Willie.”

  Rex introduced himself in turn. As Willie lifted the candy to his mouth, Rex noticed one of a pair of fake brass buttons missing from the cuff of his blue coat, a spiral of matching thread dangling in its absence. His heartbeat quickened.

  “Are you from foreign parts?” the man inquired. “I note an accent.”

  “Scotland. I’m staying at the Dolphin Inn.”

  A look of wariness crept into the vagrant’s face, weathered by the elements and mapped with spider veins about the coarse nose, which almost looked as though it had been eaten by wormwood. “The Dolphin Inn is an old haunt of mine,” he divulged in his deliberate manner. “Until the owners caught me shopping through the trash and chased me off with threats of poisoning the contents.”

  “The late or younger owners?” Rex asked.

  “The dried up old hag and her stingy husband. All the same, I did not wish them ill. ‘Misfortune has not made a coffin of my heart,’ to quote Mr. Brownlow in Oliver Twist. I have a warm, dry place to sleep, and sleep I do, totally at peace among the dead. I tend the flowers left by mourners, and the guardian of these Elysian Fields tolerates my nocturnal presence in exchange for work.”

  Willie dislodged another candy from the multicolored tube. The tip of his tongue poked through the hole before retracting it into his toothless mouth. He proceeded to savor it as Macavity must have done his tuna.

  “Keep Macavity away from the Dolphin Inn, if you can,” Rex warned. “A cat was found poisoned there. I sought you out, Willie, because I thought you might have seen some strange goings-on three nights ago in the vicinity of the bed-and-breakfast.”

  “Strange things going on indeed. Why would you think I saw anything?”

  “I found your coat button on Sunday morning, across the street from the alley.”

  Willie glanced down the front of his coat and found all the buttons accounted for.

  “From your right sleeve,” Rex said, pointing.

  “Any chance of further victuals?”

  “What is your preference?”

  “Pizza, soft crust, with anchovies on the side for my cat. Macavity is partial to anchovies.”

  “Consider it done. What can you tell me?”

  “All in good time, my friend. Return this evening after seven. I’ll make sure the gate on Frances is unlocked. May I first ask about your interest in the Dyers’ demise?” Willie asked.

  “How did you know about their deaths?”

  Willie regarded him through quizzical blue eyes. “I read the papers same as anybody else. Plenty left lying around. In any case, you referred to them as the ‘late’ Dyers. Were you a friend of theirs?”

  “I never met them, but my hobby is solving murder cases, and I happened to be in Key West the morning the bodies were found.”

  “Fortuitous, indeed.” Willie scratched his bushy red beard as he continued to study Rex with unnerving blue eyes. “I did see something, but I don’t want to be questioned by the police. I wish only to be left alone.”

  “I understand, but you don’t want to be responsible for that person or persons killing again, do you?”

  “Years ago I relinquished all responsibility. Time was I had a house, a family, a college teaching post. I was a modern authority on Dickens. But all became meaningless and counterfeit. I took solace in the bottle and roamed our fine land. It’s hard to stick out like a sore thumb in this carnival place, this phantasmagoria of life. The downest and outest feel right at home in this city.”

  Rex removed his pipe and a plaid cloth pouch of Clan tobacco from his pants pocket. “What did you see, Willie, the night the innkeepers were murdered? Don’t worry, I’ll be back this evening with the pizza.” Whether Willie provided the information or not, he would never dream of denying the poor soul a meal.

  “I saw the murderer. Not clear as day, but enough to ascertain certain details.”

  Rex methodically filled the bowl of his pipe as he listened with growing anticipation. This could be the pivotal moment where a flash of clarity beamed through the fog. However, patience was crucial. He did not want to scare Willie.

  The homeless man began to speak. “He held a knife to Mrs. Dyer’s neck and forced her husband to unlock the door. It was dark, the only light being toward the back of the alley, and then briefly when the door opened.”

  “Can you give me a description?”

  “I caught a glimpse of what they were wearing. The Dyers were in clown costumes. The man had a black beard.”

  “A fake beard?”

  Willie considered for a moment, staring hard at his shovel. “I couldn’t tell.”

  “Might he have been dressed as a pirate?”

  “Could be.”

  “Any other physical details you recall?”

  “He was of larger build than either of the Dyers.”

  Which was not saying much, since they had appeared quite short, seen slumped in the kitchen. “What sort of knife was he holding?” Rex asked.

  “A long, glinting one, like a fillet knife.”

  “Did you see a woman?”

  “Eh?”

  “Was there a woman besides Mrs. Dyer?”

  “Only the old witch. I thought at the time it was a burglary in progress. It never occurred to my befuddled brain that they might be murdered, as indicated in the papers. I remember thinking it would serve them right if the family silver got stolen.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Late. One or two in the morning. I don’t wear a watch.”

  Any of the guests or family could have murdered the elder Dyers in their bed, and yet the couple had been forced through the dark alley at knifepoint.

  “Thanks, Willie. I’ll return later with the pizza and anchovies.” Rex paused as he turned to leave. “By the way, what is in that casket you’re burying? Personal possessions?”

  The homeless man cast a stricken look at the iron box on the ground. “I’m preparing Macavity’s burial plot. It’s hard work digging into this rock, I can tell you. He’s been ailing lately, though he seems to have gotten a new lease on life suddenly.”

  Rex reflected that it could not be much of an extended lease, judging by the state of the poor arthritic creature. Macavity looked as though he had lived every one of his nine lives, and then some. Though not ginger like his namesake in the T. S. Eliot poem, he appeared to have the same wily and elusive characteristics, but even these could not save him from inevitable old age.

  “Well, for goodness’ sake, keep him away from the Dolphin Inn,” Rex reiterated. “Someone’s been putting oleander in the compost and perhaps adding bait.”

  Taking his leave of
Willie, he took a detour through another part of the cemetery, passing the Jewish section where small stones had been left for the dead instead of flowers, and becoming absorbed in the gravestone inscriptions along the way. Some of them were quite amusing: “I TOLD YOU I WAS SICK.” Another inscription read:

  “KERMIT FORBES — ONE HELL OF A MAN

  TEC 4 US ARMY

  WORLD WAR II

  JAN 6 1914 FEB 16 2000

  LOVINGLY KNOWN AS SHINE

  SPARRED WITH HEMINGWAY”

  A small American flag stood by limply in salute. A vase of flowers beside it had toppled over, and Rex set it back upright. He rejoined a main path just as a midsize commercial jet flew overhead toward the airport at the far end of the island, interrupting the peace and serenity. A white statue of an angel holding a wreath lent grace to the surrounding tombs embedded in the sandy grass and engraved with often-recurring English and Spanish names. Helen would be pleased he had done a spot of sightseeing this morning, he reflected. The cemetery was certainly well worth a visit.

  On the way back to the B & B, he digested the nugget of information Willie had given him, pondering the identity of the man with the black beard. Or was finding the button off Willie’s coat and the transient’s witness account of the murders too much of a coincidence? And yet, it was all Rex had for now, and he decided to treat it at face value.

  Dennis Barber had a fake black beard, and most probably Chuck Shumaker had worn one as part as his Captain Morgan disguise. Ryan could have procured one easily enough, as well. Although the student had been dressed as a vampire, he could have changed into a different costume the night of the murder. Pirates prevailed at Fantasy Fest. There was, unfortunately, an embarrassment of black beards—assuming the vagrant’s memory could be relied upon, impaired as it might be by drink.

  Willie would have known about the clown costumes from the newspaper stories. From there, a black beard was not a great stretch of the imagination. He may have been saying what Rex wanted to hear in the hope of a hot meal, or to throw him off the scent. Nonetheless, in spite of the Victorian melodrama and vaudeville connotations conjured up by such an obvious theatrical device, it was a lead Rex felt he must pursue to its resolution or dead end.

  ~EIGHTEEN~

  As Rex walked back to the Dolphin Inn, he enumerated the main components of the case in his head: An obsessive-compulsive son who collected moths in his spare time and had wanted to run the Dolphin Inn; a divorced daughter in the process of vicariously murdering her ex; a succession of stray cats left dead on the doorstep; and a homeless man who claimed to have seen the murderer force the Dyers into their kitchen—a murderer with a black beard.

  So absorbed was Rex that he arrived at the bed-and-breakfast before he knew it. A note Helen had left in their suite informed him she had gone on a shopping spree with Rosa Diaz. Probably the two women would lunch together in town. Just as he was plotting his next course of action, a light tap sounded at the door, and Rex opened it.

  Walt stood on the other side next to a crate on wheels piled high with clean towels and folded sheets. “Would you like me to do up your room?” he asked.

  “Come in,” Rex said, stepping aside. “Are you still managing okay on your own?”

  “Oh, you know how it is,” Walt hemmed, entering the en-suite bathroom with fresh towels.

  “No need to do the bed,” Rex said when he returned with an armful of used towels. “Helen is fastidious about making it up in the morning.”

  “So I see. A woman after my own heart.” Walt looked around the room to see what else needed to be done. He inspected the vase of fresh flowers on the dresser and emptied the wastepaper basket into a transparent plastic bag.

  “Did you dress up for Fantasy Fest?” Rex asked conversationally as Walt loaded the bag on the cart.

  “Heavens, no.” The innkeeper hitched the thick glasses up the bridge of his nose and rested a hand on a flaccid hip in a pose Rex supposed was meant to be casual. “I don’t like disguises myself. Merle and Taffy enjoyed it, but I always think it’s rather silly when adults dress up.”

  “Which is pretty much what everyone does in Key West at the end of October, it seems.”

  “This island attracts free spirits and fun-lovers.” Walt obviously did not count among them. “Why do you ask?”

  “I heard from a potential witness that your parents were seen with a black-bearded man shortly before they were murdered.”

  “Goodness! But that could be anyone. Chuck Shumaker and Dennis Barber were both wearing black beards that night. Not to mention countless other revelers.”

  Rex did not yet see what motive either guest could have had. Nor were they at the B and B long enough to have poisoned the cats—if indeed the Dyers’ murderer was responsible for that too. He decided to take a chance and catch Walt off his guard. Before he could, Walt asked tentatively, “So, you’re investigating my parents’ murders. I heard something about that.”

  “Nerium oleander, Walt. Traces were found in your compost.” He watched Walt’s bespectacled face carefully. The doughy features seemed to dissolve before his eyes. “A reasonable explanation for the poison being in there might help clarify things,” Rex prompted.

  “I have oleander growing all over the yard, as you probably know. It grows fast and needs regular trimming to keep under control.” Sweat beaded Walt’s temples. This was not the version he had given police. Captain Diaz had reported that Walt had denied all knowledge of the plant being in the trash can.

  “Walt.” Rex assumed a kind but authoritative tone, to which the timid man would hopefully respond and cave. “The amount found in the compost did not constitute serious pruning. And it was crushed up. It was obviously there for a purpose.”

  “Okay!” Walt squeaked. “I just wanted my parents to take early retirement before they ran the Dolphin into the ground. Their nest egg, they called it, ha! I would’ve told prospective buyers about the dead cats to scare them off too, and told them the place was haunted. Whatever it took! When they were in Vermont this summer, it was running perfect with just Raf and me. But they had to interfere.” The innkeeper bowed his head. “I poisoned some fish and left it in the trash can with the lid half off and then put the cats on the doorstep before the guests woke up. After Taffy saw them, I got rid of them. She was so delusional, she didn’t realize everybody hated her. She was always putting on airs, talking about how much she was leaving to her heirs and flaunting her rings!”

  Walt sank onto the reproduction Victorian chair. “My prayers came true!” He opened his hands in wonderment. “But I never actually wanted my parents dead. I never dreamed they’d be murdered and I’d be running the place.” He looked as stunned as a newly minted lottery winner. He then rose from the chair and, wheeling the crate after him, took off down the landing, muttering that he was truly sorry about the cats.

  Either Walt was innocent or else he was one of the best actors Rex had ever come across. In any case, he deplored Walt’s poisoning of the alley cats.

  He needed a puff of his pipe and went out onto the balcony to light it. The peaty-vanilla aroma of Clan tobacco wafted into the air around him as he rocked in his chair and surveyed the kidney-shaped pool, the sun reflecting off the undisturbed surface. The plastic slatted lounge chair that Diane had occupied the previous day stood vacant in the same place, along with the magazine and metal ashtray. He settled more comfortably into the blue cushions and pensively puffed away at his pipe, his gaze through the white railings resting upon the thriving bougainvillea and pink oleander masking the property-line fence.

  He deliberated contacting Captain Diaz and imparting the information he had managed to elicit from Walt and Willie. He could grab a bite to eat on the way. With these plans in mind, he headed back down the stairs, but when he reached the front door, he paused. Was Willie a credible witness? He was educated, but did he have all his marbles? He probably drank more than he should and, while he had not appeared drunk at the cemetery, his memory, by
his own admission, might not function as it used to. Perhaps further thought and corroboration were required on the subject of the alleged assailant with the black beard. Plus, he did not truly relish the idea of having lunch by himself.

  “Are you going out?” Diane asked, coming up the hall from the guest lounge.

  “I am unable to decide,” he replied with a sheepish smile. “I got stood up for lunch.”

  “I was just about to fix myself a sandwich. Would you like one?”

  “That would be grand—if you don’t mind. I know this is not a bed-and-lunch place.”

  “Oh, please. And anyway, I wanted to pick your brains about something.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Perhaps I can pick yours in return.”

  “Deal. Egg salad sandwich okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  “I’ll bring it through to the dining room. We won’t be disturbed. Walt went to Pritchard’s to finalize the funeral arrangements.”

  Rex sat down at one of the tables cleared of breakfast items. He wondered what Diane wanted to ask him. He did not have long to wait. From a tray she produced two plates, two glasses, and a pitcher of cold tea filled with ice and lemon slices. Also, a small legal pad and a pencil.

  Rex took a bite of the egg mayonnaise on lettuce sandwich and complimented her. The tea she poured out for them was good, too, if a little sweet. But who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth? Lunch had been provided, and he now had an opportunity to question Diane further.

  “You first,” he said.

  “Okay. So, what, in your opinion, is the best way to go about killing someone?”

  Rex almost choked on his bread. “We are talking hypothetically?” he sought to confirm.

  Diane studied him, the skin around her green eyes crinkling in amusement. “What do you think?”

  “Okay... Well, I’ll need some specifics. For starters, what age is the victim? Male? Female? Weight, et cetera?”