A Rip Roaring Good Time (8 page)

We were asked to go over the tragic event in our minds and try to remember any sights, sounds, smells, or other sensations we'd experienced before, during, and after the fatal event. The detectives would ask us to relate those observations to them as we were called up one by one, out of earshot of the rest of the guests—standard protocol at a homicide scene, Wyatt assured everyone. The interviewing procedure would begin as soon as the scene was processed and the body was removed, he announced. When Detective Johnston finished speaking, the room began to buzz with the droning of numerous conversations erupting, from both the party guests and the investigating team. Wyatt blew his police whistle to quiet the crowd. The party was over before it had even had a chance to begin, but the Alexandria Inn was still a beehive of activity.

I doubt anyone saw much to report as the room had been quite dark when the murder was committed. Dusk was already turning into night and the only entrance into the parlor was through the dining room, where the lights had been turned off before the guests had even begun to arrive. Stone had hung blankets over the only two outside windows in the room to block out the light to guarantee total darkness when Wendy and Andy entered the parlor.

The lights in the parlor had been switched off about fifteen minutes before the arrival of the guest of honor. Wyatt now requested that all of the lights be turned back on and the blankets removed from the windows to allow the crime scene investigators to better process the scene.

In my entire lifetime, I'd only personally witnessed detectives working one homicide case. That crime scene had involved the death of the self-absorbed author in Cheyenne, Wyoming, just three short weeks prior. I got the distinct impression that most of the detectives at this current crime scene had put Lexie at the top of their suspects list.

Rather than stand there like I was super-glued to the floor, I decided to join Georgia at the buffet table to help her clear off the food and serving paraphernalia. She was standing behind the table, appearing as dazed and confused as everyone else in the room. I watched Stone walk over to her woodenly. He handed her a check, which she reluctantly took. She glanced at the check and attempted to hand it back to him. Stone backed away, shaking his head fervently. Georgia eventually gave in, nodded her thanks, folded the check in half and stuffed it in her back pocket, then began putting the aluminum lids back on the serving containers.

When I approached her and asked if I could assist, she looked pale and unsteady. I pulled a chair up behind her and had her sit down until she regained her composure. She thanked me and mumbled that it didn't seem right to accept payment for a meal that was never going to be served. And now she had to decide what to do with all the food she'd brought.

Lexie was still in a state of shock, as was evident by the "deer in the headlights" expression on her face. At that point, she was in no condition to make any kind of decision regarding the food, and I didn't feel it was mine to make. I told Georgia to speak to Stone again about the issue when she got the opportunity, but in the meantime we might as well pack it all back up so it wouldn't go completely to waste. If it had been up to me, I'd have donated the food to the local mission that served meals to the homeless and underprivileged where it'd be very appreciated.

I helped Georgia load the trays of food into the rear of her van. She told me that Lori had forgotten the sourdough bread and had left to retrieve it just a minute or two after Wendy and Andy's arrival. For what purpose would the sourdough bread be needed at this point? I was wondering. Did Lori truly believe the party would go on as planned despite the bloody corpse on the dance floor?

When I re-entered the parlor from the kitchen, I came up behind the makeshift curtain blocking the guests' view of the body. I couldn't help but look at Trotter Hayes. His face was waxy-looking, almost translucent. He looked like a mannequin that had been knocked over at Macy's. When I saw the coroner nonchalantly stab a thermometer into the boy's abdomen, presumably his liver, I was glad I hadn't already eaten supper. I quickly retreated to a far corner of the room.

From there I watched Alice Runcan, the young lady who had spoken briefly to Mattie earlier, stand up and approach a tall, blond-haired detective. The officer appeared to be in charge of the investigating team as they carefully surveyed the scene and gathered evidence. The entire team wore latex gloves as they placed the items into clear plastic bags. Alice smiled in a very flirtatious manner as she showed the handsome detective something on the front of her cell phone. I don't know if it was her phone number, a photo of her flashing her breasts, or what. But judging by the provocative manner in which Alice was licking her lips and tossing her hair over her shoulder, not to mention the way the detective was practically drooling on her phone, I was guessing it was, at the very least, a photo of her winning a wet t-shirt contest.

The detective looked at the photo and began licking his lips as well. He took the phone out of the gal's hand to study it intently, smiling all the while. Yep! Definitely a booby shot of some type. If my instincts were correct, it was very inappropriate for the situation.

Then I looked across the room at the young man who had accompanied Alice Runcan to the party. I observed the stormy glare he was projecting across the room toward his date. Could the entire seductive scene have been played out by Alice to make her date jealous or to get under his skin for some reason? If so, her ploy was definitely working because her date looked absolutely livid.

To the man's chagrin, the detective appeared to be very captivated with Alice, and he spoke with her for a long time. As Alice spoke, he was writing occasional notes, or possibly just jotting down information on how to contact her later.

The remaining detectives began interviewing guests one-by-one, allowing them to leave the premises after they'd given a statement. As was the case with nearly everyone who was questioned, Alice Runcan did a lot of pointing toward the kitchen and then to the vicinity of where what's-his-name had been slain.

After being photographed from every perceivable angle, Trotter's worthless hide was carefully zipped into a body bag and carried out of the inn. The four burly men removed the body bag as if they were carrying easily disturbed and motion-sensitive explosive devices. I realized it was their way of showing respect for their boss's stepson. God help them if they were responsible for dropping the dude on his already brain-dead head. I'd have been more in favor of dragging his carcass across the floor like a bulky bag of potting soil, nudging it with my foot if it got hung up on the threshold of the front door. But then, I didn't have a job hanging in the balance like the detectives did.

Watching the victim being placed in the body bag had brought back memories of seeing nearly the same scene after the full-of-herself author had met her end in the RV Park. The two deaths in question certainly disproved the old adage that the "good die young". Both victims had had it coming, in my opinion. Karma could be a real bitch, if you know what I mean.

When Rip and I were questioned—individually, of course—there was very little we could attest to. I didn't think it was my place to inform the short, rotund detective questioning us what kind of deplorable person the stiff was before he met his maker. However, I'd have been happy to do so had the balding detective asked.

The portly detective frisked me and waved a high-intensity UV light around me like a TSA agent checking me for a weapon before I boarded an airplane. I was surprised he didn't insist on a cavity search or tell me to take off my shoes so he could scrutinize them for hidden weapons as well. The UV light he was using detected blood splatter, he explained, and was being utilized on every interviewee. Scanning the room full of stunned guests, every one of them looked potentially murderous to me.

Watching the same detective question Rip was like watching a man talking to himself in front of a mirror. Put Rip in his old policeman uniform, and I couldn't have told the two apart. I'm guessing the Rockdale detective favored doughnuts for sustenance as much as Rip did.

* * *

A few minutes later, I was standing in the front yard watching as numerous vehicles exited the parking area solemnly, like a funeral procession. I was soon joined by Wendy, Mattie Hill, and Sheila Davidson.

"How totally inconsiderate of that arrogant jerk to get himself killed and ruin the party. And here I was looking forward to sampling your 'citrus surprise' punch, Sheila," I said jokingly to lighten the mood a touch. There was a polite chuckle among the group, but the overall mood remained somber. We stood speechless for a spell before Wendy broke the silence by saying, "Well, speaking of 'surprise punch', if you all were aiming to surprise me on my birthday, you definitely succeeded."

* * *

I was saddened that Wendy's surprise party had gone by the wayside, thwarting Andy's plans to propose to her. I had hoped it would be a memorable occasion for her, one she'd remember fondly for the rest of her life. But what transpired was not at all what I'd had in mind. Wendy's surprise party was indeed memorable, but I doubted those memories would be remembered fondly.

I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I was not overly remorseful that Trotter Hayes had just looked karma in the face—and lost! No telling how many women, possibly even men, had a bone to pick with that loser. The very idea that such an ugly individual had been placed into such a beautiful body seemed unholy. But I realized God often worked in mysterious ways and that he probably viewed every living thing he created as beautiful, even perfect.

More than anything, I was upset that Lexie Starr had been taken to the police station for questioning. Even though the evidence all appeared to point her way, those of us who knew her personally knew there was more to this murder case than met the eye.

I was near tears when Wendy walked up to me and put her arm around my shoulder. She looked into my eyes and said, "Don't worry, Rapella. I'm sure that after Mom tells them exactly what happened from her perspective, she'll be released. I expect a call from her any minute, asking us to pick her up at the station."

"I know, honey. But I'm also sorry your party got spoiled the way it did."

"Stuff happens. It is what it is, I guess," Wendy responded. It was obvious that she wasn't overly gloomy about Trotter Hayes's untimely passing either.

* * *

Stone, Rip, Wendy, and I sat around the kitchen table. Detective Johnston had escorted Lexie to the police station, telling her it was only to make a statement about what she'd witnessed—a standard routine of the investigative process.

Stone looked as anxious as I felt. He said, "I've known Wyatt for long enough to judge his demeanor by his words, actions and expressions. He was a lot more concerned than he let on. In fact, he looked scared stiff—no pun intended."

"I hate to say this, Stone," Rip said. "I served as a police officer for thirty-seven years, including my last decade in law enforcement as the Aransas County Sheriff. I've worked very few cases of incredible violence such as this one, because fortunately, the crime rate in that county is relatively low. But I've seen detectives working many a crime scene and I got the distinct impression that all of the detectives, except Johnston, have put Lexie at the top of their suspects list."

"I got that impression too," Stone replied, nervously running his hand through his silver hair. His normally light blue eyes now looked almost battleship gray. A lone tear slipped out of his left eye and ran down his cheek, leaving a wet trail against his tanned face. Stone didn't wipe it off. It seemed as if he hadn't even realized the tear had escaped.

Rip, who often wasn't good at judging when to keep talking and when to shut up, adjusted his position in such a fashion that I knew his hip was bothering him. Then he said, "I saw Wyatt arguing with several of them before he put Lexie in his squad car. At one point, their voices were raised enough that I heard him say, 'You're crazy! I know her better than any of you do, and I can tell you she had nothing to do with killing the chief's boy.' Then he walked away from them, obviously teed off."

"Oh, good Lord!" Stone exclaimed. "I was so shocked that another guest was murdered in our inn, I completely forgot that Trotter was Chief Smith's stepson. And that does not bode well for Lexie because she and the chief have been at odds on several occasions. Even when he awarded her a certificate of appreciation last year for playing a crucial part in getting a killer off the street he hadn't appeared very appreciative to me. But perhaps it just seemed that way because he—"

"No, you read him right, Stone," Wendy said with a grimace, cutting Stone off. "I didn't tell Mom because I didn't want to take the wind out of her sails. But the chief fought long and hard with Mayor Bradley Dunn about presenting her with that award. I was actually surprised by the mayor's strong defense on Mom's behalf, as he's also had a run-in or two with her in the past. Dunn insisted that it was a well-deserved commendation. But Nate told me Chief Smith argued that he was tired of her intrusive meddling in police business and didn't want to encourage her to continue that ill-advised meddling. No disrespect toward Mom, but you've got to admit he had a point."

"Yes, unfortunately, he did. And apparently he lost the battle with Mayor Dunn."

"Yep! He nearly always does when pitted against Bradley. The mayor is not one to take 'no' for an answer," Wendy said. "However, this murder is extremely personal for Chief Smith. He's currently embroiled in a bitter divorce, but still, he just lost a stepson he loved as if Trotter were his own blood. I detested Trotter Hayes, but I can understand why the chief would be intent on getting the perpetrator behind bars as soon as possible. I would be too, if the victim were my child, even a seedy stepchild like in this case."