Leave No Stone Unturned (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 1) (12 page)

"Of course," I said again.

"I'm sure it had nothing to do with your CT-43 drug, Doctor Roush. If anything, it
probably had more to do with that schizophrenia he was diagnosed with last year."

* * *

Schizophrenia? Oh good grief, I thought, as I left the Food Pantry. I pondered the
implications as I walked back toward the Camelot B&B. Could one of Kale's multiple
personalities be that of a harmless flirt, and another one a homicidal maniac? Had
he been thoroughly investigated by the authorities? I came to the conclusion that
it wouldn't hurt to check it out. I stopped at a pay phone outside a convenience store,
removed Detective Glick's business card from my fanny pack, and dialed his number.

"Detective Glick." I heard his voice on the handset.

"Good morning, detective. This is Lexie Starr again. I have some information that
might possibly have some bearing on the Eliza Pitt case."

"And what would that be, Ms. Starr?" he asked, with a lot of impatience, and a touch
of annoyance in his tone.

"Are you aware that Kale Miller, the sacker at Food—"

"I know who he is," Detective Glick cut in.

"—Pantry, suffers from schizophrenia?"

"Yes, I'm aware of that discovery."

"Oh. Well, did you consider all the ramifications of that discovery?"

"As much as we felt necessary," he said. "Have a good day, Ms. Starr."

Unfortunately, Detective Glick had disconnected the call before I could respond and
slam the phone down in his ear.

"Arrogant jerk!" I said into the phone anyway. At least I had found out that Kale's
affliction had been scrutinized to the satisfaction of the homicide detectives. I'd
have to be content knowing that the team of investigators felt Kale Miller was un-involved
in the disappearance and murder of Eliza Pitt. And it didn't hurt to let Detective
Glick know that I was still on the case, despite his lack of cooperation and his condescending
attitude.

Chapter 12

Stone registered for the room down the hall from me early Friday evening. I'm not
sure what reason he gave Harriet for not wanting any morning meals cooked for him,
but from the top of the stairs I heard Harriet respond, "Price be the same, with or
without breakfast, ya know." I then heard Stone chuckle and agree. I smiled to myself
at the exchange. I'd warned him of Harriet's eccentric, but enchanting, personality.

Stone's room had its own bathroom, which was a great relief to me. After an offhand
remark he'd made Thursday about my "natural beauty," I didn't want him to see how
much paraphernalia, and how many potions, it took to look this naturally beautiful.
I had toiletries strung from one end of my bathroom to the other. Stone was a flatterer,
or possibly just a gifted BS'er, but he knew how to make a woman feel good about herself.
I was eating up the praise and attention, and I'm the first to admit that I was enjoying
it.

After Stone settled into his room, the two of us walked across the street to the Union
Street Diner for supper. At our table in the corner, Stone admitted that he needed
to drop a little weight, and I told him that I also had picked up some extra, unwanted
pounds.

"You look to me to be at your ideal weight, Lexie. Where are you hiding these unwanted
pounds?"

"You're just being kind, Stone. I can tell you're a real charmer and have no reservations
about lying through your teeth. Please, don't let me stop you."

He looked at me with a feigned expression of having wounded feelings, then pointed
to his mouth, and said, "See this gap? It'd make it easy to lie through my teeth,
if I wanted to. But I mean everything I say, my dear."

"You're a smooth one, aren't you, Stone? Remind me to be wary of you."

"No need for that—say, how 'bout we share an order of chicken and dumplings? Then
we needn't feel as guilty about all the fat and cholesterol we're devouring."

While we waited on the chicken and dumplings, we talked about Schenectady. We discussed
how friendly the people seemed to be, and how nice and clean the city appeared. A
couple of local men, both dressed in insulated coveralls, chatted with us for a few
minutes. One of them asked where we hailed from and why we were visiting the area.
I told them that we were investigating the 2001 Pitt murder case for a potential novel
I was thinking about penning. I wanted to stay consistent with my story.

"Good luck," one of the men said as he fished change out of his pocket before heading
for the cash register. Then he turned, paused and said, "Hard to imagine that anyone
could bludgeon his pregnant wife to death with a rock, isn't it?"

Stone raised his eyebrows and held my gaze. I realized then that this was the first
time I'd heard how Eliza had been murdered. I'd assumed that she was shot, stabbed,
or choked to death. Not that any one of them was less vicious than the other options.
It was obvious that many of the locals believed Clay was the culprit. I shuddered
and wondered how Wendy could be attracted to someone cruel enough to do such a thing.
If he did such a thing, I stopped to remind myself.

I also wondered how Clay was accepting her pregnancy. Was he already plotting Wendy
and the baby's demise? Why would he want to be shackled to this child any more than
the one Eliza was carrying, if and when he killed her?

* * *

After supper, Stone and I went into the hardware store next to the diner. He bought
a comfortable canvas lawn chair for Harriet's back porch. Like me, Stone wanted to
have a place to read and relax on the porch in the evenings. And, I suspected, to
be near me at the same time. I'd shown him the five-hundred-pound pumpkin in the backyard,
the hanging chair that I was so enthralled with, and also Harriet's metal bucket.
He said he couldn't see himself being comfortable on a bucket that was apt to collapse
into a pile of rusty scrap metal beneath him, and he didn't dare sit in my beloved
chair.

"That would be about as hazardous as petting a baby moose with the mother moose standing
twenty feet away," Stone said.

I laughed and agreed, and then thought about the moose head that had appeared in Clay
and Wendy's den.

"Speaking of moose, Stone, do you know where a person in this region could go to shoot
one?"

"You have a sudden desire to go out and pop a moose?" he asked.

"No, you nincompoop," I said, and smacked his shoulder playfully. "I'm wondering where
a hunter—not me—might shoot one around here."

"Legally?"

"Not necessarily."

"Well, I just happened to have read an article about that recently. It said there
are a guesstimated one hundred moose in the Adirondack Mountain Range right now, and
the population is growing. There's no active program here of tagging moose in order
to learn more about them or to keep track of their numbers. But it's a protected species
in New York, so there's no season on them. They're working hard to bring the moose
back to the Adirondacks in more impressive numbers. Poaching one in New York carries
a maximum sentence of two thousand dollars and/or a year in jail. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I was just curious. Clay brought a mounted bull moose head back to Kansas from
here, and I was wondering where he might have bagged it."

"He could have shot it legally in Vermont where there are about four thousand moose.
More moose are killed in traffic accidents in Vermont each year than those that make
their home in this state. Do you know if he ever went hunting in Vermont?"

"No, but I suppose it's possible. Anyway, thanks for the info. It's going to be nice
having you here to assist me. For the moral support alone, not to mention off-the-wall
information such as the wildlife population of Vermont. You moose be very smart, Stone."

"Yes, I moose be."

* * *

There was frost on Harriet's pumpkin when we awoke Saturday morning. It was a reminder
that winter was just around the corner. I was in my newly designated favorite chair
on the back porch, Lady Luck coffee cup in my hand, when Stone walked out with his
own steaming cup. He was spitting coffee grounds out as he walked toward the new canvas
chair he'd purchased. "Remind me to buy some toothpicks, will you, Lexie?"

I laughed at his remark. "Give it a week. It'll grow on you. Trust me."

"Are you telling me that this coffee has already been brewing for a week?" he asked.
"Hmmm. I'd expected as much. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I needed a jump-start
this morning. I can't remember the last time I slept so soundly."

"Those featherbed mattresses are heavenly, aren't they? This place seems to me to
be the perfect example of why we should all go back to more traditional, old-fashioned
customs. These days, everything tends to be too technical, too cold and impersonal.
Life was simpler, and more satisfying, back in the good old days."

Stone agreed. His room at the inn featured a four-poster bed like mine, except his
had no canopy, and the bedspread was more masculine, with large colorful wood ducks
appliqued across a solid white background. Like mine, his room had wall-to-wall throw
rugs and an antique dresser with candles on either side of a large oval mirror. The
colors in his bathroom were a bit subtler than those in mine, but not by much.

"Just walking into your bathroom ought to be enough to wake you up," I said. "I was
afraid to walk into mine after eating Harriet's poached eggs. Thought it could be
just enough to upset the apple cart, if you know what I mean."

"Yes, I do know what you mean. At first glance, the color schemes here are nearly
overwhelming. She's one in a million, though—our Harriet," Stone said. "By the way,
did you happen to see what she keeps in the bookcase in the family room?"

"No, what?"

"Well, books of course—"

"Books?" I cut in. "No kidding? Gee, that's odd. I wouldn't think even Harriet would
keep books in a bookcase."

"Not just regular books, though. Mostly phone books. Stacks of them. Every Schenectady
phone book from 1957 through the 2003 edition that just came out this year."

"Okay, now that is a bit odd. But for Harriet, maybe it's not really all that shocking."

"Good point. Since I was up early this morning, I looked through a number of them,
just for the heck of it," Stone said. "The hiker who discovered Eliza's body, Rod
Crowfoot, is listed in the 2001 phone book, but none of them before or after that.
It shows his address as 1022 Huron Street, Apartment C. That's just a few blocks from
here. I thought we ought to run by there this morning. I would imagine that after
Rod discovered the body, he was talking about it to about everyone he ran into. That'd
be the natural thing to do, after all. He may have relayed some useful information
to the super, the maintenance man, or gardener at the apartment complex."

"Couldn't hurt to stop by there and ask around, could it? Want to stop and get an
English muffin for breakfast on the way?"

"No, I want to stop and get a bacon and cheese omelet, hash browns, biscuits and gravy,
and a cinnamon roll, but I guess an English muffin will have to suffice."

I patted his slightly protruding belly, surprised at the affection I already felt
for him. He was such an easy, comfortable guy to have around. I thanked God one more
time that Stone had volunteered to accompany me in Schenectady.

"Maybe a cinnamon roll instead of an English muffin will be okay, just this once,"
I said. "But no biscuits and gravy. Too much cholesterol. So, Harriet's really kept
all of the phone books since 1957?"

* * *

"Don't really know much about that Crowfoot guy. Doubt anyone around here knows much.
Least nothing that will be of any use for your novel," Fred, the toothless guy behind
the desk, told us. I was still using my "novel" approach, although I doubted Fred
was a voracious reader. I listened as he leaned back in his chair and told us what
he remembered about the former tenant.

"Kid didn't socialize much. Kept to himself most the time. Was only in his apartment
once that I recall. Had a toilet that wouldn't flush worth a damn—excuse me—hoot,
I mean." Fred looked at me in silent apology and kept talking.