The Extinguished Guest (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 2) (15 page)

I found Stone on the back deck visiting with Boris Dack, who was nervously puffing
on a pencil-thin, horrid-smelling cigar. Boris checked the time on his watch at least
seven times during the five minutes I was outside on the deck. Stone winked at me
when Boris glanced away for a few seconds. We both knew Boris was anxious not to miss
his six o'clock phone call, but only I knew I was planning on not missing it either.

"Good evening, Mr. Dack," I said. Once again I used the weather to make idle chatter.
"I see it's beginning to snow again. Big flakes too, aren't they?"

"Yeah, big flakes."

"That's sure an unusual scent for a cigar, but I like it. What kind is it?"

"Cuban." Boris was clearly not interested in discussing snowflakes or cigars with
someone he considered nothing more than a chambermaid. He had more important things
on his mind than the scent of his tobacco—like positive news from Shorty about some
"damn birds."

"Oh, I see. Yes, I guess I've always heard Cuban cigars were the best. By the way,
do you know if Horatio Prescott smoked? There were ashes found in his ashtray, which
the investigators seem to think is a little strange," I said. Or, at least, I was
certain they would have thought it a little strange had they noticed the ashes and
known Horatio was a non-smoker. Boris gave me a curious look and shrugged nonchalantly.

"The ashes were probably mine," he said, after a long silence. He continued in his
usual annoying way, spouting ten-letter words at will. "I'd stopped by his room to
expostulate his proposal for a highly speculative investment. It was an ephemeral
visit, you understand, but it stands to reason I was smoking at the time. I usually
enjoy several cigars after supper."

"What was Horatio's physical condition at the time, that evening when you spoke to
him in his room?" Stone asked. "Do you recall?"

"He did seem a bit inarticulate and disjointed at the time, now that I think about
it. In retrospect, I suppose I should've questioned him about his condition since
he was kind of wobbly. I just assumed he'd had one too many scotch and waters after
supper, which was standard operating procedure for him. He cast aspersions on me about
smoking all the time, but he habitually drank a lot more than I ever did. Thinking
back, I'm convinced it may have been the poison making him acting so anomalously."

"Anomalously?" I asked.

"Queerly, abnormally, strangely, oddly" he said, in simpler terms.

Was the grapevine in full operation? Were all the guests now aware of the attempted
poisoning of Prescott? Could the word have spread that rapidly since I mentioned the
matter in the parlor? I wondered how Boris knew about it. Perhaps Stone had told him.
He'd spoken with Boris on several occasions, both this morning and this evening.

"In what way was Mr. Prescott behaving queerly last night?" I asked Boris.

"Oh, he seemed kind of ill, light-headed and dizzy. His speech was nearly incoherent.
It was out of character for him to show any kind of weakness at all. He normally handled
his liquor better than that. He was reacting much like I was told you reacted to the
tansy oil someone slipped you."

"So you heard about the tansy oil incident, huh? It's nasty stuff, let me tell you."

"Yes, and I'm sorry to hear you also had an encounter with it." Boris didn't sound
sincerely sorry, but I had to give him credit for trying.

Boris and I checked our watches simultaneously. I realized I'd have to get the master
key from Crystal and up to Boris's room soon if I were going to try to eavesdrop on
his important phone call. I'd tell Stone about the manuscript later. Excusing myself,
I returned to the kitchen.

Crystal was standing at the stove arranging wings, thighs, and breasts in a skillet
of sizzling grease. I noticed her ring of room keys lying on the counter next to her
purse. I picked them up and crossed to the door. "Stone needs to borrow your keys
for just a few minutes, Crystal," I said. "He can't seem to find his at the moment.
It seems as if keeping track of keys is a recurring problem today."

I rushed away without giving Crystal an opportunity to respond to my confiscation
of her keys, as if her approval was without doubt. I glanced out on the deck to make
sure Boris hadn't already left. He was snubbing his cigar in an ashtray, so I knew
he'd be going to his room soon.

Praying that opting to eavesdrop wasn't a decision I'd live to regret, I raced down
the hall and used the key marked "#3" to unlock the door to Boris's room. As quickly
as I could, I slid under his bed, positioning myself as far to the back as possible,
on the opposite side of the nightstand that held some personal items he'd unloaded
from his pockets. He was a flabby, heavyset man, and I didn't want to be flattened
under the springs if he sat down on the bed.

I scarcely had time to find a comfortable position when I heard Boris enter the room
and unclip the cell phone from his belt. He placed it on the bed. He muttered under
his breath. All I could make out were two words: "bitch" and "nosy"—and not necessarily
in that order. Aha. It seemed his opinion of me was no more flattering than my opinion
of him.

I could hear the ticking of his alarm clock as I tried to remain still under the bed.
It reminded me of the one time I'd had a CT-scan at the hospital. I suddenly itched
in places I didn't know a person could itch, and I felt as if I were afflicted with
restless leg syndrome. Even my eyelashes developed instant nervous tics. Soon I felt
myself gasping, as if all the oxygen under the bed had been depleted. I was sure Boris
could hear my labored breathing. I thought I might be experiencing an ill-timed panic
attack. The next five minutes dragged on for at least two and a half hours, or so
it seemed.

Finally, Boris's cell phone rang with the sound of a 1940's show tune that seemed
totally inappropriate for the circumstances. I had to bite my lip to suppress a giggle.
At least the bout of anxiety had eased, and I was breathing normally again, for a
short while at least.

"Yeah?" Boris said in a gruff, impatient tone. I could only hear his side of the conversation,
but I had a pretty good idea of what was going on.

"Tomorrow? You positive, Shorty?" he asked. I listened to his responses as he conversed
with a man called Shorty. I tried to picture Shorty, whom I figured was either four
foot ten, or seven feet tall. It wasn't a nickname you gave to a man with average
height, in the same way you didn't call an average-sized guy, "Slim."

"How many kakapos did you get?" I heard Boris ask. "Two pair? Good, that's damned
good, kid! Any problem getting on or off the island? Good. Uh-huh, yeah I understand.
Uh-huh. Where are they holding them now? Yeah, I see. I expect you to make an expeditious
trip to get them back here."

He paused a moment to listen to the caller's response, and then said, "It means 'fast,'
Shorty. Make it a fast trip. Okay? But take good care of them, you hear? One of them
croaks, and I'll shove the dead parrot up your skinny ass. You understand me, kid?"

Dead parrot? Kakapos? I needed to go straight to Stone's room to use his computer
as soon as I left Boris's room. I tried to picture my aunt's cockapoo, Max, with a
parrot on his head, to use as word association, so I wouldn't forget the word he'd
used: kakapo. Max was a cocker spaniel/poodle mix, and, strangely, I found it less
confusing than picturing a cockatoo, which really was a parrot, with a crested thing
on top of its head. But Boris had definitely said kakapo, not cockatoo. Oh, wow. I
needed air. I felt as if I were beginning to hyperventilate.

I tried to take my mind off breathing, hoping I would resume normal breathing again
if I didn't work so hard at it. Instead, I concentrated on Boris's voice as he spoke
again. "I want to make the exchange tomorrow night. Pablo Pikstone won't wait forever,
you know. I'm holding you to your promise, Shorty. Got it? Screw me over and when
you wake up again, you'll think a loaded garbage truck has run you down. Yeah, yeah,
okay. No, I'm not worried about him finding out. I told you, he's dead now, Shorty.
No, I don't know who popped the old bastard, but I'm happy as hell somebody did. He
was getting to be a royal pain in my ass. Trying to catch me in the act of screwing
him over, while the whole time he was screwing me over every chance he got."

So, according to Boris anyway, he didn't know who killed Horatio, but he was pleased
about his death. I'd figured as much. And basically, it turned out, Boris and Horatio
were two crooks, trying to out-crook each other.

I was trying to use word association again to remember the name Pablo Pikstone and
tried visualizing Pablo Picasso perched on a large rock, painting a picture of my
Water-Pik, when I realized that Boris had ended the call.

I was just beginning to think that hiding under Mr. Dack's bed in order to eavesdrop
on his phone conversation was an ingenious decision, when I heard him fold his cell
phone in half and the room phone on his nightstand ring.

"Yeah?" I heard him say again. "No thanks, Stone. I had a late lunch, and way too
many stuffed mushrooms and hot wings during happy hour. I think I'll skip supper and
get a good night's rest tonight. I'll see you in the morning before I check out."

Uh-oh. I didn't like his comments at all. I looked out from under the dust ruffle
just in time to see a pair of wadded up socks hit the floor. One sock was black and
one was dark blue, so I gathered Boris might be afflicted with color-blindness. I'd
read most people with the condition were male.

Next came the sound of a brass belt buckle landing on the throw rug with a dull, muffled
thud. Then I heard the faint whir of a zipper being unfastened as Boris let loose
a crude belch at the same time. Suddenly I felt a sick queasiness in my stomach, completely
unrelated to the repugnant fart Boris cut as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

Just as I began to fear I was in for a very long night, I felt the beginning of a
sneeze. I fought it as best I could, but it was a losing battle. I managed to stifle
the sneeze to a dainty little "choo," which Boris would have definitely heard, anyway,
had it not been synchronized perfectly with a loud rap on the door.

"Boris? Mr. Dack?" I heard Stone's voice outside the door. He sounded anxious, but
his voice was the most welcome sound I'd heard in ages. When Boris opened his door,
Stone said, "You have an incoming call on the kitchen phone. Crystal took the call
but couldn't give the caller the private number to the phone in this room because
she didn't know it."

"Okay. Give me a moment then," Boris said with irritation obvious in his voice.

"Uh, Mr. Dack, you don't need to put your shoes on to go to the kitchen, but you probably
should zip your zipper. Crystal said the guy sounded really impatient."

A few seconds later, Stone was peering under the bed, grabbing me by the ankle and
sliding me out across the shiny wood floor. I felt like a human dust mop. I could
tell by the angry look of frustration in his eyes that he was very upset with me.

"We'll talk later," he said sternly, and hurried me out of Boris's room and pushed
me into mine across the hall. He closed my door soundlessly, leaving me inside. I
was trembling, more in anticipation of Stone's response to my eavesdropping than in
reaction to my close call in Boris's room.

A few seconds later, I heard Stone say, "Really? The caller must have been extremely
impatient. Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Dack, but I'm sure he'll call back. I'll give Crystal
the number for the phone in your room when I inform her that you won't be joining
us for supper. Good night, Mr. Dack. I'll see you in the morning."

A few seconds later the door to my room was flung open, and Stone stepped inside.
He whispered in a forceful manner. "What in the name of hell were you thinking, Lexie?
As soon as Crystal mentioned you'd borrowed her set of keys, I knew exactly what you'd
done. I just knew. And frankly, it scared me half to death. There's no telling what
a man like Boris Dack is capable of when he's backed into a corner. My concern about
who murdered Horatio Prescott on the opening night of this inn pales in comparison
to my concern about your safety and well being. I thought I'd made it clear I didn't
want you to attempt anything so risky, just in an attempt to determine Horatio's killer.
"

"And I thought I'd made it clear I'm an adult and can make my own decisions," I said,
knowing it was a stupid and immature thing to say. Stone was only concerned about
me, and he had a good reason to be. He wasn't trying to force his will on me for his
own amusement. I knew I was still trying to adjust to the novelty of having a man
around to look out for me and protect me from the consequences of my impulsive actions.
I'd been on my own for nearly twenty years, and I was very set in my ways. I was born
under the sign of Aries, after all, and impulsiveness was a curse I was born with,
according to all the astrologers. And saddled with forever, I had no doubt. Acting
spontaneously was not something I could just give up the way I'd given up cigarettes.

"I know you're an adult. I just wish you would behave like one!"

I opened my mouth to make a crude retort and then closed it immediately. This was
the first time the two of us had ever exchanged cross words. It occurred to me then
that Stone wasn't upset because I'd behaved childishly or against his wishes. He was
upset because I had placed myself in a precarious position, a situation that could
have come to a lot more ghastly conclusion than it did. What would I have done if
Boris Dack had heard me sneezing under his bed and Stone had not been there to rescue
me? What would Boris have done?