The Extinguished Guest (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 2) (25 page)

"Yeah, me too," I agreed.

"And how are you doing, Lexie? Feel okay?"

"I feel pretty good, actually. And I just talked to Wendy on the phone before I came
out here."

"What'd she have to say?" Stone asked.

"She had some great news about Andy, for one thing. But let's go inside and get a
cup of coffee. It's cold out here. We can talk in the kitchen. I have an interesting
story to tell you about Boris Dack and the Turners, too."

Placing one arm around my shoulder, Stone picked up Horatio's manuscript with the
other. "I'm sure you do. Oh, and don't worry," he said. "I didn't tell Otto who discovered
the manuscript in his luggage."

I nodded in relief as Stone guided me into the inn. As we passed through the parlor
we saw Robert Fischer lay the newspaper on the coffee table. We then overheard him
say to his wife Ernestine, "You know, I've always said things happen for a reason,
haven't I? Now we finally know why our attempt to buy the property downtown never
came to fruition. Thank God for unanswered prayers."

The last thing we heard as we walked through the kitchen door was Ernestine's gleeful
laughter. "I guess Bert and Ernie got the last laugh after all, didn't they?" she
said.

Chapter 19

Harry Turner returned with my Jeep at about ten minutes before four. He pulled me
aside to show me the photo he'd snapped of his wife in a compromising position with
Boris Dack. Boris's hairy, naked butt, which was as chalky white as the snow outside,
filled most of the photo—and it wasn't a pretty sight. Both he and Alma's faces were
turned toward the camera. The looks on their faces indicated pure terror and shock.
Harry's photograph left no doubt as to the situation or the participants. I could
feel my last sip of coffee rising back up to my throat. Geez, there was five minutes
of my life I'd never get back.

I gave Harry a faint smile and a thumbs-up as I reached for my car keys. He thanked
me for lending him my vehicle and again for encouraging him to approach Boris about
the blackmail extortion he'd been subjected to for years.

I told Harry that although Mr. Dack had already had a bad day, there was a good chance
it was going to get much, much worse before it was over. Not wanting to take a chance
word of the sting operation could leak out, I promised Harry I'd give him a thorough
explanation the following day. He was intrigued and hardly able to contain his curiosity.

"How exciting," he said. "Now I'll be like a kid waiting impatiently for Santa Claus
to come down the chimney on Christmas Eve. This has been a most eventful few days."

I left Harry, took the keys to my Jeep, and went straight to Boris Dack's room. Boris
appeared even more agitated than Alma had when I'd spoken to her earlier in the library.
He was almost pathetic as he reached out with a trembling hand for the keys. He mumbled
a curt, "Thanks," and nearly shut his door in my face. I felt nothing but disdain
for this rude, repulsive man. If I weren't in the process of setting him up, I wouldn't
have lent him my car.

I was as giddy in anticipation as Harry Turner was. I could hardly wait to hear what
transpired at Boris Dack's six o'clock meeting with Pablo Pikstone, Shorty, four endangered
kakapo parrots—and an uninvited SWAT team.

* * *

As expected, everyone but Boris Dack appeared for supper. Crystal and I served a rack
of lamb with new potatoes and asparagus. Crystal had even baked a red velvet cake
for dessert. I noticed Alma staring down at her plate, refusing to make eye contact
with anyone. She ate her meal systematically, like a programmed robot, and excused
herself from the table before dessert was served.

Patty Poffenbarger spoke sparingly and merely played with her food, rearranging it
on her plate to appear as if she'd eaten the bulk of it, when actually she'd only
taken about a half dozen small bites. She ate all of her tossed salad, but declined
a serving of the red velvet cake, although she stared at Otto's plate the entire time
he ate his dessert. She was nearly salivating as she asked him if Crystal's cake was
as good as the red velvet cake she often made.

Otto judiciously told Patty that both recipes were delicious. Otto was exhibiting
a much more assertive personality than anyone could have anticipated. This new attitude
must have been hidden deep within him for all the years he'd allowed his wife to control
his every move. He even seemed surprised at himself as he then told a slightly off-color
joke. Patty laughed louder than anyone else at the table did. The punch line made
no sense to me, so she was apparently trying to placate her husband.

Harry laughed politely at Otto's pathetic attempt at humor. Harry was in high spirits.
He winked at me across the table. I noticed he sat two chairs down from Alma and didn't
even blink when she left the table early. He was as emotionally detached from Alma
as he could be. It was not love that had kept them together all these years but a
fear of embarrassment, I concluded.

Cornelius was seated next to Rosalinda Swift. He held her chair for her as she sat
down at the table. Rosalinda, for once, appeared to be completely sober. She was clearly
wallowing in Cornelius's attention.

Robert and Ernestine Fischer were also buoyant, as if a heavy weight had been lifted
off their shoulders. Bert and Ernie were thanking their lucky stars that Horatio Prescott
had screwed them out of a land deal years ago and saved them from a financial catastrophe.

All in all, it was a vastly transformed group that sat down for their last supper
at Alexandria Inn. The death of Horatio Prescott III had set in motion a chain of
events precipitating a metamorphosis within the Historical Society. And more life-altering
events were probable, I realized, as I looked at my watch and saw it was half past
six. Boris might already be in custody, I realized with a start. What I wouldn't give
to be a mouse at that little get-together.

It was hard to believe how much had changed in a matter of a few days. And yet, there
was probably an undetected killer among the group sitting around the supper table.
I was no closer to determining which of them was responsible for the murder of Prescott
and the attempts on my life than I had been early Monday morning. In that respect,
absolutely nothing had changed.

Chapter 20

It was late, a quarter to eleven, when Wyatt Johnston knocked on the door leading
into the inn's kitchen. All the guests had retired to their rooms for the night, and
Stone and I were visiting in the kitchen over glasses of milk and a couple of Crystal's
oatmeal cookies. Stone looked through the peephole before opening the door.

Wyatt removed his snow-encrusted boots, shrugged off his jacket, and sat down at the
table. "I noticed your kitchen light was the only one burning in the house or I'd
have gone to the front door. I was hoping it was you two in the kitchen."

I poured the detective a glass of milk and placed a plate full of cookies before him.
He popped an entire cookie in his mouth and washed it down with a huge gulp of milk.
Still holding the pitcher in my right hand, I refilled his glass and put the rest
of the milk on the table in front of him. This big, burly cop was a bottomless pit,
yet there didn't seem to be an ounce of fat on his frame.

After he inhaled another cookie, he said, "Umm, very tasty. That gal you hired is
an awesome cook, isn't she?"

"Uh-huh, Crystal's a genius in the kitchen. We lucked out with her," Stone said.

"You sure did! Well, I wanted to stop by and let you know the sting operation at the
Pikstone compound went down perfectly. Thanks to you, Ms. Starr, the four kakapos
are already on their way back home to New Zealand, and all of them seem to be healthy
and hardy."

"What happened? Tell us all about it," I said, excitement in my voice.

"As expected, Boris stopped by his office on Executive Drive. The FBI agents waited
a block up the street while he was inside for about ten minutes. Then they followed
him out to Pablo's place off I-70. They parked their cars a couple of blocks away
and walked the rest of the way, positioning themselves out of sight around the compound.
At almost six o'clock, a man named Mortimer Sharp, who has a rap sheet a mile long
and stands about six and a half feet tall or better, drove up to the Pikstone property
in a Land Rover."

"Shorty?" I asked. Mortimer Sharp was the name I'd come up with in my phone number
crosscheck on the computer.

"Yeah, that's what Boris called him. Pablo Pikstone had walked out earlier when Boris
arrived, and they both greeted the tall guy, who had a cage in the back of the Land
Rover with the four parrots in it. Odd-looking critters. Looked like green owls to
me. Smelled funny, too. But anyway, the FBI team converged on Boris, Shorty, and Pablo,
and Boris pulled out a gun."

"Thirty-two caliber?" Stone asked.

"Nah, it was a forty-five."

"A forty-five?"

"Yeah, it was a Kimber Ultra Carry, a handgun that is fairly easy to conceal," Wyatt
said around a mouthful of oatmeal cookie. "But Boris didn't fire it, thank goodness.
He quickly realized he was outgunned when Sergeant O'Brien, six FBI agents, and I
all drew down on him at the same time. He threw aside his gun and surrendered. Mortimer
Sharp turned out to not be very sharp at all. The fool started to make a run for it,
but when I fired a shot in his vicinity, 'Shorty' thought better of the idea and dropped
down to the ground with his hands clasped behind his head."

"And Pablo Pikstone?" Stone asked.

"He just shook his head in disgust, as though admonishing himself for dealing with
such inept characters as Boris and Shorty, and turned around quietly to be cuffed.
The whole takedown took less than two minutes. Smooth as silk, no more shots fired."

"Think Boris will do some time?" I asked.

"Yes, I'm pretty sure he will. I'm not sure how much he'll get for the parrot-napping
caper, but there's been an ongoing undercover investigation of his business practices,
and it looks like he'll be indicted on a long list of charges including racketeering,
extortion, embezzlement, money-laundering and insurance fraud. They even have proof
he was soliciting donations for a phony charity claiming to aid children with cancer
and young burn victims. The guy's a class act, let me tell you."

"That's outrageous! I hope the jerk never sees daylight again," I said angrily. "Even
life in prison would be too good for the likes of him. I can't imagine anyone using
critically sick children as a means of extorting money out of people."

"Neither can I, and at his age, I really wouldn't be too surprised to see him live
out the rest of his life in prison." Wyatt snagged another cookie, popped it into
his mouth, swallowing it like a starving Rottweiler might swallow a chunk of raw meat,
and then continued speaking.

"A representative employed by New Zealand's DOC was on hand to take over custody of
the birds. He will accompany and care for the kakapos. He and the parrots are already
en route back to Codfish Island, the island they were waiting to be transferred to,"
Detective Johnston explained. "By the way, Lexie, I heard the rep say the DOC was
discussing some form of reward to be presented to you for your courage and your quick
thinking. It allowed them to apprehend those scumbags and save the kakapos. The reward
would be something in the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars, he said. They feel
if it weren't for you and your actions, they might have never located the abducted
kakapos, and every one of the eighty-six remaining parrots is critical to their recovery
program. They are very grateful and very relieved."