A Rip Roaring Good Time Read online

  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."

  "Same here, Wendy. But I still think he should realize that someone of Lexie's character wasn't involved in the murder and let her go without further investigating of any motive she might have had to want Trotter dead," Stone said optimistically. "Smith can't possibly despise her to that degree."

  "I'd agree with you, Stone," Wendy said ruefully. "But then we'd both be wrong. Don't think for a second he's forgotten the time we threatened to file a lawsuit against Trotter, because of ─ well, you know. And I imagine he's held that against Mom all along, too."

  "Oh, good Lord," Stone repeated, dropping his head into his hands, which were resting on the kitchen table. "I'd forgotten about that incident too!"

  * * *

  We sat in the kitchen nursing our cups of coffee as one hour lead to the next. We could hear voices and even laughter as a number of detectives were reexamining the crime scene in the parlor. There didn't appear to be an overabundance of gravity amongst the investigating team. Of course, it stood to reason they might have very little use for the vict
im themselves, or possibly even for their boss, the victim's stepfather.

  Three hours later, Detective Johnston finally called to inform Stone that Lexie was being held in custody while the investigation continued. Wyatt said he'd tried to get the detectives to let her go home if Lexie promised not to leave town, but his effort had failed. According to him, the other detectives thought it best to let the chief make that decision since the crime involved the death of his stepson, not theirs.

  Chief Smith was not present at the police station because he obviously had other pressing matters. He was at the coroner's office, where Nate had taken his son's body. Wendy was also called to the coroner's lab to assist in the autopsy, which the police chief had demanded be performed immediately.

  Even though he was no doubt grieving tremendously, he was apparently not going to let any grass grow under his feet in his eagerness to apprehend the person responsible for his loved one's murder. Unfortunately, according to Wendy, who had returned from the lab an hour after she left the inn, Chief Smith was convinced he already had the killer behind bars.

  Wendy told us her boss, Nate, had sent her home from the coroner's lab soon after the procedure began. Nate told her Chief Smith had insisted she not be involved in the autopsy. He believed having her assist in the thorough postmortem examination while her mother was being held as the prime suspect was a conflict of interest, Wendy explained. "Apparently, the chief thinks I'd skew the autopsy report in Mom's favor to try to save her from the gas chamber. It's not that the chief wasn't correct that, at the very least, I would be tempted to intervene if it would help save my mother's hide. But regardless, to out and out suggest I'd so such a thing is preposterous. What a freaking a-hole!"

  "The gas chamber?" Stone asked with a catch in his voice.

  "Just a figure of speech, Stone," his stepdaughter replied. "Actually, in Missouri, they'd give her the needle."

  "The needle?" Stone gasped. And here I'd thought Rip didn't know when to zip it. I decided to steer the conversation away from the manner in which Lexie might be executed before Wendy dug an even deeper hole and pushed Stone headfirst into cardiac arrest.

  "So why did they call you to come in if they didn't want you involved in the case?" I asked.

  "It was merely out of necessity. When Nate made the initial thoracic-abdominal incision he noticed that the cadaver's blood and body tissue were bright red," Wendy said, as if we'd all automatically know what that implied.

  Then the young dear turned morbid on us, detailing the standard autopsy procedure. After a few comments about opening the pericardial sac to determine blood type, removing and weighing organs before slicing them into sections and looking for petechiae, or tiny hemorrhages in the mucus membrane inside the eyeballs, I asked her to spare us the gruesome details and cut to the chase. I was getting ready to prepare sandwiches for everyone, and I didn't need visions of dissected eyeballs in my mind while I ate my lunch. I did change my mind about serving hard-boiled eggs with the sandwiches though.

  "Oh, sorry," Wendy said apologetically. "Force of habit, I guess. I'm used to talking things like this over with my coworkers in the lab. Anyway, bright red blood and tissue in a cadaver indicates the presence of cyanide, but it has to be verified by smell. In the county coroner's lab there are Nate, the county coroner; a deputy coroner, Max, who's retiring at the end of the year; and a few assistants like me. In the entire department, I have by far the best sense of smell when it comes to detecting and identifying specific odors such as cyanide. Some people can't smell it at all, but I can easily pick up its scent if the poison is present."

  "What does cyanide smell like?" Rip asked. He'd taken the words right out of my mouth and probably Stone's as well.

  "It has a bitter almond scent to it. Kind of smells like Andy's dirty socks, actually," Wendy explained with a smile. "So anyway, they called me in to go 'under the hood' as we say. It's a process to trap the fumes in order to verify that cyanide was in Trotter's system. Then they told me I was not allowed to be involved any further in the autopsy, as I said before. I was extremely miffed at being barred from the case."

  "I don't get it," Stone said, taking the words out of my mouth once again. "I thought his throat was sliced."

  "It was. But only after he'd been weakened by cyanide poisoning, which was also detected in the liquid residue on shards of the broken goblet he'd been drinking from. My guess is that the perpetrator didn't want Hayes to bring attention to himself by thrashing on the floor while trying to get oxygen into his lungs. Also, and most likely, to prevent the risk of Trotter not consuming enough of the poison to kill him. That might allow for help to arrive quickly enough to save his life."

  "Yeah, that wouldn't have been good," I remarked without thinking. The others looked at me for a few seconds before turning their attention back to Wendy.

  "As soon as the victim fell to the ground, the killer had to have stepped behind Hayes and sliced through the carotid artery and jugular on the left side of his neck. The right side was unaffected, indicating the killer was most likely right-handed, as were all but four people on the premises at the time of the murder. Slicing his throat in this manner would not be an altogether easy task with someone of Trotter's muscular build, but it could be achievable, particularly if the perpetrator was in a rage and had adrenalin going for him. The old 'woman lifts car off baby' type of adrenalin."

  Wendy told Stone that the chief knew Lexie had an ax to grind with his stepson. "And he believed that, due to Mom's impulsive nature, she could have easily acted out her desire for revenge in a fit of fury like I just mentioned." The news was not exactly what we all had hoped to hear.

  Rip turned to Wendy and asked her if Missouri law allowed suspects to be held for forty-eight hours without officially charging them with a crime, and Wendy replied, "Missouri law only allows a twenty-hour hold time. But I'm sure that Chief Smith, being Chief Smith, will push the envelope as far as he possibly can. He'll likely pay no attention to that law whatsoever."

  We were only marginally relieved to hear Wendy's response. I'd been silent during the conversation so far. I was brooding about how Rip and I might be able to help out with the situation. We were to be at the inn for at least a week while the mechanics at Boney's garage completed the repairs on our travel trailer. No sense sitting on our cans twiddling our thumbs during that time. And particularly not if we had a friend in need who could use our help.

  At first I'd prayed the repairs would be taken care of as quickly as possible, given they were costing us seventy-five hard-earned bucks an hour. But now the penny-pinching trait in me had been swallowed up completely by the righteousness one. I didn't care how long the repairs took now that we had a more important issue to contend with while they were being completed. Neither Rip nor I had any intention of leaving town while Lexie was rotting away in jail.

  Okay, I'll admit that perhaps "rotting away" was a little melodramatic, but I knew she wasn't a happy camper about being incarcerated, even if only temporarily. I could remember what my pappy always said after having spent time in jail for a public intoxication or disturbing the peace arrest, both of which occurred frequently.

  Pappy would stuff a wad of Beechnut in his mouth, chew for a spell, spit on the ground—or on occasion his already grimy boots—and say, "The big house is not a place you'll ever want to find yourself, Princess. Being locked up there is about as much fun as having a bear drop a load in your Easter basket."

  I'd been too young to comprehend what he was saying. As a child it seemed to me that the "big house" would be preferable to the dilapidated, dirt-floored, three-room flea trap we lived in at the time. But if Pappy said otherwise, I figured it must be so.

  Chapter 6

  It was nearly midnight when Detective Johnston called to tell Stone that nothing further would happen until morning regarding the case, including a change in Lexie's imprisonment. He'd seen to it she'd had a comfortable cot and a decent meal since the catered supper had gone uneaten. I knew fo
r a fact she'd skipped lunch as well, too busy to take the time to eat—as had I. He suggested we all get some sleep and that he'd call again in the morning after he'd heard the latest on the situation.

  We agreed. We were all wrung out from being fraught with worry and shell-shocked by the vicious murder that had taken place in the parlor that evening. Stone had been especially concerned about his wife's welfare, naturally, but was also muttering about what affect yet another murder in the Alexandria Inn might have on their bed and breakfast business. I'd heard him remark to his stepdaughter, "Wendy, how many people do you think can get killed in the inn before customers are too scared to stay here? So far, the first two murders have not seemed to slow down the steady stream of guests, but eventually the word will get around that booking a room here is a bit like playing Russian roulette. We'll be deemed 'the house of horrors,' I'm afraid."

  "Don't worry, Stone," she'd replied. "It'll all work out in the end. Mom, and the business, will come out just fine. Try to get some rest, as hard as that'll be for all of us, no doubt."

  I'm pretty sure the only one who slept at all that night was Dolly. She'd had a very active day. The Alexandria Inn was a half-a-block long, and it had no doubt been a long, tedious task for her to get it all sniffed out. It was a vital part of the feline job description. And who could tell when the food fairy might leave an unanticipated cat treat in an obscure location? I'm sure this was Dolly's line of thinking since she appeared to believe she was always be on the brink of dying of starvation.