Murder at the Dolphin Inn Read online

  A Rex Graves Mystery

  MURDER

  ~ AT THE ~

  DOLPHIN INN

  C. S. CHALLINOR

  Murder at the Dolphin Inn: A Rex Graves Mystery © 2012 by C. S. Challinor. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced, including print or Internet usage, without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations for the purpose of critical articles and reviews.

  First Edition

  Cover art © Can Stock Photo, Inc., 2012

  Book cover, design, and production by Perfect Pages Literary Management, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places, and events in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, whether living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1475219906

  ISBN-10: 1475219903

  PREVIOUS TITLES

  Rex Graves Mystery Series, published by Midnight Ink Books:

  Christmas Is Murder

  Murder in the Raw

  Phi Beta Murder*

  Murder on the Moor

  Murder of the Bride

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My grateful thanks to Douglas P. Lyle, M.D., who conscientiously and courteously answered my medical questions for Murder at the Dolphin Inn and Murder of the Bride.

  The Dolphin Inn

  Key West, FL

  #1, McCullers Suite ~ Bill Reid

  #2, Tennessee Williams Suite ~ Mae & Emily Hart

  #3, Hemingway Suite ~ Diane S. Dyer

  #4, Jimmy Buffet Suite ~ Dennis & Peggy Barber

  #5, Robert Frost Suite ~ vacant

  #6, Audubon Suite ~ Chuck & Alma Shumaker

  #7, Writer’s Garret ~ Michelle Cuzzens & Ryan Ford

  #8, Poet’s Attic ~ vacant

  ~ONE~

  Gift-wrapped in yellow ribbon, the Dolphin Inn stood amid a lush landscape abloom with orchids, red-spiked bromeliads, and Chinese Palm fans. White porches decorated with gingerbread trim wrapped long arms around the lilac clapboard, while a transom window depicting frolicking blue dolphins topped the Victorian mansion’s front door. Hard to imagine a double homicide taking place here, Rex thought. The bed-and-breakfast was, to use a British expression, rather “twee.”

  Geckos skittered before his sandals on the brick path that led to a white picket fence separating the property from the street, where he had left his fiancée among a crowd of onlookers. Undeterred by the traffic cones, their number had increased in the half hour or so since he had been inside the guest house. There would doubtless have been more spectators had it not been the morning after the annual Fantasy Fest Parade, a night of heavy drinking and revelry, which he and Helen had missed as they sailed from Miami to Mallory Square on a Carnival cruise ship.

  Empty beer cans and strings of iridescent beads littered the sun-dappled sidewalks of the street. Rex derived no small measure of satisfaction thinking that the fall weather back home in Scotland would be gray and drizzly; not balmy as here in Key West. Dressed for the most part in slogan T-shirts, shorts, and sunglasses, the rubberneckers formed an almost comical contrast to the dark-uniformed and serious-countenanced city cops on duty displaying the blue and gold patches of the KWPD on their sleeves.

  “He really fancies himself, doesn’t he?” Helen said, nodding in the direction of the patrol officer on guard outside the gate. His upper body was muscle-bound to the point of diminished mobility, and he wore a wide brimmed hat cocked jauntily on his head, his black holster polished to the patina of glass. “Is it true the two dead bodies are dressed up as clowns?” she asked.

  “Aye,” Rex replied in his Lowland Scots. He had just seen them. Hands bound, plastic bags over their heads, they sat slumped on the floor of the kitchen. “Merle and Taffy Dyer, owners of the bed-and-breakfast. Died of asphyxiation, it would appear.”

  “Who did you speak to?”

  “Captain Dan Diaz, the ranking detective. Pleasant chap, but not verra forthcoming. As to be expected.” Rex conceded the man had a lot on his hands.

  “I was talking to someone called Mike, an innkeeper on Francis Street. Handsome devil. He was quite chatty,” Helen added with a pleased smile.

  “You mean he tried to chat you up.”

  “He told me the owners had been running the Dolphin Inn for six years, after selling their bed-and-breakfast in Vermont. She was an alcoholic, and her husband a controlling miser. Seems the son hated his parents with a vengeance. The daughter is recently divorced and brought her two whiny children to stay while she got back on her feet.”

  “This Mike knows a lot.”

  “He said the Key West Association of Innkeepers is a very tight-knit community.”

  “So it would seem.”

  Reporters gathered even as they watched. The double murder of two respectable citizens was big news. A pod of marked and unmarked vehicles nosing the curb offloaded EMS personnel, while two-way radios emitted a steady stream of flat-toned static. A wave of tension rippled through the crowd.

  “Seems a bit ghoulish standing here waiting for the body bags to be carried out to the morgue,” Helen remarked. “There’s loads to see in Key West, and we only have a few hours before we have to get back on our ship.”

  “Och, we're not really going to get back on that floating monstrosity, are we?”

  “What do you mean?” his fiancée asked, stiffening in her yellow sun dress.

  “I mean, the cabin is stifling and I bumped my head getting out of bed this morning. Plus, our waiter looks and sounds like a poor imitation of Dracula. Where do they find these people?”

  “He's Romanian.”

  “Transylvania used to be in Romania, didn’t it?”

  Helen tried to suppress a smile, and failed miserably. “So, what do you suggest, exactly?”

  “Let's retrieve our luggage and stay in Key West.”

  “But what about Mexico?”

  “What aboot it?”

  “I wanted to sample some real margaritas.”

  “We can get margaritas here. Jimmy Buffet made Key West the Margaritaville of the world.”

  “But it's a free cruise,” Helen insisted. She had won it in a sweepstakes on a previous cruise to the Caribbean.

  “All the more reason to chuck it,” Rex pointed out. He had only agreed to the cruise with great reluctance. “And the return voyage doesn’t bear thinking aboot—two full days at sea watching hairy chest contests on deck.” He couldn’t imagine anything worse.

  Helen’s face dissolved into a mischievous grin. “I was going to enter you! Ah, well.” She sighed in capitulation. “So what do we do now? Assuming we can get out of the cruise...”

  “Find a place to stay.”

  Helen consulted her tourist map. “Mike’s bed-and-breakfast is on Frances Street. He told me he’s always fully booked in October, but he may be able to recommend somewhere.”

  “What aboot here?”

  “What do you mean, Rex?” The tone in which she said “Rex” did not bode well for his plans.

  “There’s a vacancy. The innkeeper said he’d offer us a discount.”

  “I should think so,” she exploded. “It's a murder scene!”

  “Could have been a suicide pact,” he said to placate her.

  “You don't think that for a moment. I know you. You want to stay here so you can solve the murders. I cannot believe this!” She put her foot down, literally, stomping her sandaled foot on the pavement.

  Rex gazed with regret at the lilac façade of the guest house. “You're right, lass. This was supposed to be a romantic trip. But the bodies are in a separate part of the house, and there's no blood
or mess whatsoever.” Just two shrink-wrapped heads. “It's squeaky clean,” he assured her.

  Helen shot him a sardonic look. “Surprising the police would let the guests stay, don’t you think?” she remarked.

  “Why not? Easier to keep an eye on everybody that way. And, as I said, the bodies are in an annex, closed off from the rest of the premises by a passageway.”

  “How can you be so nonchalant?”

  “Just practical. And you’ll like this: The suites are named after famous writers who lived or stayed in Key West. Hemingway, Tennessee Williams...” Rex, having forgotten the others, brandished the B & B brochure in his hand and looked at her hopefully.

  The wind appeared to go out of her sails as she exhaled a deep breath. “What would we have to do to cancel our cruise?”

  “The innkeepers’ son said he would contact the cruise line. We simply retrieve our bags and let the Fantasia set sail without us. I’ll go back in and see what he managed to arrange,” Rex said before she could change her mind.

  If they stayed, he might even get the chance to see his son again before they returned to the UK. Pursuing his studies in marine science in Jacksonville, Campbell had met up with his dad and Helen in Miami for an all too brief visit.

  “I heard there’s great shopping on Duval Street...” Helen held out her palm.

  Grinning, Rex extracted his American Express card from his wallet, and she flicked it out of his fingers.

  “Thank you!” she chirped. “Meet you back here at eleven.”

  Encircling her waist, he kissed her on the ear. “You're a great sport, Helen.”

  “So you keep telling me. I just hope I don't live to regret this.”

  ~TWO~

  What he had seen upon venturing into the Dolphin Inn kitchen prior to persuading Helen to stay were two inert clowns sitting side by side in front of the industrial size oven, tongues protruding rudely from big red lips, which resembled gashes in the white-powdered faces tinged with blue. Bloodshot eyes stared through clear plastic bags puckered beneath the chins and tied with thin yellow nylon rope.

  Their garb consisted of matching black and white tops accessorized with plastic red bow ties of the spinning variety; black pants; candy-striped socks; and black patent pumps on feet splayed on the linoleum floor. A shoeprint lifting kit stood by the side door, though Rex had seen no visible prints from where he stood back from the scene.

  He reflected that the lurid tableau, rendered extra garish beneath the fluorescent strip lighting, might have been more in keeping with Halloween than Fantasy Fest. That was before he discovered that the theme for this year’s festival was “Halloween Pre-Scream.”

  “The innkeepers?” he had asked the Hispanic detective upon venturing into the kitchen.

  An athletic man of five foot-ten in pressed khakis and a white polo shirt, the officer introduced himself as Captain Dan Diaz of the Key West Police Department. He referred to his small steno pad. “Merle and Taffy Dyer, sixty-five and sixty-three years old, originally from Vermont. Their son found them at seven this morning when he came in to make breakfast for the guests. He lives a short distance away.”

  Diaz got on his cell phone. “What’s keeping you?” he demanded, and apparently receiving an unsatisfactory answer, uttered a short expletive as he snapped the phone shut.

  “Any suspects yet?” Rex asked.

  “Just about anyone you can think of. The Dyers weren't real popular.”

  “No sign of a struggle,” Rex observed, looking around the orderly kitchen with its institutional stainless steel counters, as no doubt required by the board of health.

  “And no pry marks on the exterior of the door to the alley. House keys were found on the bodies. Could be a suicide pact, but their hands are bound behind their backs. Just possible they could have tied each other’s hands, but it’s a stretch.” Diaz smiled at his own choice of words.

  “I'd say that was unlikely,” Rex concurred. “They’d have had to put the bags on first, and before they got their hands tied, they would likely both have suffocated. And you'd think they would commit suicide in the privacy of their bedroom, not dressed in a silly disguise for all the staff and guests to see. And look.” Rex stepped toward the bodies.

  Detective Diaz held him back smartly. “This is a crime scene. Watch where you walk. In fact, you shouldn't be here in the first place, bubba.”

  Undeterred, Rex pointed. “That scuff mark on the lino? Looks like the bodies were dragged backwards from the door. That would explain why the bigger clown's shoe is off the heel.”

  “Possibly. But I must ask you to leave. Forensics will be here any minute. They got snagged in traffic. With the tourists leaving Key West after the parade, you got gridlock all around the island.” Diaz consulted his pad again. “I know where to find you if I need to ask you anything else. What room did you say?”

  “Ehm, I didn't,” Rex admitted. “I'm no officially staying at the Dolphin,” he said in his Scots accent. “Not yet, anyway. I saw the crime scene tape outside and thought I'd take a gander.”

  Detective Diaz politely suppressed a sigh. “I see from your card that you're an advocate or whatever from Edinburgh. That’s the Scottish equivalent to a barrister, right? I'm not sure how they do things in Scotland, but here in the States, vacationing lawyers don't have license to trespass on crime scenes.”

  “I'm also something of a solver of cases.” Rex cleared his throat. “At least, I'm getting that reputation,” he added modestly.

  Diaz didn't look like he was buying any of it. He probably thought the bulky Scotsman with the red hair and beard was one of those loonies or self-appointed psychics who appeared in every sensational case. An apparent double homicide involving a couple of senior citizens dressed as clowns certainly qualified as sensational in Rex’s own opinion.

  “You may have heard of the multiple murders at Swanmere Manor in England some Christmases ago,” Rex said, hoping on the off chance that the case had made American headlines.

  “Can't say that I have.” The detective wore polarizing sunglasses suspended from his neck. He adjusted the black lanyard around his crisp white collar and asked, “Where exactly were you last night, Mr. Graves, if you were not here?”

  “On the Atlantic Ocean somewhere between Miami and Key West. Our ship docked off Mallory Square early this morning for a day of sightseeing. My fiancée and I were on our way to the Hemingway Home when we got lost and saw the police cars barricading the street.”

  Much as Rex wanted to see where Ernest Hemingway had resided, it could wait. This couldn’t. He didn’t believe fate had brought him to this location at this precise moment so he could help solve the case, but now he was here, he could not imagine being anywhere else.

  Just then a pony-tailed videographer with “Crime Scene Unit” in white lettering on the back of his blue shirt entered the kitchen by the interior door, almost sideswiping Rex with the equipment perched on his shoulder.

  “About time,” Diaz said.

  “Traffic was brutal. What we got? A coupla clowns?”

  “Just get on with it, Tony.”

  Rex retreated into the breakfast nook as Tony took his wide angle views before moving in closer to the bodies. “Dead sometime after midnight, I'd say,” he muttered crookedly beneath the video camera.

  “You're not paid to say,” Diaz stated. “That's for the medical examiner to determine. Just record the scenery.”

  “Just sayin'. They don’t look like they’re in full rigor yet. And get a load of this.” Tony let out a low whistle as he crouched beside the corpses. “Identical bowlines around the necks and wrists.”

  “Yup,” Diaz agreed. “Nautical knots. But that don't advance us much. Most everybody on this island knows something about knots. My ten year-old can rig up one of those.”

  Not me, thought Rex, standing as inconspicuously as his hulking size allowed. As he took in the conversation, he made a mental inventory of the kitchen, from the huge aluminum sink to the iro
n skillets hanging in order of size beneath the hood of the range. Equipment sufficient to service a dozen or more guests, he calculated—in keeping with the size of the B & B. In the old scullery by the door squatted a massive washer and dryer. A handy place to hide perhaps?

  “No apparent wounds or signs of hanky-panky,” Tony continued. “It all seems real clean and tidy. In fact, looks staged, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” Captain Diaz retorted, but this time with a smile.

  Tony peered behind the clowns’ backs. “Nice job bagging the hands.”

  “Thanks.”

  Rex could not see the victims’ hands from his vantage point. Diaz would have put clean paper bags fastened with tape over them to preserve possible trace evidence and prevent contamination. Rex hoped one of the clowns had put up a struggle and left the killer’s DNA under the finger nails. He felt a tingle of excitement. There was nothing as thrilling as being on the trail of a killer, except perhaps prosecuting that person, which was his official job. He had investigated a murder in Florida once before, at his son’s college, where the victim’s parents had retained his services, entreating him to seek justice for their one and only son.

  “Who's the dude?” Tony asked, looking up at Rex from his video camera.

  “He's just leaving,” Diaz said pointedly.

  Rex took the hint and left.

  He had no intention, however, of vacating the premises. While he entertained certain misgivings about staying in accommodation where two alleged murders had taken place, he had, after all, done so before—and had even been able to prevent further casualties. Not that further casualties were to be anticipated in this case, he ruminated, although one could never be sure.

  ~THREE~

  Weighing the likelihood of further murders, Rex had come across a slope-shouldered man of middle years hovering outside the yellow-taped door leading into the kitchen. His first impression was of someone soft and doughy, rather like prepackaged white bread.