Death By Chocolate 6 (Mystery and Women Sleuths) (Josiah Reynolds Mysteries) (7 page)

Before I joined Ginny, I went to the front desk at Dupont Lodge.

“Hello,” I said to one of the ugliest men I had ever seen. He was wearing thick glasses that made his eyes look huge and had faint grey stubble on his cheeks, giving his skin an unhealthy pallor. The effect reminded me of a used brillo pad.

A story about Abraham Lincoln’s less than handsome appearance immediately came to mind. Abe ran across a woman who exclaimed, “I do believe you are the ugliest man I ever saw!” To which Abe replied, “Madam, you are probably right, but I can’t help it.” Without hesitation, she rejoined, “No, you can’t help it, but you might stay at home.”

Trying not to chuckle at my own insipid thoughts, I asked, “I was wondering if you could help me?”

“I’ll certainly try,” he answered cheerfully, giving me his full attention.

I looked at his badge, on which was printed the name Steve. Steve might be so ugly that he frightened babies, but I could tell that he tried to be a good man. You could just tell from his demeanor.

“How long have you worked here?”

He scratched his face as if considering this an odd question. Deciding that there was no harm in answering, he replied, “About seven months now.”

I pulled out the picture of Dwight. “I am investigating the disappearance of Dwight Wheelwright.” I held up the picture of Dwight. “I was wondering if you had ever seen this man?”

He took a hard look at the picture. “That’s the man that went missing some time back. I thought the police had decided that he had just up and run away.”

“His family doesn’t think so.” I shook the picture a little.

“Are you the police?” the young man asked, pronouncing police as Pole-leeese, “’cause I’ve already answered these questions several times.”

“I’m authorized by the man’s mother to investigate.”

“Oh, his mama. I see. Well then.”

I could see that a man’s mother had more sway than the authorities with Steve.

“I’ll tell you what I told the police. I can identify that man as Dwight Wheelwright who checked in here on July first. He said he was going fishing up Bee Creek Road. Was gonna check out on the third, because he had a birthday party to go to. Said it was his.”

I looked at my map of the area. “I don’t see where Bee Creek Road hits the lake.”

Steve leaned over the counter and traced a route with a pen. “You have to go on Bee Creek Road first, then turn here to go to Grove Marina. That takes you deep into Daniel Boone National Forest and then to the lake.”

“Oh, I see,” I said, deflated. “I just came from Grove Marina. I now remember I had to turn onto US 25 coming here. That must have been Bee Creek Road. Thank you.” I didn’t want to bore the young man with how I forgot little things like names of roads now. I started to walk away and then got a flash of inspiration.

Maybe my brain wasn’t that dull after all. “You said this is what you told the police. Was there something you didn’t tell the police?”

Steve looked about to see if anyone was listening.

There was not another person in sight.

Steve leaned over the counter in a conspiratorial manner. “He made a big deal about this party. Was real chatty. Most people just want their room key and credit card back in a hurry. He kinda hung around for a while.”

I now knew Steve was a fountain of information, but one had to ask the right questions.

“Steve . . . may I call you Steve . . . what kind of an accent did he have? Did he have one like yours?”

“No, ma’am. He wasn’t from these parts. He had a city accent like from up north or around the Cincinnati area. Sorta like yours.”

“Was it more mid-western than mine, you think?”

“Could be, but it wasn’t an accent from upper mid-west like Michigan or the Dakotas. I meet people from all around the world. You get to recognize the accents, you know.”

I thought that very interesting, as Dwight had a thick Kentucky accent, which he could never shake. “Take a look at this picture again. Are you a hundred percent sure that this is the man that checked in?”

Steve pushed his glasses further up on his nose. “Yeah, that’s the man. Of course, it’s hard to tell ’cause he’s not wearing a hat in the picture.”

“Dwight was wearing a hat when he checked in?”

“A fishing hat, but he had it pulled down low.”

“Was it a hat with a bass embroidered on it?”

“I guess. I don’t really remember what was on it except that it had a long bill.”

“Tell me, if the hat was pulled low, could you see his eyes?”

“Well, rightly no, but I know this is the same man. I’d swear on the Bible. Of course, Darlene doesn’t think so.”

“And who’d be Darlene?”

“Usually Darlene works the night shift, but she was working the morning shift that day when Mr. Wheelwright checked out. She told the police that the man who checked out wasn’t the man in the picture they’d showed her, but I set them right after they talked to me.”

“I see. Is Darlene still working here?” I asked, barely able to contain my excitement.

“She’s in the dining room getting something to eat before she comes on shift.”

“Thank you, Steve. You’ve been a big help.”

Steve beamed. “Always glad to be of assistance.”

I hurried to the dining room. The elevator could not go fast enough. Finally reaching the dining room, I stepped into an expansive wood-beamed room originally built by the CCC boys (Civilian Conservation Corps) in 1933 and then rebuilt in 1941 after a fire. The entire back wall was glass with bird feeding stations along a majestic view of the Cumberland River.

Next to one of the picture windows sat a middle-aged blond watching the birds while sipping coffee. She had on a nametag.

I approached her table trying to read her tag. “Darlene?”

“Yes,” she replied, looking up cautiously.

I could tell that she didn’t want to be disturbed. This was probably her quiet time before going on her shift. “My name is Josiah Reynolds. I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a few questions to ask you about the Dwight Wheelwright case. I understand that you checked him out?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m authorized by Mr. Wheelwright’s mother to investigate his disappearance. Can you help me please? Steve said that you didn’t think the man that you checked out was this man?” I held out Dwight’s photo.

Darlene gave a big sigh. “Steve’s got a big mouth. Nice man, but no sense. You know the type. So that fellow never got found, huh?

“I’ll tell you what I told the police. The picture they showed me was not the same man who checked out. Let me see yours.” Darlene took the picture out of my hand and studied it carefully. “It’s hard to tell from this picture to make a positive ID, but if he’s got a tiny white scar on his chin, then that’s not him.”

She peered closer at the picture, moving her coffee cup out of the way. “I don’t see a scar on this picture. This is not the man that I checked out on July third. I’d swear on my mama’s Bible.”

JACKPOT! Dwight didn’t have any scars on his face.

Darlene tapped the picture with her glossy pink fingernail. “Whoever this is, I hoped he took my advice and went to the hospital.”

“Why is that?”

“He was in awful pain from a scorpion bite. Limping so hard he could barely make it to his car. Felt sorry for him. Those bites are dangerous if not taken care of.”

“Scorpions?”

“The Devil Scorpion. People need to be careful in this area. We’ve got scads of them.”

“How do you know that it was a scorpion that was causing his limp?”

“He told me so. Said he got stung by a scorpion. There is no way that man got into a boat and went fishing all day. He needed pain medication and a doctor.”

I shuddered. I knew I had Brown Recluse and Black Widow spiders on the farm, but scorpions? Yuck! “Anything else that stands out to you?”

“Naw. Hope you find your man, though.” Darlene handed the picture back and resumed her coffee drinking, looking out the windows at the birds feeding.

I had been dismissed.

I told Ginny what I had learned.

“Oh, dear. This just gets worse and worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dwight didn’t like to fish on boats. He was not a good swimmer and Laurel Lake being so deep and all . . . he liked to go fly-fishing or fish from the bank. It wasn’t his nature to rent a boat. Dwight was frightened of the lake.”

“Don’t you have to wade in the water for fly fishing?” I asked.

“Depends on the type of fly fishing, but there is a difference between wading into a river that only comes up to your knees and fishing from an unsteady boat on a deep lake. See the difference if you might be shy around deep water? That’s why he preferred the Cumberland River. I was always suspicious of this boat thing. I thought it out of character.”

“I see.”

Ginny continued. “Of course, the best place to go fly fishing for trout is below Wolf Creek Dam at Cumberland Lake. That’s where Dwight would go fly fishing.”

I shook my head. “I’m confused.”

“You see, Jo, fishing is an art form. You fish differently for each type of fish you want.”

“Did Dwight tell you what type of fish he wanted to catch?”

“Don’t recall.”

“Ginny, were you anxious about Dwight’s swimming ability?”

“Oh, yes, very. He wasn’t a good swimmer at all.”

It now occurred to me that perhaps Dwight lied to his mother about lake fishing because he didn’t want to alarm her that he was in a boat. Lying would save him grief, and Ginny concern. Maybe he did rent a boat and fell into the lake, drowning, and now his body was snagged by some underwater tree.

Still, there was Darlene saying the man that checked out as Dwight had a scar on his chin, which the real Dwight did not. And if he had been stung by a scorpion, would he really rent a boat instead of seeing a doctor?

What to do? What to do?

“Darlene said that Dwight was not the man she checked out. You need to reopen this case.”

Goetz shifted his weight in his chair. “Darlene who?”

“I didn’t get her last name, but she works at Dupont Lodge and she said Dwight was not the man she checkout on July third. Now she says the man she checked out was limping from a scorpion bite . . .”

“A what?” interrupted Goetz.

“A scorpion bite and he was limping. If Dwight were stung by a scorpion, he would have gone to a doctor. He wouldn’t have gone fishing.”

“Men are notorious for not going to a doctor when they need to, especially if it would interfere with something they want to do. And they don’t like to complain that they are in pain. I can see a man trying to go fishing until he was in so much pain he couldn’t stand it, or he fell out of the boat because he got dizzy from the pain.”

“Farley Webb never showed up at Dwight’s birthday party.”

“So?”

“There’s more. Darlene said the man she checked out had a tiny white scar on his chin. Farley Webb has a tiny white scar on his chin.”

“Did you have her ID a picture of Farley Webb?”

“No, but I showed her a picture of Dwight and she said that was not the man she checked out. She’s positive.”

“Did you ever see Farley Webb limp? Or did he tell you he got bitten by a scorpion?”

“Well, no. Like I said, he didn’t come to the party, so I never saw him.”

“Has anyone else ever said they saw Farley Webb limping . . . like the guy at the Grove Marina who rented out the boat?”

My voice was barely audible. “No, but there was no reason until now to ask those questions. I didn’t know to ask Mr. Klotter that question.”

“Don’t you think he would have mentioned it? Did Ginny say she saw Farley Webb limping?”

“No, but . . .”

“But . . . but . . . but. Awful lot of buts.”

Fuming, I huffed, “He was supposed to be Dwight’s best friend and he doesn’t show up for Dwight’s birthday party? Come on, now. You need to check emergency hospital records for someone with a scorpion bite.”

“You know how many hospitals and clinics are between Cumberland Falls and here? Besides I hate to tell you this, but most men don’t really care for girlie birthday parties. We’d rather have a nice steak dinner with our wives and then go home and have birthday sex. I can see why Mr. Webb wanted to skip his friend’s party.”

“It’s your job to look into this, isn’t it?”

“What’s this Darlene’s last name?” Goetz asked again.

“I told you that I don’t know. I didn’t ask, but she works at the front desk at Dupont Lodge.”

“Some detective you are . . . not asking for a last name. And I suppose you didn’t get an address or phone number either?” quizzed Goetz, squinting his eyes at me.

“People won’t talk to you if you start asking all these intrusive questions. That’s where the law comes into play.”

“I’m not convinced. You have to give me something more.”

“What if Selena was having an affair with Farley Webb and they plotted Dwight’s death because they thought Selena was the beneficiary of Dwight’s insurance policy?”

“There is not one single shred of evidence to point to that conclusion.”

“I’ve got a huge piece of chocolate with Dwight’s blood and hair on it,” I lied. (I hadn’t gotten the report back yet.) “I think they hit him over the head with the birthday chocolate, killing him. Or at least, knocked him out and then killed him at the house and then took the body to the Daniel Boone National Forest where they buried him . . . or Farley buried him.”

“Do you know how stupid that sounds? A piece of chocolate? How can you kill someone by hitting them with candy?”

“You haven’t seen this chocolate horse. It weighs twenty-three pounds.”

“Selena didn’t leave town during those three days and no one made any kind of statement that she seemed nervous or tense . . . like she had just murdered her husband. They said she seemed content and happy.”

“Yeah. She thought she was coming into five hundred thousand big ones.”

Goetz was quiet and stared out the window onto Main Street. The holiday lights twinkled on the Ginkgo trees as rush hour traffic buzzed by. It was drizzling. Heavy snow was predicted for later that night.

“Make me a Derby pie and I might consider it,” Goetz demanded.

“Deal. I thought you were still going to lose more weight.”

“My lady friend moved to Florida, so now I don’t give a damn.”

“I didn’t know you had a lady friend.”

Goetz remained quiet and began playing with a rubber band. He seemed to be aiming the rubber band at me.

He let go of it so that it whizzed past my ear, hitting the wall behind me.

That was my cue to leave.

I got out of there fast.