The Extinguished Guest (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 2) by Jeanne Glidewell

hour. Driving back, I wondered if I shouldn't
     drop off the account information at Arnold Accounting after I studied it. I'm sure
     the way I obtained it wasn't entirely legal. If I dropped it off in a plain manila
     envelope, perhaps no one would question how it got there. With any luck at all, Mr.
     Myers and Mary Arnold would never have an occasion to meet in person; for then, Myers
     would realize he'd been duped. Rockdale was a small town; we were bound to run into
     each other again sometime in the future. But I would deal with that bridge when I
     crossed it.
    A few minutes later I sat with Stone in the basement and scanned through the file
     of information on the D&P Enterprise account, while Stone continued to sift through
     the trash. He hadn't uncovered anything else of interest in the bag of discarded paperwork.
     Stone obviously assumed Boris had shredded important documents and stuffed them in
     the trash bag. He was clearly disappointed.
    Looking through the file I'd received from Mr. Myers, I discovered there were actually
     fourteen different accounts in D&P's name at the Rockdale Bank and Trust, but the
     sum total of all the balances was somewhat less than what I would've expected for
     a company with over sixty employees on their payroll. I recalled that Robert Fischer,
     the former loan officer at the bank, had remarked that a lot of their resources were
     in Swiss accounts. I continued to plow through the information.
    I noticed each account at Rockdale Bank and Trust had a different name, such as "Mineral
     Rights" and "Precious Gems." It was clear D&P Enterprises had their fingers in many
     different pots. The account intriguing me the most was labeled "Miscellaneous." Among
     other things, it showed a monthly deposit of fifteen hundred dollars, drawn from the
     account of Harry Turner. Could this have something to do with the dirty laundry Alma
     Turner didn't want to have aired in public? I left Stone sorting through wads and
     slivers of paper, and went upstairs hoping to find the answer to that question.
    * * *
    I was walking down the hallway toward the parlor because I wanted to put the bank
     statement copies in my room. As I passed Boris Dack's suite across the hallway from
     mine, I heard the sound of a shower running. I knew I wasn't in my bathroom taking
     a shower, so I assumed it must be Boris taking one in his. Except for Rosalinda Swift
     and Cornelius Walker, Boris and I had the only bedroom suites on the first floor.
     The upper floor of the two-story home was made up of six guest rooms, all with private
     bathrooms attached. The top-story suites were slightly larger than the ones on the
     first floor, making them ideal for couples and distinguished guests. Stone used the
     owner's quarters, which included two sets of the upper-floor suites. The second set
     had been renovated into an office and large storage closet.
    I tapped lightly on Boris's door. When he failed to answer, I gave it a nudge. The
     door was not locked and opened with a squeak into his room. I peeked inside and could
     see a light under the door of the closed bathroom. Steam escaped from the small gap
     above the door's threshold. Glancing around his room, I saw he'd laid a fresh suit
     on his bed, and atop his night-stand were his wallet, keys, pocket protector, and
     cell phone.
    Quickly I picked up his cell phone, which was a Nokia model similar to mine, and clicked
     on "calls" and then "outgoing" and found a number dialed at exactly six minutes after
     one that afternoon. I took a fancy ink pen from his pocket protector and copied the
     number onto the inside of my left wrist. While I was copying the last digits, I heard
     the shower stop. I tossed the pen on the nightstand, and quickly exited the room.
    Halfway down the hallway, I realized I'd left the stack of bank statement copies on
     Boris's bed. I'd set them down to free up my hand to write the phone number on my
     wrist, and then forgot them in my haste to