The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “Who else?”

  “Their kid, Paul. He’s just a teenager. And their handyman, Avery Haskell. That’s all the staff that was there last night. And that’s when Suzanne…” His voice broke. I tensed, waiting for the Toyota to accelerate again. But Craig didn’t tromp the gas. He sucked in a series of deep breaths instead, and drove on in silence.

  I glanced at his gaunt face and settled into silence myself. I wouldn’t push him anymore. Not while he was driving, anyway.

  The silence in the car provided a hospitable environment for self-recrimination. What the hell was I doing down here? Did I really know the man who drove in torment beside me? And what made me think I had even a chance at figuring out who had killed Suzanne? I closed my eyes and began relaxing my still-trembling body, starting with my scalp. Thirty miles later I had reached my ankles, further detours into fear and doubt having slowed my progress considerably, when Craig’s voice brought me back to the inside of the Toyota and current reality.

  “I’ll tell you about the guests,” he said. His words raced as fast as the Toyota had earlier. “Besides me and Suzanne”—he faltered and then rushed on—”this couple, Jack and Nikki. He claims to be a rock promoter or something. She’s an actress, black and beautiful. There’s a man in a wheelchair, Don. He’s pretty quiet. Hangs around with the Beaumont’s kid sometimes.” He stopped for a moment to think and then rattled off the rest. “Then there’s Ruth Ziegler. She’s a kick. I think she writes pop psychology books. And Terry. I mentioned him before. The one who insisted on a search warrant? Mr. Social Consciousness incarnate.” He paused. “Those are all the guests.”

  “That’s it?” I asked incredulously. “No one else? How can the Beaumonts make a living?”

  “They just bought the spa. Got a good deal because it’s been abandoned for years. They’re rebuilding it bit by bit, and renting out the rooms that they’ve finished as they go. Ought to be a good investment if they handle it right.” Providing hard information seemed to have done Craig good. Or maybe it was the preceding thirty miles of silence. His tone was conversational now, at ease. “They’ve placed a few ads, like the one that I saw in the Vegetarian Times. Vegetarian cooking, by the way. You’ll appreciate it. And Fran told me they expect more people this weekend. Some kind of weight-loss program.”

  “Back to the people who were there last night,” I said. “They all claim they didn’t know Suzanne?”

  “That’s what they say,” he answered thoughtfully. He took a highway exit marked DELORES, then circled back under the freeway in the opposite direction of the signs pointing to that town. We drove along a tree-lined road for a mile or so. “But you’ll be able to ask them yourself. We’re here.”

  “Here” was a gap in the trees with a tasteful cream-colored sign proclaiming “Spa Santé, Hot Springs and Resort” in brown script. As we drove through the gap I saw scattered stucco buildings of various shapes and sizes. A few sported sparkling white plaster exteriors, but most were brown and cracked with decay. Some were even missing sections of roofs and walls. Those in the worst condition were cordoned off by white nylon rope strung on wooden stakes. Flowers bloomed everywhere. Bursts of color from red geraniums, white alyssum, yellow pansies, richly purple violas and just-planted pink primroses reclaimed the faded beauty of the spa. Packed-earth paths flowed gracefully between the old and new buildings and around the flower beds. The whole compound was encircled by orange trees.

  Craig pulled up beside the largest stucco building and parked. “Are you ready to meet people?” he asked.

  I looked into his ravaged face and returned the question. “Are you ready?”

  “Always ready, always willing, darlin’,” he replied. An old joke of his. He twisted his face into a parody of his old easy grin. Watching him, I felt the sudden pressure of imminent tears once more. But I shook them off and twisted my own features into an answering smile.

  “Lead on, Macduff,” I said, misquoting Shakespeare in a show of camaraderie.

  We walked up the stairs of the big building and across the large porch with a redwood bench and invitingly placed lounge chairs. Craig held open a glass door and waved me into an attractive lobby decorated in muted pastels. He hurried me past the registration desk. “They’ll be in the dining hall. That’s where everyone hangs out.”

  The dining hall was beyond another set of glass doors. I peered through the glass and saw a spacious room with high wood-beamed ceilings and large sunny windows. One long table with room for at least two dozen people dominated the center of the hall. A buffet extended the length of the side wall, and at least thirty smaller tables were scattered throughout the remaining expanse. The buffet and tables were made of dark lacquered wood. Many of the tables were brightened by fresh flower arrangements. A waist-high counter, complete with cash register, stood sentry at the front of the hall, but no one was on duty behind it.

  As Craig and I opened the glass doors, the disconcerting sound of uninhibited laughter reached us.

  I located the source of the sound. At the end of the long center table an older woman with short, frizzy grey hair was wiggling her finger at a weasel-faced man who looked to be about my age. He was frowning peevishly. Whatever the joke was, I would have bet it was at his expense. A bearded man in a wheelchair was talking softly to a teenage boy at a table by the windows, oblivious to the others in the room. The boy looked up at us, shouted “Mom!” and continued to listen to the bearded man’s words.

  The swinging doors to the kitchen opened, and a plump Eurasian woman came bearing down on us, one arm clutching linen napkins, the other outstretched in my direction.

  As I watched the five strangers, my skin prickled into goose bumps. Was one of these strangers a murderer?

  Or—the thought crept into my mind before I could block it—was the murderer the man who had picked me up at the airport and now stood expectantly by my side?

  TWO

  “HELLO, HELLO! I’m Fran Beaumont. Welcome to Spa Santé,” bubbled the Eurasian woman musically. She smelled of fresh-cut apples and oranges. She dropped the napkins on a nearby table and clasped my hand in hers briefly. Up close, she wasn’t really as plump as she had looked at a distance. It was just her baggy pink sweatshirt which gave that impression, as well as her soft moon-shaped face with features so delicately sketched as to seem an afterthought. “I’ll bet you’re Craig’s wife. Bradley said you would come.”

  “Ex—” I began, but faltered. I glanced at Craig again. He looked uncomfortable but said nothing. Did he even know our current marital status?

  A tremor of uncertainty traveled across Fran’s soft face. I sympathized. Just what rules of etiquette govern when greeting the wife, or ex-wife, of a man whose girlfriend has just been murdered in your establishment?

  “Just call me Kate,” I said, mustering up a smile for her gracious attempt at Southern California hospitality.

  “Oh, Kate,” she said with a relieved rush of breath. She clasped my hand again. “I’m so glad you’re here. We fixed up a room for you, no charge of course.” No charge? Why no charge? But there was no opportunity to ask. Fran was rolling now. “And my husband, Bradley, says it will be safe. Really. He says it must have been a maniac, a Night Stalker, some random force of evil.” Was this supposed to make me feel better? For the first time I felt real fear seeping into my consciousness. “But, on the other hand, if it was, well…” She paused.

  “If what was what?” I asked.

  She bent forward and whispered. “If the murderer was someone we know.” I could see fear in those delicate eyes now. “What if they strike again?”

  I shivered. And as I did, something slithered against my leg. Whoa! I jumped backwards and felt a piece of that something squish underneath my descending foot. A hell-born yowl of outrage propelled me forward again.

  “Oh, God. I’m so sorry,” said Fran, wringing her hands. She bent over and, with obvious effort, picked up an immense black ball of fur. “Roseanne, cut that out,” she admonis
hed. “Bradley says we should get rid of her, but…” She ended her sentence by burying her face in Roseanne’s fur.

  From the safety of Fran’s arms, Roseanne glared up at me with glowing yellow eyes, as if daring me to tangle with her again.

  “Good God,” I said, now cold under the sweat that had drenched me when I stepped on her paw. “How much does that cat weigh?”

  “Twenty-seven pounds,” Fran answered. A blush suffused her round cheeks. “I’ve tried to put her on a diet, but she chews the bottoms out of her cat food bags and steals scraps and—”

  “What an advertisement for a health spa,” teased Craig. When Fran didn’t smile he amended his comment. “The ‘before’ shot of course.”

  I laughed. Fran forced a weak smile. Roseanne stared at me appraisingly. Was I laughing at her? She flexed her claws.

  “Kate,” Fran whispered again. I looked into her eyes and saw that the fear I had almost forgotten was still there. “Craig says you might be able to figure out this…” Couldn’t she spit out the word “murder”? “This…this thing. Please try. We’ll do anything we can to help you. I’ve got to know.”

  “I’m not…” I began to object. But her eyes were so frightened. I turned and glared at Craig. Had he tried to pass me off as a detective? He quickly averted his eyes. Fran saw the exchange and retreated into hospitality once more.

  “But of course you’re welcome to stay, no matter what,” she said with a tremulous smile. “I didn’t mean to push you. Bradley says I suffer from foot-in-mouth disease. Just forget I asked.”

  Damn. I hated it when people did that to me. How could I gracefully refuse a retracted request?

  “I’ll be glad to pay for my room,” I said. I meant it. I didn’t want to be under any obligation to this frightened woman. Or to raise her hopes.

  “No, no. We insist, don’t we, Roseanne?” she said, gently setting the cat down on a chair with a fond pat. “Would you like to meet some of the other guests?” she added quickly, closing the subject of free accommodations.

  I shrugged. I could always insist on paying her later.

  As she turned to introduce me to the others, I noticed that all eyes were already upon us. Fran noticed one set of eyes in particular.

  “Paul, what are you doing home?” she called to the teenager. “It’s only two-thirty.”

  He mumbled something under his breath, his expression no friendlier than Roseanne’s.

  “Kids,” Fran said with a forced laugh. “Paul, come say hello to Kate. She’ll be staying with us for a while.”

  Paul rose from his seat slowly, nodding a goodbye to the bearded man in the wheelchair. He wasn’t a bad-looking boy. Medium height and slender in his jeans and T-shirt. Adidas running shoes with the laces nonchalantly untied. His features were even, with just a touch of acne, under dark shaggy hair. If he had smiled, he might have been handsome. But he didn’t. He kept his eyes lowered sullenly as he walked across the room.

  He extended his hand to shake mine without making eye contact. “Paul,” he muttered with the brief shake. His hand felt hot and dry. Then, “gotta go.” He walked toward the glass doors.

  “Wait a minute,” said Fran. Paul stopped in his tracks. “As long as you’re here, you might as well be useful. You can start setting the tables for dinner.”

  Paul rolled his eyes but complied silently. He picked up the napkins that Fran had set down and stomped to the other end of the room to begin placing them on the tables.

  Fran sighed. “He’s a good kid, really. Bradley says not to pay him any attention when he acts this way.”

  I wanted to meet Fran’s husband, Bradley. According to Fran, he was a man with all the answers. Maybe he knew who murdered Suzanne. Or—

  An insistent whirring sound interrupted my thought. The man in the wheelchair had rolled up. I focused my eyes on his bearded face, avoiding looking at his legs. His sea-blue eyes looked made for laughter. There were even old laugh lines radiating from them. But those lines were overlaid with lines of pain. And his eyes were filled with bitterness. How long had he been in the wheelchair?

  I forced a smile and tried to dismiss my pity and fear. I could never get past those first reactions to a wheelchair-bound person. The fear that this could also happen to me, the physical pang of pity, and even the irrational guilt that it wasn’t me in the wheelchair. But the man wasn’t looking in my direction anyway. He was focused on Craig. I relaxed my face.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to Craig. His voice was low and gruff. “Wasn’t your fault. Anything I can do, just ask.”

  “Thanks,” answered Craig softly, his eyes moistening. This was interesting. Maybe the police suspected Craig, but if Fran and this man were any indication, the Spa Santé crowd didn’t seem to share that suspicion.

  The man turned his wheelchair in my direction with a short series of clicks and whirs. “Don Logan,” he said holding out his hand.

  “Kate Jasper,” I replied and bent down to take his hand. It was calloused and had a strong grip. In fact, his whole upper body looked solidly muscular under the flannel shirt.

  “Craig’s sister?” he asked, looking at me with a spark of curiosity in those bitter blue eyes.

  I was confused for a moment, then understood. Jasper, the same last name as Craig’s. “No, no,” I answered. “Craig’s wife. I mean, former wife.” How many times was I going to be asked that question? Maybe I should have reverted to my maiden name. But it was long, unpronounceable, and unfamiliar after fourteen years. “And Craig’s friend,” I added in explanation.

  “Good,” said Don solemnly. “Craig needs a friend right now.”

  His chair whirred backwards. “Good meeting you,” he said and maneuvered past us and out the glass doors.

  “Don’s fantastic,” said Fran after he was out of sight. “He’s off to work out. He exercises religiously, every afternoon. Bradley says, with his chair and van and everything, Don can do almost anything anyone else can.” Bradley again. I was getting tired of Bradley. And I hadn’t even met the man yet.

  “We’ve fixed up a bunch of the units for the disabled,” Fran continued. Her eyes were bright now, flickering with plans. “Wide doorways, ramps, grab-bars, special bathrooms. Our handyman Avery knows all about that stuff. He used to be a hospital aide. And then, when we have a few more special units finished, we’re going to place some special ads. And then…” The brightness faded from Fran’s eyes. “That is, if everything is cleared up.”

  No wonder she was worried. An unsolved murder could kill Spa Santé’s business before it even got going. I wanted to comfort Fran. To tell her the police would clear up the murder. To tell her I would clear up the murder. But there was no reason to believe either scenario. I kept my mouth shut. I had already promised too much to Craig. Fran straightened her shoulders abruptly.

  “Two-thirty and I haven’t even started tonight’s buffet,” she said. “Craig, introduce Kate to Ruth and Terry, and I’ll get back to the kitchen where I belong.” With that, she hurried back through the kitchen doors and disappeared.

  Craig introduced the frizzy grey-haired woman as Ruth Ziegler. Ruth immediately jumped up from her chair and engulfed me in an intense Leo Buscaglia hug. A bit demonstrative for a stranger, but living in Marin had inured me to this brand of New Age effusiveness. Then she held me at arm’s length and surveyed my face as if it were a crystal ball. Her clothing was right for the occasion. A flowing purple caftan. And her face could have been a wise gypsy’s, brown and crinkly with a long hooked nose, generous mouth and all-seeing black-button eyes.

  “There’s a lot of compassion in you, and intelligence,” she announced finally. She gave me another quick hug and stepped back. I felt my face flushing. This kind of scrutiny was usually reserved for prospective in-laws.

  “Craig needs plenty of support right now,” she added. Great. Another member of the Craig Jasper fan club. Didn’t any of these people see him as a murder suspect? “He needs to mourn properly. You can help him do t
hat.”

  At least she wasn’t asking me to play detective. But how was I supposed to help Craig mourn properly? Before I could form my thoughts into a coherent question, she had turned on Craig with an even more fervent hug than the one she had given me. I hoped it was what he needed.

  The man at the table rose to introduce himself. He was a small slender man, shorter than I was, and probably lighter. He watched Ruth with a look of amusement on his long weasel face. His pinched nostrils quivered over a wispy greying mustache, and his close-set eyes were smiling under wire-rimmed glasses. His clothing was not amused however. His duckbill-cap demanded “Food Not Bombs” over badly cut brown hair, and his T-shirt ordered “CIA Out of Central America.” I groaned to myself. Aggressive social consciousness always sparks my own guilt over good causes long ignored, marches unjoined and contribution requests unpaid.

  “Terry McPhail,” he said and offered his slight hand for shaking.

  “Kate,” I replied shortly as I pumped his hand. No use confusing him with my surname.

  “Ruth thinks a hug can cure everything,” he said, with a thumb pointed in her direction. She still had Craig locked in her loving grip.

  “And Terry thinks political activism will solve everything,” came her retort, muffled by Craig’s chest. “But only eventually. And meanwhile, as we wait, we must suffer nobly.” She released Craig and held him at arm’s length, as she had done with me. “At least a hug is immediate,” she concluded.

  I began a question for Terry. “Is Ruth your…?” Mother, girlfriend, wife? I figured Terry was about my age. Ruth must have been at least twenty years his senior.

  “No,” he answered with a chuckle. “I’ve just met her. We just argue like family.”

  Ruth motioned us all to join them at the end of the long table. I sank gratefully into a chair. Craig sat next to her, his eyes bleary again.

  “The lecture begins,” warned Terry as he took his seat.