The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  Ruth reached for Craig’s hand and held it. She peered into his eyes. He stared back, mesmerized. I began to fidget, uncomfortable in this role of intimate observer. “Don’t deny your grief,” she advised him. “You have to pass through the tears, the fears, the anger, the guilt. But there will come an end to the worst of the mourning. If you don’t hold back.”

  “Give sorrow words,” Terry added softly. “The grief that does not speak whispers the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break.”

  Ruth turned to Terry, her eyes wide with astonishment. “Shakespeare?” she asked.

  “Macbeth,” he confirmed.

  “And I thought all you read was the People’s Daily World,” Ruth said.

  Terry’s face went pink. He opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the bark of Craig’s laughter. We all turned to stare at him. His head was thrown back and tears glistened in his eyes as he laughed uncontrollably. He quickly subsided into a few muffled snorts as we watched.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, choking back the last of the snorts. “It’s not you—”

  “We understand,” said Ruth gently. Did we? I wondered.

  “Hey, man, it’s okay,” added Terry. “But let me give you some real advice. Don’t let the cops hassle you. Stand up for your rights.” Craig’s face paled in response. “They’ll pull all kinds of shit if they want to hang this one on you.”

  This was not what Craig needed to hear, true or untrue. Ruth and I sat up to object in unison.

  “Terry—” she began.

  “Craig—” I said.

  “So how are you all getting along?” asked a voice from above us. Fran had returned to our table with a friendly smile and a tray of condiments.

  The startled silence lasted only a few seconds.

  “Have a seat,” offered Terry expansively. Fran sat down, still smiling. “I was just filling Craig in on what he can expect from the local Gestapo.”

  “I don’t think—” I began.

  “That’s okay,” said Craig softly. His face was still white. A muscle was twitching underneath his cheekbone. “I want to know the worst.”

  “Listen, man,” said Terry. He certainly wasn’t quoting Shakespeare now. “I read this story in Mother Jones about this guy they coerced a confession from. They kept him up for twenty-four hours, fed him phony information, played with this mind and convinced him he had killed a woman in an alcoholic blackout—and he wasn’t even drinking at the time. If his family hadn’t had the bucks, he would be on death row now, but they hired some attorneys who got the confession suppressed.”

  “That isn’t the situation here,” objected Ruth. “Chief Orlandi isn’t like that. He’s a fair and decent man.” That was good to hear.

  “All cops are potentially corrupt. It’s built into the system. Orlandi and his friends are gone for the moment but they’ll be back. Just wait till the local powers-that-be in Delores start pressuring Orlandi to solve this thing. He’ll do anything to solve it, including manufacturing a murderer. Start leaning on Craig. Start leaning on witnesses. Just think of the pressure he can put on Fran here. Threaten to shut down her operation for all sorts of code violations—”

  An explosion of sobs interrupted his monologue. For a moment I thought Craig had finally broken down completely. But the source of the sobs was Fran, not Craig. Craig just looked white and stunned. Fran had buried her head in her hands as her whole body convulsed with the impact of her loud weeping.

  “Terry, stop it!” ordered Ruth.

  Terry complied instantly, snapping his mouth shut in surprise.

  Ruth rose from her chair and bent over Fran to give her an all-healing hug. Fran continued to weep, bursting into fragmented wailing phrases with every other sob. “Oh God…So afraid…Bradley says.”

  The rest of us sat uncomfortably transfixed while Fran cried herself out. Gradually, her sobbing and wailing tapered off. Ruth stepped back, and Fran’s soft face emerged pink and puffy, her delicate eyes nearly swollen shut.

  “Sorry,” she breathed.

  “No, I’m sorry,” said Terry, eager to redeem himself. “I didn’t think. I just thought that some information—”

  “You’re forgiven, Terry,” said Ruth sharply. “Why don’t you quit while you’re ahead?”

  I began to laugh, comic relief pushing the tension from my head. Fran and Craig joined in. Terry even managed a weak smile. And Ruth beamed at us as if we were students who had learned the lesson correctly. Once the laughter was over, there seemed little left to say.

  Fran reached into her pocket and pulled out a key. “Kate, why don’t you get settled in your room? It’s all made up for you.”

  As I thanked her for the key I was assailed with a physical pang of longing for the privacy of my own room. Away from involuntary hugs, uncontrollable laughter, sobbing, police horror stories and the company of possible murderers. Because there was a good chance that someone I had met here had murdered Suzanne. Or someone I had yet to meet.

  I got up to leave and waved a quick goodbye, nice-to-have-met you, to the assembled group before heading gratefully to the glass doors.

  “Wait,” called Craig as I pushed a door open. “Your suitcase is still in the car.”

  I turned my head to look at him as the rest of me continued its forward progress. And walked smack into a solid and silent human body.

  THREE

  I DIDN’T HAVE to look up to know the body was human—and male. The giveaway was the smell of testosterone-tinged work sweat. Not to mention the hair sprouting from the open-necked denim workshirt an inch away from my face.

  “Jesus!” I yelped and jumped back. Someday I would learn to watch where I was going.

  I looked up in time to see the flicker of distaste that crossed the face of the silent man before me. Too late, I noticed the silver cross nestled among his chest hairs.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  But the man said nothing. And didn’t move at all as I looked up at him. My skin crawled. Was he mute? He was a solidly built man. I could attest to that, having just collided with him. But there was something about him that reminded me of a ghost. Bleached, that was it. His hair was a red-brown, but his eyebrows and mustache were blond-edged. His blue eyes looked watered down. And his freckled skin looked faded, as if the color should have been richer.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said finally, his voice low and toneless.

  I jumped again. I had become used to his silence. He walked slowly past me into the dining hall without another word.

  And past Craig who had come up to join me.

  “Making friends everywhere, I see,” Craig said.

  I ignored the sarcasm. “Who was that?” I asked him.

  “Avery Haskell, handyman.”

  “God, he’s spooky. Is he always so quiet?”

  “Just ask him about the Lord. He’ll talk,” said Craig.

  “Born again?”

  “Very,” he answered shortly. No jokes. Unusual for Craig, who usually launched into a monologue worthy of Saturday Night Live when faced with even a trace of evangelistic fervor. I looked up and saw exhaustion tightening his features. A pang of guilt reminded me of what he had been through in the last twenty-four hours.

  “Just give me the keys and I’ll get my suitcase,” I said softly.

  “No, no,” he insisted, giving himself a visible shake. “I’ll get it.”

  Once he had the suitcase out of the car, we walked without speaking down a dirt path, packed hard by decades of visitors’ feet, passing one of the roped-off buildings. The thin October sunlight felt good on my shoulders. I looked up and noticed the glowing day for the first time. And looked down at the ground where red and pink geraniums mingled with white daisies along our path. Fran’s work, I would have bet. Fran. That reminded me.

  “Who’d you tell I was a detective?” I asked sharply.

  Craig’s cheeks flushed. “I never said you were a detective. I-I just told Fran about how you got involved in a murder befor
e.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Well…” Craig lowered his eyes. “Just Chief Orlandi.”

  “The policeman who’s heading the investigation!” I yelped indignantly. “I can’t believe you told him about me!”

  “Just wait until you meet Orlandi,” Craig muttered, eyes still downcast. “You’ll be surprised what falls out of your mouth.” He walked a few more steps and added defensively, “Anyway, I didn’t tell him you were a suspect or anything. I just told him you helped solve a murder before.”

  I snorted. Wonderful, I thought. The police are going to love the idea of an amateur getting involved in this. But Craig looked miserable enough. I didn’t pursue the thought any further as we trudged along, and we trudged for a long time. We must have covered a half a mile in silence, passing nothing but orange trees and abandoned buildings on the way.

  The spa’s facilities seemed to have been scattered randomly on its vast acreage. I wondered if this was part of the health plan. If I had to walk half a mile to a meal—and who knows how many more miles to sample the various baths, tubs and pools—I couldn’t avoid getting in shape, simply from the exercise. On the other hand, I might have a heart attack.

  “How much farther?” I asked as we came around a bend in the dirt path.

  “We’re almost there,” Craig assured me. I was glad he was carrying my suitcase.

  We circled a stand of orange trees. Craig pointed at the large gleaming white stucco structure now fully visible.

  We came around a bend in the dirt path. Craig pointed at the large gleaming white stucco structure in front of us.

  “This is it,” he said. “Rose Court. It’s built Spanish style, around a courtyard with a rose garden. They’re still working on the interiors.”

  “How come you know all about the building?” I asked.

  “My room—our room—was in there, but I…” He looked at me, eyes full of fear. “I couldn’t stay there after Suzanne died.” His voice quavered. “So I paid the difference and had Fran move me to the next building. I…I…”

  “That’s okay,” I said quickly. Craig probably did need to mourn, maybe to lament loudly and tear his hair, but I just couldn’t handle any more emotionalism without some time off.

  “I’m next door in the Orange Blossom Building now,” he said after a few breaths, his voice a little steadier. “Room five.”

  “Honey,” I began and immediately regretted the endearment. “Craig,” I started over. “Why don’t you take a nap? It’ll do you good.”

  “Maybe I will,” he answered, dropping the suitcase. And then with a weak smile he added, “Thanks, Mom,” and turned to leave.

  I stood standing in front of Rose Court for a moment, watching Craig shuffle toward the Orange Blossom Building. I heard a bird warble, and smiled. Then I heard a high-pitched cackle reminiscent of the loon’s call of distress. I stood very still. I had heard a cackle like that before, but it hadn’t been a bird’s call; it had been a human’s. I had heard it while working in a mental hospital.

  I turned quickly to look behind me, but saw only a dirt path, a few decaying buildings and a lot of flowers. I shivered and picked up my suitcase.

  The lobby of Rose Court was painted in decorator pastels. A soft-sculpture cactus stood in one corner, a tasteful listing of room locations in the other. I looked at the number on my key, went up the stairs to the second floor and opened the door to my room.

  Good God! Was this one of the interiors they had refurbished? I hoped not. I hoped for Fran’s sake that they hadn’t put money into this psychedelic-rustic decor. The curtains were saffron-yellow. The peeling wallpaper was paisley. Orange, mustard, russet and black paisley. And the furniture was painted liver-brown with orange leatherette trim. At least the bedspread was a restful salmon shade. But then again, it didn’t match the rest of the room. No wonder Fran wasn’t charging me.

  Suddenly nauseated by a mixture of tension and paisley, I flopped onto the bed and stared up at the white plaster ceiling. My brain instantly began sorting through the day’s impressions. And suspects. Fran? Would she kill to protect her investment in Spa Santé? Or to protect her son, Paul? Or her mysterious husband, Bradley? And how about that spooky handyman, Avery? I shivered. He had the requisite personality for a mass murderer in my book. Or Don Logan, confined to a wheelchair? Or Ruth? Maybe she hugged Suzanne to death. Or Terry…?

  Suddenly it hit me. Almost everyone had been sympathetic to Craig, but no one had mentioned Suzanne with regret. No one had mentioned her at all. No “such a lovely girl” or “what a tragedy.” Why not? Because they didn’t know her? But they didn’t know Craig either, and they spoke to him as a friend. What did these people think of Suzanne?

  The question pulled me up into a sitting position at the end of the bed. I had disliked Suzanne instinctively when I met her. Tall, beautiful, competitive and arrogant, she had not made a good impression on me. But then I could have hardly failed to dislike her. She was the woman Craig had preferred to me. But how about these spa people? Had she offended them? All of them, any of them? Maybe enough to incite murder? Or were they just avoiding her name in deference to Craig’s feelings?

  Just what had gone on at Spa Santé before Suzanne’s death? I hit the bed with the palm of my hand. No more Ms. Sensitivity. I would force Craig to tell me. I jumped up, ready to charge over to the Orange Blossom Building. But I stopped before I got to the door. How much of a nap could Craig have had in twenty minutes? Damn.

  I put the questions on hold. I would give Craig more time to sleep. Then I would interrogate him mercilessly.

  I spent the next half-hour on the telephone. I called in to my business, Jest Gifts, and told my warehousewoman, Judy, that I was no longer in my Marin office doing necessary paperwork but in Southern California for an impromptu vacation. After a series of squawks that forced the telephone receiver from my ear, I told her my ex-husband was very ill. Not completely a lie. He was sick with worry. Her squawks grew quieter. Then I promised I’d get everyone their pay checks in time for next week’s payday. The squawks ceased entirely. She even sent her get-well wishes to Craig before hanging up.

  My phone call to Wayne was more difficult. Right off, I told him I wasn’t getting involved with sleuthing. But after my protracted description of Spa Santé’s inhabitants and events, he pointed out that I was already into it up to my ears. Then he quietly reminded me that he loved me. No pleas, commands or warnings. Just a quiet reminder.

  I hung up the phone thinking of Wayne and how I had learned to love him. I smiled as I pictured his homely, kind face in my mind and considered his parting words. Then a disconcerting train of thought came roaring through.

  If Wayne were to die, I would eulogize him: He was such a good, kind, loving and intelligent man. How can I live without him? I even felt a momentary clutch of grief imagining the event. But Craig wasn’t eulogizing Suzanne any more than the rest of the spa people were! Had he loved Suzanne? He was sobbing a lot, but was he really mourning her death? Or was he just afraid? Everyone reacts to loss differently, I told myself impatiently, not to mention love. But still…Craig just wasn’t acting like my idea of a man who had lost the woman he loved.

  I looked at my watch. My ex-husband had had enough time to sleep. I strode from the paisley room determined to find him.

  But Craig didn’t answer my knock on his door. I left the Orange Blossom Building and headed back over to the dining hall. I was almost to the main building when I heard the popping of gravel and Indian-style war whoops.

  Looking up, I saw a motorcycle skidding into the gravel parking lot. The curve of the skid pulled the cycle nearly parallel to the ground, but it righted itself before it came to a final stop. Two people jumped off. One laughing driver and one angry passenger.

  The driver was a smiling red-haired man with a friendly beat-up face. He wasn’t dressed for motorcycle-riding. No helmet, no boots. Only a white muscle shirt, cut-off jeans and high-top sneakers. His face wasn’t at
all handsome. His eyes bulged and his teeth protruded. But his broad smile was attractive. His nose looked like it had been broken a few times. I could see why. “Whooee. Whooee, baby,” he was warbling to his companion. “Lighten up and live a little.”

  He reached to embrace her. She turned from him, her long-legged, dark-skinned body rigid. I could see she was a female and guessed that she was black. Her tank-top and leopard pants did nothing to conceal the perfectly formed body. But I couldn’t see her face under her crash helmet. It was a good guess she wasn’t smiling, though.

  “Grow up!” she shrieked. She turned back to him, lowering her voice into a plea. “You’re going to kill yourself if you keep riding like that, Jack.”

  “Or someone else,” came a low voice behind me. My heart jumped in my chest. I turned and saw Avery Haskell standing at my side. He stood watching the pair of riders as if he hadn’t said anything to me. Was he trying to be spooky? As if in answer, he turned and walked up the stairs of the main building, stopping briefly to nod at Don Logan, who was watching the whole scene from his wheelchair on the porch.

  The redheaded biker lifted the helmet of his companion’s head and kissed her fully on the mouth. “You know I’m indestructible, baby. Ain’t nothing going to harm me.” He brought his cupped hands up to his mouth and blew a jazz riff through them as if they were a trumpet.

  She pushed him away, but a smile was creeping over her face. Her beautiful face. She was movie-star beautiful, with large, clear, wide-set eyes under perfectly arched brows, luminous cocoa-colored skin, delicately flared nostrils and a sensual mouth with perfect, gleaming white teeth.

  He lifted her off the ground and twirled around like a manic ballet dancer. Her curly black hair ruffled as they moved.

  She shrieked, “Put me down! Put me down!” But she was laughing now, like a kid with her daddy. Their ages were right for the roles. She didn’t look much more than twenty years old, and he had to be over forty.

  He set her down, and they held onto each other, laughing. When he kissed her again I began to feel like the voyeur that I was. At least Avery Haskell had the decency to absent himself before things got sexy.