The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  I lowered my gaze and turned to leave.

  “Hey, pretty lady,” I heard the red-haired man shout.

  I glanced back over my shoulder. He shouted, “Yeah, you!”

  The young woman smiled at me and rolled her eyes heavenward as if to say, “He’s obnoxious but harmless.”

  I smiled back. If she didn’t mind his calling me “pretty lady,” I didn’t either.

  “You Craig’s old lady?” asked the man as he danced toward me, dragging his young friend along. “Fran said you were coming.”

  “I’m Craig’s friend Kate,” I said carefully.

  “I’m Nikki Martin,” said the woman politely. “And this is Jack,” she said, pointing at the redhead with an affectionate grimace.

  “Baby, you say that like I’m a disease,” Jack said, pulling Nikki to him playfully. She rolled her eyes once more.

  “I knew Suzanne,” I said on a sudden inspiration. These folks might just talk about Suzanne if prompted. They certainly weren’t shy.

  “Man, Suzanne was some good-looking woman,” Jack said, shaking his head sadly, his expression suddenly serious. He looked old and naked without his smile.

  “And she sure knew how to throw it in men’s faces,” added Nikki. Her bitter tone and expression held no affection for the dead woman.

  “She was a cock-tease,” agreed Jack, a little smile of memory lighting up his face. “Jeez, she even came on to that kid Paul.”

  “When she wasn’t busy hitting on you,” Nikki threw in.

  “Hey, you know she didn’t have a chance with you around, baby.” He gave Nikki an extravagant leer. She lowered her eyes coquettishly. “Pissed her off, too.”

  “Who, Suzanne?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “That lady had to be the belle of the ball, the most beautiful woman in any room. And she just couldn’t be. Not when Nikki was around.” I looked at Nikki’s stunning face and body and saw that he was right. Suzanne had been beautiful, but not that beautiful. I smiled with the thought of how that must have frustrated Suzanne’s competitive spirit, before guiltily remembering that Suzanne was dead now.

  “Pissed Craig off too,” Jack continued.

  “What?” I asked, startled.

  “Suzanne’s cock-teasing. Didn’t set well with old Craig at all. He wasn’t hip to her games. Didn’t realize it was all a tease.”

  Damn, I thought. The elusive motive.

  My thoughts must have shown on my face.

  “Hey, man,” he said. “It was no big thing. She just got under his skin a little.”

  “Jack, you talk too much,” said Nikki sharply. He certainly did. I just hoped he hadn’t talked like this to the police.

  “That’s all right,” I said, attempting a nonchalant smile. But it wasn’t all right at all. I was desperately trying to rid my mind of the image of an enraged Craig throttling Suzanne. And in the midst of that image I realized I still didn’t know exactly how Suzanne had been killed. There were far too many things that I didn’t know.

  “It was nice meeting you,” Nikki was saying politely while looking over my shoulder. She tugged on Jack’s arm, impatient to leave. I turned to follow her glance and saw why. Craig was walking up the path in our direction.

  “Hey, man. How ya doin’?” Jack shouted to him.

  “Okay,” said Craig. “How are you?”

  Nikki tugged on Jack’s arm again. This time she nearly pulled him off his feet. “I guess I’m moving,” said Jack. “The old lady’s in a big hurry. Can’t wait to get me back to the bedroom.” He winked largely and let out a braying laugh.

  Craig managed an answering smile. Then Nikki and Jack ran stumbling down the path, wrestling and embracing as they went. I sighed with envy. I wanted to be at home, snuggling with my own sweetie. But I wasn’t. I was at Spa Santé, coddling a suspected murderer. I hardened my heart and will, straightened my shoulders, and turned to Craig.

  “I want to know everything,” I said, keeping my voice low and unyielding. He flinched at the tone. “And I want to know it now.”

  FOUR

  “EVERYTHING?” Craig asked. His eyes were wide with surprise. Or fear.

  “Yes, everything,” I repeated resolutely. “When did the two of you come to Spa Santé? Who did Suzanne talk to? What did she talk about? How did people respond to her? I want to know every unpleasantness, every angry word, every dirty look. Do you understand?”

  He nodded, eyes still wide.

  “And I want to know exactly how she died.”

  A bark of bitter laughter exploded from his lips. “That’s all?” he inquired sarcastically.

  “No, that’s not all,” I answered seriously. “I also want to know how you really felt about Suzanne.”

  Craig abruptly hunched into his shoulders and thrust his head forward. “I was sick to death of her,” he hissed. My body recoiled with the violence of his response. But he didn’t seem to notice, and continued in a low, intense whisper. “Constantly picking fights, flirting, complaining, nagging. I wanted out, but I didn’t know how to tell her. You didn’t tell Suzanne anything she didn’t want to hear.”

  He stopped his tirade as suddenly as he had begun, and swiveled his head around to see if there was anyone close enough to hear. There was no one left in the parking lot, only Don Logan still on the porch out of earshot. “Let’s find somewhere we can talk,” Craig said softly in my ear.

  I nodded silently, too stunned by his outburst to speak. Craig marched up one of the dirt paths, his footsteps angry on the packed earth. I plodded along after him, and wondered. What if he had killed Suzanne? It hadn’t seemed a real possibility before. But the unexpected intensity of his whispered words had frightened me. Did I just toddle on home now? Forget the whole thing had happened?

  Craig slowed his footsteps and turned to me, waiting for me to catch up. “It wasn’t always like that with Suzanne,” he said as I reached him. His voice had lost its violence. “When I first met her she looked up to me. She listened to my business strategies. Emulated my health regime. She even took up vegetarianism—for a while, anyway. And I began running with her. She called me her ‘success mentor.’” His tone went bitter again on the last two words.

  We walked along side by side as Craig brooded. “I still don’t know why she latched onto me,” he burst out. “The challenge of a married man? Or maybe she thought my financial success would rub off on her. To her, I was a winner, and winning was what mattered to Suzanne. I’ll tell you, though. All that attention and appreciation was very seductive. Especially since you resented my success.”

  “Wait a minute,” I objected, stopping in my tracks. “I never resented your success. You were the one who was tired of me.” Craig stopped, turned and stared at me, openmouthed.

  I stared back. And thought of that year when we had continually separated and reconciled and separated again. I looked into his brown puppy-eyes and remembered his seemingly constant criticism of my ‘negative attitude,’ my downscale clothing and my barely profitable business. The criticism had seemed a bitter cup, especially after the years I had spent as his business manager, babying his computer-software house into the prosperity referred to. Had my stubborn resistance to an upwardly mobile life-style felt like a personal rejection to him? The answer in his eyes was obviously yes.

  We all see the same events through a different kaleidoscope. For the first time, I glimpsed his view. And it shook me.

  I lowered my eyes, forfeiting the staring match. “Back to Suzanne,” I said, in as brisk a tone as I could manage.

  Craig lowered his own gaze and we began to walk again, avoiding, by unspoken mutual agreement, the questions of the past.

  “Suzanne changed,” he said. “When I first met her I saw this bright, beautiful, committed young woman who thought I knew everything. But after a while, she realized I didn’t know everything. And the things I did know weren’t enough for her. She wasn’t satisfied at work either. Uncle Eli had her doing ‘shit-work.’ At least
that’s what she said. Uncle Eli—”

  “Who is Uncle Eli?” I asked. We had reached the end of the dirt path. I gestured toward the stone bench beneath an orange tree.

  “He’s one of the founding partners of the law firm Suzanne worked for,” Craig said, taking a seat. “Rosen, Chang and Ostrow.” I flinched. That Uncle Eli? The lawyer who was responsible for our divorce. Craig continued, oblivious of my reaction. And he’s Suzanne’s uncle. Eli’s watched out for Suzanne ever since her mother died. He even gave her a job in his firm, once she passed the bar exam. But he wanted her to start at the bottom. Uncontested divorces, simple wills, DUI’s—”

  “What are DUI’s?”

  “Driving Under the Influence. Actually she liked those. Once in a while she could save someone’s license with a little fancy footwork. But what she really wanted to be was a frontline trial attorney—Melvin Belli, but better-looking. Her idea of paradise was being engaged in a loud, messy custody battle or defending a major felon. She wanted to get in there and fight. In court and in life. She loved to argue and she loved to win.”

  “She won you from me,” I said softly, looking over at his tension-ravaged face with unexpected pity.

  Craig kept his eyes down. “I guess that was the game,” he mumbled. “Anyway,” he went on, shaking his head as if to rid himself of disturbing thoughts, “Suzanne had had it with Uncle Eli. She was talking about striking out on her own. One of her law school buddies had invited her into a partnership in criminal defense work. Lots of drug dealers, lots of bucks—”

  “No!” The shout rang out, cutting off Craig’s sentence.

  I looked up and saw Fran’s son, Paul, running down one of the many dirt paths in our direction. The handyman, Avery Haskell, was close behind him. I jumped to my feet and centered myself in a tai chi posture, ready to protect the boy from Haskell. But Craig laid a restraining hand on mine.

  “The kid’s just upset,” Craig said gently. As Paul came to a sudden stop midway down the path, I saw that Craig was right.

  The boy put his hands to his streaming eyes and turned to Haskell. “No!” he shouted once more. “It’s not fair. It’s all bullshit!” His shrill voice pierced the air. Birds flew up from the trees behind us.

  Haskell put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, murmuring something inaudible. The boy shook his head violently. Disjointed pieces of what he was saying floated to us through his sobs. “She didn’t care…I can’t…not fair.” He wrenched his shoulder out from under Haskell’s hand, shouting “No!” once more, and raced back the way he had come.

  Haskell stood silently for a moment, looking after the boy as he ran. His eyes seemed to glisten with sorrow. Aha, I thought. The spooky handyman does have human feelings. But, just as that thought touched my mind, Haskell lowered those eyes and saw us on the bench. Instantly, the veil came down. His eyes became a zombie’s once more. He nodded in our direction politely and walked slowly away.

  “Good God,” I said. “What was that all about?”

  “The joys of adolescence,” Craig responded.

  I turned to him. “How did you know that Paul was just upset?” I asked.

  “That kid’s been like this ever since we got here. And it got worse when Suzanne would tease him. He’s a troubled kid, to put it mildly. Fran is too obsessed by the spa and her husband, Bradley, to pay much motherly attention to Paul. And Bradley…” Craig paused. “Bradley’s too obsessed with himself to notice much of anything going on around him. Zo, das iss my diagnosis,” he finished in a heavy Freudian accent. “But Ruth could probably give you a better opinion,” he added as a serious afterthought.

  “What did Suzanne—” I began.

  A high-pitched loon’s cackle broke into my sentence from somewhere behind us. I jumped up and turned to look. But I saw orange trees and nothing else. Then the cackle erupted again.

  “What the hell was that?” I demanded.

  “What was what?” Craig returned my question, his eyes wide with incomprehension.

  “That laugh,” I answered, shivering. “You must have heard it.”

  “Oh, that,” he said lightly. “That’s just Bradley. You know, Fran’s husband.”

  “That’s Bradley!” I shouted. “Why didn’t you tell me he was crazy?”

  Craig pulled his head back, startled by the intensity of my words. “That’s just how the man laughs,” he explained in a voice of forced reason. But then his face grew troubled. “Suzanne thought he was crazy, too.”

  “Tell me about it,” I ordered. Now we were getting somewhere.

  “But Suzanne was hypercritical of everyone,” Craig continued, ignoring my order. He looked into my eyes; then suddenly he was looking through me again.

  “It’s hard to explain Suzanne,” he said softly. “Her father walked out on her and her mother when Suzanne was thirteen. He went back to Sweden. Then Suzanne’s mother proceeded to drink herself to death. When her mom died, Suzanne came up from L.A. to San Francisco. To live with her mother’s brother, Uncle Eli. Sometimes I wonder if Suzanne’s arguing and criticizing and complaining was really a bid for attention. Or for love. Acting out the adolescence she never had.” His eyes came back into focus slowly.

  “That’s why I couldn’t just walk out on her,” he said, looking for sympathy in my eyes. “For all the garbage she threw at me, I-I still felt sorry for her. Can you understand that?”

  I nodded. I was beginning to feel sorry for her myself. As well as for Craig, mired in ambivalence. But I wasn’t there to sympathize.

  “Tell me how the people here at the spa felt about her,” I demanded.

  “She wasn’t a big hit,” he said sourly. “She flirted with that poor kid Paul, drove him crazy. She made fun of Terry’s political idealism, told Bradley Beaumont he was a ‘loony’ to his face, called Jack on his ‘rock-promoter’ pose, drove Jack’s girlfriend nuts by flirting with him, and generally bitched and moaned to everyone who would listen.”

  “About what?” I asked.

  “About the food. About the inadequate company at the spa—meaning everyone here. About me. About her job. About her uncle. You name it.” Craig smiled a very tired, self-mocking smile. “This from the woman who was impressed by my positivism. Needless to say, I wasn’t very happy with her either.”

  Just how unhappy had he been? I shook the question from my mind and asked a different one. “So, who did she really get to?”

  He rested his chin on his hand and thought for a while before answering. “No one person more than anyone else,” he said finally. “No one that she made mad enough to kill her. Not that I could see.”

  But someone must have. Craig saw the look in my eye.

  “Don’t you think I’d tell you if I knew? If I even had a suspicion?” he asked bitterly. “Let’s face it. The only other alternative is me.”

  “But Bradley—” I began.

  A whirring sound came toward us. I looked up and saw Don Logan in his wheelchair. Damn. Craig and I exchanged frustrated glances. With all the paths that webbed the spa grounds, how come everyone came down this one?

  “Where can we talk in private?” I whispered, once Logan had passed.

  “My room, or yours,” Craig said. His voice was soft and wistful.

  “Does your room have paisley wallpaper?” I asked brusquely.

  He shook his head.

  “Yours,” I said.

  “Nice room,” I commented a half-mile later. And it was. Craig’s new room was white with subtle peach and aqua accents. A framed poster of Monet’s restful “Poppy Field” was the only decoration. It even smelled fresher than my room. I sighed with envy.

  On the long walk to his room Craig had advised me to get the history of Spa Santé from Fran. According to her, the psychedelic paisley in my room had been installed by the last owners, a cult that had restored most of the spa in 1970 and whose precepts included vegetarianism, spiritual practice and group sex. The usual formula for the early seventies. They had lasted close to three years
before going under.

  I sat down in a softly upholstered aqua easy chair and sighed once more.

  “You could stay here,” Craig whispered. I looked at him and saw his puppy-dog eyes filled with longing. And pleading. Was he simply yearning for human companionship? Or was he pleading for the old conjugal pleasures?

  “You mean we could switch rooms?” I asked, filling my voice with innocence. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

  Hurt replaced the longing in his eyes. “Kate, you know what I—”

  I cut him off. “Tell me about the body.”

  “What?” said Craig, his head bouncing back as if he’d been slapped.

  “Suzanne’s body. You found it. What did it look like?” Cruel, but effective. All vestiges of pleading were wiped from Craig’s face. The lines of tension had returned.

  “I suppose you want it from the start,” he said.

  I nodded. He sighed deeply, like a tired dog.

  “Better you than Chief Orlandi again,” he muttered. Then he sat down on the end of the bed and took a big breath.

  “The last time I saw Suzanne was around eight o’clock last night. Before that, we had eaten dinner in the dining hall. Everyone was there. Suzanne was complaining—same old stuff. If she had wanted health food, we could have stayed home. Where was the room service? And the wallpaper—we had one of the paisley rooms, they’re cheaper—why couldn’t I put out the money for one of the nicer rooms? She said she was sick of her job. Sick of uncontested divorces, DUI’s, adoptions, et cetera. Sick of Uncle Eli. Sick of me.”

  “So, what did you say?”

  Craig flushed. “I told her I was getting sick of her, too.” He looked down at his lap. “I may have yelled a little.”

  Damn. I could imagine what he called yelling “a little.” When we were married, things would fall off the walls from the volume of his voice before he even noticed he had raised it. But he had never struck me. He wouldn’t have considered it. His violence had been limited to his mouth. It was heartening to remember that.

  “Then what?” I asked.