The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “Then we came back to our room,” he answered glumly. “And argued some more.”

  “About what?”

  “Same old stuff. I told her she ought to be nicer, stop antagonizing people. She told me I wasn’t the man she had thought I was. I may have told her to…” His voice trailed off.

  “To what?”

  “To go fuck herself,” he answered in a small voice. He looked up at me, his eyes begging for understanding.

  “Did you yell that too?” I asked.

  “I suppose.”

  Great. Had someone heard him? “So then what happened?”

  “She got dressed to go jogging. She had already run her six miles that day, but she wanted to run some more. I offered to go with her. It was dark by then. But she said, ‘Don’t bother. You can’t keep up anyway.’ Which was true. I had never developed her speed. Or stamina. She put on her Reeboks and left.”

  “And?”

  “And…that was the last time I saw her alive. God, I wish I hadn’t yelled at her,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “But she really was impossible. I didn’t know…” His words trailed off into a sob. He put his head into his hands and wept loudly, tears leaking through his fingers.

  I went to the bathroom and found a box of Kleenex. I came back and handed it to Craig. He blew his nose loudly. Then he went on as if he had never stopped.

  “So, I got out my Computerworld and read for a while. After a couple of hours had passed I began to worry, but I figured she was just staying out to bug me, so I pulled out Inc magazine and read it cover to cover. It was almost twelve o’clock by the time I finished it. I wasn’t sure whether to be mad or concerned. Suzanne hadn’t pulled this particular stunt before.

  “I went out to look for her. The moon was almost full, so I could see fairly well. I walked the perimeter of the spa on the path that she usually ran. Nothing there. Then I went up and down all the paths, calling her name—not very loud because I knew I’d feel like an idiot if she was with someone else. The second time I passed this one open-air mud bath, I circled around and looked in the entrance. And I saw her. Her blond hair was shiny in the moonlight.

  “I called out ‘Suzanne,’ and wondered what she was doing there. Then I noticed that there was something wrong with her body. It was face down…and crumpled. I moved closer. She looked…She looked like a cat had dragged her through gravel. Her shirt and shorts were shredded and dirty. Her legs had little cuts and scrapes all over them. Her neck looked wrong. And she wasn’t breathing.

  “Then I bent down and touched her arm. Her skin wasn’t warm enough.”

  He stopped speaking and stared into space with glassy eyes. I shivered.

  “Craig,” I said gently after a few endless moments had passed.

  His eyes came slowly into focus.

  “Sorry,” he said softly and resumed his story. “I guess I panicked after I realized she was dead. I ran and knocked on the doors of the main building. You know the rest.”

  “The police,” I prodded.

  “Orlandi,” he whispered. He shook his head violently, as if clearing it of bad thoughts. Then he continued. “By the time it was daylight the coroners had taken Suzanne’s body away. Then Orlandi questioned me again. It went on forever.”

  Craig looked up at me with a grey face. “Is that enough?” he asked wearily.

  I wanted to say yes, but I had to know one more thing. “What killed Suzanne?” I asked.

  He stared at me. “I don’t know. Nobody told me. She just looked…destroyed, that’s all.”

  Craig stood up abruptly. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Let’s walk.”

  So we left his nice room and went for a walk. Craig led the way up one path, then down another, with furiously pounding footsteps. I had to trot to keep up with him. Finally he stopped.

  He pointed to a low circular brick wall, surrounded by yellow tape and crime-scene warning signs.

  “This is the mud bath where I found her,” he said. “Maybe it will tell you something I can’t.”

  I walked around the brick structure until I saw an opening. I could just see the top of the stairs that led down into the mud. The yellow tape kept me from getting close enough to see anything more. Even so, as I stared down my skin began to crawl. Suzanne had died here.

  “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. For death is but a dream,” crooned a voice behind me.

  FIVE

  FOR ONE FRIGHTENING MOMENT I thought the singing behind me was Craig’s—that despair had finally driven him over the brink into madness.

  But when I turned to look behind me, I saw another man. He was tall, slender and handsome, his face lit up by large, glowing eyes. The kind of eyes you sometimes see on movie stars. Eyes where the whites show beneath the irises, as if to highlight their radiance. Eyes that can look incredibly erotic. Or insane, depending on the circumstances.

  “Or is life a dream? And death merely the awakening?” he asked the air whimsically. No, his eyes did not look erotic.

  I didn’t answer his inquiry. It didn’t seem to be directed at me. Instead, I looked a question at Craig, who had circled around the mud bath after me.

  “Bradley Beaumont,” Craig mouthed soundlessly, and tapped his head in the age-old gesture indicating insanity. Nice timing. Now he admits Bradley is insane.

  “Maybe we aren’t even the dreamers, but the dreamed,” Bradley commented. He smiled. “Have you ever wondered?” His luminous eyes looked directly into mine with the last question.

  “No, I haven’t given it a lot of thought,” I answered. Years ago, working in the mental hospital, I had acquired the habit of answering such questions honestly.

  “That’s okay,” he assured me. “They only act out my dreams anyway.”

  “Ah,” I said. True, the border between sane and insane is not always clear. But Bradley’s reference to the all-knowing “they” stamped his border pass as far as I was concerned.

  Bradley Beaumont bowed slightly, like a proper Japanese businessman, then walked away. As he walked away, he let out his high-pitched cackle.

  I fixed my gaze on Craig. “Does he act like that all the time?” I asked.

  “Most of the times I’ve met him,” Craig admitted. “Though I’ve seen him act normal. More than normal. Charming, intelligent, witty. Perceptive, even. He seems to change from day to day.”

  “You could have told me all this before. Bradley is more than ‘a little bit strange,’ damn it.”

  “I don’t think he’s actually crazy.” Craig said defensively. “Not the violent type, anyway.”

  He had a point. If all crazy people were murderers, there would be a hell of a lot more murders. But still, Fran’s husband, Bradley, was a possibility in my book.

  “So what did the police think of Bradley?” I asked hopefully.

  “How would I know?” Craig whined. “They don’t tell me what they think. Remember, Bradley can act pretty together when he feels like it. They probably don’t even realize.”

  “Someone must have told them about his loon routine,” I argued. “Ruth Ziegler, if no one else. Isn’t she a psychologist or something?” Craig nodded. “She would have to have noticed. And I can’t imagine her not telling the police. Or Terry—though maybe not. Informing isn’t politically correct. But Jack might have. He’s got a big enough mouth.” I looked into Craig’s worried eyes. “Don’t you see? Even if Bradley isn’t our murderer, his lunacy has got to squeeze you down a slot on the police suspect list.”

  “I don’t know,” he said doubtfully.

  Then I remembered. “Didn’t you say Suzanne called Bradley a loony to his face?” I asked.

  Craig nodded.

  “Well,” I prodded. “How did he react?”

  “He just laughed. One of those strange laughs. Fran was the one who got mad. She told Suzanne she could leave Spa Santé if she felt that way. But then Bradley pulled Fran away and calmed her down. And I persuad
ed Suzanne to leave it alone, at least for the moment. So it all blew over.”

  “Was this last night?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he answered. His eyes were wide now. “But, Kate, you don’t kill over an insult.”

  “I don’t. Maybe you don’t. But I won’t speak for anyone else,” I said. “Why did Suzanne call him a loony anyway?”

  “Oh, he was into one of his philosophical raps—his way of coming on to her, I think—and Suzanne wasn’t interested.”

  “A man spurned,” I said.

  “Maybe,” he agreed reluctantly.

  “What else?” I asked. “Tell me more about Bradley.”

  “Well, he really is bright. Fran says he’s a brilliant writer. And he’s a great cook. Curried vegetable-nut loaf. Brazilian greens and beans. And he makes a tofu-tahini spread that—”

  I cut him off. “I don’t mean more about his cooking skills.” The talk of food had stirred my gastric juices. My last “meal” of vegetable juice and nuts was too long past. My stomach began growling, then pleading.

  Craig heard the sound. “I didn’t even think to ask if you’d eaten,” he said. He looked at me with concern. “You need some food, don’t you? Don’t worry. Fran will fix you up a snack.”

  I opened my mouth to object and then thought better of it. Fran. How far would she go to protect the man she loved? It might be interesting to talk to her.

  “I’d love a snack,” I said.

  Once more we walked to the main building that housed the dining hall. We had reached the gravel parking lot when Craig stopped in his tracks. I could feel him go stiff with tension without even touching him. I followed his eyes to the porch.

  The man who stood there looked like Santa Claus in disguise. He was white-haired, big-bellied and rosy-cheeked, but he didn’t wear a beard. And, instead of the familiar red suit, he wore a short-sleeved dress shirt tucked tightly beneath his belly into sagging, navy blue pants. His small blue eyes glinted with jollity under tufted white eyebrows. Or was it suspicion? I couldn’t tell. Whichever it was, he was certainly watching us attentively.

  I turned to Craig. His skin tone had gone beyond white into grey. “Chief Orlandi, Delores Police Department,” he whispered.

  I looked back at the man on the porch. Santa Orlandi, the police chief. He walked down the stairs to meet us.

  “I’ll just bet you’re Mrs. Jasper,” Orlandi said sociably. I nodded my confirmation. I wasn’t up to correcting him. “The great detective of the north country, I hear,’ he added in a friendly tone, which didn’t quite rob his words of their sarcasm.

  Damn. I threw a glare in Craig’s direction. But it was no use aiming my wrath at him. He was too frightened to notice anyone but the police chief. He stared at Orlandi, mesmerized and unmoving, except for a stray muscle twitching in his cheek.

  “Well, ma’am,” continued Chief Orlandi, his blue eyes absorbing both Craig and myself. “I could most likely benefit from your vast experience, but I’m a little too busy today.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow, I didn’t want to talk to this man. My relief was premature. “There’s always tomorrow, though,” he said. “We’ll have a nice little talk then. Just the two of us.”

  “Nice meeting you, ma’am,” he finished, and extended a plump hand for shaking. His grip was surprisingly gentle, and brief. He dropped my hand after one squeeze, and smiled. “I look forward to our talk tomorrow,” he added.

  Then Orlandi turned to walk away. After he had taken a few steps I heard the tension come whooshing out of Craig’s body in one long sigh. Chief Orlandi turned back to us. “And I’ll be talking to you again, too, Mr. Jasper,” he said to Craig. “Soon.” Then he walked away, his steps unhurried.

  Craig waited until Chief Orlandi had driven out the gates before speaking. Then he let fly.

  “I told you he thinks I did it!” he wailed. “He’ll keep questioning me and questioning me. He’ll never believe me—”

  I interrupted him abruptly. “You need some rest.” I couldn’t take another bout of hysteria.

  “What?” he asked, blinking, cheated of the momentum of his tirade.

  “Rest,” I said, in the tone that one tells a dog to “sit.”

  “Rest,” he repeated. “You’re right. I need rest.” He spoke slowly and carefully. “Thank you. I’ll go lie down now.”

  As I watched Craig move down the dirt path like a sleepwalker, I found myself longing for Wayne’s soothing presence. Would Wayne know how to handle all this? Would it even be appropriate to ask my current lover to support me in supporting my ex-husband? My ex-husband who probably didn’t even know his “ex” status? I shook my head and walked up the stairs and across the porch. It was too complicated to even consider.

  Ruth Ziegler was the only one left in the dining hall. She sat at one of the tables near the windows, her frizzy grey head bent over a yellow notepad. I could hear her muttering as she wrote, deep in thought. I watched her and wondered. Should I ask her about Bradley? She was a psychologist. Or ask her about Craig, for that matter?

  I walked to her table. She looked up at me with an unfocused smile on her wise gypsy face.

  “Fran’s in the kitchen,” she said. “How do you like Letting Grief Go?”

  “You mean, as a philosophy of life?” I ventured.

  “No, no.” She laughed a vibrant, uninhibited laugh. “As a title. All this talk of death and loss has given me the idea for my next book. But I like to start with a title. It’s important. My first book was The Things We Do For Love. My second, Being Your Own Fairy Godmother.”

  “I think I’ve seen that one,” I said. “Next to Women Who Love Too Much.”

  “You see,” she bubbled, her black button-eyes gleaming. “You remembered the title.”

  I nodded, glad to have made her happy. The simplicity of her enjoyment was catching.

  “Now I want to write something about the importance of letting go. Of grief, death, the loss of love.” She looked down at her yellow pad. “Terry thinks politics will feed the hungry. And maybe they will. But will they heal the broken heart?”

  “That’s almost a good title,” I said.

  “Who Will Heal the Broken Heart?” She pondered. “Close, very close.” She bent her head over her yellow pad and began to write again.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” I said quietly.

  She nodded, her eyes glued to her notepad, and reached out her left hand blindly to squeeze mine. “Thank you, my dear,” she murmured.

  I tiptoed across the hall to the three-quarter swinging kitchen doors, keeping quiet for the sake of Ruth’s concentration. Then I peeked over the top of the doors. Fran was there alone, chopping carrots rhythmically at a large butcher-block worktable in the center of the kitchen. Such a soft woman, I thought. But she wielded her knife with strength enough. Chop, chop, chop. She scooped up the pile and threw it into a giant, simmering stewpot. The spicy aromas that came from the pot made my mouth water. She grabbed a bunch of spinach and went to the sink to wash it.

  “May I come in?” I asked.

  Fran jumped, spraying water from the wet spinach onto the tiled floor as she did. I watched her eyes go round with fright as she raised her arm defensively in front of her face. Then she recognized me.

  “Oh, Kate,” she said, her eyes returning to their natural delicate shape once more. “What a start you gave me!” She dropped her arm and took a breath. Whom had she been expecting?

  “Sorry,” I said. “Shouldn’t have snuck up on you that way.”

  “No,” she replied. “It’s all my fault. I get so wrapped up in my thoughts, I forget the outside world.” She giggled nervously. “Silly of me.” She looked up at me expectantly, too polite to ask me directly what the hell I wanted.

  “Craig said maybe you could fix me a snack,” I explained.

  “A snack?” she asked brightly, as if she had forgotten the meaning of the word.

  Then, suddenly, she came to life. “Oh, a snack! Of course, I can. Let’s se
e, we’ve got carrot sticks, celery, cucumber, jicama.” She pulled a platter of raw vegetables out of the refrigerator. “And tofu-tahini spread. Orange-mustard dip.” She went into the refrigerator again. “How about some sliced melon? Peaches? I don’t have any fresh bread, but if you don’t mind yesterday’s.” A brown loaf emerged. “With all this fuss, I didn’t bake any this morning, but Avery went into town for some—”

  “That’s fine,” I assured her, before the whole contents of the kitchen ended up on her worktable.

  In a matter of a minute she had arranged all of the goodies on a plate for me and gone back to her work. I pulled up a chair, dipped a carrot stick into the orange-mustard dip and crunched.

  “Craig tells me Bradley is a master vegetarian chef,” I mumbled through a mouthful of sweet and sour carrot.

  She looked up from trimming the spinach and beamed a smile at me. “Oh, he is,” she said in a breathless tone. “I’ll bet he could get a job as a chef anywhere now. And his recipes are really healthful. I’m so glad Craig appreciates them. Not everyone does, you know.” She shook her knife to emphasize her displeasure. “Bradley says most American palates are numb from salt and sugar and grease.”

  I nodded my agreement and spread tofu-tahini on the bread. A bite told me it was great. Maybe Bradley deserved his master chef reputation.

  “Of course, he’s really a writer.” Fran said the word writer with the kind of reverence most people reserve for God. “He’s working on a novel. A really important one. One that will integrate the great moral philosophies of East and West.” She looked up at me, her eyes requesting a response.

  “Sounds interesting,” I garbled dutifully through my bread.

  “Oh, it is. Though some of it’s a little beyond me. Writers are different, you know. Some people just can’t understand that.” Did she mean people like Suzanne? I wondered. “Writers are on a different plane than the rest of us.” I nodded before taking a bite of jicama. Bradley was definitely on another plane.

  “Bradley’s a twin as well as a writer,” Fran said, tossing chopped spinach into the simmering pot. “I think being a twin makes you more sensitive.” She paused and wiped her hands on a towel. “And his twin died. Ursula was her name. I never met her.” Pulling a bag of mushrooms out of the refrigerator, she added, “She committed suicide, when they were eighteen.”