The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “Ursula?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh. Bradley says it was like half of him died. Can you imagine? I can’t. But I was an only child. My dad was a G.I. Married my mom after the war was over. My mom was Hawaiian, Japanese really, but born in Hawaii, you know.” What a faucet Fran was. Turn her on and she just kept talking. Like a lot of people I’ve met on buses. I bit into the peach and sat back to listen.

  “My dad died when I was little. Mom bought this cute motel, the Hawaii Star, and ran it. I helped out there until I left home. So, I know a lot about the hotel business.” I watched her chopping the mushrooms. I’ll bet she did. If nothing else, she was incredibly efficient.

  “When I saw this spa, I knew it was perfect. Mom died last year. Left me enough money to buy Spa Santé and fix it up. And, the best part is, Bradley doesn’t have to work a regular job anymore. His bosses never appreciated him anyway. But here, he can cook and help with other chores, and write when he feels like it. And Avery Haskell is a big help. I don’t know what we’d do without him.”

  “How’d you find Haskell?” I asked.

  “Oh, that was really neat. We didn’t even need to put an ad in the paper. He just showed up a couple of weeks after we bought the spa. Said it looked like we could use a hand.” She threw the chopped mushrooms in the pot, then giggled. “Boy, did we ever! This place was a wreck. It was originally built in the twenties, by this German businessman, Otto Keller. He had had arthritis and swore the natural springs here had cured it. So he built the spa.”

  She pulled another huge pot out of the refrigerator. How could she lift it? It was as big as she was. I moved to help her but she wrestled it onto the stove before I could. Maybe she used her own exercise equipment.

  “So, anyway,” she continued, not even out of breath, “Otto Keller owned the spa until he died in 1939. It was the place to vacation. Lots of celebrities came here. Charlie Chaplin visited. Keller even built a small theater here. We still use it for videos, but its not like it used to be. After Otto died, his relatives weren’t interested in running the spa anymore. They didn’t need to. They had plenty of money from his other businesses. So it sat here, run-down and neglected, until The Inner Light Foundation bought it.”

  “The paisley people?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh,” she answered. She aimed a guilty look at me. “I hope you don’t mind the wallpaper.”

  “No, it’s fine.” I lied automatically and just as automatically regretted it. It wouldn’t be the first time my knee-jerk manners had undone me. I was trying to think of a way to retract the lie, when the swinging doors creaked open behind me.

  Avery Haskell strode in silently, carrying two grocery bags. He noted my presence with a curt nod.

  “Did you get the bread?” Fran asked him.

  “Eight sprouted wheat. Two rye,” he answered briefly. He began unloading the bags.

  “Have you seen Paul?” Fran asked.

  Haskell shrugged, his eyes meeting mine for an instant, then dropping. He folded the empty paper bags carefully.

  “How come that kid is never around when I need him?” Fran asked angrily.

  Neither Haskell nor I ventured an answer. I wondered why Bradley wasn’t there doing his share, and then remembered. He was a “writer.” Exempt from ordinary kitchen duty by all appearances.

  “Can I help?” I offered.

  “No, no. Don’t be silly. Guests don’t work,” said Fran with another giggle. “We’re really doing fine. It’s just that kid of mine. He makes me so mad. He knows he’s supposed to be here giving me a hand.”

  Time to change the subject. “So,” I said, turning to the handyman, “you’re Avery Haskell.”

  He nodded acknowledgment without raising his eyes. This man was no faucet.

  “Fran tells me what a big help you are,” I offered.

  He muttered something that might have been, “Thank you.”

  “Where are you from?” I tried.

  “Lots of places,” he said with a shrug.

  “Oh, don’t be such a sourpuss,” teased Fran.

  “I’ve made my amends,” said Haskell softly. “And let it go to God.”

  Fran said nothing in response, just kept working. Maybe the answer made sense to her. She was, after all, married to Bradley Beaumont.

  I took my last bite of melon and put my plate in the sink.

  “What do I owe you?” I asked Fran.

  “Nothing,” she answered. “It’s on the house.”

  “Oh no,” I said. “I insist. Charge the room and the food to Craig Jasper’s account.”

  SIX

  “CRAIG WOULDN’T mind paying?” asked Fran, a trill of hope in her musical voice. She paused to switch on a blender filled with garbanzo beans before looking at me for assurance.

  “Craig won’t mind a bit,” I promised her over the roar of the blender. Not after I beat him into it, I told myself.

  As Fran switched off the garbanzos I heard the tail end of a soft chuckle from Avery Haskell. I turned to him in time to see the flicker of a smile that transformed his face from a zombie into an attractive human being. Then the mask came down again.

  Haskell must have a sense of humor, I thought in amazement. Or maybe he just disliked Craig. Not a member of the Craig Jasper fan club?

  Fran’s cheery voice broke into my ruminations. “You should try out some of the facilities while you’re here,” she said, pouring lemon juice into the garbanzo mixture. “We have a swimming pool, mineral baths, mud baths. Our mud baths are wonderful. We add peat moss so you don’t sink right in. You have to scoop the mud over you…” She stopped mid-sentence. A nervous giggle escaped her lips. I saw Suzanne’s crumpled body in my mind’s eye and shivered.

  Fran added some garlic before continuing. “There’s a hot tub by the pool,” she went on. “And if you’d like a massage, they’re available by appointment.”

  “A massage might be nice,” I said slowly. Especially if Craig paid for it. “Who does them?”

  “On the weekends, Mary Flynn or Larry Ortega. Weekdays, Bradley does them.” I flinched involuntarily and hoped Fran hadn’t noticed. Apparently not. She was still smiling as she added tahini to the blender. “He’s certified in shiatsu,” she added in a voice rich with adoration.

  “Thanks for the offer,” I said brightly and then walked quickly to the swinging doors. “And thanks again for the snack. See you later.”

  Fran gave me a short wave over her shoulder before switching on the blender again. And Haskell nodded to me briefly as the garbanzos whirled into oblivion. I thought I saw another twinkle in those serious eyes. Was he amused by the thought of my being massaged by a maniac? Or my quick evasion? Or by something else altogether?

  I walked through the dining room and onto the porch. Why wouldn’t Haskell say where he was from? I stood for a moment considering the question as I stared out over the landscaped grounds of Spa Santé, seeing Haskell’s brief smile superimposed on the view. And why the zombie act? What was the man hiding?

  “Sit down if you’d like,” offered a gruff voice to my right. I refocused my eyes and turned toward the voice. Don Logan sat looking up at me from his wheelchair, his blue eyes just visible under the rim of the cowboy hat he now wore. He gestured to the redwood bench at his side in invitation.

  “Why, thank you,” I said and plopped myself down on the hard bench, delighted at the easy interrogatory opportunity. But what to say? Once I was seated, Logan had taken his eyes from my face, returning his gaze to the view of the spa grounds.

  “Nice place here,” I ventured.

  “Yeah,” he agreed.

  We surveyed the colorful gardens, time-worn dirt paths and plaster buildings in silence. Should I make small talk? Or just dive in and ask him his opinion on who killed Suzanne?

  “Nice plants,” I said.

  “Uh-huh,” he agreed once more.

  “Where are you from?” I asked. I hoped he wouldn’t give me a one-word answer to that one.

  He
turned his sea-blue eyes on me slowly. “Sonoma County,” he answered. Two words.

  “Oh, Sonoma!” I said, filling my voice with all the enthusiasm of finding a long-lost relative. “Just up from Marin, where I live. Beautiful land up there. Nice cows.”

  His eyes crinkled into a near smile. “Yeah,” he agreed.

  “So, what do you do up there?” I persisted.

  “Used to ranch some of those ‘nice cows.’ Family ranch. Four generations. Mostly program computers now,” he added with a glance down at his nonfunctioning legs. My eyes followed his glance involuntarily.

  “I still ride once in a while,” he went on. “It’s easy, once I’m strapped in the saddle. Can’t do all my old rodeo tricks, though.” He turned his attention back to the view.

  “Oh,” I said. I was all out of chitchat. I sat quietly for a little while longer, then rose to leave.

  Logan looked up at me as I did. “Kate,” he asked in a low tone, “why did you come here?”

  “I—Well I—”

  “Seems to me,” Logan said, ignoring my splutters, “seeing as your husband was down here with another woman, you shouldn’t be all that eager to help him out. My wife sure wouldn’t have been.”

  “We’re divorced,” I explained carefully. “He’s not my husband anymore. Just a friend.”

  Logan stared wordlessly at me, disbelieving. How could I make him understand?

  “You’re divorced, right?” I began.

  “No, my wife’s dead,” he answered. Damn. How long would it take for me to learn to think before speaking?

  “I’m sorry,” I said softly.

  “Not your fault,” he replied, his voice rough. He lowered his eyes.

  “Anyway,” I hurried on, “Craig and I get along better now that we’re not together. I’m not invested in being angry at him anymore. And he’s been a good friend to me too. I—”

  My explanation was cut short by the sound of running feet and squealing laughter. Nikki Martin came galloping down the path in front of us. Jack was pounding after her, pretending to be a motorcycle. He clutched imaginary handles and made revving noises.

  “Varoom, varoom!” he roared. “I’m coming to get you.”

  This brought renewed squeals of delight from Nikki. Jack revved up again. Varoom! Varoom! Nikki ran a few more steps, then turned back for a peek at Jack. That peek cost her her advantage. Jack leapt forward and caught her. He threw his arms around her waist and pulled her to him. She struggled and he fell to the ground, carrying her down on top of him. Cocoa-brown limbs and beige, freckled ones flailed. Then, in a flurry of movement, Nikki had Jack’s arms pinned to the ground above his head.

  “Help, help!” he screamed in falsetto voice. “She’s got me.”

  “That’s right. Beg for mercy, you fiend,” she replied, her voice deep with melodramatic menace.

  “Ooh. Mercy! Mercy!” he begged in piteous tones, while ogling her lasciviously.

  His words and lecherous expression brought renewed shrieks of laughter from Nikki and an immediate reversal of their positions. Now Jack was on top.

  I smiled as I watched them romp. If they didn’t mind exhibiting their passion, I wasn’t going to deny myself a little voyeuristic pleasure. I remembered Don Logan next to me and turned to see his reaction.

  Logan wasn’t smiling. His eyes were narrow with disgust. He shook his head.

  “Drugs,” he grunted.

  Drugs? Jack and Nikki? I would have guessed natural exuberance. Maybe a little alcohol. Was Logan right?

  I turned back to see Jack plant a big kiss on Nikki’s nose. She stopped struggling. Then he licked her face. She shrieked again and gave Jack’s chest a violent shove. He tumbled off her, laughing. Then he was up and running again, with Nikki trailing behind him, shaking her fist.

  “You’ll pay for that, Jack Ireland,” she shouted.

  I heard a click followed by a whir at my side. Don Logan was heading down the ramp that led off the porch. He doffed his cowboy hat to me at the bottom of the ramp. “Nice talking to you,” he said.

  I waved goodbye to him with a “see you later” and turned back to see Jack and Nikki disappear around the corner of one of the dilapidated stucco buildings.

  Don Logan and I hadn’t been the only ones watching the show. Fran’s son, Paul, stood mesmerized under one of the orange trees. Once Jack and Nikki were gone, he turned on his heel angrily and ran off, his still-untied shoelaces dragging in the dirt.

  Poor kid. The scene had to have churned up his adolescent hormones. It had even given my middle-aged ones a goose.

  I shook my head to clear it of those hormones and sat back down on the redwood bench. Ready to think. Had I learned anything yet that might pinpoint Suzanne’s murderer? I wished I knew what had killed her. But I didn’t. I went back to the suspects. Suzanne had come on to Jack. That had to have made Nikki mad. Or did it have to? I could still see Nikki’s perfect face and body in my mind. Nikki was beautiful enough to hold her own against any encroaching woman.

  Avery Haskell was secretive, for whatever that was worth. Bradley Beaumont was nuts and Suzanne had scorned him. And Fran’s adoration of Bradley seemed almost as unbalanced as Bradley himself. But given all of that, where was the motive for murder?

  I heard feet shuffling up the dirt path. Paul Beaumont. The boy scowled as he climbed the porch stairs and entered the building. Plenty of adolescent rage there. And I had felt an unhealthy frisson of anger from Don Logan too while he was watching Jack and Nikki. But so what? I smacked my palm on the bench in frustration. If I was Chief Orlandi, I would be measuring Craig for the electric chair, too. He was the only one who had known Suzanne previously. I blinked. Or was he? That’s what I had assumed, but…

  What if one of these people had known Suzanne before Spa Santé? And had borne a grudge? I shifted with excitement on the bench, then deflated. Suzanne would have said something, I told myself. I blinked again. That was another ungrounded assumption. It didn’t absolutely follow that she would say something. Not if it would have been worth it to her to keep an earlier relationship a secret. But why?

  An ugly thought seeped into my consciousness. Blackmail. From what I knew of Suzanne, blackmail wouldn’t necessarily have been beneath her moral standards. I doubted that she would have blackmailed anyone for money. But for power, for advantage? It was possible. But who? What? My mind raced. Maybe the socially conscious Terry McPhail was a secret Republican. Or a CIA agent. How many agent provocateurs were left in these days of political indifference? And there was always Avery Haskell. He was hiding some secret. Had Suzanne known what that secret was?

  I got up from my seat impatiently. Tantalizing as it was, none of this conjecture was getting me anywhere. I needed to clear my mind and start over. I walked down a dirt path at random until I found a secluded patch of grass where I could practice my tai chi.

  Tai chi is both a “soft” martial art and a moving meditation, as well as an exercise system. The efficiency of addressing all three needs at once was one of the things that kept me practicing the tai chi form year after year. Not to mention the centered balance and coordination the slow and precise practice had brought to my awkward body, and the clarity I knew it could bring to my cluttered mind. I desperately needed that clarity of mind right now.

  So I began the form, sinking my weight down through my torso, through my legs, and into the ground beneath my feet. Then the unhurried stepping, turning, shifting, pushing, kicking and releasing until I felt the “chi” energy circulating. By the time I had made the 180-degree turn in preparation for the heel kick, most of the tension of the day had drained from my body, and my mind had cleared.

  But that turn brought me face to face with Paul Beaumont. The boy stood staring at me, his eyes oozing hostility. I dropped my leg and arms.

  “You really think you’re something, don’t you?” he said, his voice high and tense. He didn’t give me a chance to answer. “Karate bullshit!” he yelled.

  Mi
d-yell he raised his arms and leapt at me. His hands landed on my breasts. In the instant it took my mind to register the shock of his assault, my body spontaneously began tai chi again. I didn’t resist Paul’s force but instead sank back, absorbing his energy, then returning it. I turned at the waist and brought up my right arm under his arms. The move lifted his hands from my breasts. He slammed his arms back down, but I swept them away with the momentum of my left hand as I turned back. Then I centered myself fully and pushed from that center with my whole body.

  My hands connected solidly with his chest and he was suddenly backpedaling wildly. Then he was down on the ground, his eyes wide with surprise.

  I was pretty surprised myself. Both by the assault and by my successful defense. Though I shouldn’t have been surprised by the assault. My tai chi teacher had warned against the practice of tai chi in public. It invites challenge. And Paul had thought I was doing karate! Damn.

  The surprise on Paul’s face was gradually turning to fear. Was he afraid of me? Or just now realizing what he had done? Before I could find the words to speak to him, he pulled himself up off the ground and ran. And he ran fast. As I watched him I wondered. Could he have outrun Suzanne Sorenson?

  Upon that thought I sank to the ground myself. I was drenched with sweat. What would have happened without my tai chi training? What if he had had a weapon? I tried to shake the “what-ifs” from my mind. But I couldn’t forget the intensity of his hatred. And his hands on my breasts. Had Paul merely been challenging me to a fight? His hands straying to grope along the way? I thought of Jack and Nikki’s playful sparring. Paul had witnessed it, too. It might have given him the idea.

  Or had Paul’s leap been the first step of an attempted rape? I shivered as I faced the thought.

  I told myself that he was just a kid. But somehow that didn’t comfort me. Then I wondered if Suzanne had been sexually assaulted before she was murdered. The hair went up on the back of my neck.