The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

The wheels in my mind began to turn. “You want to hear about Don Logan?” Felix teased. I wondered if he tortured Barbara like this.

  “Yes, I want to hear about Don Logan,” I snapped.

  “Actually, it’s a pretty sad story,” Felix said, the teasing gone from his voice. “A couple years ago the Logans were coming back from vacation. Coming across the Golden Gate Bridge. Logan’s wife was driving. A drunk driver coming the other way lost control, came over the double line and crashed into them. Wife and kid were killed. Logan was crippled.”

  “Jesus,” I said. Then my heart started pounding. Was this the connection? “Who hit them?” I asked. “Suzanne?”

  “Nope. A man by the name of Keene. He was killed too.”

  Damn. I got up from the bed and began pacing. Felix continued the rundown.

  “Jack Ireland’s got a record, too,” Felix said. Then, predictably, he paused. I growled menacingly. He hurried on before I could reach through the phone line to throttle him. “Once for reckless driving. Once for possession of marijuana. His brother’s the famous one. Ever hear of Trax?”

  My brain scanned. “Some kind of rock group?” I guessed.

  “Bingo. Tommy Ire, the lead singer is Jack Ireland’s big brother. Tommy shortened his name. Anyway, Jack is a roadie for Trax.”

  “How about Terry McPhail?” I asked. With his attitude, he had to have been arrested in a protest.

  “Would Terry be fifty-eight or thirty-nine?” Felix responded.

  “Thirty-nine.”

  “No record on the younger Terrance McPhail,” Felix said. I was disappointed in Terry. With his views, he should have racked up at least one honorable arrest in his lifetime. “Now, the elder Terrance McPhail is more interesting,” Felix continued. “Owns a Chevy dealership in south San Francisco, and a couple more down the peninsula. Five-star credit rating. Lots of bucks.”

  I looked out the window again as Felix rattled off information.

  “Bradley Beaumont’s made a couple of trips to the psycho ward. Committed by his parents, no less. He lived with them until he married Francisca.”

  “Has he ever been published?” I asked.

  “Nope. Now Ruth Ziegler, on the other hand, is a best-selling author. Psychology for the masses. Her husband was a psychologist, too. Died a few years back.”

  I looked across Rose Court to the two buildings on the other side. I wondered idly if their white stucco exteriors camouflaged more psychedelic-rustic interiors.

  “Nikki Martin,” Felix grumbled. “There are seven Nicole Martins in this state. Most of them are under the age of ten. But only one actress with that name. No police record on her. She’s been in some local plays, a few bit parts in movies….”

  There was an orange tree between the two buildings across the courtyard. A figure stood by the tree, looking up in the direction of my window. It was Paul Beaumont. My heart did a back-flip.

  “She models for mail-order clothing catalogues—”

  “Felix,” I interrupted. “I’ve got to go!”

  “What?” he sputtered.

  “I’ve got to go,” I repeated firmly. “I’ll call you back.”

  I dropped the phone on Felix’s sputters, my attention consumed by the need to confront the figure across the courtyard. Despite my attempts to reassure myself that Paul Beaumont was only a confused kid, my heart was racing. I had to confront him. To face my own fear.

  I strolled to my door nonchalantly. I didn’t think Paul could see me, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Once I had closed the door behind me, I raced down the stairs in time with my rapid heartbeat.

  Outside the building, I blinked for a moment in the sunlight and oriented myself. I could cross the courtyard, in which case Paul would probably see me coming, or I could take the dirt path which circled the perimeter of the Rose Court complex. I chose the path.

  Paul was sitting cross-legged underneath the orange tree by the time I had run the perimeter. He was still facing across the courtyard toward my building. I got my breath under control and walked up behind him quietly.

  “Paul,” I began. He jerked his head around. His eyes filled with panic when he saw me. “I want to talk to you,” I said firmly.

  He turned his head away from me and mumbled, “I don’t have to.”

  I circled in front of him. “Do you want me to take this to the police?” I asked. He dropped his head, refusing to look at me.

  “No,” he muttered into his lap.

  “Well?” I prodded.

  He looked up at me with teary eyes. “I’m s-sorry. I never did anything like that before. I know it was stupid.”

  I dropped to the ground across from him, relieved by his answer.

  “Promise me you’ll never do anything like it again,” I proposed softly, peering into his distressed eyes.

  “I…I promise,” he replied, hurrying through the last word to get it over with. Then he dropped his head again.

  I sat across from him, wondering if he would keep his promise. Wondering if there was a better way to handle him.

  “Have you told my mom?” he asked, his voice shrill with worry.

  “No,” I said.

  “Will you?” he pressed, handing me the lever I needed.

  “Not if you keep your promise.”

  Paul nodded impatiently. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll keep it.” He jumped to his feet.

  I rose with him, not finished yet.

  “Paul,” I said softly. “Tell me how you felt about Suzanne.”

  “SHE WAS A WHORE!” he erupted.

  TEN

  I STEPPED BACK involuntarily, rocked by the force of Paul Beaumont’s outburst. The word “whore” echoed in the charged air.

  “Paul—” I began. But he whirled away from me before I could finish. It was just as well. I didn’t know what to say. I glimpsed a shimmer of renewed tears in his eyes as he looked at me one more time. Then he ran.

  I tensed to run after him without thinking.

  “I’d let the boy go if I were you,” said someone at my side.

  I jerked my head around and saw Don Logan staring up at me from beneath his cowboy hat. I had been so involved in Paul that I hadn’t heard the whir of Logan’s wheelchair. I turned back in time to see Paul disappear behind a stand of orange trees.

  Defeated, I dropped to a sitting position on the ground. It was too late to chase Paul now.

  “Why should I let him go?” I asked Logan angrily.

  “What were you going to do if you caught him?” he asked in return. He looked down at me with a trace of a smile in his bitter eyes.

  “I hadn’t thought that far,” I admitted. “But that is one troubled kid.”

  “He’s not a killer,” Logan assured me calmly, as if I had asked the question aloud.

  “What makes you so sure?” I asked, my anger returning. Would it change his assessment if I told him how Paul had assaulted me?

  “You just saw his M.O.,” he answered, still calm. “Explode and run. He doesn’t have the staying power to finish mowing a lawn, much less kill someone.”

  “Or the strength,” I muttered, thinking of Chief Orlandi’s description of Suzanne’s death. I could imagine Paul flailing out at Suzanne, hitting her hard enough to kill in a moment of anger. But choking her, then dragging, bludgeoning and smothering her? I couldn’t fit Paul into that picture. On the other hand, I couldn’t fit anyone into that picture.

  “It’s all bravado,” Don Logan said. “Paul’s a very frightened boy. Maybe it’s his parents’ fault for ignoring him. Maybe it’s not. I sure as hell don’t know.” He paused and shook his head. “I never got that far with my own boy.”

  I jerked my eyes up to look into his. But his eyes were unfocused, lost somewhere. His boy. The child who had died in the auto accident. I shivered. Any death is sad, but a child’s death seems so unjust, so out of order.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I am too,” Logan agreed with a grim smile. He whirred and clic
ked his wheelchair, turning around to leave. “Nice talking to you,” he said.

  I waved goodbye as he wheeled away.

  I trudged unhappily back to my room and threw myself on the bed to stare at the white ceiling. I thought of children dying. Don Logan’s boy. Bradley Beaumont’s sister. And Ruth Ziegler’s son, lost because of a fraternity prank. Then I thought of Paul Beaumont, angry and suffering.

  I jerked myself up off the bed, trying to shake the feeling of depression that Spa Santé itself seemed to exude. For a health spa, Spa Santé had a very unhealthy aura. Was the place a magnet for violence and suffering?

  I began to pace the room. Were there ghosts in these decaying buildings? Spirits of disillusioned hippies in the orange and black paisley wallpaper? I giggled at the thought, shaking off a chunk of the depression as I did. Every place has its share of underlying tragedy, I assured myself. Maybe it was simply Suzanne’s death which had churned all the misery to the surface.

  Talking to myself wasn’t enough. I wanted an antidote to the misery. I wanted Wayne. I picked up the telephone and dialed his number. And got his answering machine once more. I wanted to cry when I heard it.

  “I love you,” I whispered as his announcement ran, and hung up the phone without leaving a message.

  It was then that I remembered Felix. My confrontation with Paul had driven him from my mind. But now I remembered dropping the phone on Felix’s sputters. Damn. I began my apologies mentally as I hurriedly dialed his number.

  But the voice that answered the telephone didn’t belong to Felix. It belonged to my friend, and Felix’s significant other, Barbara Chu.

  “Hello, Kate,” she answered the phone. Barbara is a self-proclaimed practicing psychic. I have never been able to tell whether she is really psychic or just very intuitive. Maybe it’s the same thing.

  “All right,” I said. “I’m impressed. How’d you know it would be me?”

  “I knew you’d call Felix back,” she said. Then she whispered. “He’s sulking.”

  I sighed. “Tell him I’m sorry,” I said.

  She yelled out, “Kate says she’s sorry,” and returned to the phone. “Listen, kiddo,” she said in a low voice, “I don’t want to worry you, but whenever I send my spirit down to visit you at that spa, I get really bad vibes.”

  My heart constricted. Barbara didn’t offer such observations lightly. “What kind of bad vibes?” I asked.

  “Wait a sec,” she said. I could see her in my mind’s eye, sitting quietly to ground herself. Then her voice came over the line. “Hate—hate—hate,” she hissed.

  “Stop that,” I squawked. My arms were covered with goose bumps.

  “Sorry, kiddo,” she apologized. Mercifully, she had returned to her normal voice. “I didn’t mean to scare you. But there is a malevolent spirit near you. Watch yourself.”

  “What malevolent spirit?” I demanded. “Who is it?”

  “I can’t tell who. But someone is filled with hatred.”

  Great. No new information. I didn’t need Barbara to tell me that hatred was involved. I had heard Suzanne’s death described. And now my stomach was churning with fear.

  “You’ll be okay,” added Barbara, responding to my unspoken thoughts. “Just be careful.”

  “Thank you for sharing,” I joked, but I couldn’t keep the bitter fear out of my tone.

  She chuckled, then grew serious again. “Kate, please. Watch out. This is a nasty one.”

  My goose bumps came back. “All right,” I answered shortly. I didn’t want to hear any more warnings.

  “Good.” She paused. “I’ll keep a third eye out for you, kiddo. Do what I can. But you take care. Now, hold on while I get Felix for you.”

  I could hear Barbara cajoling Felix into talking to me as I waited on the line. I stared at black paisley squiggles as the phone charges mounted. I worked on calming my churning stomach and wondered if “psychic friend” might be an oxymoron in some cases.

  Then the receiver was picked up again. “So what the hell happened?” demanded Felix peevishly. I assumed this was his way of asking why I hung up on him.

  “I saw someone I needed to talk to,” I explained lamely. I looked out the window across Rose Court again. But Paul was gone. The orange tree stood alone.

  “Who?” asked Felix.

  “Just a kid,” I said. There was an unforgiving silence on the other end of the line. “I thought he might have seen something,” I lied. “And I hadn’t been able to get near enough to talk to him before.” At least I finished with the truth.

  “You’re a lunatic,” said Felix. But his voice was friendlier. “So did he see anything?”

  “Uh, no,” I answered.

  “Are you being straight with me?” he asked.

  “Felix, I’ll tell you everything when I figure out who killed Suzanne,” I offered. I shouldn’t have reverted to honesty.

  “Aha!” he shouted. “You are holding back. What?”

  “Nothing important,” I said. “So, did you come across anything about Ruth Ziegler’s son in your research?” I asked, to change the subject.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Well?”

  “I’ll share what I know when you share what you know,” he answered.

  The conversation descended further into puerility from that point on. By the time Felix had hung up, I was reduced to sticking my tongue out at the silent receiver.

  Fully discouraged, I took off my shoes and curled up under the salmon bedspread. Wayne wasn’t there when I needed him. Barbara was playing Cassandra. I knew she was trying to help, but I didn’t need any more fear, thank you. And Felix was no longer speaking to me. So much for friends.

  A thudding on my door punctuated my last thought. Barbara’s warnings reverberated in my mind.

  “Who is it?” I called out.

  “Not Jack the Ripper,” came Craig’s voice, as if through a megaphone. “I repeat. This is not Jack the Ripper.”

  I opened the door to him happily. Craig was indeed a friend. I had almost forgotten.

  “Anyone for tennis?” asked Craig, waving an invisible tennis racket. His tone was light, but the stiff smile on his gaunt face hadn’t erased the ravages of recent events.

  “Seriously,” he said, letting the smile go. “How about a swim. I could use one. And I could use some company too.”

  “I didn’t pack a suit,” I objected. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go swimming. It might be dangerous at Spa Santé.

  “I bet Fran will lend you one,” he said.

  I thought about the offer for all of fifteen seconds. I had spent too much time mulling over murder, misery and violence. If I pretended I was merely on vacation and forgot it all for a while, maybe something would come to me. This was my version of the unwatched pot theory.

  “You’re on,” I agreed.

  Craig’s face brightened. That felt good to me. I realized just how tired I was of arguing.

  Craig sat on the orange leatherette chair while I put my shoes on. He told me about the yoga movie scheduled for the evening.

  As we walked to the dining hall I responded in kind, telling him about the fourth wedding of an old friend (maybe this one would take), a good movie I had seen and a new recipe for black bean soup. Anything but murder.

  We had almost reached the main building when we saw a beige Volkswagen bug pull into the parking lot. Two elderly women emerged. Their age and sex were all they appeared to have in common.

  The driver was a rock of a woman, a study in earth. Her large, solid backside was packed into heavy blue jeans. Her shoulders were large, and hunched forward under her flannel shirt like a bulldog’s. Her jowly face brought to mind a bulldog’s too, except for the piercing blue eyes. She shoved a bobby pin into the uncompromising grey braid that was wrapped around her head, and in a low voice said something to her companion, which I couldn’t hear.

  Her companion chirped something back, equally inaudible. She was air to the first woman’s earth. She looke
d like a geriatric schoolgirl, her frail body clothed in periwinkle blue culottes, white knee-socks and a white sweatshirt with a red and black logo. Thin white hair wisped out from her head and played in the breeze. Her eyes were hidden under thick glasses, but her hands fluttered expressively as she chirped. I wondered what they were discussing with such animation.

  The earth woman walked to the main building with long, determined strides. Her companion took two hopping steps to each stride to keep up, all the while fluttering her hands and speaking words I could not make out. They moved up the stairs and disappeared through the doors.

  I looked at Craig curiously. “Do you know those two?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Never saw them before.”

  I sped up my pace a little. We went through the doors into the dining room just in time to hear Fran say to the two women, “Why, that’s Kate Jasper, right there. Coming in the door.” She pointed in my direction and the two women turned to look.

  The bulldog woman frowned. It didn’t improve her looks. Her companion goggled at me through her thick glasses. I walked up close enough to read the PBS Mystery! logo on her sweatshirt and held out my hand for shaking. I assumed introductions were in order.

  I assumed wrongly. Neither of them took my hand. They moved swiftly past me, their steps still out of style. I turned to watch them go and caught a quick double backward glance. It was instantly retracted. Then they pushed through the glass doors and out the lobby.

  “Who were those two?” I asked Fran.

  “Edna Grimshaw and Arletta Ainsley,” she replied cheerfully. “People in Delores call them the twins. They’ve been here forever. Miss Grimshaw was a nurse for the old doctor here. Miss Ainsley used to be a librarian. They come here to eat sometimes. But today they just wanted to ask…” Fran’s words drifted off.

  “They asked you to point me out,” I finished for her.

  Her eyes widened, and she nodded.

  “Why?” I asked. Fran’s eyes widened further.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice rising in pitch. “I’m sorry. I’ve done it again. I shouldn’t have told them, but I thought—”

  “It’s all right,” I cut her off. But it wasn’t really. What did the twins want from me? I glanced the question at Craig. He shrugged and turned to Fran.