The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “I’ll see you two later,” Craig announced with false cheeriness as we reached the end of the path. Then again, maybe it wasn’t false. Maybe he was just as heartened by the prospect of our parting as I was.

  “See you then,” Wayne and I chimed in together. Craig strode off to the parking lot with one last wave in our direction.

  Wayne and I shared a sigh of relief and started up the stairs of the main building.

  We were almost to the doors when we heard Craig’s shout.

  “Kate!” he cried. Then more urgently, “Help! Somebody help!”

  Wayne was down the stairs and into the parking lot before Craig’s last “help” hit the air. I clattered down a few seconds after him, fueled by adrenaline.

  I sprinted through the gravel parking lot toward the sparse row of cars at the front. Wayne stood there bent over Craig in the space between two parked cars. Craig was on his knees, clutching his stomach. Had he been hit? I heard the sound of retching, and ran on. Just before I reached them, my attention was diverted by a motorcycle lying on its side a few feet in front of Craig. There were two freckled legs sticking out from underneath it.

  I veered toward the overturned motorcycle. An accident? Was the rider still alive? Then I saw Jack Ireland’s head, peering out from under the other end of the bike. His protuberant eyes stared up at the sky, as if surprised at what had happened to the top of his head. “A bloody pulp.” The words popped unbidden into my brain. I had heard them so often. But I had never seen the reality they conveyed. Not until now. My stomach spasmed.

  He has to be dead, a detached voice in my head informed me. No way a man can live with his brains splashed out on the ground. The air around me shimmered and undulated. I had to sit down. I dropped to the gravel with a spine-wrenching plop, glad I had no breakfast to lose.

  Wayne was suddenly there in front of me. He knelt down to put his hands on my shoulders. But I could still see Jack underneath his arm. Jack’s head hadn’t been pulverized by a fall from his motorcycle. This was no accident. Then I noticed the mark around Jack’s neck, a distinct groove that had bitten into the flesh. And I remembered what Edna had said about the mark around Suzanne’s neck.

  “No accident,” I whispered aloud and dropped my head into my hands. Barbara was right. There was hatred here.

  But who? Why? Even in shock, the questions began to form. I lifted my head to Wayne. His eyes had filled with tears underneath those heavy brows. His reaction to shock. I tugged at his arm and he plopped down next to me. I put my arm around his shoulder. He gave my thigh a gentle squeeze of thanks.

  I looked in Craig’s direction. He was still paper-white. But he was sitting up now, apparently finished with vomiting. He stared down at his own lap, unseeing.

  “When did you see Jack last?” The voice that asked the question was, amazingly, my own. And it was steady.

  Craig didn’t answer right away. He lifted his head. His eyes were glassy as they stared out in front of him. “After the yoga movie,” he said finally in a dead voice. “Once you had gone, Terry and Ruth drifted off. Then I offered to help Fran carry the VCR and monitor back to the main building. Jack and Nikki were arguing again when Fran and I left.”

  “Was there anyone else there?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. A little feeling had crept into his voice.

  “And that was the last you saw of him?”

  “Yes!” His voice was shrill now and shaking. “Oh God. I found his body! They’ll think it was me for sure. First Suzanne, now Jack!”

  Wayne and I exchanged worried glances. Craig might be right. But we had to call the police.

  Wayne and I helped Craig up and walked him back to the main building. As we climbed the stairs, Craig began to sob. Wayne patted his shoulder awkwardly. We found Fran in the lobby, behind the registration desk.

  “We’ve got fresh blueberry muffins today and tofu rancheros…” she began cheerfully. Then her eyes focused on us. Whatever she saw there told her it was bad news.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” she asked shrilly. Then she pointed at Wayne in fear. “Who is he? What’s he done?”

  I winced and turned to Wayne quickly. His homely face didn’t reflect any hurt. But then, it didn’t reflect anything. It had turned to stone. Damn. With that battered, malformed face and looming body, he was the physical archetype of a mass-murderer. I grabbed his hand and squeezed gently in an attempt to anesthetize the hurt. This wasn’t the first time he had been misjudged by his appearance.

  “This is my friend Wayne,” I said firmly to Fran.

  She stepped back. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I…I’m just on edge since—” She broke off, probably seeking a euphemism. She attempted a hospitable smile.

  Should I tell her there had been a new murder at Spa Santé?

  “There’s been another accident,” I said, opting for euphemism myself. “I need to call Chief Orlandi.”

  Fran’s jaw dropped open. Then she began to wail. “No! Oh, please, no! Not another one!”

  I couldn’t handle any more hysterics. I left Wayne and Craig to keep her company and found the phone in her office myself. My call to the Delores Police Department was instantly routed through to Chief Orlandi. Thank God for small town police departments. The Chief didn’t waste any words, mine or his, once he understood what I was telling him. He cut me off with the admonition to stay put, touch nothing and shut up. He would be there within minutes, he assured me. I hung up and rested my head on Fran’s desk for a moment. It was so nice and quiet there. I didn’t want to leave.

  But I did. I forced myself from my chair and tracked the sound of hysteria into the dining hall. A small crowd was gathering there around Fran. She sat at one of the small tables, sobbing and wailing noisily. Roseanne leapt into her lap and let out a yowl of sympathy. Or was it simply a yowl of hunger?

  Craig and Wayne had taken chairs across from Fran. Wayne’s homely face was still set in stone. He sat erect and silent. Craig slumped in his chair, his handsome face blank with shock.

  Ruth Ziegler had stationed herself at Fran’s side. She began stroking Fran’s shoulder and murmuring sweet psychotherapeutic nothings in her ear as Don Logan wheeled up. Then Avery Haskell came striding from the kitchen, his hands still white with flour, an expression of concern momentarily replacing his zombie mask. Terry trotted in just as I heard the sirens. I asked myself who was missing.

  “Nikki,” I answered myself. My stomach clenched with sadness. “Poor Nikki.” I realized I had spoken aloud.

  “What about Nikki?” asked Terry.

  “Oh, God,” moaned Craig. He hit the table with his fist and moaned again. Roseanne hissed.

  “What’s going on?” prodded Terry insistently.

  “Has something happened to Nikki?” asked Ruth, her hand frozen on Fran’s shoulder.

  “Be quiet and let Kate answer,” advised Logan from his wheelchair.

  Faces were turned in my direction expectantly. Even Fran had stopped wailing to hear my answer. I drew a deep breath. “I can’t say anything—” I began.

  “Damn right, you can’t say anything!” roared a voice from behind me. Chief Orlandi had arrived.

  I turned around in relief, glad for once to see his glowering red face. Officer Dempster was behind him, his hand fluttering nervously to and from his holstered gun. And behind Officer Dempster was a young black-haired woman in uniform. Her large dark eyes were wide with excitement. At least someone was enjoying this.

  “You!” Orlandi boomed, his finger pointed at me. “Show me the body.” His eyes scanned the room for reactions to his words.

  Fran was the first to react, throwing herself into a renewed fit of sobs and wails. Roseanne jumped from her lap and marched imperiously into the kitchen. I wished I had that option.

  Avery Haskell straightened his shoulders as his zombie mask clicked back into place. Ruth’s eyes and mouth opened wide in a curiously youthful expression of surprised innocence, while Don Logan’s face aged with
a deep frown. Terry merely arched his eyebrows over his wire-rimmed glasses, saying nothing—for the moment.

  Orlandi never took his eyes from the faces around him as he shouted over Fran’s sobs. “The rest of you sit down! Do not talk among yourselves! Officer Guerrero will be here to make sure no one leaves!” The black-haired officer stepped forward eagerly, scrutinizing the batch of suspects.

  Avery and Ruth sat down at a nearby table. Ruth was uncharacteristically silent. Terry, however, now responded in a manner true to his character.

  “Body?” he asked shrilly, still standing. “Has there been another murder?”

  “Sit down!” Orlandi roared.

  “We have a right—” Terry began.

  “One more word and Officer Dempster will remove you,” Orlandi warned. Terry opened his mouth.

  Officer Dempster stepped forward. His hand was on the butt of his gun. Orlandi glowered at Terry.

  “Okay,” said Terry, throwing up his hands. “Okay.” He sat down next to Ruth.

  Officer Dempster relaxed. I guess “okay” didn’t count as a word. The Chief’s eyes lighted on Wayne. “You the boyfriend?” he asked. Wayne nodded.

  “You!” Orlandi pointed at Dempster. “Find the ones that are missing.” He looked around. “Bradley Beaumont. And the kid—”

  “He’s at school,” Fran mumbled through her sobs.

  “Forget the kid for now,” Orlandi said. “But find the girlfriend. Black woman. Nikki Martin.”

  He paused for a moment watching the faces around him. Then he turned to me. “Let’s go,” he said and wheeled around to lead me outside.

  “I don’t really want to see the body again,” I mumbled as I followed Orlandi down the stairs.

  “What? A little mashed flesh bothers you?” he asked. His crocodile grin had returned. “You, the great detective?”

  I wasn’t glad to see him anymore.

  As we walked across the parking lot I saw yet another uniformed police officer standing in front of the space where Jack’s body lay. Maybe Delores wasn’t as small a town as I thought.

  Orlandi took me about four feet from the space between the cars and pointed. The renewed sight of those freckled legs sticking out from underneath the motorcycle brought the sting of tears to my eyes. Jack had been a vital man. Always in motion. Dancing, joking, blowing his imaginary trumpet. And so sadly flawed. I thought again of Nikki.

  “Does the body look the same as when you left it?” Orlandi’s gruff voice interrupted my thoughts. The body? That was Jack Ireland under there, I thought angrily.

  “Yes,” I answered aloud. I lowered my eyes so I didn’t have to see Jack anymore.

  “Did you touch the body?” Orlandi asked.

  “No,” I answered. The shorter I kept my answers, the sooner I could leave. Or so I hoped.

  “How about Mr. Jasper or your boyfriend?” There was a hint of a sneer in the way the Chief pronounced “boyfriend.” I looked up to see if the sneer was in his eyes. It wasn’t. His eyes were deadly serious.

  “No,” I answered again.

  “Show me how close you got,” Orlandi ordered.

  Reluctantly, I lifted my foot to step closer to Jack’s body. Orlandi grabbed my shoulder gently. The gentleness surprised me.

  “Just point,” he ordered.

  I pointed.

  And so it went for fifteen minutes more until Orlandi’s final question.

  “Just one more thing,” he said, his crocodile grin back in place. “Which one of you lost your breakfast?”

  “Craig,” I said quietly, refusing to return his smile.

  As Chief Orlandi and I climbed the stairs together, my legs began to tremble. I wondered if I’d make it all the way up. I did. But by the time we reached the dining hall, the trembling had spread to my arms and hands. Even my face.

  Chief Orlandi put his hand on my shoulder and guided me past the cluster of suspects in the center of the room to one of the far tables by the window. “Have a seat,” he ordered.

  I shook my head. No way. I wasn’t going to isolate myself from the others. I jerked my shoulder away from his hand and marched my trembling body back across the room to a seat next to Wayne, smack in the midst of the suspects.

  Chief Orlandi followed me, shrugging his shoulders. Then he made an elaborate maitre d’ bow, indicating the chair I had already chosen. I dropped into the seat gratefully. I felt Wayne’s comforting hand settle onto my thigh and sighed. I didn’t dare turn to face him. I was too near to tears. A glimpse of his kind face and they would spill over.

  Orlandi bent over me and issued one last order. “You’ll answer the rest of my questions later,” he growled. Then he stomped over to Officer Guerrero for a whispered consultation. More questions? What more could he possibly have to ask me?

  A shrill hoot of laughter punctured my thought. I looked up, startled. Officer Dempster had apparently retrieved Bradley. He sat next to Fran, grinning. The hair went up on the back of my trembling neck. Was Bradley the murderer? The question no longer seemed academic.

  I began to scan the faces around me once more. Most, like Craig’s, were blank with shock. Only Bradley was smiling. Avery Haskell’s head was bent low over clasped hands. His lips moved silently. Praying? Terry squirmed in his chair.

  I risked a look at Wayne next to me, and was rewarded by a soulful gaze, only partially obscured by his overhanging brows. I pulled my chair closer to him, so our thighs touched. Tears stung my eyes once more.

  “What’s happened?” The shout ricocheted off the walls of the dining hall. Nikki had entered the doorway, Officer Dempster steering her by one elbow. She looked at us for information, her face grey with anxiety. When no one answered her cry, she turned to Orlandi.

  “What’s happened?” she shouted again, her voice growing shriller with repetition.

  He strode toward her, arm out in front of him, palm forward, as if to ward off her question.

  “Where’s Jack?” she screamed

  .

  THIRTEEN

  NIKKI’S SCREAM GALVANIZED Chief Orlandi. With one more long running stride he landed in front of her, both arms outstretched now, palms raised in the universal gesture for “Stop.”

  “Calm down, Miss Martin,” he said in a low, reasonable voice. He lowered his arms slowly. “Let’s go and talk in the office.”

  Grey-faced, her eyes round with incipient hysteria, Nikki gawked at him, stunned for the moment by his composure. He motioned her toward the door. She didn’t move. “No,” she said softly. “Tell me now. Tell me what’s happened.”

  Orlandi sighed, then asked his own question. “When did you last see Mr. Ireland?” he whispered.

  “Last night,” she replied. “He never came back to the room.” The shrill tone had crept into her voice again gradually. She searched Orlandi’s eyes. “Is he okay?” she demanded, her voice shriller still and louder.

  Orlandi said nothing.

  “God damn you! Tell me he’s okay!” she screamed. She reached toward his shoulders, as if to shake the statement out of him.

  Orlandi stepped back, avoiding her hands. He nodded at Officer Dempster. Each of them took one of Nikki’s arms, and together they led her out through the glass doors of the dining hall and into Fran’s office.

  “NO!” We heard Nikki’s howl all the way in the dining room.

  I turned to Wayne and saw the moist compassion in his eyes. That was all it took. All the tears I had been holding back since I saw Jack’s body came spilling out. I cried for Jack. He would have no chance to redeem himself now. No chance to cut the big deal, the one that would have made him a genuine rock promoter. Then I cried for Nikki, left behind, her last words to Jack spoken in anger.

  Wayne put his arm around me. I buried my face in his shoulder and cried for Craig, frightened and lonely. Blindly, I reached out across Wayne’s lap to touch Craig’s hand. Craig met the touch with a spasmodic squeeze. I even shed a tear for Suzanne. She’d been selfish, but her life had been a s
ad one.

  As my tears subsided, my mind began to clear. The torrent had washed away the dulling film of shock. Suddenly alert, I came to one happy conclusion. Craig hadn’t killed Suzanne. I hadn’t really been certain until that moment of lucidity. I gazed over at him, trying without words to tell him I knew he was innocent now. He cocked his head as if trying to receive the message, then frowned in frustration. So much for telepathy.

  Suzanne and Jack had been killed by the same person. The marks on the body proved that. At least they proved it to me. And Craig hadn’t killed Jack. His reaction to seeing Jack’s body had been genuine. Maybe you can fake tears, but vomit? The resident cynic in my brain reminded me about the old fingers-down-the-throat routine. I told it to shut up. Fake vomit or no, I’d have bet my life Craig hadn’t known Jack was dead until he stumbled over his body.

  I began rapidly scanning faces once more. And I wasn’t the only one. Ruth’s black button-eyes were bright with interest as she studied Bradley. Don Logan watched Bradley too. And Bradley, in turn, was busy grinning at Don Logan. Hard to tell what that meant. Meanwhile, Terry had his eye on Avery Haskell. Avery was still silently praying. Fran was squinting at Wayne. At Wayne! The accusation couldn’t have been made more clearly if she had spoken it aloud.

  I did some deep breathing and told myself that Fran’s ocular opinions could not be held against her. Then I went on with my eyeball poll. Wayne was scrutinizing Bradley as well. And Craig’s eyes were fastened on Wayne. But the look on Craig’s face seemed to be less one of accusation than one of bewildered hurt. Hurt that I would choose Wayne over him? Craig caught my gaze and looked away guiltily.

  I tabulated the votes for murderer. Three in favor of Bradley. One for Avery Haskell. A possible vote for Don Logan, though I wasn’t sure that a grin counted. And one or two for Wayne. Bradley was the clear winner. But we were missing a couple of candidates: Nikki Martin and Paul Beaumont. And Bradley’s superior P.R. effort had to be taken into account.