The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “Met Arnie at a restaurant convention,” Wayne whispered back. I could just make out his embarrassed face in the dark. “Doubt that he’d remember me. Not exactly a friend.”

  “Was this a ruse to kidnap me?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Thanks,” I said and gave him a quick hug. At least the darkness here was visible. The darkness at the spa hid in the sunlight.

  A barely discernible young man seated us at a murky-red leatherette booth and handed us our menus.

  “Steak, hamburger or steak,” I read aloud, bending over the table to catch the lettering in the candlelight.

  “You could get a salad,” Wayne suggested sheepishly.

  Wayne knew I ate for my health. At least I believed a vegetarian diet had saved my health when I was seriously ill. Maybe it was a faith-healing. And Wayne had wooed me with his own vegetarian cooking. Meatless lasagna, ratatouille, pine-nut dolmas, homemade pasta with eggplant-olive sauce. The man could cook! But he needed meat once in a while. At least he believed he did. Maybe that was a faith-healing too.

  “Was the food that bad at the spa?” I asked softly, suddenly sympathetic.

  “No,” he said. “But the company was.” He bent forward in the flickering candlelight. “There are some very sick people at your health spa.”

  “Who?” I asked. I wanted his impressions.

  “Bradley,” he answered. “A lot like my mother used to be.” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Wayne’s mother was now completely mad. I had visited her once at the Shady Willows Mental Health Facility, where she sat drooling blankly in front of the TV in the patient’s recreation room.

  “Worse than my mother in some ways,” Wayne continued. “Watched Bradley when his son ran today. Bradley got very excited. Not concerned, just excited. And when the deputy hauled Paul back, Bradley couldn’t stop laughing.”

  I shivered. Spa Santé had seeped into Arnie’s.

  “Probably his way of dealing with stress,” Wayne allowed. “Can’t do the boy any good, though. Then there’s the guy in the wheelchair.”

  I looked across the table in surprise. Don Logan hadn’t been on my short list for crazy.

  “Guy’s very angry,” Wayne said. “Doesn’t know how to deal with it. And Fran. In complete denial about her family. Let her son be interrogated without a peep of protest.”

  “Did you see what happened with Orlandi and Paul?” I asked.

  Wayne nodded solemnly. “First thing Orlandi did was have the deputy take the handcuffs off Paul. Then he asked Fran if he could question her son. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘We’re glad to cooperate.’” Wayne’s voice came out in a bitter falsetto as he imitated Fran. “When Orlandi asked if she wanted to be there, Fran said, ‘No, no. Of course not.’ Began babbling about how Paul was just in ‘one of those stages.’ How he was ‘really a good kid.’ Boy was crying the whole time. She just ignored him.” Wayne shook his head sadly before going on.

  “When Orlandi took the boy away, Fran went right back to her lecture for the weight-watchers. Did her show. Lots of smiles for the crowd.”

  Wayne shook his head again. I had never heard him so bitter. I reached out for his hand, seeing the empathy in his eyes. Was he reliving his own emotional desertion by a mad and uncaring mother? He took my hand and squeezed it.

  “Sorry,” he said quietly.

  “Sorry for what?” I asked.

  But before he had a chance to answer, the young waiter was at our table again. He turned to me for my order.

  “Salad, no dressing,” I said. “And a baked potato, no butter or sour cream.”

  “Say,” said the waiter, with a friendly smile. “You ought to try that restaurant out at the spa. You’d like it a lot.”

  EIGHTEEN

  “SORRY FOR WHAT?” I repeated once the waiter was gone.

  Wayne looked up and answered. “Sorry for the gloom. Meant to take you away from it, not bring it here with me.”

  “But I want to discuss the murders,” I insisted. He looked unconvinced. “It’s either you or Felix,” I said.

  “Me or Felix?” He threw his hands in the air. “I’ll talk! I’ll talk!”

  I chuckled. I loved his playful side, a side few people ever got to see. I wanted to tell him so. To tell him, marriage or not, I loved him. But he spoke first. And he was serious again.

  “What happened with you and the boy?” he asked.

  I related the story of Paul’s unfortunate leap one more time. By now it seemed trivial, even ludicrous. But Wayne didn’t agree.

  “Boy’s got real problems,” he growled. “Could be dangerous.” All of my original fear of Paul Beaumont welled up again, clutching my chest. Kid that he was, and as absurd as it seemed, he had attacked me. And there was no way of knowing how it would have gone if I hadn’t pushed him away.

  “Damn it!” Wayne exploded, hitting the table with his fist. “Parents ought to take care of him.”

  The blow scattered silverware, and set the candle to swaying, casting dizzying shadows across Wayne’s angry face. I was stunned. I had never seen this gentle man so upset before. Suddenly I wondered if there was more going on than just empathy with Paul. Other anger that needed channeling.

  “Wayne,” I asked softly. “Are you mad at me?”

  He raised his head to disagree, then stopped to consider the idea. Slowly a flush crept up his neck and over his pitted face. “Guess I am,” he whispered, a tone of astonishment flavoring the shame in his words. He lowered his eyes to the table, nervously rearranging the scattered silverware.

  “It’s all right,” I said, putting my hand on top of his. “All right for me to need time. All right for you to be angry.”

  His hand stopped moving. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t even raise his eyes. My heart speeded up. Had I lost him?

  “Friends?” I asked. My voice shook.

  “And lovers,” he agreed, but he still didn’t lift his eyes to mine.

  I stood up and leaned over the table to kiss him.

  “One green salad, one baked potato and one steak sandwich,” came the waiter’s voice at my side.

  Damn. Do waiters time their entrances to interrupt? To ask how everything is when your mouth is full? I sat back down.

  Wayne was quiet as he ate his steak sandwich. Too quiet. He kept his eyes down as he chewed. I felt lonely, far distant across the table. He took a big bite. Catsup and shredded lettuce poured out the other end of his sandwich.

  “Moooo,” I lowed plaintively as he chewed. Vegetarian humor.

  His eyebrows twitched but he didn’t look up. He took another bite. I mooed again. No reaction. I sighed and took a bite of my potato.

  “Ow, my eyes!” Wayne yelped in a falsetto.

  I jumped.

  “Potatoes have feelings, too,” he said, looking at me finally, with a grin on his homely face. “And eyes.”

  Carnivorous humor. I fell back in my seat and laughed loudly. Laughing away Spa Santé. Laughing away murder. And, most of all, laughing away the fear that I had lost Wayne. Finally, I reached across the table to him. He grasped my hand firmly.

  “Don’t worry—” he began.

  “Wayne Caruso?” a voice boomed, moving in our direction. “Am I right?”

  Wayne turned to the voice. I turned too and saw a stocky balding man in jeans and a cowboy shirt.

  “Arnie,” said Wayne, standing up, hand outstretched.

  “Thought it was you,” Arnie said, shaking Wayne’s hand. “Never forget a pretty face.” He guffawed. I winced looking at Wayne’s nonstandard-issue features. But Wayne was smiling. “Sit, sit!” ordered Arnie.

  Wayne slid back into the booth. Arnie pulled a chair up to the end of our table. “So introduce me,” he said with a faint leer in my direction.

  “Kate Jasper,” Wayne said. Then he paused. “A friend,” he finished. An inadequate description, I thought guiltily. And I had denied him the use of “fiancée.”

  “So, what the hell are you two d
oing down here?” Arnie asked, all set to gossip. I had a feeling Arnie’s restaurant wasn’t keeping him busy enough in the late afternoon.

  “Friend of Kate’s is caught up in this murder business at the spa,” Wayne answered, his face serious once more.

  “Is that right?” exclaimed Arnie, his eyes lighting up. “Orlandi’s big case?”

  Wayne and I both nodded.

  “Well, he’ll sure as hell take care of it,” said Arnie in a confidential whisper. “We call him Bulldog Orlandi here in Delores.”

  “Bulldog?” I asked.

  “Never gives up,” explained Arnie. He leaned back in his chair and laughed. “He’s one mean son of a bitch. Once he’s got a bite on you, he won’t let go. Rather chew off your leg first. Got the name playing football originally. But he earned it as a cop.”

  He leaned forward to whisper again. “I’ve got this friend whose kid was selling a little grass here in Delores. No big thing. Just for his pals. Well, Orlandi hears about it and goes ape-shit. Not that Orlandi’s got any proof. The kid was too smart for that. But that didn’t stop Orlandi. He harassed that kid day and night, parking out in front of his house, talking to his pals, scaring off his sweetie pie. A couple of months of this shit and the kid finally gave it up. No more dealing for him. He’s afraid to smoke a Marlboro these days!”

  Arnie leaned back and laughed again. “Got to admire a son of a bitch like Orlandi,” he finished, nodding emphatically.

  I sat staring at Arnie, a polite smile on my face, hoping Orlandi hadn’t picked Craig to bite into. Or anyone else innocent for that matter.

  “Eat, eat!” Arnie ordered.

  We ate and Arnie regaled us with Orlandi stories. How Orlandi had worn down “the poor Smith girl” by knocking on her door with a red rose every day for six months until she agreed to marry him. They had three kids now. How Orlandi had busted a burglary ring, figured out who was spraying graffiti on the Meyers’ house, and terrorized the town drunk into A.A. meetings—all through pure force of character. How Orlandi was going to solve these murders.

  I nodded agreement but my heart wasn’t in it. Maybe Orlandi could do it. But he’d need more than force of character.

  “Hey, how about a beer?” Arnie asked as we were finishing up. “On the house.”

  “Thanks anyway,” said Wayne, patting his stomach. “Too much good food. Got to go.”

  Arnie followed us up to the register, where I paid the bill, waving away Wayne’s efforts to contribute. It was my turn, after all. As Arnie was making change, I heard the door open behind us.

  Arnie whispered. “Must be Slim ‘n’ Fit Weekend again.” He gave a quick nod to the doorway. I turned and saw a heavyset woman in a tie-dye T-shirt approaching. She glanced nervously over her shoulder. “We’ve gotten a helluva lot of business from the new spa program,” Arnie continued with a wink. “This is where they come to blow their diets.”

  The drive back to the spa was all too brief. As we drove through the gap in the trees that served as the entrance to Spa Santé, I heard B-movie prison doors clanking shut in my mind. Wayne looked over at me, his face full of concern. Maybe he had heard them too.

  Wayne parked on the far side of the spa lot, as far away from the yellow-taped crime scene as he could. There was one lone sheriff’s deputy there now. He seemed to be guarding the area. Wayne and I sat in the car for a moment.

  “Let’s see who’s left in the dining hall,” I suggested.

  “Kate, are we investigating?” asked Wayne.

  I shrugged my shoulders. Wayne sighed.

  “I’ve got to know who killed them,” I answered finally.

  “Okay,” he agreed quietly and opened his door. He turned to me before he got out. “I’ll do what I can to help,” he added.

  We walked across the parking lot and up the stairs of the main building. Avery Haskell was sitting on the porch.

  Wayne strolled over to Avery. “Police still here?” he asked.

  “The two sheriff’s sergeants and Orlandi are still in there with Fran and Bradley. The rest are all gone, except for the Mexican woman, Guerrero, and the sheriff’s deputy,” Avery answered. His face was zombie-blank as usual. “For now, anyway,” he finished glumly.

  “Terrible thing,” Wayne said. Suddenly I realized this was his help. He was pumping Avery Haskell. “What do you make of it?” he asked Avery.

  “God’s will,” answered Avery shortly. Then he turned his head away.

  “God’s will?” Wayne repeated softly.

  Avery kept his head turned from us, but he finally spoke again. “Had to be God’s will,” he said softly. “But neither of those two had given their lives over to God.” He turned his head back slowly. “I still can’t figure why God wanted them.” A look of honest confusion broke through his zombie mask for a moment, but only a moment.

  Then he shook his head and the mask became whole again. “It’s not my place to question. God works in mysterious ways,” he finished. He rose from his seat and moved quickly through the front door before Wayne could ask another question.

  I walked up behind Wayne and put my arms around his waist. “Thanks for trying,” I said.

  “I’ll do better next time,” he promised. Then he turned to me. “Have I earned a break?” he asked.

  Before I could reply, I heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. I swiveled my head and saw Paul Beaumont approaching.

  He shuffled forward, head down and mumbled, “Can I talk to you?”

  I hid my surprise. “Sure,” I answered. “What’s up?”

  “Avery said I should apologize to you,” he said. He kept his eyes lowered as he spoke. He took a big breath. “I’m sorry I called you a liar,” he recited.

  “That’s all right,” I answered, magnanimous now with Wayne at my side for a bodyguard.

  “Orlandi said you didn’t tell on me.” Paul’s words tumbled out quickly now. “Not till I told them myself.” He finally brought his eyes up to mine. “I didn’t know, or I wouldn’t have yelled at you,” he explained.

  I nodded my understanding.

  He lowered his eyes again. “Thank you,” he mumbled.

  Wayne put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. The kid jerked his head up, startled.

  “You okay?” asked Wayne. Paul nodded.

  “Need to talk?” Wayne prodded.

  Paul squirmed a little, then shot a nervous glance in my direction. Wayne saw the glance and mouthed “see you later,” to me. I got the message. Time for a man-to-boy talk.

  “I need something in my room,” I fabricated quickly. “A…a book.”

  Sure enough, Paul looked relieved at my prospective absence. I scurried down the stairs, glad that Wayne was questioning the kid. Maybe he could get further than I had. It took me all of three steps up the dirt path to begin worrying. Could Paul be dangerous to Wayne? What if Wayne was hurt while doing my dirty work? I turned and looked behind me as I walked. Paul and Wayne were sitting on the redwood bench side by side. It certainly didn’t look like a dangerous situation. I swiveled my head back. And came face to face with the twins bearing down on me.

  “Psst,” hissed Arletta theatrically, beaming at me through her thick glasses. Edna stood behind Arletta. With her bulldog scowl, she looked very much like her nephew Vic Orlandi.

  “Hi—” I began.

  “Shhh,” warned Arletta, bringing a thin finger to her lips. She pointed with studied nonchalance over her shoulder, to a bench behind a nearby orange tree. Then she strolled over to the bench. Edna rolled her eyes, but followed behind Arletta.

  I scanned the area for a moment, looking to see if anyone was nearby on the path. The only people in sight were Paul and Wayne on the porch. Just as nonchalantly as Arletta before me, I sauntered over to the bench.

  “Another murder!” chirped Arletta once I had seated myself in the space left for me between the two women. No greeting. No small talk. “A man named Jack Ireland,” Arletta nodded.

  “Kate knows that,” gro
wled Edna.

  Arletta ignored her friend. “Have you learned anything new?” she asked eagerly, her wispy white head trembling with excitement.

  I sat for a moment, considering. What had I learned?

  “I saw the second body,” I said finally.

  “Oh, my,” Arletta breathed, squeezing her hands together in apparent delight.

  Edna patted my shoulder sympathetically. “Was it a mess like the other one?” she asked. Her intense stare belied her casual tone.

  “Yes,” I said briefly, the memory of Jack’s body manifesting itself before my eyes. Arletta and Edna watched me closely as I tried to shake off the gruesome image. “There was a mark around his neck. Like Suzanne’s,” I told them.

  Edna nodded in satisfaction. This fact seemed to confirm something for her. But Arletta wanted more.

  “What else?” she asked.

  “Not much,” I said, feeling inadequate. “Suzanne’s uncle flew down.”

  “Before the second murder?” asked Edna sharply.

  I shook my head. Edna frowned in disappointment.

  “And?” prodded Arletta.

  What could I say? “Jack Ireland was full of life. He was playful. Kind. And probably an alcoholic. Now he’s dead.” Arletta continued to look at me expectantly. “His girlfriend seems to be completely broken up over it,” I finished.

  “What about the others?” Arletta asked.

  Bits and pieces of the morning and afternoon flashed through my mind. Bradley Beaumont’s shrill giggles. Ruth’s flirtation with Eli. Paul Beaumont’s flight. But none of these pieces had any true evidentiary value.

  “It’s hard to tell,” I answered finally. “No one acted like an obvious murderer.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m afraid I haven’t detected much,” I admitted.

  “We have,” Arletta whispered.

  Edna rolled here eyes once more.

  “Well, we have,” Arletta insisted. She looked around us for nosy ears, and finding none, began to speak in a low whisper: