The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  “We’ve researched the Beaumonts,” she said. “Bradley’s doctor told Edna that Bradley is close to another breakdown. He’s been institutionalized before.” She looked at me to see if I was impressed. I nodded her on impatiently. I didn’t need her to tell me that Bradley was near a breakdown.

  Arletta went on. “And the child, Paul. He’s a problem student in school. Poor dear. He doesn’t have any friends in school except for the Sullivan boy, and God knows that child’s no role model. Poor thing can barely read—”

  “Arletta,” Edna interrupted. “Kate doesn’t care about the Sullivan boy.”

  Arletta blinked for a moment, said “Sorry, dear,” to Edna and continued. “Paul is failing most of his courses and plays hooky two days out of five. Miss Nagel—that’s his teacher—is worried to death about him.”

  “Tell her about Fran,” Edna prompted.

  Arletta’s face lit up. “I had a little talk with Charlotte Ortega, the teller at Fran Beaumont’s bank. Charlotte’s a good girl, used to visit the library every week when she was in school. She was only too happy to share what she knew about Fran. She told me that Fran was quite wealthy when she first came to Delores, but now she’s nearly down to her last penny. Fran asked the bank for a loan earlier this year, but they refused her.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I whispered. No wonder my room was covered in psychedelic wallpaper. Fran couldn’t afford to replace it, or finish the work on the dilapidated buildings that dotted Spa Santé’s grounds.

  Arletta looked gratified. “There isn’t any way you could know, dear,” she said smugly. “And there’s no way you could find out the state of Avery Haskell’s account either,” she added enticingly.

  “Tell me,” I ordered. I would have to be careful with this woman. If she could pry confidential information from bank employees, who knows what she could wheedle out of me.

  “Mr. Haskell’s bank account is another matter entirely. He also came to Delores with a small fortune. And it would appear that he has invested his fortune wisely. He banks his dividends regularly. He told the people at the bank that he received the money as an inheritance.” Arletta cocked her head in a knowing look. “I wonder if the young man was telling the truth.”

  “Where do you think he got the money?” I asked.

  But Arletta’s frail body had gone rigid. So had Edna’s sturdy one. I followed their gaze to the dirt path. Wayne stood there, peering quizzically around the orange tree that stood in front of our bench. I rose to greet him.

  In the time it took me to walk the few steps to Wayne, the twins disappeared. I turned to introduce them, but they were gone, invisible.

  “Who were those women?” Wayne asked.

  “The twins—” I began, but stopped short as I heard new voices coming down the dirt path. A quick glance confirmed that the voices belonged to Ruth and Eli. The twins’ spy routine had rubbed off on me. I put my finger to my lips and pulled Wayne behind the tree onto the bench.

  “Let’s listen,” I whispered.

  “And then?” we heard Eli ask.

  “And then I decided I had wallowed in self-pity long enough,” Ruth replied. “I turned my back on the past and began to write.”

  “Ah,” said Eli. “The Things We Do For Love. I read this book, you know. I thought you must have been the Ruth Ziegler who wrote it, although there was no picture of your lovely face on its cover.”

  Ruth giggled. “You’re incorrigible, Eli Rosen,” she admonished, then went on in a low voice. I couldn’t hear the rest of her words as she and Eli moved away from us down the path.

  “They certainly sound like they’re meeting each other after a long separation,” I said to Wayne as I rose from the bench.

  “You wondered?” he asked as he stood up himself.

  I turned to him. “They might have been conspirators—” I began.

  “His motive, her opportunity,” he finished with a frown.

  “You thought of it too!” I said in excitement. “Well?”

  Wayne’s brows were so low I couldn’t see his eyes as he thought it over. “Probably the first stages of romance and nothing more,” he said finally. But his face was still troubled.

  “Speaking of romance,” I said, putting my arm around him. “How’d you like to come up to my room for a while?”

  Slowly the trouble lifted from his face, pulling up his brows on the way. He bent and kissed me. Then he drew back with a smile.

  “At least you’ve got some of your priorities straight,” he whispered.

  We walked down the dirt path holding hands, temporarily oblivious to the spa’s unhealthy aura. But, as the path twisted, we saw Don Logan sitting alone in his wheelchair. Instinctively Wayne and I dropped each other’s hands and moved apart. It didn’t matter. Logan didn’t see us. He stared out into space, his face bitter as he watched something no one else could see. I reached out again for Wayne’s hand, feeling suddenly cold. I wondered then if the insanity of Spa Santé was infectious.

  When we got to my room Wayne lay down on the salmon bedspread and opened his arms. I threw myself full length on top of him and kissed him until I was breathless, inoculating myself against the insanity of the spa.

  The knock on the door jolted us both.

  NINETEEN

  WE HEARD ANOTHER knock on the door, then Craig’s voice shouting, “Kate, are you there?”

  Craig. I should have guessed. I didn’t need to see the look of martyrdom on Wayne’s face to know how he felt about the intrusion. I felt the same way myself.

  I rolled over on the bed and shouted back. “What do you want!”

  Then I heard Felix’s voice. “I told you they were in there,” he said.

  Wayne got up slowly, his face and body taking on the intimidating characteristics that had earned him an early career as a bodyguard. Brows pulled low, obliterating his eyes. Head thrust forward. Muscular shoulders hunched around his thick neck. After all our time together the look still scared me. He strode to the door and opened it.

  “What?” he asked in a low voice full of menace.

  Craig shrank back from Wayne’s look but maintained his footing. Felix, on the other hand, simply ignored Wayne and slipped past him into the room, leaving Craig and Wayne locked in a scowl-to-scowl battle.

  “We looked under every orange tree in the friggin’ spa,” Felix complained. “Where have you two been?”

  “Out,” I snapped, walking cautiously toward Wayne and Craig.

  “Dinner buffet’s on,” Felix continued from behind me.

  Slowly I inserted myself between Wayne and Craig. They ignored me. I waved my hand between their scowling faces. They stared through it. I pulled my hand back, surprised it wasn’t lasered through from the energy the two were putting out. Suddenly I was tired of the posturing.

  “Wayne!” I shouted. “Cut it out!”

  He blinked, then looked down at me, his features resuming their natural state, homely and only mildly threatening.

  “Sorry,” he said softly. I squeezed his hand quickly. It wasn’t his fault he was here.

  I turned toward Craig. He looked away, avoiding my eyes. I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t know what to say to him.

  “Do you guys want dinner or not?” Felix demanded.

  “The buffet sounds good,” I said slowly. My stomach was gurgling for food, unimpressed by the undressed salad and potato I had eaten earlier. Tension makes me hungry. I looked up at Wayne hopefully. “How about you?”

  “Fine,” he answered, his curt tone contradicting his reply. No doubt he was full after his steak sandwich. And still angry with Craig to avoid being angry with me. Damn. I wanted out of this angry psychedelic room!

  “Let’s go,” I said, grabbing Wayne’s hand and tugging.

  The expedition to the dining hall would have been a silent one if it hadn’t been for Felix. Wayne and Craig walked on the far edges of the dirt path, carefully avoiding either touching or looking at each other, much less speaking. Felix d
idn’t seem to mind the atmosphere. As we walked past a roped-off stucco building that had fallen in on itself, he enthused over the journalistic potential of the spa.

  “My editor is happier than a pig in poop,” he crowed. “Here I am, Johnny-on-the-spot, for not only one murder but two. A possible series. This might be as big as the Hillside Strangler!”

  “Wonderful,” I drawled.

  “But it is,” he insisted eagerly. “There might be more murders. And if we figure out who did it first—”

  “We’ve got to get organized!” I cut in loudly, stopping short in the middle of the dirt path. The three men stopped walking too.

  Their faces turned to me. “Organized?” asked Felix.

  “We’re going about this all wrong,” I said slowly. “No plan. No organization. I’ve talked with all the suspects, but with no specific list of questions in mind. Craig’s chatted with everyone. Even Wayne’s been trying.” I gave Wayne a smile, remembering he was only down here to help me.

  “And Felix,” I said, turning to him. “If I know you, you’ve interviewed half the female members of the Lakeside County Sheriff’s Department by now.”

  Felix blushed. I reconsidered my last statement. He had probably interviewed more than half of them.

  “But we haven’t pooled our information,” I continued, serious now. “We haven’t organized our research. We haven’t even figured out what we want to learn.”

  “It’s simple,” offered Craig. “We want to know who the murderer is.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “But what are the questions we should be asking to figure that out? And who should be asking them of whom? Let’s do this efficiently.”

  Wayne was nodding slowly. “Probably help to brainstorm,” he contributed.

  “That’s the idea!” I said, pumping enthusiasm into my voice. I felt like a cheerleader. I hated cheerleaders. But I was fairly certain this approach was what it would take if the four of us were going to solve the murders.

  “I’ll go for it,” said Felix, catching my enthusiasm.

  “Will you promise to keep the confidential stuff out of your stories in the meantime?” I asked quickly.

  His enthusiasm drained visibly. He turned his head away from me and said, “I guess so.”

  “Not good enough, Felix,” I pressed. “We can’t do this right if we’re worried about censoring ourselves in front of you. Either you’re in or you’re out.”

  He stroked his chin for a few moments, then laughed. “You’re a mean-ass negotiator,” he commented. I glared at him. He put up a hand. “Okay, okay! Don’t get uptight. You win. I’m in.”

  “And…” I prompted.

  “And I’ll keep the confidential stuff under my hat,” he recited. “But I still don’t know who elected you God,” he grumbled as I turned from him.

  I ignored the grumbling and asked Wayne and Craig, “How about you two?”

  They looked at each other cautiously. I could see their gears turning. What would be lost by cooperation? What would be gained?

  “I’m in,” Wayne agreed quietly after a moment. I reached over and hugged him.

  Craig immediately added his own assent. He got a brief nod in reward. After all, this was his problem in the first place.

  “When do we meet?” asked Felix, rubbing his hands together with anticipation.

  “Tonight, after dinner,” I whispered conspiratorially. We resumed our walk up the dirt path.

  As we climbed the stairs to the main building I was feeling good. We had a plan. And a truce. I sneaked a quick glance at Wayne and Craig, who were still avoiding each other’s eyes, and hoped the truce would last.

  Bradley was behind the dining hall counter. The blackboard behind him read “Welcome Slim ‘n’ Fitters!”

  “One lady and three gentlemen for the buffet?” he asked with a meaningless giggle.

  “Nothing for me,” said Wayne. “Pay for Kate, though.” He pulled his wallet from his pocket.

  “No,” said Craig, pushing in front of us. “I’ll pay.”

  Wayne’s eyebrows came down. I cut in before he could work himself up again. “What’s for dinner?” I asked Bradley.

  “Funeral baked meats,” Bradley replied, his luminous eyes staring through me. “But the meats are vegetarian,” he mused. Then he let loose a shriek of laughter. I jumped back, landing on Wayne’s foot. Wayne didn’t seem to notice.

  Paul hurried up behind his father. “Dad, stop that!” he whispered urgently.

  Bradley turned to Paul and motioned him behind the counter with an elaborate bow. Paul looked uncomfortable, but shuffled behind the counter dutifully.

  “The king is dead,” announced Bradley, arms outstretched as if for the crucifix. “Long live the king.” Then he walked purposefully across the hall to stare out a window.

  The room was full of people and most of them were watching Bradley. Officer Guerrero squinted at him cautiously from her chair in the back. Ruth, Eli and Terry stared openly from the communal table. Don Logan shot Bradley a quick look of disgust from his table for one. And most of the other diners whose faces I didn’t recognize gazed surreptitiously at him over their meals. At least the hall was full. I hope Fran was making money tonight.

  “Four buffets?” asked Paul softly.

  “Three,” I said, turning back to him. His face looked so vulnerable. How could I have found this child threatening?

  “And put it on my bill,” said Craig.

  Wayne stiffened behind me. I turned quickly and tugged his ear down to my level. “You’re the one I love,” I whispered into that ear. I felt his body soften again. He kissed me on the forehead, then turned and walked off to take a seat at the communal table. The rest of us headed for the buffet.

  Felix smiled a private smile as we walked over. Was he tickled by the newspaper copy potential of Bradley’s performance or just now realizing that he had snagged another free meal?

  The buffet was heaped higher than usual. And the food was all Slim ‘n’ Fitted. There were little signs stuck on toothpicks in each dish. The raw vegetables had bright yellow signs announcing cheerfully: “A = unlimited.” The soups were labeled in pink: “B = 1 cup.” A platter of broiled tofu and vegetable shish kebabs had a lavender sign warning: “F = 1 skewer.” “F” sounded tasty. I took three skewers. Then I heaped my plate with other goodies, mixing up coded food randomly in an uninhibited alphabet stew.

  Avery Haskell came out of the kitchen with refills, dressed in white from his sneakers to his tall chef’s hat. Once he had freshened the fruit salad, he stood by the buffet in military stance. His zombie glare looked like it ought to scare off any Slim ‘n’ Fitters who were tempted to take more than their coded share. It was enough for me as well. I took my plate and walked to the communal table.

  I could hear Eli and Terry arguing as I approached.

  “I agree that the law is not perfect,” said Eli, “but I would ask you if there is any better way.”

  I sat down next to Wayne. Across from me, Ruth smiled good-naturedly as she listened to the debaters.

  “Of course there’s a better way,” said Terry.

  Felix and Craig joined us with heaped plates. “If the American people weren’t blinded by the deliberate mystification of the legal system,” Terry continued, “there would be a mass uprising for change….”

  I pulled a piece of tofu from its skewer and popped it into my mouth. Terry’s words floated unheard over my head as I chewed. Tasty. A cherry tomato and pepper slice later, Fran came over to the table with a stainless steel water pitcher. Gone were the tears of the afternoon. Her delicate, moon-shaped face was gleaming with happiness.

  “Water?” she asked, smiling broadly.

  The ice cubes clinked as she filled our glasses.

  She whispered confidentially. “This has been the best turn-out yet for the Slim ‘n’ Fit weekend.”

  “Is that what all those little signs are about?” asked Terry, pointing at the buffet. He looked ready to argue t
he political implications of dieting.

  Fran nodded eagerly. “You see, the yellow signs are—”

  “Is business looking up?” I interrupted. I didn’t want to hear the explanation for the signs. I had a feeling it would spoil my appetite.

  Fran seemed happy to be derailed. “Business is great!” she bubbled. “Not only the Slim ‘n’ Fitters, but a table of six all the way from San Diego just for the dinner.” As she pointed out their table, one of the San Diego diners waved at her. Fran waved back. “And a couple from Lakeside, and one from Palm Beach. People are beginning to hear about us.”

  I hoped that people were hearing about the food at Spa Santé, not the murders. The eager faces of the diners from San Diego looked suspiciously interested in the others in the room, especially in those of us at the communal table.

  Ruth Ziegler reached out and patted Fran’s hand. “I’m very happy for you, dear,” she said, smiling benevolently.

  Fran returned the smile and thanked her before turning to go to the next table.

  “Fran,” Ruth called out after her. Fran turned to face us again. “Before you go, I wanted to talk to you about Paul.”

  “Paul?” asked Fran, her smile losing some of its warmth.

  “Yes. Paul,” Ruth continued. “The recent events must have put a terrible stress on him. I’d like to spend some time with him this weekend, if he’d like. Help him put it all into perspective.”

  Fran’s face had lost interest under her smile. “He’ll do fine,” she replied shortly. “Don’t worry about him.”

  “No charge,” Ruth assured her. “Just an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on. We all need that, especially when we’re young.”

  “I’m sure he’d love to talk to you,” Fran agreed. Then she bent to whisper again. “But I’ll need all the help I can get this weekend. Beds to make. Food to prepare—”

  Ruth’s expression was no longer benevolent. She looked like an angry witch as she interrupted Fran. “Can’t your husband help you instead?” she asked, her brows pinched together above suddenly hard black-button eyes.

  Fran stepped back, clearly stung by Ruth’s question. “My husband helps as much as he can,” she replied, her voice high and defensive. Then she bent over to whisper once more. “You see,” she explained confidentially, “Bradley is a writer. He needs time to write. And time to be away from people.”