The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery)

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  Felix slumped back into his chair, his face scrunched up like a spoiled child denied an ice-cream cone.

  “Wayne is right,” I said. “Lots of possibilities, but no sure fits.”

  We sat in glum silence for a while.

  “So what are we going to do now?” Felix asked peevishly.

  “Organization time,” I answered. When in doubt, make a list. “Who’s got some paper?” I asked.

  Craig went to the desk and pulled out a yellow legal pad. As he walked back to his chair his eyes filled with tears. “Suzanne’s,” he whispered. “She never went anywhere without paper.”

  “Do you want to be secretary, honey?” I asked him softly. The endearment just slipped out, made of pity and old habits. I swiveled my head around to Wayne quickly. Too late. The damage had been done. His eyes were filled with antipathy as he glared at Craig.

  But Craig was oblivious to Wayne’s glare as he sat down and prepared to take notes. He pulled a pen from his pocket and touched it to the top page in readiness.

  “All right,” I said. “We do categories. Motive, means—”

  “Wait!” shouted Felix, jumping out of his chair. He snatched the yellow pad from Craig’s hand. Craig jerked back in surprise.

  “Suzanne might have written something important on this pad,” Felix explained as he scanned the top page. But his eyes were puzzled when he looked up.

  “What?” I asked impatiently. When Felix didn’t answer, I got up and took the pad from his hands.

  I looked down. Printed across the top of the page in block letters was: SUCCESS IS MINE. I turned the page. The sentence was repeated on the next page and on all of the pages left in the pad. I held up the pad to Craig.

  “Is this Suzanne’s writing?” I asked gently.

  He nodded sadly. “That was her affirmation,” he said, taking back the pad. “She said it thirty times every morning and every night. She wrote it on the top of every notepad, on every sheet in the calendar. She…” Craig’s eyes brimmed over. “She tried so damn hard,” he sobbed.

  I sat down and glued myself to the edge of the bed. It took all my willpower to keep from putting my arms around Craig as he sniffed back tears miserably. Suzanne had tried hard. I could almost see her in the room now, tall and proud, her long shining blond hair rippling as she moved against the white backdrop. Suzanne’s determination to succeed had been palpable when she was alive. I could feel it even now that she was dead, emanating from her written affirmation on the yellow legal pad. No wonder Craig had been drawn to her. And for all of her drive to succeed, she had been cruelly murdered.

  Beside me, I felt Wayne fighting his empathy for Craig. First he averted his eyes from Craig’s tears. But he could still hear the sobs. He crossed his arms and shifted uneasily on the edge of the bed as Craig brought himself under control again. Finally he cleared his throat.

  “Want me to take the notes?” Wayne asked Craig gently.

  “No!” snapped Craig, holding the yellow pad to his chest as if it were a baby about to be stolen. “I’m fine.” He settled the pad in his lap and began writing. “Motive, means. What else?” he asked. His voice was rough with the residue of tears.

  “Opportunity. Character,” I answered briskly, willing to pretend we hadn’t experienced the brief intermission. “And a column for more information needed.”

  “Let’s start with motive,” suggested Felix eagerly. He seemed cheerful again. What had he made of Craig’s breakdown?

  “All right. Motives first,” I agreed. “Any ideas?”

  It took us over three hours to compile a list of possible motives. Among others, we catalogued lust (Paul Beaumont), lunacy (his father), and lucre (his mother). We even listed love (Ruth Ziegler, a.k.a. the Good Fairy of Death), jealously (Nikki), and political assassination (Terry McPhail). Then there was the possibility of resisted blackmail (almost anyone), silencing a witness (God knows who) or revenge (your guess is as good as mine). Or just plain irritation! Irritation was on all of our minds. After three hours each one of us was getting cranky.

  “Opportunity” went faster. In ten minutes we had agreed that everyone had opportunity. Even Eli, if you considered the hired-gun theory.

  Then we got down to means. Between them, the victims had been strangled, smothered, dragged and bludgeoned.

  “It had to be someone strong,” said Craig softly. I looked into his unfocused eyes and wondered if he was seeing Suzanne’s body again.

  “That lets out Ruth,” said Felix, disappointment evident in the slump of his shoulders. Ruth was still his favorite choice for murderer.

  “Not necessarily,” I argued. “Just because she’s old and female doesn’t mean she’s weak.” I was in favor of an equal opportunity approach to this murder.

  My approach seemed to cheer Felix up. He straightened his shoulders and went on. “How about Don Logan?” he asked. “At least we can rule him out. He couldn’t have done it from his wheelchair.”

  “Upper arms are strong, though,” Wayne pointed out.

  I agreed with Wayne. “Fran said Don works out every day in the gym,” I said. I wasn’t standing for discrimination against the disabled either. “He may be stronger than anyone else for all we know.”

  Craig had written down every motive we’d discussed on Suzanne’s yellow pad, along with pro and con arguments. The room was silent as he flipped another page to note our most recent comments on opportunity and means.

  “Last page,” he said without looking up. His voice was tired.

  “How about a conclusion?” suggested Felix.

  “Well,” said Craig, flipping through the pages. “Adding up all of the data, it seems like…” He looked up at me, his face as aged and hopeless as those seen in an old folks’ home.

  “What?” I asked.

  “It looks like anyone could have done it,” he finished glumly.

  “But we still haven’t talked about character,” I insisted. “Or figured out what other information we need.”

  “We need to know who killed Suzanne,” Craig replied. He lowered his eyes. “And I don’t think we’re going to find out.”

  “But—” I began.

  “Let’s call it a night,” said Wayne softly. He rose up off the bed and stretched out a hand to me. “Discuss the rest tomorrow.”

  Unwillingly, I let him pull me up to my feet.

  “Check you out mañana, guys,” said Felix, jumping out of his chair and jogging out the door with suspicious energy. “Adios,” he added as he clattered down the stairs.

  Wayne put his arm around my shoulder. I turned toward the door, feeling as old as Craig looked.

  “Wait!” yelled Craig.

  “For what?” asked Wayne, continuing to steer me to the door.

  “I…I need to talk to Kate,” said Craig. I felt Wayne’s arm stiffen around my shoulders.

  I turned back in Craig’s direction. He rose from his chair and approached me hesitantly.

  “Kate, I want you to know I’ve been thinking some more,” he said. He lowered his puppy-dog eyes. Then raised them again quickly to see my reaction.

  “We’ve all been thinking, Craig,” I answered gently, hoping to deflect what I was afraid was coming. I could feel Wayne as he turned to face Craig. I didn’t have to look to see the angry expression on his face.

  But Craig was undeterred. He reached out for my hand and held it. “I’ve changed a lot in these last few days. And I want…I want to give our marriage another chance. I’m serious this time,” he said. “Don’t answer me now. Just think about it. I…” He glanced nervously at Wayne, then went on anyway. “I love you, Kate.”

  I pulled my hand back. “Don’t—” I began.

  “You,” said Wayne slowly, his deep voice shaking with tension. He stepped forward and leaned his fierce face into Craig’s. “You have ruined the whole idea of marriage for Kate. Isn’t that enough?” The last words were so low they were barely audible.

  But Craig heard them. He stepped back a
s if he had been struck. His face was paper-white.

  “Craig, I—” I began.

  “Go,” he said shrilly. “It’s okay. Just go.”

  So I went. And Wayne came after me. I stomped angrily out of the Orange Blossom building into the dark. Why were Craig and Wayne arguing? It was my decision whom to love. Whom to marry. I could hear Wayne following me silently down the dirt path. I knew if I turned to him he would tell me he was sorry. And I would probably forgive him. But I wasn’t ready yet. I needed to walk off my anger. After fifteen minutes of random stomping I realized I was lost. I could just see the brick structure I was approaching in the moonlight. It was the mud bath where Craig had found Suzanne.

  I heard a low groan and stopped short, my muscles tensing. Had I conjured up Suzanne’s ghost? I turned to Wayne, suddenly glad he was there. But he was already running past me. It was then that I realized it wasn’t a ghost I had heard. I sprinted after Wayne, circling the brick wall. The yellow tape that had blocked off the opening of the mud bath lay on the ground, cut into pieces.

  I peered past Wayne, down into the mud bath and saw a body sprawled on its side. Oh God, I thought. Please, not another dead body. Then the body moved.

  TWENTY-ONE

  WITH ANOTHER GROAN, the body heaved itself on its back. Then it lay still, settling only a few inches into the surface of the mud. The mud didn’t look very deep, contained by a sunken enclosure not much bigger than an ordinary bathroom tub. A flat tiled edge ran around the rim of the bath, butting up against the surrounding brick wall.

  Thank God for peat moss, I thought, remembering Fran’s boast about the superior density of the spa’s mud baths. Whoever’s body it was, it was alive, sprawled out on the top of the mud, like a drunk on an overly soft sofa. The body looked almost comfortable, except for its legs, which were twisted up at an unnatural angle onto the tiled edge. A faintly sulfurous odor emanated from the mud. I shivered, sweating in the cool night air.

  “Don’t know if we should try to move him,” Wayne’s low voice whispered in my ear. I looked at his anxious face and shook my head helplessly. Didn’t safety courses tell you not to move an accident victim? Frantically, I tried to remember my first-aid rules as Wayne stepped down onto the tiled stairs that led into the mud.

  When Wayne’s foot hit the mud-smeared stair it made a slurping sound that sent me into another panic. In my adrenaline-fried brain the mud sounded like quicksand. I moved quickly through the opening into the bath, ready to haul him out if the mud sucked him in.

  Wayne took another slurping step down. I reminded myself it was only mud. But I stepped onto the edge of the bath, at the top of the stairs, just in case. From that vantage point I looked down and recognized the body sprawled on its back. It was Eli Rosen, now a ghostly moonlit collage of mud-smeared flesh, hair and cloth. His glasses were gone. And his eyes were closed. Was he even breathing?

  “Eli!” I called out loudly, suddenly afraid that he was dead after all. Or dying.

  He groaned again, the sound echoing eerily in the brick enclosed bath. But his eyes remained closed.

  Wayne squatted down and touched Eli’s twisted leg carefully. He shook his head hopelessly.

  “Eli!” I called again, even louder this time.

  Eli’s mud-smeared eyelids pulled up slowly. His eyes were unfocused beneath them.

  “Wo bin ich?” he murmured softly.

  “What?” I answered. Was he speaking English?

  “Ach du Scheisse,” he rasped. Definitely not English. But he was talking. He was alive.

  Wayne climbed back out of the bath carefully. Then he walked around the edge of the bath like a tightrope walker. When he reached the spot on the edge closest to Eli’s head, he squatted down again and put his hand on Eli’s chest.

  “Breathing’s okay,” he whispered. “Can’t see any bleeding either.”

  Eli’s eyes focused on Wayne’s face above him for a moment. “Something around my neck,” he rasped. Then a tremor shook his body. He raised a muddy hand to his neck, then dropped it again. His eyes fluttered closed.

  “Don’t see anything,” said Wayne, moving his hand gently up Eli’s neck. Then he peered closely. “But there’s a mark,” he said in a low voice.

  Wayne pulled his head up to stare at me, his face tight with anger. Angry at whoever had done that to Eli?

  Eli’s eyelids popped open suddenly, revealing the terror in his eyes.

  “My face was in the mud,” he whispered urgently. “I was smothering in the mud!” Then his voice calmed. He asked wonderingly, “Did I turn myself over?”

  “Must have,” said Wayne brusquely. Then more gently, “You’re okay now. We’re with you.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Eli, closing his eyes once more. “Thank you.”

  A few moments passed. Eli looked far too still as he lay there. And why didn’t he straighten out his legs?

  “Shall I try to help you out of the mud?” Wayne suggested.

  “Am I still in the mud?” Eli answered dreamily, his words barely audible. He didn’t bother to open his eyes. Damn. He may have been breathing and talking, but it was obvious that his faculties were seriously impaired.

  “You are in the mud,” answered Wayne, his deep voice taking on a soothing tone. “But you’re on your back. You’re fine now. Just fine.”

  “Who did this to you, Eli?” I asked softly. Eli didn’t answer. And as I asked that question, a related one blossomed in my mind. Where was the person who did this to him? I looked over my shoulder anxiously, seeing no one through the opening in the brick wall. But I wasn’t reassured. However long it felt, I knew we had been with Eli only a few minutes at most. Was the would-be murderer waiting nearby? All I could hear was my own heart pounding as I strained for the sound of someone in the dark. I felt a trickle of fresh sweat drip down my face.

  “My glasses,” rasped Eli, breaking the silence. “Where are my glasses?”

  Wayne felt around in the mud, but pulled his hands out empty.

  “It’s all right,” I told Eli. “We’ll get you another pair of glasses.” He murmured an inaudible reply.

  “Do you remember who did this to you?” I asked once more, raising my voice as much to give myself courage as to get Eli’s attention.

  His eyes fluttered open briefly. “Someone did this to me?” he asked.

  I restrained myself from cursing aloud. So much for a quick identification.

  It was time to get help. And I doubted anyone would hear our shouts this far away from the main building. Except, perhaps, the murderer. I would have to go on foot.

  “I’d better get an ambulance,” I said to Wayne. I looked out the brick opening toward the dark path I would have to take, and shivered. “And the police,” I finished.

  I turned to go quickly. I had wasted enough time.

  “Wait!” Wayne called to me. He lowered his volume to a whisper. “Could still be out here.” However incomplete his sentence was, I knew he meant the murderer.

  “One of us has to stay with Eli,” I said, an unwelcome quiver in my voice belying the decisive tone of my words. “The other has to get help.”

  I turned to see Wayne’s strained face in the moonlight. I knew he wanted to choose the more dangerous task for himself. But which was more dangerous? Going as a messenger? Or staying as a guard? The murderer might be waiting on the dirt path to kill the messenger. With the messenger dead, the murderer would be free to pick off Eli and his guard leisurely. My hands began to tremble. But maybe the murderer was only interested in Eli, just waiting until the messenger left, to attack Eli and his only remaining guard. The trembling spread to my legs. Once Wayne and I split up, neither of us was going to be as safe as we were together. But we couldn’t leave Eli alone.

  “I’ll run to the dining hall,” I announced, cutting short the menacing babble in my mind. If my body trembled any harder, I wouldn’t be able to move at all. “It’s not far,” I added. “Probably less than a half a mile.”

&n
bsp; Wayne stood up on the edge of the bath. He reached out a hand to me, then realized that it was too far away to touch and drew it back. He glanced down at Eli, lying peacefully in the mud.

  “I’ll yell my head off if I so much as see anyone,” I promised. Wayne nodded. “And you do the same,” I ordered. He nodded again.

  I turned once more to go. “Kate,” Wayne whispered. I looked over my shoulder.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Can’t lose you,” he answered gruffly. “Take care of yourself. Please.”

  “I will,” I said and left.

  Jogging down the dirt path in the moonlight, I tried to take care of myself. I strained my ears to hear any sound that was out of place. But all I could hear was my own labored breathing and my feet slapping the dirt. I scanned the path ahead for movement, seeing only unrelieved darkness. But I felt something. A presence. Was someone watching me? Or was the presence my own fear, taking palpable form? I ran faster. And thought of Suzanne. Had she been running when the murderer had caught her?

  I was almost to the dining hall when I saw the figure on the porch. I couldn’t see who it was, only the tall shadow silhouetted by the porch light. Sweat bathed my entire body. I stopped short and took a deep breath. It was time to yell.

  “Help!” I screamed. “Get the police! Get an ambulance!”

  The figure raced down the stairs toward me. Oh God. Should I turn and run?

  “Help!” I screamed even louder.

  Finally I saw who was coming toward me. It was Officer Guerrero. And she had her hand on her gun. My body convulsed with relief. Then my legs gave out. I flopped painfully down onto the dirt path, jolting my tail bone. Impatiently, I forced myself to stand again.

  “What’s happened?” Guerrero demanded. I saw my own fear reflected in her wide eyes. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Eli Rosen, in the mud bath!” I raced the words out. “He’s hurt.”

  “Dead?” she asked tightly.

  “No, he’s alive,” I answered. Suddenly I was very grateful. Eli was alive. The murderer had made a mistake. “But he needs an ambulance.”