Guerrero motioned me to go on.
“We’ve got to hurry,” I insisted. I wasn’t taking any more time to be grateful. What if the murderer was there at the mud bath now? “Eli’s alone out there. Him and Wayne.”
“Hold on,” said Guerrero, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Is Wayne your boyfriend?” I nodded impatiently. “And he’s hurt too?”
“No,” I answered. “Only Eli is hurt. Wayne’s guarding him.” Guerrero nodded slowly. Why wouldn’t the woman hurry up? “But the murderer could find them any minute. We’ve got to protect them!”
“Did you see the assailant?” Guerrero asked.
I shook my head frantically.
“Okay. Tell me Mr. Rosen’s injuries, and I’ll call it in,” she said. “Then we’ll go.”
“I don’t know what his injuries are,” I yelped. I told myself to calm down. “He was strangled, I think. And put in the mud bath to smother. His legs are twisted—”
“Is he conscious?” asked Guerrero.
“He was,” I answered. “But barely.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll call it in.” She turned to the stairs, then turned back. “Wait here for me,” she ordered.
“But—”
“I don’t know the way,” she explained. “Wait. I’ll be right back.” Then she turned back to the stairs, ran up them and through the front doors. At least she was hurrying now.
So I waited, hoping this wait wasn’t something I would regret for my entire life. I doubted I could hear Wayne yell for help this far away. And even if he yelled and I heard him, could I get there in time? And what would I do anyway? I needed Guerrero with me. Her and her gun.
I heard steps behind me. I swiveled my body in the direction of the sound quickly. I saw Fran. She was scurrying toward me, dressed in a chenille bathrobe. She fiddled with the sash around her waist.
I stepped back, watching her hands on the sash. Was chenille strong enough to strangle a person? This person? I wouldn’t bet my life it wasn’t. I resisted the urge to turn and look over my shoulder for Officer Guerrero. I kept my eyes on Fran and her hands.
“Oh, Kate,” she greeted me breathlessly. Her face didn’t look murderous, only softly concerned. “Has something happened? I heard you screaming. There hasn’t been another…?” Her words trailed off. She looked down at the ground. Was she still unable to pronounce the word “murder”?
“No, there hasn’t,” I snapped.
I heard more footsteps. I glimpsed a brief look of fear on Fran’s face as she turned toward the sound. But the approaching footsteps belonged to her husband and her son. Bradley Beaumont was in his bare feet and striped pajamas. His son Paul, however, was fully dressed in jeans, T-shirt and Adidas running shoes. I asked myself why he was dressed at this hour. Then again, I was fully dressed too.
“We heard a yell,” said Bradley, his voice unusually resonant in the darkness.
I breathed deeply, trying to center myself. The three Beaumonts stared at me as if I were an abstract painting they were trying to comprehend. Their faces seemed preternaturally pale in the moonlight, their eyes dark pits. The word “vampire” flitted through my mind. I wished it hadn’t. I took three more steps backward, reminding myself that the marks on the victims’ necks didn’t look anything like vampire marks. As far as I knew. I took another step backward. The Beaumonts continued to stare.
Then I heard Officer Guerrero’s footsteps clattering down the stairs behind me. “Ambulance and backup will be here in a few minutes,” she announced briskly.
“Ambulance?” asked Fran, her voice small and frightened.
Guerrero ignored her question. “Who knows the way to the mud bath?” she demanded.
“The outdoor one?” Bradley asked, stepping forward.
Guerrero turned to me for clarification. I nodded.
“We all know the way,” Bradley answered.
“Good,” said Guerrero. Then she snapped out orders to the Beaumonts. “You three stay here. One of you bring the paramedics when they arrive. Whoever’s left can bring Chief Orlandi and any other officers. Got that?”
The Beaumonts nodded as a unit.
Guerrero turned to me. “Go!” she ordered.
I sprinted up the dirt path to the mud bath. How long had I been away? Five minutes? Fifteen? My time sense had been swallowed by the events. I listened to the comforting sound of Guerrero running behind me and concentrated on speed. I hadn’t run in years. My lungs were burning with the effort. But I kept the pace up. Only when we were almost there did I allow myself to think of Wayne. Please let him be all right, I chanted in my mind, praying to a god my agnostic soul had never been introduced to.
Once the mud bath came into dim view I shouted out, “Wayne!”
“Here!” he yelled back.
Wayne was alive. My feet slowed down, fear no longer propelling them forward. I sucked in air. Guerrero sped past me. I watched her disappear into the opening in the brick wall as I jogged the last few yards. Then I was through the opening myself, panting and weak.
Guerrero was squatting down next to Wayne, talking to Eli. Only Eli wasn’t answering. He lay as I had left him, sprawled out on the mud, eyes closed. Guerrero grabbed his arm and felt for his pulse. Then she turned to Wayne.
“You can leave now,” she said softly. “We’ll take care of it from here on in.”
Wayne stood up slowly, and gazed at me across the mud bath.
“But don’t go too far,” Guerrero warned. “The Chief will want to talk to you two.”
Wayne grunted his assent, but kept his eyes on me. His homely face was smeared with mud. So were his hands and arms, his shoes and his knees. They all bore the muddy imprint of his care for Eli. But Wayne was alive. He looked beautiful to me. Unexpected tears welled up in my eyes. I wiped them away impatiently and smiled. Wayne reached his arms toward me briefly. Then he tightrope-walked quickly around the edge of the tub so that he could actually touch me.
“Okay?” he asked gruffly when he reached me. He put his hands on my shoulders.
“Perfect,” I replied.
He looked down at his hands, still gripping my shoulders. “Filthy,” he said, as if noticing for the first time, and pulled them back.
His eyes were serious under his low brows as he whispered, “Sorry.”
A laugh burbled up and escaped my lips. We were alive and he was sorry for the mud. I pulled him to me and pressed myself against his mud-smeared body. I felt his arms come around me hesitantly. Then the strength entered them and he squeezed. Mid-squeeze, we heard the sirens.
We jumped apart guiltily, caught embracing while Eli might still need us. I swiveled my head in Eli’s direction. He still lay unmoving on the mud, his eyes closed. Officer Guerrero was gently massaging one of his hands, her face anxious.
“Is he—?” I began.
“Don’t think about it,” Wayne whispered. “He’ll be fine.”
He put his arms around me again. We held each other until the sound of approaching footsteps burst into the silence.
A blur of figures came rushing down the dirt path in the moonlight. Bradley was in the lead, still clad in his striped pajamas. Two uniformed men were close behind him. One of them carried a folded stretcher. He dropped the stretcher and unfolded it at the entrance to the mud bath, then entered on the heels of the other man. Officer Dempster was next, running up the path with his gun pointed upwards. Orlandi jogged up last, his belly heaving as he gasped for air.
The uniformed men emerged from the mud bath within moments, carrying Eli Rosen. They laid him carefully on the stretcher, then lifted it to transport him back down the dirt path. I looked at Eli’s still form and fought back tears.
“Hold it!” ordered Orlandi, wiping his face with a white handkerchief. The men stopped. “Is he alive?”
The man in the lead nodded his head impatiently.
“Is he conscious?” Orlandi demanded.
“No,” the man replied curtly. My stomach tightened. Was
Eli going to die, after all?
“Take him away, then,” snapped Orlandi, shaking his head. Then he spotted Bradley Beaumont. “You!” he barked impatiently. “Get out of here! Go back to the dining hall and stay there.”
Bradley did as he was told. Without a word, he turned and followed the men who carried Eli’s unconscious body.
Officer Guerrero emerged from the mud bath as Bradley and the stretcher-bearers disappeared from view. Orlandi marched toward her angrily. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.
“Ms. Jasper and Mr. Caruso,” she began patiently, pointing to us, “discovered Mr. Rosen—”
“Not that Jasper woman again!” Orlandi bellowed.
TWENTY-TWO
ORLANDI TURNED SLOWLY to face us. His eyes surveyed my figure, then Wayne’s. Gradually his lips drew back, exposing his teeth in the old crocodile grin.
“Been doing a little mud wrestling?” he inquired unpleasantly.
One glance down my body told me what he meant. Half of the mud that had covered Wayne had somehow transferred itself to me. My legs and arms were liberally smeared. I reached my hand up to my face and felt something wet there too. Then I dropped my hand, realizing I was probably adding more mud to my face by touching it. I could just see Wayne out of the corner of my eye. His face was flushed under its muddy mask.
Officer Dempster trotted over to join the action. His gun was still in his hand, though now pointed at the ground. His eyes were slits of suspicion.
Orlandi’s grin disappeared as he registered the officer’s presence.
“Dempster!” Orlandi shouted, never taking his eyes from Wayne or me. “Stop playing with your gun! And stay with Rosen. Follow those paramedics.”
Dempster’s eyes widened in confusion.
“Someone has to be there if Rosen regains consciousness,” Orlandi explained slowly, with a show of infinite patience. I shivered at his use of “if.” What if Eli didn’t regain consciousness? Orlandi went on: “Write down anything Rosen says. It might be important. Once he’s up to answering questions, ask him what happened.”
Dempster saluted as he spun around to chase the paramedics. He sprinted down the dirt path.
“And call me, whatever happens!” Orlandi shouted after him.
Then Orlandi grinned at us again. I prepared myself for further intimidation.
“So, you two found another body,” he began conversationally.
I nodded.
“Wonderful,” he said, injecting a full syringe of sarcasm into the word. “And I suppose you two walked all over the crime scene.”
I nodded again and found an unexpected smile tugging at my lips. Somehow Orlandi’s sarcasm had served to cheer me this time around. His sharp tone felt very homey, as comforting as a roaring fire on a cold day. We were standing in the dark, covered in muck, but I was no longer afraid. Even Eli’s prognosis seemed more positive, with “Bulldog” Orlandi barking at everyone in sight.
Orlandi spotted my smile and shook his head in ponderous disgust. “Stay right there,” he ordered brusquely. “Don’t move a muscle.”
Then he turned to Officer Guerrero. “Have a look around,” he told her. “See what you can find.”
“What am I looking for?” Guerrero asked, head bent forward earnestly.
“How the hell do I know, Guerrero?” Orlandi snarled. Guerrero’s head snapped back. “Footprints. Weapons. Lurking suspects. Monkeys in the trees! Use your imagination.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied crisply and turned to go.
“And, Guerrero!” Orlandi barked.
“Yes, sir,” she said, halting mid-step.
“Have you sketched the scene as it was when you arrived? Position of the body?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, do it, then!” Orlandi ordered impatiently. “And take down some notes while it’s fresh in your memory.”
“I don’t have my notebook, sir,” Guerrero informed him. I thought I saw a glint of malicious satisfaction in her eye as she spoke.
Orlandi heaved a massive sigh. “Well, get your notebook, check out the area and be back here pronto,” he commanded. “Someone has to secure the area until the technicians get here”—he paused and jerked his head toward Wayne and me—”though these good citizens have probably destroyed most of the evidence already.”
Guerrero ran down the path as Orlandi turned to us, escaping before he had anything more to say to her. She was fast, probably in better shape than I was. And certainly in better shape than Chief Orlandi.
Once she was gone, Orlandi resumed his questions.
“So, you didn’t see the assailant?” he asked, as if hoping we would change our minds.
“No,” Wayne and I answered simultaneously.
Orlandi sighed, then asked, “When did you find the victim?”
Wayne and I looked at each other for answers. But neither of us had kept track of the time. I shrugged my shoulders.
“Maybe twenty minutes, a half hour ago,” Wayne said slowly.
Orlandi looked down at his watch. “Twelve-thirty?” he asked.
Wayne shrugged.
Orlandi sighed once more. What was it about this spa that produced so many sighs? I looked around in the darkness and shivered. Sighs were the least of it.
“Tell me what happened,” the Chief ordered finally. “Everything.”
Wayne and I told our story in tandem. We covered nearly every moment from the time we found Eli’s body until Orlandi arrived on the scene.
Then Orlandi pressed us for details. By the time we had been over the story twice, Officer Guerrero was back.
“I couldn’t see anything out of place in the dark,” she reported. “Sir,” she added, seeing the scowl on her boss’s face.
Orlandi told her to secure the area until the technicians arrived, then motioned to Wayne and me over his shoulder.
“You two come with me,” he ordered, beginning down the dirt path to the dining hall. “I’ll have more questions for you later.”
We followed Chief Orlandi down the path quietly. He stomped along without speaking, deep in thought. Wayne and I walked close enough together that our arms bumped every once in a while. That was a comfort. But some of my fear began to creep back as we walked, despite the escort. The path was too dark, too quiet. Suddenly, I imagined someone watching us. Or was it only my imagination? I peered into the darkness nervously, but I couldn’t see anyone. Or very much of anything, for that matter.
When we were almost to the hall Wayne asked Orlandi if we could wash up.
“Not a chance,” was Orlandi’s muttered reply.
“But we’re covered in mud,” I objected. A whine had entered my voice without permission. I tried to correct it. “We really are dirty,” I said in a lower voice.
“That mud may be evidence,” Orlandi barked.
Wayne and I exchanged worried glances as we continued to walk. Did Orlandi really think we had pushed Eli Rosen into the mud bath, then called the police to rescue him? Wayne and I shrugged in unison. I wiped my hands on my pants. The mud was beginning to dry now. Some of it flaked off as I wiped.
I was briskly dry-cleaning my hands by slapping them together when the main building came into view. Someone had turned on all the outdoor lights, transforming the porch into a stage, complete with actors.
I dropped my hands, my attention captured by the spectacle before us. Bradley Beaumont stood straight and tall in his striped pajamas, his arm around his son’s trembling shoulders. He stared out into the shadows with a soulful expression of angst worthy of Sir Laurence Olivier. Paul’s face was less subtle, a study in pure wide-eyed fear. Fran sat on the porch bench in her chenille robe, her arms wrapped around herself, her head drooping forward. Two uniformed men, both tall and dark, stood off to the side. One was burly, the other thin. The stage was set, frozen in readiness. But no one spoke their opening lines.
We were almost to the stairs when the stillness was broken by the whir of Don Logan’s wheelchair be
hind us. “I heard the sirens,” Logan explained softly.
Orlandi shot him a quick glance and grunted in reply. Logan seemed to be fully dressed, up to and including his cowboy hat. Another night owl? As we mounted the stairs, Logan wheeled up the ramp.
Suddenly the actors on the porch began to move. Fran’s head pulled up. Bradley and Paul turned to us. And the thin uniformed officer marched forward.
“Deputy Nerviani,” he introduced himself. And with a nod at his burly partner, “Deputy Jordan, County Sheriff’s Department. Here to assist.”
“Glad to have you,” said Orlandi. “This is a hell of a mess. I’ll fill you in.”
He looked at the rest of us on the porch and barked, “Stay here!”
Then he led Deputies Nerviani and Jordan down the stairs for a whispered consultation. While the police consulted, the Beaumonts stared at Wayne and me. We stared back at the Beaumonts. And Don Logan stared at all of us. After a few minutes Orlandi’s normal speaking voice came floating back up the stairs.
“Nerviani, you round up the ones who aren’t here.” Orlandi looked up at us on the porch. “Not too many left. Ruth Ziegler, Terry McPhail, Craig Jasper, Avery Haskell—”
“I’m here,” came a low voice from the shadows.
Orlandi’s head swiveled around, startled. Then he glared into the shadows where the voice had come from.
Avery Haskell emerged from behind an orange tree, his zombie mask intact. How long had he been there listening? Was he the watcher whose presence I had felt? He was dressed, but barely. He wore no shoes, no socks, only jeans and a sweatshirt.
Orlandi squinted at Haskell suspiciously, then turned back to Nerviani. “That leaves Jasper, Ziegler and McPhail,” he said. He motioned to Fran. “Can you give Deputy Nerviani their room numbers?”
“I’d be happy to,” replied Fran, her face brightening at the request. She led Nerviani into the lobby, chatting cheerfully. I wished I had something to do. I was exhausted, and sleepy, too, in the aftermath of the night’s events.
“Jordan,” Orlandi ordered, turning to the burly deputy. “Take the rest of them into the dining hall. Don’t let them talk. I’ll take them one by one for interviews.”
The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 23
