This particular week, it was the high energy, high stakes atmosphere of the 1985, week-long, once every five years, Sapphire Hotels and Resorts Manager’s Conference. These gatherings were big deals because not only were the Sapphire owners there, but also owners of other hotel chains. They all assessed the various hotel managers and their wives. The impression a manager or his wife made at the conference could make or break his career in the entire industry, not just at Sapphire. A Sapphire conference was like pilot season or sweeps week on television. Some people got picked up, some people made the ratings and some got dropped from the lineup.
Now French was in cuffs and I was all alone. I walked over to our bed, peeled back my down-filled duvet and stretched out on my half of the bed.
Why had the police taken French? They were such boobs. Tears welled up but I choked them back and took a deep breath. What was the point of crying? It wouldn’t help and it would give me a headache and puffy eyes. I had to put my feelings aside and rest, even if just for a short while. I tried some meditative breathing. “God, help French and me” on the inhale. “Make this all go away” on the exhale.
* * *
I caught almost five hours. I had been as limp as old celery left in the crisper too long when I went to bed. Now, I stretched and felt almost good. Then I remembered French. Then I remembered Torrey. Then I remembered Reed. My stomach felt sick.
It was a bright morning and the hotel was coming to life. From where I stood in my room, I could see the soft glow of the Central Florida sun, dancing on the sparkling blue lake beyond my deck. I made myself a cup of my morning tea—Darjeeling from Western Bengal.
Doug would get French out of jail post haste. Once this murder was cleared up and all our Sapphire guests had left, I could plan some away time with French. Western Bengal sounded good—distant enough to be an exotic adventure.
Now French was having an exotic adventure all his own in the downtown jail of Orlando. Or maybe not. He might be the only guy there. Orlando was not exactly known for its murderers, drug lords and rapists. Most crimes revolved around cigarettes stolen from the Circle K or people running red lights.
Orlando was better known for its two Ms, McDonnell Douglas and Mickey Mouse. McDonnell and Mickey had put Orlando on the map. Now French’s behind was parked in the middle of that map in a cell on Orange Avenue.
I walked to the patio to drink my tea at the table. A blue heron swooped over me and I ducked. It perched on a nearby railing post. How long had we lived here now—over three years? I was still not used to the birds, the bugs and the reptiles.
Herons and egrets landed wherever they wanted, not at all spooked by humans. Snakes slithered away through the thick, leathery grass every time I walked from my front door to the hotel. The only Florida wildlife I liked was the playful otters that hung around the ponds between our property and Disney World. Most mornings, I encountered them as I walked the par course.
With the heron watching me, I picked up the phone, dialed Doug’s number and started to tell him about French.
“Hi, Doug.”
“Good morning, Maya,” he said. “I’m already on it. I got your earlier message.” His voice sounded smirky. He might find it funny that French was in jail, but it was no laughing matter to me.
“French will be out on bail in less time than it takes you to brew a pot of tea,” he told me. “You still brew a lot of tea, don’t you, Maya?”
“Yes, Doug. I still brew a lot of tea.” I thought I best fill the silence with gratitude, so I continued, “Thanks for making French a priority.”
We said our goodbyes and I did my morning rituals, thinking of French the whole time, and how I wanted to help speed along the solving of this case. I wasn’t a policeman’s daughter for nothing. My dad had been LAPD for over twenty years and retired. Then, he was a private investigator. Before his too-young death of a heart attack, he had shared his tales with my mom and me. I missed my Dad every day and—like father, like daughter, I guessed. Figuring out who done it was in my blood. Besides, what else was I doing? I wanted French here with me.
Chapter 6
I walked to the hotel along the volleyball beach and past the boat and windsurfer rental shack. Tots and their mommies were splashing in the kiddie pool. Oil-slathered sunbathers were already sucking up their Frangelico smoothies. Recreation department employees in their white polo shirts and shorts waved at me and said hello. All appeared in order on the happy, sunny playground of the Sapphire Silver Pines Orlando Resort. Our plum location next to Disney World kept us at a year-round 87% occupancy rate. We were always hopping.
I called Dave Enderly from a house phone on the lower level and he told me where to find the PD. He was letting them hole up in a small meeting room near the Grand Ballroom. This would be their makeshift, on-site office. I poked my head in the door and said hello to some of the guys.
French and I knew almost every policeman in Orlando, due to the frequent special events we hosted for the community. The guys were open with me. No results were back from the labs yet. No big news since last night. Where was Rick? I wanted to ask him why French was in jail. Did they really think he was involved in the murder?
Hubert French, my husband—everybody knew he was a people person, not a murderer. At employee Christmas parties, slightly tipsy maids from housekeeping asked him to dance. Gardeners introduced him to their wives and families with pride. Kids from the rec department invited him to join them the next time they went hiking.
Who would ever suspect French of committing a murder? He was soft-hearted and fell for anybody’s sob story, giving paid time off to anyone who said she or he needed it.
Me, I was not as popular as French. I was outspoken and unswayed by fairy tales. Luckily, it was not my job to make judgments around the hotel or to hire or fire anyone. As a hotel wife, living on property, I was expected to be charming and gracious to all employees, guests and VIP visitors from around the world. Sometimes, my charm wore thin but I never quite ran out of it entirely. In the world of hospitality, it was all about pacing oneself while making nice-nice—then quick, carve out a little personal time to rest and regroup.
I said goodbye to the boys in blue in Meeting Room C and made my way upstairs to the hall behind the front desk. All the executive offices were bunched together there, and, since it was Saturday, the offices were dark. I thought I might run into little Pam, the executive secretary, but she wasn’t in, either. I let myself into French’s locked office with my master key. Maybe there was something inside that he would want or need when I picked him up from jail in a little while. I looked around for his note pad and his pen. I found them and tucked them into my straw, summer bag. Something shiny in the top right corner of his desk, sticking out from among a stack of papers, caught my eye.
I pulled some computer read-outs and industry publications away from what turned out to be a receipt for some pantyhose, purchased at Walgreen’s just yesterday, and a crushed silver, cardboard box with writing on its side: L’eggs: They hug you, they hold you, they never let you go. L’eggs, huh? Size B. Suntan. Of course, they were suntan. Ecru, ivory, taupe or beige would not have worked at a resort. But Size B? That was more surprising than a hippopotamus at a horse race.
Chapter 7
Huggins on Hiawassee was an old fashioned country road house—not the kind of place one would expect to see a Sapphire Resorts wife and her British friend, Lily, but that was exactly where we were. It was a hangout for Reedy Creek natives, the guys who draped the Rebel flag behind their gun racks in the back windows of their pick-up trucks. Their women were curvy with big hair. Lily and I were in jeans, t-shirts and cowboy boots. Not exactly down and dirty but not exactly posers, either. The idea was to disappear into the crowd.
We sat in a red leatherette booth, sipping our liquid lunches, a strawberry daiquiri for her and a banana daiquiri for me. The owner of Huggins, Kenny, knew us and was working the bar. He gave us extra melon balls and pineapple chunks. Lily was slidin
g fruit from a little plastic saber into her mouth, while I brought her up to date.
There had been a murder. French was accused and in jail. Doug was trying to get him out. Meanwhile, Rick, from the PD, had called to tell me that French wouldn’t be released right away and he couldn’t have visitors; there was no point in me driving to the city. Rick spoke with the indifference of someone reading a grocery list. I was about to lay into him when he also told me I was a person of interest and should stay on or near the hotel property at all times. I held my tongue, then immediately defied him and asked Lily to meet me at Huggins.
I told her about finding, grabbing and hiding the drug store receipt and pantyhose box I found in French’s office. Probably no one would look for them at the bottom of a box of feminine products under my bathroom sink, which was where they were stashed now.
Finding the receipt and the pantyhose box had given me a flash of nausea. Why had they been on French’s desk? He was always on higher moral ground than me. He could not commit murder, could he? I wanted French out of jail. I shredded my cocktail napkin into tiny squares and stabbed at them with my plastic saber, while I told all this to Lily.
Lily nodded. She let me finish, then said, “I can't believe Torrey's dead. He was such a big man—in so many ways…” She paused and I looked up.
“You didn’t—” I said, examining her face and feeling just a little sick.
“Of course not. I’m only saying it was common knowledge...he had a lot to offer a girl.”
“Oh now, that is just disgusting. Did you have to say that?”
“I’m sorry.” She looked down, chastised for a moment, then went on, smiling. “He was quite the devil. The last time William and I attended an event, Torrey groped my bottom twice. He also touched me up on my left boob. A right nipple tweaker, he was.”
I looked at her, picturing Red in his pantyhose neckwear. “Why does this not surprise me?” I asked.
“William didn't notice a thing, of course,” she continued, matter-of-fact. “He was too busy prattling on about the Norwegian owners and the property. I managed to remove the tempting parts of my anatomy by gracefully sliding away from Red. He moved on to his next victim.
“Still, he had his charms, too,” she said. “You had to stay a few feet away from him but he was fun. Was he his usual self the night he was killed?”
"Oh, sure, sure. Ever the alpha male, telling jokes, stroking the men’s egos and stroking the ladies’ thighs. All the while, he ignored his wife.”
“That was him,” Lily chimed in, “a true international grope. You know—Russian hands and Roman fingers.”
“You got it!” I said. “Last night, he tricked me. Snuck up behind me right as he walked into the Munch Suite, where I stood, greeting all the bigwigs, including the Weinsteins, Sapphire’s owners. Torrey's hand was under my skirt, on the back of my thigh, before I knew it. I slapped him away. He laughed and moved on. Later he cornered me in the kitchen. I wouldn’t play along so he told me I was too flat. He gave me a handful of cocktail napkins and told me to stuff my bra. What an adolescent.”
“Oh my,” said Lily.
“He was such an ass! I would have loved to kill him myself. I sometimes fantasized about it,” I said, my voice a little too loud.
“Mind yourself, Maya,” Lily said, looking around to see if anyone had heard. “You can’t say things like that now. You can’t even think them.”
“How about Alana?” I continued. “If Redmund were your husband, wouldn’t you want to wring his neck just about every day?”
Lily contemplated this. “I think she rather enjoyed him. She loved the life he gave her. He did spoil her rotten, you said so yourself. In return, she looked the other way while he misbehaved. She must be devastated.”
“I’m not even sure she knows yet. She left the party early last night headed for Atlanta, where her mother had surgery this morning.”
“Hmm," said Lily. “Clever alibi, eh?”
“You said it,” I answered. “Sorry to get back to French, but why do you suppose they won’t let me go see him in jail? As soon as Rick told me French was staying there and could have no visitors, I called Reed.”
“What did he say?” Lily asked.
“He said he’s trying to get French out of jail but he ran into a snag. You don’t think French could kill a man, do you?” My stomach gave a little lurch, while I waited for her answer.
“Even the finest of men can be provoked to murder,” she said, drawing out the last word, for dramatic effect.
“Did I hear that right?” My eyes bugged out.
“Oh stop, Maya. Of course French didn’t do the deed! You’re being silly. There’s probably a freak, hotel serial murderer on the loose—some little houseman or porter who came unhinged after spending too many years saying yes and amen to tourists. Someone else will be killed, French will still be locked up and that will pretty well put him in the clear, eh?” Lily said.
“That’s a classic.” I managed a grin. “A disgruntled former hotel employee. If you’re right, postal workers will have to share the spotlight with them now.”
“You get my point,” she said, pleased with herself for making me smile.
“I certainly do.” I felt like a fifty pound sack of coal had been lifted from my shoulders. It didn't show much heart for others, but the thought made me almost giddy. If something like that happened, my French would be in the clear.
Maybe talk of murder and the possibility of future murders should have put a damper on our spirits and our appetites, but not so. Just then, a big-haired, gum-chewing waitress arrived, her arms loaded with a plate of mini barbecue sandwiches, a basket of sweet potato fries and bowls of coleslaw and baked beans. Our table top was lookin' good.
“Compliments of Kenny,” she said, nodding toward the bar. “For some reason, he wants to surprise and delight you two.” The savory aromas of down home cooking mingled in the warm air and reached our nostrils.
We waved and blew kisses at Kenny, mouthing the word, “Thanks!”
We dug into the tender and succulent pulled pork. The fries were hot, extra crispy and salty. Murder and wrongful imprisonment be damned! Food was for the hungry.
Chapter 8
Back home alone, I wandered from the living room to the bedroom and back into the living room again. With French gone, I felt anxious, skittish. I was used to being alone—that was the cost of a beautiful life with an important man—but this was horrible. There was a constant chafing at my heart and in my brain. I padded into the kitchen, made myself a cup of tea and took it to the living room.
I sat on the sofa, facing the lake, sipping the hot tea, and tried to calm down. I wondered about French. Would he be in his own cell or in some kind of central holding tank, complete with hardened criminals, drunks and rowdy sailors who abused their town passes from Baldwin Park, the local Naval Training Center?
French was so proper and clean. The worst thing for him would be to stay in a cell with no change of underwear, no shower, no deodorant. And a toothbrush. Did they keep new toothbrushes for the prisoners and hand them out, one by one? If not, this alone could push a man like French over the edge.
French would tire of peanut butter sandwiches, never a favorite with him. Rick had told me this was standard fare in the Orange Avenue hoosegow. No grilled salmon or swordfish from Papa’s Place or La Croqueta, our fine dining establishments. Too bad I couldn’t bring him a picnic basket with goodies a` la Little Red Riding Hood.
The more I thought about French, the antsier I got. A new thought hit me like a karate chop between my shoulder blades—not Rick, not anybody was going to stop me from going to the jail to see French. I packed a basket of goodies, some fresh underwear and sundries for him, threw my boots back on and ran to my car. As I drove, I thought about French and how he would worry about his hotel. That was French—so dutiful. After that, he might spare a worried thought for me, though he sometimes said I was like a cat—I always landed on my feet.
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Right now I was on four wheels, speeding toward my man. was on duty at the jail? Seemed like most of the police force was at our hotel. I hoped it might be someone I knew, someone who might cut me some slack.
Chapter 9
My little gambit was a bust, sort of. When I arrived at the jail, I ran into my friend, Brad Yaeger. Brad was the police hypnotist and had helped me overcome my fear of palmetto bugs and other Florida insects. He liked me and he liked French, but he didn't budge. He was in charge of the prisoners and took his assignment seriously.
He told me Rick could have his badge for insubordination if he let me in to see French. I couldn't have that happen, so I backed down. I gave Brad the basket for French.
“Don't you worry, Maya. I'll keep an eye out for him,” he said, giving my shoulder a protective pat as he walked me back to my car. “He'll be out in no time. This is all a big mix-up.”
I swiped at my eyes and hoped he didn't see. “Okay, Brad. I know I can count on you,” and gave him a quick hug before I opened my car door.
Chapter 10
Before I knew it, I was home again, my heart aching even more than it had before. The phone rang and it was Doug Reed. He had been to see French and reported that French was fine. It frustrated me that he had seen French and I had not, but I swallowed the lump in my throat. Hard as it was, I maintained silence.
We hung up and I thought about the receipt and the pantyhose container under my bathroom sink. Hiding those was surely illegal, tampering with evidence or some such thing. But what would have been the point of giving them to Rick? He would have crowed, and I would have been giving him a nail with which to crucify my innocent French. French, who picked up stray spiders in the house with tissues and then tossed them into the shrubbery, rather than kill them.
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