Murder's Last Resort

by Marta Chausée

  “Here,” I said to Lily, handing her two latex gloves. “Put these on over that perfect manicure of yours.” She did, as did I.

  “Let’s go upstairs to see the bedroom, the closet and the bathroom,” I said.

  I led and she followed. The bedsheets were crumpled. With my gloved fingers, I smoothed them and noticed a stain. No surprise there. I already suspected that Torrey had enjoyed his murderer just before she killed him. Still, it was gross. Why hadn’t the police taken that sheet into evidence? Sloppy police work or was something else at play here?

  Lily made a sucking sound as she inhaled and said, “The randy bugger—how disgusting.”

  “So it is, my dear. Thank God they didn’t let Alana back in here,” I said, and re-crumpled the sheets.

  We opened the closet doors and looked inside. There was nothing out of the ordinary—some well-tailored men’s suits, some golf shirts, khakis and casual wear. Torrey’s shoes were neatly lined up, all in a row.

  Secretly checking out a dead man’s wardrobe was a little uncomfortable, like wearing a pair of ballerina flats a half size too small. We both felt it.

  “What are we looking for, exactly?” Lily asked.

  I looked down at Torrey’s foppish velvet slippers with their glittering crests and pointed them out to Lily. “Prince Horny won’t be needing these anymore,” I said.

  Lily giggled. “Seriously, Miss Maya Marple,” she said, “why did you bring me here?”

  “I’m not sure. It just seemed like we should take a peek.”

  I walked into the bathroom and began opening drawers.

  “Help me look in these,” I said to Lily.

  “What’s this?” she asked, after rummaging through the drawer closest to the spa tub. She held up what looked to be a tiny metal shovel or scraper with a miniature razor blade in it.

  “I have no idea,” I answered. “Let’s commit it to memory and scat. I have to meet Vacaar and David in a few minutes. You go back to the lobby.”

  Lily smiled at me. “I’m dismissed, am I? No problem—I’m ready to go, thank you!”

  Chapter 20

  On the way to my appointment, I looked into my tote bag. The silk scarf was neatly in place, covering my burglar’s tools and the two sets of latex gloves. No one was going to guess that I had been snooping around Torrey’s old suite.

  I thought about Vacaar. Why would he tell Lily to tell me to meet him? Why didn’t he tell me himself? Maybe the opportunity had not presented itself at the dance. After all, Mona took most of his time and attention and I had been busy observing as many of our Sapphire guests as possible.

  And why, of all people, had Vacaar asked David Enderly to meet us in his suite? He couldn’t have known that Dave was in charge of everything since French was off the premises, could he? Maybe Vacaar didn’t want to meet me in his suite alone. That made sense. Then again, he could have had Mona there as a sort of neutral third party. Did he have something to tell us he would rather not discuss in front of her? My mind was working overtime.

  French called my brain the “Big Deal Manufacturing Plant” and, further, said it was a dangerous neighborhood; I should not go there alone. Could I help it that all my synapses and dendrites were well-oiled and ready to pounce on interesting bits of stimulus?

  "Oh pshaw! Maybe my manufacturing plant will observe and process something that saves the day," I told French mentally, as I walked down the hall.

  I turned the corner which lead to Vacaar and Mona’s seventeenth floor suite with its unobstructed view of our property, the pine forest beyond it and Epcot’s silver geodesic dome, sparkling in the sun, beyond that. David Enderly stood outside the door, almost vibrating.

  Enderly. Why is he such a train wreck? What, really, does he have to be nervous about? Vacaar wields no power over him. Even if Vacaar were to criticize the hotel or last night’s event in French’s absence, what difference would it make?

  “Hi, Maya!” Enderly said, his face relieved to see me.

  “Why so nervous, Dave?”

  He answered in a hurried stage whisper, his words tumbling out. “Gosh, Maya, wouldn’t you be nervous, too? There’s a murderer on the loose somewhere. My boss is gone and for the first time ever, I’m in charge of this whole enchilada. If that weren’t bad enough, all the big shots from the corporate office and the Weinsteins are here, not to mention the Norwegian owners. I’m on the hot seat. I want to look my best for everyone.” He adjusted his tie and gave me a look that said, “You may be the boss’s wife but you’re a bit dim.”

  “Okay, I get it,” I said. “Take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Let’s knock on this door and see what Luzi wants.”

  He knocked. We stood there and waited. He knocked again. We waited some more.

  “Dave, I don’t think he’s in his suite. Should we just come back in a few minutes?” I suggested.

  “Let me call him on the house phone.” Enderly said, trotting down the hall toward the elevators. I saw him dial and wait for several rings. He came back, walking slowly.

  “This is odd,” he said. “There’s no answer and Mr. Vacaar was so insistent that I be here at 3:00 p.m. He even left me a voice mail while having lunch at the club house. That was at 1:00 p.m. I’m sure he must be back by now.”

  “Well then, I authorize you to put your staff key into the door and open it. Pop your head into the entry and call his name,” I said.

  David followed my direction and waved me in behind him when there was no answer.

  “You call out to him, Maya. Go ahead. I think I hear a TV upstairs in the bedroom. Maybe he’s in the shower.”

  “Vaca-a-a-r,” I called. No answer. “Mona-a-a.” No answer.

  “Anybody home?” I shouted, a little louder.

  Dave and I looked at each other. I took a few steps into the living room and he followed me. All was in apple pie order. The rooms had been cleaned and the amenities refreshed. A Murano glass platter of sliced exotic fruits sat on the dining room table with a note from the food and beverage department. A bottle of Dom was chilling in a silver ice bucket. The ice was fresh. Room service had been here only a short while ago.

  “Go upstairs, Dave. See what’s up,” I instructed. “Why is that TV on, anyway?”

  He did as I asked, then called to me to come up.

  “Is it creepy?” I asked before I was halfway up the stairs.

  “No. There’s nothing creepy,” he said.

  I walked into the neat bedroom. Housekeeping had made the bed and plumped the pillows. I walked past the closet and into the bathroom.

  “This is a little creepy.” David said. “Look around. The TV is on a golf tournament. The shower door is open. The inside of the shower is wet. The bath mat has footprints on it. There’s a wet towel on the floor in front of the sink.” He pointed things out as he named them. “Someone showered here just now, most likely Mr. Luzi. You can still feel the humidity in the air—”

  “But no one is here.” I finished his thought. “Where is he?”

  I had the urge to call Luzi like I might call a cat, “Here, Luzi, Luzi, Luzi—” but I didn’t.

  Instead, I reached into my tote and pulled out my latex gloves. David had exited the bathroom and walked out onto the oversized deck, perhaps thinking that Luzi was there, taking some air.

  I slid on the gloves and opened the bi-fold doors of the closet in the dressing area. All seemed to be in order. But wait—not quite. There was a foot in a high-heeled, sling-back pump sticking out below the hanging clothes. I stared at the foot. I stared at the shoe, buttercup yellow, calfskin, in pristine condition. I pushed the hangers aside to get a better look. I had to know whose foot it was.

  Luzi’s! Ugh. Ugh. Eeew. There he lay, a vision in yellow, with a fetching plastic bag over his head. I let out a scream that no one heard.

  I ran into the bedroom, panic crawling over my skin like a thousand tiny spiders, and yelled for David. Over and over, I yelled but he heard nothing, as he had closed the slidin
g glass doors behind him.

  “Dave, Dave, get in here,” I yelled, as I pushed the heavy doors open and ran onto the patio.

  He turned, saw me crying and came running to help. “Maya, what is it?” he asked, his voice rising in panic with mine.

  “Vacaar’s in the closet, dead,” I gasped. “Call security. Call the police.”

  He made the calls and I sat at the foot of the bed, shaking, while David looked into the closet to satisfy his own curiosity.

  Who knew Vacaar liked to cross-dress while practicing auto-erotic asphyxiation? Poor Vacaar! Caught red-handed, as it were, with his head in a plastic bag and his neck in a noose fashioned out of his own black leather belt.

  Before I had run off screaming, a quick glance had confirmed the rumor that short men can be full of big surprises. No wonder Mona stuck to him like wallpaper. Was that rigor mortis or was he that happy to be in Mona’s shoes? Would she be more bothered by losing her Albanian stallion or by the fact that he had come and gone in her new Charles Jourdans?

  Chapter 21

  Enderly and I waited in the living room until Wells and Koenig arrived. If I thought Enderly was on edge before this, now he was wound up like a chipmunk on coke. Nothing I could say would calm him. I could have used some calming myself. I clasped my hands together to keep them from shaking, but it didn’t help.

  Dave paced back and forth in front of the sofa, muttering to himself, until the two men arrived. He took them upstairs and I followed, standing near a corner of the bedroom, while the three men huddled in front of the closet doors. After a few moments, they moved into the bathroom to look around, so I went over to the closet. I had a ghoulish need to take another look at Luzi.

  “Mrs. French, just what in tarnation do you think yer doin’?” Tom Koenig’s voice boomed from behind me.

  I jumped like a Florida sand flea. Was I disturbing the scene of a crime? I turned around, feeling guilty, though I had done nothing wrong.

  “I—I’m sorry, Sergeant Koenig. I just had to see these shoes again. They’re beautiful and I’ve never seen this particular style—”

  He interrupted me with a peculiar look on his face, “Are you sayin’ you’ve got a yen for those shoes? Well, you can forget about it. They are evidence,” he said, enunciating each word of the last two sentences, as if he were speaking to a belligerent teenager.

  “I do not have a yen for those shoes,” I said, feeling indignant. “I merely have an interest in their design. They’re far too large for my tiny little feet.”

  He looked down at my feet and relaxed a little. “Okay, but I still have a few questions for you and Mr. Enderly,” and motioned for me to go back to the bedroom and sit.

  While Rick called his investigative team, Enderly and I told Tom our stories—that we had been called to be here at 3:00 p.m. by Mr. Luzi himself. Koenig frowned and took a labored breath. If he would have had a gator tail to match his belly, it would have switched back and forth a few times, annoyed and menacing.

  Tom didn’t like me to begin with and, once again, here I was in the presence of a corpse. I had found the body without his help. It was like we were on an Easter egg hunt and my basket was more filled than his.

  As I answered Koenig’s questions, I wondered if Vacaar had killed himself by mistake or if he had been murdered. My first thought was that he had accidentally killed himself. I had read that this can happen in this dangerous sport.

  But what if he had been murdered? What if the murderer had been hiding in the suite, waiting for his opportunity? Once Vacaar was on his knees in the closet with the belt around his neck, he was an easy target.

  If it was a murder, why would someone kill Torrey, then Vacaar? They both liked the ladies. Maybe it was killers, plural. Maybe it was a band of angry women—angry at having been used and then dropped by these two overgrown adolescents, who always turned tail and ran back to their wives after the fun was over. Maybe Vacaar died a normal—okay, wiggy, freaky—death that involved no foul play whatsoever. What if it was a big old creepy coincidence and nothing more? On the other hand, maybe someone who knew about his proclivities set this scene up to make it look like a natural, sexual deviant’s death. Does such a thing exist?

  Once released from questioning, I said goodbye to David and trudged home in a stupor, not really seeing the marble sculptures nor the bromeliads on my path. I was deep in a ping-pong game in my head and I held both paddles. Was it murder? Was it accidental suicide? Was it Yin or was it Yang? Was everything black, white or striations of gray? Why Torrey? Why Luzi? I couldn’t figure it out. My thoughts turned to French and the unfairness of it all.

  “I want French. I need French, When are You going to deliver?” I asked aloud of God or the universe or my higher power or whoever was in charge. Someone once told me that praying out loud got speedy results. Did my words sound more like a demand than a request? Just to be safe, I muttered, “Please, thank You. Amen.” and kept walking.

  I was back at the house when the phone rang. It was Reed. “Great news, Maya!” he said.

  “I am so ready for some great news, Doug. Lay it on me, baby.”

  “I got French out. He should be home in less than an hour.”

  Chapter 22

  It had been over an hour now. No French. No call from French. Where the heck was he? I was tempted to call Doug to see exactly when he got French out of the Orange Avenue clink but decided against it. What would it help?

  I sometimes felt like a pioneer woman, slogging along the ruts of the Oregon Trail, on foot next to my covered wagon. There was a train of wagons, there were women folk and kid folk. There were, of course, men folk. But my man, he was seldom with us in the ruts or around the campfire. No, he was one of the scouts. He was Meriwether Lewis French, blazing new paths, cutting back the undergrowth, chasing away the scary varmints for us, but not one to give a woman much steady company. I was often left to count the yellow blossoms on my plain, worn calico skirt and refasten the bow of my road-worn, muslin bonnet while other families huddled together over salted pork and little tins of heated beans.

  Where is he, damn it? I felt taken for granted. I had been thinking exclusively of him, missing him, worrying about him when I was not trying to tease together the few clues I had to work with regarding—oh what was it again? Murder. He could at least call.

  It was hard on me, flopping around alone in the house, waiting for French to come back. I boiled some water for tea and while I waited for it to brew, I sat at the piano and tinkered with a melody or two. I seldom played, but always told myself I should do it more often. Ugly thoughts popped into my head. When did French get out of jail? In time to kill Luzi? Then the doorbell rang.

  I turned to look, but no one was there. It was hard to ring our bell and then just disappear. The double doors of the front entry were beveled glass. There were floor-to-ceiling glass transoms next to the doors. That made ten feet of glass, through which the path from the gate to the door could easily be seen.

  Jumping up from the piano bench, I ran out the front door to double check. I looked left and right of the entry. No one. Just the water of the lake, mildly lapping at our grassy shore. That’s a little spooky. I looked up the path for Rick’s men. Where was a fake gardener when a girl needed one?

  Seeing no one, I turned back to the house, and there, lying next to the door, was a plain brown box. It was wedged between one of the transoms and an oversized terra cotta planter.

  I went inside, grabbed a pair of latex gloves and picked up the box. It was very light, neatly taped shut. I angled it toward the light to check for prints on the tape. There were none that I could see.

  Back in the kitchen, I found a knife and opened the box. Nestled in white tissue paper was a typed note on expensive paper stock that read, “Maya, you have a run.” Except someone had crossed out the “a” and printed the word, “to.” There were also two boxes of L’eggs pantyhose. Size A. Suntan.

  I examined the box and its contents carefully with
my magnifying glass. No prints anywhere, not even on the shiny pantyhose cartons. Whoever did this was smart. Smart and careful. Smart and Final.

  I walked to an overstuffed chair and placed my gift on the coffee table. I sipped my tea and contemplated the meaning of the gift and, while I was at it, the meaning of life.

  Here I sat in the great room of a house on a fake lake in the middle of a luxury resort in Central Florida. People were turning up dead in the hotel. I kept turning up at the wrong place at the wrong time. My husband wasn’t turning up at all. Swimmers, kayakers and wind surfers were gliding past this house, oblivious to the troubles of a few Sapphire executives, their wives and the Orlando Police Department.

  None of it made any sense so why not do something nutty? Ancient peoples drank the blood of their enemies for courage and superior strength. Because it was the last thing anyone would expect, given the circumstances and the weather, I decided to wear one of the pairs of hose.

  I had both legs in and was just pulling the sausage casing up to my waist when the phone rang.

  David Enderly was on the line. “Is French there?” he asked.

  “No. I thought maybe he went directly to the hotel after Reed got him sprung.”

  “No,” he said, sounding haunted. “No one has seen him on property. Both Rick and Tom have been calling my office and paging me constantly. What do I tell them?”

  “Tell them it’s tea time. They need to sit down in the lobby, have some scones with jam and double Devon cream, some petit fours, a cup of Darjeeling and relax.”

  “Oh, yeah, right, Maya. That’s not very helpful.”

  “Dave, it’s all I’ve got.” David was losing it. “If French comes to the house before he goes to the hotel, I’ll have him call you.”