Murder's Last Resort

by Marta Chausée

  “If he turns up here, I’ll call you,” Dave answered.

  He sounded fissured. For a guy with big ambitions, he’s not handling the pressure of being Number One very well. Shouldn’t I be more panicked than he? He’s only missing a boss. I’m missing a husband and wearing pantyhose on a hot, sticky afternoon in Orlando.

  It was time for action. I decided to take my newly delivered gift box of L’eggs to Meeting Room C. Rick and Tom needed to see this.

  Chapter 23

  I was heading out the door when I noticed black skies overhead. Late afternoon and early evening storms were frequent in Central Florida. I paused under the overhang at my front doors. Should I continue on my errand or stay here?

  My worst thinking said: Go back inside, slip on your rain boots, grab an umbrella and make a dash for the hotel.

  My best thinking said: Stay home a few minutes. This thing will pass through on a fast train. Besides, the note had told me to run. Sometimes, it’s good to take opposite action.

  Orlando was located in the lightening strike capital of America. This strike zone fitted a broad sash from west to east, from Tampa to Melbourne. Lightening strikes in this zone often meant instant death. As a rule, it was tourists that were struck and killed because they somehow felt immune from tragedy while on vacation.

  Thunder rumbled overhead and here I was, someone who knew better, eager to get to my destination, almost forgetting that staying inside for a while was a much better plan than risking my life for a handwritten note and some pantyhose boxes.

  * * *

  Wells and Koenig looked up from their desks as I entered. They were alone in the room. Their eyes swept over me, from toe to crown. They were none too subtle.

  “What’s up?” Rick said, looking at me like he saw a cockroach crossing the carpet.

  “I’ve got something to show you guys,” I said. “Look here.” and I handed them the brown box and its contents. “Someone sent me a gift.”

  They opened it and looked inside.

  Rick motioned to a chair in front of his desk. “Take a seat, Maya,” he said.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” I said and plunked myself down.

  “Who sent you this note and the pantyhose?” Rick asked me.

  I was silent a moment, then said, “You’re kidding, right? How would I know who sent them? That’s why I’m bringing them to you. Don’t you have labs that can analyze this stuff?”

  Rick shrugged and fiddled around with something on his desk, ignoring me. “Tom, put this stuff in a zip lock plastic baggie,” he directed. Tom rummaged through some desk drawers, doing as he was told.

  “I’d like the note back after you’ve had it analyzed, please,” I said.

  “Sure,” Rick said. “Tom’ll drop it by the house in a day or two.”

  No further conversation came my way so I asked, “What did the lab have to say about Vacaar Luzi?”

  Rick and Tom looked at each other. Rick finally answered, “Mr. Luzi’s neck was broken between vertebrae 2 and 3. The usual, in cases of autoerotic asphyxiation.”

  “So, then. No murder?” I asked.

  “I didn’t say that. I just said his death follows the usual pattern for this sort of thing.” Rick seemed distracted.

  I sat and wondered what was not being said.

  “There was something unusual, however,” Rick said, almost as an afterthought. “His forehead was bruised in an irregular, splotchy pattern not consistent with the angle at which his body lay on the closet floor.”

  “Sort of leaves things hanging, doesn’t it?” I said, “if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  They both glared at me, their eyes saying, “Please go.”

  “Well, it’s been fun talking to you gentlemen,” I said as I got up to leave. I was almost to the door, when Rick called out.

  “When French decides to get back to this property, you’ll be sure to let him know we’re sitting right here, waiting to talk to him, won’t you?”

  “Oh yes, you can count on that,” I told them.

  * * *

  Wouldn’t you know? It had started again. The rain was coming down in diagonal sheets. I ducked around the corner from Meeting Room C and picked up a house phone.

  “Dave, Hi! It’s Maya. Have you heard from French?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m waiting here for him with bells on.” David sounded very tired.

  David was a good hotelier, always making his best effort, but he seemed unprepared to be in charge of this entire property. And under these circumstances—not only 200 Sapphire Resort VIPs with the highest of expectation but now two of them were dead. His boss was playing hide and seek. Where is French, anyway? I asked myself for the hundredth time today. He had a lot of ’splaining to do when he got home.

  David and I rang off and I went up the escalator to hang around the lobby until the cloudburst was over. The lobby was swinging. Soaked, giggling people ran in, shaking off the rain from their clothes and their shoes. The parrots on their stands bobbed their heads up and down, squawking and trilling. The high ionization of rainstorms always got them excited.

  * * *

  The squall ended and I was walking back home, purposely stepping in puddles with my rain boots, just to make a splash. I tore my mind from murder and pantyhose. I thought back to how French and I had met at the Sapphire Hotel on Sunset, ten years earlier.

  Back then, he represented Sapphire Hotels and I represented myself, the sole proprietor of the tiny but profitable gift shop in the lobby. We negotiated my new lease, butting heads at every new clause. Eventually, my lease was renewed, the paperwork was signed. They say the anger section of the brain is positioned next to the love section at the base of the skull. I knew two people who met and argued in a hotel on the Sunset Strip during the music industry’s golden days who would agree. A few months later, we signed our names on each others hearts.

  When I looked up from my memories, I was at our garden gate. The moment I entered the house, my monkey mind was back to its preoccupation. Why had someone gone nutso and started killing Sapphire execs? Why was French still missing, when he should have been back hours ago? Why couldn’t he at least call Dave and leave word for me, if he didn’t have the courtesy to call me himself?

  The phone rang. It was Rick. “The lab ran the production numbers of the pantyhose boxes. These two boxes came from Pennsylvania and went through distribution centers in Macon, Georgia and Ashland, North Carolina. The only prints on them were yours.”

  “What?” I said, startled. “How could that be? I wore latex gloves so I wouldn’t leave prints.”

  “Dunno,” said Rick. “When you hear from French, tell him that we just put out an APB on him. I hope he enjoyed his three hours of freedom.”

  Sometimes Southerners could really surprise you. They talked slow, they walked slow, they even seemed to think slow and yet, here they were, making my life miserable in double time.

  Chapter 24

  Frustrated, I didn’t know what to do or where to go next. I paced across the travertine tiles in my entry. A fresh thought hit me. What if French had gone to see his good pal, Ted Rains, at Church Lane Depot, before returning to the hotel?

  A few years back, Ted’s professional reputation had survived the bad press of a murder in his entertainment complex in downtown Orlando. The murder had gone cold case but I had noodled around with the facts, as Ted had given them to me, and, within six months, I had solved the mystery. That was part of my history with Rick, Tom and the OPD.

  That must be it—French was having a chat with Ted. But why had French not called me? On any normal day, he called me seven times, whether he needed to tell me something or not. Why then, when it was so important, did he not call me? I scratched my midriff, where the angry red welts were back for an encore.

  I decided to pay Ted Rains a visit. It beat hanging around the house, waiting to hear from French while I scratched myself raw. I changed into some slacks and a top, grabbed my purse, my raincoat and m
y umbrella, in case of a new storm front, and walked to my car port. Ted Rains and Church Lane Depot were as good a place to start as any.

  Obsessing over French, I was deep in thought as I put the key into my car door and only half registered the smell of a man’s cologne. I liked that smell. Italian—maybe Pino Silvestre—it reminded me of Tuscany.

  I had just asked myself why I was smelling Pino Silvestre, when someone grabbed me tightly at the waist, pinning my arms to my sides. I stiffened, then inhaled in terror and tore my mouth open in a scream. I struggled, pushing against him as I kicked and tried to wriggle loose from his iron grip. A thick, fleshy hand shoved a lumpy cloth over my nose and mouth. Now choking and gagging, I fought harder to break free. Instead, I went as limp as overcooked pasta. As the lights went out, I wasn’t in Tuscany or even Florida anymore.

  Chapter 25

  I blinked and stared. Where was I? What time was it? I took stock before I moved. I was lying, face up, on hard ground. I wasn’t in pain so long as I discounted the throbbing in my head. It felt like a tire iron being pounded into my gray matter by a framing hammer. I grabbed my skull and pressed down firmly, as though I were testing a cantaloupe for ripeness. My fingers searched for lumps, bumps or blood caked to my hair. None of the above, praise the Lord.

  Cautiously, I sat up and noticed a dark green dumpster nearby. Warm blacktop pressed against my backside. I seemed to be missing one shoe.

  Again, where was I? I cast my gaze farther about and then I got it. I was at the far end of a remote parking lot, with a tall, commercial building nearby that looked suspiciously like a hotel. It was loaded with sliding doors and balconies that had beach towels hanging over the railings.

  This can’t be one of French’s properties, I thought, noting the sloppy towels. I stood, hoping I could keep my balance. I could and I hobbled forward a few steps, looking for my missing shoe. I found it and, a moment later, saw the words “Property of Sword and Chalice Hotel” stamped on the side of the dumpster.

  So that’s where I was! The Sword and Chalice was a fantasy-themed resort at Disney, about a mile from our Silver Pines.

  I must walk into the Sword and Chalice and call someone for help— Lily. She would come get me. I brushed dust and debris off my clothes as I walked toward the hotel, still shaky. It was coming back to me. I had been on my way to see Ted Rains when someone had grabbed me. The thought shot a jigger of new pain and fear into my head and I felt nauseated, as I realized how vulnerable I had been and still was.

  I walked as fast as I could across the blacktop and toward the glass entry doors. They opened wide for me. Once inside, I made a bee line across the lobby to the ladies’ restroom. I looked in the mirror and tears sprang to my eyes. It wasn’t that I looked so bad or that I was hurt. I was relieved to be in the hotel, safe in the restroom, but I was overcome with the knowledge of what might have happened to me. My hands were trembling and my legs felt like rubber.

  I found the stand of pay phones and placed a collect call to Lily. Thank heavens for Lily. She said she’d drop everything and come get me. She didn’t even ask for an explanation.

  Lily lived a few miles away in Bay Hill, so I sat in a big, bamboo chair, facing the entry, to await her arrival. I wanted nothing more than to fade into the banana leaf pattern on the fabric of the cushions. I folded my still-shaking hands in my lap while I revisited what had happened to me.

  “Why, Maya! Maya French, is that you?” a woman’s voice trilled over the hum of the lobby crowd.

  I felt defensive, but plastered a Sapphire Resorts smile on my face. “Margie, what a surprise! What are you doing here?”

  “I was just about to ask you the very same thing!” It was Margie Enderly, David’s wife, followed by her own little entourage of local, Sapphire Resort wives and a few assorted hausfraus. They were all dressed up for their girls’ evening at Disney; their giddiness at being let out for the night gave them away.

  Chapter 26

  Lily pulled up at the front of the hotel in her black Range Rover. I popped up from my chair with as much elán as I could muster, wincing slightly as I raised my body from the deep cushions of the seat. Waiting had made me sore but, with a tiny sigh and a slow exhalation of breath, I walked up to the passenger side of her car.

  Lily was chatting up the valets, pointing out that she needed no help as she was only picking up a friend, when I reached for the door to jump in.

  “Not so fast, little darlin,” a man’s voice cooed over my shoulder and through my hair into my right ear, while his manicured hand covered my own on the door handle and gave it a little squeeze.

  I knew that voice. I knew that hand. I knew that man. An old flame. I had hoped to avoid him. It was one of those unlikely twists of fate or a reverse miracle that brought this man to Orlando, Florida at the same time that the gods of my life had brought French and me here.

  This man and I were more than friends when we both lived in Los Angeles. James had a high wattage personality and was a perfect fit with the Disney corporate culture.

  “James, James, James—” I said, as I turned to look at him.

  “You’re not planning to leave just now, are you?” he asked, looking deep into my brown eyes with his own, while invading my personal space by nearly standing on top of me.

  “Why, yes, James, I am,” I said. “Lily just came by to pick me up. We’re going out for a little jaunt.”

  “No, no. no,” he said. He looked through the open car window at Lily and gave her a big, tanned smile full of perfect, white teeth. She knew about our past. She liked James. “I invite you both to stay. Why you’re here to begin with, Maya, is no doubt a fascinating story, which I would love to hear.”

  “No, James. It’s out of the question. We can’t stay,” I said.

  “Un uh,” James said, shaking his head, “I insist. Admit it. You have no particular plans. Let me show you our new Spa and Salon. French would want you to check out the competition,” he added, flashing me his winningest grin.

  “French knows there is no competition, James,” I shot back.

  “Still,” he said. “I mean it. Come in, both of you. It will do you a world of good. Much better than whatever you thought you were going to do. I’m a great judge of these things, you know,” he added. At the same time, he signaled to the valet to park Lily’s car up front, in the VIP section. She would not be needing a claim ticket.

  Lily got out of the car, amused at James, who was fawning all over me, while I gave him polite, monosyllabic brush-offs. The last thing on my wish list was a visit to a spa and salon. I wanted to pour my heart out to Lily—maybe even shed a melodramatic tear or two, while I had her sympathetic ear.

  James insisted we stay and at least have a drink with him if we weren’t going to the spa and, with an arm around each of our shoulders, he guided us to King Arthur’s Royal Pub. Our drinks arrived and we toasted each other.

  “Raise your glasses, girls,” James said. “It’s Mother’s Day in Africa.”

  On the one hand, I was still edgy and eager to get out of there. On the other, it was comforting to be in the shelter of a reproduction British, medieval style, wood paneled bar that was all warmth, stained glass and soft lights. With Lily seated on one side of me and Mr. Big Booming Personality on the other, I felt safe.

  I took a sip of hot Black Ceylon tea spiked with dark rum. Lily and James made small talk while I gazed at the array of exotic bottles behind the nearby bar.

  “So, good looking,” James said, turning to me, “How did you get here, anyway?”

  I looked up and, with no warning, burst into tears. Lily reached for a napkin and pressed it into my left hand. James jumped from his seat and ran his fingers through his hair, mumbling, “What did I say? What did I say?”

  In a minute, I composed myself and, sniffing, told them both my tale of woe. I cut it to a bare minimum and swore James to secrecy. There had been an in-house tragedy, French was now missing and I had been abducted.

  �
�I’m calling the police,” James said.

  “You’re doing no such thing,” I told him. I might be wiping tears from my face but I was not letting James stick his nose into my life.

  “They already know everything. They’re on the case. They’re got everything under control,” I said.

  “Like hell they do,” James replied. “I’ve half a mind to call the FBI. I have friends there, Maya. You know that.”

  “Absolutely not, James. If you do something like that, I swear, I’ll never speak to you again. Lily is my witness,” I answered, pointing to her.

  “If you think I’m going to sit here and do nothing, or maybe let Lily take you to your house or even hers, you are quite mistaken,” he answered, in a huff.

  “Let’s enjoy a moment with each other and our drinks. We can discuss the other in a little while,” Lily broke in, smiling, always the voice of diplomacy.

  I pulled myself together and, despite the circumstances, we spent a pleasant enough half hour together, with Lily and James deciding it would be best for Lily and me to stay here for the night, in one of James’s unoccupied suites. His crack security team would be watching over us. It did sound better than going home alone to my empty house. Lily phoned William, her husband, and told him that I needed her; she was staying with me tonight.

  James set everything up and, being James, began harping once again on his new spa. He insisted we go there now, be massaged and pampered so that we could relax, have room service in our suite afterwards, and get a good night’s sleep.

  I knew from experience, when James made up his mind, there was no point in trying to argue. We would be massaged, fed and then guarded in a top floor suite with all the bells and whistles. We would be as safe as gold bricks at Fort Knox. James would see to that.