Murder's Last Resort

by Marta Chausée

  Then I remembered. That popping noise. My shoulder. My linen suit. “Is my suit ruined?” I tried to say to the hungry kid but all that came out was a garbled slur of brain salad. He removed the burger from his face, adjusted something at my side, and told me to rest.

  The next time I woke up, I was still fuzzy and now in a hospital bed. Two men were talking in low tones nearby. I turned my head and squinted to my left. It looked like Jake and Dave Enderly, seated on chairs next to me.

  I coughed, then said, “Hey guys, what are you doing here?”

  They popped up from their seats. David handed me a teddy bear.

  “Here, this is for you. You could have been killed, Maya,” he said, sounding more accusatory than sympathetic. His face looked haggard and his color wasn’t good.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the teddy in my arms. “You don’t look well.”

  “I don’t feel well, thank you. I’ve got a lot on my mind, but I had to come here to make sure you were all right.”

  “I’m the one who found you, dangling on the bridge over the pool,” Jake broke in.

  “What?” I didn’t remember that.

  “Yeah, you were just hanging around—” he said and laughed.

  “Ha, ha. Very clever,” I said.

  Dave looked anxious. “Maya, I’ve got to get back to the hotel. Get well and hurry back, okay?”

  “Okay, David. Thanks for the teddy,” I said and he left.

  Jake was filling me in on what had happened and how he had called the paramedics, when he stood up and said, “You have a visitor. I think I’ll go stretch my legs for a moment.”

  He left and another man entered. “Hello, Beautiful!” The bright hospital lights silhouetted his frame in the doorway and my grogginess made my vision a little dimmer than usual.

  “French?” I said, “Is that you?” For a split second, my heart dared to hope. I felt a shudder of comfort and joy inside of me. But, as I focused, I realized it was only James. Not that it wasn’t nice to see him but, considering the circumstances, I would have preferred to see French. Poor James always came in second. He always placed, but never won.

  He approached me with his left hand behind his back and, with a flourish, he presented me with a bouquet of roses, pink Gerber daisies, dianthus and freesia. He had remembered my favorites.

  I took a deep breath. Ahhh, it was nice to feel loved even if it wasn’t by the right guy.

  “Thank you, James,” I said. “How did you know I was here? I didn’t know I was here.”

  “Good news travels fast,” he said and paused for drama, “but bad news travels even faster.”

  He drew a chair up close to me, sat down and took my left hand gently in his. “Does it hurt when I hold your hand?” he asked with such sincerity in his puppy dog, brown eyes that I almost remembered what I had loved best about him. I felt a wee bit guilty, but his attention was giving my spirits a boost.

  Jake came back just then, saw us holding hands and cleared his throat. “So, James, just so super to see you,” he said, and they shook hands.

  “Here, Jake. Be a good guy and find a vase for these, will you?” James said, handing over the bouquet. Jake looked at me and rolled his eyes but, nonetheless, did as James asked.

  The two Js in my life had a long standing mutual dislike for each other. I hoped this visit wouldn’t give Jake the wrong idea about James and me.

  After a short while, I told James I was tired and needed to rest. He took the hint, promising to look in on me again, to see how I was doing.

  Jake returned and set the vase on the window sill. “What was that jackal doing sniffing around here, Maya? You haven’t taken up with him again, have you?”

  “What?” I said, surprise and reprimand heavy in my voice. “You surely know better than that.”

  He gave me a strange grin. I got the idea he didn’t believe me.

  “You know what?” he said, “when you get out of here, I’m going to stay with you until French gets back. You can’t talk me out of it, so don’t try. I don’t like any of this. None of it. You need a keeper, Maya.”

  What could I say? I winced pitifully, and gazed into his appraising blue eyes with adoring gratitude.

  “Jake,” I said, “you’re my hero. What would I do without you?”

  Chapter 38

  It was Wednesday morning. Jake had brought me home from the hospital last evening, still mildly sedated. I had slept off the drugs and realized I had no idea what was going on with French, the murder investigation, or the world, in general, but I was itching to get back out there amongst them. Jake knew me well. He took the day off just to keep me in his sights at home. There was no hope of escape.

  He had called Lily earlier and she was wandering around my house, as well. They were relaxed, knowing that even though my shoulder had been only grazed, I was in no shape to jump off my deck or crawl through a bathroom window to give them the slip. As I cleaned up and got dressed, I could hear their animated conversation coming from the kitchen.

  I had missed Monday night’s conference supper and all of yesterday’s events. Every meeting I did not attend was a lost opportunity to find the murderer or murderers. There wasn’t a whole lot left of the Sapphire conference. In a few days, the visiting execs would be straggling off our property and heading back to their own resorts and hotels. So many opportunities to observe my list of suspects were gone, and I was missing a valuable one right now. Added to the pain in my left shoulder, I was feeling grumpy, out of sorts and, therefore, not exactly good company.

  I was resting on my bed, feeling sorry for myself when the doorbell rang. I heard Jake open the front door and welcome Rick Wells and Tom Koenig. I put on my happy face, exited the bedroom, and greeted my guests.

  They told me they were sorry to see me laid up like this—they now had an extra detail devoted to just me, security had been beefed up, etc., etc. Oh, sure.

  For a moment, I entertained the thought that they might have shot me themselves to keep me out of the action. Truth was, I had gotten on somebody’s nerves, someone who wanted me out of the picture more than even Rick and Tom did. Was it the same somebody who had dragged me to the Disney dumpster three days ago? So much had happened that it seemed like half a lifetime ago. And then there was the issue of my missing husband, Mr. Hubert French.

  “Maya, as you probably realize,” Rick’s voice interrupted my musings, “the Sapphire conference is drawing to a close. It was impossible to keep the lid on this thing any longer, so, while you were in the hospital, we interviewed the top tiers of visiting execs to get their statements. So far, the crime lab has come up empty. There are no fingerprints, no lipstick marks on glasses, no shoe prints, nothing. Whoever the murderer is, he knows his stuff. He may have killed before. In fact, we may be looking at murder for hire.”

  “She,” I interrupted.

  “What do you mean?” Rick answered.

  “She,” I repeated. “I’m telling you, your murderer is a she. And she knew both men up close and personal. I’m sure of it.”

  Rick slowly nodded his head but Tom almost imperceptibly shook his. Rick was at least doing me the courtesy of pretending to give my opinion some merit.

  “Are you letting everyone go home?” I asked, trying to conceal my disbelief and disappointment at this turn of events.

  “That’s about all we can do,” Rick said. “We have no legal grounds to keep anyone here,” he continued. “Tomorrow morning we’ll tear down Meeting Room C and take all our files back downtown with us.”

  This time it was me who slowly nodded.

  “Before we go,” Tom spoke up, “have you been in contact with French?”

  “No, not really,” I said, figuring it wasn’t a total lie since I hadn’t even spoken to him.

  Rick jumped on that. “What does ‘Not really’ mean?”

  “I called Rains at Church Lane Depot on a hunch. French had been by to say hello but that was all Ted knew.”

  Now alert, they
looked like two dogs responding to a high pitched whistle. I knew what they would do next. They would jump into their cruiser, put the lights on with no siren and race up Interstate 4 to shake down Ted for more information. I must call and give him a heads up that Laurel and Hardy were on their way. I was sorry to have drawn him into this, but that’s the way it goes sometimes. And that’s how taxpayers’ money gets wasted.

  Rick and Tom made their excuses and got up to leave. I walked them to the front door. Adios, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.

  “Jake! Jake and Lily! We need to talk,” I called, as I re-entered the living room. They had disappeared into the den while the officers were visiting. They trotted back and we had a pow-wow.

  “Jake, Lily, what do you say we break into Murder Central before they tear it down tomorrow morning? There might be some clues in their files to help solve this case. They haven’t told me anything they know—I can feel it.”

  “Is this necessary?” Jake asked, looking to Lily for support.

  “What else have we got? We’ll never be able to access the police files any other way,” I answered.

  “Are you in, Lily?” I asked her.

  “Does the pope wear a hat?” she asked me and continued, “Are you sure you’re up to this, though, Maya?” There was concern in Lily’s voice.

  “Don’t you worry about me,” I said, “This isn’t even a flesh wound—I bet it’s not as bad as getting a tattoo.” I waved my slinged left arm.

  “I’m not letting you two go alone so I guess I’m in, too,” Jake said. “How do I let you get me wrapped up in these things?” He looked toward the heavens, shook his head and whispered, “Lord help me.”

  “Oh, baloney,” I countered. “You guys love this stuff. How dull your little lives would be without me. Lock me in here and go home to change. See you later tonight.”

  Chapter 39

  We decided to break into Meeting Room C around midnight. I asked Jake to do the pre-mission legwork. As a Sapphire employee, he was able to pop his head in and ask the police if they needed anything from room service or housekeeping. They declined, but he used the moment to find out that they were packing up for the night around 10. He reported that the guys were still in there, but the vibes were very low key.

  At 11:00 p.m., Lily, Jake and I were gathered together in my house, dressed in black and wearing tennies. We sipped at the strong cups of tea I had brewed before they arrived.

  “I take it you want us to be alert,” Lily said, as she hoisted her cup and added, “Chin chin.”

  “That was the general idea,” I answered.

  “This tea is going to go right through us,” Jake said.

  “That’s why we’re gathered here at 11:00 p.m. Plenty of time to have a case of nerves and get it out of our systems, so to speak. Did you ever notice that this house has five restrooms?” I answered.

  Lily changed the subject. “What do you think we’ll find?”

  “Probably some files we can copy. Let’s pray that the notes they took in the interviews are still lying around. They must have created files on everyone they interviewed and what about French? They may have some info on him that they’re not sharing.”

  “You’ve probably had this same thought: even if they took great notes, would they know how to interpret them?” Jake asked.

  “That, dear Jake,” I said, “is why we must find those notes.”

  * * *

  We walked through the reception area on the ballroom level. It was not a hot ticket at 11:55 p.m. We didn’t need a smoke bomb in order to create a distraction while we jimmied the door open with a crowbar.

  No, this operation was a lot more laid back than that. Jake used his master key and the three of us waltzed right into the darkened room. We had brought flashlights so we wouldn’t have to put on the ceiling lights and call attention to ourselves if security strolled by. Once we were in, I took off the sweater I had tied around my waist and stuffed it into the crack under the door. We were free to roam, but I didn’t want to hang around too long.

  Eureka! We found the files right away, stacks of them, filled with yellow legal sheets covered in handwriting. I was doing a victory dance when Jake began waving his arms like a scarecrow gone wild.

  What did he want? Was he joining me in my dance? He put a finger to his lips. Then I heard it, my heart pounding like a bomb that might explode in my chest, as I held my breath. We all doused our lights. Footsteps paused in front of the door. I felt light-headed. No, I can’t faint. I have to be strong. Two men talked, rattled the doorknob, then moved on.

  A minute later, Jake was the first to put on his flashlight. His pupils were enormous with fear. Lily was leaning against a desk with her face in her hands.

  “That was too close for comfort,” Jake said. “Maya, Lily, go, go, go, go! Let’s each turn on a printer and make copies, then get the hell out of here before they come back.”

  It took forever for those sleepy old printers to fire up but, when they did, so did we. We copied everything, then made like hockey players and got the puck out of there.

  Chapter 40

  It was Thursday morning. Florida sunshine streamed through the French doors of my bedroom and onto the bed, where I sifted through the photocopied files.

  “Are you decent?” Jake asked through the bedroom door.

  “Sometimes I’m profane,” I countered. “Come on in.”

  “Good morning, Maya,” Jake said, as he elbowed his way in, carrying a tray with a teacup and fresh berries in a footed glass bowl.

  “So, Jake, how is it we never got married?” I asked, thinking about how much I loved this man.

  “Maya, Maya, Maya. Don’t you remember we’ve agreed never to speak of that?” he said.

  “Oh yeah, that’s right. I’m missing the proper attachments. I remember now,” I answered with a smile.

  He set the tray down and told me he was leaving for work. He gave me strict instructions not to leave the house nor to open the front door. I agreed and Jake left, just as the phone began to jingle.

  It was David Enderly. He wanted me to come to the hotel to meet him for lunch in a few hours.

  “What’s up, Dave?” I asked.

  “I need your advice on something and I also want to tell you a few things. I’d rather not talk on the phone. Please meet me at La Croqueta.”

  “Okay,” I said, hoping he’d have some insight on someone or something. I dialed Jake in his office. He said he would escort me to La Croqueta, our gourmet restaurant on the ballroom level.

  That settled, I took my time looking through the files. I made separate stacks for each person interviewed and added notes of my own where applicable. There was a lot of reading but, in spite of that, I learned very little new.

  I was disappointed that the police had not conducted thorough interviews with Alana and Mona, the two widows. Was this the Achilles tendon of southern gentlemen? I had no such weakness and became determined to speak to Alana and Mona myself.

  When Jake came for me, he asked what I had found in the files.

  “Next to nothing,” I admitted.

  “That’s a disappointment,” he said. “And to think, we nearly died of heart failure getting them.”

  “Yup,” I said, discouraged.

  “Did they have any news on French?” Jake asked in a hopeful tone.

  “Nope,” I said.

  * * *

  We entered the restaurant and Jake talked to the maitre d’, Enzo Rossini. Soon we were following him to Enderly’s table. Dave rose, shook hands with Jake, gave him the obligatory invitation to join us and Jake did the ritual, “No, no, I couldn’t—I have too much work to do, but thank you,” before he left.

  “Hi Dave, what’s up?”

  “You’re asking me?” he said, with a puzzled look in his eyes. “I invited you here to ask you the same thing. I was only hoping I could wheedle some information from you.” He looked around like a cornered animal. “I am not up to this challenge, Maya. That’s
off the record, of course.”

  I nodded but didn’t interrupt what seemed like it was going to be a good rant.

  “First Torrey, then Vacaar are murdered, then you get shot. What in the hell is going on here? This is supposed to be a resort, a place where people come to relax and play with their families. How can we expect people to keep coming here, when people are dying and getting shot?” He spoke quietly, yet I could hear a thin edge of hysteria in his voice.

  “I want to ask you something, Maya.”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you ever heard anything about Frankie Messina being connected to the mob?” Dave again looked around, as though he were being watched.

  “Sounds corny, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m serious,” he said.

  “Okay, Dave, I’ll be straight with you. Yes, talk like that does follow him around. He’s always given me the creeps,” I added.

  “I knew it!” Dave said, with a note of satisfaction in his voice.

  The waiter interrupted and took our orders, not that I expected to eat much. Dave’s angst was contagious and this conversation was making me tense. Was that an itch I felt on my torso?

  Just then, I saw Dave’s wife, Margie, out of the corner of my eye. She walked up to our table and asked if she could join us. David said yes, then jumped up and kissed her cheek, pulling out a chair for her to be seated.

  Margie enquired as to my wellbeing, clucking sympathetically and showing great interest in my bandaged arm. The waiter took her order and I asked her about her kids and school. She went on and on about them. Then, she told me about their summer sports programs and what good swimmers they were.

  The more she talked, the more uncomfortable Dave looked. I reckoned he had told her everything that had happened at the hotel. Now that she was sitting with us, he was afraid she would give something away that was supposed to be confidential.

  Did it matter? Soon, with the police taking the files downtown, everything would be all over Orlando. She continued to babble, while we waited for our lunch to arrive.