Murder's Last Resort

by Marta Chausée

  La Croqueta served a shrimp scampi salad that approximated poetry. Tableside, the maitre d’ prepared and then served me prawns with shiitake mushrooms on a bed of aioli-drizzled fiddleheads. The delicate aroma of herbs and seasonings happily distracted me from David’s tension and Margie’s ceaseless chatter.

  Truth was, she was a little annoying. She was even more bright and bubbly than her normal perky self. Come to think of it, she had been nearly giddy every time I had run into her lately. For someone whose husband was working around the clock, she was far too happy. The obvious thought came to me—maybe she was glad that David was seldom home these days.

  Was it my imagination or did her face light up while Enzo prepared my scampi? I wanted to warn her. I wanted to tell her about being a hotel wife, but I could no sooner do that than teach her Russian verb conjugations over coffee and dessert. Every hotel wife had to find out these things on her own.

  She was either in it for the long haul, and learned to adjust to lots of alone time by building friendships with other hotel wives and filling her days with playing tennis or golf, getting manicures and pedicures and going to endless lunches with the gals, or she turned into a bitter little side show.

  She could cultivate a public persona as the accessory to a high profile man by devoting herself to meaningful charities and fundraisers, improving her husband’s and her own standing in the community, or she could ignore propriety and do her own thing, something she might later regret.

  A good hotelier didn’t notice his wife’s loneliness. His hotel was his life, his work, his wife and his mistress, all rolled into one. A hotel could keep a man busy every day of his life, around the clock, and could provide a bed at night, too.

  Every transfer from one property to another meant a fresh start from the ground up. Hotel wives paid their dues over and over again until their Honorary Lifetime Moving and Re-Locating cards lost their magnetic strips and had to be replaced. Still, it was a step up from being a suburban housewife.

  The hotel life included hobnobbing with politicians, dignitaries, royalty, the rich, the famous, and the very rich and the very famous. Turn down service and mints on the pillows each night weren’t bad, either, unless you fell asleep on them, drunk, like Philip Trotter once did. He woke up in the morning, looked in the mirror and began to scream. He thought his left ear had hemorrhaged and death by brain tumor was imminent.

  I wanted to tell Margie about my own near-death hotel wife experience. I wanted to tell her about a Rooms Exec in Aruba, who had been attentive and solicitous while French worked himself into exhaustion, getting the first mega Sapphire Resort in the Caribbean off the ground. Mr. Rooms Exec was Johnny-on-the-spot and always at my side with tea, sympathy, Remos Fizzes and open-topped jeep rides along the empty highways that followed the coastline of the rocky, little island. While French worked twenty-four hours a day in the resort, this man gave nearly the same amount of time to working on me.

  Johnnycakes was aboveboard and on the up and up until one evening that ended with a midnight ride in a classic, convertible XKE. My guard was down as we sat, watching the waves lap against the shore. I felt a tender kiss on the nape of my neck and it felt good. With a sick shiver, I realized I had to get back to French—now. I belonged with him and not this bottom-feeder.

  I wanted to say to her, “Margie dear, I know how easy it is to feel flattered by someone’s attention, when Mistress Hotel takes your man, wraps him in her velvety black-out drapes and fluffy down comforters, leaving you alone at home, night after night.” But I knew she wouldn’t hear me. She had to walk this road alone, make her own decisions.

  These were my private thoughts at lunch as Margie’s doe eyes followed Enzo around the restaurant. Enzo’s interest in Margie, every time he visited our table, was also unmistakable. Dave was oblivious to the vibe. When the absurdity of the situation became too much for me, I looked the other way and right at a piece of Death by Chocolate, a signature Silver Pines torte.

  Dave, Margie and I shared a slice of the hazelnut and truffle concoction with espressos on the side. Nobody’s troubles, not Dave’s, Margie’s, Enzo’s or even my own, were ever worth missing a good dessert.

  Chapter 41

  When lunch ended, I called Jake and he walked me back to the house. He checked each room, closet, bathtub and under each bed, then gave me a sweet little kiss on the forehead and locked me in. I said goodbye to him and was flooded with a wave of sadness.

  Why were two Sapphire guys dead? Why was French still AWOL? Why was I here alone with my arm in a sling and my spirits in a slump? Why did Margie have to look so happy every time Enzo walked by? Why was David so blind to it?

  I knew the answers. They had to do with hotels, ambition, sleazy men, neglected women, greed and personal grudges. Those were the biggies. Why then, could I still not put any meaningful clues together and find the murderer? I felt like a great big flop, a loser and a lonely one at that.

  Normally, this would be a perfect time to throw myself a little pity party; I could feel my throat start to constrict and the tears welling, but the phone rang and ended all that. I cleared my throat and said, “Hello?” a few times to the beams in the ceiling before I picked up the phone for real. No use in sounding desperate for a call; it might ruin my image.

  French! It was French! Could it be true?

  “French, I can’t believe it. Is it really you?”

  He sounded unlike himself. His voice was muffled and it came from far away. “Maya, Maya, it’s the man in the moon,” he half-rumbled, half-spoke.

  Why was he using this silly code? I knew it was him. “I hear you. Where are you?” I managed to blurt out but he spoke right over me.

  “Meet me late tonight, early tomorrow, in the wee hours. The wee hours.”

  “Okay. Sure.” I knew which wee hours he meant. All I needed was a place.

  “Meet me where the egret spreads his white, feathered wings. Alone. Tell no one.”

  “Okay,” I said, but he was already gone.

  I got it. I knew he was keeping it brief, in case the line was tapped.

  I was so excited, I wanted to scream out loud. I didn’t dare. Who knew what else was bugged around the house? Instead, I locked myself in the bathroom, turned on the shower full blast and, with the water rushing like winter run-off from the top of Mt. McKinley, I laughed, yelled, whooped and hollered and did a little Maya dance of joy.

  Chapter 42

  I wanted to ask Alana some questions. The last few times I had seen her, bad things had happened to me afterwards. I called Lily to come with me, even though I knew Jake stood at the ready to escort me. No way was Alana going to be unguarded around Jake. She hardly knew him. Alana knew Lily from activities we had enjoyed together as corporate wives.

  I called Alana and made a date to meet her at 9:00 p.m. in her suite. In the meantime, I had a lot to do. I wanted to go over the photocopied notes again. Maybe I’d missed something. I climbed on the bed and pored over them yet another time.

  One might have thought I’d be too excited about seeing French to fall asleep. One might have thought my brain would be on overload, trying to find the solution to this vexing human puzzle. One might have thought those things, but one would have been wrong.

  I had been running on nervous energy and too little sleep for too many days in a row so that now, I was out like a kitten. Was the Egyptian goddess Isis the guardian of kittens? If so, it was into her arms I fell.

  I dreamed that I plowed a go-cart into my therapist’s pet elephant, an elephant that had been in the family for years. The elephant exploded when I hit him and pieces of grey elephant hide flew into every corner of the room.

  Just then, the house phone rang and my head nearly cracked in two. I was too out of it to pick up the phone. Plus, I was afraid it would be French, telling me he had changed his mind and wouldn’t meet me later.

  So, I didn’t answer, but let it go to message. I wished I had not. Hitting an elephant in a dream was better
than being hit with this, a man’s disembodied voice, speaking in a monotone, “Maya, you are so God damned dumb. Keep your stupid nose out of this.”

  Sleep was out of the question now. Isis wouldn’t be cradling me again any time soon.

  Chapter 43

  I was thrilled to see it was after five. Jake would soon be back from work, so I fired up ye olde tea kettle. I had fallen back asleep after all and gotten a few good solid hours of good shut eye. I would need them, as it turned out, but I didn’t know that as I got out the tea cups and shortbread biscuits for Jake’s and my little snack.

  I leaned against the kitchen counter and took mental inventory, as I watched the blue flame flicker along the bottom edge of the kettle. I had one dead Sapphire president and one dead Sapphire regional veep. I had two mourning widows, or so it appeared, some cuckoo on the loose who liked to play with bullets, belts and pantyhose, a kidnapper, Monotone Man on my voice mail and a husband somewhere, who was slated to make a cameo appearance later tonight.

  Who woulda thunk it? When we moved to Orlando three years ago, it was the sleepiest little mouse hole on earth. It just went to show how wrong a girl from L.A. could be. Weirdos were not limited to the streets of West Hollywood, after all.

  The field of suspects was wide open. Either of the grieving widows could be a magician with pantyhose. Frankie Messina was a shady guy who would probably not let a little thing like murder stop him from getting ahead. He was tight with Philip Trotter. Trotter might kill to ascend to the Sapphire throne. Once he was the man, he’d be handing out plum properties like poker chips. Those closest to him would benefit; they’d be able to pick the resort of their choice. He and Messina could be in cahoots.

  So many people within the corporation stood to benefit by Red’s death. Only one person benefitted from Vacaar’s death. That would be Mona, but if my feminine intuition was right, she was innocent. She carried on enough, crying through her mascara, to be real. Something told me that she and her Albanian prince charming had been gaga about each other.

  While waiting for Jake, I listened to Monotone Man’s recorded message a few more times. There was something about the message, something familiar about the voice, something, something. What? What? My muddled mind tossed the clues around like Enzo would have tossed a Caesar salad.

  The phone rang again. What would it be this time? Each time it rang, the red light flickered. I watched and scratched my tummy before picking up. The welts below my ribs were back with a vengeance.

  “Maya, this is Mona.” Her voice was sad, teary. “I’m so confused. Who would want to kill Vacaar? Who would want to kill Torrey? I need your help. Can I come see you tomorrow afternoon? I’m losing it. What do you say?”

  “I say fine. Come by around 2:00 p.m. tomorrow, after lunch.”

  We rung off and I wondered why she had called me? We had known one another for years, but were never terribly close. Did she know something she wanted to share with me? She claimed to require my help and that was worrisome.

  I needn’t have worried too much. A lot more soufflé would be baked, rise and fall before 2:00 p.m. tomorrow.

  Just then, Jake walked in. I couldn’t wait to spring my mystery phone message on him for some feedback.

  “Hi, Jake! Get over here,” I gestured to him with enthusiasm.

  “What happened to hello?” he asked.

  “Hello! Now get over here,” I said, continuing to gesture.

  “Gee whiz, Maya, hold your horses. You’re flapping your wings like a hen protecting her chicks. What could be so important?”

  I played him the recording a few times. He made clucking sounds and tilted his head to one side, looking a lot like the RCA Victor dog.

  “Sounds to me, crazy hen,” he said, fluttering his wrists to mock me, “like you better get smart and solve this case pronto.”

  Chapter 44

  Jake relaxed elsewhere in the house after tea and I went back to studying the files we had stolen. Lily arrived at 8:00 p.m., armed with salads and sandwiches from Tammy’s.

  “You don’t expect me to eat now, do you really?” I asked her.

  “Why not?” she said. “Look, Jake’s interested. His nose is twitching already.”

  It was true. Men could eat any time, I guessed. I picked at a few green things with little enthusiasm. Lily and I prepared to walk together to Alana’s suite. Jake was to drop us at her door, then disappear nearby and wait for us. I showed French’s small hunting knife, tucked inside my waistband, to Lily.

  “What in bloody hell?” she said. “What do you plan to do with that, gut a fish?”

  “Oh, ha ha,” I said. “I don’t want to go there unarmed.”

  “You look foolish, Maya,” Lily said. “Leave it in French’s sock drawer. I’ve never seen a sinister side of Alana, but even if she had one, she’d be no match for us. Have you forgotten my black belt?”

  “Why do you think you’re going with me?” I asked. “Still, a black belt is no match for a bullet.”

  Lily scoffed, “And a knife is?”

  I followed her orders, we locked the doors and started walking to the hotel. Sometimes, it felt like most of my life was spent walking between the house and the hotel. Sometimes, it felt like most of my life was spent making nice-nice with near strangers, and forcing myself to look interested in stuff that made me yawn. Sometimes, it felt like I was married to a phantom and, without my friends, my life would have been empty and meaningless.

  I thought about my buddies, Jake and Lily, and how I loved them. We had enjoyed many adventures together over the years, both here and in Hollywood, London, and North Carolina. We’d get through this one, too. A modern day Three Musketeers, that was us.

  Chapter 45

  The interview with Alana did not go well. She was as closed up as a burger stand on the beach in January. Lily and I made chit chat and tried to get her to open up. She offered us drinks and we accepted.

  She joined us and held her liquor. Being a cheap drunk myself, I was starting to feel woozy. I was little and lightweight. My blood alcohol level rose faster than hers or Lily’s.

  The only thing Alana did was sigh out loud every few seconds and twist her big fat diamond wedding ring around her finger. In all the time I had known her, I had never seen her do that before.

  After about twenty minutes, she screwed up her courage and asked us, “You don’t think someone made a mistake, do you?”

  “How so?” I ventured.

  “I mean, you don’t think someone meant to shoot me and not you, do you, Maya?” she continued.

  “How could that be?” I asked her, “You and I couldn’t look more different. Who would mix up a petite brunette with a pedigreed blonde?”

  “Someone angry, someone bitter,” she answered. “What about someone who resents us both?”

  “Is there such a person?” I asked and looked over at Lily. She shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “What a bunch of rot.”

  We sat there like three dummies, pondering that possibility. I began to feel uneasy and wished we could leave. Both Alana and I had a past with Sapphire Resorts but now, only one of us had a future.

  It was impossible to avoid the obvious. “So, what will you do once you get back to Chicago?” Lily asked.

  “I haven’t the vaguest notion,” Alana said. “I’ll have to get Red into the ground, then there will be the obligatory face off with his adult children from his first marriage. That won’t be pretty. They’re going to want everything he left behind except me. I’m a big stumbling block to their getting wealthy as quickly as they’d like.”

  Another sigh and then she said, “Don’t get me wrong, but I’m just not in the mood for company tonight. I have no new ideas that might shed light on this topic. I’m as clueless as you are, maybe more so. Let’s all get a good night’s sleep and call it a day.” With that, she led us to the door, gave us each an air hug and kiss, and sent us on our way.

  “What a bloody waste of time,” Lily said to me as
we walked away.

  “You’re not kidding,” I agreed. I felt stupid for asking Jake and Lily to come along. Nothing had happened. What did I think would happen? Did I think Alana would cave and confess that she had always hated Red and Vacaar, too?

  That had not been likely. Hearing about her adult stepchildren made me consider them in a new light. Could one of them be skulking around Orlando, trying to find a way to cash in on dear old Dad? I got the sense that Alana considered herself a target, and maybe she had a point. The possible culprit pool just got bigger and I was in the deep end, treading water.

  Chapter 46

  Jake, Lily and I were trudging back to my house, talking between us, when a large net fell over us. A net? What was this, Jungle Land Wild Animal Park? Men sprang from hiding places and surrounded us.

  Even as the unreality of it hit me, we were falling over each other, groping at mesh, trying to get back on our feet and not succeeding. I had the weird sensation of being in a bad B movie. Nothing sophisticated about it. This stupid maneuver smacked of local yokel dumbasses. Who were they and where was the Orlando PD when the three musketeers needed them most?

  It was a moonless night and this part of the path, between the hotel and my house, was shadowy, a perfect place to string a net between some tall palms. The three of us wriggled and struck out at our captors with a fierceness they did not expect. Between kicking, screaming and throwing blind punches, we were doing a decent job of dispatching these guys. They were buffoons, I could see that, all dressed in black with pantyhose over their heads, of all things. How fitting, I thought, with a grim sense of irony.