Murder's Last Resort

by Marta Chausée

  There was a knock at the front door. Keeping my promise to Jake to never open the door uppermost in my mind, I got up and peeked at the door. I saw a tall shadow. A shadow of a shapely woman, who was tossing her hair back over her shoulder. I stepped forward for more of a peek. It was Mona Luzi.

  She was supposed to meet me at 2:00 p.m. What could she want here now? She was a suspect but my gut said that she was innocent.

  “Come in, Mona,” I said as I opened the front door wide. “Sit down and join me. I was just having a cup of tea. Give me one minute, though, I’m on a call in the other room.” In my office, the phone was still playing Musak. I hung up and went back to the living room.

  She was standing with her back to me, one long, cool drink of water. Ah, to be a leggy, Danish blonde with the face of an angel. What her life must be like, I could only imagine. Doors must open for her every where she goes. What was I thinking? Against Jake's strict orders, hadn't I just opened my door for her?

  “So, what brings you here now?” I asked. “I thought we were getting together later?”

  She turned quickly to face me. I had surprised her, snooping through our floor-to-ceiling bookcase. “I’m sorry, Maya. I took a chance you’d be in now. I couldn’t wait. I’m so restless these days.”

  “That’s understandable,” I answered.

  “Here, I want to give you something,” Mona stretched out her hand. She gave me a little box, wrapped in pink tissue paper with a silver ribbon. I set it on the coffee table.

  “Come, sit down,” I said. “Do you like Golden Assam?”

  “Oh sure, sure,” she said, sounding distracted, as she folded herself into one of the living room club chairs. Her long legs in linen shorts stretched forever in front of her.

  I watched her from the kitchen as I prepared the tea. She had a residual sadness about her, much like Alana, yet she was relaxed. She didn’t give off the vibes of a strangler or a cold-blooded, pistol-wielding executioner. I walked in with her tea cup and sat down in the club chair beside her.

  “Go ahead, Maya, open it,” she prompted me. “I want to see if you like it.”

  For this very reason, I hated receiving gifts. I tried to cultivate neutral expressions, but people told me they could read my emotions on every feature of my face. Faking enthusiasm for things I didn’t like was almost impossible.

  No worries this time. I carefully opened the wrapping and pulled the lid off the little white box to reveal a sterling silver brooch. It was a stack of three teacups on a saucer. From behind the stack, a plump rabbit appeared with a goofy smile on his face. The cups were enameled in bright, happy colors and the rabbit was enameled white. His eyes were cabochon rubies.

  “It’s beautiful, Mona! Why ever did you think to give me this?” I asked with heartfelt enthusiasm.

  “Haven’t you heard? I make jewelry. Everyone at Sapphire knows how much you love tea, so I made it for you. I brought it from home and, with all the troubles, I almost forgot to give it to you. Do you like it?”

  “Like it? I love it! My favorite book is Alice in Wonderland. You couldn’t have made me a more perfect gift. I’ll cherish it always.”

  Her face broke into a wide smile. “I was hoping you’d like it.”

  I gave her a quick hug and placed the box with the pin on the coffee table in front of us. It was hard to think of someone so sweet and talented as being capable of murder. Still, since she was here, I thought I should ask her a thing or two.

  “Mona,” I started, “I need to ask you a few things. Were you and Vacaar close with Red and Alana?”

  “No, not especially. The guys worked together and we saw them at the usual Sapphire functions. Other than the occasional lunch with a bunch of Sapphire wives, Alana and I didn’t get together much.”

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed.

  “It was Vacaar,” she continued, “He was closer with Alana than I was. They shared a serious interest in golf and classic cars.”

  “Is that so?” I said. I hadn’t known that. Maybe Alana and Vacaar had become close, but not quite as close as Vaccar thought? Maybe Alana had used Vacaar to get rid of Redmund and then, when Vacaar had became a liability, she had found a way to get rid of him?

  “I know this is painful, Mona,” I forged ahead. “Can you imagine who would have wanted to kill Vacaar?”

  “I can’t. I really can’t. I think about it every waking moment of the day and night and I have plenty of those. It’s not like I’ve slept very well since Vacaar—” and her voice broke. She looked away and put the cup to her lips, taking a shaky sip of her tea.

  A nice display of grief. It almost seemed scripted. After a little more conversation, she got up to leave. I walked her to the door and thanked her again for the beautiful pin. We air hugged and she strode gracefully toward the gate, like the tanned, blonde, ex-super model that she was.

  Chapter 51

  The Sapphire corporate execs would only be here for another day and a half. My sense of inner frantic was mounting. I was applying calamine lotion by the bucket, but the fiery red welts on my midriff gave me no peace.

  I paced back and forth on the travertine tiles in the entryway of my house, scratching myself as I walked. I didn’t expect my guardian angel Jake for a while. As I paced, I talked out loud, summarizing the clues I had gathered. Had someone been watching me from outside, the men in white coats might have been called to take me away.

  I had rung Alana earlier and invited her for a bite to eat at Papa’s Place. I planned to ask her about everyone who was still breathing on my original suspect list.

  I intended to talk with Frankie Messina, too, but how? That might require some finesse. Dave Enderly had phoned and told me that Frankie was locked in his suite, both distraught at Linda’s death and also angry at Rick and Tom for shaking him down, as though he were Linda’s murderer. What an ego.

  Rick and Tom wanted to haul Frankie to jail downtown but Dave assured them that Frankie was fine in his suite and would stay on property. I’d figure out how to get an audience with him later. Right now, I made a reservation for two, overlooking the lake, at Papa’s.

  I changed into a melon colored silk and linen blend suit and slipped on some low-heeled sandals. Jake came back and escorted me to the restaurant. On the way, we ran into Lauren White. She had a black, leather portfolio tucked under one arm, and clippity-clopped on her dainty heels past the pool area toward the side entrance of the hotel lobby.

  “Hi Lauren!” I greeted her. “Where are you going, at this time of day?”

  “Oh, hi, Maya! I’m taking a report to David. He needs the numbers on Tuesday’s shindigs,” she told me, then looked down at the uneven flagstone path as she moved away.

  “Keep your eyes open, my pretty,” I said.

  “Shut up, Maya! You’re giving me the creeps!” She gave a fake shiver.

  The walkway split into two; she went to the left, to the hotel, and Jake and I took the winding, uphill path on the right to Papa’s. I was not going to spare Alana’s feelings at Papa’s Place. I had been ueber kind so far and handled her with jeweler’s gloves but now I was going to look right into her lupine blue eyes and get serious with the questions. It wouldn’t exactly be a drilling but it wouldn’t be a cream puff tasting, either.

  Later tonight, our disco, Orange 43, would be the site of the last evening event of the conference. I was going to get into Chloe Trotter’s face, lovely as it was, to see what I could see. I hadn't focused much on Philip and Chloe, yet they might be the couple most inspired to create a new life for themselves as President and Mrs. Sapphire Resorts.

  In the last eight hours, no new corpses had been found. Maybe Linda Messina was going to be the last person killed, but I had a hunch more trouble waited ahead.

  Whoever killed Linda did so for a different reason than whoever killed Redmund and Vacaar. Yes, the method had been different, that would be obvious to a fifth grader. But more than that, her killing was blah and by the numbers. It lacked a certai
n je ne sais quoi that the first two had demonstrated.

  Just as I turned the corner to Papa’s Place, I tripped over a new sculpture. It was a goose with eight tiny goslings, all clustered around mama. They were sculpted of green jasper or marble or granite or whatever sculptors use to sculpt little creatures that end up in the corners of footpaths on resort properties. This sculpture was nearly invisible, nestled amongst the ivy and jasmine.

  Good lord, who placed it there, where it can hardly be seen and why? The sculpture garden should have been renamed the obstacle course. More than once I had scuffed the toes of sandals, pumps and boots on wayward sculptures and I wasn’t the only one. I had seen David Enderly almost take a flyer the other day. I had seen guests get tripped up, as well. To me, the sculptures were too big a liability in exchange for giving the hotel a little class. They provided guests with a handy reason to launch a law suit, which would finance their next vacation and then some.

  Maybe I should contact my lawyer. But no, he was busy keeping French and me out of jail. I also reminded myself it was poor form to sue the hand that fed French and me, as I rubbed my sore toes.

  One evening, French and I had been entertaining the Sultan of Barwani and two of his favorite wives at Papa’s. As we left the restaurant together, I looked over at Hassa—he had asked me to call him by his first name—and blam! I landed right on my face. My toe had nudged the toe of a cast iron armadillo, newly placed at the edge of the path, and I dropped like a penny down a wishing well.

  The Sultan rushed to help me back up, as did his veiled and concerned wives. French asked if I was all right, but he probably wanted to crawl behind the nearest sculpture—a large, wild boar in repose. None of Hassa’s wives had tripped and fallen, only Maya.

  I got the last laugh, though. Much to French’s annoyance, Hassa sent me fifty, long-stemmed, yellow roses the next morning for friendship and maybe for how my skirt had flown up to my waist as I fell. If he had not been full up at four wives, I'm sure I would have gotten an offer from him.

  Today, the hostess at Papa’s greeted me with the manufactured, fawning smile trained into all Sapphire resort employees and seated me at my table. As I waited for Alana, I looked around the room. It was humming like a well-tuned Porsche. Papa’s was alive with the music of people’s voices and their laughter, accompanied by the sounds of glasses, silverware and plates. Busy servers were running hither and yon. Sommeliers, with their little silver wine spoons dangling from chains on their velvet vests, were showing expensive bottles of wine to their grape-loving customers. Tantalizing aromas wafted in the air.

  The hostess led an elderly, unkempt gent in wrinkled, baggy clothing to my table. I was about to protest when he sat down and, in a voice that I recognized, said, “Hi Maya! What do you think?”

  I almost slid from my perch. For a moment, I could only stare. Flabbergasted, I said, “I think you’re having an out of body experience. What, in the kingdom of heaven, are you doing in that get up?”

  Chapter 52

  “I’m scared to be me right now. I can’t believe you’re tooling around this property as though nothing unusual were going on,” Alana said.

  “I’m sorry. What did you just say?” I was too distracted by her get-up to pay attention to the words coming out of her mustachioed mouth.

  “I said,” she continued, with just a hint of exasperation, “I’m afraid to be me right now. I thought it might be smart to go underground for a little while. Jacko does this all the time.”

  “Jacko? Who’s Jacko?” I asked, thinking Alana might have snapped her banana.

  You know—Jacko,” she said, lowering her voice as she looked around the room, her blue eyes darting from under bushy, old man eyebrows.

  “What? You mean Michael Jackson? Is that to whom you’re referring?” Now I sounded a tad exasperated.

  “Yes! That’s exactly who I mean. You know Red, MJ and I have been friends for years.”

  “I do?” I said, stupefied by this unexpected information.

  “Well, sure. We met through the Donald a few years ago at a charity affair in New York.”

  “Hey, I’m stuck out here in Wallyworld. What do I know?”

  She continued. “I told Jacko I’m wigged out.”

  “How? When?” I asked.

  “I called him on his private line. His secretary told me he was out here. What a coincidence, huh? He rented a horse farm in Ocala for a few days—brought some friends. You know he loves Disney, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I know he loves Disney. Everyone knows that. French has been trying to lure him onto our property since we opened, promising him everything but the moon on a sliver tray to entice him.”

  “Jacko got me this disguise. He had one of his people bring it over. He has several of these outfits. Variations on a theme. He always goes to Disney World dressed as an old man.”

  “Well, flip my frittata!” I said. “Not only is he not recognized, but he and his party get onto the rides first, using the wheelchair line.” I was both disgusted and jealous.

  French and I often kidded that we should provide a “Rent-a-Grandparent” service next to the shuttle bus entrance of the hotel. Elderly locals could be made available, for a fee, to escort our guests to Disney. They could then sit in wheelchairs, cut the long lines for rides, and see five times what the average visitor to Disney could see in an eight hour day.

  It was a win-win idea; our guests would be happy and they would also be helping to boost the financial well-being of the local senior citizens. And now a do-it-yourselfer like Michael Jackson had figured this out on his own, the clever bastard. Maybe all is not lost. Maybe we can carry a line of Old Man Costumes at the gift shop.

  “Okay, on to another topic,” I said, regaining my mental footing, ”Why didn’t you tell me you and Linda Messina were thicker than thieves?”

  “Linda and I go back a long way. I thought you knew that, Maya. When we were young, we worked together in Chicago before I met Red and she met Frankie.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I was a bunny and Linda was the room manager.”

  “What?” I said, “You and Linda worked for Hugh Hefner?”

  “That’s right. She didn’t seem the type, did she? But, she was never a bunny,” she added quickly, “Always a manager.”

  “I see,” I said, seeing nothing.

  “I don’t like to think back on those days,” Alana said, after a pause. “Linda was aware that I didn’t like people knowing I had once worked for Hef. She and I kept one another’s secrets when we graduated to a bigger, more social world.”

  “Well, shoot, Alana. I never knew you were a bunny. You kept each other’s secrets well. Does French know?”

  “It’s possible,” she said and shrugged.

  I was sitting across from a hunched old man in baggy, well-worn pants, a tweed jacket, a white shirt with some genteel stains that bleach had not removed. He was wearing shabby, brown shoes, wire rimmed glasses and a little felt hat that made him look like Giopetto. And this was a former Playboy bunny. I am living in an insane asylum, I thought as I unconsciously shook my head. I have to strike out and make a new life for myself when this is over, I just have to.

  “All righty, then,” I said, motioning for her to go on.

  “Linda seemed to think she had seen something suspicious the other day,” Alana continued. “I actually thought she might have killed Red, so I played along.”

  “Oh?” I said.

  “Yes, Linda was my ‘friend,’ but she was always envious of me. I pretended not to notice. She also had a big crush on Red, and I know he took advantage of her feelings from time to time.”

  “Ugh,” my lip curled.

  “Yes, Maya. I’m sure you feel disgusted. You don’t understand my world,” she huffed, with a self-righteous shrug of her withered, old geezer, shoulders.

  “You’re right, I don’t,” I answered, and I am ever so grateful.

  “I thought maybe Li
nda killed Red and Vacaar until she herself was shot. You know what else?” she asked.

  Part of me didn’t want to know what else, but I gave her a look that said, “Go on.”

  “Linda had lost her charm for Red. He was on to the next little tart. Every time Vacaar’s East Bloc back was turned, Red was all over Mona like a bear on honey,” she said.

  Oh, brother, I thought, these people are far too complicated, but aloud I said, “Oh, how interesting.” After a slight pause, I added, “So you and Linda were on the outs.”

  “Yes and no. History and hurt make strange bedfellows, or at least peculiar friends. It turns out misery really does love company. We needed the support that only we could give to one another.”

  She stopped, then added, “I don’t expect you to get it, Maya, not really, being married to French, who’s such a ___” and she made the sign of a square in the air with her forefingers.

  “Oh, trust me, honey, I get it. We all weave such tangled webs. Some of them are rectangular, trapezoidal or even square.” No one was going to beat me at geometric comparisons, or make me feel less worldly, even if my husband did happen to be faithful. Or at least he appeared to be. Who really knew these days, when women were delivering themselves to men like pizzas?

  “Look at this, Alana,” I said to her, changing the subject, “what do you make of it?” I showed her a chart I had penciled on the back of the note I received that had told me to run. For one thing, I wanted to see if she recognized the stationery.

  She squinted through her old man glasses, looking just like an addled, half-blind codger. “What’s this supposed to tell me?” she asked, looking puzzled.

  “It’s supposed to tell when each victim was killed and whom I suspect.”

  “This is nothing but conjecture. So what if I was Red’s wife? So what if Linda was a special friend, and Red was overly chummy with Mona? I told you all that myself. I felt sorry when Vaccar was killed.”