Murder's Last Resort

by Marta Chausée

  At the end of the set, I excused myself from Jake to freshen up. As I applied new lip gloss at the mirror of the ladies room, I saw Pam walk up behind me. I could almost hear her.

  “Maya, join us tomorrow for supper. We’re having a few friends. It’ll be very casual,” she shouted in my ear.

  “That’s sweet, Pam, but I can’t. I already told Dave and Margie that I’d get Jake to take me to their place tomorrow evening for barbecue. They invited a few strays and I guess I’m one of them,” I answered.

  The conference was over for most of the managers after tomorrow’s buffet breakfast. For some, it had ended earlier. Usually, the guests left with a tote bag filled with goodies and souvenirs from the host property. This time, a few would be leaving with body bags. Not the sort of keepsake one imagined when planning a visit so close to the Happiest Place on Earth.

  Just as Pam and I exited the restroom, Lauren White came breezing in. Lauren’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. Had it been anybody else, I would have suspected she had just snorted a line of coke. But no, not Lauren.

  There were only a few other things that could make a woman glow like that—things a little more old-fashioned and a little more wholesome than extract of coca plant. They usually centered around love, lust or a good strong flirtation.

  As I left the bathroom, I wondered where the hell my mind had been? The truth had probably been in front of my distracted eyes the entire time, but I was so focused on French and guests dying to get out of the conference, that I had missed it entirely. As I reflected on how dense I could be, I tripped over someone’s foot. It belonged to David Enderly.

  Chapter 55

  Funny. I had been overheated just a few minutes ago but now, leaving the crowded area between the restrooms and the dance floor, a chill ran up my spine. I murmured my apologies to David for flying across his foot and made my way back to the table. Jake was gone, dancing with some girl or flirting with some guy on the wait staff, no doubt. I grabbed my purse, looked around to say goodbye and tell Jake where I was going, but he was nowhere to be found.

  I walked through the rear exit to the elevators and called Frankie Messina from a house phone one more time. Still no answer. I pushed the “up” button. I had a sick feeling in my stomach that went nicely with my chill. We all had our problems. At least, I wasn’t a murderer but I did know where to find one if I was ever in a pinch.

  I got into the elevator and pushed my master key card into the slit that allowed entry to the VIP penthouse floors. No matter how upset Frankie was about Linda, it wasn’t like him to miss a party. He was a political animal, after all. Left to his own devices, he would be very visible at the final function of a manager’s conference. It would be his last chance to glad hand and kiss some higher-up ass. He should carry a little stepladder around with him for just that purpose. So why had he not been at the dance?

  I wondered about guys like Frankie. From what rocks did they crawl out under? Did they have parents or were they raised by wolves?

  How had he ever found a wonderful woman like Linda to marry him? Born to a wealthy Chinese silk manufacturer and his emigrée, aristocrat, Russian wife, Linda didn’t need Frankie’s position nor money. Who knew what made two people love each other?

  As I rode up in the elevator, a little voice in my head whispered that maybe I should not be rushing to Frankie’s suite. Did I need to be the first at the scene of yet another crime? It had been a luxury to have Rick and Tom off my back for a day.

  At the last moment, I pressed the button for the floor below VIP. It had become a popular spot for our guests to stroll, almost like the promenade deck of a cruise liner. From that floor, they could face the lobby far below and see everything that was going on. Planters with draping cascades of bougainvillea and grape ivy were set at the top of clear, plexiglass balcony rails.

  I exited the elevator but looking down at the lobby set off my vertigo, so I kept my head up. I looked nonchalant as I mingled with the stream of guests. I walked first in one direction, then in the other, considering my next move.

  Maybe I would get up to Frankie’s suite and the police would be camped out by the doors. If so, I would feel foolish and just slip away. Maybe the hall would be deserted, and I could knock on the door of his suite and he would answer. I didn’t want to be intrusive, yet I did. What should I do?

  I went up to his floor. No one posted in the hall. His floor was quiet. Too quiet? I knocked on his door and waited, picking the cuticle on my left thumb.

  Nothing. I knocked again, this time harder. I put my ear to the door. I do have a master key. What’s it for if not for opening doors that otherwise remained locked?

  I said a little prayer, put the key in the slot and swiftly pulled it out. There was an almost imperceptible “click” and the door opened on its own, just a crack. Open, sesame.

  I tippy-toed onto the black granite floors of the entry hall. This suite was a lot like the Munch suite, without the Munch on the living room wall. The Munch suite was also without the original Munch on its wall. The real Munch resided in a large vault on the basement level of the First National Bank of Orlando. Only French and I and our bank officer knew that. There was a fake Munch in the suite, but no one, not even the Norwegian owners who had given us the painting at the grand opening, noticed the difference.

  “Frankie,” I called. “Franki-e-e-e-e!”

  No Frankie. I slid back out the way I had come. I grabbed a house phone in the hall and had the operator page David Enderly, so that he could investigate Frankie’s suite with me. Dave didn’t respond. If he was still at Orange 43, he probably couldn’t hear a page or even feel a vibration, since the whole place was vibrating.

  I went back to the lobby level. From there, I walked down the grand staircase to La Croqueta. I made a bee line for the bar and ordered a shot of Myers’s dark run. When in doubt, Myers’s settles the nerves.

  I asked the bartender, a black-haired young fox with hazel eyes ringed in dark lashes, to give me a house phone. I rang Frankie’s suite one more time. No answer. I hailed Pretty Boy over and asked for a second Myers’s. Very unlike me but I was imbibing some liquid courage, just like the big boys. Three more gulps and I signed for my bar bill.

  I went back to Frankie’s suite, took a deep breath, and knocked. When no one answered, I had David paged again. This time, he answered and I asked him to come up. He was reluctant, as the party was still in full swing. I could hear the music and revelry in the background as we talked.

  “Please, David, get up here. I need some back up.”

  “Let it go,” he answered. “Let’s call OPD if you’re concerned.”

  “I’ll wait for you at the elevators,” I said.

  He hesitated, then said, “I’ll be right there. I’ll bring Margie and, if I run into Jake, I’ll bring him, too.”

  “Great,” I said. It’ll be a happy fizzy party.

  “Deal,” David said and then he hung up.

  I waited. And waited. And waited some more. No David. No Margie. No Jake. Pacing back and forth in front of the bank of mirrored elevators, I caught my own reflection. I looked haggard, tense. The past week was taking its toll on me and it showed.

  If no one else cares, why do I? Then I remembered. They weren’t as motivated as I. I was ready to put this nightmare to bed so that I could, once again, share mine with the man I loved.

  Chapter 56

  I was antsy as hell and a call from nature came that would not be ignored. Nerves! I turned on my heel, and walked to Frankie’s suite. This time, I didn’t bother to knock or shout. I let myself in with my master key, turned right and entered the powder room. I held my breath as I switched on the light.

  No surprises. This was good. I took care of business, then left the bathroom to look around the suite. It was bathed in dim light. I took some tentative steps into the living room. I looked in the dining room, and saw turn-down treats; a bottle of milk on ice in a silver bowl and a big plate of snickerdoodles.
<
br />   Further left, I poked my head into the kitchen. Nothing. Everything was in order and jazzy elevator music played softly over the sound system. A dirge from Albinoni would have been more suitable.

  Something about the scene was weird, staged. I was used to the artificiality of hotel life, but this was a different kind of fake that made the palms of my hands clammy. Even the two Myers’s were doing nothing to calm me.

  I called out, “Frankie?” No answer. I tried again.

  Did I hear something upstairs, a mumbled gurgling? Maybe he was ill. Maybe he was prostate with grief. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he needed help.

  As a little girl, I hadn’t aspired to be a nurse or even a wife or mom. The thought of finding Frankie upstairs, drowning in his tears or his own vomit did not appeal. Still, if I was the only one here, it looked like the job fell on me. Damn that David! Why wasn’t he up here yet?

  I walked up the stairs, groped for the light switch on the bedroom wall and, as I did, I tripped over something. It wasn’t a marble turtle or a cast iron armadillo. It felt heavy and human.

  Dread blanketed me as I flipped the switch. It was, as I had expected, Frankie Messina, face up on the floor. I had never seen him wear an ascot. Maybe he hadn’t, either. This one didn’t match his outfit and it was tied too high and tight around his neck.

  * * *

  “—and that’s the way I found him,” I said to Wells. He, Tom and I were together again, this time in Messina’s suite. It was happening so often, I should probably start planning what songs we’d play on our reunion tour.

  “Well, I’ll be headed back to the lobby,” I said, edging my way toward the stairs, since the guys seemed preoccupied with Frankie’s corpse.

  “Like hell you will, Mrs. French,” said Rick and motioned to Tom to block my path. “Pardon my language, ma’am,” he added, still a Southern gentleman to the core.

  “You’ll be staying right here, close to us,” Tom, the refrigerator with the wide-legged stance, added. “Matter of fact, when I sneeze, you’re gonna wipe your nose—that’s how close we’ll be.”

  “Charming image,” I said, more to myself than anyone else in the room, dead or alive, and sat down on an occasional chair in the corner.

  “You know what, Mrs. French? I may have been lookin’ for love in all the wrong places,” Rick said. “French has been AWOL all along but you’ve made lots of cameo appearances. I almost don’t care anymore if or when he shows up. You’re turning into a much greater person of interest to me. What do you say, Tom?” Rick said.

  “I say we keep our eyes on her,” Tom said.

  The usual group of people arrived, ready to do the usual stuff—take photographs, dust for prints, scoop up hair samples and, in general, turn the place inside out. Rick and Tom flanked me as we rode the elevator down together. They had paged David and told him to wait in his office for us.

  * * *

  David sat behind his desk, looking pale. Margie sat in one corner with Jake next to her and I stood next to Rick.

  This was the glummest gathering of living people, ever. Glum and awkward. Rick was, at first, conversational, trying to make this seem more like a casual meeting than an inquiry. It didn’t work. David, Margie and Jake gave him clipped answers.

  “Don’t all shout out at once,” Rick finally said. He turned to Tom and asked him to take Margie and Jake out of the room. He wanted to interview David with me present.

  “Now, David,” Rick said, “tell me again what you did earlier this evening?”

  “I made the rounds of the hotel, like I always do. I was in constant radio contact with some of our staff, making sure everything was right at Orange 43 for the grande finale party of the conference.” Dave looked edgy. Little beads of sweat were beginning to show near his hairline.

  “Why are you so uncomfortable, David? What haven’t you told us yet?”

  Dave shifted in his chair. He cleared his throat.

  “I saw Mr. French earlier tonight.”

  “What?” Rick and I said at the same time.

  “I feel bad mentioning it, but I know I have to.” He looked at me, his eyes apologetic, then continued, “After making my rounds, I saw him standing near the lake where Linda was found.”

  Unbelievable. I was stunned. It couldn’t be true. If French had been back, why had he not come to see me? Didn’t he love me? Had the situation been reversed, I would have never come so close and not somehow snuck in to see him. It would have been my top priority.

  I didn’t hear the rest of what David said, I was so hurt and insulted. Me, me, me. I could only think of me. I felt kicked in the gut and it was only a tiny kernel of pride that kept me from letting the tears fall as they wished. Instead, I choked them back and tried to concentrate on matters at hand.

  I tuned back in, just in time to hear David say that French had seemed out of it, and said a few things that didn’t make sense, like “I see you there,” and “I have to finish this thing.”

  “What did you make of that?” Rick asked him.

  “I didn’t know what to make of it. I asked him what I should do about running this place. I asked him when he would be back for good—was he back for good?”

  “And?” Wells interrupted. “What did he say?”

  “He waved me away, turned and walked through the foliage and the pines toward the gravel road the fire department uses.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Mrs. French that you saw her husband?” Wells kept at him, then looked at me, “Did you know any of this, Mrs. French?”

  I shook my head. I felt disgusted by the lot of them. They were all morons. My mouth was dry as a wad of cotton and I thought I might be sick.

  Why are you standing here, talking to David, when the powers of OPD might be better used searching the grounds for one or more murderers that I’m sure as hell aren’t French? I shot a few death rays from my eyes at Wells and Koenig.

  “I was in a state of shock,” said David, leaning forward. “I wanted to tell Maya when I saw her later at the party, but there was too much noise, and there were too many people. Then, she disappeared,” he said, leaning back in his chair, looking relieved that he had told his story.

  Chapter 57

  It was Sunday after lunch. Jake had the day off and we were playing gin together in the den, while he, every few minutes, cast an eye at the TV. The water skiing championships at Cypress Gardens were being broadcast on one of our local stations. Water skiing was big business in Florida, hence the frequent, splashy coverage. The producers of the show switched things up by showing old black-and-white footage of human pyramids on skis, something people had been doing at Cypress Gardens since God Himself was a boy on skis.

  I had a hard time getting Jake to play gin with me. He taught me the game during the summer we Eurailed through eleven countries in six weeks. By the time we hit Zurich, I was beating him with monotonous regularity at his own game and, by Vienna, he was done. It took me years to get him back into play mode.

  We were half way through our third game when the phone rang. It was Wells. “Guess what I’ve got?” he asked, sounding vicious.

  “I don’t know. Let me think—a persistent rash that proves embarrassing at intimate moments?”

  “Woah! Aren’t we feeling sassy today?” he answered. “Well, that’s about to change.”

  I didn’t like his tone.

  “Okay, sorry. You set yourself up for that one. I couldn’t resist,” I said. “I’m serious now, what have you got?”

  “I’ve got someone very near and dear right here next to me,” he gloated. “Actually, he’s near to me now, but I don’t find him very dear.”

  “Stop fooling around. Who do you mean?” I asked, feeling the hair rise on the back of my neck.

  “I mean your better half, your beloved husband, French. He turned himself in about an hour ago.”

  “What?” I said, nonplussed. “You’ve got to be pulling my leg. You are, aren’t you?”

  “I most certainly am no
t,” he answered. He called to his partner in the background, “Tom, am I pulling Mrs. French’s leg?” There was a far-off, “No, you’re not.”

  “My husband’s confused. There’s been some misunderstanding,” I said, not wanting to believe French would do such a thing. It made no sense and it made him look guilty.

  Rick didn’t have much more to say. Just spreading good cheer, huh? We hung up after he reminded me that French would need a good lawyer, not some hack like Doug Reed, if he hoped to get away with less than four counts of first degree murder.

  That was the end of Jake’s and my game. I gathered the cards in a pile, as my spirits dropped below the posts supporting my house. I didn’t do this much, and I never did it in public, but Jake wasn’t public. I crumpled into the corner of the brown leather sofa and fell apart. I put my hands to my face and cried. Jake sat next to me for the first few minutes, handing me tissues, until I blew through all of them. He went to the linen closet, brought out a new box and set it next to me.

  Of all the insane things French had put me through over the last ten years, this one was the top prize winner. I tried to be a good wife, I really did. I believed in him, I supported him emotionally, I performed like a trained poodle at corporate events and business soirées. I was tireless and he was wussing out—without discussing it with me first? It was exactly what I had told him not to do. It reminded me that he had been here on Friday night and not even tried to contact me, which upset me all over again.

  Jake asked if I was okay.

  “Not really.”

  “I’m getting you some Tylenol and a big bottle of Perrier,” he said. “You’re going to need both.”

  “Thanks,” I managed to squeeze out, between sobs. “I can’t believe this. I can’t take much more of this.”

  “I know, sweetie,” Jake said, full of sympathy, “You’ve been such a tough cookie. This was the drop of water that made the bucket overflow.”