Bradley let out a high-pitched cackle as if to underscore my point. The suspects were getting restless.
Avery Haskell drowned out the tail end of Bradley’s cackle by giving voice to his heretofore silent prayer. “Oh my God, I trust in thee. Let me not be ashamed. Let not mine enemies triumph over me,” he intoned.
Officer Guerrero jerked her head in his direction, startled by the psalm. Then she simply averted her eyes, giving tacit permission for this form of speech.
Terry decided to test the no talking rule. He began muttering in a low voice. I caught “constitutional rights” and “police brutality” but nothing else. Officer Guerrero glared at him but remained silent.
“Yea, let none that wait on thee be ashamed,” Haskell intoned. He opened his eyes and swept us with his gaze as he went on. “Let them be ashamed which transgress without cause.”
Don Logan shook his head irritably and wheeled himself over to the window. Bradley let out another loon’s call.
“Lead me in thy truth, Oh Lord. And teach me—” Avery chanted.
“That’s enough!” snapped Officer Guerrero. “I know you guys are bored. But you heard the Chief. No talking.”
Her words were too little, too late. The spell was broken. The revolution had begun.
“It’s ten o’clock,” pleaded Fran. “I’ve got to start working on lunch. Can’t I go to the kitchen? It’s right through those swinging doors.”
“Well…” said Officer Guerrero, considering. She ran her hand through her black hair nervously. Then she looked hopefully out the glass doors. But there was no help in sight. The decision was hers.
“Maybe we can bring some of the food out here and work,” suggested Avery Haskell. It was amazing how reasonable he sounded when he wasn’t quoting the Bible. “Chop up vegetables. That kind of thing.”
Officer Guerrero looked back and forth between Avery and Fran’s faces. Checking for conspiracy?
“Okay,” she finally agreed. “Bring what you need out here. But only one of you at a time. And remember, I’m watching you.”
Guerrero stationed herself by the swinging doors, alternating glances between Fran in the kitchen and the rest of us in the dining hall. Her head bobbed back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match.
Fran made several trips, loading up the long communal table with bags of vegetables and fruits, tubs of tofu, jars of condiments and spices, and bowls of mysterious substances. Then she brought out the knives and other utensils. Guerrero eyed the knives suspiciously but made no objection.
“I’ll chop something,” I offered. Anything was better than sitting quietly watching suspects suspect other suspects.
“Me too,” growled Wayne.
“I’d love to help,” Craig chimed in, not to be outdone.
Minutes later we were all seated at the communal table, working quietly at our assigned tasks, like nuns and monks who had taken vows of silence. I felt at peace, carefully sculpting carrot sticks and radish roses. Taking the time for perfection. A life of contemplation was looking pretty good. Then Orlandi came back with Nikki.
I heard her low moaning before I saw her. My body constricted with pity at the sound and my hand slipped, ruining the perfection of my radish rose. I looked up in time to see Orlandi leading Nikki through the glass doors. Her wide-set eyes were now swollen and red, her luminous skin turned to ash. Her perfect body was bent from the middle as if she had been punched in the stomach.
Ruth rushed forward, arms outstretched to Nikki. Officer Guerrero moved quickly to block her path. Ruth came to an abrupt halt, her black gypsy eyes sizzling.
“You are denying Miss Martin the comfort and support she needs to survive this emotional injury,” Ruth whispered urgently. Her low voice was imbued with both righteousness and menace.
Officer Guerrero shrank back into her uniform as if afraid of the gypsy curse implicit in Ruth’s dark look. But she held her ground. Ruth turned her glare on the Chief.
“Well?” she demanded. “You’re in charge here. Are you going to deny Miss Martin aid? Do you want to be responsible for the consequences?”
Chief Orlandi glared back at Ruth for a moment, blue eyes battling black ones. Then he flashed his crocodile grin.
“Go ahead,” he said genially, “take care of her.” Then his voice hardened again. “But don’t discuss the case,” he ordered.
Officer Guerrero stepped aside, relief evident on her face. The Chief motioned her to join him outside the glass doors for a consultation.
Ruth took the last few steps to Nikki at a jog. She opened her arms wide and Nikki went to her like a child to her mother. As Ruth embraced her, the young woman let out a piercing cry of grief.
“That’s good,” murmured Ruth, stroking her hair. “Let it out.” She led Nikki to a nearby chair and eased her into it, never once removing her comforting arms. She kept one arm around Nikki even as she reached out to pull a chair forward for herself. Nikki wept through it all.
As I listened to her weep, my heart went out to her. But my brain held back, reminding me that Nikki Martin was an actress. But why would Nikki have killed both Jack and Suzanne? I could imagine her killing Jack in a fit of anger. And maybe having killed Suzanne in a fit of jealousy. But both of them?
That was the crux. Who had the motive to kill both Jack and Suzanne? I turned to Wayne, slicing zucchini next to me, thinking the question at him. If only we could talk, even without words. But his eyes were focused on his ever widening batch of zucchini rounds. I picked up a carrot and sliced.
Had Jack known who killed Suzanne? He would have spoken out if he had. Unless…My gaze passed over my untidy heap of carrot sticks to Nikki weeping in Ruth’s arms. Unless he had reason to protect the killer. All right. Given that Nikki had killed Suzanne, could she have counted on Jack continuing to shield her if they split up? No. She would have had to kill him. Still—I shook my head impatiently, then grabbed another carrot. I was on the wrong track. Nikki had loved Jack too much to kill him. At least I hoped so.
Maybe the killer had only mistakenly believed that Jack knew his, or her, identity. My skin tingled as I considered. Jack babbling on unaware, the killer unsure of what the outspoken redhead really knew. But why wait two days to silence him? I went back to slicing.
I stacked my carrots sticks in a neat log-like pile and pondered. Maybe Jack didn’t know anything about the murderer. Maybe he and Suzanne were killed for the same reason. Something they had in common. I looked over at Craig, who sat cubing boiled potatoes with the precision of a robot. Both Jack and Suzanne had argued with their lovers before death. Was our murderer a reverse Cupid, untangling unhappy lovers the quickest way possible?
What else did Jack and Suzanne have in common? They were reluctant visitors at the spa. I doubted either was vegetarian. But then I doubted that many of us here in the dining hall were strict vegetarians. Nikki had probably brought Jack because there was no alcohol on the premises. A cheap alternative to The Betty Ford Clinic. And I guessed that Don Logan was here because the spa was organized for wheelchair accessibility. Most cattle ranchers weren’t vegetarian.
I looked over at Bradley. He now stared into space, his luminous eyes flickering through movies only he could see, letting out a piercing giggle every few frames. Now, there was a shining example of the strict vegetarian. Damn. Made me want to bite a cow.
Or something. My stomach growled. I was hungry. I picked up a carrot stick and chomped. Some brunch. I looked longingly at the buffet, hoping that someone else would be insensitive enough to mention that they were hungry and start a line. I sniffed. Could I smell cinnamon?
I was fantasizing fresh cinnamon-applesauce bread when Chief Orlandi stomped back into the room. Officer Guerrero strode in behind him.
“You!” he shouted, pointing at Craig. “You’re next. Follow me.”
Craig looked at Orlandi and turned as white as the tower of potatoes he had cubed. He laid the knife down carefully and stood up. His hands were trembling
.
The carrot I was chewing seemed suddenly dry in my mouth. I swallowed hard and got it down. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I threw an encouraging smile in Craig’s direction. But he wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were locked onto Chief Orlandi’s face, mesmerized.
Chief Orlandi gestured for Craig to precede him. Craig stepped out in front, back straight but trembling. A brave prisoner to the gallows. They exited the glass doors in procession.
“He was a good man,” Nikki pronounced into the silence left behind, her voice thickened from silk to velvet by her tears. For an instant I thought she meant Craig. Then she went on. “Jack never hurt anyone.”
“Good,” said Ruth softly. She stroked Nikki’s hair, encouraging her to continue.
Officer Guerrero’s head twitched in their direction. Did this count as discussing the case?
“He was an innocent. A child. He expected the best of people,” Nikki continued. She looked at Ruth with round eyes that pleaded for understanding.
“Yes,” said Ruth, nodding. “Yes.”
“He wanted people to be happy. That’s all. That’s why he clowned around. He was totally generous. He’d give dollar bills to panhandlers. You know what I mean?”
“Of course,” answered Ruth, her voice as warm and comforting as a heated blanket.
“And he was talented. But he gave it all away.” Nikki dropped her gaze to her lap. Then the wail came. “I’m so sorry!” she sobbed.
“Tell him,” said Ruth quietly. “Tell Jack you’re sorry. He’ll listen.”
Nikki looked trustingly at Ruth, her eyes filled with wonder and tears. “Will he?” she asked.
“He’s too good a man to turn away,” Ruth assured her.
Nikki closed her eyes. “I’m sorry Jack,” she whispered. “I always loved you, no matter what I said.” Then she wept softly. Ruth put her arms around her, rocking her slowly.
“He heard you,” Ruth said after a time. “And he forgives you.”
Nikki’s quiet weeping blossomed into heaving sobs once more. She wasn’t alone in her grief. Through blurry eyes I saw Wayne lay down his knife and shove his zucchini rounds to the side to avoid showering them with tears. Fran didn’t bother. She wept copiously into her previously salt-free hummus.
Terry had pulled off his glasses to wipe his eyes. He knuckled them angrily as if ashamed of their wetness. Don Logan turned away, affecting disinterest, but I detected a tremor in his massive shoulders. Reality had even broken through to Bradley Beaumont. He was no longer grinning. His face looked sane now, full of gentle concern. And Ruth had given way to her own sadness. Her work done, she sobbed along with Nikki now.
Avery Haskell recited softly: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For thou art with me. Thy rod and they staff, they comfort me….” Everyone offers comfort in his own way.
And the tears were not limited to civilians. Officer Guerrero glared through hers, sniffing them away spasmodically. Finally, she pulled out a large white handkerchief and blew her nose. She knocked her hand awkwardly against her gun butt as she shoved her hankie back in her pocket.
Not a dry eye in the house, I thought. Damn. Was Nikki just acting? The question wouldn’t go away. Was the questioning my own defense against grief? Pretend this was only a movie, and I could walk away without scars?
The crash of a chair pushed back violently interrupted my self-examination. I looked up to see Nikki on her feet in front of the toppled chair. Her reddened eyes surveyed the crowd intently. Officer Guerrero stepped forward quickly, suddenly alert.
“One of you probably killed Jack,” Nikki said. Her voice was cold and hard. Only its underlying quiver betrayed the remnant of sadness.
The room that had seemed quiet before now went entirely still. No prayers, no sobs, no muttering.
“Whoever you are,” she proclaimed, “I hope you suffer for your guilt. I hope it torments you. I hope there is a hell—”
“That’s enough,” Officer Guerrero rapped out. This was clearly discussing the case as far as she was concerned. She grabbed Nikki’s arm and led her to a chair on the other side of the room. Nikki allowed herself to be led without protest. Maybe she had said all she needed to.
Ruth got up to follow Nikki, but Guerrero snapped at her, telling her to go back to her seat. Ruth sank back in her chair, frustration and relief mingled on her open face. She looked exhausted. Her therapeutic ministrations to Nikki seemed to have worn her out.
Avery Haskell was not worn out, though—only inspired. “For a fire is kindled in mine anger, and shall burn into the lowest hell, and shall consume the earth with her increase, and set on fire the foundations of the mountains,” he orated, his voice rising in volume and confidence.
Officer Guerrero shot him a look of warning. Haskell stared past her and continued: “The sword without, and terror within, shall destroy both the young man and the virgin—”
“Enough!” shouted Officer Guerrero. I resisted the urge to support her with a loud “amen.” I doubted she would appreciate it.
Haskell turned his empty face to Guerrero’s angry one for a moment. Guerrero won the face-off. Haskell dropped his head and began to move his lips silently once more.
I went back to my radish roses, sculpting carefully. I wanted out of this room very badly. Badly enough to hope Orlandi would take me next for interrogation. The dining hall needed a psychic fumigation.
But Orlandi didn’t take me next. He took Don Logan. Craig never returned to the dining hall, apparently free to go after the interview. Lucky guy. Then Orlandi interviewed Fran. She walked straight to the kitchen when she returned. Bradley was led away next. Then Avery Haskell. Avery returned, but only to repossess our chopped vegetables and knives. Damn. Then they took Terry. Then Ruth. And Nikki left the hall when Ruth did.
By twelve o’clock only Wayne and I were left under Officer Guerrero’s halfhearted surveillance. I ran my eyes over Wayne’s face. He looked sad and tired, but he returned my gaze with a faint smile. Poor guy. Was he still glad he had come? At least there was no way he could be suspected of this murder. I hoped.
I curled my lips in what I hoped would be interpreted as an apologetic grin. He formed his lips into a silent kiss, which he blew to me from his fingertips. I shuffled my chair in his direction, without getting up. That must have been within the rules. Officer Guerrero ignored me.
Once I had shuffled close enough, I reached out to touch his hand. He grabbed my fingers and held them. What a warm and gentle hand his was. I sighed. Then I leaned forward for a face-to-face kiss.
“Sorry to interrupt you, Mrs. Jasper,” came a voice from behind me. The words were polite, but the tone definitely said “gotcha,” not “sorry.”
I turned my head and was met with the white flash of Chief Orlandi’s crocodile grin. My turn. Damn.
We walked silently to Fran’s office. Orlandi’s grin was long gone by the time we got there. His blue eyes looked bleary. He dropped heavily into his chair and closed those eyes. I nodded at Officer Dempster, siting in the corner under a tall fern.
“Did your ex-husband discuss Jack Ireland with you, Mrs. Jasper?” Orlandi asked in a dull voice. His eyes remained closed. Officer Dempster wrote something in his notebook. He looked exhausted, too.
“No,” I lied. It wasn’t a complete lie. At this point I couldn’t remember what Craig had said about Jack. Nothing murderous. Anyway, I rationalized, a simple “no” made things easier for Dempster to write down.
“Do you have any reason to believe Mr. Jasper killed Jack Ireland?” Orlandi droned on.
“No.”
I realized this interview was going to be easy. Chief Orlandi was as tired as I was.
“Have you remembered any other details concerning the discovery of the body since I last spoke to you?”
Easy. “No.”
A few more “no” questions and Chief Orlandi seemed to wake up. He opened his eyes and leaned forward, pinning me to my chair
with his bright blue gaze.
“Who do you think did it?” he asked.
FOURTEEN
THERE WAS NO smile on Chief Orlandi’s face when he asked me who I thought Jack Ireland’s killer was. Orlandi was serious. And, since he was asking my opinion, he was probably desperate too. Damn.
I squirmed in my chair, wishing I could give him the answer. Wishing that he had the answer already.
“Whoever killed Jack was the same person who killed Suzanne,” I offered finally. That was all I knew.
Orlandi dropped his eyes in disappointment and nodded slowly. “Looks like it,” he agreed. He leaned back in his chair and his eyelids closed again.
“When was Jack killed?” I asked quietly, not really expecting an answer.
“Probably last night some time,” Orlandi said dully. He sighed. I sat up in my chair, amazed by his openness. Did this mean he didn’t suspect me anymore? Or just that he was too tired to care?
“How are the alibis for last night?” I asked conversationally, pushing my luck.
“What alibis!” Orlandi exploded. He sat up in his chair and glowered at me. “The only one who has anything even resembling an alibi is Avery Haskell. Spent the evening at an A.A. meeting in San Diego. You know how many people go to those things?”
I shook my head in case the question wasn’t rhetorical.
“Over a hundred people at this one,” he told me. “And you can bet none of them would say anything even if they had seen him. Anonymity!” He spit the last word out.
“I have an alibi, don’t I?” I asked meekly.
“You and your boyfriend? Some alibi!” The Chief focused his eyes on me briefly, curling his lips in a half-smile that never fully blossomed. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes once more. Another sigh. “And what about the time you spent walking across the spa grounds alone?” he asked. “Where’s your alibi for then?”
“Oh,” I said. It was my turn to sigh. I had hoped he would say I wasn’t really a suspect.
I waited for more questions, but the Chief just sat motionless, eyes still closed. Was he asleep? I looked at Officer Dempster for guidance. But Dempster just shrugged his shoulders.
The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 14