Murder's Last Resort

by Marta Chausée

  “Yeah, that’s right,” they both mumbled, looking down, disappointed.

  “Don’t look so glum, chums,” I said. “I didn’t figure anything out, either. Whoever the murderer is, she or he is one cool customer.”

  “There was one odd thing,” Lily said, sitting up straight. “I just remembered! That little Dapper Dan, oh what is his name? The one with the retired supermodel wife from Denmark...”

  “Vacaar Luzi?” I said, hopefully.

  “Yes, that’s the one! He danced with me and right toward the end of the dance, he leaned into me and held me a little closer. I thought he was going to get fresh but he said, ‘I have something I need to tell Maya. Ask her to meet me tomorrow in our suite after my round of golf and lunch, around three.’

  “I asked him if he wouldn’t rather talk to you now but he said no, this was not the time nor place. It could wait.”

  “No kidding? He must know something. After golf and lunch, huh? Golf and lunch always come first with these guys. The earth could be on a collision course with Asteroid Giganticus but nothing would interfere with their game and their yapping about it afterward over lunch.”

  We settled back into silence, sipping and thinking. The evening was a dud. We were no smarter now than we were five hours earlier. At least we were well-fed and well-danced. Maybe Luzi would crack the case wide open. Maybe he knew who the killer was. Maybe, maybe, maybe. After a while, Jake and Lily said good-night and left.

  I slipped into my nightgown and between my Egyptian cotton hotel sheets. I turned toward French’s side of the bed.

  “French, honey,” I said. “I’m so sorry. We didn’t get much tonight. Maybe Vacaar will provide the missing puzzle piece. For now, it’s just worry and wait.” The tears came then but I brushed them away. No! No tears. Just action. Tomorrow we get this bastard or bastardess. “I promise!” I said it out loud.

  French was having none of it. No answer. Just his empty side of the bed, his pillow untouched. I closed my eyes but sleep did not come. It was hard to wait but at least I didn’t have to wait long.

  Chapter 17

  It was early on Sunday morning when I called Reed at home.

  “Reed. How are you? I didn’t wake you, did I?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, asleep. “I was awake.”

  “Just reading the Bible, huh?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Why are you calling me at home, this early and on a Sunday yet?”

  “Why do you think? I miss my husband.”

  “Oh, yeah, him,” he said and yawned.

  “I haven’t heard from you since Friday evening. What exactly are you doing for French?”

  “I am doing everything I can, Maya. Trust me.”

  “You sound relaxed,” I said, with attitude. “Too relaxed. Aren’t you the one who told me that ‘Trust me’ is legalese for ‘Screw you’?”

  No response.

  “Hello, Doug. Maya to Doug,” I called to him, “Are you still on the line?” I should be nicer to the man who was fighting for French’s freedom.

  “Give me a break, Maya. It’s too early in the morning for a duel. I’m going to get French out of that sinkhole before you know it. There have been a few twists and turns but it’s all okay now.”

  “What twists and turns?”

  “Nothing, really. Nothing worth mentioning. I’m sorry I did.”

  “Oh, great. Don’t go all ‘oh so mysterioso’ on me, Reed. You’re better than that,” I said, feeling an urge to reach through the phone and shake him.

  “Look, Maya, it’s just boring legal stuff. I took care of it.”

  “Okay,” I sighed.

  “I’ll call you as soon as French is released,” he assured me, then added, “You still like shoes, don’t you, Maya?”

  “Yes, Doug. I still like shoes.” He was getting tedious.

  “He’ll be waiting for you to pick him up on Orange Avenue before you can go to Dillard's to buy a new pair of shoes.”

  Then he added, “Trust me,” and laughed.

  We said our goodbyes and hung up. I wondered if Dilly's had any pointy toed boots suitable for kicking attorneys in their briefs?

  * * *

  There was an event later this morning for the Sapphire Hotels and Resorts female managers and executive wives at the hotel. Someone in charge of such things had decided it would be nice to get in a color expert to analyze the ladies’ colors.

  I knew this “color expert” from my California days. She was friendly with the Torreys. Darla was an older blonde babe with squinty little eyes. She had reinvented herself a few times since I met her. At first, her beau had been an older goodfella who lived in La Costa and she called herself his assistant. A few years later, she traded him in for a different wise guy who owned a fashionable eatery in Rancho Mirage and she was the hostess. Her latest boyfriend owned hair salons and now she was a “color expert.” I couldn’t believe they flew her in from California for this. She was a schemer, all right. Her men were always married, just not to her. She lived around the fringes and put on airs. We were not each other’s biggest fans.

  It was part of my job description as First Lady of Silver Pines to attend all such corporate events, no matter what else might be happening in my life. The good news was, I would get a look at all the hotel wives and the female managers in a relaxed group setting. After the colors, I had invited them to join me at Papa’s Place, a themed restaurant perched on the cliffs, overlooking the resort’s lake.

  We had been given strict instructions—bare, naked faces. Makeup artists would be applying our new colors with a trowel, once Darla determined whether we were spring, summer, autumn or winter. For the occasion, I decided on a white gauze ensemble and sling-back Italian sandals. I wore my long hair off my shoulders and looked cool and casual, like I stepped straight out of a Ronrico Rum ad.

  * * *

  “Everyone, come gather ’round,” Darla called to the ninety or so ladies in her oversized penthouse suite turned color salon. “I want you all to see something.”

  I sat on a salon chair with swatches of different colored fabrics draped over my shoulders and across my neck. Darla had me by the chin whiskers.

  “Have a look at Maya here,” she addressed the group in a loud voice. “Maya is an ‘autumn.’ This explains why she always looks so sallow. I’ve always wondered why Maya looks so sallow. Well, this is why!”

  A gasp went around the room.

  She went on, “An autumn can never wear these colors.” She then rotated all the jewel toned fabrics past my neck and face.

  “Further, an autumn can never wear these cool tones because cool tones wash out an autumn completely.” A look of pity played across her face, as she held the cool tones against my cheek.

  “Then, to further complicate things for poor Maya, look at this!” She gleamed a wicked smile. “Even though Maya has the standard sallow autumn coloring on her neck, arms and parts of her face, she also has a ruddy hue on her cheeks that can make her look rough, raw and even rather coarse,” she said, puckering her lips in distaste.

  I heard soft murmurings around me.

  “Ladies, one more thing,” she crowed, “don’t be like poor Maya and wear white, if your teeth have a yellowish cast to them. Never ever wear a shade of white that is brighter than your own teeth.”

  With that, she turned to me and smiled her very white smile.

  “Thank you for volunteering, Maya. My girls can help you select the earth tones that flatter an autumn complexion with ruddy highlights. Next!”

  I thanked her and slipped out of the demo chair.

  Pretending to be even-complected, I stood tall and cut through the crowd. Obediently, I headed for Darla’s assistants, who would probably place a burlap sack over my head to cover the yellow-toothed, sallow, nightmare that was me.

  Someone in the crowd followed me and grabbed my hand.

  “I wonder how you ever dare to leave the house, you poor sallow thang,” Alana d
rawled, a little twinkle in her sad and puffy eyes.

  “Ya got me,” I answered. “I guess I’m just naturally shameless on top of being naturally sallow—and ruddy.” We grinned at each other.

  “Don’t mind her,” Alana continued. “She’s a nasty old bitch.”

  “Hey, I thought you got her this gig. Isn’t Darla your friend?” I asked.

  “Sure she is. But she’s still a nasty old bitch.” Alana winked, turned and walked away.

  Chapter 18

  Dave Enderly, French’s second-in-command, called me at home.

  “Hi, Dave,” I said. “You’re one lucky guy to reach me. I just stopped in for a moment between having my colors done and hosting a ladies’ luncheon at Papa’s Place.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it, Maya.” Dave’s baritone boomed into the phone. “Rick has some of his guys tailing you everywhere you go on property. And I have some of my guys tailing Rick’s guys.”

  I laughed. “So, everywhere I go, I trail a long line of ‘gardeners’ and other hotel staff?”

  “That’s right!” he said. “You ought to look behind you sometime. It’s like you’re the Pied Piper of Silver Pines.”

  That was a funny image, all those guys trailing after me. I laughed and wondered if I should lead them on a merry chase the next time I went somewhere. I could bob and weave through these grounds like a palmetto bug on speed. I knew this place like I knew the new fall collection of St. John’s Knits.

  I turned my attention to Dave. “I want to compliment you on how you’re running things in French’s absence. He’s going to be so proud of you when he gets back.”

  “Oh, Maya. Do you really think so? I want to do everything right. I don’t want to screw anything up. He’s the one who trained me so I hope I’m doing well. Plus,” he added, almost apologetically, “this meeting is a chance to make a name for myself. It could help my career big-time.”

  “You are, you are, Dave. You’re doing everything right. The place is spinning smooth like a gyroscope. The higher ups will notice you, for sure.” Dave was a little insecure but that was part of his aw, shucks charm. Underneath his insecurity was a man driven to achieve.

  Dave had come to us from our Vermont property, Sapphire Stowe Mountain, where he had learned how to run a four-season resort and, so important to a great career in the industry, how to properly kowtow to monied and spoiled guests.

  He and his wife, Margie, were a nice couple with two young children. We sometimes had dinner together at their cottage near the lake in Windermere, or they would come to our place for barbecue during low season.

  Once in a while, when her kids were at school, Margie and I floated around Lake Butler for a few hours in her pontoon boat with sandwiches and iced tea.

  “I saw the spread you put out for the Orlando PD in Meeting Room C yesterday afternoon, Dave. Great job. You’re taking good care of them,” I said.

  “Thanks, Maya. It means a lot coming from you. I have to take good care of them, don’t I? They’re going to let French out of jail and they’re going to get the murderer.”

  “They sure are. I also want to compliment you on the dinner dance last night. It was elegant. Everything ran like a Swiss monorail. No one would guess French was not behind it all. You and your team are tight.”

  “I’m trying, Maya. But, you know, that’s why I’m calling you. I’m getting as nervous as a hooker in church. It’s nerve-wracking. When are they going to let French out? Do you have any idea?”

  “No, Dave, I don’t. It is nerve-wracking. I feel the same way. Doug Reed, our attorney, is working on French’s release. I don’t know what the problem is. I called Reed this morning and he said he’s on it.”

  “Does he think French’ll get sprung soon?” Dave asked.

  “That’s what he keeps telling me,” I said.

  Dave was so anxious to do right, it could backfire. The resort could not afford for him to lose his cool. He was the guy in charge. He had to keep himself together.

  “Listen, Dave,” I said, trying to both encourage and reassure him, “you’re doing a top flight job. The best way for you to honor French is to take some deep breaths and keep on keepin’ on. You’re a pro. You can handle this. He’ll be back before you can shake a green tambourine.”

  “I hope so. It gives me the willies to think that one of these Sapphire people could be a murderer. I look at every single one of them and think, Is it you? Is it you? Is it you? I feel like my head’s about to split open.”

  Wow, he was in worse shape than I would have expected. He was raising my own anxiety level. I was running out of cheer and this call was taking longer than I wanted. “Dave,” I said, “French will be let out of jail tomorrow. I feel it in my bones.”

  “Oh, thank God.” His voice sounded more relaxed already. “It’s driving me nuts. I haven’t been home since Friday night. The kids miss me. I miss them. Margie could tell something was up at the ball last night. I feel like a criminal for not telling her anything. It’s a mess. Boy, will I be happy to see French.”

  “You and me both, Dave. You and me both.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Dave said. “Vacaar Luzi asked me to come up to his suite around 3:00 p.m. this afternoon. He said you might be there, too. Do you think he has a complaint about the property?”

  “No, I don’t know what he wants. I’ll see you there. I’ve got to run now before I’m late to my own luncheon. Bye.” I hung up.

  Why would Vacaar Luzi invite David Enderly and me to his suite? Would Mona be there, too? I’d see her at Papa's in a few minutes but we wouldn’t get a chance to talk privately.

  I didn’t have time to think about that right now. I had to dive into my closet and find an ivory-colored ensemble or something in earth-tones so I could disguise my tragic sallow-ruddiness. Oh, and I had to see my dentist. These nasty old plywood teeth had to go.

  Chapter 19

  I looked after my guests, then sat at my table. Papa’s had reserved two-thirds of the restaurant for us. We had privacy and, at the same time, all the floor-to-ceiling doors were open to the lake and the pool below and the sweet afternoon breeze. Ultra-fine mesh screens kept out the flying insects and the whole shack, perched on the rocks with its tin roof and slow-moving ceiling fans, felt like a little piece of Papa Hemingway’s Key West.

  On any other day, I was all about the outstanding seafood at Papa’s. This was the first time I didn’t give a flying Frisbee for what I ate. I was watching people like a cat watches a moth fluttering against a window pane. I was studying their mannerisms, how they spoke to one another, how they shifted their eyes and held their bodies.

  I had invited Lily once again. Technically, she was not a Sapphire lady, but who was going to challenge me? I was French’s wife and he was the boss of this property. I seated her on the opposite side of the room. She knew what she was supposed to do.

  On one level, the luncheon went well. Usually, Sapphire women moved food around their plates in a casual fashion for twenty minutes, while chatting. Today, the ladies all ate with a gusto that was rarely seen in our competitive, skinny-bitch-not-eating-a-thing world.

  During the dessert course, four to six Sapphire women commonly shared one of the richest desserts on the menu. Each tried one bite and moaned in appreciation. Then, they set their forks down in unison and smiled at each other, knowing they were the queens of self-discipline. Not today. This day, they could have been training for the Great Salmon Feed and Key Lime Pie Olympics.

  On a personal level, the luncheon was a bust. Once again, I felt the heaviness of disappointment settle on my shoulders. Could they all be innocent? I felt so sure a woman had killed Torrey. I thought I understood human behavior. No one seemed off or nervous or suspicious. I felt let down and deflated, once again.

  As lunch was wrapping up, I ran into Lily in the powder room of Papa’s. “What say we steal away in a few moments and you come with me to the Torreys’ original suite? Orlando PD has had it locked and sealed s
ince Red’s death.” I whispered, making sure no one in the stalls overheard us.

  “How are we going to get in?” Lily asked, looking a little hesitant.

  “I have my ways, silly, come on. It’ll be fun. I have some time before I meet Dave Enderly at Luzi’s suite. Remember? They just happen to be on the same floor.”

  “Oh, all right. Why do I let you talk me into these things?” she said to her own reflection in the mirror, giving her lips a fresh coat of ginger peach gloss.

  “Because they’re exciting.” I chided her as I left. “Meet me in the lobby in ten minutes.”

  * * *

  Once Lily arrived, we sauntered through the door to the left of the front desk. If anyone had asked, we would have said we were looking for Jake. We were in luck—no one asked and we managed to give the guys tailing me the slip.

  We turned past the marketing and PR offices and then took the service elevator to seventeen. We walked down the hall on little cat feet toward what had been Torrey’s original suite.

  In my summer tote, I had my handy-dandy skeleton key and a few other little devices. The best one was my bump key. The Orlando PD had installed a dead bolt lock on the service entry door of the suite. This might deter the average burglar, but not me.

  Lily watched in wonder as I placed the bump key into the dead bolt and tapped it with a rubber hammer. The service door opened into the kitchen of the suite, as I gave it a little push.

  “I say, old bean,” she said, “that’s pretty impressive. How’d you know it would work?”

  “I didn’t, but it’s not the only tool in my kit, you know.” I gave her a nudge that said, “What? You doubted me?”

  We stepped into the middle of the kitchen and looked around.

  “Kind of feels like Christmastide, don’t it?” said Lily.

  “Yup, it does,” I agreed.

  Every surface in the kitchen was covered with a thick layer of white. There were marks and mars where OPD had dusted for prints. The black granite countertops, the stovetop, the stainless steel sinks, the cherry wood cabinet doors were all streaked with white, as was the black refrigerator. The snow-covered vista looked as if it had been smudged by a young Helen Keller, feeling for something to eat.