Murder's Last Resort

by Marta Chausée

  David looked down and said nothing.

  “Why I was blind to this so long, I don’t know,” I said. “I kept running into Lauren here, there and everywhere. She was her darling self, all high heels and short skirts, silky blond hair and dimpled smiles. Every time I asked her where she was going, she said she was bringing a report to you or conferring with you about something that I eventually realized was not very important.

  “It was in Orange 43 that I had the ah-ha moment. I saw you lean into her when her back was to you. Margie stood to your left, but you leaned toward Lauren and you smelled her hair.

  “That would have been enough, but what you did next was the real clincher. You inhaled and closed your eyes, lifting your head as you savored the scent. No man smells a girl’s hair like that unless he’s a goner for her.”

  He was silent, staring at the dashboard, a strange sheen in his eyes. His lips turned down in a frown.

  “It wasn’t much fun to play second fiddle to French and, on a larger stage, to people like Luzi, Messina, Fitzpatrick and even Torrey himself. For a guy like you with big ambitions, it had to be rough, especially when a woman as desirable as Lauren caught your eye.

  “Lauren was innocent. She didn’t know she was driving you to murder, Dave. She was being herself—young and high-spirited—when she flirted with you in her come-hither-yet-don’t-touch-me, Southern belle way. Sure, she was flattered and even titillated by your attentions, but she’s a good girl. She’d never consider taking up with a married man. However, a married man might look at her, want her and think of ways to rise to the top and take her with him.”

  Dave muttered and looked down at something only he could see.

  I continued, “You framed French and then planted the pantyhose box and receipt in his office. It got French out of the way while you were killing people, and you got to be the big man on campus, all the while pretending you were insecure and needy. I bought right into it and did everything I could to reassure you.”

  It was getting stuffy in the car. I opened my window. Then I added, “Luzi knew something was up. He wanted to tell me what he knew but, somehow, you got wind of it and invited yourself before I got there. That was the end of him, poor guy.” I hung my right arm out the window, waving my hand to someone unseen outside the car.

  Dave, who had gone quiet, snarled like an enraged Rottweiler, and screamed, “You stinking little bitch!” as he lunged at me from the back seat, something nylon stretched between his hands.

  It all happened so fast. He wrapped the pantyhose around my throat and pulled it tight, while I tugged frantically, trying to loosen it, unable to breath. David tightened the hose around his fists, increasing his choke hold. Jake erupted across the seat and, in one smooth motion, smashed David’s face with a forceful left hook. I heard the bones in David’s nose crunch, and blood splattered onto me, as he flew backwards against the rear seat. I heard a scream that rocked the car, though I don’t think anyone noticed. It was mine.

  Jake was pummeling David when Margie let out her own eardrum-shattering scream, tore open the left passenger door, and ran from the car. She careened and stumbled through the parking lot, screeching and squealing the whole while, like a pig at slaughter. Her man was a murderer; fists and blood were flying. On some level, she must have realized she was next on David’s hit list. It was all too much for her.

  Within seconds, six squad cars, with their lights flashing and sirens wailing, pulled into the parking lot and surrounded our car. Rick and his men ran toward us with their guns drawn. Rick threw open the right rear passenger door and yanked David out by his hair, dragging him onto the asphalt and smashing his neck against the ground with his boot. In moments, twelve Magnums were pointed at his bloody face.

  I had spoken to Rick late Sunday night. When the post card from Dave and Margie arrived, Rick and I hatched a plan. Jake and I would pick up the two lovebirds and bring them to the Baptist Church parking lot in Windermere. Rick, Tom and their men would be in place, waiting for us, hidden amongst the pines that surrounded the lot, with their engines idling and their lights turned off, ready to jump in when I gave them the signal.

  Chapter 61

  “Ma’am, do you realize your purse is open?” our twenty-something, bikini-clad waitress asked me, in a high-pitched, childlike, nasal voice.

  “Gosh, no. I hadn’t realized that, thanks,” I smiled, twisting to close my bag, but French reached over and zipped it for me.

  “Thank you, sweet thing,” I said to him, leaning in and giving him a kiss on the neck, under his ear. He gave me a squeeze and smiled. French was his old self and more. It was day three of our getaway at the Sapphire Crystal Shores Resort in Key West, one of our favorite hideaways. I had laughed at Margie and Dave for going to Islamorada after the conference, and, here I was with my honey, on the southernmost key of all. The irony was not lost on me.

  We were cuddled up on the beach in a loveseat under an umbrella, enjoying our view of the turquoise blue Gulf of Mexico. He sipped his Harvey Wallbanger and I nudged my thick and frosty Frangelico smoothie through a pink plastic straw. It was our turn to relax, soak in the late afternoon sun, suck up drinks with little paper umbrellas and coo at each other like newlyweds.

  “I just can’t believe it was Dave. I feel so stupid for not realizing it was my right hand man all along,” French said.

  “Don’t feel bad, honey,” I said to him. “You were too close to him to see it.”

  “How did you put it all together?” he said.

  “Mostly, Lauren gave him away and she didn’t even know. I ran into her wherever I was in the hotel. Her heels were always clicking smartly and she had some report or other that David had requested,” I answered.

  “After a while, it occurred to me that no one needed that many reports, no matter how green he might be or how insecure about running the hotel without you,” I said. “Plus, he was sniffing her hair like a goon.”

  “You mean like this?” French asked, burying his nose in my hair and breathing in with a sigh of satisfaction.

  “Yeah, kinda like that but not so passionate, more weenie-like,” I giggled. “While you were gone, David kept in close touch with me. His insecurities were over the top. That was odd for a guy who’s been in the hotel biz since he left college. Let’s face it, David’s not a kid and this is not his first property. It started to seem like the old saying, keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer.

  “In the beginning, dummy me was feeding him all sorts of information. Once I got an inkling that he was the guilty party, I started feeding him lies, not that it helped much,” I said, regretting that I had not been onto him sooner.

  “Stop it! You were smart enough to realize it was Dave who abducted you. See, you're no dummy.”

  “Oh, come on—it took me way too long to figure that one out. Eventually I realized it had to be Dave. He was the one with the power to call off the dogs from my trail. Also, he was shrewd enough to put on Italian cologne. Not so stupid—made me think it had something to do with Frankie Messina.”

  “Sneaky bastard. I would have never guessed he had it in him.”

  “People will blow you away with their dark sides. Every time.”

  “You and I don't have dark sides, do we?”

  “Of course not. We're perfect angels. Saints, actually. Why would you even ask?”

  French grinned and gave me a little peck on the cheek and a quick squeeze.

  “There was also his scuffed shoe,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” French asked.

  “On the night Frankie was killed, Rick questioned David in his office in front of me. Dave claimed he had been making rounds in the hotel all day and evening, preparing for the big party at Orange 43. I looked down and saw the toe of his right shoe was scuffed. I realized he’d tripped over something in the sculpture garden, as I’d seen him do before. He hadn’t only been in the hotel. If he lied about that, then he was covering up his comings and goings that ni
ght.”

  “You’re observant, I’ll give you that. I still can’t believe David would do such a thing. He’s not the guy I always thought he was,” French said, shaking his head.

  “No kidding,” I replied. “What about the whopper he told Rick about seeing you near Orange 43 right before the big party?”

  “You fell for it at first,” French teased.

  “Okay, for a while I was in a froth about it. The more I thought it over, the more I realized it was impossible. He had to be making the whole thing up.”

  “You think?” French asked, giving me a hug, “as if I could be that close to you and not come see you. The whole idea is absurd.”

  “That was the final piece of the puzzle. That’s when I realized he wasn’t fishing with tackle. He had gone a little soft in the noodle when no one was looking.”

  “Just plain nuts,” French answered. “That’s what I call it. It makes me sick to my stomach to think of the access he had to all of us.”

  “Awful, isn’t it? There’s just no telling what a sick mind can justify. He was ambitious. He was tired of his small town life and his small town wife. He found a girl he wanted to impress. He felt entitled to have it all, and he was ready to go to any lengths to get it. He was going to get the girl, the social status and the alpha dog position.”

  “What a sicko. Margie was next on his list, I’ll bet, and you were probably next after that,” French said, his face serious.

  “I think you may be right,” I said.

  “Come on,” French said. “Drink up and let’s take a walk.” I slurped up the last drops while he added a tip to our bill and signed it to our room. He took me by the hand and we rose to our feet.

  “They make a strong smoothie,” I said, a little unsteady. “Tasted so innocent.”

  “Tastes can be deceiving. When you weren’t paying attention, I spoke to our waitress and had her make you a double.” He winked at me.

  “I know that’s a lie and you know I hate people who wink,” I said, glad he put his arm around me as he led me back to the street.

  A soft breeze was playing through the leaves of the banyan trees. People were walking to cafés, bars, shops, hotels and motels. They were strolling, talking, carrying colorful plastic bags full of souvenirs from Key West.

  We stopped in front of a storefront with butcher paper in the windows and a sign that read, “COMING SOON: Silver Threads and Gold Things Needed by Mona Luzi”.

  “I can’t believe it,” I said. “Mona is actually launching her own jewelry line, just like she said she would.”

  “I never thought of her as a businesswoman,” French said.

  Shadows moved behind the butcher block, so we walked around the side and popped our heads in the back door.

  “Oh my gosh, look what the trade winds blew in,” Mona said, giving us air hugs and kisses on each cheek.

  “What do you think?” she asked, sounding as excited as a little kid.

  We walked through the shop, looking at the lighting, the art work on the walls, the display cases filled with her beautiful creations. We told her the shop was going to be a big success.

  “I think it'll be a big hit, too,” She looked down, her smile shy. “It’s only a shame Vacaar isn’t here to see it.”

  “He would be so proud of you,” I told her, knowing it was true.

  We said our goodbyes and, as we walked down the street, his arm still firmly around my waist, French looked at me and said, “You see, she is a genuine person, after all. And talented, besides.”

  “She is lovely,” I agreed, “ and I’d consider her competition, if I thought she were your type.”

  “You would not,” he said, giving me a playful jab in the ribs, “You know damn well she’s too tall for me. I like ‘em petite and sultry.”

  I think I blushed. I liked this relaxed and loving French, prone to praise and public displays of affection. I’d have to see to it that he was accused of more murders as our lives unfolded together.

  Chapter 62

  Two weeks passed since the police hauled David away in their cruiser and Margie ran down the main thoroughfare of Windermere, creating a ruckus all the way to her house on Pine, poor dear. French and I were settling back into our usual routine of four or five business dinners a week. Tonight, we had entertained some Saudi princes at Papa’s Place and were happy to be home.

  “Did you know some of our VIPs got ripped off earlier today?” French asked, as we undressed for bed.

  “No,” I said. “I hadn’t heard. What happened?”

  “Someone broke into the suite while the guests were in it,” he said. “They were on the top floor, and the burglars swept through the main floor, making off with the woman’s purse, some jewelry on the powder room counter, and a video camera.”

  “Wow! Can you imagine that? It takes some balls to pull that off.”

  “No kidding,” French said.

  “It had to be an inside job, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “Yes and no,” French answered. “We’ve been hearing some bad things about the employees of the company that makes and installs the swipe locks.”

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “That’s a little creepy.”

  He nodded. After a moment, he said, “We called Rick and Tom immediately, of course. I don’t suppose they dropped by to say hello, while they were down here?”

  “Not hardly,” I answered, taking off my pearl stud earrings and dropping them into the crystal dish on my nightstand.

  “Never got a thank you note from them for researching David’s family history of mental illness or for solving the murders, either?” he asked.

  “Uh, no. The note must have blown off the porch. I don’t think the publicity the case got in the Sentinel or on the local TV channels helped cement my friendship with Mutt and Jeff, either,” I said.

  “That’s about right,” French said. “Still it’s a shame. There’s too little gratitude in the world today.”

  “I am crushed by their lack of civility,” I offered, as I hopped into bed and snuggled under my down coverlet. I patted his side of the mattress and batted my eyelashes. “Come here, big boy,” I said. “I’m going to need some serious comforting and you’re just the man for the job.”

  Chapter 63

  Memories of the manager’s meeting and all the attendant angst, heartache and craziness were beginning to fade. This summer was the busiest one ever at Silver Pines.

  It was a Thursday and French had left for work a while ago. I stretched, got up, walked to the French doors and looked through the bedroom sheers at the lake and the countryside beyond.

  The sun was already blazing, as it did every summer morning. I saw clouds gathering on the distant horizon that would later explode into a rumbling fury. The sound and light show began each day around 3:00 p.m., not that it helped. Once the black clouds, thunder, and lightening dissipated, the air was even hotter and steamier than it had been before.

  Still, I was happy because I had every reason to be happy. I lived on a stylish resort in Florida. I had a hard man who was good to find. My dear friends, Jake and Lily, were only a phone call away and both French’s and my families were only a cross-country flight away in California.

  French’s brother and sister-in-law wanted to visit us and experience Disney World with their children, Scotty and Ian. We thought their kids were too young to remember the visit once they were adults, but Rob and Cathy would not be dissuaded.

  “Okay,” French and I told them, “if you insist. We’ll be thrilled to see you. We’ve got lots of things to show you, not just Disney or the other attractions. There’s Saint Augustine and Mount Dora, there are country flea markets, antique shows, local crab shacks and juke joints that’ll knock your socks off.”

  They couldn’t wait to book their flight.

  “There’s just one thing,” we told them. “Whatever you do, don’t come in August. It’s hotter than a five alarm chili here in August. Also, there are major thunderstorms ev
ery afternoon. They bite into the sightseeing schedule and they’re scary as hell. Orlando is overrun with tourists in August and they’ve all got screaming, overly hot and tired kids, who get nastier and uglier during the course of the day. You’ll stand in line for over two hours at the more popular rides, like the Haunted Mansion or Pirates of the Caribbean.”

  The phone rang. I walked to my nightstand and picked it up. It had to be French.

  “Hi, darling,” he said. “How’s my love this morning?”

  “I’m bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” I told him.

  “I was just making sure you're up,” he said.

  “Yes, I know,” I answered. “I’m up. Wouldn’t miss this for the world,” I said, scratching a bump on my midriff.

  “That’s my girl,” he said. “Give them my regards and tell them I’ll meet up with you for cocktails tonight after work.”

  “Of course, honey.” I said and blew him a kiss goodbye.

  An hour later, I was headed up I-4 and then east on State Route 528, en route to Orlando International Airport. I felt pretty in my new peach linen suit and matching, woven leather sandals. I was picking up my in-laws and nephews and bringing them back with me to the Sapphire Silver Pines Resort.

  In the middle of August.