Murder's Last Resort (17 page)

Chapter 54

Jake deposited me back in my house, secured the perimeter and then went back to work. I knew I should get back to work, too, on solving the murders. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t face them right now. I needed a break from all that crap before the remaining circuitry in my brain fried completely.

I had to occupy myself with something else for a little while. But what? The murders, French’s disappearance, reappearance and re-disappearance consumed every ounce of my gray matter. I could feel one of my tension headaches coming on, starting as blurred vision in my right eye. I took two Tylenol and stretched out on the living room sofa for a few minutes.

I never did fall asleep or stop thinking about the murders. I was restless, I was agitated, I was spinning my wheels and burning rubber. I picked up the phone and dialed Lily.

“Lily, help!” I cried into the phone. “I’m going nuts. N-u-t-s, nuts.”

“Oh dear!” she said, her voice warm and sympathetic. “What can I do to help?”

“Come visit me, Lily,” I requested, “I know I should be working on all the clues I’ve gathered but I can’t seem to face one more moment of any of it right now. It’s all running together in my head and it looks like a Jackson Pollock painting in there.”

“Speaking of painting, I was just finishing up an oil. Let me clean up and I’ll be right over.”

“Thank you, sweetie. I can’t wait,” I said. “Don’t be surprised if I fall all over you in gratitude when you arrive.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Lily would distract me. She was a dear and, without her, my life in Orlando would have been one-sided and dull. She was my buddy and always up for an adventure when she wasn’t tending to her cutting garden or working on ceramics, oils or mosaics in her studio.

Sometimes, she let me come play in the studio with her. She had formal training, talent and buckets of patience for my playing at art. I had a kid’s curiosity about creating stuff. She let me feel safe while I set about botching portraits, or firing misshapen blobs of clay that I thought were vases. When I laughed at the hopeless junk I produced, she laughed with me but neve
r
a
t
me.

She and William lived in a rambling, brick, Grand Floridian  home, leased for them by the Norwegian owners of Silver Pines. Its two story, screened-in patio faced the eighteenth hole of the Bay Hill golf course. Each year, for the Bay Hill Classic, their home was the place to be.

Part of what I so liked about Lily was that she lived large, yet she didn’t care one whit about the outer trappings of success. William was a former executive for American Cola. They had socialized with everyone on Atlanta’s social register for years, before being transferred to Bangkok, then London and, eventually, Rome. When William retired early from Amco, he carved out a nice deal for himself and Lily with the Norwegian Pension Fund and was enjoying a second successful career.

The doorbell rang. I peeked and saw Lily standing at the front door, a baseball cap on her head and a large canvas leaning against her hip.

I opened the door. “Hi, Lily, thanks for coming.” We hugged.

“Hi, Duckie. I could hear the desperation in your voice. Wild murderers couldn’t keep me away.” She placed the canvas against a wall, its blank side facing out.

“Please, don’t mention the M word, okay?” I asked her. “I’m murdered out at the moment.”

“I bet. Any luck discovering the identity of the mystery—?” she asked, smiling, and made a choking motion with her hands.

“No! Not saying the word ‘murderer’ and making a choking sign instead is still alluding to murder. Let’s talk about something else, okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed and added, “Here, I made a painting for you. Be careful, it’s still wet.” She turned the canvas to face me.

Against a velvety, plum colored background, there hung an empty noose made of tan pantyhose, the reinforced toes dangling from one side. It looked a little like used condoms.

“Lovely,” I said, after I inspected it closely. “Just lovely. Doesn’t remind me of murder at all. I’m going to hang it over the fireplace.”

I propped it against the mantel, stood back and looked at it. I snickered. My reaction made her laugh. That’s what she’d been going for anyway, with her gallows humor. It didn’t take much to amuse us, really. We were easy.

I brewed us a strong pot of English Teatime and we played cribbage in the den. Sitting there, nibbling madeleines and drinking tea while we poked pegs into a board, made life feel almost normal.

“So, Maya, you seem a little better now,” Lily said, after a while.

“Better than when you got here, yes,” I said.

“So, what accounts for the change, dearie?”

“You came right over. You made me laugh. I don’t feel alone anymore. Plus, sitting here relaxing with you, a few puzzle pieces fell into place. I have an idea who the killer is but I need a bit more time to get the details straight,” I answered.

She left me to my thoughts while she dunked a madeleine, then ate it. My thoughts were flitting around like fireflies in a large, glass jar. They kept alighting on the notion of someone wanting prestige and social stature with a big helping of jealousy, lust and greed on the side. The more I tried to concentrate on who did what, the more the fireflies zigged and zagged. No pattern yet, no neon light flashing the answer in my brain, but I was getting close, I could feel it.

I’d have to mentally discuss this with French. Shortly after he had first been taken away in handcuffs, I started an ongoing inner dialogue with him. Some might have called it guided visualization. Some might have called it wishful thinking. Some might have described it as water on the brain. To me, it was a lifesaver. If I couldn’t talk with French in person, talking with him in my head was the next best thing.

Lily and I watched part of “Dial M for Murder” on VHS. It was easy to buy evil deeds on celluloid. How had real life become so murderous?

A while later, Lily, affecting a Southern accent, said, “It’s been fun but I gotta run. I have to rustle up some grub for my man.”

“Sure,” I said. “You better go.”

“Jake will be here soon, won’t he?” she asked.

“Yup,” I answered. “He’s due back any minute. I’ll be okay. Give my love to William.”

I set a new kettle of water on to boil and, like clockwork, a few minutes later, Jake walked in the front door. We had our tea. He snarfed up the leftover madeleines. We talked a little and then it was time to get ready for the farewell Sapphire event of the conference at Orange 43. We cleared the dishes and split up to change into our party duds.

The party had a 70s theme and French and I had bought vintage costumes weeks ago. It was easy for me; all I needed was a clingy, spaghetti-strapped, knee-length polyester dress with a slit up one side, dancing shoes, pouffy hair and heavy eye makeup. Jake came out of his wing of the house in French’s costume: a three-piece, white polyester, bell bottomed suit, black shirt, gold chain, platform boots and a blond afro wig. French couldn’t have worn it better himself.

Going to a disco was the last thing I would have chosen to do, but this event had been planned for over a year. The Sapphire Manager of 1985 would be announced tonight. The prize was a $50,000 bonus plus a trip around the world, all expenses paid.

It made sense to have the final Sapphire event at the disco. Dancing was fun, upbeat, exhilarating. It was a vacation sport enjoyed by most people at hotels and resorts. People who wouldn’t lift an ankle to scratch a mosquito bite at home, found the will to get up and boogie at a hopping hotel nightclub. Nothing said good times like laser lights, a fog machine and a sparkling disco ball hanging from the center of a mirrored ceiling.

Jake and I walked to the hotel along the lake in the moist night air, past where Linda Messina’s body had been dumped. The entrance to the disco was fifty feet away. As we approached the unmarked, industrial, steel door to Orange 43, we could feel the bass thumping and throbbing from inside.

“Man, you know how I hate noisy nightclubs,” Jake said. “The things I do for you, Maya.”

“Yes, my love,” I answered, “and I’m grateful. You know that.”

He pulled two bright yellow, squishy earplugs out of his vest pocket and stuffed one into each ear.

“If you need my attention, Maya, you’re going to have to tap me on the shoulder.”

I nodded and gave him the thumbs up. Might as well start the sign language now. The host greeted us and took us to a table in the back. The place wasn’t full yet but people were trickling in.

I saw a lot of familiar Sapphire faces. Some were missing but would arrive later. Some were missing for good. I didn’t want to sit around when the music was so inviting. The toga-clad waitress took our drink order. I took Jake’s hand and led him to the dance floor. My thoughts were always more fluid while I was in motion.

As I danced, I thought about women and what motivates them. It’s said that men seek admiration while women seek love. It’s said that women love money, therefore, they love men with money. I knew there was plenty of moola swirling around the world of Sapphire Resorts.

Most people seemed happy enough to climb the corporate ladder the usual way—slow, steady progress to the top, where the elusive brass ring dangled from the highest atrium ceiling.

Some people didn’t want to trudge up the rungs one at a time. Some people wanted to float to the top like Peter Pan, rigged to a hidden belt by monofilament, and snatch that ring on a fly-by. You could never tell who was a Peter Pan, who was a Wendy, who was as innocent as Little Red Riding Hood and who was a wolf dressed in a hotel manager’s clothing.

As I grooved and twirled, my thoughts became clearer. I felt like I was on the cusp of cracking this case, as corny as it sounded, when someone bumped my left hip.

“Hey!” I said, annoyed, but it was only little Pam laughing and pointing at me, so I broke into a smile.

“Gotcha!” she said.

“Did you bring a purse?” she asked me.

I had no idea what she was saying.  She had to repeat it a few times over the pulsing beat. I finally understood and nodded my head. She pulled out some papers she had tucked in one of her pockets and handed them to me.

I didn’t want to risk leaving them in my purse at our table, so I folded and tucked them between the cups of my bra. Thank heavens for assorted underthings, where you could always hide a lipstick, a few bucks, or, as it turned out, some papers. Before pantyhose, I used to put all my necessities in the top of my nylons. Ah, pantyhose! I loved them but at least one Sapphire guy I knew didn’t look good in them.

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.