Murder's Last Resort (4 page)

Chapter 13

In Alana’s suite, I waited until the crying stopped, then tip-toed upstairs to look in on her. She was resting in the arms of Morpheus, so I left her a note in the kitchen: I’ve gone home to change for tonight. Rick’s men are posted right outside your front doors. You are safe. Call me if you need something. Extension 3101. Love, Maya.

* * *

I had so looked forward to tonight. But now, as I walked through this great hotel in all its architectural magnificence, I felt sad. Sad for Alana. Sad for Redmund, even. Sad that evil had to exist in the world. Sad for French, to be a suspect and to be locked up in a jail cell. I felt a big dose of sad for Maya French, too, but that was called self-pity and there was no time for that. Not now.

I walked through the hotel lobby, stepped onto the down escalator and found myself surrounded by tourists. God bless them. They made our lives possible. Other catty hotel managers and their wives might refer to them as “tourons,” but not French and me. We called them manna from heaven.

True, they were often not pretty, especially after a day at the pool. Fried by the sun, with white racing stripes decorating the sides of their arms, torsos and legs where the sun had not hit, they often wandered stiffly around the lobby, looking pink, puffy and pitiful.

Still, they were precious to us. French tried to protect them from themselves. He had initiated the “Sun Squad” at our resort. Attractive young gals and guys, in sun visors, crisp white tennis shorts and matching tank tops, strolled poolside with old-fashioned cigarette trays in front of them. Unlike the hotchacha girls of the 1940s, these youngsters hawked sunscreen, Bullfrog and aloe vera lotion instead of cigars, cigarettes or Tiparillos.

When the Squad noticed guests snoozing while slowly roasting to a dusky concord grape color, they awakened them and suggested a move to the shade with, perhaps, a soothing refreshment, such as an orange creamsicle smoothie and a foot reflexology massage. Or, how about a strawberry banana rum smoothie and a Balinese body rub under a thatched roof hut, lakeside?

Life hardly got more decadent than this. Our guests deserved it. They worked hard all year, and this was their one treat to themselves and their families. They wanted to be near Disney, but not drowning in all the typical Disney hoopla.

Silver Pines was several cuts above anything Disney had to offer—fun and relaxed, yet elegant and grand. Our job was to make our guests feel as special as they were.

My thoughts of the tourists stopped as my feet touched the bottom of the escalator. I was not far from the OPD’s makeshift office, Meeting Room C. Might as well stop by and say hey, see if they’d come up with anything.

Things looked less makeshift than the last time I visited. Detectives were hunkered in front of computers, printers and fax machines that the hotel IT Department had brought down for them. Electrical cords ran this way and that, in front of several desks in the room, creating a wavy, criss-cross pattern that looked like a roller-coaster thrill ride for a little Orlando mouse.

“Mrs. French, so good of you to stop by!” My mouse fantasy was interrupted by Sergeant Tom Koenig. He rose, as best he could, to greet me. “To what do we owe this great honor?” He hiked up his pants by the belt as he spoke.

“Hi there! I thought I’d just drop by to see if you have anything new.” Old leather belly was none too pleased to see me. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. He wanted to be rude. But he was on my turf. My husband was his chief suspect but also, technically, his host. Quite a conundrum. Koenig wanted to make me feel small. I could sense a smugness about him, but Southern manners did not allow biting the hand that feeds you. Indirectly, through French, I was his hostess, too.

Koenig looked uncomfortable. At the same time I entered the room, a well groomed young waiter in formal attire rolled in a large room-service cart, with a white linen tablecloth and one long-stemmed red rose, through the side door of Meeting Room C. He began setting up various sandwiches, a silver punch bowl filled with iced soft drinks and plates of oatmeal raisin and chocolate chip cookies on the banquet table in the back of the room, next to the urns of coffee.

“Here’s your Monte Cristo sandwich, Sergeant Koenig!” he said, setting a placemat, a napkin and silverware on Koenig’s desk. The waiter returned to the cart, bent at the waist and opened the door of the heating section beneath the tray. He removed a covered plate and, with a flourish, whisked off the silver warming cover. He placed the sandwich with its elaborate garnish and double order of fries on Sergeant Koenig’s desk.

“Mmm! That smells good,” I said, smiling at Tom.

The Sarge turned, so his mountain of girth was between his plate and me. My timing could not have been better for me or worse for him.

“Enjoy your sandwiches, guys—especially, you, sir!” the waiter said as he wheeled his cart out of the room.  “Compliments of Mr. French’s staff and Silver Pines.”

Nice guy. He nodded and smiled at me before he hurried out.

Ignoring the waiter, Koenig reached past his plate and took a white sheet of paper from his deck, “We got the goods on the pantyhose. It was manufactured by L’eggs, just as you said. Suntan. Total support.”

“Just as I predicted,” I answered.

“Not entirely,” he drawled at me, with that smugness I had sensed when I entered the room. “They were size B.”

“I don’t believe it,” I said, feigning shocked surprise, though I had already guessed it, after finding the empty pantyhose box on French’s desk.

“Yup, that’s right. The crime lab in Sanford knows what they’re doin’. If they say Size B, then it’s Size B. No question.”

“Well, I’ll be darned,” I said, acting impressed.

I wanted to leave now and I wanted to shift the focus from pantyhose to something else. I said my goodbyes and surveyed the banquet table, nabbing an oatmeal cookie on my way out.

“Everything looks
delicious,
guys. Enjoy!” I said as I left, rubbing it in that they were French’s guests. Even
in absentia
, he was treating them royally, something that could probably not be said of the way they were treating him back in his cell on Orange Avenue.

Chapter 14

I was rattled by everything that had happened in such a short time. I might not have liked Torrey but he was a human being and someone had offed him in a most peculiar way. Knowing that the murderer was likely going to be at tonight’s party, shake my hand or give me a warm embrace and maybe even, if I was wrong and it was a man, take me for a turn or two around the dance floor, was just plain creepy.

Then there was Alana. She would be lying around her suite alone, anguished, hurting. My heart went out to her, yet she was, statistically, the most likely suspect. Earlier, in her suite, hearing her sobs floating down from the bedroom fairly convinced me that she was innocent. But what if murderers had regrets and second thoughts? Couldn’t that happen, too? And what if murderers made sure their phony sobs were heard by gullible girls like me? I couldn’t help but wonder.

By the time I walked back to the tin-roofed, Grand Floridian cottage that French and I shared on the resort’s lake, I was not a happy Sapphire Resorts camper. Rick and Koenig were using me when it was convenient and, otherwise, considered me somewhere between laughable and deplorable. They were more like enemies than allies. If they knew I had a pantyhose box from French’s desk under my bathroom sink, they might clamp some cuffs on me and lead me to my own private cell right next to French’s 8x8.

Then it hit me. I had to laugh at myself. I was a woman. I wore pantyhose. No one was going to think twice if I had a pantyhose box under my bathroom sink, even if French’s fingerprints were all over it.

Only I knew it might have the murderer’s fingerprints on it, as well. Was there a crash course in fingerprint identity that I could take? Or had I already smudged them beyond recognition? What a bad mistake I had made, if that were true. Maybe I
did
deserve to go to jail. I told myself it didn’t really matter. The murderer would probably do or say something tonight to give her or himself away.

Ten minutes of meditative sleep would lift me out of my slump. I needed to be sharp tonight. As I drifted off counting backwards from ten to one, I cheered myself with the thought of Jake and Lily flanking me at tonight’s gala.

Jake and I met in an eighth grade English class. Throughout high school, we were like Siamese twins, joined at our twisted brains. Physical opposites, he was tall and fair-haired, with broad shoulders and long legs. He was a cliché—unavailable to girls—and t'was such a pity.

Lily and I met at Silver Pines during the pre-opening of the resort. Both executive wives with a renegade streak, we enjoyed similar lives and had the same irreverence for things hotel and corporate. Soon, we were as close as the eyes of a halibut.

Jake, Lily and I shared a black humor and, together, we had more fun than was allowed. Tonight, the mood might be more serious. If we were on our game, we might solve a murder.

I awoke a short while later, feeling refreshed. I made myself a cup of tea and, for what seemed like the tenth time in a twenty-four hour period, I freshened up, put on my face and coiffed my ‘do.’

Now for the gown. Layers of royal blue chiffon cascaded from my shoulders into a deep V just above my waist, tightly cinched by an obi sash of the same fabric. The chiffon continued in a long, loose skirt that swirled at my ankles, showing off my dyed-to-match,
peau de soie
heels. The color accented my thick, auburn hair, and the proportions of the ensemble accented my small, but shapely, shape.

Diamond drop earrings and an oval, rhinestone-studded Judith Leiber bag completed the ensemble. For once, appraising myself in the full-length mirror, I didn’t feel too short, too fat, too plain or too anything.
It figures. I’ve never looked this good, might never look this good again, and French isn’t here to see me.

* * *

Knots of beautiful people in floor-length gowns and black tuxedos stood chatting in the ballroom, still holding their champagne glasses from the pre-gala reception.

Each weighty ceiling chandelier was polished to glittering perfection. The house lights were low, and the table top decor of softly draped metallic satins picked up the golden light of tea candles in crystal holders. The white rose and orchid centerpieces were positioned to reflect their richness on gold-trimmed mirrors. The china, flatware and wine glasses offered an invitation to an elegant evening. Jake rose as I approached our table for ten. Lily and he had left a seat open between them.

Any one of the seven little dwarves who would be seated at our table could be a killer. As I waited for people to arrive, my heart beat in a hurried, uneven rhythm. It wasn’t every night you purposefully set out to trip up a murderer.

There would be plenty to drink, a new wine with every course of the meal, then cordials and brandy with dessert. I wasn’t a big drinker at any time, but tonight I would go through the motions, putting various glasses to my lips but not taking one sip. I wanted all of my senses to be acute and engaged.

Had French been next to me where he belonged, we would be seated near the Torreys, but not necessarily at the same table. They were usually surrounded by local politicians and high society. The Torreys also imported a cadre of senators, philanthropists and middling to major celebrities wherever they went. They were in the outer social register ionosphere and we orbited nearby.

Tonight, our table included upper level Sapphire Hotels execs and some local bigwigs, with whom we were friendly. Here came Giorgio and Iris Pappas, an older couple from Orlando. She was all gussied up in her sequined gown, her Olympia blue eye shadow, her heavily penciled brows and her hairpiece, that she had probably been wearing since her go-go days in the 60s. Giorgio was wiry and happy. Iris was plump and happy. They were both disappointed to hear that French had been unavoidably detained in Coral Gables.

Then the Messinas arrived, Frankie and Linda. Frankie had worked for Sapphire forever. My skin felt prickly whenever Frankie got near me, but Linda was like cool water, Eurasian, an exotic Ingrid Bergman. Her shiny black hair was pulled back into a thick, glamorous knot at the nape of her neck, which was festooned with large, perfectly matched, cultured pearls. I wanted t
o
b
e
Linda when I grew up. Except, what was she doing with Frankie? I always wondered about that.

Frankie was slick bordering on smarmy. Immaculately attired at all times, he knew everyone and had only wonderful things to say. Still, anyone could tell that he would chop off and sell Linda’s beautiful black braid for a penny, if he thought it might get him one eyelash closer to Redmund Torrey. Then, there were the whisperings that he came from a big Sicilian family, and we all knew what that meant...

I watched him with alert eyes, as he seated Linda and then stretched out his heavily bejeweled left hand to me, giving my right hand the old backwards sissy shake, which I have always hated.

“Maya, you look absolutely radiant tonight!” he cooed, giving me an appreciative yet very proper smile, as he straightened the cuffs of his shirt. Tainted at his core, Frankie was all about looking good on the outside. “Where’s French?” His hands went to his bow tie, checking to see if it were straight.

“Called away on business,” I answered, going into my little spiel for the night, while I hid my upset behind a trouper’s resigned smile.

The Luzis, Vacaar and Mona, were also guests at our table. They were Sapphire Resorts people, stationed in the Midwest. Vacaar was a Regional VP with his eyes set on bigger sights. He was a sharp guy, who had come up from nothing in an Albanian village on the Adriatic.

He rushed over, leaving Mona chatting with someone else, and greeted me formally with a slight accent, “You look beautiful tonight, Miss Maya. Where is that husband of yours?”

“Oh gosh, he’s on special assignment with Torrey in Coral Gables. I guess it’s just us chickens tonight.” I was almost ready for my Oscar.

“If you need me to step in to make announcements, speeches, anything at all, you give me a nod.”

His wife walked over. He said with a grin, “Why, look, Miss Maya. Here comes my beautiful daughter, Mona. Say hello to her, would you?”

Mona flashed that megawatt smile and her long, tanned legs peeked out from the slit on the side of her sequined, ruby, sheath. How a compact guy like Vacaar ever scored a retired, super model wife like Mona was a mystery to everyone. He never took his eyes off her. Maybe that was part of his charm for her. As I air kissed Mona, I stole a sidelong glance at Vacaar. What would a man like Luzi stand to gain by Torrey’s death? Was there anything in it for Mona?