Murder's Last Resort (7 page)

Chapter 21

Enderly and I waited in the living room until Wells and Koenig arrived. If I thought Enderly was on edge before this, now he was wound up like a chipmunk on coke. Nothing I could say would calm him. I could have used some calming myself. I clasped my hands together to keep them from shaking, but it didn’t help.

Dave paced back and forth in front of the sofa, muttering to himself, until the two men arrived. He took them upstairs and I followed, standing near a corner of the bedroom, while the three men huddled in front of the closet doors. After a few moments, they moved into the bathroom to look around, so I went over to the closet. I had a ghoulish need to take another look at Luzi.

“Mrs. French, just what in tarnation do you think yer doin’?” Tom Koenig’s voice boomed from behind me.

I jumped like a Florida sand flea. Was I disturbing the scene of a crime? I turned around, feeling guilty, though I had done nothing wrong.

“I—I’m sorry, Sergeant Koenig. I just had to see these shoes again. They’re beautiful and I’ve never seen this particular style—”

He interrupted me with a peculiar look on his face, “Are you sayin’ you’ve got a yen for those shoes? Well, you can forget about it. They are evidence,” he said, enunciating each word of the last two sentences, as if he were speaking to a belligerent teenager.

“I do not have a yen for those shoes,” I said, feeling indignant. “I merely have an interest in their design. They’re far too large for my tiny little feet.”

He looked down at my feet and relaxed a little. “Okay, but I still have a few questions for you and Mr. Enderly,” and motioned for me to go back to the bedroom and sit.

While Rick called his investigative team, Enderly and I told Tom our stories—that we had been called to be here at 3:00 p.m. by Mr. Luzi himself. Koenig frowned and took a labored breath. If he would have had a gator tail to match his belly, it would have switched back and forth a few times, annoyed and menacing.

Tom didn’t like me to begin with and, once again, here I was in the presence of a corpse. I had found the body without his help. It was like we were on an Easter egg hunt and my basket was more filled than his.

As I answered Koenig’s questions, I wondered if Vacaar had killed himself by mistake or if he had been murdered. My first thought was that he had accidentally killed himself. I had read that this can happen in this dangerous sport.

But what if he had been murdered? What if the murderer had been hiding in the suite, waiting for his opportunity? Once Vacaar was on his knees in the closet with the belt around his neck, he was an easy target.

If it was a murder, why would someone kill Torrey, then Vacaar? They both liked the ladies. Maybe it was killers, plural. Maybe it was a band of angry women—angry at having been used and then dropped by these two overgrown adolescents, who always turned tail and ran back to their wives after the fun was over. Maybe Vacaar died a normal—okay, wiggy, freaky—death that involved no foul play whatsoever. What if it was a big old creepy coincidence and nothing more? On the other hand, maybe someone who knew about his proclivities set this scene up to make it
look
like a natural, sexual deviant’s death.
Does such a thing exist?

Once released from questioning, I said goodbye to David and trudged home in a stupor, not really seeing the marble sculptures nor the bromeliads on my path. I was deep in a ping-pong game in my head and I held both paddles. Was it murder? Was it accidental suicide? Was it Yin or was it Yang? Was everything black, white or striations of gray? Why Torrey? Why Luzi? I couldn’t figure it out. My thoughts turned to French and the unfairness of it all.

“I want French. I need French, When are You going to deliver?” I asked aloud of God or the universe or my higher power or whoever was in charge. Someone once told me that praying out loud got speedy results. Did my words sound more like a demand than a request? Just to be safe, I muttered, “Please, thank You. Amen.” and kept walking.

I was back at the house when the phone rang. It was Reed. “Great news, Maya!” he said.

“I am so ready for some great news, Doug. Lay it on me, baby.”

“I got French out. He should be home in less than an hour.”

Chapter 22

It had been over an hour now. No French. No call from French. Where the heck was he? I was tempted to call Doug to see exactly when he got French out of the Orange Avenue clink but decided against it. What would it help?

I sometimes felt like a pioneer woman, slogging along the ruts of the Oregon Trail, on foot next to my covered wagon. There was a train of wagons, there were women folk and kid folk. There were, of course, men folk. But my man, he was seldom with us in the ruts or around the campfire. No, he was one of the scouts. He was Meriwether Lewis French, blazing new paths, cutting back the undergrowth, chasing away the scary varmints for us, but not one to give a woman much steady company. I was often left to count the yellow blossoms on my plain, worn calico skirt and refasten the bow of my road-worn, muslin bonnet while other families huddled together over salted pork and little tins of heated beans.

Where is he, damn it?
I felt taken for granted. I had been thinking exclusively of him, missing him, worrying about him when I was not trying to tease together the few clues I had to work with regarding—oh what was it again? Murder. He could at least call.

It was hard on me, flopping around alone in the house, waiting for French to come back. I boiled some water for tea and while I waited for it to brew, I sat at the piano and tinkered with a melody or two. I seldom played, but always told myself I should do it more often. Ugly thoughts popped into my head.
When did French get out of jail? In time to kill Luzi?
Then the doorbell rang.

I turned to look, but no one was there. It was hard to ring our bell and then just disappear. The double doors of the front entry were beveled glass. There were floor-to-ceiling glass transoms next to the doors. That made ten feet of glass, through which the path from the gate to the door could easily be seen.

Jumping up from the piano bench, I ran out the front door to double check. I looked left and right of the entry. No one. Just the water of the lake, mildly lapping at our grassy shore.
That’s a little spooky.
I looked up the path for Rick’s men. Where was a fake gardener when a girl needed one?

Seeing no one, I turned back to the house, and there, lying next to the door, was a plain brown box. It was wedged between one of the transoms and an oversized terra cotta planter.

I went inside, grabbed a pair of latex gloves and picked up the box. It was very light, neatly taped shut. I angled it toward the light to check for prints on the tape. There were none that I could see.

Back in the kitchen, I found a knife and opened the box. Nestled in white tissue paper was a typed note on expensive paper stock that read, “Maya, you have a run.” Except someone had crossed out the “a” and printed the word, “to.” There were also two boxes of L’eggs pantyhose. Size A. Suntan.

I examined the box and its contents carefully with my magnifying glass. No prints anywhere, not even on the shiny pantyhose cartons. Whoever did this was smart. Smart and careful.
Smart and Final.

I walked to an overstuffed chair and placed my gift on the coffee table. I sipped my tea and contemplated the meaning of the gift and, while I was at it, the meaning of life.

Here I sat in the great room of a house on a fake lake in the middle of a luxury resort in Central Florida. People were turning up dead in the hotel. I kept turning up at the wrong place at the wrong time. My husband wasn’t turning up at all. Swimmers, kayakers and wind surfers were gliding past this house, oblivious to the troubles of a few Sapphire executives, their wives and the Orlando Police Department.

None of it made any sense so why not do something nutty? Ancient peoples drank the blood of their enemies for courage and superior strength. Because it was the last thing anyone would expect, given the circumstances and the weather, I decided to wear one of the pairs of hose.

I had both legs in and was just pulling the sausage casing up to my waist when the phone rang.

David Enderly was on the line. “Is French there?” he asked.

“No. I thought maybe he went directly to the hotel after Reed got him sprung.”

“No,” he said, sounding haunted. “No one has seen him on property. Both Rick and Tom have been calling my office and paging me constantly. What do I tell them?”

“Tell them it’s tea time. They need to sit down in the lobby, have some scones with jam and double Devon cream, some petit fours, a cup of Darjeeling and relax.”

“Oh, yeah, right, Maya. That’s not very helpful.”

“Dave, it’s all I’ve got.” David was losing it. “If French comes to the house before he goes to the hotel, I’ll have him call you.”

“If he turns up here, I’ll call you,” Dave answered.

He sounded fissured.
For a guy with big ambitions, he’s not handling the pressure of being Number One very well. Shouldn’t I be more panicked than he? He’s only missing a boss. I’m missing a husband and wearing pantyhose on a hot, sticky afternoon in Orlando.

It was time for action. I decided to take my newly delivered gift box of L’eggs to Meeting Room C. Rick and Tom needed to see this.

Chapter 23

I was heading out the door when I noticed black skies overhead. Late afternoon and early evening storms were frequent in Central Florida. I paused under the overhang at my front doors. Should I continue on my errand or stay here?

My worst thinking said:
Go back inside, slip on your rain boots, grab an umbrella and make a dash for the hotel.

My best thinking said:
Stay home a few minutes. This thing will pass through on a fast train.
Besides, the note had told me to run. Sometimes, it’s good to take opposite action.

Orlando was located in the lightening strike capital of America. This strike zone fitted a broad sash from west to east, from Tampa to Melbourne. Lightening strikes in this zone often meant instant death. As a rule, it was tourists that were struck and killed because they somehow felt immune from tragedy while on vacation.

Thunder rumbled overhead and here I was, someone who knew better, eager to get to my destination, almost forgetting that staying inside for a while was a much better plan than risking my life for a handwritten note and some pantyhose boxes.

* * *

Wells and Koenig looked up from their desks as I entered. They were alone in the room. Their eyes swept over me, from toe to crown. They were none too subtle.

“What’s up?” Rick said, looking at me like he saw a cockroach crossing the carpet.

“I’ve got something to show you guys,” I said. “Look here.” and I handed them the brown box and its contents. “Someone sent me a gift.”

They opened it and looked inside.

Rick motioned to a chair in front of his desk. “Take a seat, Maya,” he said.

“Don’t mind if I do,” I said and plunked myself down.

“Who sent you this note and the pantyhose?” Rick asked me.

I was silent a moment, then said, “You’re kidding, right? How would I know who sent them? That’s why I’m bringing them to you. Don’t you have labs that can analyze this stuff?”

Rick shrugged and fiddled around with something on his desk, ignoring me. “Tom, put this stuff in a zip lock plastic baggie,” he directed. Tom rummaged through some desk drawers, doing as he was told.

“I’d like the note back after you’ve had it analyzed, please,” I said.

“Sure,” Rick said. “Tom’ll drop it by the house in a day or two.”

No further conversation came my way so I asked, “What did the lab have to say about Vacaar Luzi?”

Rick and Tom looked at each other. Rick finally answered, “Mr. Luzi’s neck was broken between vertebrae 2 and 3. The usual, in cases of autoerotic asphyxiation.”

“So, then. No murder?” I asked.

“I didn’t say that. I just said his death follows the usual pattern for this sort of thing.” Rick seemed distracted.

I sat and wondered what was not being said.

“There was something unusual, however,” Rick said, almost as an afterthought. “His forehead was bruised in an irregular, splotchy pattern not consistent with the angle at which his body lay on the closet floor.”

“Sort of leaves things hanging, doesn’t it?” I said, “if you’ll pardon the expression.”

They both glared at me, their eyes saying, “Please go.”

“Well, it’s been fun talking to you gentlemen,” I said as I got up to leave. I was almost to the door, when Rick called out.

“When French decides to get back to this property, you’ll be sure to let him know we’re sitting right here, waiting to talk to him, won’t you?”

“Oh yes, you can count on that,” I told them.

* * *

Wouldn’t you know? It had started again. The rain was coming down in diagonal sheets. I ducked around the corner from Meeting Room C and picked up a house phone.

“Dave, Hi! It’s Maya. Have you heard from French?”

“No, ma’am. I’m waiting here for him with bells on.” David sounded very tired.

David was a good hotelier, always making his best effort, but he seemed unprepared to be in charge of this entire property. And under these circumstances—not only 200 Sapphire Resort VIPs with the highest of expectation but now two of them were dead. His boss was playing hide and seek.
Where is French, anyway?
I asked myself for the hundredth time today. He had a lot of ’splaining to do when he got home.

David and I rang off and I went up the escalator to hang around the lobby until the cloudburst was over. The lobby was  swinging. Soaked, giggling people ran in, shaking off the rain from their clothes and their shoes. The parrots on their stands bobbed their heads up and down, squawking and trilling. The high ionization of rainstorms always got them excited.

* * *

The squall ended and I was walking back home, purposely stepping in puddles with my rain boots, just to make a splash. I tore my mind from murder and pantyhose. I thought back to how French and I had met at the Sapphire Hotel on Sunset, ten years earlier.

Back then, he represented Sapphire Hotels and I represented myself, the sole proprietor of the tiny but profitable gift shop in the lobby. We negotiated my new lease, butting heads at every new clause. Eventually, my lease was renewed, the paperwork was signed.  They say the anger section of the brain is positioned next to the love section at the base of the skull. I knew two people who met and argued in a hotel on the Sunset Strip during the music industry’s golden days who would agree. A few months later, we signed our names on each others hearts.

When I looked up from my memories, I was at our garden gate. The moment I entered the house, my monkey mind was back to its preoccupation. Why had someone gone nutso and started killing Sapphire execs? Why was French still missing, when he should have been back hours ago? Why couldn’t he at least call Dave and leave word for me, if he didn’t have the courtesy to call me himself?

The phone rang. It was Rick. “The lab ran the production numbers of the pantyhose boxes. These two boxes came from Pennsylvania and went through distribution centers in Macon, Georgia and Ashland, North Carolina. The only prints on them were yours.”

“What?” I said, startled. “How could that be? I wore latex gloves so I wouldn’t leave prints.”

“Dunno,” said Rick. “When you hear from French, tell him that we just put out an APB on him. I hope he enjoyed his three hours of freedom.”

Sometimes Southerners could really surprise you. They talked slow, they walked slow, they even seemed to think slow and yet, here they were, making my life miserable in double time.