The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (17 page)

“Kate?” called Craig again.

Wayne pulled me up the full length of his torso slowly until our faces met. Then he stifled both of our giggles with a long, silent kiss. I listened to Craig’s footsteps receding as Wayne’s gentle hands drew me back into passion. Then I forgot to be guilty for a while.

But I made up for it an hour later. The guilt came back the minute Craig knocked on my door again. No matter that Craig and I were divorced and that Craig knew about Wayne. No matter that I was only at Spa Santé to help Craig in the first place. No matter that Wayne and I were fully dressed now. Despite all that, I knew that Wayne’s presence in my room was going to be one more hurt for the already battered Craig. Damn.

“Kate?” Craig called once again.

I took a breath and opened the door.

“Look, Ma,” Craig said, displaying his hands, palms up. “No panic. I didn’t even go and look for you when you didn’t answer your door. I had breakfast instead. I’m a new man.” He was looking better; the tension of the last days seemed to have receded from his face.

Not for long. I saw his body stiffen as he looked past me and spotted Wayne. Craig’s eyes widened instantly with hurt. By the time he had them back to normal size the old tension had returned, tightening his face into a smiling skeleton’s once more.

“You’ve met Wayne, of course,” I said. Thank God for social conventions in times of stress.

Wayne moved forward dutifully, his hand extended.

Craig shook it with unsuitable heartiness. “Just get in?” he inquired hopefully.

“Last night,” Wayne answered softly. I recognized the undertone of pity in his soft words. I hoped Craig couldn’t hear it.

The artificial smile tightened another click on Craig’s strained face. We stood in an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. I tried but failed to think of something neutral to talk about. Craig regained his sociability first.

“You’ve got to try Fran’s breakfast buffet while you’re here,” he said with a good show of bonhomie. “Great vegetarian cooking. You’ll love it.”

Wayne nodded politely. I wondered if Craig remembered that Wayne wasn’t a vegetarian. Was this his way of baiting Wayne? There was no clue in his frantically smiling face.

“I think I’ll go for a drive, myself,” Craig rattled on. “Lots of interesting sights around here. I’ll walk with you to the dining hall if you’d like. It’s next to the parking lot.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Wayne. He looked in my direction for affirmation.

“Great!” I said, in an effort to match Craig’s geniality. I led the way out the door.

Once Craig, Wayne and I had exhausted the subject of sightseeing in Southern California, we let the strained conversation die in peace and trod the dirt path silently. When the main building came into view it was all I could do to keep from running to it to accelerate our parting.

“I’ll see you two later,” Craig announced with false cheeriness as we reached the end of the path. Then again, maybe it wasn’t false. Maybe he was just as heartened by the prospect of our parting as I was.

“See you then,” Wayne and I chimed in together. Craig strode off to the parking lot with one last wave in our direction.

Wayne and I shared a sigh of relief and started up the stairs of the main building.

We were almost to the doors when we heard Craig’s shout.

“Kate!” he cried. Then more urgently, “Help! Somebody help!”

Wayne was down the stairs and into the parking lot before Craig’s last “help” hit the air. I clattered down a few seconds after him, fueled by adrenaline.

I sprinted through the gravel parking lot toward the sparse row of cars at the front. Wayne stood there bent over Craig in the space between two parked cars. Craig was on his knees, clutching his stomach. Had he been hit? I heard the sound of retching, and ran on. Just before I reached them, my attention was diverted by a motorcycle lying on its side a few feet in front of Craig. There were two freckled legs sticking out from underneath it.

I veered toward the overturned motorcycle. An accident? Was the rider still alive? Then I saw Jack Ireland’s head, peering out from under the other end of the bike. His protuberant eyes stared up at the sky, as if surprised at what had happened to the top of his head. “A bloody pulp.” The words popped unbidden into my brain. I had heard them so often. But I had never seen the reality they conveyed. Not until now. My stomach spasmed.

He has to be dead
, a detached voice in my head informed me. No way a man can live with his brains splashed out on the ground. The air around me shimmered and undulated. I had to sit down. I dropped to the gravel with a spine-wrenching plop, glad I had no breakfast to lose.

Wayne was suddenly there in front of me. He knelt down to put his hands on my shoulders. But I could still see Jack underneath his arm. Jack’s head hadn’t been pulverized by a fall from his motorcycle. This was no accident. Then I noticed the mark around Jack’s neck, a distinct groove that had bitten into the flesh. And I remembered what Edna had said about the mark around Suzanne’s neck.

“No accident,” I whispered aloud and dropped my head into my hands. Barbara was right. There was hatred here.

But who? Why? Even in shock, the questions began to form. I lifted my head to Wayne. His eyes had filled with tears underneath those heavy brows. His reaction to shock. I tugged at his arm and he plopped down next to me. I put my arm around his shoulder. He gave my thigh a gentle squeeze of thanks.

I looked in Craig’s direction. He was still paper-white. But he was sitting up now, apparently finished with vomiting. He stared down at his own lap, unseeing.

“When did you see Jack last?” The voice that asked the question was, amazingly, my own. And it was steady.

Craig didn’t answer right away. He lifted his head. His eyes were glassy as they stared out in front of him. “After the yoga movie,” he said finally in a dead voice. “Once you had gone, Terry and Ruth drifted off. Then I offered to help Fran carry the VCR and monitor back to the main building. Jack and Nikki were arguing again when Fran and I left.”

“Was there anyone else there?” I asked.

“No,” he said. A little feeling had crept into his voice.

“And that was the last you saw of him?”

“Yes!” His voice was shrill now and shaking. “Oh God. I found his body! They’ll think it was me for sure. First Suzanne, now Jack!”

Wayne and I exchanged worried glances. Craig might be right. But we had to call the police.

Wayne and I helped Craig up and walked him back to the main building. As we climbed the stairs, Craig began to sob. Wayne patted his shoulder awkwardly. We found Fran in the lobby, behind the registration desk.

“We’ve got fresh blueberry muffins today and tofu rancheros…” she began cheerfully. Then her eyes focused on us. Whatever she saw there told her it was bad news.

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” she asked shrilly. Then she pointed at Wayne in fear. “Who is he? What’s he done?”

I winced and turned to Wayne quickly. His homely face didn’t reflect any hurt. But then, it didn’t reflect anything. It had turned to stone. Damn. With that battered, malformed face and looming body, he was the physical archetype of a mass-murderer. I grabbed his hand and squeezed gently in an attempt to anesthetize the hurt. This wasn’t the first time he had been misjudged by his appearance.

“This is my friend Wayne,” I said firmly to Fran.

She stepped back. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I…I’m just on edge since—” She broke off, probably seeking a euphemism. She attempted a hospitable smile.

Should I tell her there had been a new murder at Spa Santé?

“There’s been another accident,” I said, opting for euphemism myself. “I need to call Chief Orlandi.”

Fran’s jaw dropped open. Then she began to wail. “No! Oh, please, no! Not another one!”

I couldn’t handle any more hysterics. I left Wayne and Craig to keep her company and found the phone in her office myself. My call to the Delores Police Department was instantly routed through to Chief Orlandi. Thank God for small town police departments. The Chief didn’t waste any words, mine or his, once he understood what I was telling him. He cut me off with the admonition to stay put, touch nothing and shut up. He would be there within minutes, he assured me. I hung up and rested my head on Fran’s desk for a moment. It was so nice and quiet there. I didn’t want to leave.

But I did. I forced myself from my chair and tracked the sound of hysteria into the dining hall. A small crowd was gathering there around Fran. She sat at one of the small tables, sobbing and wailing noisily. Roseanne leapt into her lap and let out a yowl of sympathy. Or was it simply a yowl of hunger?

Craig and Wayne had taken chairs across from Fran. Wayne’s homely face was still set in stone. He sat erect and silent. Craig slumped in his chair, his handsome face blank with shock.

Ruth Ziegler had stationed herself at Fran’s side. She began stroking Fran’s shoulder and murmuring sweet psychotherapeutic nothings in her ear as Don Logan wheeled up. Then Avery Haskell came striding from the kitchen, his hands still white with flour, an expression of concern momentarily replacing his zombie mask. Terry trotted in just as I heard the sirens. I asked myself who was missing.

“Nikki,” I answered myself. My stomach clenched with sadness. “Poor Nikki.” I realized I had spoken aloud.

“What about Nikki?” asked Terry.

“Oh, God,” moaned Craig. He hit the table with his fist and moaned again. Roseanne hissed.

“What’s going on?” prodded Terry insistently.

“Has something happened to Nikki?” asked Ruth, her hand frozen on Fran’s shoulder.

“Be quiet and let Kate answer,” advised Logan from his wheelchair.

Faces were turned in my direction expectantly. Even Fran had stopped wailing to hear my answer. I drew a deep breath. “I can’t say anything—” I began.

“Damn right, you can’t say anything!” roared a voice from behind me. Chief Orlandi had arrived.

I turned around in relief, glad for once to see his glowering red face. Officer Dempster was behind him, his hand fluttering nervously to and from his holstered gun. And behind Officer Dempster was a young black-haired woman in uniform. Her large dark eyes were wide with excitement. At least someone was enjoying this.

“You!” Orlandi boomed, his finger pointed at me. “Show me the body.” His eyes scanned the room for reactions to his words.

Fran was the first to react, throwing herself into a renewed fit of sobs and wails. Roseanne jumped from her lap and marched imperiously into the kitchen. I wished I had that option.

Avery Haskell straightened his shoulders as his zombie mask clicked back into place. Ruth’s eyes and mouth opened wide in a curiously youthful expression of surprised innocence, while Don Logan’s face aged with a deep frown. Terry merely arched his eyebrows over his wire-rimmed glasses, saying nothing—for the moment.

Orlandi never took his eyes from the faces around him as he shouted over Fran’s sobs. “The rest of you sit down! Do not talk among yourselves! Officer Guerrero will be here to make sure no one leaves!” The black-haired officer stepped forward eagerly, scrutinizing the batch of suspects.

Avery and Ruth sat down at a nearby table. Ruth was uncharacteristically silent. Terry, however, now responded in a manner true to his character.

“Body?” he asked shrilly, still standing. “Has there been another murder?”

“Sit down!” Orlandi roared.

“We have a right—” Terry began.

“One more word and Officer Dempster will remove you,” Orlandi warned. Terry opened his mouth.

Officer Dempster stepped forward. His hand was on the butt of his gun. Orlandi glowered at Terry.

“Okay,” said Terry, throwing up his hands. “Okay.” He sat down next to Ruth.

Officer Dempster relaxed. I guess “okay” didn’t count as a word. The Chief’s eyes lighted on Wayne. “You the boyfriend?” he asked. Wayne nodded.

“You!” Orlandi pointed at Dempster. “Find the ones that are missing.” He looked around. “Bradley Beaumont. And the kid—”

“He’s at school,” Fran mumbled through her sobs.

“Forget the kid for now,” Orlandi said. “But find the girlfriend. Black woman. Nikki Martin.”

He paused for a moment watching the faces around him. Then he turned to me. “Let’s go,” he said and wheeled around to lead me outside.

“I don’t really want to see the body again,” I mumbled as I followed Orlandi down the stairs.

“What? A little mashed flesh bothers you?” he asked. His crocodile grin had returned. “You, the great detective?”

I wasn’t glad to see him anymore.

As we walked across the parking lot I saw yet another uniformed police officer standing in front of the space where Jack’s body lay. Maybe Delores wasn’t as small a town as I thought.

Orlandi took me about four feet from the space between the cars and pointed. The renewed sight of those freckled legs sticking out from underneath the motorcycle brought the sting of tears to my eyes. Jack had been a vital man. Always in motion. Dancing, joking, blowing his imaginary trumpet. And so sadly flawed. I thought again of Nikki.

“Does the body look the same as when you left it?” Orlandi’s gruff voice interrupted my thoughts. The body? That was Jack Ireland under there, I thought angrily.