The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (9 page)

My hands connected solidly with his chest and he was suddenly backpedaling wildly. Then he was down on the ground, his eyes wide with surprise.

I was pretty surprised myself. Both by the assault and by my successful defense. Though I shouldn’t have been surprised by the assault. My tai chi teacher had warned against the practice of tai chi in public. It invites challenge. And Paul had thought I was doing karate! Damn.

The surprise on Paul’s face was gradually turning to fear. Was he afraid of me? Or just now realizing what he had done? Before I could find the words to speak to him, he pulled himself up off the ground and ran. And he ran fast. As I watched him I wondered. Could he have outrun Suzanne Sorenson?

Upon that thought I sank to the ground myself. I was drenched with sweat. What would have happened without my tai chi training? What if he had had a weapon? I tried to shake the “what-ifs” from my mind. But I couldn’t forget the intensity of his hatred. And his hands on my breasts. Had Paul merely been challenging me to a fight? His hands straying to grope along the way? I thought of Jack and Nikki’s playful sparring. Paul had witnessed it, too. It might have given him the idea.

Or had Paul’s leap been the first step of an attempted rape? I shivered as I faced the thought.

I told myself that he was just a kid. But somehow that didn’t comfort me. Then I wondered if Suzanne had been sexually assaulted before she was murdered. The hair went up on the back of my neck.

And what the hell was I supposed to do now? Call the police? Tell them a fifteen-year-old boy had copped a feel? Or talk to his parents? His father was in another world, another universe really, and his mother was actively denying any serious family problems. Would either of them even believe me? And what would they do to Paul if they did? Something that would help? Or something that would push him further into violence? My mind was whirling faster and faster. It ached from the activity.

I rose to my feet and straightened my posture. Decisions could be postponed. It was time to take care of myself. I took a deep breath and sank into the tai chi form once more.

Ten minutes later I had finished my tai chi for the day. And I had reached a conclusion. I would talk to Paul Beaumont myself. And I wouldn’t speak to the police or his parents, not unless his assault on me was related to Suzanne’s murder. I sighed. Some “unless.” Now, all I had to do was to figure out who had killed Suzanne. And why.

I searched my mind as I walked to my room. I just didn’t have enough information. But Felix Byrne might be able to get me some, I thought. I speeded up to a trot. Felix was my best friend Barbara’s boyfriend, but more important, he was a reporter. One who liked to dig. The things he could find out about people amazed me, even worried me at times. And he owed me. If it hadn’t been for me, he wouldn’t have met Barbara. And he wouldn’t have scooped the Marin murder story that landed him his job as western correspondent for the
Philadelphia Globe
.

I opened my door, shielded my eyes against the glare of the psychedelic wallpaper, and sat down to dial Felix. As the phone rang, I crossed my fingers and hoped he remembered he owed me. It seemed to me he had once mentioned that
I
owed
him
for all the information he had gathered for me in the past.

“You’re involved in another one?” was his only comment when I told him why I had called.

“Not me,” I said. “Craig. I was nowhere near the place when it happened.”

“Likely story,” he grumbled. “I suppose you want me to spend the day at the computer, running down all the suspects.”

“How’s Barbara?” I asked. A subtle reminder.

“Barbara is fine. She told me you’d be calling.” It made sense. Barbara was a practicing psychic. Between her and Felix, privacy didn’t stand a chance. “I get the story, whatever you find out?” he asked.

“Of course,” I assured him. I kept the hesitation out of my voice and told myself the murderer couldn’t be Craig.

“As soon as you find out?” he pressed.

“Right,” I said. Luckily he hadn’t been specific. As far as I was concerned, “as soon as” could mean that minute, that day or that century.

“Okay,” he said. His voice deepened with ghoulish anticipation. “Who are the suspects?”

By the time I put down the phone, I realized just how little I did know about the people at Spa Santé. With the exception of Craig and Don Logan, I didn’t even know where the guests lived when they weren’t on vacation, or where the Beaumonts or Avery Haskell had lived before the spa. I could almost hear Felix shaking his head in disgust when he had elicited the last of my meager information.

I lay back on my bed and wondered. Had one of these people crossed paths with Suzanne Sorenson before Spa Santé? And if so, where?

A sharp rap on my door brought me back up to a sitting position. And back to the fear I thought I had released. I was alone in this room. A room to which every member of the spa staff could probably find a key, including the youngest member of that staff, Paul Beaumont. A Technicolor image of the boy brandishing a knife burst into my mind. I shook the image away, rose to my feet and centered myself.

“Who is it?” I shouted.

“IT’S JACK THE RIPPER,” the voice announced.

I stared at the locked door until recognition penetrated my fear-soaked mind. The sound of the voice and the poor taste of the joke couldn’t belong to anyone else.

“Not funny!” I yelled and flung open the door.

Craig stood on my doorstep looking pale and sheepish.

“I didn’t think,” he mumbled, hanging his head.

“You didn’t think! There’s a murderer running around and your idea of a joke is to tell me you’re Jack the Ripper!”

“Kate—” he began.

“You scared the hell out of me,” I interrupted. I could feel angry blood rushing to my face. “And what if someone else heard you?”

“Kate—” he tried again.

“How do you think that would go down with Chief Orlandi? Do you suppose he would think it was funny?” I yelled. My head was buzzing with adrenalin. “And another thing—”

“All right,” Craig said, throwing his hands up in the air. “I’m a bozo, a diddle-brain, an asshole of the highest order. I admit it. I’m sorry.”

I closed my mouth for a second. Then I opened it again, but without yelling. “I couldn’t have said it better,” I conceded. “You are a bozo.”

“Feel any better?” asked Craig quietly.

“Yeah,” I confessed, smiling with the realization that I did feel better. A lot better.

“Good,” he said, a grin spreading over his tired face. “Me too. Almost seems like old times again, with you yelling at me.”

I tensed, ready to object loudly. I hadn’t yelled at Craig that often when we were married. It was later, when we were separating, that I had done the yelling. Old times, indeed! Craig must have seen the objection forming in my face. He quickly changed the subject.

“Fran’s got the dinner buffet ready,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

What the hell. I was hungry and I told him so. Amazing what a few rounds of tai chi, an assault and some yelling can do for your appetite.

As we walked over to the dining hall, I asked if he knew where the various spa guests were from.

“Jack and Nikki are from Los Angeles,” he answered. “Hollywood, La-La Land. Cultural center of California according to them. San Francisco is dead. Long live Los Angeles.”

“What about Ruth Ziegler?” I asked.

“I think she’s from Northern California, the Bay Area,” he answered after a little thought. “I can’t tell you where I got that impression. She didn’t really say. Terry’s from the Bay Area, too, I think.” He paused. “I’m not sure, though. Why don’t you ask them?”

I nodded. We climbed the stairs of the main building. As we passed through the lobby to the dining hall, I thought how familiar this building had become to me in the five hours I had been here. Spa Santé was a second home to me now. The kind that can appear in nightmares for years.

I surveyed the dining hall, hoping to see Paul Beaumont. I wanted to get my woman-to-boy talk over with. But the boy was nowhere to be seen. Nikki and Jack were there, staring romantically into each other’s eyes over carrot juice, at one of the tables by the windows. Two couples and a family I hadn’t seen before had come in for the meal. Don Logan sat alone. And Ruth and Terry sat at the long communal table in the center of the dining room, engaged, as usual, in spirited conversation. Ruth broke off long enough to wave at me and then turned back to Terry.

But the surprise guest star was Bradley Beaumont, who stood behind the counter at the front of the dining room, doing host duty. He didn’t seem crazed any longer. I looked closer. His eyes weren’t glowing. That was the difference. Instead, his eyes held the still, empty look of the depressive cycle of manic-depression.

“The buffet tonight or just the salad bar?” he asked, his voice dull.

“The buffet,” Craig answered in an over-hearty voice. Was he trying to compensate for Bradley’s low spirits?

“The buffet for me too,” I said.

“All on Mr. Jasper’s bill, along with the rest?” Bradley asked, his eyes on the form in front of him.

“Right,” I said and walked to the buffet.

Craig followed me a for a few steps. Then he tugged at my elbow.

“All on my bill?” he asked, his eyes wide.

“I forgot to tell you,” I said, grinning. “You’re paying for my room and board while I’m here.”

“Me?” he asked plaintively.

“Yes, you,” I confirmed. He wasn’t getting any sympathy from me. He was the one that had asked me to come down here. And with the kind of money he made from his computer software company, he could easily pay the cost of my room at Spa Santé, or a suite at the Hyatt Regency for that matter, and write it off as a minor travel expense. “Any problem with that?” I asked him.

“No, no,” he agreed, slumping his shoulders. He sighed a martyred sigh.

“As long as you feel so bad, there’s also my airplane ticket,” I added. “And expenses—”

“Okay, okay,” he capitulated. “I won’t complain. I’m happy. See?” He bared his teeth in an attempt at a smile. He managed to looked like a mad dog. “Happy,” he reiterated through his teeth.

It was like old times, all right. Only I wasn’t feeling nostalgic.

The buffet looked good, though. Good in the sense of “good for you.” Great bowls of spinach and garden salad. Platters of raw vegetables. Cauliflower, broccoli, carrots, zucchini, jicama, celery, sprouts and bell pepper. Dips and dressings, with their healthful ingredients proudly posted. Meatless minestrone soup. Low-fat potato-corn chowder. Tubs of brown rice and cooked vegetables. Steaming polenta. Vegetable-nut loaf. Bread and fruit. Not a naughty bit in sight.

I began heaping my plate. If the food I had gobbled up in Fran’s kitchen had been a fair sample, this food was going to taste as good as it looked. Craig loaded up, too. I was pleased by the return of his appetite. I gave myself a mental pat on the back. My harassment always did cheer him up. We sat down with Ruth and Terry.

“Thanks for the title,” said Ruth, turning her gypsy smile on me. “I have a feeling
Healing the Broken Heart
will sell like…” She paused. “Like oat-bran hotcakes.”

“Of course it will sell,” groused Terry. “More self-indulgent, psychoanalytic bullshit. The newest opiate for the masses.”

I flinched, shocked by his blunt appraisal. But it didn’t bother Ruth. She laughed.

“Did it ever occur to you that the good fight for social justice is, itself, an opiate for the masses?” she asked, her black button-eyes gleaming mischievously. “Or perhaps an opiate for the elite?”

“Not that old argument,” snarled Terry, glaring fiercely through his wire-rimmed glasses. “Who cares whether political activists are unconsciously working out Oedipal complexes? The struggle against poverty, injustice and racism is what matters. Are you going to look for a warp in Martin Luther King’s upbringing, or respect what he accomplished? You want to talk about what causes unhappiness? Look at social injustice, not psychology.”

“I’m not saying injustice doesn’t cause misery,” Ruth argued. “It does. But even if all injustice was eradicated, there would still be a lot of unhappy people around. Look at Suzanne. Beautiful, privileged and successful. But happy? What do you think, Craig?” she asked suddenly, turning her eyes on him. “Was she happy?”

Craig dropped the forkful of salad he had aimed at his mouth. His face paled. “No, she wasn’t happy,” he mumbled.

So much for cheering him up. I just hoped Ruth knew what she was doing.

“Because she couldn’t let go,” Ruth said softly. “She had to be the best. But she could never believe she was good enough. Who was she trying to impress? Someone from her past, I’d bet.”

Craig nodded, his eyes held by Ruth’s. The gypsy fortune-teller had him now. “And no one else could ever be good enough. Others were always to blame. But, you know what? There was nothing anyone else could have done for her. She had to come to terms with her life on her own. You couldn’t have helped her.”

“I couldn’t?” asked Craig softly.

“No,” said Ruth authoritatively. “Let go of it. It wasn’t your fault.”