Murder's Last Resort (16 page)

Chapter 52

“I’m scared to be me right now. I can’t believe you’re tooling around this property as though nothing unusual were going on,” Alana said.

“I’m sorry. What did you just say?” I was too distracted by her get-up to pay attention to the words coming out of her mustachioed mouth.

“I said,” she continued, with just a hint of exasperation, “I’m afraid to be me right now. I thought it might be smart to go underground for a little while. Jacko does this all the time.”

“Jacko? Who’s Jacko?” I asked, thinking Alana might have snapped her banana.

You know—
Jacko
,” she said, lowering her voice as she looked around the room, her blue eyes darting from under bushy, old man eyebrows.

“What? You mean Michael Jackson? Is that to whom you’re referring?” Now I sounded a tad exasperated.

“Yes! That’s exactly who I mean. You know Red, MJ and I have been friends for years.”

“I do?” I said, stupefied by this unexpected information.

“Well, sure. We met through the Donald a few years ago at a charity affair in New York.”

“Hey, I’m stuck out here in Wallyworld. What do I know?”

She continued. “I told Jacko I’m wigged out.”

“How? When?” I asked.

“I called him on his private line. His secretary told me he was out here. What a coincidence, huh? He rented a horse farm in Ocala for a few days—brought some friends. You know he loves Disney, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know he loves Disney. Everyone knows that. French has been trying to lure him onto our property since we opened, promising him everything but the moon on a sliver tray to entice him.”

“Jacko got me this disguise. He had one of his people bring it over. He has several of these outfits. Variations on a theme. He always goes to Disney World dressed as an old man.”

“Well, flip my frittata!” I said. “Not only is he not recognized, but he and his party get onto the rides first, using the wheelchair line.” I was both disgusted and jealous.

French and I often kidded that we should provide a “Rent-a-Grandparent” service next to the shuttle bus entrance of the hotel. Elderly locals could be made available, for a fee, to escort our guests to Disney. They could then sit in wheelchairs, cut the long lines for rides, and see five times what the average visitor to Disney could see in an eight hour day.

It was a win-win idea; our guests would be happy and they would also be helping to boost the financial well-being of the local senior citizens. And now a do-it-yourselfer like Michael Jackson had figured this out on his own, the clever bastard.
Maybe all is not lost. Maybe we can carry a line of Old Man Costumes at the gift shop.

“Okay, on to another topic,” I said, regaining my mental footing, ”Why didn’t you tell me you and Linda Messina were thicker than thieves?”

“Linda and I go back a long way. I thought you knew that, Maya. When we were young, we worked together in Chicago before I met Red and she met Frankie.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I was a bunny and Linda was the room manager.”

“What?” I said, “You and Linda worked for Hugh Hefner?”

“That’s right. She didn’t seem the type, did she? But, she was never a bunny,” she added quickly, “Always a manager.”

“I see,” I said, seeing nothing.

“I don’t like to think back on those days,” Alana said, after a pause. “Linda was aware that I didn’t like people knowing I had once worked for Hef. She and I kept one another’s secrets when we graduated to a bigger, more social world.”

“Well, shoot, Alana. I never knew you were a bunny. You kept each other’s secrets well. Does French know?”

“It’s possible,” she said and shrugged.

I was sitting across from a hunched old man in baggy, well-worn pants, a tweed jacket, a white shirt with some genteel stains that bleach had not removed. He was wearing shabby, brown shoes, wire rimmed glasses and a little felt hat that made him look like Giopetto. And this was a former Playboy bunny.
I am living in an insane asylum,
I thought as I unconsciously shook my head.
I have to strike out and make a new life for myself when this is over, I just have to.

“All righty, then,” I said, motioning for her to go on.

“Linda seemed to think she had seen something suspicious the other day,” Alana continued. “I actually thought she might have killed Red, so I played along.”

“Oh?” I said.

“Yes, Linda was my ‘friend,’ but she was always envious of me. I pretended not to notice. She also had a big crush on Red, and I know he took advantage of her feelings from time to time.”

“Ugh,” my lip curled.

“Yes, Maya. I’m sure you feel disgusted. You don’t understand my world,” she huffed, with a self-righteous shrug of her withered, old geezer, shoulders.

“You’re right, I don’t,” I answered,
and I am ever so grateful.

“I thought maybe Linda killed Red and Vacaar until she herself was shot. You know what else?” she asked.

Part of me didn’t want to know what else, but I gave her a look that said, “Go on.”

“Linda had lost her charm for Red. He was on to the next little tart. Every time Vacaar’s East Bloc back was turned, Red was all over Mona like a bear on honey,” she said.

Oh, brother,
I thought,
these people are far too complicated,
but aloud I said, “Oh, how interesting.” After a slight pause, I added, “So you and Linda were on the outs.”

“Yes and no. History and hurt make strange bedfellows, or at least peculiar friends. It turns out misery really does love company. We needed the support that only we could give to one another.”

She stopped, then added, “I don’t expect you to get it, Maya, not really, being married to French, who’s such a ___” and she made the sign of a square in the air with her forefingers.

“Oh, trust me, honey, I get it. We all weave such tangled webs. Some of them are rectangular, trapezoidal or even square.” No one was going to beat me at geometric comparisons, or make me feel less worldly, even if my husband did happen to be faithful. Or at least he appeared to be. Who really knew these days, when women were delivering themselves to men like pizzas?

“Look at this, Alana,” I said to her, changing the subject, “what do you make of it?” I showed her a chart I had penciled on the back of the note I received that had told me to run. For one thing, I wanted to see if she recognized the stationery.

She squinted through her old man glasses, looking just like an addled, half-blind codger. “What’s this supposed to tell me?” she asked, looking puzzled.

“It’s supposed to tell when each victim was killed and whom I suspect.”

“This is nothing but conjecture. So what if I was Red’s wife? So what if Linda was a special friend, and Red was overly chummy with Mona? I told you all that myself. I felt sorry when Vaccar was killed.”

“Really, why?” I asked.

“He was a good guy, always attentive, ever the gentleman. He made me feel like a woman, yet he never went too far. Besides, we both loved classic cars. And, he was one hell of a golfer. He taught me a lot about swinging a club.”

I bet—if that’s what you call it these days.

“Yup,” I said, “old Vaccar was almost a pro, all right.”

She picked at her now cold food, dabbed at her mustache with her napkin and claimed she was full. She got up to leave and I stood, as well. Unexpectedly, she reached out, gave me a hearty hug and whispered in my ear, “You be careful, Maya French. Who knew you could be such a sweet friend? You mean a lot to me.”

What was I supposed to do with that? I sat back down, my feathers simultaneously ruffled and smoothed. As I watched her shuffle out, I got the check, added a tip and signed it to French’s account.

Chapter 53

My meeting with Alana drained me, and I almost broke my neck on a turtle sculpture on my way out of Papa’s. I sat in the lobby, examining the scuff on my sandal and rubbing my toes again. I needed a moment to relax before I attempted a visit with Frankie Messina.

Relax. How did a person do that with the weight of three murders and a missing husband on her shoulders? It wasn’t all on me, of course, but i
t
fel
t
like it was. Whatever top-notch police work Rick Wells and Tom Koenig were doing, it was artfully hidden from my view. They could have clued me in, but they were not that kind. I got the feeling they didn’t much care about Maya French and might even be happy to see her land in the Silver Pines corpse pile.

I had to call on Frankie Messina to give him my condolences and to hear what he had to say about Linda’s death. He had a motive to kill his wife, I now knew. Macho guys like him didn’t take well to being cuckolded. Heck, he might have killed Torrey, too. His high up friends in bad places might have helped him on both counts. They knew how to get jobs like this done.

I was near the lobby bar, once again. The jazz riffs from the trio and the scent of tropical flowers and sun tan oil filled the air. It would have been a swell place to relax, had I not felt so jumpy. My waist was itching. I tried to maintain a lady-like demeanor and not scratch.

Instead, I focused on my navel with an old meditation technique. Breathe in, breathe out. On the exhale, let go. On the inhale, let God. It worked for a while, then it became: on the inhale, where’s French? on the exhale, what now?

I got up and called Messina from a house phone to announce my arrival. No answer. It went straight into voice mail. He probably had the phone off the hook.

I called little Pam, French’s secretary, and asked her if she had the info I had requested? She swore she was on it, working as hard as she could. I told her to dig deep, call whomever was necessary, and tell them it was a rush job. This couldn’t wait much longer.

I had the hotel operator give me an outside line. I called the Walgreen’s where the pantyhose on French’s desk had been purchased. I asked for the manager, an older woman who had been pleasant to me on the first go-round. Instead, I got a manager on duty, some guy with a local drawl, who seemed to resent not only working the evening shift, but also me, for asking him to actually do something. His league was probably bowling tonight at Kissimmee Lanes and he was stuck at work. He put me on hold long enough to hang up on me.

Hah! He couldn’t get rid of me that easy. I called back. He told me to hold on again—his boss’s papers were in a messy mound on her desk and he couldn’t find what I needed. I requested that he, this time, not put the phone on hold and lay it on the desk, until he could get back to me. It worked.

A few minutes later, with a martyred sigh, he told me he had the register tape. The pantyhose had been purchased eight days ago, three pairs, in the middle of the day. Even though he was a pill, he had come through for me. I was thanking him for his trouble, when he hung up on me, mid-sentence. Some people had lousy attitudes. Bad attitudes in Central Florida were no worse than bad attitudes in Southern California, they only sounded different—slower and more drawn out.

I tried to reach Messina one more time. No dice. I wished I had a pair of dice. I was almost ready to toss them. The dots on each die were starting to add up.

I gave up on seeing Messina just now and headed to Jake’s office. “Hi, you!” I said, as I stuck my head in his door. “Is this a good time?”

“Oh sure, Maya. I was just thinking about you. I ordered something from room service. You can share it with me before I walk you back home.”

“Thanks,” I said, sitting in a club chair in front of his desk, “but I’m not hungry. Just had a bite with Alana and my stomach is unsettled.”

“Here,” he said, reaching in his pocket and handing me a roll of something. “Have a Rolaid. Let it roll around in your stomach and aid you.”

“Why can’t it roll around the resort and aid me in finding the murderers?” I asked.

“You can give it a try, Maya,” he said, “but I doubt it will roll too far.” He leaned back in his chair, and admonished me.   “Why can’t you leave this to the police, Maya? Just let it go.”

“No, Jake. It’s not that simple. I must figure this out. I have to,” I said. Just then, a young man wearing a tuxedo rolled in a serving cart, and on it were a burger, chips and a cherry Coke.

“Will there be anything else, sir,” he asked, batting his big, brown, velvety eyes at Jake.

I looked away, taking an interest in my manicure. Jake signed for the food and the server left. Jake looked at me and grinned, while he patted the left side of his chest with his right hand and whispered, “Be still, my heart.”

“Oh gee,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Is that all you ever think about?”

“No,” Jake said, “sometimes I think about what people look like naked.” He paused. “I also think about you, Maya, and how you’re making yourself crazy over this. Do you mind?” he asked and turned toward his meal.

“No, go right ahead,” I said. “Bon appetit.”

“Thanks,” he replied, biting into his big, juicy burger with all the fixings, “Are you sure you don’t want to join me?”

“Really, Jake, no. It smells delicious but I couldn’t.” I twirled my chair left and right. Between bites, Jake spoke of a thousand things, just not the murders. I knew he was trying to keep my mind off French. It worked. I didn’t think of him for the eight minutes I watched Jake scarf his burger, fries and Coke like a famished teenager on weed.

After he finished his meal, Jake slid open one of his desk drawers and pulled out a flat box that looked like it housed foreign chocolates.

“Here,” he said, “take one. I know you’re not going to turn down chocolates filled with cognac, no matter what shape your stomach is in. Besides, these things cure upset stomachs.”

“I’ve heard that,” I answered, as I reached for one and popped it in my mouth.

“Here, take another,” he said. “One for the road.”

I didn’t resist. There wasn’t one situation in life that couldn’t be improved by good chocolate. If it was good enough for the ancient Mayans, it was good enough for the present day Maya.

Finally, Jake locked his office and, arm in arm, we walked through the sculpture garden, to my little house on the lake. I wasn’t going toe to toe with that armadillo, turtle or mama goose again alone, not when I had a big, hunky guy to steer me out of danger.