Murder's Last Resort (5 page)

Chapter 15

“Look who’s here!” Jake and Lily whispered into my ears at the same instant, causing me to bounce up from my truffled risotto appetizer. There stood Alana Torrey, framed in the grand entry doors to the ballroom and bathed in soft chandelier light. Shimmering like liquid gold as she approached, she glided, she floated. No other woman moved with her poise.

She was a goddess in motion. Her gown was a slender silhouette, champagne colored, dripping with bugle beads that swayed ever so gently with each step. Her bag matched her shoes and gown. Her clear complexion was complimented by her crown of thick, shoulder-length, rich girl hair. She was regal and that was the reason she reigned as the queen of Sapphire Hotels and Resorts. The only things missing were her scepter and crown.

“Oh my gosh!” slipped from my lips, as I looked at her in wonderment.

Lily asked in a whisper, “Bollocks, has she come downstairs to join us at this party, no matter what? ‘The show must go on’ and all that rot?”

“Stunning!” came from Jake’s mouth. His gaze was almost envious.

She either has the discipline of ten Olympian athletes or she’s not distraught because she knows who murdered Red—she did!

As she approached the table next to ours, I rose and intercepted her.

“Alana! I never expected to see you here tonight,” I said, giving her an air kiss and a little hug.

Her whisper in my ear was soft but clear. “I want everything to appear normal. Just because Redmund isn’t here doesn’t mean I can neglect our guests. Besides, I want to find that murderer as much as anyone else—more than anyone else. Maybe someone won’t be able to look me in the eye tonight. It wouldn’t help Redmund for me to stay up in our suite, crying like a whiney baby.”

I smiled at her and said, “Got it.” She and I understood each other. She was a steel magnolia and I stood in awe of her.

Sitting at a nearby table were the Trotters, Philip and Chloe. Philip was second in command to Torrey and, as such, Torrey’s right hand man. He was Executive Vice-President and he oversaw the entire Sapphire Hotels and Resorts nation, all ninety-two properties.

“Alana, come sit next to Chloe and me right here,” I overheard him say as he stood up to greet her, ever the British gent. As always, he was solicitous of Alana.
Certainly more so tonight,
I observed
, since she’s alone.

He’s so ambitious.
He and his sparkling wife, Chloe, were both as polished as ivory chess pieces. Philip relied on his British accent and his Southern belle wife to push them both forward in life. The two of them stood to gain a lot with Torrey gone.

After the entrée, it was time to dance. Jake excused himself to pick a beauty out of the crowd, while Lily and I chatted about this and that, all the while observing those around us, as though we worked for the CIA. Many of the servers and security people passing through the room were Rick’s deputies. While serving soufflés, they were also taking mental notes, I supposed.

“May I have this dance?” a deep, rich baritone enveloped me. I looked up into the warm brown eyes of Brett Fitzpatrick, one of my favorite men of Sapphire Resorts. His wife, Diane, could be a bit of a pill. Maybe I would be, too, if my husband had shoulders so wide he had to go through doors at an angle and women threw themselves at him. And he were constantly catching them, midair.

“Of course, my friend!” I answered, thrilled to jump to my feet, not only for a needed stretch, but also for the chance to look at all those potential murderers from a different angle.

“Maya, you are beautiful and as light as a cream puff in my arms and probably twice as yummy,” Brett said to me, smiling with both his lips and his chocolatey eyes.

“Brett,” I said. “You are a shameless flatterer, and really corny but, hey—don’t stop!” We both laughed.

French had told me long ago that Fitz was like a big, snuggly teddy bear. Women loved to hold him close and he loved to be held.

What does Brett have that makes a gal want to melt into him? What makes him cuddly, while Torrey’s vibe was always lecherous and icky?

Brett kept me swirling and dipping, my gown floating gracefully along behind me, until I felt like a professional ballroom dancer. At a slow point in one of our sweeping turns, I cast a glance at a nearby table. There sat Brett’s wife, Diane, giving me the old stink eye.

Didn’t she know that I love my French? That I have no designs on her old teddy bear of a husband? Not every woman is trying to get into his tighty whites.
I tried to beam my thoughts to her as I waved and smiled.

She sat there with a dark cloud wrapped around her bitter little shoulders.
I haven’t walked in her shoes,
I reminded myself.
I don’t know what it feels like to suspect that every attractive woman I see might have recently enjoyed my husband’s charms.
And I liked it that way. That was part of what was so lovable about French. He was true blue. He was mine. There wouldn’t be anybody fluffing his covers but me. No need to stare, glare or share when it came to French.

Brett interrupted my thoughts. “So what do you think of those two slackers, Torrey and French, sneaking off to Coral Gables like that and leaving us here all alone to fend for ourselves?”

I shrugged my shoulders, as if to say, “Who knows? Who cares?” Maybe Fitz would say something revealing.

“Well I, for one, miss them both
terribly
, even if you don’t.” he said, laughing at his own joke. With them gone, he was the alpha male at this event, free to pick and choose female company as he saw fit.

Could a man like this kill his boss?
He seemed too relaxed to care enough about prestige, power or personal issues to ever want to pull off a murder. My take on Fitz was that he was a very happy man. But Diane, now that was another matter altogether. She had been beautiful once, but now, like a good wine gone bad, she was sour, after a few too many years with Mr. Wonderful.

Chapter 16

The dance broke up well before midnight, no thanks to
me
or
my
friends. We could have gone on. No one even offered to have an after-party party in a suite, something that used to happen with regularity, like teen acne on Friday evenings before a date.

I left the party scratching my head. Who was the murderer?  She or he
had
to be among us. There was no other answer, was there?

Lily and Jake said they would come by my house for a few minutes after the room cleared out. Right now, Jake was flirting with someone. With the house lights up, Lily was checking out all the gowns and shoes, as the last of the guests filed past her to their rooms.

As I left the dance, I passed Rick Wells in the ballroom lobby talking with some partygoers. We made eye contact and gave each other an almost imperceptible shrug that said, “Nothing solid on the radar. Talk to you soon.”

I walked toward the porte cochère and the path that led to my home, wondering where I had messed up. Why had I come up empty with no idea about who the murderer was? How much longer would French have to sit in jail? I felt agitated and depressed at the same time, my mind cluttered with opposing thoughts and my heart heavy. I felt a headache starting at the base of my skull.

As I walked the path to my home, one of Rick’s men followed me in a golf cart. Just as I arrived at our garden gate, click! It unlocked. He must have buzzed me in via remote control. I gave a little half-wave of thanks without turning around.

* * *

The kettle was starting to boil and I had already changed into something casual when I heard a commotion outside. Racing around the corner from the kitchen to the entry, I saw six people silhouetted near the lamp posts of our entry gate. One of them was wearing a long gown.

I opened the double doors onto the still-moist Central Florida night. “Hey, hey—what’s going on?” I asked, as I half-jogged toward the group.

“Mrs. French, we caught these interlopers trying to force their way onto your property, ma’am.” a man in a hotel uniform answered.

“Bill, is that you?” I asked. I recognized him as one of Rick’s men and I heard Jake’s and Lily’s excited voices.

“We tried to explain that we’re your friends.” Jake’s voice rose above Lily’s.

“They didn’t believe us, Maya. They drew their damned guns, the bloody cretins. Do they think we’re in the Wild West here?” Lily huffed, indignant.

“Okay, okay. No harm done. It’s just a little misunderstanding!” I tried to calm everyone.

“Guys, these two are my friends and I invited them over for a nightcap. I’m okay. They’re okay. You can put your guns away,” I told the four “groundskeepers.” The kerfuffle was over.

“Thank you, thank you. Thank you for protecting me!” I said sincerely to the PD guys in disguise.

PD guys in disguise,
I thought as Jake and Lily followed me into the house and the undercover men disappeared into the bushes.
That Rick! Imagine making these guys in groundskeeper uniforms hide near the water’s edge at night, when our little lake is Water Moccasin Heaven. What the heck is he thinking? And what are they thinking? Not about their own safety, that’s for sure. I hope I conveyed my gratitude properly to those men.

Jake, Lily and I sat around the great room coffee table in overstuffed chairs and sipped our fresh brewed tea, spiked with a generous shot of Myers’s Rum. They were filling me in on what they had seen at the party. They talked over each other like kindergarteners at show and tell, vying for my attention. In the end, there was silence. We stared at the walls and furnishings.

“So, it boils down to this—” I looked at both of them in turn, “neither one of you got the goods on anyone, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” they both mumbled, looking down, disappointed.

“Don’t look so glum, chums,” I said. “I didn’t figure anything out, either. Whoever the murderer is, she or he is one cool customer.”

“There was one odd thing,” Lily said, sitting up straight. “I just remembered! That little Dapper Dan, oh what is his name? The one with the retired supermodel wife from Denmark...”

“Vacaar Luzi?” I said, hopefully.

“Yes, that’s the one! He danced with me and right toward the end of the dance, he leaned into me and held me a little closer. I thought he was going to get fresh but he said, ‘I have something I need to tell Maya. Ask her to meet me tomorrow in our suite after my round of golf and lunch, around three.’

“I asked him if he wouldn’t rather talk to you now but he said no, this was not the time nor place. It could wait.”

“No kidding? He must know something. After golf and lunch, huh? Golf and lunch always come first with these guys. The earth could be on a collision course with Asteroid Giganticus but nothing would interfere with their game and their yapping about it afterward over lunch.”

We settled back into silence, sipping and thinking. The evening was a dud. We were no smarter now than we were five hours earlier. At least we were well-fed and well-danced. Maybe Luzi would crack the case wide open. Maybe he knew who the killer was. Maybe, maybe, maybe. After a while, Jake and Lily said good-night and left.

I slipped into my nightgown and between my Egyptian cotton hotel sheets. I turned toward French’s side of the bed.

“French, honey,” I said. “I’m so sorry. We didn’t get much tonight. Maybe Vacaar will provide the missing puzzle piece. For now, it’s just worry and wait.” The tears came then but I brushed them away.
No! No tears. Just action. Tomorrow we get this bastard or bastardess.
“I promise!” I said it out loud.

French was having none of it. No answer. Just his empty side of the bed, his pillow untouched. I closed my eyes but sleep did not come. It was hard to wait but at least I didn’t have to wait long.

Chapter 17

It was early on Sunday morning when I called Reed at home.

“Reed. How are you? I didn’t wake you, did I?” I asked.

“No,” he said, asleep. “I was awake.”

“Just reading the Bible, huh?” I asked.

“That’s right,” he said. “Why are you calling me at home, this early and on a Sunday yet?”

“Why do you think? I miss my husband.”

“Oh, yeah, him,” he said and yawned.

“I haven’t heard from you since Friday evening. What exactly are you doing for French?”

“I am doing everything I can, Maya. Trust me.”

“You sound relaxed,” I said, with attitude. “Too relaxed. Aren’t you the one who told me that ‘Trust me’ is legalese for ‘Screw you’?”

No response.

“Hello, Doug. Maya to Doug,” I called to him, “Are you still on the line?” I should be nicer to the man who was fighting for French’s freedom.

“Give me a break, Maya. It’s too early in the morning for a duel. I’m going to get French out of that sinkhole before you know it. There have been a few twists and turns but it’s all okay now.”

“What twists and turns?”

“Nothing, really. Nothing worth mentioning. I’m sorry I did.”

“Oh, great. Don’t go all ‘oh so mysterioso’ on me, Reed. You’re better than that,” I said, feeling an urge to reach through the phone and shake him.

“Look, Maya, it’s just boring legal stuff. I took care of it.”

“Okay,” I sighed.

“I’ll call you as soon as French is released,” he assured me, then added, “You still like shoes, don’t you, Maya?”

“Yes, Doug. I still like shoes.” He was getting tedious.

“He’ll be waiting for you to pick him up on Orange Avenue before you can go to Dillard's to buy a new pair of shoes.”

Then he added, “Trust me,” and laughed.

We said our goodbyes and hung up. I wondered if Dilly's had any pointy toed boots suitable for kicking attorneys in their briefs?

* * *

There was an event later this morning for the Sapphire Hotels and Resorts female managers and executive wives at the hotel. Someone in charge of such things had decided it would be nice to get in a color expert to analyze the ladies’ colors.

I knew this “color expert” from my California days. She was friendly with the Torreys. Darla was an older blonde babe with squinty little eyes. She had reinvented herself a few times since I met her. At first, her beau had been an older goodfella who lived in La Costa and she called herself his assistant. A few years later, she traded him in for a different wise guy who owned a fashionable eatery in Rancho Mirage and she was the hostess. Her latest boyfriend owned hair salons and now she was a “color expert.” I couldn’t believe they flew her in from California for this. She was a schemer, all right. Her men were always married, just not to her. She lived around the fringes and put on airs. We were not each other’s biggest fans.

It was part of my job description as First Lady of Silver Pines to attend all such corporate events, no matter what else might be happening in my life. The good news was, I would get a look at all the hotel wives and the female managers in a relaxed group setting. After the colors, I had invited them to join me at Papa’s Place, a themed restaurant perched on the cliffs, overlooking the resort’s lake.

We had been given strict instructions—bare, naked faces. Makeup artists would be applying our new colors with a trowel, once Darla determined whether we were spring, summer, autumn or winter. For the occasion, I decided on a white gauze ensemble and sling-back Italian sandals. I wore my long hair off my shoulders and looked cool and casual, like I stepped straight out of a Ronrico Rum ad.

* * *

“Everyone, come gather ’round,” Darla called to the ninety or so ladies in her oversized penthouse suite turned color salon. “I want you all to see something.”

I sat on a salon chair with swatches of different colored fabrics draped over my shoulders and across my neck. Darla had me by the chin whiskers.

“Have a look at Maya here,” she addressed the group in a loud voice. “Maya is an ‘autumn.’ This explains why she always looks so
sallow.
I’ve always wondered why Maya looks so
sallow.
Well, this is why!”

A gasp went around the room.

She went on, “An autumn can never wear
these
colors.” She then rotated all the jewel toned fabrics past my neck and face.

“Further, an autumn can never wear these
cool
tones because cool tones wash out an autumn completely.” A look of pity played across her face, as she held the cool tones against my cheek.

“Then, to further complicate things for poor Maya, look at this!” She gleamed a wicked smile. “Even though Maya has the standard
sallow
autumn coloring on her neck, arms and parts of her face, she also has a ruddy hue on her cheeks that can make her look rough, raw and even rather coarse,” she said, puckering her lips in distaste.

I heard soft murmurings around me.

“Ladies, one more thing,” she crowed, “don’t be like poor Maya and wear white, if your teeth have a yellowish cast to them. Never
ever
wear a shade of white that is brighter than your own teeth.”

With that, she turned to me and smiled her very white smile.

“Thank you for volunteering, Maya. My girls can help you select the earth tones that flatter an autumn complexion with ruddy highlights. Next!”

I thanked her and slipped out of the demo chair.

Pretending to be even-complected, I stood tall and cut through the crowd. Obediently, I headed for Darla’s assistants, who would probably place a burlap sack over my head to cover the yellow-toothed,
sallow
, nightmare that was me.

Someone in the crowd followed me and grabbed my hand.

“I wonder how you ever dare to leave the house, you poor
sallow
thang,” Alana drawled, a little twinkle in her sad and puffy eyes.

“Ya got me,” I answered. “I guess I’m just naturally shameless on top of being naturally sallow—and ruddy.” We grinned at each other.

“Don’t mind her,” Alana continued. “She’s a nasty old bitch.”

“Hey, I thought you got her this gig. Isn’t Darla your friend?” I asked.

“Sure she is. But she’s still a nasty old bitch.” Alana winked, turned and walked away.