The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (2 page)

Craig looked at me, his fear fully evident in his red, swollen eyes. He didn’t just look like a wino anymore. He looked like a man on the run. Why was he so afraid? And why did the police think he killed Suzanne?

I cleared my throat and looked straight into his frightened eyes. “You didn’t kill her, did you?” I asked.

“No!” he yelped. The intensity of his answer turned the heads of the last of the disembarking passengers.

“No,” he repeated in a deeper, modulated tone. He closed his eyes for a few heartbeats. When he opened them again they were clear of panic. Then he straightened his shoulders. The wino persona dropped away. He began to look like a corporate leader again, albeit a rumpled one.

“Kate, look at me,” he said in a nearly steady voice. “I’ve made mistakes. I’ve treated you badly, for one. I shouldn’t have taken Suzanne to Spa Santé, for another. But I did not kill Suzanne. Believe me.”

I looked into his sincere red eyes and believed him completely. Well, almost completely. “Then, who did?” I asked.

He began to crumble again, shoulders first. “I don’t know. I don’t know! I can’t even believe it happened…but I saw her body. And the police! They haven’t charged me, but I know they think I did it. I can see it on their faces.” His voice was leaping in pitch with each word, his eyes darting wildly.

“Craig, we’ll figure out who did this together,” I promised rashly. Anything to alleviate his mounting hysteria. “But I’ll need your help. Let’s get the car and you can fill me in on the way.”

The driving seemed to calm him. So I let him be as he guided the rented silver Toyota northeast on Highway 15 from San Diego to Lakeside County. But after twenty miles of brown hills and low dry shrubs, my need to know what had happened overtook my more tender sensibilities.

“So why do the police think you did it?” I asked.

“Because no one else makes sense,” he answered after a moment of continued silence. I was relieved to hear the steadiness in his voice. “Spa Santé is pretty isolated. It’s unlikely that a stranger would have been on the grounds last night, and none of the others staying at the spa knew Suzanne.” He paused. “Except for me,” he added bitterly.

“Who are the others?” I asked. “Run them down for me.”

He sighed before speaking, but complied. “First, there are the owners. Francisca and Bradley Beaumont. She’s friendly, competent. From Hawaii originally.” He pointed out the car window toward some orange groves that glittered in the midday sun before going on, more comfortable as a tour guide than an interrogatee. “Bradley’s a bit strange,” he said.

“What do you mean ‘strange’?” I probed hopefully. “Strange like Ted Bundy?”

“No, I don’t mean that kind of strange,” Craig snapped. He looked over at me with sudden anger in his eyes. The speed of the Toyota was accelerating with his temperature. “It’s bad enough that the police suspect me. I don’t want to slander anyone else.”

“Damn it. Why did you ask me to come here?” I asked sharply. I was getting angry myself. I didn’t need to be here in the middle of nowhere, receiving a lecture on ethics from my ex-husband.

He turned his eyes away from me, pressing down on the gas pedal. The orange groves disappeared rapidly behind us.

“Craig?” I had to know the answer.

“Because I need your support!” he exploded.

“Is that all?” I probed, all the while watching the road nervously.

Suddenly, he threw his head back and laughed shrilly, pressing the gas pedal even harder. Laughter had always been his way of coping. Nervous laughter, that is. But this was not mere nervous laughter, this was hysteria. Tears rolled out of his eyes. And he kept laughing. And sobbing. And laughing. And speeding. Damn. How well could he see the road with tears in his eyes? I gripped the handle of my suitcase, cramping my hand, and watched the miserable landscape whizzing by. Were we going to crash and die here on Highway 15? I held my breath.

Just as I had considered and rejected the idea of forcibly taking over control of the speeding car, his laughter and sobbing merged into a long gurgling sigh. “I never have been able to lie to you,” he said. His foot eased up on the gas.

I loosened my cramped hand and allowed myself to breathe. He spoke again in a voice of forced calm. “I want you here because the police suspect me. Because I would too, if I were them. Because you’ve solved a murder.” He glanced over at me, his swollen eyes pleading. “Figure this one out, Kate. If you don’t, I don’t know who will.”

Was it time to tell him that I had only figured out that last murder by a fluke? That I couldn’t save him? That he was doomed? I looked over at him and saw the wetness on his face left by his tears. And remembered his heavy foot on the pedal. No time for realism.

“I can try,” I said softly. I realized I was trembling. “But only if you help me. You’ve got to tell me everything. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” he said flatly, as if the feeling in his voice had been washed away by his tears.

“How is Bradley Beaumont strange?” I began again.

“He’s just not exactly of this world.” Craig let loose another sigh. “He walks around talking to himself. And laughing his weird laugh. Fran says he’s a writer. Maybe that’s it. You’ll see when you meet him.”

“Who else?”

“Their kid, Paul. He’s just a teenager. And their handyman, Avery Haskell. That’s all the staff that was there last night. And that’s when Suzanne…” His voice broke. I tensed, waiting for the Toyota to accelerate again. But Craig didn’t tromp the gas. He sucked in a series of deep breaths instead, and drove on in silence.

I glanced at his gaunt face and settled into silence myself. I wouldn’t push him anymore. Not while he was driving, anyway.

The silence in the car provided a hospitable environment for self-recrimination. What the hell was I doing down here? Did I really know the man who drove in torment beside me? And what made me think I had even a chance at figuring out who had killed Suzanne? I closed my eyes and began relaxing my still-trembling body, starting with my scalp. Thirty miles later I had reached my ankles, further detours into fear and doubt having slowed my progress considerably, when Craig’s voice brought me back to the inside of the Toyota and current reality.

“I’ll tell you about the guests,” he said. His words raced as fast as the Toyota had earlier. “Besides me and Suzanne”—he faltered and then rushed on—”this couple, Jack and Nikki. He claims to be a rock promoter or something. She’s an actress, black and beautiful. There’s a man in a wheelchair, Don. He’s pretty quiet. Hangs around with the Beaumont’s kid sometimes.” He stopped for a moment to think and then rattled off the rest. “Then there’s Ruth Ziegler. She’s a kick. I think she writes pop psychology books. And Terry. I mentioned him before. The one who insisted on a search warrant? Mr. Social Consciousness incarnate.” He paused. “Those are all the guests.”

“That’s it?” I asked incredulously. “No one else? How can the Beaumonts make a living?”

“They just bought the spa. Got a good deal because it’s been abandoned for years. They’re rebuilding it bit by bit, and renting out the rooms that they’ve finished as they go. Ought to be a good investment if they handle it right.” Providing hard information seemed to have done Craig good. Or maybe it was the preceding thirty miles of silence. His tone was conversational now, at ease. “They’ve placed a few ads, like the one that I saw in the
Vegetarian Times
. Vegetarian cooking, by the way. You’ll appreciate it. And Fran told me they expect more people this weekend. Some kind of weight-loss program.”

“Back to the people who were there last night,” I said. “They all claim they didn’t know Suzanne?”

“That’s what they say,” he answered thoughtfully. He took a highway exit marked DELORES, then circled back under the freeway in the opposite direction of the signs pointing to that town. We drove along a tree-lined road for a mile or so. “But you’ll be able to ask them yourself. We’re here.”

“Here” was a gap in the trees with a tasteful cream-colored sign proclaiming “Spa Santé, Hot Springs and Resort” in brown script. As we drove through the gap I saw scattered stucco buildings of various shapes and sizes. A few sported sparkling white plaster exteriors, but most were brown and cracked with decay. Some were even missing sections of roofs and walls. Those in the worst condition were cordoned off by white nylon rope strung on wooden stakes. Flowers bloomed everywhere. Bursts of color from red geraniums, white alyssum, yellow pansies, richly purple violas and just-planted pink primroses reclaimed the faded beauty of the spa. Packed-earth paths flowed gracefully between the old and new buildings and around the flower beds. The whole compound was encircled by orange trees.

Craig pulled up beside the largest stucco building and parked. “Are you ready to meet people?” he asked.

I looked into his ravaged face and returned the question. “Are
you
ready?”

“Always ready, always willing, darlin’,” he replied. An old joke of his. He twisted his face into a parody of his old easy grin. Watching him, I felt the sudden pressure of imminent tears once more. But I shook them off and twisted my own features into an answering smile.

“Lead on, Macduff,” I said, misquoting Shakespeare in a show of camaraderie.

We walked up the stairs of the big building and across the large porch with a redwood bench and invitingly placed lounge chairs. Craig held open a glass door and waved me into an attractive lobby decorated in muted pastels. He hurried me past the registration desk. “They’ll be in the dining hall. That’s where everyone hangs out.”

The dining hall was beyond another set of glass doors. I peered through the glass and saw a spacious room with high wood-beamed ceilings and large sunny windows. One long table with room for at least two dozen people dominated the center of the hall. A buffet extended the length of the side wall, and at least thirty smaller tables were scattered throughout the remaining expanse. The buffet and tables were made of dark lacquered wood. Many of the tables were brightened by fresh flower arrangements. A waist-high counter, complete with cash register, stood sentry at the front of the hall, but no one was on duty behind it.

As Craig and I opened the glass doors, the disconcerting sound of uninhibited laughter reached us.

I located the source of the sound. At the end of the long center table an older woman with short, frizzy grey hair was wiggling her finger at a weasel-faced man who looked to be about my age. He was frowning peevishly. Whatever the joke was, I would have bet it was at his expense. A bearded man in a wheelchair was talking softly to a teenage boy at a table by the windows, oblivious to the others in the room. The boy looked up at us, shouted “Mom!” and continued to listen to the bearded man’s words.

The swinging doors to the kitchen opened, and a plump Eurasian woman came bearing down on us, one arm clutching linen napkins, the other outstretched in my direction.

As I watched the five strangers, my skin prickled into goose bumps. Was one of these strangers a murderer?

Or—the thought crept into my mind before I could block it—was the murderer the man who had picked me up at the airport and now stood expectantly by my side?

“HELLO, HELLO! I’m Fran Beaumont. Welcome to Spa Santé,” bubbled the Eurasian woman musically. She smelled of fresh-cut apples and oranges. She dropped the napkins on a nearby table and clasped my hand in hers briefly. Up close, she wasn’t really as plump as she had looked at a distance. It was just her baggy pink sweatshirt which gave that impression, as well as her soft moon-shaped face with features so delicately sketched as to seem an afterthought. “I’ll bet you’re Craig’s wife. Bradley said you would come.”

“Ex—” I began, but faltered. I glanced at Craig again. He looked uncomfortable but said nothing. Did he even know our current marital status?

A tremor of uncertainty traveled across Fran’s soft face. I sympathized. Just what rules of etiquette govern when greeting the wife, or ex-wife, of a man whose girlfriend has just been murdered in your establishment?

“Just call me Kate,” I said, mustering up a smile for her gracious attempt at Southern California hospitality.

“Oh, Kate,” she said with a relieved rush of breath. She clasped my hand again. “I’m so glad you’re here. We fixed up a room for you, no charge of course.” No charge? Why no charge? But there was no opportunity to ask. Fran was rolling now. “And my husband, Bradley, says it will be safe. Really. He says it must have been a maniac, a Night Stalker, some random force of evil.” Was this supposed to make me feel better? For the first time I felt real fear seeping into my consciousness. “But, on the other hand, if it was, well…” She paused.

“If what was what?” I asked.

She bent forward and whispered. “If the murderer was someone we know.” I could see fear in those delicate eyes now. “What if they strike again?”

I shivered. And as I did, something slithered against my leg. Whoa! I jumped backwards and felt a piece of that something squish underneath my descending foot. A hell-born yowl of outrage propelled me forward again.

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry,” said Fran, wringing her hands. She bent over and, with obvious effort, picked up an immense black ball of fur. “Roseanne, cut that out,” she admonished. “Bradley says we should get rid of her, but…” She ended her sentence by burying her face in Roseanne’s fur.

From the safety of Fran’s arms, Roseanne glared up at me with glowing yellow eyes, as if daring me to tangle with her again.