The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (28 page)

“No charge,” Ruth assured her. “Just an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on. We all need that, especially when we’re young.”

“I’m sure he’d love to talk to you,” Fran agreed. Then she bent to whisper again. “But I’ll need all the help I can get this weekend. Beds to make. Food to prepare—”

Ruth’s expression was no longer benevolent. She looked like an angry witch as she interrupted Fran. “Can’t your husband help you instead?” she asked, her brows pinched together above suddenly hard black-button eyes.

Fran stepped back, clearly stung by Ruth’s question. “My husband helps as much as he can,” she replied, her voice high and defensive. Then she bent over to whisper once more. “You see,” she explained confidentially, “Bradley is a writer. He needs time to write. And time to be away from people.”

Ruth just eyed her coldly. And Ruth wasn’t the only one who didn’t buy Fran’s explanation. Wayne’s face was fierce with anger as he stared at Fran. And Don Logan had wheeled up, apparently to join in with his own glare.

“My husband is sensitive,” Fran whined, her voice like that of a child who can’t understand the injustice of adult rules. “He really is.”

She searched the rest of our faces for approval and found none. Eli and Terry watched her without pity. Felix’s gaze was interested, but not particularly friendly. And Craig avoided her eyes. I tried to keep my own expression neutral. I had a lot of sympathy for Fran. She was working night and day to keep her spa from going under. But I had sympathy for her son too, totally ignored as he sank further and further into anger and despair. I glanced over at the counter. Paul stood behind it stiffly. I hoped he couldn’t hear the conversation.

“Anyway,” Fran went on. “Paul doesn’t mind the extra work.”

“Have you ever asked him?” Don Logan broke in. His voice was low and hard.

“I…” Fran’s voice trailed off in confusion. She couldn’t seem to understand the irrational anger her denial of her son’s problems had engendered. I wanted to explain it to her gently, but before I could find the words Ruth spoke again.

“Fran,” she said, her voice a thin layer of politeness over fury. “Will you call Bradley over?”

“Bradley?” asked Fran nervously, glancing at the window where Bradley still stood staring.

“Yes, Bradley,” Ruth replied. “And come back yourself. I want to talk to both of you.”

“But I’ve got to—” Fran began. The anger in Ruth’s eyes cut Fran’s protest short. She shrugged her shoulders and walked off to get her husband.

We all watched as Fran approached Bradley and whispered in his ear. He issued his trademark loon’s laugh as she tugged at his elbow. He turned to wave at us briefly, then turned back to the window. But Fran was persistent. She walked in front of him and held his arms still as she spoke in a low tone—too low for me to hear what she said to him. I imagined a plea to consider the effect on spa business of refusing a guest’s request. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders and followed her over to our table.

“Have I been summoned?” Bradley asked when he reached us, his voice rich with irony.

“Yes,” snapped Ruth, unamused. She motioned at Fran and Bradley to sit down. Fran obeyed immediately. She wasn’t protesting anymore. And when Fran tugged on Bradley’s elbow, he too plopped into a chair.

Then Ruth stood up, regal in her purple caftan. She opened her arms with mesmerizing slowness. Then she shouted:

“Pay attention!”

She got Fran’s attention. Even Bradley’s. His mouth dropped open and a surprisingly sane look appeared on his face. As if he had forgotten to be crazy for a moment, when faced with someone as outrageous as himself. Unfortunately, Ruth had also earned the attention of the entire hall. She didn’t seem to notice, though, so intent was she on Fran and Bradley. I shrank in my own chair, embarrassed for all involved.

Ruth brought her arm up and pointed an accusing finger at the couple, holding the position as she continued.

“You are losing your son!” she hissed angrily.

Fran opened her mouth to speak.

“And what’s worse,” Ruth continued, cutting off any back talk, “you haven’t even noticed!”

Fran looked at Bradley for help, but Bradley’s eyes were fixed on Ruth.

“You!” Ruth’s pointed finger moved to single Bradley out. “I don’t want to hear any more about your fabled sensitivity, when you aren’t even sensitive enough to notice your own son’s suffering.” This from a woman who hadn’t noticed the hall full of faces watching her humiliate the Beaumonts.

But Bradley didn’t refute the charge. His eyes were suddenly sane as he turned to look at his son behind the counter. Too suddenly sane. I wondered once again how much of Bradley’s loon act was self-dramatization.

“As for you,” Ruth went on, her arm swinging toward Fran now. “You can’t solve a problem if you don’t even admit to it, if you don’t even see it. Look at your son now.” Ruth’s voice softened. “Will you think of him only when he’s gone?”

Fran squirmed in her seat, glancing quickly at Paul as if to assure herself he was still there. A flicker of sadness appeared in her eyes momentarily.

Ruth opened her arms wide once more.

“You need therapy and you need it now!” she hissed.

Bradley went rigid in his seat.

“No,” Ruth assured him. “I don’t just mean you alone. I mean all of you, as a family.”

Fran broke in. “We don’t have the money,” she objected.

“If you can’t find free counseling, I’ll write you the check,” Ruth answered curtly. “No more excuses.”

Fran shook her head stubbornly, pushing her chair back to get up. She seemed to realize now that she didn’t have to listen.

“Pay attention,” Ruth said once more, but softly this time. Her black button-eyes had become moist with sadness. “This is your last chance.”

RUTH ZIEGLER’S VERBAL ASSAULT on the Beaumonts had stunned the communal table into silence. In fact, the whole dining hall was silent and tense with anticipation, waiting for her next words.

Suddenly, Ruth seemed to become aware of the presence of the other diners in the room. She scanned the faces staring at her, sank into her chair and put her face into her hands.

Fran snatched her water pitcher from the table, her body stiff with anger. She opened her mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it. She snapped her mouth shut and turned her back on our table. Then she made her way across the dining hall to fill glasses there.

Whispered conversations among the diners started up again sporadically, then swelled in volume to erase the silence.

Bradley remained sitting at our table. His face was somber as he stared at his son. Finally, he too rose.

“Thank you,” he said to Ruth. His voice was so quiet I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly. Ruth jerked her head out of her hands to look at him, her own expression surprised. Bradley thanked her again, then took a deep breath and walked over to the counter where Paul stood averting his eyes. I watched Bradley put his arm around his son’s shoulder. Then I looked away. Too many eyes were intruding on their privacy already.

“I guess I got a little carried away,” Ruth said in a very small voice.

No one offered a second opinion.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she sighed. She looked very old and un-Ruth-like as she hung her head.

“You did what needed to be done,” said Don Logan in a curt tone.

“But not in public,” Ruth replied impatiently. She shook her head and rose from her seat. “I’ve got to apologize to Fran.”

“No, no,” said Uncle Eli, motioning her to sit back down. “Apologize later. To do so now might nullify the good that you have done.” He tilted his head meaningfully toward Bradley and Paul Beaumont.

“You think I might have done some good?” Ruth asked. Her voice was eager. But her face was still troubled.

“Perhaps,” Uncle Eli said. “It is too early to tell.” He paused for a moment’s thought before going on. “In this country there is a tradition of respect for privacy. One is not expected to interfere with another’s family. But you make me wonder if some benefit may come from this, this…”

“Involuntary family counseling,” I finished for him. Ruth cringed at my description. But Eli twinkled a smile at me.

“Ah, yes,” he chuckled. “Very good, that phrase. Involuntary family counseling.” He reached over and patted Ruth’s hand. His eyes went to hers. “You are a concerned and passionate woman,” he said slowly. “An action arising from that concern and passion must have some good in its effect.”

Ruth was smiling now, even beginning to glow as she returned Eli’s gaze. “You’re incorrigible,” she said. “Such a silver tongue! You could convince me my actions were all pure and good. Why, I think you could convince me I’m forty years old again!”

“I am an attorney,” Eli answered. “It is my job to make convincing arguments.” He bowed his head to her. “And your loveliness would do honor to any forty-year-old.”

Ruth giggled in delight. Eli’s was a silver tongue indeed.

I reintroduced myself to my shish kebab, lying cold and untouched on my plate. As I took a bite of tofu, Wayne spoke up.

“What kind of law do you practice, Mr. Rosen?” he asked. I turned to Wayne in amazement. A full sentence from his mouth was unusual. A conversational gambit was an event. He had to be sleuthing.

“Please, please,” said Uncle Eli with a a wave of his hand. “Call me Eli, young man.”

“Eli,” obeyed Wayne gravely.

“I practice in more than one field of law,” Eli answered. “But I do prefer trial work. Civil litigation and criminal defense are my specialities. I leave to the others in my firm most of the family and business law. I must confess that I enjoy the drama of the courtroom.”

“Have you ever defended any really big criminals?” asked Felix eagerly.

“Ah,” said Uncle Eli, straightening in his chair. “I have defended men
accused
of major felonies. But to ask if any of these men were actually criminals, that is a very different question.” He wagged an admonitory finger at Felix. “Thankfully, the accused is not guilty until proven so in this country.”

“Lawyers,” sneered Don Logan. The look on his face matched his unfriendly tone.

Eli took Don’s sneer in stride. “I have heard it said that every man hates a lawyer until he needs one,” he joked. Then he went on more seriously. “Other people accused of crimes are seen as ‘criminals.’ But when one finds oneself on the wrong side of a criminal accusation, suddenly one believes in the rights of the accused.”

“And the poor get overworked public defenders,” said Terry, leaning forward, ready to argue with anyone who didn’t agree. “And the public defenders don’t believe in their clients any more than the rest of society!”

With that introduction, Terry was off and running. While he lectured on the inadequacies of the criminal law system, I sneaked another look at Bradley and his son. They were standing behind the counter talking quietly. Perhaps Ruth’s tirade had brought about the desired result after all.

I plowed through shish kebab, curried rice, cornbread and fruit salad as Terry and Eli agreed and disagreed at great length about the American legal system. Ruth offered a cheerful opinion every once in a while, apparently now over her brief period of self-abasement. Don Logan, on the other hand, whirred away his wheelchair in disgust when she suggested that counseling might be more appropriate for convicted criminals than punishment.

I ate the last bite of cantaloupe on my plate, and whispered to Wayne, “Time to leave?”

The grateful look he gave me melted my heart into a pool of guilt. The poor guy. Why was I putting him through this? I squeezed his shoulder. Then I remembered that it had been
his
idea to visit. He had wanted to protect me. Now I wondered what exactly he had wanted to protect me from? The murderer? Or my falling in love with my ex-husband again? I glanced at Craig playing with the rice on his plate despondently. There was no way I was going to fall in love with him again. Fourteen years had been enough. But how did I explain that to Wayne?

I rose to go as quietly as possible. I didn’t want to interrupt Terry’s commentary on certain judges who were former prosecuting attorneys and still prosecutors at heart. Wayne rose silently as well. We crept off toward the glass doors, huddling close together. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from Wayne’s body.

I put my arm around his waist.

“Hey, wait a minute!” called Felix. He pushed his chair back and jogged across the dining hall to catch up with us. “How about our meeting?” he demanded in a whisper.

I looked up at Wayne. He shrugged his shoulders massively and sighed.

“We don’t have to,” I whispered. “We could do it later.”

“Now,” he whispered back. He looked down at me with the eyes of a martyr. “Get it over with.”

I turned back to Felix. “Get Craig,” I ordered.

We decided to meet in Craig’s room. I was tired of paisley. So was Craig. Wayne reserved comment. But he raised his heavy brows in appreciation when we came through the door of Craig’s room, taking in the white walls, Monet poster and peach and aqua accents.

“Well, fearless leader,” said Felix, flopping into one of the aqua easy chairs. “What’s the plan?”