The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (3 page)

“Good God,” I said, now cold under the sweat that had drenched me when I stepped on her paw. “How much does that cat weigh?”

“Twenty-seven pounds,” Fran answered. A blush suffused her round cheeks. “I’ve tried to put her on a diet, but she chews the bottoms out of her cat food bags and steals scraps and—”

“What an advertisement for a health spa,” teased Craig. When Fran didn’t smile he amended his comment. “The ‘before’ shot of course.”

I laughed. Fran forced a weak smile. Roseanne stared at me appraisingly. Was I laughing at her? She flexed her claws.

“Kate,” Fran whispered again. I looked into her eyes and saw that the fear I had almost forgotten was still there. “Craig says you might be able to figure out this…” Couldn’t she spit out the word “murder”? “This…this thing. Please try. We’ll do anything we can to help you. I’ve got to know.”

“I’m not…” I began to object. But her eyes were so frightened. I turned and glared at Craig. Had he tried to pass me off as a detective? He quickly averted his eyes. Fran saw the exchange and retreated into hospitality once more.

“But of course you’re welcome to stay, no matter what,” she said with a tremulous smile. “I didn’t mean to push you. Bradley says I suffer from foot-in-mouth disease. Just forget I asked.”

Damn. I hated it when people did that to me. How could I gracefully refuse a retracted request?

“I’ll be glad to pay for my room,” I said. I meant it. I didn’t want to be under any obligation to this frightened woman. Or to raise her hopes.

“No, no. We insist, don’t we, Roseanne?” she said, gently setting the cat down on a chair with a fond pat. “Would you like to meet some of the other guests?” she added quickly, closing the subject of free accommodations.

I shrugged. I could always insist on paying her later.

As she turned to introduce me to the others, I noticed that all eyes were already upon us. Fran noticed one set of eyes in particular.

“Paul, what are you doing home?” she called to the teenager. “It’s only two-thirty.”

He mumbled something under his breath, his expression no friendlier than Roseanne’s.

“Kids,” Fran said with a forced laugh. “Paul, come say hello to Kate. She’ll be staying with us for a while.”

Paul rose from his seat slowly, nodding a goodbye to the bearded man in the wheelchair. He wasn’t a bad-looking boy. Medium height and slender in his jeans and T-shirt. Adidas running shoes with the laces nonchalantly untied. His features were even, with just a touch of acne, under dark shaggy hair. If he had smiled, he might have been handsome. But he didn’t. He kept his eyes lowered sullenly as he walked across the room.

He extended his hand to shake mine without making eye contact. “Paul,” he muttered with the brief shake. His hand felt hot and dry. Then, “gotta go.” He walked toward the glass doors.

“Wait a minute,” said Fran. Paul stopped in his tracks. “As long as you’re here, you might as well be useful. You can start setting the tables for dinner.”

Paul rolled his eyes but complied silently. He picked up the napkins that Fran had set down and stomped to the other end of the room to begin placing them on the tables.

Fran sighed. “He’s a good kid, really. Bradley says not to pay him any attention when he acts this way.”

I wanted to meet Fran’s husband, Bradley. According to Fran, he was a man with all the answers. Maybe he knew who murdered Suzanne. Or—

An insistent whirring sound interrupted my thought. The man in the wheelchair had rolled up. I focused my eyes on his bearded face, avoiding looking at his legs. His sea-blue eyes looked made for laughter. There were even old laugh lines radiating from them. But those lines were overlaid with lines of pain. And his eyes were filled with bitterness. How long had he been in the wheelchair?

I forced a smile and tried to dismiss my pity and fear. I could never get past those first reactions to a wheelchair-bound person. The fear that this could also happen to me, the physical pang of pity, and even the irrational guilt that it wasn’t me in the wheelchair. But the man wasn’t looking in my direction anyway. He was focused on Craig. I relaxed my face.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Craig. His voice was low and gruff. “Wasn’t your fault. Anything I can do, just ask.”

“Thanks,” answered Craig softly, his eyes moistening. This was interesting. Maybe the police suspected Craig, but if Fran and this man were any indication, the Spa Santé crowd didn’t seem to share that suspicion.

The man turned his wheelchair in my direction with a short series of clicks and whirs. “Don Logan,” he said holding out his hand.

“Kate Jasper,” I replied and bent down to take his hand. It was calloused and had a strong grip. In fact, his whole upper body looked solidly muscular under the flannel shirt.

“Craig’s sister?” he asked, looking at me with a spark of curiosity in those bitter blue eyes.

I was confused for a moment, then understood. Jasper, the same last name as Craig’s. “No, no,” I answered. “Craig’s wife. I mean, former wife.” How many times was I going to be asked that question? Maybe I should have reverted to my maiden name. But it was long, unpronounceable, and unfamiliar after fourteen years. “And Craig’s friend,” I added in explanation.

“Good,” said Don solemnly. “Craig needs a friend right now.”

His chair whirred backwards. “Good meeting you,” he said and maneuvered past us and out the glass doors.

“Don’s fantastic,” said Fran after he was out of sight. “He’s off to work out. He exercises religiously, every afternoon. Bradley says, with his chair and van and everything, Don can do almost anything anyone else can.” Bradley again. I was getting tired of Bradley. And I hadn’t even met the man yet.

“We’ve fixed up a bunch of the units for the disabled,” Fran continued. Her eyes were bright now, flickering with plans. “Wide doorways, ramps, grab-bars, special bathrooms. Our handyman Avery knows all about that stuff. He used to be a hospital aide. And then, when we have a few more special units finished, we’re going to place some special ads. And then…” The brightness faded from Fran’s eyes. “That is, if everything is cleared up.”

No wonder she was worried. An unsolved murder could kill Spa Santé’s business before it even got going. I wanted to comfort Fran. To tell her the police would clear up the murder. To tell her
I
would clear up the murder. But there was no reason to believe either scenario. I kept my mouth shut. I had already promised too much to Craig. Fran straightened her shoulders abruptly.

“Two-thirty and I haven’t even started tonight’s buffet,” she said. “Craig, introduce Kate to Ruth and Terry, and I’ll get back to the kitchen where I belong.” With that, she hurried back through the kitchen doors and disappeared.

Craig introduced the frizzy grey-haired woman as Ruth Ziegler. Ruth immediately jumped up from her chair and engulfed me in an intense Leo Buscaglia hug. A bit demonstrative for a stranger, but living in Marin had inured me to this brand of New Age effusiveness. Then she held me at arm’s length and surveyed my face as if it were a crystal ball. Her clothing was right for the occasion. A flowing purple caftan. And her face could have been a wise gypsy’s, brown and crinkly with a long hooked nose, generous mouth and all-seeing black-button eyes.

“There’s a lot of compassion in you, and intelligence,” she announced finally. She gave me another quick hug and stepped back. I felt my face flushing. This kind of scrutiny was usually reserved for prospective in-laws.

“Craig needs plenty of support right now,” she added. Great. Another member of the Craig Jasper fan club. Didn’t any of these people see him as a murder suspect? “He needs to mourn properly. You can help him do that.”

At least she wasn’t asking me to play detective. But how was I supposed to help Craig mourn properly? Before I could form my thoughts into a coherent question, she had turned on Craig with an even more fervent hug than the one she had given me. I hoped it was what he needed.

The man at the table rose to introduce himself. He was a small slender man, shorter than I was, and probably lighter. He watched Ruth with a look of amusement on his long weasel face. His pinched nostrils quivered over a wispy greying mustache, and his close-set eyes were smiling under wire-rimmed glasses. His clothing was not amused however. His duckbill-cap demanded “Food Not Bombs” over badly cut brown hair, and his T-shirt ordered “CIA Out of Central America.” I groaned to myself. Aggressive social consciousness always sparks my own guilt over good causes long ignored, marches unjoined and contribution requests unpaid.

“Terry McPhail,” he said and offered his slight hand for shaking.

“Kate,” I replied shortly as I pumped his hand. No use confusing him with my surname.

“Ruth thinks a hug can cure everything,” he said, with a thumb pointed in her direction. She still had Craig locked in her loving grip.

“And Terry thinks political activism will solve everything,” came her retort, muffled by Craig’s chest. “But only eventually. And meanwhile, as we wait, we must suffer nobly.” She released Craig and held him at arm’s length, as she had done with me. “At least a hug is immediate,” she concluded.

I began a question for Terry. “Is Ruth your…?” Mother, girlfriend, wife? I figured Terry was about my age. Ruth must have been at least twenty years his senior.

“No,” he answered with a chuckle. “I’ve just met her. We just argue like family.”

Ruth motioned us all to join them at the end of the long table. I sank gratefully into a chair. Craig sat next to her, his eyes bleary again.

“The lecture begins,” warned Terry as he took his seat.

Ruth reached for Craig’s hand and held it. She peered into his eyes. He stared back, mesmerized. I began to fidget, uncomfortable in this role of intimate observer. “Don’t deny your grief,” she advised him. “You have to pass through the tears, the fears, the anger, the guilt. But there will come an end to the worst of the mourning. If you don’t hold back.”

“Give sorrow words,” Terry added softly. “The grief that does not speak whispers the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break.”

Ruth turned to Terry, her eyes wide with astonishment. “Shakespeare?” she asked.

“
Macbeth
,” he confirmed.

“And I thought all you read was the
People’s Daily World
,” Ruth said.

Terry’s face went pink. He opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the bark of Craig’s laughter. We all turned to stare at him. His head was thrown back and tears glistened in his eyes as he laughed uncontrollably. He quickly subsided into a few muffled snorts as we watched.

“I’m sorry,” he said, choking back the last of the snorts. “It’s not you—”

“We understand,” said Ruth gently. Did we? I wondered.

“Hey, man, it’s okay,” added Terry. “But let me give you some real advice. Don’t let the cops hassle you. Stand up for your rights.” Craig’s face paled in response. “They’ll pull all kinds of shit if they want to hang this one on you.”

This was not what Craig needed to hear, true or untrue. Ruth and I sat up to object in unison.

“Terry—” she began.

“Craig—” I said.

“So how are you all getting along?” asked a voice from above us. Fran had returned to our table with a friendly smile and a tray of condiments.

The startled silence lasted only a few seconds.

“Have a seat,” offered Terry expansively. Fran sat down, still smiling. “I was just filling Craig in on what he can expect from the local Gestapo.”

“I don’t think—” I began.

“That’s okay,” said Craig softly. His face was still white. A muscle was twitching underneath his cheekbone. “I want to know the worst.”

“Listen, man,” said Terry. He certainly wasn’t quoting Shakespeare now. “I read this story in
Mother Jones
about this guy they coerced a confession from. They kept him up for twenty-four hours, fed him phony information, played with this mind and convinced him he had killed a woman in an alcoholic blackout—and he wasn’t even drinking at the time. If his family hadn’t had the bucks, he would be on death row now, but they hired some attorneys who got the confession suppressed.”

“That isn’t the situation here,” objected Ruth. “Chief Orlandi isn’t like that. He’s a fair and decent man.” That was good to hear.

“All cops are potentially corrupt. It’s built into the system. Orlandi and his friends are gone for the moment but they’ll be back. Just wait till the local powers-that-be in Delores start pressuring Orlandi to solve this thing. He’ll do anything to solve it, including manufacturing a murderer. Start leaning on Craig. Start leaning on witnesses. Just think of the pressure he can put on Fran here. Threaten to shut down her operation for all sorts of code violations—”

An explosion of sobs interrupted his monologue. For a moment I thought Craig had finally broken down completely. But the source of the sobs was Fran, not Craig. Craig just looked white and stunned. Fran had buried her head in her hands as her whole body convulsed with the impact of her loud weeping.

“Terry, stop it!” ordered Ruth.

Terry complied instantly, snapping his mouth shut in surprise.

Ruth rose from her chair and bent over Fran to give her an all-healing hug. Fran continued to weep, bursting into fragmented wailing phrases with every other sob. “Oh God…So afraid…Bradley says.”