The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (11 page)

“Like a doughnut?” he asked, his eyes clamping onto mine.

“No,” I squeaked. Damn. Needed to get my voice back down to a normal register.

“Coffee?” His eyes remained on mine.

“No thanks,” I replied in the deepest voice I could muster. I toyed with the idea of asking him how Fran felt about coffee and doughnuts defiling her health spa, but came back to sanity before actually articulating the question.

“So, Mrs. Jasper,” he said, settling his bulk back into his chair, but never releasing my eyes. “What do you think of all the excitement here?”

The best defense is an offense. I looked at my notes and went to my first question.

“Was Suzanne sexually assaulted?” I asked.

His grin disappeared as he sat up in his chair.

“Not that we know of,” he answered, his voice not quite so genial. “Why the question?”

“I…” I what? I didn’t want to tell him about Paul Beaumont. Especially if Suzanne hadn’t been assaulted sexually. “I just wondered,” I finished lamely.

“Well, I ‘just wonder’ about a few things too,” he drawled. He jutted his head forward. “Like why you’re down here, Mrs. Jasper.”

“To give Craig some support,” I said. It was a conscious effort to keep my voice steady. “Craig is no longer my husband. He’s my friend.”

Orlandi stared at me, saying nothing. I went on.

“Our marriage was an on-again, off-again affair for a long time. We lived apart more often than we lived together in the last five years. And once we both had other…other loves in our lives, we became friends again.”

He still look unconvinced.

“Listen, we do each other favors all the time! He took care of my cat when Wayne and I went on vacation. I helped find his mother in-home care so she wouldn’t have to go to a nursing home. He found a computer job for my niece. And took me to the doctor when I was too sick to drive. He even gave me a fax machine for my birthday….”

Abruptly, I realized I was babbling. Whatever technique Orlandi had been using, it was working.

“But enough about me,” I said, going back to my notes. “Who had the opportunity to kill Suzanne?”

He settled back into his chair, smiling again. Was that a good sign? “Looks like just about everyone had the opportunity to do in Miss Sorenson,” he said. His voice was full of geniality once more. “Maybe you’ve got some information we don’t. Anything you’d like to share?”

I shook my head.

“Had you met Suzanne Sorenson?” Orlandi asked.

I nodded. Unfortunately I had. Just a few times. But that had been enough.

“What did you think of her?” he asked. His tone was conversational but his eyes were clamped onto mine again.

I hesitated but decided on the truth. “I didn’t like her.”

“Why?” he pressed. How to explain? The way she put her arm proprietarily around Craig every time I was near. The sneering way she drawled “a gag-gift business” when I told her what I did. The way she flirted with Wayne, and then made fun of his homely scarred face once he had turned his back. The way Craig fell for her, in spite of all that.

“She was selfish, arrogant, insensitive and two-faced,” I said bitterly. Damn. I hadn’t meant to use that tone. “And those are her good points,” I added lightly.

“And…” prodded Orlandi.

“Seriously, those were my impressions. I can’t really tell you any more. I didn’t know her that well.” My excuses sounded inadequate in my own ears, but I had already said too much.

“Your husband knew her that well, though, didn’t he?”

“My ex-husband,” I corrected.

“Okay. Your ‘ex-husband.’ How did he feel about Miss Sorenson?” Orlandi’s eyes were still on mine.

“We didn’t talk that much about her,” I said. “I think he was embarrassed.” It was true, up to a point. The point being yesterday afternoon, when Craig had exploded into his anti-Suzanne tirade.

“He must have told you about the fight they had, the night she was killed?” said Orlandi in a quiet voice. Could he see into my head? I shook off the idea.

I told myself that he couldn’t force me to respond, and looked down at my notes one more time.

“How was Suzanne Sorenson killed?” I asked.

“How do you think she was killed?” Orlandi returned the question, crocodile grin back in place.

“I—”

A knock on the door saved me from having to answer. Officer Dempster opened the door and stuck his head out. I could hear the low rumble of Avery Haskell’s voice but not his words.

“What is it, Dempster?” asked Orlandi impatiently.

“The coroner’s office is on the phone, sir,” Dempster replied, his voice stiff. Had Orlandi hurt his feelings with the impatient tone?

Orlandi rose, came around the desk and gave Dempster a pat on the shoulder.

“Baby-sit her,” Orlandi said, with a nod in my direction. “I’ll be right back.”

I didn’t much like the order, but I kept my mouth shut. Orlandi left the room and Officer Dempster sat back down next to me.

“So,” I said conversationally. “Get many murders here in Delores?”

Dempster’s eyebrows went up, and he grunted what sounded like a negative. That was all the answer I got.

I sighed and gave up. So much for the small-talk strategy. I pulled out a pen and starting marking up my questions list. A loud yowl distracted me somewhere between “cause of death” and “police records.” I looked down. Roseanne was leaning her substantial weight against my leg.

“No food here,” I told her, shaking my head. She widened her eyes in disbelief.

Then she tensed her muscles and sprang. The jolt when she landed in my lap stunned me. Twenty-seven pounds of cat does not feel like a cat at all. It feels like a compressed Saint Bernard or maybe a bag of cannon balls. I was wondering if I’d have any bruises, when Roseanne began to claw my thighs. My cat, C.C., must have sent her a telegram. I plucked Roseanne’s meaty paw from my pants leg. She dug in again and began to purr. Maybe she was C.C.’s cousin.

“How the hell did she do that?” asked Officer Dempster from my side. His eyes were wide with wonder. “She must weigh thirty pounds.”

“You’re close,” I said, delighted at the potential for conversation. A little cat-talk and then I might find out what the police department knew about Suzanne’s death. “She’s twenty-seven pounds, according to Fran.”

“Jeez, I never saw a cat that big before,” he said.

“There was one in the
National Enquirer
—” I began.

Before I could finish, the door to the office banged open and Chief Orlandi stomped in. His face was contorted in anger. I felt myself shrinking in my seat. Roseanne sprang from my lap. Her push-off was almost as painful as her landing.

“You want to know how Suzanne Sorenson died?” he asked in a voice full of menace.

I nodded. Waves of anger were radiating from his Santa Claus form. Was he putting it on? Was the Delores Police Department so small that he had to play good cop/bad cop all by himself?

“She was choked,” he hissed. “And dragged. And bludgeoned. And smothered in mud.” A flood of nausea was enveloping me. I couldn’t tell if its source was Chief Orlandi’s rage or his all too vivid description of Suzanne’s death. “Someone sure hated that woman,” Orlandi continued. He walked around the desk and slammed into his chair. He clamped his eyes on mine once more. “Was that someone you, Mrs. Jasper?”

My mouth dropped open.

“Me?” I whispered. He couldn’t be serious.

“Where were you on Tuesday night?” he snarled.

“Tuesday night?” I repeated stupidly.

“Yes, Tuesday night. And Wednesday morning.”

Suddenly my head cleared. “In Marin,” I answered angrily. “I wasn’t here. I am not a suspect. I was at home, working.”

“Prove it,” he snapped.

“Ask Southwest Air,” I answered shrilly. This was ridiculous. “I left San Francisco a little before noon on Wednesday.”

“You could have flown down the night before and flown back early Wednesday morning,” he replied.

“What!” I yelped. Then I remembered. “Craig called me early Wednesday morning, at my house in Marin.”

“So he claims. He could have been calling your answering machine.”

“No! I was in Marin, damn it.”

“We’ll check, you know.” His tone vibrated with menace.

“Then check,” I replied testily. I just hoped they could check. But who were they going to ask? My cat? She was the only witness. If only Wayne had spent that night with me. Maybe he could lie? No. I shook off the thought. That would only get me in worse trouble. Had any of my neighbors noticed me? I was so lost in thought that I failed to notice Chief Orlandi’s re-transformation.

“Mrs. Jasper,” he said, his voice friendly again. I looked up. The crocodile grin had returned. “You really want your husband back, don’t you?” he coaxed.

“You must be kidding,” I said. “I have a lover. His name is Wayne Caruso. Craig is my friend—”

“Mighty convenient, the way you showed up here,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken.

And so it went. If Chief Orlandi had been playing good cop/bad cop with me, he had done a damn good job. A half hour and a couple of personality switches back and forth later, he had asked me some new questions and many of the same old ones. Over and over again. Then Officer Dempster had taken my fingerprints and I was dismissed. At least for the time being. I was told to keep myself available for questioning.

By the time I had left the little interrogation room I had begun to wonder if I
had
been in Marin the night of the murder. I stood in the lobby forcing myself to remember Tuesday evening. I had read an Anne Tyler novel,
Breathing Lessons
, late into that night. And the next morning I had received the divorce decree. No, I told myself, there is no way you could have misremembered that.

I shivered with the realization that Chief Orlandi’s interrogation had made me unsure of my own memory, my own sanity. Now I knew how brainwashing worked. And now I knew why Chief Orlandi’s very presence could turn Craig to stone.

I drew a deep breath and walked slowly out into the sunshine on the porch.

“Hey, wanna beer, pretty lady?”

The sunlight had blinded me for a moment. As my eyes adapted, Jack Ireland’s grinning mouth appeared followed by the rest of his face, Cheshire-cat style. He was wearing the same grungy cut-offs as the day before, but nothing else. Except for a turquoise stud in his left ear lobe, that is. It went well with his red hair and freckles. He smiled up at me from the bottom of the stairs, dangling five cans of a six-pack from the empty plastic circle where the first can had been.

“No thanks,” I said. But his friendly smile was infectious. My shoulder muscles relaxed, and I smiled back.

Nikki came up the dirt path. God, she was beautiful. But not happy at the moment. Her large eyes were full of concern, maybe anger. The flare of her nostrils was exaggerated as she marched toward Jack.

“Jack, where’d you get that beer?” she asked softly. She lay her brown hand on his freckled shoulder.

“Downtown Delores,” he said, turning briefly in her direction. He kept his eyes down. “I’ve only had one.” He turned back to me. “Sure you wouldn’t like one? You look pretty fuckin’ blitzed.”

I shook my head. Was my state of mind that obvious? Probably. I had sweated through my turtleneck and corduroys. And I had probably tugged my hair in all directions. I usually did when I was nervous. I reached up and tried to comb it back into place with my fingers.

“Jack, you promised,” Nikki said.

Jack turned to her. “I love you, baby,” he replied, quietly. “But I gotta have a beer once in a while.” He held the six-pack out away from his body with one hand and pulled her to him with the other.

She pushed him off. “Come on, honey,” she said, putting out her hand. “This is one of the things we came here to get away from.”

He hesitated, then handed the cans to her. She rewarded him with a gentle kiss on his forehead.

“Unbelievable, what the old lady will do to get a beer,” he boomed out. He winked largely at me, then turned back to Nikki. “You coulda just asked for one,” he told her. “You didn’t have to steal the whole six-pack.”

Nikki said, “Ah Jack, cut it out.” But she was smiling now. Looking at him with love in her beautiful eyes. Actually, it was getting closer to lust.

Every time I was around these two I felt like I was intruding. There was more smoldering passion in Nikki’s last look then in the whole of
Gone With the Wind
. I wondered if her magic would work on film. If it would, Nikki’s career as actress was assured. I decided to leave them to it.

“See you two later,” I mumbled and started down the stairs.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Nikki objected. She looked up at my face. “You do look pale. Have you had any breakfast?”

“Breakfast had me,” I replied. “Breakfast being Chief Orlandi.”

“Oh, you poor thing!” said Nikki at the same time as Jack asked, “You sure you don’t want a beer?”

I laughed. “I take it you’ve experienced his interview technique.”