The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (13 page)

“Now, that is interesting,” I said slowly. I stared at the orange and black swirls in the wallpaper and pondered. Why would someone as young as Suzanne make a will? “Did she have anything to leave?” I asked.

“Not very likely, according to the secretary. Suzanne dressed, lived and drove for success. On credit. Silk blouses, a fancy condo, and a new BMW. Her salary barely covered it. No major assets. She rented the condo. And leased the car.”

“How do you find this stuff out?” I asked. Felix always amazed me.

“Suzanne kept her personal finances on the company computer.” I could hear the smile in Felix’s voice. “Took the secretary about five minute to figure out Suzanne’s password.”

“
Success
?” I guessed.

“You got it,” Felix said, surprised. Then he chuckled. “Are you taking psychic lessons from Barbara these days?”

“It was an easy guess. Suzanne worshipped success,” I explained briefly. I picked up the phone and walked to the saffron-curtained window. “But why a will, then?” I asked Felix. “No assets. No one that close to her. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Rumor has it she did it to spite her father. He deserted her and her mother.”

“Yeah, Craig told me some of that,” I said, opening the curtains. “Tell me the rest.”

I sat down on my bed and stared out the window as Felix continued his lecture on Suzanne Sorenson. There were a few rose bushes in Rose Court, but the clear blue sky was even more attractive. More relaxing. I lay down on the bed and let the details of Suzanne’s life wash over me.

Then Felix started in on the suspects. When he got to Avery Haskell, he whispered dramatically, “The man’s got a police record,” and paused. I sat back up.

“Okay, give,” I said. “What’s the record for?”

“Assault. On his wife, now his ex-wife. Six years ago. Haskell joined A.A. and got probation.”

No wonder the man didn’t like to talk about the past. “Anything else on him?” I asked.

“Not much. Vietnam vet. Worked as an orderly at the local V.A. hospital at the time of the assault.”

The wheels in my mind began to turn. “You want to hear about Don Logan?” Felix teased. I wondered if he tortured Barbara like this.

“Yes, I want to hear about Don Logan,” I snapped.

“Actually, it’s a pretty sad story,” Felix said, the teasing gone from his voice. “A couple years ago the Logans were coming back from vacation. Coming across the Golden Gate Bridge. Logan’s wife was driving. A drunk driver coming the other way lost control, came over the double line and crashed into them. Wife and kid were killed. Logan was crippled.”

“Jesus,” I said. Then my heart started pounding. Was this the connection? “Who hit them?” I asked. “Suzanne?”

“Nope. A man by the name of Keene. He was killed too.”

Damn. I got up from the bed and began pacing. Felix continued the rundown.

“Jack Ireland’s got a record, too,” Felix said. Then, predictably, he paused. I growled menacingly. He hurried on before I could reach through the phone line to throttle him. “Once for reckless driving. Once for possession of marijuana. His brother’s the famous one. Ever hear of Trax?”

My brain scanned. “Some kind of rock group?” I guessed.

“Bingo. Tommy Ire, the lead singer is Jack Ireland’s big brother. Tommy shortened his name. Anyway, Jack is a roadie for Trax.”

“How about Terry McPhail?” I asked. With his attitude, he had to have been arrested in a protest.

“Would Terry be fifty-eight or thirty-nine?” Felix responded.

“Thirty-nine.”

“No record on the younger Terrance McPhail,” Felix said. I was disappointed in Terry. With his views, he should have racked up at least one honorable arrest in his lifetime. “Now, the elder Terrance McPhail is more interesting,” Felix continued. “Owns a Chevy dealership in south San Francisco, and a couple more down the peninsula. Five-star credit rating. Lots of bucks.”

I looked out the window again as Felix rattled off information.

“Bradley Beaumont’s made a couple of trips to the psycho ward. Committed by his parents, no less. He lived with them until he married Francisca.”

“Has he ever been published?” I asked.

“Nope. Now Ruth Ziegler, on the other hand, is a best-selling author. Psychology for the masses. Her husband was a psychologist, too. Died a few years back.”

I looked across Rose Court to the two buildings on the other side. I wondered idly if their white stucco exteriors camouflaged more psychedelic-rustic interiors.

“Nikki Martin,” Felix grumbled. “There are seven Nicole Martins in this state. Most of them are under the age of ten. But only one actress with that name. No police record on her. She’s been in some local plays, a few bit parts in movies….”

There was an orange tree between the two buildings across the courtyard. A figure stood by the tree, looking up in the direction of my window. It was Paul Beaumont. My heart did a back-flip.

“She models for mail-order clothing catalogues—”

“Felix,” I interrupted. “I’ve got to go!”

“What?” he sputtered.

“I’ve got to go,” I repeated firmly. “I’ll call you back.”

I dropped the phone on Felix’s sputters, my attention consumed by the need to confront the figure across the courtyard. Despite my attempts to reassure myself that Paul Beaumont was only a confused kid, my heart was racing. I had to confront him. To face my own fear.

I strolled to my door nonchalantly. I didn’t think Paul could see me, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Once I had closed the door behind me, I raced down the stairs in time with my rapid heartbeat.

Outside the building, I blinked for a moment in the sunlight and oriented myself. I could cross the courtyard, in which case Paul would probably see me coming, or I could take the dirt path which circled the perimeter of the Rose Court complex. I chose the path.

Paul was sitting cross-legged underneath the orange tree by the time I had run the perimeter. He was still facing across the courtyard toward my building. I got my breath under control and walked up behind him quietly.

“Paul,” I began. He jerked his head around. His eyes filled with panic when he saw me. “I want to talk to you,” I said firmly.

He turned his head away from me and mumbled, “I don’t have to.”

I circled in front of him. “Do you want me to take this to the police?” I asked. He dropped his head, refusing to look at me.

“No,” he muttered into his lap.

“Well?” I prodded.

He looked up at me with teary eyes. “I’m s-sorry. I never did anything like that before. I know it was stupid.”

I dropped to the ground across from him, relieved by his answer.

“Promise me you’ll never do anything like it again,” I proposed softly, peering into his distressed eyes.

“I…I promise,” he replied, hurrying through the last word to get it over with. Then he dropped his head again.

I sat across from him, wondering if he would keep his promise. Wondering if there was a better way to handle him.

“Have you told my mom?” he asked, his voice shrill with worry.

“No,” I said.

“Will you?” he pressed, handing me the lever I needed.

“Not if you keep your promise.”

Paul nodded impatiently. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll keep it.” He jumped to his feet.

I rose with him, not finished yet.

“Paul,” I said softly. “Tell me how you felt about Suzanne.”

“SHE WAS A WHORE!” he erupted.

I STEPPED BACK involuntarily, rocked by the force of Paul Beaumont’s outburst. The word “whore” echoed in the charged air.

“Paul—” I began. But he whirled away from me before I could finish. It was just as well. I didn’t know what to say. I glimpsed a shimmer of renewed tears in his eyes as he looked at me one more time. Then he ran.

I tensed to run after him without thinking.

“I’d let the boy go if I were you,” said someone at my side.

I jerked my head around and saw Don Logan staring up at me from beneath his cowboy hat. I had been so involved in Paul that I hadn’t heard the whir of Logan’s wheelchair. I turned back in time to see Paul disappear behind a stand of orange trees.

Defeated, I dropped to a sitting position on the ground. It was too late to chase Paul now.

“Why should I let him go?” I asked Logan angrily.

“What were you going to do if you caught him?” he asked in return. He looked down at me with a trace of a smile in his bitter eyes.

“I hadn’t thought that far,” I admitted. “But that is one troubled kid.”

“He’s not a killer,” Logan assured me calmly, as if I had asked the question aloud.

“What makes you so sure?” I asked, my anger returning. Would it change his assessment if I told him how Paul had assaulted me?

“You just saw his M.O.,” he answered, still calm. “Explode and run. He doesn’t have the staying power to finish mowing a lawn, much less kill someone.”

“Or the strength,” I muttered, thinking of Chief Orlandi’s description of Suzanne’s death. I could imagine Paul flailing out at Suzanne, hitting her hard enough to kill in a moment of anger. But choking her, then dragging, bludgeoning and smothering her? I couldn’t fit Paul into that picture. On the other hand, I couldn’t fit anyone into that picture.

“It’s all bravado,” Don Logan said. “Paul’s a very frightened boy. Maybe it’s his parents’ fault for ignoring him. Maybe it’s not. I sure as hell don’t know.” He paused and shook his head. “I never got that far with my own boy.”

I jerked my eyes up to look into his. But his eyes were unfocused, lost somewhere. His boy. The child who had died in the auto accident. I shivered. Any death is sad, but a child’s death seems so unjust, so out of order.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I am too,” Logan agreed with a grim smile. He whirred and clicked his wheelchair, turning around to leave. “Nice talking to you,” he said.

I waved goodbye as he wheeled away.

I trudged unhappily back to my room and threw myself on the bed to stare at the white ceiling. I thought of children dying. Don Logan’s boy. Bradley Beaumont’s sister. And Ruth Ziegler’s son, lost because of a fraternity prank. Then I thought of Paul Beaumont, angry and suffering.

I jerked myself up off the bed, trying to shake the feeling of depression that Spa Santé itself seemed to exude. For a health spa, Spa Santé had a very unhealthy aura. Was the place a magnet for violence and suffering?

I began to pace the room. Were there ghosts in these decaying buildings? Spirits of disillusioned hippies in the orange and black paisley wallpaper? I giggled at the thought, shaking off a chunk of the depression as I did. Every place has its share of underlying tragedy, I assured myself. Maybe it was simply Suzanne’s death which had churned all the misery to the surface.

Talking to myself wasn’t enough. I wanted an antidote to the misery. I wanted Wayne. I picked up the telephone and dialed his number. And got his answering machine once more. I wanted to cry when I heard it.

“I love you,” I whispered as his announcement ran, and hung up the phone without leaving a message.

It was then that I remembered Felix. My confrontation with Paul had driven him from my mind. But now I remembered dropping the phone on Felix’s sputters. Damn. I began my apologies mentally as I hurriedly dialed his number.

But the voice that answered the telephone didn’t belong to Felix. It belonged to my friend, and Felix’s significant other, Barbara Chu.

“Hello, Kate,” she answered the phone. Barbara is a self-proclaimed practicing psychic. I have never been able to tell whether she is really psychic or just very intuitive. Maybe it’s the same thing.

“All right,” I said. “I’m impressed. How’d you know it would be me?”

“I knew you’d call Felix back,” she said. Then she whispered. “He’s sulking.”

I sighed. “Tell him I’m sorry,” I said.

She yelled out, “Kate says she’s sorry,” and returned to the phone. “Listen, kiddo,” she said in a low voice, “I don’t want to worry you, but whenever I send my spirit down to visit you at that spa, I get really bad vibes.”

My heart constricted. Barbara didn’t offer such observations lightly. “What kind of bad vibes?” I asked.

“Wait a sec,” she said. I could see her in my mind’s eye, sitting quietly to ground herself. Then her voice came over the line. “Hate—hate—hate,” she hissed.

“Stop that,” I squawked. My arms were covered with goose bumps.

“Sorry, kiddo,” she apologized. Mercifully, she had returned to her normal voice. “I didn’t mean to scare you. But there is a malevolent spirit near you. Watch yourself.”

“What malevolent spirit?” I demanded. “Who is it?”

“I can’t tell who. But someone is filled with hatred.”

Great. No new information. I didn’t need Barbara to tell me that hatred was involved. I had heard Suzanne’s death described. And now my stomach was churning with fear.

“You’ll be okay,” added Barbara, responding to my unspoken thoughts. “Just be careful.”