The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (18 page)

“Yes,” I answered aloud. I lowered my eyes so I didn’t have to see Jack anymore.

“Did you touch the body?” Orlandi asked.

“No,” I answered. The shorter I kept my answers, the sooner I could leave. Or so I hoped.

“How about Mr. Jasper or your boyfriend?” There was a hint of a sneer in the way the Chief pronounced “boyfriend.” I looked up to see if the sneer was in his eyes. It wasn’t. His eyes were deadly serious.

“No,” I answered again.

“Show me how close you got,” Orlandi ordered.

Reluctantly, I lifted my foot to step closer to Jack’s body. Orlandi grabbed my shoulder gently. The gentleness surprised me.

“Just point,” he ordered.

I pointed.

And so it went for fifteen minutes more until Orlandi’s final question.

“Just one more thing,” he said, his crocodile grin back in place. “Which one of you lost your breakfast?”

“Craig,” I said quietly, refusing to return his smile.

As Chief Orlandi and I climbed the stairs together, my legs began to tremble. I wondered if I’d make it all the way up. I did. But by the time we reached the dining hall, the trembling had spread to my arms and hands. Even my face.

Chief Orlandi put his hand on my shoulder and guided me past the cluster of suspects in the center of the room to one of the far tables by the window. “Have a seat,” he ordered.

I shook my head. No way. I wasn’t going to isolate myself from the others. I jerked my shoulder away from his hand and marched my trembling body back across the room to a seat next to Wayne, smack in the midst of the suspects.

Chief Orlandi followed me, shrugging his shoulders. Then he made an elaborate maitre d’ bow, indicating the chair I had already chosen. I dropped into the seat gratefully. I felt Wayne’s comforting hand settle onto my thigh and sighed. I didn’t dare turn to face him. I was too near to tears. A glimpse of his kind face and they would spill over.

Orlandi bent over me and issued one last order. “You’ll answer the rest of my questions later,” he growled. Then he stomped over to Officer Guerrero for a whispered consultation. More questions? What more could he possibly have to ask me?

A shrill hoot of laughter punctured my thought. I looked up, startled. Officer Dempster had apparently retrieved Bradley. He sat next to Fran, grinning. The hair went up on the back of my trembling neck. Was Bradley the murderer? The question no longer seemed academic.

I began to scan the faces around me once more. Most, like Craig’s, were blank with shock. Only Bradley was smiling. Avery Haskell’s head was bent low over clasped hands. His lips moved silently. Praying? Terry squirmed in his chair.

I risked a look at Wayne next to me, and was rewarded by a soulful gaze, only partially obscured by his overhanging brows. I pulled my chair closer to him, so our thighs touched. Tears stung my eyes once more.

“What’s happened?” The shout ricocheted off the walls of the dining hall. Nikki had entered the doorway, Officer Dempster steering her by one elbow. She looked at us for information, her face grey with anxiety. When no one answered her cry, she turned to Orlandi.

“What’s happened?” she shouted again, her voice growing shriller with repetition.

He strode toward her, arm out in front of him, palm forward, as if to ward off her question.

“Where’s Jack?” she screamed

.

NIKKI’S SCREAM GALVANIZED Chief Orlandi. With one more long running stride he landed in front of her, both arms outstretched now, palms raised in the universal gesture for “Stop.”

“Calm down, Miss Martin,” he said in a low, reasonable voice. He lowered his arms slowly. “Let’s go and talk in the office.”

Grey-faced, her eyes round with incipient hysteria, Nikki gawked at him, stunned for the moment by his composure. He motioned her toward the door. She didn’t move. “No,” she said softly. “Tell me now. Tell me what’s happened.”

Orlandi sighed, then asked his own question. “When did you last see Mr. Ireland?” he whispered.

“Last night,” she replied. “He never came back to the room.” The shrill tone had crept into her voice again gradually. She searched Orlandi’s eyes. “Is he okay?” she demanded, her voice shriller still and louder.

Orlandi said nothing.

“God damn you! Tell me he’s okay!” she screamed. She reached toward his shoulders, as if to shake the statement out of him.

Orlandi stepped back, avoiding her hands. He nodded at Officer Dempster. Each of them took one of Nikki’s arms, and together they led her out through the glass doors of the dining hall and into Fran’s office.

“NO!” We heard Nikki’s howl all the way in the dining room.

I turned to Wayne and saw the moist compassion in his eyes. That was all it took. All the tears I had been holding back since I saw Jack’s body came spilling out. I cried for Jack. He would have no chance to redeem himself now. No chance to cut the big deal, the one that would have made him a genuine rock promoter. Then I cried for Nikki, left behind, her last words to Jack spoken in anger.

Wayne put his arm around me. I buried my face in his shoulder and cried for Craig, frightened and lonely. Blindly, I reached out across Wayne’s lap to touch Craig’s hand. Craig met the touch with a spasmodic squeeze. I even shed a tear for Suzanne. She’d been selfish, but her life had been a sad one.

As my tears subsided, my mind began to clear. The torrent had washed away the dulling film of shock. Suddenly alert, I came to one happy conclusion. Craig hadn’t killed Suzanne. I hadn’t really been certain until that moment of lucidity. I gazed over at him, trying without words to tell him I knew he was innocent now. He cocked his head as if trying to receive the message, then frowned in frustration. So much for telepathy.

Suzanne and Jack had been killed by the same person. The marks on the body proved that. At least they proved it to me. And Craig hadn’t killed Jack. His reaction to seeing Jack’s body had been genuine. Maybe you can fake tears, but vomit? The resident cynic in my brain reminded me about the old fingers-down-the-throat routine. I told it to shut up. Fake vomit or no, I’d have bet my life Craig hadn’t known Jack was dead until he stumbled over his body.

I began rapidly scanning faces once more. And I wasn’t the only one. Ruth’s black button-eyes were bright with interest as she studied Bradley. Don Logan watched Bradley too. And Bradley, in turn, was busy grinning at Don Logan. Hard to tell what that meant. Meanwhile, Terry had his eye on Avery Haskell. Avery was still silently praying. Fran was squinting at Wayne. At Wayne! The accusation couldn’t have been made more clearly if she had spoken it aloud.

I did some deep breathing and told myself that Fran’s ocular opinions could not be held against her. Then I went on with my eyeball poll. Wayne was scrutinizing Bradley as well. And Craig’s eyes were fastened on Wayne. But the look on Craig’s face seemed to be less one of accusation than one of bewildered hurt. Hurt that I would choose Wayne over him? Craig caught my gaze and looked away guiltily.

I tabulated the votes for murderer. Three in favor of Bradley. One for Avery Haskell. A possible vote for Don Logan, though I wasn’t sure that a grin counted. And one or two for Wayne. Bradley was the clear winner. But we were missing a couple of candidates: Nikki Martin and Paul Beaumont. And Bradley’s superior P.R. effort had to be taken into account.

Bradley let out a high-pitched cackle as if to underscore my point. The suspects were getting restless.

Avery Haskell drowned out the tail end of Bradley’s cackle by giving voice to his heretofore silent prayer. “Oh my God, I trust in thee. Let me not be ashamed. Let not mine enemies triumph over me,” he intoned.

Officer Guerrero jerked her head in his direction, startled by the psalm. Then she simply averted her eyes, giving tacit permission for this form of speech.

Terry decided to test the no talking rule. He began muttering in a low voice. I caught “constitutional rights” and “police brutality” but nothing else. Officer Guerrero glared at him but remained silent.

“Yea, let none that wait on thee be ashamed,” Haskell intoned. He opened his eyes and swept us with his gaze as he went on. “Let them be ashamed which transgress without cause.”

Don Logan shook his head irritably and wheeled himself over to the window. Bradley let out another loon’s call.

“Lead me in thy truth, Oh Lord. And teach me—” Avery chanted.

“That’s enough!” snapped Officer Guerrero. “I know you guys are bored. But you heard the Chief. No talking.”

Her words were too little, too late. The spell was broken. The revolution had begun.

“It’s ten o’clock,” pleaded Fran. “I’ve got to start working on lunch. Can’t I go to the kitchen? It’s right through those swinging doors.”

“Well…” said Officer Guerrero, considering. She ran her hand through her black hair nervously. Then she looked hopefully out the glass doors. But there was no help in sight. The decision was hers.

“Maybe we can bring some of the food out here and work,” suggested Avery Haskell. It was amazing how reasonable he sounded when he wasn’t quoting the Bible. “Chop up vegetables. That kind of thing.”

Officer Guerrero looked back and forth between Avery and Fran’s faces. Checking for conspiracy?

“Okay,” she finally agreed. “Bring what you need out here. But only one of you at a time. And remember, I’m watching you.”

Guerrero stationed herself by the swinging doors, alternating glances between Fran in the kitchen and the rest of us in the dining hall. Her head bobbed back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match.

Fran made several trips, loading up the long communal table with bags of vegetables and fruits, tubs of tofu, jars of condiments and spices, and bowls of mysterious substances. Then she brought out the knives and other utensils. Guerrero eyed the knives suspiciously but made no objection.

“I’ll chop something,” I offered. Anything was better than sitting quietly watching suspects suspect other suspects.

“Me too,” growled Wayne.

“I’d love to help,” Craig chimed in, not to be outdone.

Minutes later we were all seated at the communal table, working quietly at our assigned tasks, like nuns and monks who had taken vows of silence. I felt at peace, carefully sculpting carrot sticks and radish roses. Taking the time for perfection. A life of contemplation was looking pretty good. Then Orlandi came back with Nikki.

I heard her low moaning before I saw her. My body constricted with pity at the sound and my hand slipped, ruining the perfection of my radish rose. I looked up in time to see Orlandi leading Nikki through the glass doors. Her wide-set eyes were now swollen and red, her luminous skin turned to ash. Her perfect body was bent from the middle as if she had been punched in the stomach.

Ruth rushed forward, arms outstretched to Nikki. Officer Guerrero moved quickly to block her path. Ruth came to an abrupt halt, her black gypsy eyes sizzling.

“You are denying Miss Martin the comfort and support she needs to survive this emotional injury,” Ruth whispered urgently. Her low voice was imbued with both righteousness and menace.

Officer Guerrero shrank back into her uniform as if afraid of the gypsy curse implicit in Ruth’s dark look. But she held her ground. Ruth turned her glare on the Chief.

“Well?” she demanded. “You’re in charge here. Are you going to deny Miss Martin aid? Do you want to be responsible for the consequences?”

Chief Orlandi glared back at Ruth for a moment, blue eyes battling black ones. Then he flashed his crocodile grin.

“Go ahead,” he said genially, “take care of her.” Then his voice hardened again. “But don’t discuss the case,” he ordered.

Officer Guerrero stepped aside, relief evident on her face. The Chief motioned her to join him outside the glass doors for a consultation.

Ruth took the last few steps to Nikki at a jog. She opened her arms wide and Nikki went to her like a child to her mother. As Ruth embraced her, the young woman let out a piercing cry of grief.

“That’s good,” murmured Ruth, stroking her hair. “Let it out.” She led Nikki to a nearby chair and eased her into it, never once removing her comforting arms. She kept one arm around Nikki even as she reached out to pull a chair forward for herself. Nikki wept through it all.

As I listened to her weep, my heart went out to her. But my brain held back, reminding me that Nikki Martin was an actress. But why would Nikki have killed both Jack and Suzanne? I could imagine her killing Jack in a fit of anger. And maybe having killed Suzanne in a fit of jealousy. But both of them?

That was the crux. Who had the motive to kill both Jack
and
Suzanne? I turned to Wayne, slicing zucchini next to me, thinking the question at him. If only we could talk, even without words. But his eyes were focused on his ever widening batch of zucchini rounds. I picked up a carrot and sliced.

Had Jack known who killed Suzanne? He would have spoken out if he had. Unless…My gaze passed over my untidy heap of carrot sticks to Nikki weeping in Ruth’s arms. Unless he had reason to protect the killer. All right. Given that Nikki had killed Suzanne, could she have counted on Jack continuing to shield her if they split up? No. She would have had to kill him. Still—I shook my head impatiently, then grabbed another carrot. I was on the wrong track. Nikki had loved Jack too much to kill him. At least I hoped so.