Murder's Last Resort Read Free

window.
    My eyes grew wide and my mouth gaped. We saw uniformed police moving someone toward the huge sliding glass entry doors of the hotel. The little group was making an exit to a waiting paddy wagon.
    What the heck? I turned to Jake and asked, “Why are they leading French away in handcuffs?”

Chapter 5
     
     
    Jake walked me across the property to my front door. “Do you want me to stay with you till morning?” he asked. “After all, it’s almost morning already.”
    “No. Crazy as it sounds, I’m going to try to catch a few winks until I can call Doug.”
    “Doug? Doug Reed? He’s still your attorney?”
    “Yes, Jake,” I answered with the patience I usually reserved for young children, “he’s our attorney. We’re all adults here and can let bygones be bygones.”
    “If you say so, Maya.”
    “I do, Jake. It’s true.”
    “Okay, then I think you should call him now.”
    “Now? What for? Doug won’t pick up his phone at 4:00 a.m.”
    Jake stared.
    “Okay, Jake. I’ll call his office. It’ll go into voice mail. He’ll hear from  me as soon as he picks up his messages.”
    “That’s better.”
    “I’m glad you’re happy, Jake.” I smiled. “Now, go back to work. Don’t worry about me. The place is crawling with cops. Did you see the gardeners just outside my gates?”
    Jake nodded.
    “Not gardeners, but rather, disguised cops. Give me a hug and go.”
    He told me to lock my door. I watched him walk away.
    Doug. I thought of him as I locked the glass-paneled, front doors behind me. Doug was a criminal attorney and a long-time personal friend who had once been a lover. He was damned good at all three things. Our transition from lovers to friends had not been drama-free. I could never understand how he could defend people he knew were guilty of committing a crime. He could never understand how I could leave him for the flake I dated before French. Over time, we had forgiven each other.
    I walked into the bedroom—French’s and my bedroom. A few hours ago, it had been our happy place, our private retreat from the hectic world in which we lived.
    Normally, we faced our lives and the tourists that crawled in and out of every crevice and crack of the resort property together. We schmoozed VIPs at business dinners most nights of the week as a duo. We entertained and mingled with the owners of the Sapphire Corporation and the Norwegian property owners as a two-person team.
    This particular week, it was the high energy, high stakes atmosphere of the 1985, week-long, once every five years, Sapphire Hotels and Resorts Manager’s Conference. These gatherings were big deals because not only were the Sapphire owners there, but also owners of other hotel chains. They all assessed the various hotel managers and their wives. The impression a manager or his wife made at the conference could make or break his career in the entire industry, not just at Sapphire. A Sapphire conference was like pilot season or sweeps week on television. Some people got picked up, some people made the ratings and some got dropped from the lineup.
    Now French was in cuffs and I was all alone. I walked over to our bed, peeled back my down-filled duvet and stretched out on my half of the bed.
    Why had the police taken French? They were such boobs. Tears welled up but I choked them back and took a deep breath. What was the point of crying? It wouldn’t help and it would give me a headache and puffy eyes. I had to put my feelings aside and rest, even if just for a short while. I tried some meditative breathing. “God, help French and me” on the inhale. “Make this all go away” on the exhale.
    * * *
    I caught almost five hours. I had been as limp as old celery left in the crisper too long when I went to bed. Now, I stretched and felt almost good. Then I remembered French. Then I remembered Torrey. Then I remembered Reed. My stomach felt sick.
    It was a bright morning and the hotel was coming to life. From where I stood in