Murder's Last Resort Read Free Page B

employee Christmas parties, slightly tipsy maids from housekeeping asked him to dance. Gardeners introduced him to their wives and families with pride. Kids from the rec department invited him to join them the next time they went hiking.
    Who would ever suspect French of committing a murder? He was soft-hearted and fell for anybody’s sob story, giving paid time off to anyone who said she or he needed it.
    Me, I was not as popular as French. I was outspoken and unswayed by fairy tales. Luckily, it was not my job to make judgments around the hotel or to hire or fire anyone. As a hotel wife, living on property, I was expected to be charming and gracious to all employees, guests and VIP visitors from around the world. Sometimes, my charm wore thin but I never quite ran out of it entirely. In the world of hospitality, it was all about pacing oneself while making nice-nice—then quick, carve out a little personal time to rest and regroup.
    I said goodbye to the boys in blue in Meeting Room C and made my way upstairs to the hall behind the front desk. All the executive offices were bunched together there, and, since it was Saturday, the offices were dark. I thought I might run into little Pam, the executive secretary, but she wasn’t in, either. I let myself into French’s locked office with my master key. Maybe there was something inside that he would want or need when I picked him up from jail in a little while. I looked around for his note pad and his pen. I found them and tucked them into my straw, summer bag. Something shiny in the top right corner of his desk, sticking out from among a stack of papers, caught my eye.
    I pulled some computer read-outs and industry publications away from what turned out to be a receipt for some pantyhose, purchased at Walgreen’s just yesterday, and a crushed silver, cardboard box with writing on its side: L’eggs: They hug you, they hold you, they never let you go. L’eggs, huh? Size B. Suntan. Of course, they were suntan. Ecru, ivory, taupe or beige would not have worked at a resort. But Size B? That was more surprising than a hippopotamus at a horse race.

Chapter 7
     
     
    Huggins on Hiawassee was an old fashioned country road house—not the kind of place one would expect to see a Sapphire Resorts wife and her British friend, Lily, but that was exactly where we were. It was a hangout for Reedy Creek natives, the guys who draped the Rebel flag behind their gun racks in the back windows of their pick-up trucks. Their women were curvy with big hair. Lily and I were in jeans, t-shirts and cowboy boots. Not exactly down and dirty but not exactly posers, either. The idea was to disappear into the crowd.
    We sat in a red leatherette booth, sipping our liquid lunches, a strawberry daiquiri for her and a banana daiquiri for me. The owner of Huggins, Kenny, knew us and was working the bar. He gave us extra melon balls and pineapple chunks. Lily was sliding fruit from a little plastic saber into her mouth, while I brought her up to date.
    There had been a murder. French was accused and in jail. Doug was trying to get him out. Meanwhile, Rick, from the PD, had called to tell me that French wouldn’t be released right away and he couldn’t have visitors; there was no point in me driving to the city. Rick spoke with the indifference of someone reading a grocery list. I was about to lay into him when he also told me I was a person of interest and should stay on or near the hotel property at all times. I held my tongue, then immediately defied him and asked Lily to meet me at Huggins.
    I told her about finding, grabbing and hiding the drug store receipt and pantyhose box I found in French’s office. Probably no one would look for them at the bottom of a box of feminine products under my bathroom sink, which was where they were stashed now.
    Finding the receipt and the pantyhose box had given me a flash of nausea. Why had they been on French’s desk? He was always on higher moral ground than me.