Free Murder's Last Resort by Marta Chausée Page A

switched back and forth a few times, annoyed and menacing.
    Tom didn’t like me to begin with and, once again, here I was in the presence of a corpse. I had found the body without his help. It was like we were on an Easter egg hunt and my basket was more filled than his.
    As I answered Koenig’s questions, I wondered if Vacaar had killed himself by mistake or if he had been murdered. My first thought was that he had accidentally killed himself. I had read that this can happen in this dangerous sport.
    But what if he had been murdered? What if the murderer had been hiding in the suite, waiting for his opportunity? Once Vacaar was on his knees in the closet with the belt around his neck, he was an easy target.
    If it was a murder, why would someone kill Torrey, then Vacaar? They both liked the ladies. Maybe it was killers, plural. Maybe it was a band of angry women—angry at having been used and then dropped by these two overgrown adolescents, who always turned tail and ran back to their wives after the fun was over. Maybe Vacaar died a normal—okay, wiggy, freaky—death that involved no foul play whatsoever. What if it was a big old creepy coincidence and nothing more? On the other hand, maybe someone who knew about his proclivities set this scene up to make it look like a natural, sexual deviant’s death. Does such a thing exist?
    Once released from questioning, I said goodbye to David and trudged home in a stupor, not really seeing the marble sculptures nor the bromeliads on my path. I was deep in a ping-pong game in my head and I held both paddles. Was it murder? Was it accidental suicide? Was it Yin or was it Yang? Was everything black, white or striations of gray? Why Torrey? Why Luzi? I couldn’t figure it out. My thoughts turned to French and the unfairness of it all.
    “I want French. I need French, When are You going to deliver?” I asked aloud of God or the universe or my higher power or whoever was in charge. Someone once told me that praying out loud got speedy results. Did my words sound more like a demand than a request? Just to be safe, I muttered, “Please, thank You. Amen.” and kept walking.
    I was back at the house when the phone rang. It was Reed. “Great news, Maya!” he said.
    “I am so ready for some great news, Doug. Lay it on me, baby.”
    “I got French out. He should be home in less than an hour.”

Chapter 22
     
     
    It had been over an hour now. No French. No call from French. Where the heck was he? I was tempted to call Doug to see exactly when he got French out of the Orange Avenue clink but decided against it. What would it help?
    I sometimes felt like a pioneer woman, slogging along the ruts of the Oregon Trail, on foot next to my covered wagon. There was a train of wagons, there were women folk and kid folk. There were, of course, men folk. But my man, he was seldom with us in the ruts or around the campfire. No, he was one of the scouts. He was Meriwether Lewis French, blazing new paths, cutting back the undergrowth, chasing away the scary varmints for us, but not one to give a woman much steady company. I was often left to count the yellow blossoms on my plain, worn calico skirt and refasten the bow of my road-worn, muslin bonnet while other families huddled together over salted pork and little tins of heated beans.
    Where is he, damn it? I felt taken for granted. I had been thinking exclusively of him, missing him, worrying about him when I was not trying to tease together the few clues I had to work with regarding—oh what was it again? Murder. He could at least call.
    It was hard on me, flopping around alone in the house, waiting for French to come back. I boiled some water for tea and while I waited for it to brew, I sat at the piano and tinkered with a melody or two. I seldom played, but always told myself I should do it more often. Ugly thoughts popped into my head. When did French get out of jail? In time to kill Luzi? Then the doorbell rang.
    I turned to look, but no