Free Murder's Last Resort by Marta Chausée Page B

one was there. It was hard to ring our bell and then just disappear. The double doors of the front entry were beveled glass. There were floor-to-ceiling glass transoms next to the doors. That made ten feet of glass, through which the path from the gate to the door could easily be seen.
    Jumping up from the piano bench, I ran out the front door to double check. I looked left and right of the entry. No one. Just the water of the lake, mildly lapping at our grassy shore. That’s a little spooky. I looked up the path for Rick’s men. Where was a fake gardener when a girl needed one?
    Seeing no one, I turned back to the house, and there, lying next to the door, was a plain brown box. It was wedged between one of the transoms and an oversized terra cotta planter.
    I went inside, grabbed a pair of latex gloves and picked up the box. It was very light, neatly taped shut. I angled it toward the light to check for prints on the tape. There were none that I could see.
    Back in the kitchen, I found a knife and opened the box. Nestled in white tissue paper was a typed note on expensive paper stock that read, “Maya, you have a run.” Except someone had crossed out the “a” and printed the word, “to.” There were also two boxes of L’eggs pantyhose. Size A. Suntan.
    I examined the box and its contents carefully with my magnifying glass. No prints anywhere, not even on the shiny pantyhose cartons. Whoever did this was smart. Smart and careful. Smart and Final.
    I walked to an overstuffed chair and placed my gift on the coffee table. I sipped my tea and contemplated the meaning of the gift and, while I was at it, the meaning of life.
    Here I sat in the great room of a house on a fake lake in the middle of a luxury resort in Central Florida. People were turning up dead in the hotel. I kept turning up at the wrong place at the wrong time. My husband wasn’t turning up at all. Swimmers, kayakers and wind surfers were gliding past this house, oblivious to the troubles of a few Sapphire executives, their wives and the Orlando Police Department.
    None of it made any sense so why not do something nutty? Ancient peoples drank the blood of their enemies for courage and superior strength. Because it was the last thing anyone would expect, given the circumstances and the weather, I decided to wear one of the pairs of hose.
    I had both legs in and was just pulling the sausage casing up to my waist when the phone rang.
    David Enderly was on the line. “Is French there?” he asked.
    “No. I thought maybe he went directly to the hotel after Reed got him sprung.”
    “No,” he said, sounding haunted. “No one has seen him on property. Both Rick and Tom have been calling my office and paging me constantly. What do I tell them?”
    “Tell them it’s tea time. They need to sit down in the lobby, have some scones with jam and double Devon cream, some petit fours, a cup of Darjeeling and relax.”
    “Oh, yeah, right, Maya. That’s not very helpful.”
    “Dave, it’s all I’ve got.” David was losing it. “If French comes to the house before he goes to the hotel, I’ll have him call you.”
    “If he turns up here, I’ll call you,” Dave answered.
    He sounded fissured. For a guy with big ambitions, he’s not handling the pressure of being Number One very well. Shouldn’t I be more panicked than he? He’s only missing a boss. I’m missing a husband and wearing pantyhose on a hot, sticky afternoon in Orlando.
    It was time for action. I decided to take my newly delivered gift box of L’eggs to Meeting Room C. Rick and Tom needed to see this.

Chapter 23
     
     
    I was heading out the door when I noticed black skies overhead. Late afternoon and early evening storms were frequent in Central Florida. I paused under the overhang at my front doors. Should I continue on my errand or stay here?
    My worst thinking said: Go back inside, slip on your rain boots, grab an umbrella and make a dash for the hotel.
    My best thinking said: Stay home