Murder's Last Resort by Marta Chausée

sorry. We didn’t get much tonight. Maybe Vacaar will provide the missing puzzle piece. For now, it’s just worry and wait.” The tears came then but I brushed them away. No! No tears. Just action. Tomorrow we get this bastard or bastardess. “I promise!” I said it out loud.
    French was having none of it. No answer. Just his empty side of the bed, his pillow untouched. I closed my eyes but sleep did not come. It was hard to wait but at least I didn’t have to wait long.

Chapter 17
     
     
    It was early on Sunday morning when I called Reed at home.
    “Reed. How are you? I didn’t wake you, did I?” I asked.
    “No,” he said, asleep. “I was awake.”
    “Just reading the Bible, huh?” I asked.
    “That’s right,” he said. “Why are you calling me at home, this early and on a Sunday yet?”
    “Why do you think? I miss my husband.”
    “Oh, yeah, him,” he said and yawned.
    “I haven’t heard from you since Friday evening. What exactly are you doing for French?”
    “I am doing everything I can, Maya. Trust me.”
    “You sound relaxed,” I said, with attitude. “Too relaxed. Aren’t you the one who told me that ‘Trust me’ is legalese for ‘Screw you’?”
    No response.
    “Hello, Doug. Maya to Doug,” I called to him, “Are you still on the line?” I should be nicer to the man who was fighting for French’s freedom.
    “Give me a break, Maya. It’s too early in the morning for a duel. I’m going to get French out of that sinkhole before you know it. There have been a few twists and turns but it’s all okay now.”
    “What twists and turns?”
    “Nothing, really. Nothing worth mentioning. I’m sorry I did.”
    “Oh, great. Don’t go all ‘oh so mysterioso’ on me, Reed. You’re better than that,” I said, feeling an urge to reach through the phone and shake him.
    “Look, Maya, it’s just boring legal stuff. I took care of it.”
    “Okay,” I sighed.
    “I’ll call you as soon as French is released,” he assured me, then added, “You still like shoes, don’t you, Maya?”
    “Yes, Doug. I still like shoes.” He was getting tedious.
    “He’ll be waiting for you to pick him up on Orange Avenue before you can go to Dillard's to buy a new pair of shoes.”
    Then he added, “Trust me,” and laughed.
    We said our goodbyes and hung up. I wondered if Dilly's had any pointy toed boots suitable for kicking attorneys in their briefs?
    * * *
    There was an event later this morning for the Sapphire Hotels and Resorts female managers and executive wives at the hotel. Someone in charge of such things had decided it would be nice to get in a color expert to analyze the ladies’ colors.
    I knew this “color expert” from my California days. She was friendly with the Torreys. Darla was an older blonde babe with squinty little eyes. She had reinvented herself a few times since I met her. At first, her beau had been an older goodfella who lived in La Costa and she called herself his assistant. A few years later, she traded him in for a different wise guy who owned a fashionable eatery in Rancho Mirage and she was the hostess. Her latest boyfriend owned hair salons and now she was a “color expert.” I couldn’t believe they flew her in from California for this. She was a schemer, all right. Her men were always married, just not to her. She lived around the fringes and put on airs. We were not each other’s biggest fans.
    It was part of my job description as First Lady of Silver Pines to attend all such corporate events, no matter what else might be happening in my life. The good news was, I would get a look at all the hotel wives and the female managers in a relaxed group setting. After the colors, I had invited them to join me at Papa’s Place, a themed restaurant perched on the cliffs, overlooking the resort’s lake.
    We had been given strict instructions—bare, naked faces. Makeup artists would be applying our new colors with a trowel, once Darla determined whether we were