Resort to Murder (6 page)

A shiny glow. Was this what Steve Jennings wouldn't describe to me?

“A shiny glow.” I repeated his words. “Why do you think it has anything to do with Mr. Worrell?”

“That's where he died. He fell out of the tower a year ago.” He swiped his cloth on the tabletop. “I guess Roddy's come back to haunt the place where he died.”

I pushed back my chair, rose, faced him. “Interesting.” My tone was no longer credulous, nor my gaze. Time was running out before the wedding on Saturday. Connor was upset, but perhaps the remaining days could be salvaged. “You've talked it up, haven't you? Told Diana and Jasmine and others—”

He watched me intently.

“—perhaps Mr. Jennings and Aaron Reed?”

We stared at each other, our faces combative.

“It's all true.” He clenched his hands into fists, frowned at me. “And I'll tell you something else”—his eyes narrowed—“I've been thinking back. How could Roddy have fallen out of the tower? Even drunk, he could handle himself. And he wasn't that drunk. He was just damn mad at her. The more I've thought about that night…” George took a deep breath. “They say a murdered man won't rest until justice is done.”

I was startled. I'd not set out to explore the death of Roddy Worrell. That event, in fact, was not of interest to me. But there was something here I had not expected. I felt a prickle of unease as I looked into his frowning face. “Are you saying someone pushed him off the tower?”

He turned to look up toward the tower. “Yeah. Roddy could handle himself. He never fell.”

The words hung between us. If Worrell didn't fall, he was pushed. And if a ghost sought justice…I saw an ugly link between the ghost of the man who died in a fall from the tower and the broken ceramic tower in Connor's room.

“You can't prove that.” I was brisk. “So what's the good of talking about Worrell? Or the tower?”

He didn't look at me. He rubbed his sunburned nose. “I've been thinking about that night…” He picked up the tray, stepped away into the shadow of the arbor.

I wished I could see him more clearly. I took a step nearer. “You know that Mrs. Bailey and Mr. Drake will be married Saturday afternoon.”

He nodded.

“As an employee of the hotel, I'm sure you want to do everything possible to make the guests comfortable.” I gazed at him sternly.

He took a step backward.

“In fact, George, you can easily be of great service to our group.”

“Yes, ma'am?” His tone was cautious.

I spoke slowly with emphasis. “Do not discuss the tower or Mr. Worrell again with anyone in our party. And let's have no more talk about ghosts.”

He lifted his shoulders, let them fall. “I can't help what people see.” There was just a hint of insolence.

As he moved toward the service area, I knew that my stricture was too little, too late. After all, the damage had already been done. Then I had what seemed like an inspiration. After all, George worked here at the hotel. Surely he must have some idea what—and who—was behind the whiteness that came late at night to the tower.

“George.” My tone was peremptory. “I want more than your silence.”

Slowly, he turned, faced me. He stood in a bar of light from the pool canteen, his face respectful but his eyes defiant.

“I don't believe in ghosts.” I took a step toward him. “Somehow I doubt that you do, either.”

“I saw—”

“Special effects,” I interrupted impatiently. “If there is an apparition late at night near the tower, someone created it and did so on purpose.”

George stood very still, his eyes alert.

“I don't give a damn who's doing it.” I wanted to be clear about this. “I don't care why they are doing it. But I'm willing to pay a substantial sum to make sure that Mr. Worrell's ghost doesn't stir again until after we leave the island.” I watched his dark eyes, unusual eyes flecked with green and gold.

He was still for so long that I knew I'd played the right card. Money not only talks, it whistles and dances.

George gave a sudden decided nod, as if he'd made up his mind. “How much?”

I didn't hesitate. I was confident Lloyd would pay a good deal for peace and harmony. “A thousand dollars. To be paid in full upon our departure if the ghost does not walk again.”

He gave a swift nod. “I'll see what I can do.”

I
LUXURIATED in the hotel's thick, soft terry-cloth robe as I rested on the chaise longue, sipping a cup of decaffeinated tea. I'd brewed the tea after my quick shower, quick in deference to Bermuda's paucity of water. This fall, a placard announced, rainfall was below average, so guests were asked to be sparing in the use of water. I felt tired but content. On reflection, I believed I'd solved Lloyd's problem. The more I considered my interview with George, the more confident I felt that Roddy Worrell's ghost would walk no more. George obviously wanted the thousand dollars. He would not get the money unless all was quiet around the tower. Therefore, he either knew what or who was causing the apparition, or he himself had created the ghost. I rather leaned toward the latter proposition. Although he'd made no promise, he'd said he would see what he could do. I took that as a clear indication he thought he could prevent the reappearance of the ghost.

I sipped the tea and listened through the open balcony door to the distant crash of the surf. George's willingness to cooperate was simply more proof, though I'd never needed any, that the visitation was not
supernatural. I wondered idly why George (or someone) had gone to so much effort. What was the objective? I wondered if Mrs. Worrell was a demanding boss. Was the answer that simple? Was George merely a disgruntled employee?

None of it really mattered, not so long as Connor was left in peace and she and Lloyd were permitted to take their vows Saturday afternoon with smiling faces and untroubled hearts. A large order, actually. One I couldn't hope to deliver. There was too much unhappiness emanating from too many people, especially Diana and Marlow. Moreover, I doubted that Steve Jennings was overjoyed at the prospect of Connor's marriage. Would he like having Lloyd as an overseer to Connor's business interests? Diana thought that Steve was in love with Connor. And though Neal put a good face on it, he was worried for his father. Curt Patterson was one more complicating factor. I doubted the likelihood of an unblemished wedding day. But I was doing my part. At least everyone would get an unbroken sleep tonight.

The small clock on the mantel chimed the quarter hour. I finished the tea and walked to the closet. Dinner was at seven, a series of courses in the formal dining room. I'd brought a black rayon georgette dress. It was simple but elegant and the boat neck was a perfect setting for my necklace of matched pearls. I slipped on silver cross-strap slippers. I drew my hair back, fastened it with a seed-pearl ribbon. I dropped my key, a lipstick and a comb into the small black evening bag. I checked my reflection as I opened the door. I looked festive and cheerful.

 

The hotel had grown, a new room here, a wing there. According to the brochure in my room, it had been
built in the late eighteen hundreds by the Palmer family and still belonged to the family, although the current owner, Burton Palmer, was an international banker in Singapore. The original structure provided the public rooms. The dining room stretched long and narrow, with a high tray ceiling. Coppery planks of Bermuda cedar gave the walls a rich, mellow air. The draperies, bright red and yellow peonies against a cream chintz, embraced wide, high windows. Damask cloths covered the five tables set for dinner. In high season, the dining area accommodated some twenty round tables, each capable of seating ten, as well as a number of smaller tables designed for two or four guests. Tonight the far portion of the room was unlighted, so the bare tables weren't noticeable. The chandeliers in the front area spilled golden light over the appointed tables, the crystal and china glistening in the glow.

Holly wreaths encircled the ceramic tower in the center of every table but ours. On our table, there was a different centerpiece, a slender chalcedony vase containing a single majestic stalk of bird-of-paradise, the orange sepals bright as sails at sunset. The faint strains of a Debussy waltz provided a gentle accompaniment to low-voiced conversations.

As I slipped into my seat next to Connor, I wondered who had ordered the miniature tower removed from our table. But I knew it was a topic better left unexplored during dinner. Lloyd had rather fussily arranged the seating on our first evening and, not surprisingly, we all returned to our original spots. In a circle, beginning with Lloyd and running clockwise, were Connor, myself, Steve, Marlow, Aaron, Jasmine, Neal and Diana.

George served our table deftly. The first course was
a fish chowder, followed by mixed greens. There was a choice of grilled red snapper or curried lamb for the entrée. As I ate, I glanced around the table. Connor, to my right, had nothing to say, and Steve, to my left, was rather quiet, so I was free to observe my companions.

The splash of golden light from the chandelier emphasized the forlorn droop of Lloyd's face. He didn't look like a man about to go on a honeymoon. He toyed with his spoon and it made tiny little chimes against the fine crystal base of his wineglass. He ate mechanically, every so often attempting to engage Connor in conversation.

Connor's ebony hair, smooth and glistening, cupped a white, strained face. Her lipstick was startlingly red against the waxy paleness of her skin. Her shoulders hunched beneath a black silk jacket with a dramatic crimson piping, her posture at odds with the effervescence of her costume. She stared blankly at the table, making little pretense of eating.

Steve Jennings passed an occasional comment my way, but his glance always edged past, seeking Connor. I thought that Lloyd's choice of seating had been quite deliberate. Steve Jennings and Connor would have no tête-à-têtes at meals. Steve's usually genial expression was somber.

Marlow spoke too loudly. Her voice resounded in the quiet of our table, caromed across the room. “…don't have any patience with people who always want to be safe. You know what Katharine Hepburn said: ‘If you obey all the rules you miss all the fun.'” There was an unaccustomed flush in her makeup-bare cheeks. She was her usual uncompromisingly plain self, the too-large, heavy glasses perched on her straight nose, her dark hair confined to an unadorned
bun. She wore no jewelry with a purplish velvet dress that fitted her so loosely she might equally well have chosen a sweatshirt.

I wondered about Marlow. Did she eschew fashion because her mother was always exquisitely dressed? Or was Marlow simply disinterested, not rebellious? Marlow might not care about her own appearance, but she was engaged to a young man who was extraordinarily handsome, the kind of young man accustomed to dating the prettiest girl in the class. Perhaps I underestimated both Marlow and Aaron.

Aaron was ebullient tonight, laughing, throwing back that handsome head of brown curls, gently teasing Jasmine, making sure his little sister-to-be had plenty of rolls and a fresh pot of hot chocolate. I was certain Aaron always gave thought to his appearance, the dark green stripe of his tattersall shirt just the right contrast to his navy blazer. And his tie, though I was no authority, looked like an Hermès, and definitely had not been bought at a discount store.

Jasmine ate voraciously. Her response to Aaron's charm was perfunctory. She stared unwaveringly at the small table near the main door where Mrs. Worrell sat in the shadow of a fern flourishing in a bright green pot. Mrs. Worrell was in profile to us. No more than ten feet separated the tables. I wondered that the manager didn't sense the intensity of the child's gaze.

Neal poked at a curl of red pepper on the snapper, looked at it curiously, speared a mouthful and ate. He gave a little nod, tried the sautèed eggplant. This was not the usual meal for a husky teenager and I was pleased that he was open to gustatory adventures. Just for a moment, I permitted myself a grandmother's delight, the sheer wash of pleasure that wells from observing an
adored grandchild: coal-black hair, light green eyes, strong-boned face; but most of all I treasured the intelligence in his gaze, the good humor in the easy set of his mouth. Neal was a nice kid. He was growing up to be a solid, dependable, honorable man. He looked up, caught my gaze, and grinned. He pointed with his fork at the eggplant. “Hey, it's good.”

Diana ignored her plate. “Dad, I'm counting on your coming to Austin for my birthday.” Her tone was brittle. Did she intend the demand—and clearly it was a demand—as a challenge? Her thin face was stiff, her eyes blazing.

Lloyd bent closer to Connor. He didn't respond to Diana's remark. Clearly, he'd not heard her. “Connor, let's go out after dinner. There's jazz tonight at Cambridge Beaches.”

Connor's voice was clipped. “I have a headache. I think I'll go to bed early.”

Diana gripped her fork. But she didn't eat. She stared at her plate, the corners of her mouth turned down.

Neal picked up the wine bottle. “Here, Dinny.” He filled his sister's glass. He looked politely across the table at Connor. “Connor, would you like some more wine?”

“Wine?” Connor shook her head, then touched her temple and closed her eyes.

Marlow's too-loud voice was sharp. “Jasmine, stop staring at Mrs. Worrell. It's rude to stare.”

Everyone looked toward Jasmine, who ducked her head.

“Honestly,” her sister continued, “you haven't taken your eyes off her since we sat down.”

“Shh,” Jasmine warned. “She'll hear you. And I can
look where I want to.” She gave her big sister a defiant glare. “I was waiting to see if the ghost came. I'd know by the way she acted. Everybody says she knows he's walking. They say ghosts come back to where they spent a lot of time and that's where Mr. Worrell sat every evening and I remember last year he—”

“Jasmine, hush.” Connor's voice was harsh. “There is no such thing as a ghost.”

Jasmine's blue eyes widened. “Oh, yes, there is. Didn't you know? Mr. Worrell's come back.” Her voice was excited. “They've seen him late at night near the tower. I want to stay up and—”

“Jasmine.” Connor held tight to the edge of the table. Her eyes were glassy. “What are you talking about? That's impossible.”

Jasmine stared at her mother, her face uneasy but stubborn. “It's true. Mr. Worrell's come back.”

George replenished Marlow's water glass, moved on to Aaron.

Jasmine pointed to the waiter. “He knows all about it. Ask him. He's seen the ghost.”

Connor's head jerked toward the waiter. “Come here.”

George stood stiffly for a moment, then took a slow step toward Connor.

“What is this nonsense?” Connor's voice was sharp.

George glanced uneasily toward Mrs. Worrell, who was watching our table, her face intent, her eyes cold. “I don't know much about it, Mrs. Bailey.” He spoke almost in a whisper, obviously fearful of being overheard by Mrs. Worrell. “There's been something seen late at night near the tower. Nobody knows what it is. A white shape. That's all I know.” And he turned away, hurried toward the kitchen.

Lloyd reached out for Connor's hand, but she was pushing back her chair, coming to her feet, face blanched. “Steve.” She turned toward him, a trembling hand outstretched.

Steve rose, cupped an aim around Connor's shoulders. “It's okay, Connor. I'm here. Come on, I'll take you to your room.” They moved toward the door, Connor clinging to him for support.

All the men were standing now. Aaron looked uncomfortable, Neal uneasy, but it was Lloyd whose face was stricken. I looked down at my plate. I didn't want to see the pain in his eyes, the flush of humiliation, the flicker of jealousy.

Marlow said quickly, and this time I welcomed her loud, carrying voice. “Mother doesn't mind looking like a fool in front of Steve. She'll be embarrassed in the morning, Lloyd. We'll pretend none of this happened. You know, she always wants you to think she's totally cool.” Marlow poked her glasses higher on her nose.

It was as graceful a face-saving gesture as any I'd ever seen. And a total surprise to me. It had been clear throughout the trip that Marlow was not enthusiastic about her mother's remarriage, yet at this moment she had gone out of her way to spare Lloyd public humiliation. It argued a kind and thoughtful nature. I looked at Diana, wondering if she understood what Marlow had done. Diana's gaze was thoughtful.

A look of relief eased the tightness in Lloyd's face. He said eagerly, “I'll bet you're right, Marlow. We won't talk about any of it again. After all, Connor's very sensitive.”

Diana frowned, heaved an exasperated sigh.

Neal gave his sister a warning poke with his elbow.

Jasmine frowned. “But we have a chance to see a ghost and—”

“Shut up, Jasmine.” Marlow reached over, put her finger on Jasmine's lips. “I'll get you your very own copy of
Ghostbusters
on the condition”—she drew out her words—“that you do not mention Mr. Worrell again. Or his so-called ghost.” Her tone was light, but there was a steely glint in her eyes.

Jasmine heaved a sigh. “Okay.” Her face was glum.

George had quietly removed the dinner plates and was pushing a dessert trolley toward the table, laden with assorted French pastries, cherry and apple pie, and trifle. As the desserts were served, Lloyd said, “Okay, everybody.” His tone was expansive, including them all in a team effort. “No mention of anything unpleasant to Connor. And tomorrow we'll have a great day. We're going to Spittal Pond in the morning. The afternoon's free, but I think I'll see if Connor would like to go to the Bermuda Perfumery. I'll keep her really busy.” Lloyd was upbeat again.

As George poured coffee, I decided to add a little insurance. “I think this ghost business is going to be resolved.”

Everyone looked at me, including George.

I gave the waiter a swift, hard glance. “I did a little investigating today. In fact, if my inquiries work out, we may discover who was behind it.”

George's face was an expressionless mask.

For good measure, I added, “In any event, I've learned enough to know it's all a prank. I don't expect the ghost will walk again. At least, not while we are in Bermuda.”