Resort to Murder Read online

  A few feet away, a young detective sergeant held a pen, ready to take down my response. The subordinate was stork-thin with curly black hair, a beaked nose and lantern jaw.

  I skimmed the chief inspector’s list.

  Facts provided by Mrs. Henrietta Collins, guest at Tower Ridge House:

  Tuesday of this week: The Drake-Bailey party arrived at Tower Ridge House.

  Tuesday night: Steve Jennings was awakened by a knock and apparently saw an apparition near the tower.

  Wednesday afternoon: George Smith snapped a group photo on the headland and claimed to see something white near the tower.

  Wednesday afternoon: Mrs. Bailey found a broken ceramic tower in her room.

  Wednesday afternoon: George Smith told Mrs. Collins about the appearances of Roddy Worrell’s ghost and (according to Mrs. Collins) insisted that Worrell’s fall was not an accident.

  Wednesday night: The Drake-Bailey party was awakened by screams; a luminous cloud was sighted near top of tower; an investigation found nothing at the tower.

  Thursday morning: Mrs. Collins received a note, slipped under her door, which requested a meeting at 8 A.M. on the headland. She believed the note to be from George Smith.

  Thursday morning: Mrs. Collins sighted body of George Smith on the rocks below the headland.

  Thursday morning: Hotel bartender suggested Mrs. Collins check the Sports cupboard near the pool.

  Thursday morning: Mrs. Worrell stated that George Smith said he saw Mrs. Bailey at the tower with Mr. Worrell on the night of his death last year.

  Thursday morning: Mrs. Collins claimed that she searched the Sports cupboard and found a box kite with evidence of phosphorescent paint. Mrs. Collins placed a call to police.

  Thursday afternoon: Mrs. Collins locked the door to the Sports cupboard after checking to be certain the kite was still there.

  Thursday evening: According to Mrs. Collins, Jasmine Bailey claimed to have overheard George Smith early Thursday morning saying that he’d figured out what had happened and he ought to tell the police and that he was going to meet the old lady and it would take more than five thousand dollars.

  A fire was reported at Tower Ridge House at 1:15 A.M., Friday. Damage was confined to a Sports closet near the pool.

  When I finished reading, I looked up to find Chief Inspector Foster gazing at me with the cold, appraising watchfulness of a predator. Cats, wild and domestic, affix their prey with an unblinking regard, alert for the tiniest variation in posture, the most minute shift in attention, ready to jump when weakness is perceived. Foster had that intensity, that stillness.

  I watched him with equal care, observing his thick gray hair, bunched eyebrows, long black eyelashes above ink-dark eyes, a tiny half-moon scar above one cheekbone, full lips, a pointed chin, smooth dark skin with only a trace of wrinkles. He might have been any well-dressed businessman in his finely woven green sports coat, dark gray trousers, black socks and shoes, except for his aura of leashed power.

  I held tight to the legal pad, struggling to regain my mental equilibrium. I’d told the truth, but truth alone was not going to suffice, not here, not now. The cardroom seemed an odd and unexpected place to stave off attack. The room was small, perhaps sixteen feet by twenty. There were two maple card tables, each with four chairs, a green-and-yellow chintz settee beneath the windows, and bookcases on one wall. Sun speared through the slatted shutters, striping the cedar walls with bars of rich russet and dull brown. Behind the chief inspector, the connecting door to the next room was barely ajar. I felt certain Mrs. Worrell was only a few feet away, ear pressed to that infinitesimal opening. I wondered if she could feel the tension as it built, palpable as a fine mist or a recurring drumbeat or a rocket’s fiery trail.

  I carefully placed the pad on the table. “Yes. This summary is accurate.” I knew as I spoke that my response was irrelevant to Foster.

  “Why did you quarrel with George Smith Wednesday afternoon?” Those cold, watchful eyes locked on mine.

  “I did not quarrel with him.” Granted, I’d been imperious. And, of course, I’d been convinced my talk with him was successful until the ghost rose Wednesday night. “I simply told him that he must not harass Mrs. Bailey and that I wanted all manifestations of the ghost to cease.” My tone expressed my lack of belief in supernatural creatures.

  Foster picked up a sheaf of papers, but he did not look at them. “A witness reports that you and Smith exchanged angry looks.”

  I’d thought we were alone near the pool after tea. “The witness is mistaken.” But yes, I suppose to an observer, we might have appeared angry: I demanding, George considering.

  “You admit offering Smith money?” He lifted a long finger, pressed it against his aquiline nose.

  “I wanted George to stop the appearances of the ghost so that the wedding could proceed without any more distress for Mrs. Bailey.” It sounded lame as I said it.

  “A thousand dollars?” His tone was incredulous. Even with the effects of inflation, a thousand dollars isn’t pocket change. “Come, Mrs. Collins. Isn’t it more likely that you had some personal reason to offer Smith money?”

  “Personal?” I was puzzled, unable to imagine what Foster meant.

  “You thought your conversation with him would not be repeated.” There was smugness in his voice.

  “I gave no thought to that. Why should I care?” I didn’t like the faint suggestion of a smile on the chief inspector’s face.

  “In fact, Mrs. Collins”—Foster’s tone was almost expansive—”George Smith did repeat your conversation, describing your anger over his attentions to your granddaughter and your insistence that he have no further dealings with Miss Drake.”

  I understood, of course. Someone had observed at least a portion of my conversation after tea with George and later asked George why I appeared angry. George came up with a reason that had nothing to do with ghosts and money. Quick. Clever. And damned unfortunate for me.

  I suppose I should have been frightened. In fact, I was amused. I leaned back in my chair and laughed. “No, Chief Inspector, I did not warn George away from my granddaughter. Her romantic interests are her own. She doesn’t need advice from her grandmother. And should I ever be displeased at her choice, I assure you I would not resort either to money or to pushing the inappropriate suitor from a cliff. But”—and my amusement seeped away—“you are correct that Diana spent a bit more time with George than would be expected of a guest and a hotel staff member. That connection had nothing to do with romance.” I described Diana’s rather cruel plan for the photo session atop the headland. “You can ask her about it.”

  He folded his arms. “I will.”

  He didn’t believe me. He had the testimony of someone to whom George had spoken. It was a reminder to me, if I ever needed it, of the possibilities for misdirection when people lie. And people often lie. But I didn’t care so much why the chief inspector was suspicious of me; what mattered was the underlying reason. I looked at him gravely. “You think George Smith’s death is suspicious.”

  Foster’s eyes narrowed.

  “Why?” I meant my query very seriously indeed.

  Perhaps my question surprised him. Perhaps he sensed my sincerity despite his suspicions of me. Whichever, whatever, he responded in kind. “As you yourself suggested yesterday morning, Mrs. Collins”—there was the merest suggestion of wryness—“Mr. Smith was young, agile, athletic. Although the postmortem report has not yet been completed, there is no suggestion of illness or inebriation. The day was clear. The terrain was not wet or slick.” He came to a full stop. His fingers thumped a tattoo on the tabletop.

  There had to be more. There had to be a reason why this experienced police officer suspected murder. I sat very still. The police like to ask questions, not answer them. Would he tell me?

  He kept his eyes on my face, skeptical, probing, measuring eyes. Abruptly, he continued. “I spoke with the pathologist this morning. She informed me that the toxicology tests
were not yet finished.” A pause. “She also informed me of two fist-shaped bruises in the lumbar region.”

  I pictured the headland and George Smith standing at the edge, the breeze ruffling his hair, pressing his clothes against him. Had he heard footsteps behind him? Over the crash of the waves, quite possibly not.

  I nodded, the picture clear in my mind. “Someone came at him from behind, came fast, punched him in the lower back.” I made my hands into fists, thrust them forward. “That’s what happened.”

  “You speak as though you were there.” His voice was silky.

  “No. But the bruises tell the story. That’s why you’re investigating.” I hitched my chair nearer the table. “I knew it was murder. George told too many people that Roddy Worrell was pushed. And Thursday morning he was on the phone with someone, telling them he’d figured out what happened to Roddy and telling his listener he was going to meet me on the headland and he was going to sell what he knew. Don’t you see: George was killed because he knew who pushed Roddy Worrell from the tower.”

  Foster leaned back in his chair, his eyebrows drawn in a thick line over thoughtful eyes. “In the event of unexplained death, Mrs. Collins, an inquest is conducted in Magistrate’s Court to determine the cause of that death. An inquest was duly held after Mr. Worrell’s death. After extensive testimony from the police, from forensic authorities and from interested parties, Mr. Worrell’s death was adjudged an accident.” He threw up his hands as if shooing away troublesome insects. “All this talk about Roddy Worrell—there’s no doubt what happened to him. I investigated his death, Mrs. Collins. He’d had too much to drink. And he was careless. Whatever George Smith claimed about Worrell’s death is so much nonsense.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “But last night you asked Mrs. Bailey about the night of his death. You asked her to describe her actions that evening.”

  He looked irritated. “As Mrs. Bailey must have told you”—he clearly attributed my knowledge of that interview to my connection with the family—“my questions were prompted by a report that she was seen at the tower with Mr. Worrell. Of course, it was necessary to explore the possibility. But Mrs. Bailey reaffirmed her previous statement.”

  If I’d felt uneasy at the start of our conversation, I felt doubly so now. Obviously Foster didn’t believe there was any truth in George’s claim that Worrell was pushed from the tower. That left me as Foster’s obvious choice for prime suspect in George’s death, thanks to George’s creative story about Diana.

  “You can’t simply dismiss the apparition at the tower. Someone made that happen.” I could be just as determined as the chief inspector. “It isn’t nonsense that George agreed to lay the ghost to rest for money, took more money to break that promise and came back to me asking for yet more money!”

  Foster glanced down at the note lying on the card table, the note I’d found yesterday morning in my room. He pointed at it, carefully not touching the sheet. “You claim that you did not reach the headland in time for your appointment—”

  “Not”—and my voice was sharp—“an appointment I sought, Chief Inspector. Don’t you see, that note proves that George had spoken to someone else, that someone else had given him money to override my promised thousand and so the ghost floated by the tower Wednesday night. Can’t you see what happened?” I was sure I was right. I gripped the edge of the table. “Jasmine heard George tell someone that he was going to meet me on the headland. That person got there before I did and pushed him over the cliff.”

  “You are the only person known to have gone out on the headland yesterday morning.” The words were precise; the accusation clear.

  “Jasmine heard—”

  “I will speak to the child.” He made a note. “Now, Mrs. Collins, about this fire—”

  I pushed back my chair, stood. I didn’t think he would arrest me. I was sure of it, actually. He was suspicious of me, but there is a big leap between suspicion and arrest.

  “I did not set the fire. I did my best to preserve that evidence for you. However, I’m quite sure someone set the fire to prevent anyone from ever knowing for certain who flew the kite. Now we’ll never—”

  “Wait, Mrs. Collins!” Foster’s voice was sharp. He held up a commanding hand. “You claim there was a kite that glowed in the dark. You claim—”

  “You can check with James, the bartender.” Would James admit that he’d told me? I didn’t feel confident of it.

  “We will do so, of course. But you left no word about this kite in your telephone message to me last night. The fire makes it impossible to prove or disprove the existence of the kite and, thus, the ghost, as you imagine it. Did you invent this kite to explain your contacts with George Smith?”

  I stared at him. Another unspoken question hung in the air: Did you set the fire?

  “No.” I kept it short and crisp. I turned away, but at the door, I paused. “Find out who George called on his cell phone yesterday morning. You owe me that much, Chief Inspector.”

  It was a nice exit line. But I was going to need more than an exit line to convince the chief inspector of my innocence.

  fourteen

  THANKS to my interview with the chief inspector, I was late for breakfast. Jasmine was the only occupant of our table, diligently spooning whipped cream over a waffle. Curt Patterson’s red hair was just visible over the top of The Royal Gazette at the table nearest the fireplace. He lowered the newspaper and there was a flicker of disappointment. “Morning, Mrs. Collins,” he said, then lifted the paper. Not, obviously, looking for me. I pulled out my chair at the table.

  Jasmine looked at me in surprise. “Aren’t you going with them?”

  It seemed an eternity since I’d felt a part of the Drake-Bailey wedding party and the printed “Programme.” Today was Friday. I didn’t remember what had been scheduled. I slipped into my chair.

  Frederick was there immediately, bringing coffee and juice. “Your regular, Mrs. Collins?”

  I have a weakness for bacon and eggs and English muffins when in a hotel. I usually choose applesauce and toast when home. I have a sense of no tomorrow when traveling. So…“Yes, thanks, Frederick.”

  He poured the steaming coffee and I gratefully picked up my cup. I had the beginnings of a dull headache, as much due to the lateness of coffee as to my session with Chief Inspector Foster.

  I smiled at Jasmine. “Where’s everyone going?”

  She wriggled importantly, enjoying a moment in the limelight. I wondered just how much fun this trip could be for Jasmine, surrounded by adults; her mother at first absorbed in the approaching wedding and now nervous over the nagging reminders of Roddy Worrell; her sister kind but understandably focused on her boyfriend, and the rest of us polite but seldom attentive. “They’re going into Hamilton to see about having the wedding in Victoria Park. There’s a gazebo there, a really big one—”

  I nodded. The park’s elegant bandstand was built to commemorate Queen Victoria’s Jubilee and was a wrought-iron reminder of another time. The entire park, with its tall and elegant palms and statuesque Norfolk pines, seems like a picture postcard from another era. It would indeed be a much more cheerful site for the wedding than the hotel garden.

  “—and it would be fun even though there isn’t a moongate.” She frowned, a shadow in her eyes, then continued hurriedly, “Do you know about moongates?” Jasmine eagerly described the romantic associations with the semicircle of stones so often seen in Bermuda. “…so Mother and Marlow and Diana have gone to talk to the wedding lady—”

  Diana? I suppose my face was revealing.

  “—Diana looked grumpy.” I didn’t doubt Jasmine’s appraisal. “She wanted to play golf with Lloyd and Neal and Steve. But Lloyd asked her to go with Mom and Marlow and she said she would.”

  I was enjoying my bacon and eggs and hoped Jasmine’s waffle wasn’t getting cold. “So we’re the only ones here?”

  She lifted her fork with a piece of waffle laden with whipped cream. “Oh, no, A
aron’s here. He and I are going to play badminton. He’s gone to get the rackets.”

  I doubted very much indeed that a badminton game was going to occur. The Sports closet would be off limits until the arson investigation was completed. I realized the fire wasn’t common knowledge yet. Apparently, I had been the only one curious enough about the sirens to walk down to the pool.

  “Didn’t Aaron want to play golf?” Had Marlow asked him to stay at the hotel and keep an eye on Jasmine?

  Jasmine’s face scrunched into disdain. “Aaron thinks golf’s stupid. He says grown men should have something better to do than whack away at a little white ball with fancy metal clubs.” She looked thoughtful. “Marlow used to play a lot until she started dating Aaron. He’s funny about things.”

  “How’s he funny?” I added marmalade to my second half of English muffin and refilled my coffee cup.

  She picked up her spoon and scraped the last dollop of whipped cream from the plate. “He’s always talking about keeping things simple and how he and Marlow are going to live on what he earns after they get married and how you don’t need money to be happy, that money just complicates your life. Mother says he’s an idiot and he’ll outgrow all that. Marlow thinks he’s wonderful.” Jasmine licked her spoon. “Do you think it would be piggy to ask for more whipped cream?”

  “Not the least bit.” I raised my hand and Frederick was there. “A little bowl of whipped cream, please.”

  Jasmine applied herself to the whipped cream, her spoon flicking in and out of the bowl with the regularity of a cat’s pink tongue lapping up cream.

  I’d almost finished my coffee when Aaron came through the archway. I looked at him curiously. Handsome, confident, charming, he blended well into this enclave of wealth. His polo shirt was new and his khakis crisp. If he didn’t like conspicuous consumption, Bermuda was scarcely the right place for him. However, he seemed to have no compunctions about visiting here as the guest of Marlow’s family. The island’s remote location made everything expensive—land, building, hotels, food. Bermuda had been an elegant playground for the wealthy since Princess Louise, Queen Victoria’s daughter, spent several months here in 1883. It was still a holiday destination beyond the reach of the average traveler. Equal beauty could be had for a quarter of the price on the Mexican coast or in the Caribbean. Of course, Bermuda was also famed for its gentility and safety for tourists.