Resort to Murder Read online

  I chose a table in the partial shade of the arbor, as it afforded the best view of the steps leading down from the upper terrace as well as the walk that curved past the cabana toward the garden. The tower loomed high above the garden. This morning George claimed to have seen something white near the tower, then said he was mistaken. A seagull flashed past the tower. Yes, he might have glimpsed a bird. Or, if someone was on the platform and stepping inside, there could have been a brief flash of white. Those who fancy the supernatural might believe George was psychic and that he saw Roddy Worrell though there was actually no one there. Or he might have seen nothing at all. It was the latter possibility that most intrigued me. If he invented the glimpse, he did so for a purpose and it was that purpose I wanted to divine.

  George was serving the tea by himself. He came out from the pool food-service area and immediately saw me. He paused on his way to replenish the other tables. “Would you like tea, Mrs. Collins? Or would you prefer sherry?” He leaned forward, his bony face attentive. In his role as a waiter, there was nothing to distinguish him from a hundred other young men. He had the attractiveness of youth—bright eyes, smooth skin, an insouciant confidence. After all, he wouldn’t have traveled so far from home unless he was eager to see new places, learn other ways. He had a nice face, wide-spaced eyes, a spatter of freckles, lips that often curved into a grin. He served with an easy banter that was friendly, yet not overly familiar.

  “Tea, please.” I had plenty of opportunity to observe George as I enjoyed the tea and the little sandwiches, salmon-and-cream cheese, tomatoes-and-cucumber, the flaky scones with clotted cream, and the delicate fruit pastries. He addressed every guest by name, which argued a good memory and some effort. He served our table in the evenings.

  I wondered what he was like at his local pub drinking a beer with friends. I guessed boisterous, cheerful and outgoing. He was thin but athletic, with a lanky build. Diana thought he was cute.

  I deliberately dawdled until everyone else had left. Dusk was falling. The lights came on around the pool. He was clearing the last table except mine. “George…”

  He turned toward me. If he was impatient to be done, he gave no hint of it, his gaze polite. “More tea, Mrs. Collins?”

  “No, thank you. It was lovely. Actually, I’d hoped to have a visit with you. My granddaughter told me about Roddy Worrell’s ghost. She said you know all about it.” I looked at him earnestly. “I’ve always been fascinated by ghosts. Is there really a ghost in the tower?”

  He picked up his tray, stepped to my table. “I know it sounds crazy.” His voice held a note of embarrassment. “My grandmother always said there were ghosts. I didn’t believe it until now. But a couple of nights ago I was on my way home and I heard a kind of odd sound, kind of like a rustle, and I looked up and saw this white glow near the top of the tower. I’ll have to tell you”—his eyes were wide—“it got my attention.” He rested his tray on the table. As he cleared the tea service, he lifted his shoulders, let them fall. “I knew it had to be Roddy. This Saturday night it will be a year ago that he died.” The dishes clinked as he placed them on the tray.

  “Do you really think you saw a ghost?” I didn’t try to keep the disbelief from my voice.

  “It’s not just me.” His reply was sharp. “Frederick told me this morning that he saw something last night. He said he was walking down the back steps.” George nodded toward the wall that curved behind the pool. “That’s where we park our mopeds, out of sight of the guests. He said it was right about midnight. He got his bike and he was just at the curve when he looked up”—George stopped, pointed up the hill at the tower—“there was a shiny glow. He said the whiteness moved around the tower like it was hunting for something. Then, all of a sudden, it was gone. Nothing. There one minute, gone the next. He said it scared the hell out of him.” I heard the reflection of Frederick’s fear in George’s voice.

  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. M
oney 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.”

  six

  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.”