Resort to Murder (11 page)

“He is not presently in the hotel. But,” she whispered, “he left a phone number.”

I wrote down the number. My call was answered on the second ring.

“Chief Inspector Foster's office.” The woman's voice was brisk and pleasant.

“May I speak with the chief inspector, please.”

“I'm sorry. He is not in his office. May I take a message?”

I didn't think a message about a box kite and phosphorescent paint would be intelligible. “Yes. Please tell him Mrs. Collins called from Tower Ridge House and I have some information for him in the death he is investigating here.”

When I hung up, I leaned back against the chair, but I couldn't relax. Trouble was coming. Once, long ago, I watched spiked mines bob in ocean swells, coming ever nearer the ship on which I sailed. I had held tight to the railing on that calm, moonlit night and stared down, my mind and heart frozen, knowing an explosion was inevitable. The explosion came, but it was another ship that lurched, blew apart, sank in flames. I'd felt helpless then. And now—

A brisk knock on the door.

The stocky young waiter placed the tray on the table, moving the ceramic tower to one edge.

I signed the ticket, then looked at him inquiringly, “Frederick?”

“Yes, Mrs. Collins. Is there anything else you need?” Frederick's plump black face was usually creased in a smile, but not today. His somber expression made him look older.

I was hungry and aching with fatigue, but I could handle that. What bothered me more was the uneasiness that plucked at my mind, the sense of impending doom. I wasn't going to stand there like a deer frozen in on-rushing headlights. I was damn well going to do something, to claw and scratch for facts, to arrange what I had discovered in some semblance of order. “Yes, indeed, Frederick, you can certainly be of help to me.”

“Yes, ma'am.” A spark of interest flickered in his dark eyes.

I shut the door, smiled at him. “I've just been visiting with Mrs. Worrell and learning a great deal about Tower Ridge House and the people who make it such a special small hotel. I'm a writer and I sometimes do travel articles. Mrs. Worrell understood immediately when I explained that I like to have the viewpoints of both management and staff and I have just a few questions for you.”

Frederick tucked the tray under his arm and rested the weight on his hip. He looked interested. “I'll be glad to help if I can.”

“Now you've worked here…”

“Four years, Mrs. Collins. I started as a busboy when I finished school.”

“How would you describe working here?”

He rubbed his nose. “A good place. Mrs. Worrell runs a tight ship. She oversees how things are done and she keeps a close eye on everything from the towels at the pool to the flower buds that go on the room service trays. Quiet and perfect, that's how she wants everything done. She's nice about it, but she won't tell you twice.” He was respectful, not resentful. “She's been manager here for years and years.”

I didn't doubt that she was a martinet. “Has anything changed since Mr. Worrell's death?”

Frederick's reply was immediate, definite. “No, ma'am. But Mrs. Worrell was always in charge.” He grinned. “Oh, sure, it's changed some. It's been a lot quieter at night. Mr. Worrell liked to visit with the guests. Sometimes he played the piano in the bar, even sang a little. Nightclub songs. Yes, it's been quieter.”

“Such a sad thing. To fall to his death.” I sighed. “Were you working at the hotel that night?”

“In the kitchen.” He was suddenly tight with his words.

“Oh, I know all about that night.” I spoke in a confidential tone. “I certainly won't put anything about the accident in my article. I know how upsetting it was for Mrs. Worrell. Of course, I understand Mr. Worrell often had a bit too much to drink. And I know Mrs. Bailey must have been sorry about everything, since she followed him out of the bar.”

He relaxed. “I was carrying out some trash and I saw them walk toward the stairs down to the lower terrace. Mrs. Bailey was running after Mr. Worrell.” His brows drew together. “She was calling his name.”

The lower terrace? I managed not to look surprised. “What time was that?”

“Just past midnight.”

“Did you see him again? Or Mrs. Bailey?”

“No, ma'am. I was busy in the kitchen. It was almost two when I left. But I took the main steps down to the lower level. I didn't pass the tower.”

“So you didn't see him again.” Or pass by his body. My tone was vague; my thoughts were not. Where were Roddy and Connor going? Was he drunk? What time did he—or they—return to the upper terrace? Did Connor go to the tower with him? Was he alone? Or did someone else walk with Roddy Worrell that night? Mrs. Worrell claimed that George told her he'd seen Roddy with Connor at the tower. “To fall all that way…” I shuddered. “And now there's been another fatal accident here. I'm so sorry about George. He seemed like a nice young man. Was he a friend of yours?”

“Oh, sure.” There was no particular warmth or regret in Frederick's voice. “He was a nice guy. He liked sports.”

“Were he and Mr. Worrell on good terms?”

Frederick looked puzzled. “Mr. Worrell was nice to everybody. He never got on us about anything. He left that to Mrs. Worrell.”

Frederick didn't say more, but the implication was clear that Mrs. Worrell had no difficulty keeping employees in line.

“Was George particularly grieved about Mr. Worrell's death?”

“George?” Again that tone of surprise. “He never said much about it.”

So George had not created the ghost in an indirect effort to avenge Roddy Worrell's death.

“It seems odd that George would die in a fall, too.” I watched him carefully.

Frederick frowned. “Yeah. Weird. George asked me to handle breakfast. I got the idea he was going to do something for one of the guests. But I don't know why he would have been out on the end of the point. Maybe somebody left a book there and he went to get it. I guess he got too close to the edge. It's kind of crumbly.”

“George told me you saw the ghost at the tower the other night. What do you think about that?”

“Really weird. George thought—” He broke off, backed toward the door. “I better get back. I've got some other trays to deliver.”

It was an off time. I didn't believe him. But he abruptly didn't want to talk. “Wait, Frederick. What did George think?”

He rubbed his cheek, frowned. “Listen, I don't want
to get mixed up in anything. George kept saying that the ghost had to be Roddy come back. I told him he'd better shut up that kind of talk or Mrs. Worrell would fire him in a minute. And he just laughed.”

As the door closed behind him, I wondered at George's laughter. Why wasn't George worried about losing his job? Did he not care about the job any longer? Or was he sure that Mrs. Worrell wouldn't dare fire him? George told me he'd been thinking about the night Roddy died. What did George know or remember? And where was Mrs. Worrell when her husband climbed the steps of the tower?

I
WELCOMED the tang of the chutney on the sandwich and the jolt of the caffeine in the coffee. This was the first quiet moment I'd had since I looked down onto the rocks at George's body, and I had a lot of decisions to make.

Was George's death an accident?

No. It was simply too fortuitous when I had an appointment with him to discover the truth behind the ghostly doings at the tower. Of course, there was another possible reason for him to die. George had insisted that Roddy Worrell was pushed to his death. Was that true and, if so, did George know who killed Roddy?

Knowing the identity of a murderer should surely be a good deal more dangerous than knowing the identity of the person who arranged for the ghost to appear. Obviously, they could not be the same person. The murderer of Roddy Worrell would not want attention brought to the death, nor any discussion of a ghost apparently seeking vengeance.

I finished one cup of coffee, poured another, carried it to the balcony. The balcony faced south, overlooking the gardens and the coast and the dazzling turquoise
water, but my gaze slipped over the masses of poinsettias to fasten on the tower.

If I was right, the box kite tucked back on the far reaches of the shelf in the Sports closet explained the luminous apparition that we'd seen. The anguished shout last night could be explained, too. Perhaps a matchbox-sized recorder, activated by a timer, was attached to the kite. But understanding the mechanics was much less important than discerning the reason for the hoax.

I sipped the coffee and studied the tower. From what I had seen and what George had said, I was certain that the intention was to create a belief that the ghost of Roddy Worrell was appearing at the site of his death.

What would that accomplish?

It would be disagreeable to guests of the hotel. Very few persons enjoy having their sleep interrupted by screams and apparitions. Any activity which disturbed guests would surely distress Mrs. Worrell. Moreover, if the apparition was that of her late husband, her distress would be even greater, moving from a business problem to a personal problem. So, was the ghost created to cause trouble for the hotel or, more particularly, to upset Mrs. Worrell? On a more devious level, the hoax might have been planned to suggest Roddy Worrell was murdered. That was, in fact, exactly what George Smith had claimed. If George—or someone—had created the ghost as a dramatic way of demanding money for silence about Worrell's death, this might have moved a murderer to strike again.

Or was it possible that George Smith was behind the creation of the ghost and that his goal was simply malicious mischief? There was also the strong possibility that although George might have flown the box kite,
the hoax was serving the ends of another person. How else to explain George's note with the crossed-out thousand dollars replaced by two thousand and the suggestion that I could learn all about the ghost for five thousand? Of course, George might have realized that the effect of the ghost on Connor Bailey was such that a good sum of money could be had by pretending to reveal the truth about the ghost.

I stared glumly at the tower. There were too many possibilities. I needed to go at it another way. I knew these facts:

Roddy Worrell was dead. From a fall.

George Smith was dead. From a fall.

George died after he claimed Roddy was murdered.

It was time to explore the death of Roddy Worrell. But first I must go down to the pool. I had an unfinished task there. I'd not yet told Chief Inspector Foster about the box kite in the Sports closet. I believed the kite to be important evidence, so it was up to me to protect it.

 

Frederick was serving tea when I reached the lower terrace. The westerly sun spilled gold across the pool and the tables, but the breeze was cool. The Canadian women were in shirtsleeves and shorts, the other guests in sweaters and slacks.

Neal bounded up from the farthest table. “Grandma, over here.” His face was pink from the sun. “Dinny'll be here in a minute.”

I smiled. Neal looked so normal and everyday, immediately identifiable as an American teenager. It wasn't simply the Tommy Hilfiger striped polo and the crisp pleated khaki trousers and the well-worn running shoes. Those clothes are everywhere around the world.
It was his expression: frank, open, a little brash; his posture: not quite a slouch but close; his unmistakable accent, the flat Texas drawl.

I walked toward him. Curt Patterson sat alone at the next table. He lifted a hand in greeting and his loud tone was also unmistakably from Texas, “Good to see you, ma'am.” He, too, had been in the sun today and his freckled face was almost a match for his red hair. He held a whiskey tumbler. Suddenly his sunburned face creased in a wide grin. He pushed back his chair.

I was startled for an instant, but Patterson was not looking at me. He brushed past me, booming, “There weren't any lovely ladies on the golf course today, but seeing you puts everything right.”

I glanced back.

The deep warm voice was almost a caricature of a smooth-talking Lothario. I wanted to say,
Oh, come off it, fella
, but Patterson, eyes gleaming, holding out his big hands, wasn't kidding. So what else is new since the handsome rake became the staple of eighteenth-century fiction? Probably Lothario's counterpart would be found back in the dim reaches of cave dwellers—the guy with the hairiest chest and the deepest voice, swaggering in and dropping his club by the fire of the most curvaceous female. In any event, as in ages immemorial, Patterson headed straight for Connor.

It was an interesting tableau, though it lasted only a moment. Connor's eyes widened. Her pale features softened. Her lips curved in a half-sweet, half-seductive smile. His square face rigid, Lloyd poked his head forward like a bull when the pasture gate opens. Marlow's brows drew into a tight straight line. She glanced uneasily toward Lloyd. Steve Jennings gazed at Con
nor, and his face held a mixture of pity and dismay. Aaron jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and hunched his shoulders as if removing himself from the group.

Patterson wasn't fazed or dismayed. He obviously cared only about Connor's response. I suspected he'd spent his life doing what he pleased, when he pleased. Was he aware of the havoc he created in the lives of those around him? If so, I doubted that he cared.

Patterson stopped in front of Connor, looked down, his bold eyes admiring her, his burnished features glowing with sun and sheer animal vigor. He was tall enough, well-built enough that Lloyd was diminished in comparison, his office paleness accentuated, his middle-aged portliness emphasized.

Lloyd knew it, of course. His lips folded into a tight line.

Patterson stood just a little too close to Connor, but he didn't step back. “I didn't think I'd ever see anything prettier than this island, but you've proved me wrong. You're prettier than any ocean or beach. It's a pure treat to see you, and now only one thing more can be even better. I hope you folks will make this lonely Texan's day and join me for tea.” It was as if he were the host and they his guests.

Connor's eyes sparkled. “Why, we'd love—”

Lloyd snapped, “Thanks, no. We're—”

Connor slipped her arm through Lloyd's, looked up at him eagerly. “Why, Lloyd, of course we can join Curt. Don't you see, he's all by himself.”

Patterson took her other arm. “You're as kind as you are lovely, dear lady. My sis and her husband won't be back until late tonight and…”

I slipped into the chair next to Neal.

My grandson opened his mouth, pointed down his throat.

“Neal.” But I agreed. And I concluded Curt Patterson had awaited Connor's arrival with every intention of attaching himself to the Drake-Bailey party.

The little group sorted and shifted near Patterson's table, Aaron muttering, “Think I'll take a jog. Gonna go change,” and Jennings brushing away Connor's entreaties to stay. “Still full from lunch, my dear. Believe I'll get some exercise, too. A brisk walk on the beach is just the tonic.” As he moved toward the stairs, Jennings's face looked weary. That left an ebullient Patterson, focusing every ounce of his masculine charm on Connor, a coquettish Connor, a grim-faced Lloyd, and a resigned Marlow.

Neal steadily devoured the delicate tea sandwiches and watched the next table, his face a study in gluttony and disdain.

Connor was animated, her pale cheeks flushed with pleasure. “It's too bad you weren't with us today, Curt. We went up to the cliff above Spanish Rock, oh, it's so high. I didn't get close to the edge. It was scary…”

I wanted to march across the terrace and shake Lloyd by his shoulders. After all, Connor was going to marry him, not the loudmouth from Texas.
Smile at her
, I wanted to say, because Connor was giving Lloyd occasional puzzled, petulant glances, until she squared her shoulders and bent a dazzling smile on Patterson. But maybe this was a primer for Lloyd. Maybe, if I ever had the chance to speak with him, I could urge him to relax, let Connor soak up the attention she craved, the admiration she hungered for. Marlow darted worried looks between her mother and Lloyd. And I wished, knowing that Mrs. Worrell had un
doubtedly talked to the police, that all Lloyd was going to have to worry about was competition from the brash Texan. Would the chief inspector take Mrs. Worrell's accusations seriously? If he did…

Diana, lovely in a swirling multicolored floral dress and butter-colored sandals, crossed the terrace with the grace of a gazelle. She scarcely glanced at the next table. She stopped by my chair and her hand touched my shoulder. “Grandma, are you okay?”

It was a reminder of the somber scene the children had left behind that morning. “Fine. The police were very nice.”

Neal frowned. “Have you been here all day?”

Diana slipped into a webbed chair. She reached for the teapot.

I didn't want to talk about my day. “It's been very quiet. A bit too quiet, really. I believe I'll take a walk on the beach before it gets dark. I had a late lunch, so I don't need any tea.” As I stood, I glanced across the pool area. Mrs. Worrell came quietly down the stone steps from the upper terrace. She paused midway, her glance sweeping across the tables. Her face was quite still and satisfied as she stared at Patterson's table. Patterson gave a sudden bark of laughter. Connor clapped her hands together in appreciation. Lloyd made no response at all, his face a dark glower. Abruptly, Mrs. Worrell turned and hurried back the way she'd come.

Frederick was moving from table to table, offering more sandwiches and scones and tarts. Voices rose and fell softly, except, of course, for the unmistakable boom of Curt Patterson. The sun was quite low in the sky now. It would be dark in less than half an hour. Already the portion of the pool area near the snack bar was in shadow. The doors to the locker rooms and the
Sports closet were on the far side of the snack bar, as was another stone stairway rising to the upper terrace.

I smiled at the children. “Eat some whipped cream for me. I'm going to get a jacket, since it's cooling off. I'll see you at dinner.” A jacket would be welcome but my main objective was to pass the Sports closet.

I moved quickly past the snack bar into the shadows. I paused by the door to the women's locker room. No one was looking toward me, including Frederick as he cleared the remnants of tea at a table. I took half a dozen steps, reached the Sports closet, opened the door. I didn't turn on the light. I saw what I wanted to see, the faint luminous glow at the far end. I reached around, checked the door and smiled. I punched the lock button, closed the door. I turned the knob. The door was locked. The hotel staff would have a key, but it was unlikely anyone would seek to open the door this late in the day. It was time to return chairs or floats, not take them out. If any were returned later, they could be propped by the door. And certainly before tomorrow, I would speak with the chief inspector.

By the time I reached my room and shrugged into my jacket, it was definitely twilight. I found my little pocket flash and headed down toward the beach. The light was useful in the tunnel beneath the greenery. My hope was to reach the beach and find either Aaron or Steve. Both of them had been here last year. I assumed Aaron had been a guest of Marlow's family. This was not a resort for a graduate student on a budget. Both Aaron and Steve could tell me more about Roddy Worrell. I had a nervous sense that I needed to gather up bits and pieces of information so that I could help Lloyd protect Connor if the need arose. The wind surprised me when I reached the concrete
grid leading down to the beach, ruffling my hair, pulling at my sweater and slacks. I stared out at the magnificent darkening reach of water, mysterious and somber as the color deepened to purple and the final pink and gold tendrils wavered on the horizon. As I looked up, I saw the moongate and beyond it a figure outlined on top of the headland, a man staring out at the sea, a tall, lanky, commanding figure. I started carefully up the narrow trail.

The wind seemed stronger on the ridge. I was a few feet behind Steve Jennings when I called out. “Steve. Mr. Jennings?” I knew he hadn't heard me approach, and I didn't want to startle him.

He swung around. It was hard to tell in the fading light, but I thought his gaze was probing. When I stopped beside him, he pointed down at the spume-slick rocks. “Is that where he was?”

No doubt everyone in the hotel had heard about George's death and the arrival of the police. “Yes.”

Steve folded his arms across his chest. “You'd have to be stupid to fall from here. A clear morning. Moderate winds. Sober. Presumably.”

“George was sober.” According to the young bartender, George didn't drink alcohol. Besides, the note he left me was not the work of a drunk. I kept my tone neutral. “He may have been careless.”

Steve continued to stare down at the rocks. He didn't respond to my comment. Instead, abruptly he demanded, “Did George tell you that Roddy Worrell was murdered?”