Resort to Murder (16 page)

At Southcote Avenue, I turned right. The narrow road was bounded by big hedges of Suriname cherry and copper-leaf. The legend is that no two leaves of the copper-leaf, also called matchmacan (match me if you can!), are the same. The red leaves were a cheerful note among all the greenery. Happily, I had this stretch of narrow road to myself.

I turned left on Ord Road. As I passed the bright green of Paget Primary School, I came up behind a battered little car traveling even slower than I. That was fine with me. When we crossed into Warwick Parish, there was a patch of more modest homes. I slowed to turn on a rough dirt track that angled up the hillside. A field to my left was filled with cabbage, beans and lettuce. I slowed at a low wall that bounded a small square lot. A wooden sign read Half-Crescent Court. It is the custom for houses to have names in addition to the formal address.

I stopped in front of the two-story gray house with lime shutters. Masses of pink and purple petunias bloomed in front beds. Norfolk pines flanked each end of the house. The main entrance was directly before me. A flagstone path branched off the main walk,
curved around the east side of the house. I guessed the basement apartment would be at the side of the house or perhaps in back.

The house was in good repair, the paint bright, the flower beds well tended, the front steps swept clean. I hurried up the steps, knocked, I wasn't certain what I would say. Should I inquire about the vacant apartment, say I'd heard from a friend it might be available? Should I claim acquaintance with George's parents, say I was there to look over his belongings to see what should be returned to Canada?

I always move at too fast a pace. I had lifted my hand, ready to knock again, when the door swung in. An imposing woman—six feet tall, dark hair in an untidy chignon, a faded pink turtleneck and purple slacks, a two-strand necklace of amber beads—looked at me politely. She had fine dark eyes and a magenta-bright mouth. The blue mixing bowl in the crook of her arm was half full of smooth, yellow batter. I smelled the rich cream of butter and a hint of nutmeg.

I made a quick decision. Sometimes the truth works better than a clever ploy. “Hello. I'm Henrietta Collins, a guest at Tower Ridge House. I found George's body Wednesday morning. I'd like to talk to you about him, if I may.”

Her expressive face mirrored surprise, sadness, curiosity, uncertainty. “I don't know…” she began hesitantly.

“I won't take up much of your time.” I pointed at the bowl. “Not many people bake these days.”

She looked at the batter, her dark brows drawing together. “I love to bake. I always put a plate on George's kitchen table.” She shook her head. “I still can't believe he's gone. I took him a piece of pie Tuesday af
ternoon. He was so cheerful. He gave me a thumbs-up, said everything was coming up roses for him.”

I felt the old familiar tingle, the heightened sense a reporter develops. I was close to a discovery, so close I could taste it. But I needed to be careful not to shut her down, not to alarm her. “Do you have any idea what he was talking about?”

She frowned and rubbed her thumb along the rim of the bowl. “Why do you want to know?”

“I am convinced that George was involved in what he believed to be a practical joke. I think he accepted money to create the appearance of a ghost at the hotel.” I looked at her soberly. “I think that ‘joke' caused George's murder. I want to find out who hired him.”

Her eyes flashed. “George was a nice boy.”

“Yes. But he may have been foolish. Please, if you know anything at all that can help me…”

“I don't see what business it is of yours.” Her face was puzzled, her eyes questioning.

I turned my hands palms-up. “It isn't any of my business. Not in the sense you mean. But it is important to me because I don't want to feel I might have been a cause of his death. I offered George money not to do the ghost trick. Instead, the ghost—a shiny white cloud—appeared Wednesday night near the tower on the hotel grounds. The next morning—the morning he died—I found a note pushed under my door. It was from George. He asked me to meet him on the headland and he wanted more money to tell me about the ghost. I went to the headland. I found his body.”

“Mrs.”—she paused—“Collins?”

I nodded.

“I'm Joan Abbott.” It was a murmur as she thought. Finally, she gave a decided nod of her head, said
briskly, “Even if someone killed George to keep him from revealing information to you, it was George's decision to ask you for money.”

“Still…” And my voice was weary.

“George was a good boy.” She gave me a level stare. “But he thought everyone who stayed at Tower Ridge House was rich.” Her smile was wry. “I guess that's true enough. I suppose he thought people there spent money so easily, why not some for him? He wanted to go home, you know. He missed the snow, missed the seasons. Missed his family. Tuesday afternoon, when I talked to him, he was excited. He said”—she turned her face up, squeezed her eyes shut as if re-creating a picture in her mind, cupped the blue bowl in her hands—“he was having fun, that Americans were all nuts, and especially about weddings, and this was going to be his lucky weekend. He was going to pick up enough on the side to go home and get back in school.” Her eyes snapped open, deep and dark and sad. She lifted her shoulders in a hopeless shrug. “I don't know what wedding he meant…”

Unfortunately, I did. I didn't want to talk about that. “Mrs. Abbott, would you show me George's apartment?” George was pinning his hopes for money to a wedding. There was only one wedding party staying at the hotel. Who in that group—that very small group—wanted Roddy Worrell's ghost to walk? I would have to think about that.

“His apartment?” She looked at me steadily. “Why?”

“Maybe he kept a diary.” I knew that wasn't likely. “Or if he had a computer…”

Mrs. Abbott waved a hand in dismissal. “No, he
couldn't afford a computer. There's a café downtown. He used to go there, get soccer scores on the Internet. I don't think he read much. I offered him books, but he liked television. He had a little black-and-white set.”

I'd not really hoped for a diary. I lifted my shoulders. “I don't know. There may be nothing there to help. But I'd like to look.”

“The police have already been through the apartment.” Her judgment was clear. The police knew what to look for. If there had been anything there, they would have found it.

But what had they looked for? Perhaps I would see something they'd missed.

She frowned. “The inspector said he would be in touch with George's family. I need to know where to send his things.” She studied me. “All right. I'll show you.” She glanced at the stairs near the door. “The baby's asleep. But it shouldn't take us long. If you'll wait a moment, I'll get the key.”

I nodded.

The door closed. She had not invited me in. That was all right. She might be fairly convinced I meant well, but she wasn't a woman to invite a stranger into her home.

It was several moments before she returned. I rather imagined she had called the police. But that, too, was all right. The chief inspector might not be pleased at my presence, but I was breaking no law.

When the door opened, she held a key in one hand and a small plastic object in the other. “The baby monitor. Just in case Jeremy wakes up. My daughter and her husband live with me.” She hesitated in the doorway. “I spoke with the chief inspector.”

“That's fine.” I kept my tone pleasant.

“He asked that we not remove anything from the apartment.” As she came down the steps, she motioned toward the flagstones. “This way. The entrance is at the side.”

She moved quickly. I was right behind her.

A red wooden railing marked the steps down to an equally red door.

She gave me a brief smile. “I usually rent to young people. They like the door.” She stepped inside, clicked on the light, held the door for me.

The studio apartment was simply furnished. Everything was shabby, well-used. Even though the yellowish-brown linoleum curled at the edges and the chairs had worn upholstery, the long room was cheerful, with bright posters adorning the pine walls and everything in order and quite clean, despite the musty smell.

She wrinkled her nose. “You can't get rid of the mold. No matter how often you mop.”

I circled the room. The single bed in one corner was neatly made, the spread a light gray with red squares. On the dresser was a tray with cuff links, coins. An airline ticket lay to one side. I picked it up, flipped it open. A one-way ticket to Toronto for next Wednesday.

Joan Abbott was murmuring behind me, “…why, there are his suitcases! He must have got them out of the storage shed. And everything is quite bare. He'd got rid of a lot of his things.”

George had definitely intended to go home. He'd come into money. I was certain I knew why. He was being paid for the appearance of the ghost. That had been easy money. And he'd hoped for more easy money, five thousand from me for information about the ghost. Had he asked someone for even more money
to keep quiet about the ghost? Or had he asked Thelma Worrell for money to keep quiet about her husband's fall? Whichever, someone reached the headland before me on Thursday morning and that person brought death, not money.

The kitchenette was tidy, a single rinsed-out coffee mug in the sink.

I opened the cupboards. Assorted tins—coffee, peanuts, cocoa mix, Spam. A loaf of bread.

“…George ate most of his meals at the hotel. Cheaper that way.”

I felt a wave of fatigue. I reached out, held on to the countertop. I fought off the bone-tiredness, a remnant of the pneumonia. Or was I feeling the effect of hopelessness, my inability to scratch out a connection between George and his murderer? I knew that connection existed. Somewhere. But if not here, where?

I was turning away from the little kitchenette when I saw the calendar hanging from a nail. A tarpon arched above blue water on a sunny day. The month—January—was in bright red paint, the days in black. The block of space for each date was perhaps two inches square. Many of the blocks held notations. I stepped closer. George apparently made it a practice to mark down appointments—the dentist, haircut, Rugby training—in small square printing. I scanned the month and felt a flicker of excitement:

 

Thursday, January 6: BUEI—ghost? ? ?

Monday, January 10: Kite ready. Practice tonight.

Tuesday, January 18: Ghost

Wednesday, January 19: Ghost

Thursday, January 20: The Point 8
A.M
. Ghost tonight?

 

The notation for January 6—in blue ink, as were all the notes—had an addendum in pencil: $500 for Roddy's ghost / $250 now / $250 January 22.

I read it to mean that George met with someone at the Bermuda Underwater Exploration Institute and was offered $500, with half up front if he agreed to arrange for Roddy's ghost to appear the week that our group arrived. Mrs. Abbott understood that George's “prank” was connected to a wedding. The Drake-Bailey wedding was set for tomorrow, January 22. If anyone checked—and perhaps the chief inspector would do so now—perhaps it could be proved that George bought a kite and phosphorescent paint between January 6 and January 10. Steve Jennings saw the ghost the night of January 18. Many of us saw the luminous white cloud the night of January 19. The question mark following “tonight” in the January 20 block suggested that George's meeting with me on the headland Thursday morning would determine whether the kite flew Thursday night. But George was dead when I came to the headland. Someone made certain the ghost would never rise again.

Who met with George at the BUEI on January 6?

I
SAT on the balcony of my room, a mug of hot coffee cradled in my hands, and looked out at slate-blue water. The wind was up, gusting to twenty knots. Water spumed over the ever-dangerous reef. Whitecaps rippled as far as I could see. The surf boomed. Palmetto fronds rattled like stiletto heels on uncarpeted stairs. Wispy needles of the tall casuarina pines rustled like a petticoat dropping to the floor. The leaden sky was the color of a Norman castle and just as foreboding. I huddled in my thick turtleneck sweater and felt rooted to the chair, my mind sluggish, my body heavy and lumpy.

I was tired, so tired, but I had to think. I was convinced there were answers if only I could find them. I also faced the discouraging realization that I'd raised more questions than I'd answered with my foray to
The Royal Gazette
, my startling interview with Mrs. Worrell—Was I wrong in suspecting her of her husband's death? Had I mistaken grief for guilt?—and my visit to Half-Crescent Court, where a plane ticket to Toronto lay on George's dresser.

I thought I'd sensed guilt in Mrs. Worrell. But I could not be absolutely certain she had killed her husband. In
fact, I couldn't be certain that his fall was murder. It could easily have been an accident, given the entertainer's penchant for sitting on the tower ledge. A cocky man, cocky to his end. Who would want to kill him? There were certainly possible suspects:

His wife might have reached the end of her patience with his flirtations.

Connor Bailey left the bar in search of Roddy. What if she followed him to the top of the tower and he turned ugly, called her names, turned his back to her in contempt? Could Connor have run forward and shoved him in anger?

Steve Jennings could have gone up to the tower, worried about Connor. I rather thought Steve was in love with Connor and would go to any lengths to protect her.

Lloyd Drake was on the periphery of that night, but he was falling in love with Connor. He could have followed Roddy to the top of the tower. If he was jealous enough, would he come up behind an unsuspecting man and push him to his death?

Marlow was very protective of her mother. Surely that protection would not extend to murder.

Aaron Reed…I shook my head. Aaron loved Marlow. I didn't see that as a bridge to Roddy's murder. I didn't really know his private judgment of Connor. It would be interesting to know.

Thelma Worrell blamed Connor for Roddy's death, but Thelma's eyes glittered with fear. Why should she be afraid?

I sipped my coffee. All right, I couldn't say whether Roddy's fall was accident or murder. Not yet. But there was another question that had to be answered. Why was the ghost created?

There were several possibilities:

Assuming Roddy was murdered, was the ghost created to frighten the murderer?

It didn't seem likely to me. The ghost, after all, wasn't going about waving a placard with the guilty person's name. Unless the ghostly visitations resulted in a reopening of the investigation, the appearance of the ghost was nothing more than an annoyance.

Was the ghost created to upset Thelma Worrell?

It was a good deal of money to spend in a pointless harassment, unless the plan was to injure the hotel by frightening away guests. Or perhaps the hope was to use the ghost to drive Thelma to a confession. Certainly Thelma was distraught, but I doubted that guilt would ever drive her to confess.

Was the ghost created to distress Connor by bringing back memories of Roddy's death?

Assuredly, the appearances bothered Connor. But once again, the effort scarcely seemed worth the making. Who would want to upset Connor?

Admittedly, Diana had made several efforts to annoy Connor, but Diana was not in Bermuda on January 6 of this year. Moreover, I didn't see how she could have learned enough about the circumstances of last year's accident to be the creator of the ghost. Of course, so far as I knew, no one in the Drake-Bailey wedding party was in Bermuda on January 6 to meet with George at the BUEI. However, Thelma Worrell was on the island on that date and she would obviously take great pleasure in deviling Connor. But why would Thelma meet George at the BUEI when she could visit with him at the hotel any day of the week at any time of day convenient for her?

I sighed. None of it jelled. If I was right in suspect
ing Thelma of her husband's murder, then certainly she would do nothing to bring back memories of his fall, no matter how much she disliked Connor.

I was right back where I started from, still not knowing who planned the ghost or why.

All right, then, who paid George? Try it from that angle. Thelma seemed unlikely. Then who? As for our group, no one was here then unless…I pushed up from my chair, moved slowly into the room. What if one of our group had been here?

I ran over the names in my mind, all of them: Lloyd Drake, Diana Drake, Neal Drake, Connor Bailey, Marlow Bailey, Jasmine Bailey, Aaron Reed, Steve Jennings. Could one of them have been at the BUEI on January 6? Not Jasmine, obviously, but one of the others?

Immigration records would reveal if one of them had flown to Bermuda that day. Could I convince the chief inspector to check those records?

Ultimately, though, the critical question remained. Why did George die?

Because he knew the truth behind the ghost? Or because he knew and threatened the murderer of Roddy Worrell?

I frowned, moved restlessly in my chair. Knowing about the ghost certainly didn't seem to warrant murder. As for the possibility that George knew something about Roddy's death, that could well be. But if he'd had information from the outset, why would he wait until now to take advantage of it?

Blackmail. Such an ugly word. I thought about George. Yes, he was ready to pick up easy money. He saw money freely spent by people who, from his perspective, were very rich. He saw nothing wrong in
chivying what must have seemed like rather grand sums if people were dumb enough to pay him to float or not float a shiny kite. But blackmail? Hiding facts about murder?

“I don't think so.” I said it aloud, that oh-so-trite smart-ass reply. But I truly didn't think so. I had the feeling that I was close to discovering something important. If I could just push my tired mind to understand. But I was too tired. Perhaps I'd fix another cup of coffee.

I moved toward the coffeemaker, checking the clock as I passed. Almost four. Surely the others would be back soon, the wedding planners and the golfers. We'd gather for tea and later for dinner and hopefully they'd have spent a happy day. We'd compare notes and worry about the weather. But the wedding could occur here as well as at Victoria Park, I had no doubt. The wedding was at one o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps my involvement in the search for the ghost and George's death would perforce recede to an academic puzzle in my mind. All of us were flying home Sunday, except for the newlyweds. I picked up the coffeemaker.

A swift knock at the door was followed by a call. “Grandma, are you there?”

I put down the coffeemaker. Some of my fatigue ebbed. It's amazing how the voice of someone you love can lift you. I was smiling as I opened the door.

Diana stood in the hallway, hands on her hips. “Grandma, I can't believe you'd take the moped. It's so windy! Where did you go?”

“Oh”—my tone was airy—“I just took a little outing.” So many ways to tell the truth. “The wind came up after I got back.” I held the door wide. “Come in. How did your morning go?”

“Interminable.” She drawled the word with a heavy sigh and flung herself onto my chaise longue. “What a bore. Now the wedding's all set for the park and the weather's turning lousy. They said gale-force winds tomorrow.”

I closed the door and settled in a chair by the table.

“Connor's talking to Mrs. Worrell to see about having the wedding here. I'd say the manager's into passive resistance. She doesn't like Connor. But if it rains, it sure can't be in the park. It's a mess.” Diana couldn't quite hide a flicker of pleasure.

January in Bermuda can be lovely and it can also be rainy and cool, the weather reflecting winter storms along the American East Coast. The temperature since our arrival had been in the low sixties, too cool for the tiny tree frogs whose chirp was so much a part of my memories of the island.

I didn't say anything. I simply looked at Diana.

Her eyes slipped away from mine. She brushed back a tangle of reddish-golden hair. “Oh, I'll be good, Grandma. But everything really is in a mess. Connor's a complete wreck. She called Dad on the golf course twice to ask him to check into getting the tickets changed to go home tomorrow afternoon.” She sat up, tucked her knees beneath her chin, looked at me soberly. “Actually, I think Dad should listen. I mean, if he's going to marry her, he's going to have to deal with her neuroses. She honestly thought that stupid cloud at the top of the tower was this Roddy guy coming back to haunt her. Trust Connor to be sure he's haunting
her
. She has to be the center of any universe. Did it ever occur to her that a ghost might want to impress someone else? Anyway, she ended up screeching at Dad and hanging up. The
deal is, she's never given a thought to what Dad's like. I mean, he can be pretty stubborn. He got so mad, he quit playing. They're all back, too, but Dad's sitting in the bar, drinking and watching ESPN. She doesn't understand that he's got it in his head that this is a big romantic deal and he wants—”

In the hall, a door crashed against the wall. “Steve. Steve, come quick.” Connor's cry was high and desperate.

Diana reached the door first, flung it open. I was right behind her. We ran up the hall. Connor huddled near her open doorway. She stared at us wildly, her mouth trembling, her Dresden-china face a pasty gray.

I reached out, took her arm. “What's wrong, Connor?”

Trembling, she pointed inside the room.

“Mother,” I heard Marlow cry behind me. “What's happened?”

I stepped into Connor's room warily. My gaze moved back and forth. The bed was neatly made. The furniture was in place, with no sign of disarray. My eyes reached the curtain drawn across the glass door to the balcony. The cloth rippled.

Steve Jennings thudded to a stop beside me. “What the hell's going on?”

I pointed at the moving curtain.

In three strides, he was across the room and yanking the curtain wide. The sliding glass door was open. He stepped onto the balcony. “Nobody here. Must have been the wind.”

I didn't answer. I stopped beside the circular table where once the ceramic tower had stood and looked down at reddish smears. The streaks formed uneven letters. The message was short:

 

I'm coming for you

 

The words might have been written by a finger dipped in blood. I bent nearer. The strokes that made the letters were ill-formed but smooth, perhaps drawn by a finger sheathed in a plastic or vinyl glove. The last word trailed downward.

Jennings came up behind me. He caught his breath as he stared at the streaked words. “Jesus!”

I reached out, lightly touched the sticky moist y. My index finger looked as though it had a bloody tip. I held the finger close to my nose, smelled. Then I delicately touched my finger to my tongue.

“My God, what are you doing?” There was a curl of disgust in his voice.

“Not real blood,” I said quietly. “A nice peppermint flavor. Stage blood.”

“Stage blood.” There was a wealth of relief in his voice.

“Definitely.” I'm no Dracula. I'd been pretty certain before I tasted the liquid, even though the streaks looked real. But there had been no sour, unmistakable odor when I smelled my fingertip. “Stage blood can be bought in any costume shop.” In small bottles. I was willing to bet that the container would never be found, not with the Atlantic Ocean only steps away.

Jennings's deep voice boomed. “It's all right, Connor. It's stage blood.”

Connor stood in the doorway, clinging to the jamb. “All right? You tell me it's all right? It's hideous. What does it mean?” She shuddered, her body quivering. “Was that Roddy we saw that night? Does it mean he's coming for me?”

Marlow slipped her arm around her mother, “Don't be silly—”

“Silly?” She pushed Marlow roughly away. “Don't tell me I'm silly.” Connor's voice wobbled. “That's what Lloyd keeps saying. No one cares. Roddy hates me and he's going to come for me and I shall die of fright. I'm so frightened. I have to get out of here. I have to. Steve.” She darted toward the lawyer, clutched his arm. “Call now. Get us on the plane.” Hysteria lifted her voice.

Steve spoke even louder, a courtroom voice intended to impress a judge. “Connor, get a grip on yourself. Look at the time.” He pointed at the clock. “The last plane for Atlanta's already left.”

Marlow said over and over, “Don't be scared, Mother, we're all here. Don't be scared…”

From the hallway, Jasmine's little-girl voice demanded, “Mom, what's wrong? What's wrong? What's…”

I heard their voices, I felt Connor's fear, but I was drawn back to the table. I stared at the cruel, mocking message. Damnit, there was no ghost. This was a vicious attempt to frighten Connor.

Jasmine poked her head around my elbow. “Golly, look at that. Is it blood? It looks like blood!”

I glanced around the room, from the now closed balcony door to the open door to the hallway. The balcony door had been open. No doubt the intruder came that way, slipped into Connor's room while she and the girls were in Hamilton. Or the open balcony door could be a clever ploy. Mrs. Worrell would have a key to the room, of course. She could easily have entered the wing, hurried up the empty corridor, opened the hall door, and, in only a moment, have left the mes
sage. A few more quick steps and the balcony door could be pulled ajar.

Connor rushed to the telephone, reached down to grab the receiver, thrust it toward Jennings. “Here, Steve. If it's too late today, we'll leave tomorrow. Oh, God, if only I hadn't gone into town today, if only I'd gone out to the airport this morning. I knew I should, I knew it. Steve, call now and see about a plane tomorrow. I have to get out of here!” She pushed the receiver into his hand.