Resort to Murder (17 page)

I'd always thought Connor's strikingly blue eyes were hard. Now they were pools of terror. There was no trace of her arrogant veneer. Her lovely face was pitiable. She gave a low moan. “Steve, you've got to help me.” She jerked her head toward Marlow. “Let's start packing now.”

Steve took the receiver. “I'll call, Connor, but you need to talk to Lloyd.”

Jasmine reached out toward the table.

I lifted my hand. “Please don't touch it, Jasmine. We should call the police.”

“The police.” Marlow stared at me. “But what can they do?”

“Investigate. Someone—”

Connor gave a ragged cry. “They can't catch ghosts. It's Roddy. You saw him—”

I took three quick steps, stood close enough that she had to look into my eyes.

“Listen, Connor. There is no ghost.” I paused, said it loudly again. “There is no ghost. George Smith flew a kite painted with phosphorescent paint. That was what Steve saw”—I looked toward him. He still held the phone, his long face somber—“Tuesday night. That's what we all saw Wednesday night.”

Connor's breaths were light and shallow. She clutched her throat with a shaking hand.

“Connor, I found the kite that was used.” I couldn't prove that, but I was certain in my own mind. “It was hidden at the back of the Sports closet down near the pool.” I was so intent on reaching her, on trying to restore a gleam of reason to those frantic eyes, that I blocked out the rest of the room. “Someone set the closet on fire so that the police would not see that kite. That must be the person who scrawled those words on the table.”

Connor's head moved slowly toward the table, then jerked away. She shuddered. “If it isn't Roddy, then someone hates me. Someone hates me and wants me to die!”

“Oh, now, Connor.” Steve's tone was hearty. “That's not true. It's nasty but—”

“I'm frightened, damn you. Damn you all.” Her voice was high and shrill. “I tell you I'm—”

“My God, there's enough noise in this hall to wake the dead!” Lloyd filled the doorway, his face red and heavy, his voice truculent. “What the hell's going on?”

Connor reached out her hands. “Lloyd, get me out of here. Someone hates me.” She hurried toward him. “Steve's going to call now and get our tickets changed. I want to go home tomorrow.”

“Go home!” Lloyd's glazed eyes looked at her in dismay and with a hot flicker of anger. His always reddish face was an unhealthy plum color, too much whiskey or uncontrolled hypertension. His red-blond hair straggled over his forehead. He looked disheveled and belligerent. He folded his arms, rocked back on his heels. “So Steve's gonna call. Hell, I bought those tickets. I spent a fortune on this whole frigging trip. And
all you do is act like an idiot—when you aren't chasing after that clown from Texas. What's the matter, hasn't the cowboy been sniffing around? You need for Steve to dance attendance—-”

Connor lifted her arm. Her hand flashed through the air. The sound of the slap was followed by a stricken silence. No one moved or spoke for an instant.

Marlow hurried forward, slipped her arm around her mother's trembling shoulders. Connor squeezed her eyes shut. Tears streaked down her ashen cheeks. Steve slammed the phone down. “Wait a minute, Lloyd—”

“Make your goddamn call, Steve. What the hell do I care?” Lloyd touched the splotchy imprint on his cheek.

Marlow pulled her mother away from Lloyd, shepherded her into the bathroom. Jasmine cried, “Wait for me, wait for me.” The little girl squeezed inside and the door slammed shut.

Lloyd stared at the closed bathroom door, lunged forward and knocked.

Diana darted toward him. She reached up, grabbed his wrist. “Dad, wait a minute.”

“No.” He shook free, pounded again. “We better get this straight,” he shouted. “Connor, do you want to get married or not?” He leaned toward the door. “I want to know. We have a wedding tomorrow. If you're not too busy, of course.” The sarcasm was heavy.

Steve came up behind him. “Drop it for now, Lloyd. Why don't you—”

Lloyd swung heavily around. “Take a walk? Play golf?” He cocked his head toward the balcony. “Pretty lousy weather out there. The whole day's gone to hell. I go out for a little golf and the cell phone squawks like a hustler at a flea market. Connor's supposed to be put
ting the finishing touches on our day and all she wants to do is go home. That's pretty swell, isn't it?” His jaw jutted out, but his eyes were bright with pain. “I don't know what's going on.”

I slipped in front of Steve. “Lloyd, you haven't seen the warning Connor received.” I took his arm, tugged. “Come over here.”

Steve stepped out of our way, his face uneasy.

Lloyd glared at me. “Warning? Is Connor moaning about that stupid ghost again? That's dumb—”

We reached the table.

He broke off, his eyes blinked. “Some kind of hoax, obviously.” He leaned forward. “That looks like blood.”

“It's supposed to look that way. Stage blood. Somebody put it there to upset Connor.” I looked at the uneven letters. “We ought to call the police.”

“The police.” Lloyd faced me. “But that inspector talked to Connor…” He didn't finish.

I wondered suddenly if he had been thinking about that night a year ago and if he had been thinking about what might have happened after Connor left the bar in pursuit of Roddy.

“Let's not get the police involved.” Steve moved quickly toward the table, a clump of tissue in his hand.

“Oh, no—” I reached out to stop him.

A long arm poked past me and in three swipes the sticky letters were obliterated. Reddish smears were all that remained.

I frowned. “That may have been done by George's murderer.”

“George's murderer?” The lawyer looked at me blankly. “What do you mean?”

“Murder?” Diana reached out, gripped my arm.
“Grandma, what are you talking about? I thought George fell. I thought it was an accident.”

“No. The chief inspector told me there were fist-shaped bruises on his lower back.” I closed my hand over hers. “Someone came up behind George—ran, probably—and struck him, knocked him over the edge.”

Lloyd kneaded a fist against one cheek. “That's crazy.”

“It may be crazy.” I was crisp. “It's true.”

Lloyd shook his head. “I don't believe it. Why would anybody kill the kid?”

Diana's voice shook. “George was telling everyone that Roddy was murdered. Is that why, Grandma?”

Lloyd looked at his daughter, his eyes shocked. Slowly his gaze moved to the closed door of the bathroom. He moved heavily across the room, rattled the knob of the bathroom door. “Connor, come out.”

The door opened. Marlow slipped through and closed the panel behind her. “She wants everyone to leave except Steve.”

“Steve.” Lloyd shrugged. “Sure. Let Steve take care of everything. Why not? Why the hell not?” He ducked his head, blundered toward the hall door.

I've seen wounded animals move in the same blind, hurtful way.

“Dad, oh, Dad!” Diana darted after her father.

I looked from Marlow to Steve. “Call the police.”

But I knew they wouldn't.

S
O I called Chief Inspector Foster.

I sat on the edge of the bed in my room, looked through the balcony door at the wind-whipped palmettos and casuarinas, and waited for the connection to be made. The wind rattled the window, made a high singing sound in the eaves.

“Chief Inspector Foster.” His voice held just a hint of impatience. I glanced at the clock. Almost five. Was he ready to leave for the day and irritated at the delay, or was he immersed in work and resented the interruption?

“Henrietta Collins, Inspector. There's been”—I hesitated for an instant, searching for the right word—“an ugly incident here at the hotel affecting Mrs. Bailey. I thought you should know.”

Foster listened without comment as I described the message and Connor's reaction and Steve's swift swipe of the table. When I finished, he was silent for a moment.

“Nasty,” he said finally. “But why call me?”

“I think it is connected to George Smith's murder.” It was only as I spoke that I clearly understood why I had called Foster. “Yes.” I picked up steam. “That's why it matters. George's murder isn't the end of it.”

“The end of what, Mrs. Collins?” He wasn't rude or dismissive. He spoke as a man who understands that he is in strange terrain without a map.

It was my turn to be silent, I didn't know. I took a deep breath, tried to be clear. “George's death has to be linked to Roddy Worrell's death.” I spoke fast before he could challenge me. “I know, Inspector. Roddy's fall was adjudged an accident. I went to
The Royal Gazette
and saw the report of the inquest. Roddy liked to sit on the ledge of the tower. But for some reason we don't understand, George was hired to create an apparition—”

“Hired?” His tone was sharp. “How can you be certain George didn't create Worrell's ghost for his own purposes, if indeed he had any connection to the apparition? For that matter, someone who dislikes Mrs. Bailey may simply be taking advantage of her fear of the ghost.”

“Money.” A simple, clear answer. “I went to Half-Crescent Court today.”

“I know.” The answer was uninflected.

“George had a ticket to Toronto for next week. He'd told Mrs. Abbott that he was”—I paused, remembered her exact words—“that he was picking up enough money this week to be able to go home. Somebody paid George extra. He was paid to fly the kite and create that luminous cloud by the tower.” I told Foster about the notation on George's calendar, about the BUEI on January 6 and the addendum in pencil, outlining payments for the ghost. “I think George believed it was a joke having to do with the wedding. The ghost wasn't for George's purposes. I believe the prime motive behind the ghost was to upset Connor. If that is true, the person who left the stage blood message in
Connor's room was very likely the person who paid George.”

He didn't answer.

“And the person who paid George killed George.” I felt more and more confident this was true.

Foster's reply was equable. “Possibly. But equally well not. You have to remember your own thesis, Mrs. Collins. George might have created the ghost and he might also have learned something that convinced him Roddy Worrell was murdered. You claim George was quick to ask for money, money from the person who wanted the ghost, money from you to reveal that information. What if George asked for money to keep quiet about Worrell's death?”

“I don't think so.” I was back where I'd started, pinning my response on my contacts, admittedly few, with George. I thought he could be hired. I didn't think he could be bought. There is a world of difference.

“And, of course, Mrs. Collins, all of this may be a smoke screen created by you.” His tone wasn't unpleasant, merely brisk. “You may be offering an alternative to the information received about your quarrel with Smith.”

“False information, Inspector. Falsified by George.” I was brisk, too.

His reply was quick and pointed. “Whom you decline to view as a blackmailer, but paint as a liar?”

“I didn't say George was perfect, Inspector.”

He was silent. I hoped he was smiling.

No, George hadn't been perfect. But I didn't think he was a blackmailer. “Inspector, we must find out who met with George at the BUEI.”

“To what purpose?” His voice was irritated. “Even if you're right, even if George was hired to create the
ghost, what does that have to do with his murder? The ghost is nonsense. Even if it upsets people—”

I wanted this to be clear. “Not people, Chief Inspector. A specific person. Connor Bailey.”

He paused. “Not just Mrs. Bailey. Mrs. Worrell can't be pleased.”

“No. Certainly she isn't pleased. But the message in Connor's room proves that the point of the campaign is to harass Connor.” Rain pelted against the balcony door.

“It seems a great deal of effort merely to upset a spoiled rich woman. And murder, Mrs. Collins?” His disbelief was clear.

I didn't answer directly. “Connor is in a state of hysteria about the warning. She is terrified. She wants to go home as soon as possible. Lloyd is offended. They've quarreled. The wedding is very likely off.”

“I see.” There was a considering tone in his voice. “Have you thought through what you are saying?”

I rubbed my thumb along the receiver. I knew where he was headed. Yes, I'd thought it out. I sighed. “Have I considered who might want the wedding canceled? And whether that would be worth murder? The first answer is clear, Inspector. Unfortunately, scarcely anyone in either family is happy about the wedding. That includes both of my grandchildren as well as Connor's older daughter. Steve Jennings is no fan of Lloyd's. Aaron Reed, Marlow's boyfriend, supports Marlow. And let's not forget Mrs. Worrell. She would do anything in her power to make Connor unhappy. But the question becomes whether canceling Connor and Lloyd's wedding is worth murder. I hope not, Inspector, but I very much fear that is what happened.”

I'd tugged the problem every which way in my
mind, but each time I'd come back to this conclusion. If I was right, the suspects in George's murder were limited to a very short list: Diana, Neal, Marlow, Jasmine, Aaron, and Steve.

“Not Diana or Neal.” I didn't say it combatively. I didn't have to. I had no doubt in either my mind or my heart, and, thank God, I had good reason to exclude them. “Neither Diana nor Neal was in the group at the hotel last year, when Roddy Worrell fell from the tower. They knew nothing about Roddy until they arrived here this week. Moreover, neither of them had ever met George Smith. There is no way they could have originated the plan for the ghost and contacted George. No, Diana and Neal are out of it. The choices come down to Marlow, Aaron, Steve, or Mrs. Worrell—not Jasmine, of course.”

“A very serious accusation, Mrs. Collins.” Foster wasn't convinced, but I definitely had his attention.

“And,” I was reluctant to say it, “I don't believe it's Mrs. Worrell. She would like to make Connor unhappy, she may even truly believe Connor is responsible for her husband's death, but I can't see any reason for her to meet George at the BUEI. She could speak to him privately here whenever she chose. Why meet him in a public place, even though it's unlikely that anyone would ever remember or identify them?”

“You want to drop Mrs. Worrell from your list and you won't include your grandchildren or Jasmine. The possibilities grow fewer and fewer.” His tone was dry.

“Marlow. Aaron. Steve. One of them came to Bermuda to meet with George. That meeting is critical.” I pinned all my hopes there.

Foster's retort was quick. “Critical to
your
theory, Mrs. Collins.”

“Will you check with Immigration, see if Marlow Bailey, Steve Jennings, or Aaron Reed came to Bermuda on January sixth?” I scarcely breathed as I waited for his reply.

His chair creaked. Finally, slowly, he said, “I can do that.”

“And, Chief Inspector?” I wondered if I was pushing my luck.

“Yes?” Now he was impatient.

“Who did George call on his cell phone Thursday morning, the conversation Jasmine overheard? George told someone he was going to the headland to meet me.”

“No call was made on his cell phone that morning.”

I was sure Jasmine's report was accurate. I frowned. “Then someone called him.”

“Yes. From the pay phone in the side hall of the hotel.” He reported it without fanfare.

“I see.” And I did. Someone was determined not to be linked in any way to George. The pay phone. I'd noticed it when I slipped up that side hallway to join Mrs. Worrell as an eavesdropper. It had taken an extra bit of effort for the chief inspector to trace that call. He must have had an assistant check all of the hotel lines for calls to George's cell phone. “Thank you.”

“My job.”

“It could have been anyone in the hotel, including Mrs. Worrell.” I couldn't resist making the point.

“About the message in Mrs. Bailey's room”—his chair creaked again and I knew he was ready to end this conversation—“I'll get in touch with her, though there's not much to be done, since the lawyer wiped the table. However, I appreciate your call, Mrs. Collins.”

“You'll let me know when you've checked with
Immigration?” Marlow or Aaron or Steve; one of them, I was sure of it.

There was a pause. “You are scheduled to fly home on Sunday.”

Of course, he knew our plans. “Yes. Neal and Diana and I fly out Sunday. Possibly Lloyd, too. There's no point in his staying if the wedding is canceled—as it appears to be.” There was no way for the one o'clock wedding to take place if Connor and her daughters and Aaron and Steve flew out tomorrow afternoon on the one-fifty flight to Atlanta.

I felt a wave of sadness mixed with anger. Damnit, there should be something that could be done to salvage two lives and avenge at least one death, perhaps two. “What are you going to do, Inspector?”

“What can I do?” His voice was tight with frustration. “It takes proof to arrest a murderer, Mrs. Collins. Something tangible—physical evidence, a witness. All I have are two bruises on the back of a body.”

 

“Dad won't let Neal in.” Diana paced up and down next to the balcony door. It was dusk outside now, but the wind still gusted and rain slapped against the glass. “Oh, Grandma, what are we going to do?”

I rested on the chaise longue and wished I had a good answer. I didn't. I temporized. “Your dad needs time.” Lloyd was struggling with anger and jealousy and loss and humiliation. There was little that any of us could do to help. “I'd try to convince him that Connor is terrified, that she simply isn't responsible for her actions at this point.”

Diana flung herself into a chair, looked at me mournfully. “Grandma, I don't want him to marry her, but I hate this, I simply hate it. He's so”—tears glis
tened in her eyes—“hurt. Oh damn her, why is she such a fool?” Diana pressed her hands against her cheeks, let them fall. “But she doesn't love Dad, not really, or she'd cling to him. Not that old lawyer.”

“She's known Steve for many years.” I spoke quietly, hoping Diana would understand. “Connor can't help herself, Diana. She's unstable and she's scared.”

Diana impatiently pushed back a strand of red-gold hair. “That's dumb. What does she have to be scared about?”

I wasn't sure. Perhaps Connor had memories of Roddy Worrell that she could not bear to face.

Diana pushed up from the chair. “We've got to help Dad. Grandma, will you call him? See about going out to dinner. There's no way we can eat here tonight. You know she had that special dinner planned…”

Going out to dinner would scarcely serve as a panacea. But Diana was right. The dinner to celebrate the coming wedding wouldn't do at all. “You call, Diana.” This was not the time for Lloyd's former mother-in-law to take charge.

She hesitated, then strode to the telephone. As she picked up the receiver, I said, “Suggest Flanagan's. It's loud, lots of excitement. There's a reggae band tonight.” I'd found that announcement in
The Royal Gazette
. Flanagan's also had a terrific sports bar. Richard and I had been here in summer and we'd gone several evenings to catch the telecast of the Yankees. “There will be plenty of soccer and lots of noise.”

Diana punched Lloyd's room number. Her hand gripped the receiver so tightly I turned my head away. There was too much pain on this night that should have been a happy night prefacing a new beginning.
In Connor's “Programme,” a series of entwined hearts circled the menu planned for this evening. I would have spoken with Lloyd if I thought it would help, but I was not the right person. I would have tried to see Connor but, again, I wasn't the right person.

“Dad.” Diana's voice was hearty. “Listen, Neal and I thought it might be fun to go into Hamilton tonight. There's a neat sports bar”—she glanced toward me and I nodded—“yes, Flanagan's.” She checked her watch. “How about seven? I'll call for a taxi. Oh, that's okay, I can call”—she paused, nodded. “Okay. See you then.”

She put down the phone, squeezed her eyes shut. Tears slipped down her cheeks.

I reached out for a tissue, rose. I gently touched her cheeks, then held her in my arms. “I know, honey.”

“He's trying to sound”—she gulped back a sob—“like it's any old Friday night and Neal and I are in town and we're going out. He said he'd call for the taxi. You know, he's Dad and he's in charge. Oh, damn that woman.”

 

A string quartet played Debussy, a nice complement to the elegance of the dining room, the rich amber of the cedar walls, the fresh-cut flowers, the shiny damask tablecloths. I touched the pearl choker at my throat as I paused in the wide entryway. Only four tables were occupied, most of them with two or four guests, and these tables were near the main entrance. The far reaches of the room drowsed in darkness. I'd half expected to have our table to myself.