Resort to Murder (18 page)

Steve and Aaron pushed back their chairs, stood as I approached.

I nodded. “Good evening.”

Steve almost managed a smile, but it drooped into a tired frown. “Hello.” Aaron's voice was subdued.

I hesitated, then took a chair next to Aaron, not the seating we'd followed since our arrival.

Aaron looked surprised, then dropped into his chair.

Steve sat down heavily. “Goddamn mess, isn't it?” He was talking to me.

“A shame.” I unfolded my napkin, placed it in my lap.

Aaron glanced toward the archway. “Anybody else coming? Marlow and Jasmine are with Connor.” He nodded toward Steve. “So it's just us.”

“Lloyd and the children have gone into Hamilton.” I picked up the water goblet. “I understand you are flying back to Atlanta tomorrow.” Aaron looked at Steve.

The lawyer's face tightened. “It seemed the best way to handle everything.” His eyes dared me to disagree. “Connor should be at home.”

We spoke in jerky half-sentences, talked about the weather, carefully did not talk about the gourmet dinner: green chili gazpacho, Caesar salad, roast rack of lamb, whipped potatoes with garlic, grilled vegetables, miniature cheese ravioli, and, finally, a heart-shaped serving of watermelon sorbet laced with raspberry-and-peach syrup and a glacé of brown sugar.

Aaron moved restively in his seat as the waiter replenished our coffee cups. No doubt Aaron was eager to be free of the dining room and the oh-so-cheerless meal. Free to do what? The wind still howled around the building and occasional bursts of rain spattered the windows.

“Ugly night.” Steve stared toward the dark windows.

“A very ugly night.” I meant every word. I looked from Aaron to Steve: “Maybe we can make it better. You've both figured it out, haven't you?”

They looked at me blankly.

I put down my coffee cup with a sharp clink. “It's obvious that the message was put on the table in Connor's room to upset her, to encourage her to fight with Lloyd.” I paused, spoke deliberately. “Someone wanted to stop the wedding. We need to figure out who did it. We need to tell Connor—”

Steve flung down his napkin, pushed back his chair, stood. “Mrs. Collins, you don't know what the hell you're talking about.” He looked down at me with steely dislike. “Connor's a sensitive creature. She can't handle stress. Lloyd's acted like an ass. No way should she marry a man who can't give her support. Damn good thing this happened.”

As he walked away, I called after him, “Support you are quite willing to provide?”

Steve kept right on going.

“Sheesh.” Aaron stared at me, his eyes wide.

I caught his gaze, held it, knew my own eyes blazed with a hot anger. “True or false?” I demanded.

Aaron blinked, studied me with quizzical blue eyes. Then he grinned, a lopsided, charming smile. “Hey, I'm just an innocent bystander.” He stuck out a strong brown hand. “Truce?” His unruly hair tumbled down on his face. His eyes had a friendly-spaniel uncertainty.

I took his hand, gave it a firm shake. “Sure.” But I wasn't above taking advantage of Aaron's youth, if I could. “I'll bet you'd like a little more substantial dessert than the sorbet, right?”

His eyes lighted. “Do you think I could?”

“For what our hosts are paying for these dinners, I certainly think so.” I lifted my hand. William, our waiter, a slender blond with a serious face, was there in an instant.

“There's a dessert cart, isn't there, William?”

“Oh, yes, ma'am. I'll bring it over.” In a moment, he'd trundled the cart to the table. “Key lime pie. Trifle. Raspberry cheesecake. Burnt-sugar cake. Chocolate mousse with peppermint.”

Aaron surveyed the offerings. “The burnt-sugar cake, I'll have that.”

William looked toward me.

I shook my head. “No, thanks. But I'll have more coffee, please. ”

Aaron forked a bite of the cake. “Mmm.”

“A favorite of yours?” I sipped my coffee.

“You bet.” He picked up another bite, frowned. “Seems kind of mean to be enjoying dinner so much. Poor Connor's a wreck. But it will probably work out for the best. Old Steve's been waiting in the wings all along.” He gave me a stricken look. “Sorry. Lloyd's a good guy.”

“Do you think Steve is interested in Connor?” I tried to sound only mildly interested.

Aaron swept up a curl of brown icing. “Oh, big time. Steve played it cool for a while after his wife died. But last year, until Lloyd showed up, Connor was paying a lot of attention to Steve. I don't think there was anything going on before his wife died. Connor's not like that.” He spoke faster. “I don't want you to get the wrong idea. See, Connor”—and he planted his elbow on the table, looked at me seriously—“is kind of nuts about guys. Marlow explained it to me. Connor needs lots of attention—”

Yes, I remembered Marlow's apologia quite well. Aaron had it down pat.

“—but she doesn't mean anything by it. That's what caused the trouble with that Roddy guy. That's why
she's so spooked by this ghost business.” He finished the cake, absently pushed the plate back. “Are you serious about thinking somebody planned this stuff to scare Connor and cancel the wedding?” He shook his head, didn't give me a chance to answer. “Aw no, that can't be. The only people unhappy about the wedding…” It was obviously a new and unwelcome thought. “No.” The word fell between us. He stared at me with suddenly anxious eyes. “Oh, hey, that can't be right. Anyway, Steve's a good guy. He wasn't happy about Lloyd, but hey, he was handling it real well.” As we walked out of the dining room, I felt Aaron's gaze on me. I'd worried him, no doubt about that.

Maybe in the morning, Chief Inspector Foster would call. Marlow, Aaron, or Steve, one of them.

I
FINISHED dressing—navy blouse, white corduroy slacks, well-worn sneakers—and debated whether to make a pot of coffee. The dining room would open for breakfast in a quarter hour. I decided instead to go to the gardens for a walk. I'd left the curtain open last night and this morning the sun poured, rich as a river of gold, through the glass door to the balcony. A lovely day awaited us, as if the scudding clouds and gale-force winds of yesterday had never occurred. The wedding could have proceeded as planned in Victoria Park. Had anyone called, canceled the decoration of the bandstand? But that wasn't my responsibility. I frowned, the loveliness of the morning receding before the reality of the day.

I stopped at the closet for a sweater. As I slipped it off the hanger, I heard a thudding sound. I remained with my arm raised, the sweater dangling from my hand, listening. There was urgency in that pounding. I moved fast, yanking open my door and stepping into the hall.

Marlow stood at the door to her mother's room. “Mother! Mother!” She rattled the knob, knocked again, knocked hard, as if she'd knocked many times
before. “Mother, answer the door!” Her voice was high and frightened. Her dark hair flowed loose, vivid against the crimson of her dressing gown.

Jasmine darted into the hall, golden hair tousled, rubbing sleepy eyes. “Marlow, what's wrong?”

Doors opened up and down the hall. Steve swiped his half-shaven face with a hand towel. Chest bare, he held the waist of silver-gray silk pajama pants. “What's going on?” Aaron, wearing only green-and-black-plaid boxers, reached Marlow in two quick strides. “Doesn't your mom answer? Maybe she's sick.” He lifted a well-muscled arm, battered the wooden panel.

The door to the next room banged open. “What's all the noise?” Lloyd, unshaven, glowered and pressed his hands against his head. “Who the hell's making so much noise?”

Aaron ignored him, struck the door again and again.

Marlow cried, “Mother doesn't answer. I've knocked and knocked.”

Lloyd rubbed his eyes. His red-blond hair was limp, his face an unhealthy grayish white, his eyes bloodshot. He fumbled with faded blue jeans, ineffectually tried to push his wrinkled T-shirt into the waistband. “What do you mean? How come she doesn't answer?”

Neal poked his head out of his room. “Is something wrong?” He was neatly dressed in a polo and khaki shorts, but his dark hair was damp and unruly. He held a brush in his hand. Diana hurried from her room, pulling on a gray sweatshirt. She skidded to a stop by me. “Grandma, what's happening?”

“They can't rouse Connor.” There was no response behind that door. “Diana, go to the desk. Get a key. Quick.”

Without a word, she jerked around and ran down the hall, long legs swift.

I walked purposefully toward Lloyd.

Aaron had stopped pounding. He used both hands to rattle the knob. “Connor. Connor, wake up!” Steve stood beside him, leaned against the door, shouted, “Connor, Connor!”

Lloyd gripped the doorjamb, looked wildly up and down the hall. “She's gone for a walk. That has to be it. Or for breakfast…” The words trailed away. Connor had breakfasted in her room every morning. She was rarely finished with coffee and the newspaper before nine. It was not quite seven.

I reached Lloyd, smelled stale whiskey. “The connecting door, Lloyd.” I pointed into his room.

Lloyd stared at the floor. “That's no good.” His voice could scarcely be heard. “She locked it last night. Damnit, she locked it.”

Steve pushed roughly past Lloyd. “We can try.” Aaron was on Steve's heels. Aaron fumbled with the light switch. The light came on, revealing tightly drawn curtains, rumpled bed, clothes thrown in a heap on the floor. On the table sat a bottle of whiskey and a half-full tumbler.

“Won't do any good,” Lloyd mumbled. He glowered at Steve and Aaron. The rest of us gathered outside his doorway. Marlow watched Steve and Aaron. Jasmine clung to her sister's robe. Aaron looked over his shoulder at me. “Stay with them.” Neal squeezed past me to stand by his father. Lloyd slumped against the wall, face drooping, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Steve reached the connecting door. He grabbed the knob, turned, and the door swung in. “Hey, Connor,”
his voice rising with relief, “Steve here, honey. Connor—” He stopped, frozen, rigid, as if he'd slammed into a wall. “Oh God, oh God.”

Aaron came up behind Steve. He looked past the lawyer and his face emptied with shock.

Lloyd pushed away from the wall, peered toward the two men.

Steve swung around. He took a deep breath, another. “Get back, all of you.” His face was twisted in shock. “Get out—”

Lloyd squinted. “Connor?” His voice was uncertain, frightened. “Is something wrong with Connor?”

Steve stood in the doorway, looked at Lloyd as if he didn't know him, as if they were strangers. “You said the door was locked.” His tone was accusatory.

“Locked? Yeah, it was locked.” Lloyd looked bewildered. “How did you open it? Where's Connor? Why doesn't she answer?” He moved heavily toward Steve. “Where's Connor?”

“Get back, Lloyd.” Steve blocked the doorway.

“Connor?” Lloyd reached Steve, grabbed his arm, poked his head into the room. He gave a deep, harsh grunt. “Connor—oh, no, no, no…” Lloyd's face had the sheen of wax.

Steve shoved him roughly away, slammed the connecting door. “We've got to call the police.”

“Mother?” Marlow's voice was a thin whisper.

I slipped my arm around her shoulders, pulled her gently into the hallway. I reached down and gripped Jasmine's small hand.

Marlow tried to get free. She squirmed and twisted, struggling to get back to Lloyd's room.

“No.” I held tight. “Come with me.” The horror in Steve's voice, the shock in Aaron's gaze, the sickly
pallor of Lloyd's face warned me that Connor's daughters must not look into that room.

Aaron came up beside us, his chest heaving as if he had run a long distance. He tried to talk. “Your room, Marlow. Go there. Now.”

“Mother.” Marlow's face crumpled. “What's happened to Mother?” Jasmine trembled.

Aaron blinked. “Somebody…Somebody hurt her. Marlow, oh, Marlow, I'm so sorry.” His voice wavered. He pulled Marlow into his embrace, pressed his face against the top of her head. Marlow clung to him.

Jasmine began to cry. I slipped my arm around her. “We're going to your room. Come on, honey.”

The door to Marlow and Jasmine's room was open as Jasmine had left it when she followed her sister into the hall, seeking their mother. I settled the girls on the sofa and stood in the doorway so that I could intercept Diana when she returned with the key. “Call nine-one-one, Aaron.”

Aaron punched the numbers. “I want to report a murder.” His eyes were wide with remembered horror.

Footsteps thudded in the hallway. Diana saw me in the doorway, held up a key. She looked at my face and stumbled to a stop. “Grandma?”

“Connor's dead.” I reached out my hand.

Diana shook her head. “She can't be dead. She can't be!”

Behind me, I heard Aaron, his voice unnaturally high, “…that's right, a murder. Tower Ridge House. Room thirty-two. Mrs. Connor Bailey. Yes, yes, I'm sure she's dead. She was”—his face anguished, he looked at Marlow—“she was strangled.”

 

The long narrow conference room, comfortably furnished with several sofas and easy chairs, overlooked
the upper terrace through French windows. A sideboard held an assortment of pastries, a bowl of fruit, and a coffee service. Mrs. Worrell had arranged for breakfast in these private quarters after the police closed off our wing.

Marlow, staring stonily out the windows, cuddled Jasmine on a far sofa. Marlow had pulled on a crumpled pink blouse, black slacks. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her face was white, her eyes red-rimmed. Jasmine's hair hadn't been brushed. There was a chocolate stain on her white blouse and her shorts were sandy. She pressed her face against her sister's shoulder. Aaron perched on the sofa arm, one hand on Marlow's shoulder. Occasionally, he gave a deep sigh, brushed a hand through his curly hair, looked around the room as if seeking help. Steve stood at an open window, facing toward the sea, his back to all of us. His head was bent forward. His hands hung at his sides. Occasionally, a shudder rippled through the muscles of his shoulders.

At the opposite end of the room, the Drake family slumped on another sofa, this one facing the door to the hall. Lloyd was still unshaven. One hand plucked nervously at a worn place on his jeans. Diana had pulled off her sweatshirt, crumpled it in a ball. She stared at the door but every so often her eyes jerked toward her father. Neal stared blankly at the floor.

A young policewoman stood near the hall door.

No one spoke. The silence was oppressive. I felt, too, that the division between the families was deliberate, marked, and, on the part of Connor's family, hostile. I don't know when that became apparent to Neal and Diana, but slowly the realization had come. Neal and Steve exchanged angry stares. Diana reached out,
gripped her father's arm. Lloyd slowly lifted his face, looked at her, eyes burning with tears.

It seemed that we'd been together, yet each of us so separate, for many hours, but it was only a few minutes past eleven when the door opened and Chief Inspector Foster stepped inside. He spoke in a low tone, too low to be overheard, to the constable, then surveyed the room.

Marlow hugged Jasmine, then slowly stood. Her eyes burned with questions. She walked toward Foster. They met near a shining mahogany table in the center of the room. A huge cut-glass vase with daffodils and birds-of-paradise sat on the table.

“Miss Bailey, you have my deepest sympathy.” The inspector's face was somber.

Marlow pushed back a strand of dark hair, managed to retain her composure though her hand shook. “Thank you, Chief Inspector. Please, tell me what happened to my mother.”

Slowly, as if drawn to that place, we all rose and gathered near enough to listen as Foster spoke.

He spoke quickly. “The time of death is estimated to have been between midnight and three
A. M
.” Foster rocked forward a little on his feet. Sometimes the task of a policeman is grim indeed. “She was strangled. The autopsy will determine whether the cause of death was asphyxia or a broken neck. From the color of her skin, the ruling likely will be asphyxia.”

Marlow pressed her hands to her cheeks. Jasmine clung to her sister. Aaron said thickly, “Maybe that's enough, Inspector.”

“Was she able to—” I hesitated. I'd intended to ask whether Connor had been able to claw her attacker. Instead, I said, “Resist in any fashion?”

His glance at me was quick and appraising. “That
will be determined during the autopsy procedures, Mrs. Collins.”

I met his stare. “How was she strangled?” I heard Marlow's quick-drawn breath and I was sorry, but the answer mattered.

Steve jerked toward me, glared. I understood his repugnance. But I asked for a purpose.

Foster said blandly, “These matters are under investigation.”

I felt stymied. Foster was speaking, but not communicating. Was Connor strangled manually? Or had a rope or cord of some sort been used? But obviously, Foster didn't intend to reveal any fact which might be of use to him in his interviews.

Foster's eyes moved from person to person.

Lloyd wavered unsteadily, his face sagging. His bristly face puffy and pale, he'd never managed to tuck the rest of the T-shirt into his blue jeans and he looked disheveled and disreputable. Diana, her face bare of makeup, clutched her father's arm. Neal gave a deep sigh. Marlow hugged her little sister and leaned against Aaron. Steve, his face hard and suspicious, watched Lloyd.

“Oh God.” Lloyd's moan was deep and agonized. “Oh God, it's my fault.”

The stillness was abrupt.

Steve took an angry step toward Lloyd.

Foster held up his hand. “Wait, Mr. Jennings.” There was absolute authority in his voice.

The lawyer jolted to a stop, though his hands balled into fists. He'd dressed hurriedly, a wrinkled shirt and trousers from yesterday and sand-stained boat shoes. His half-shaven face looked lopsided, but he was still an imposing man, a dangerous enemy.

Lloyd was unaware of the circle of watching faces, the pain and fear in the eyes of his children, the anger and dislike in the glares of Marlow and Aaron and Steve. Lloyd's lips trembled. His breaths were labored. “I got mad at her.” The words came in uneven spurts, as if he pulled them from deep within.

The silence was cold and hostile, sharp and ugly as barbs on a gaff.

Lloyd touched his head as if every strand of hair hurt, as if his skin flamed in agony. “She was so scared. That message—‘I'm coming for you'—somebody put it on the table in her room and it scared her and she wanted to go home. She acted like the wedding was just something we could forget about, that all that mattered was to leave. I got mad. Oh God, I got mad! I didn't listen. And somebody did come for her, somebody came and killed her”—Lloyd was sobbing now—“and it's my fault. I should have listened. I should have taken her in my arms and held her and told her it was all right. Oh, God, I was supposed to take care of her”—Lloyd turned away, burying his face in his hands. He stumbled blindly toward a sofa, flung himself down.

Diana followed her father, dropping to her knees beside the sofa. She gripped his hand. “Dad, it's not your fault. Dad, nobody could have known—”

“Oh, yeah.” Steve's voice grated. He stared at Lloyd with loathing and a deep, pulsing anger. “Somebody knew. I think Lloyd knew. He's the murderer. He killed Connor. He got mad at her and he killed her because he was eaten up with jealousy. Ask him how he yelled at her, accused her of chasing another man. Ask him how mad he got when she begged me to help her go home. Connor realized what kind of man he was and she
called off the wedding. So he killed her. Damn him to hell, he killed her!”