Resort to Murder (19 page)

“And he lied about the door!” Aaron paced toward Foster. “That's important.” Aaron swung toward the lawyer. “Steve, tell him.” Aaron pointed at the chief inspector. “Tell him about the door.”

Lloyd's hands fell away from his face. He looked at Steve, then at Aaron. Slowly, he began to shake his head. Awkwardly, as if it took every ounce of energy he possessed, he pushed himself to his feet, leaned forward as if to hear better. “Wait a minute, what are you talking about? What door are you talking about?”

“The connecting door.” Aaron's tone was urgent.

Marlow's voice was high and shrill. “That's what must have happened. Oh my God.”

Lloyd turned toward her, his face stricken. “Marlow, you can't believe that.”

“Quiet, please.” Foster's sharp tone threw them back into silence, a silence that quivered with anger and fear. “I will interview everyone in turn and we will determine all of the facts in due order. Miss Bailey, I will speak with you first.” His gaze slid over us. “I am requesting that the rest of you remain here until you are summoned.” He nodded toward the uniformed policewoman. “Police Constable Phillips will be on duty.”

Steve moved quickly to Marlow's side. “I will accompany Miss Bailey.” He didn't ask; he announced. “I am both a longtime family friend and the lawyer for Mrs. Bailey's estate.”

Chief Inspector Foster nodded gravely. “I'm sure Miss Bailey appreciates your support, Mr. Jennings. However, I will first speak with each witness privately. Miss Bailey is not a suspect in her mother's death and is not in need of counsel.”

“Nonetheless, Inspector”—Steve's voice was combative—“she has a right to have counsel present and I am going to insist upon that right.”

Aaron reached out toward Marlow. “Miss Bailey is my fiancée. I want to be with her.”

Marlow shook her head impatiently. “I don't need anyone with me. Let's not slow things down.” Her eyes touched Lloyd's face, jerked away as if she couldn't bear to see him. “Besides, Steve, I want you and Aaron to stay with Jasmine.” She bent down, kissed her sister's blond curls, whispered.

Jasmine nodded twice. “Okay.” She rubbed at her eyes. She looked toward Lloyd, took a step in his direction. “Lloyd, you didn't hurt Mom. Did you?”

“No, never. I never did. Jasmine, honey, I loved your mother.” Tears brimmed in his eyes. “You know that, don't you?”

Jasmine reached out, grabbed her sister's hand. “See, Lloyd didn't do it.”

Marlow shuddered. “Baby, please, we'll talk later. You stay with Steve and Aaron. Okay?”

For an instant, Jasmine resisted, then she moved away, with Steve's hand on her shoulder.

As the door closed behind Foster and Marlow, the occupants of the room were divided again, Steve and Aaron standing near the windows by Jasmine, Neal and Diana following their father back to the sofa.

The breeze through the open French window ruffled Aaron's hair. He leaned forward. “Hey, Jasmine, take a look. Way out there.” He pointed. “Can you see the ship?”

She tumbled to her feet, ran to the window. “Where? I don't see it!”

Aaron knelt beside her. “This way.” He lifted her hand, held it to the south. “Look straight—”

The policewoman was watching Jasmine and Aaron.

I drifted casually closer to Lloyd and the children. My back was to the policewoman. “Lloyd, don't talk to Chief Inspector Foster without a lawyer present.” I spoke softly.

Diana and Neal looked at me with scared, sick eyes.

Lloyd's head jerked up. “Henrie, you don't believe Steve, do you? You can't think I would hurt Connor?” His eyes were stricken and desperate.

I looked deep into his eyes, saw pain and despair and misery. But if he had killed Connor, that would be precisely what I should expect to see. I didn't answer him directly. I hoped he was innocent. I wanted him to be innocent. I would do everything possible to help him establish his innocence. But, at this moment, I didn't know who had murdered Connor. I did know this was the father of my grandchildren and I would give him the advice anyone in his situation should follow. “It doesn't matter what any of us think, Lloyd. Insist on counsel before you answer questions. That should keep you free from questioning until late today, possibly until Monday.”

Lloyd got up, faced me. “Hell, no. I don't need a lawyer.” He glared at me and, beyond me, at Steve and Aaron. “Goddamn, I didn't kill Connor. I can talk to the police. I'm not—”

The policewoman moved quickly toward us, her shoes clicking on the wooden floor. “If you please, sir.” She was soft-voiced but firm. “I will ask you to remain calm and not to speak until your interview with the chief inspector is concluded.”

Perhaps only a lawyer would have the arrogance to think that the advice common to all in a criminal investigation need not apply to himself. Of course, Lloyd was not a criminal lawyer.

“Grandma!” Diana's voice wobbled.

“It will work out,” I said briskly, but I didn't look directly at Diana or Neal. I turned away. I'd done my best. I walked toward the young policewoman and murmured, “There's a rest room in the hallway near the desk. I'll be back in a moment.”

“Yes, ma'am.” She followed me toward the door, resumed her patient stance by the entrance.

In an instant, I was in the hall. I walked swiftly toward the main lobby, my goal the short hallway that contained the telephones, rest rooms, and, of course, the cardroom where Chief Inspector Foster was interviewing Marlow.

I
REACHED the short hallway and was relieved to find it empty. I slipped past the cardroom and reached the second door. I turned the knob, moved the door quietly and slipped inside. The light was off, but sunlight slanted through the partially open wooden blinds. It came as no surprise that Mrs. Worrell stood near the connecting door, which, once again, was ajar the merest sliver, not enough to attract notice but quite adequate to overhear the conversation. Moreover, as I recalled the cardroom, Chief Inspector Foster sat with his back to this door.

Thelma Worrell's mossy-green dress sagged against her, emphasizing her height. She was a big woman. She hunched beside the connecting door, her bony face intent. One hand clutched the double-strand carnelian necklace that echoed the dull orange of her hair. She darted an angry yet defensive look toward me.

I tiptoed across the floor, came up beside her, and bent my head to listen.

“…Mother was terrified. I tried to convince her she shouldn't be afraid, that the silly message was just an ugly prank, but she insisted we fly home immediately. Of course, that infuriated Lloyd. She didn't even seem
to focus on the fact that the wedding was canceled. All she could think about was getting away from here.” Marlow's voice wavered. “If only we could have flown out yesterday.”

Chief Inspector Foster's chair creaked. “Did Mr. Drake make any threats against your mother?”

Her reply was slow in coming. Finally, doubtfully, she said, “No. No, he was really mad, but it was the red-faced, shouting kind of mad. I never thought he would hurt Mother. None of us thought that or we would have stayed all night with her.”

“You've said she was frightened. Exactly what did she fear?” The chief inspector sounded puzzled.

Marlow sighed. “Oh, it's all so stupid. She thought Roddy Worrell was a ghost and he was going to come back and kill her.”

“A ghost.” He was silent for a moment, then said briskly, “I understand there were sightings of some kind of phenomena near the tower. Why should your mother believe that Mr. Worrell—or his ghost—would intend to harm her?”

“Oh, it isn't rational. But Mother felt guilty about his death,” Marlow said reluctantly.

Thelma Worrell drew her breath in sharply.

“And why is that?” Foster was polite but insistent.

Marlow didn't answer.

Foster waited a moment. “Miss Bailey?” Clearly he wanted an answer.

“It's very complicated, Chief Inspector. Mother was very attractive to men and she loved attention. But she didn't expect men to take her seriously. Unfortunately, Mr. Worrell became very upset when she made it clear she wasn't looking for any kind of long-term relationship.” Marlow cleared her throat. “I think Mother was
afraid he jumped from the tower because he was upset and had been drinking heavily. She felt guilty.”

“Yes.” The whisper was so faint I might have imagined it, but I didn't imagine the burning hatred in Mrs. Worrell's tortured eyes.

The chief inspector rustled a paper. “So your mother saw the message on the table and she thought Mr. Worrell's ghost was going to come for her.”

“It's so terrible. She was afraid she was going to die—and she did.” Marlow clapped her hands together. “If only I had stayed with her.”

“Why didn't you?” He said it quietly.

“I thought it was all nonsense.” There was a sharpness in her reply. “And, of course, it was. She wasn't killed by a ghost. We spent the evening with her. Jasmine and I had dinner in her room. I helped her pack. Steve had taken care of getting the tickets changed. He came up after dinner. We had her calmed down and almost cheerful. Before we left—oh, I think it was about ten—Steve checked the sliding door to the balcony. I saw him swing shut the metal rod that prevents the door from opening. Mother locked the door to Lloyd's room. Out in the hall, I waited until I heard the chain in place. There was no way anyone could get into that room.”

Marlow was right. At that moment, no one could have entered Connor's room. Obviously, Connor later opened either the hall door or the connecting door to Lloyd's room or opened the balcony door. Finding out which could make the difference between life and death for Lloyd Drake.

Foster tapped a pen on the card table. “The chain was in place when we arrived this morning.”

The muscles in my throat tightened. If the chain was in place this morning…

Marlow saw it at once. “That means whoever killed Mother came through Lloyd's room.” A quick-drawn breath. “So it must have been Lloyd.” There was a faint uncertainty in her voice.

“Not necessarily, Miss Bailey.” He spoke matter-of-factly. “Your mother might have admitted her killer through the hall door and the chain could have been hooked after her death. She might have opened the sliding door to the balcony. The only fact of which we can be positive is that the murderer exited from her room through the connecting door to Mr. Drake's room, since the hall door was chained and the bar was in place at the balcony door when her body was found this morning. Of course, the murderer also could have been admitted through the connecting door.” Foster clearly understood the possibilities.

“Lloyd's room…” There was horror in Marlow's voice. “Mother thought Lloyd was wonderful. Even as upset as she was, if he'd called to her, apologized, she was always so hungry for love. Oh, God, she would have opened that door…”

Foster said quickly, “Do you think Mr. Drake was responsible for the message which presumably was left by Mr. Worrell's ghost?”

“Oh, no.” Her surprise was evident. “Why would he do that?”

Foster waited.

“That message…” Marlow thought out loud. “Somebody who hated Mother left it. And the only person—” She broke off.

“The only person…” The chief inspector repeated her words.

Marlow's tone was reluctant. “Mrs. Worrell. She must have left that message. She looks at Mother—
looked at Mother—as though she'd like to push her out of the tower.”

Mrs. Worrell twisted the beads in her fingers, hunched her head between her shoulders like a turtle drawing into its shell.

I looked at the manager's rigid face, willing her to lift her eyes, to meet my gaze.

She remained as still as a snake poised to strike emanating malignancy.

“Chief Inspector?” Marlow's voice was breathless. “Do you think Mrs. Worrell—”

A knock sounded. A door opened. “Chief Inspector, excuse me, please.” The musical voice was strained.

“What is it, Constable?” His voice was patient.

“The older lady, sir. Among the witnesses still to be seen. She asked to be excused to go to the ladies room and she hasn't returned. I checked the rest room and she isn't there. Apparently, she is still in the hotel or on the grounds. There has been no call for a taxi and…”

I was already at the hall door, pulling it open, peeking out. I stepped into the hall, closed the door behind me, and lightly ran to the exit, propped it open, hurried outside, turned about, and reentered the hall just as the door to the cardroom opened. I let the outer door slam behind me.

The young policewoman looked toward the exit. “Ma'am!”

I smiled and strolled toward her. “Yes, officer?”

“You did not return.” Her tone was sharp.

“Return?” I looked blank. “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know it mattered. I've just been out for some air. Do you need me?” I picked up my pace.

Chief Inspector Foster came to the doorway.

I strode toward him. “Are you ready for me, Chief
Inspector?” If I was lucky, he'd agree to speak with me now, then I would be free to discover what I could and hope the damning facts against Lloyd could be explained away. However, I looked at the chief inspector with only casual inquiry, as if his decision were of little moment.

He hesitated, shrugged. “If you'll wait here in the hallway for a moment, Mrs. Collins?”

“Of course.”

He nodded at the policewoman, said, “Thank you, Constable,” and shut the door.

I sat down on an upholstered bench near the pay phone. I had learned a very important—and sobering—fact through my eavesdropping: Connor's hall door had been chained. I wanted to talk to Lloyd. Would he claim to have slept so heavily, so deeply that someone might have moved through his room? But how had access to his room been obtained? Yes, I needed to talk to Lloyd. He had either lied about the connecting door's being locked or he'd meant that it was locked on Connor's side, not his. But whichever, facts consistent with his guilt were stacking up, much like scraps of timber that could flame into a devouring fire.

I pushed away thoughts of Diana and Neal. Their father…If he was guilty, that would be a burden on them throughout their lives. But, even worse, if Lloyd was innocent yet falsely accused, the pain would be even greater. I wanted Lloyd to be innocent, but deep inside I could not swear that he was.

I wished I were still crouched next to Mrs. Worrell. However, I could imagine much of the rest of the chief inspector's inquiry. Was Marlow on good terms with her mother? Had Connor approved of Marlow's en
gagement? Whom might Foster contact in Atlanta for information about Connor's estate? What was Steve Jennings's attitude toward Connor's planned marriage? Was Jennings hostile to or jealous of Lloyd Drake?

The door opened. Marlow didn't notice me on the bench. She walked back toward the main lobby, shoulders slumped, gait leaden.

I looked after her for a moment. She was in such pain. Whatever I could do to help, however little it might be, I would do. I walked toward Foster.

The chief inspector held the door for me, closed it behind us.

I took the chair that faced the card table and the connecting door, my gaze sliding over the slight opening.

Foster stopped beside the card table, jingled some coins in his pocket. “Where were you, Mrs. Collins?”

I looked at him steadily. “I stepped outside. I wanted to think.” It was true as far as it went.

Foster drew out his chair, dropped into it with athletic grace. He nodded toward a corner where a young man with rather long dark hair and a tweedy jacket sat on a straight chair, pad of paper on his knee, pen in hand. “Detective Sergeant Barnes will transcribe our interview. If you have no objection.”

I wondered if an objection would result in detention? But I had no objection. “That's fine, Chief Inspector.”

He eased back in his chair, placed his fingertips together, and regarded me thoughtfully. I was reminded of the old children's rhyme. If only he could turn his fingers and out would come a murderer. “When did you last see Mrs. Bailey?”

The question surprised me. I'd expected to be queried about the message found yesterday afternoon and Connor's response and Lloyd's anger. But, of
course, I'd already described that episode to him. He was not going to cover old ground.

“Shortly before I called you. Marlow took her mother into the bathroom because she was angry”—I wished I could change the words, but it was too late—“with Lloyd.”

“Mrs. Bailey slapped Mr. Drake.” Foster's eyes were half closed.

“Yes.” I didn't elaborate.

“You didn't see her again?”

“No. I went to my room, called you. My granddaughter came and we had a brief visit. She and her father and brother went out to dinner. I had dinner here with Steve Jennings and Aaron Reed.” I remembered Steve's angry departure. “You might ask Aaron whether Steve Jennings was in love with Connor.”

Foster dropped his hands to the table. “Are you suggesting that Mr. Jennings would kill Mrs. Bailey rather than see her marry Mr. Drake?”

I massaged my temple, a headache created by tension and lack of food. “I know that sounds absurd. But there could be other reasons. Perhaps Steve has embezzled funds from Connor. She didn't strike me as a sophisticated woman about money. But I'm quite sure he didn't want to see her marry Lloyd.” I spoke with confidence. “And if he isn't a thwarted lover, why should it matter to him?”

“Perhaps”—and the chief inspector's tone was dry—“as a longtime friend of the family, Mr. Jennings didn't trust Mr. Drake.” He cleared his throat. “In any event, you didn't see Mrs. Bailey after the incident of the message. To your knowledge”—he emphasized the last word—“had anyone at any time threatened harm to Mrs. Bailey?”

Marlow and Steve didn't want Connor to marry Lloyd and both Diana and Neal opposed the marriage, but that certainly had no relevance here. I looked at Foster bleakly. “I don't know of any threat to Connor.” It was an admission that I didn't have any idea who might want to kill Connor. And I saw no correlation between the murder of George Smith and the murder of Connor Bailey. “Except…Mrs. Worrell. She blamed Connor for her husband's death.”

“I understand that is so. I will speak with Mrs. Worrell.” I wondered that he didn't feel the anger pulsing so near him behind that slightly open door. He stood. “Very well, Mrs. Collins. I appreciate your cooperation.”

Our interview was at an end. I rose, moved toward the door, then looked back at him. “Chief Inspector, Mr. Drake is my former son-in-law.”

Foster's face was impassive.

Pictures of Lloyd through the years fluttered in my mind: Emily and Lloyd hand in hand as they left their wedding reception; Lloyd bending down to scoop up the baby Diana; Lloyd at his mother's funeral; serious, intense Lloyd only days ago looking at me earnestly and saying, “Yes, it was love at first sight.”

“Chief Inspector.” I knew my words would not help, but I felt impelled to say them. “Lloyd is not a violent man. Oh, he can explode”—I remembered years ago when a car rear-ended Lloyd's and Emily had clamped her hand on his arm to keep him in the car until his temper was under control—“but he is genuinely kind and decent and serious.” He'd won the heart of a little girl as well as that of her mother. “The idea that he would strangle a woman…” I took a deep breath, forced myself to ask, “Was Connor bruised?” I
was thinking of a man torn by jealousy and heartbreak, losing control, grabbing a woman by her arms, gripping painfully tight, and those hands plunging toward her throat, squeezing until her face turned purple and her body sagged into death.