Resort to Murder (2 page)

I
STOOD beside a huge azure pot brimming with lace-white stephanotis, the sweet-smelling, trumpet-shaped wedding flower, and looked down a shallow flight of steps at the drive where a gleaming blue minivan waited, door ajar. From this vantage point, I could see the main part of the hotel, the wall marking the upper terrace, the steps leading down to the pool on the lower terrace, and look down the hillside to the tumbled blackish gray rocks and the rich sheen of turquoise water.

In the drive, a tall, slump-shouldered woman with frizzy orange hair polished a side mirror. The van glistened with care, the paint glittering with wax. On the side was the legend
TOWER RIDGE HOUSE
and the outline in white paint of a crenellated tower. A van and driver were available by special arrangement with the hotel. All tourists travel by taxi, van, bus, moped or on foot on Bermuda, as there are no rental cars. In fact, each Bermudian family is limited to one car, an attempt to control the number of vehicles on the narrow curving roads which are treacherously slick during rains.

The woman gave a final energetic swipe, swung toward the steps, saw me. She tucked the cloth in the
pocket of her drooping brown cardigan and raised a thin hand in greeting. “Good morning, Mrs. Collins. We have another perfect day.” She spoke with the cheery firmness of a nursery-school teacher, but her eyes were somber.

“Good morning, Mrs. Worrell.” I smiled and started down the steps. I'd met the hotel manager upon our arrival. This morning I realized that she was older than I'd gauged, probably in her fifties, her freckled face lined and gaunt.

I reached the drive, walked toward the van. Mrs. Worrell nodded at me, then stood quite still, staring up the steps. For an instant, her blue eyes glinted, shiny and impenetrable as sunstruck metal. I felt a wave of malignancy. The feeling was gone as quickly as it came and I heard her cultivated voice raised in greeting: “Good morning, Mrs. Bailey, Mr. Drake. Everything is ready for the outing.”

I stared at the manager, but now she was smiling, and though the smile didn't reach her eyes, her manner was that of a genial, impersonal hostess. Surely I had imagined that instant of hostility. I turned to look up at Connor and Lloyd. They stood by the front door: Connor, her dark hair panther-sleek, her finely sculpted features glowing with health, and, it seemed to me, uncharacteristic eagerness and hope; and Lloyd, his squarish, ruddy face burnished by the sun, his pale green eyes squinting against the brightness. Connor wore a blue chambray dress, a pale rose cashmere cardigan over her shoulders. Lloyd's bright green blazer was so crisp it shouted its newness, and his gray wool slacks had a knife-edge crease. New clothes to begin new lives.

I pushed away the thought and the sadness that
swept me. Damnit, I was getting morbid. Of course everything is transitory. I knew that this day would roll into the next and the next and the next, and that Diana and Neal, coming up the stairs from the lower terrace, their movements confident and easy, would someday lose the swiftness of youth. But not right now. Right now they were young and I could take pleasure in their youth. Right now Connor and Lloyd, who were not young, had another chance to find life's most elusive prize and I wished them success.

Diana hurried up the stairs. “Dad, you've got to come down to the beach with us when we get back. Neal and I found the coolest place. You can see forever. It's way out on the headland. We thought maybe everybody—you and Connor and Marlow and Aaron and Jasmine and Steve and Grandma—could come and we could get a picture of all of us together.” Her smile was enamel-bright. She looked swiftly toward Connor. Captured in the golden pool of sunlight atop the steps, Diana stood with her head flung up, graceful and invincible as her huntress namesake.

Neal, hands jammed in his pockets, gave his sister an uneasy glance. Then he pulled free a hand, raised it in an easy salute. “Hi, Dad. Connor.”

Lloyd beamed. He reached out, pulled his daughter close, gave her shoulders a brisk squeeze. “That's a great idea.”

Connor's porcelain-cool face softened, looked suddenly vulnerable. The beginnings of a smile lifted the corners of her coral mouth. “All of us?” She usually spoke in a tired drawl, as if the words were almost too much trouble to utter. Now the tone was wondering and pleased.

Marlow's shoes scraped on the tiles. “Won't we get
enough pictures before the week's over, Mother?” Her voice was dry. “Pictures are such—” She broke off as Aaron slid his arm around her, nuzzled his face against her hair.

They were an unusual couple—Aaron remarkably handsome with curly brown hair, blue eyes, a blunt chin and merry smile; Marlow determinedly plain with her dark hair drawn sharply back, no makeup, but with arresting silver-flecked hazel eyes behind the unstylish glasses.

Aaron grinned at her. “There's no such thing as too many pictures. I want a bunch of us out on the headland. I hiked up there last night. Diana's right”—he nodded at my granddaughter—“you feel like you're on the edge of the world. I'll take a bunch. Of course,” and he glanced ruefully toward Diana, “I don't have a fancy camera like Diana's”—her Leica hung from a leather strap around her neck—“but my handy little disposable will do pretty good.”

Jasmine bounced up to her big sister and Aaron. She tugged on Aaron's sleeve. “Will you take my picture, Aaron? Out on the rocks? Me and Lloyd?” She swung toward her stepfather-to-be.

Connor's smile was pleased. “All of us together, Jasmine.”

Aaron tousled Jasmine's short hair. “Sure, kid. I'll be chief photographer, me and my disposable.” He slipped one arm through Jasmine's and the other through Marlow's and started down the steps.

The main door opened. Steve Jennings shaded his eyes from the sun. He saw Connor and his angular face creased in a lopsided smile. Jennings, though near in age to me, moved like a young Gary Cooper, confident, unhurried, commanding.

Lloyd suddenly stood straighter, but he looked small compared to Jennings.

Jennings's lazy drawl was casual. “Am I the last?” There was no apology in his tone, merely mild inquiry. “Almost skipped but thought it would be fun to see
Deliverance
again. Makes you grateful for creature comforts. I'm afraid I'd have stayed on the island.” His smile was self-deprecating.

Deliverance
is a replica of the ship built with the timbers from the wrecked
Sea Venture
and from planks from the island's luxuriant cedars. The tiny ship, forty feet long and nineteen feet wide, carried 132 people, crew and passengers, on its voyage from Bermuda to Jamestown in 1610. There was scarcely room to stand in its cramped interior and the cook had to manage with one big pot. But the little ship safely reached its goal.

“We're all here now.” Lloyd was just a little impatient. Impatience was one of his traits. He was always on time and expected punctuality from others. “All right, everyone. Connor thought we should start with St. George's—”

Brisk steps clattered around the corner from the upper terrace.

“—because it's the oldest—”

Curt Patterson saw their group on the stairs, threw his arms wide. “People! Hey, I thought this place was dead, then I heard you folks.” He had a salesman's sunny smile, an unsquashable here-I-am, I'm-your-buddy, laissez les bon temps rouler. “Hey, looks like you've got some action going. What's up?” He shoved his hand through his curly red hair, beamed at Connor.

There wasn't a woman alive who wouldn't have responded to that frank stare of admiration. Certainly not
a woman like Connor. Her vivid blue eyes sparkled. Her richly red lips curved in delight. “We're on our way to St. George's.” Connor gestured toward the hotel van.

The big Texan clapped his hands together. “Good deal. I've been here a half dozen times and never seen the place. But if you're going there—”

Mrs. Worrell cleared her throat. “Certainly, Mr. Patterson, if you wish to plan ahead for your party—your sister, Mrs. Elliot, and her husband, I believe—I will be happy to convey you there. Today the van is engaged by Mr. Drake.” Her crisp Bermudian accent, to American ears so very British, was quite pleasant but firm.

“Oh hey, sorry. I wouldn't want to horn in.” Patterson strode up the steps, stood looking down at Connor, stood perhaps an infinitesimal space too near. “Maybe some other time I'll—”

Connor reached out, touched his arm. “Oh, do come with us.” Her voice was eager. “There's plenty of room.” She looked down at Mrs. Worrell. “We've room, haven't we?”

“Connor.” Lloyd's tone was stiff.

“Why, Lloyd, it will be fun to have Curt with us. You said yourself—the more, the merrier.” She slipped her arm through Patterson's and started down the steps.

Diana gestured from below. “Hey, Dad, Neal and I will save you a seat.”

In the general movement toward the van, I followed Lloyd. I wished I could tell him to grin and catch up with Connor and slip his arm around her shoulders and tell Patterson about the plans for the wedding.

But Connor would probably invite Patterson and his sister and her husband to the wedding and I didn't
think that would make Lloyd happy either. At the door to the van, the big Texan took Connor's elbow: “Here you go, little lady.” And he swung up beside her. He looked over his shoulder, “Coming, Lloyd?”

Diana grabbed her dad's hand. “We're taking the back row. Those are the best seats.”

A tiny frown touched Connor's face, then she shrugged and patted the seat beside her for Patterson. “I can't believe you've never been to St. George's…”

I ended up in a seat by myself two rows in front of Neal and Diana and Lloyd. Marlow and Jasmine and Aaron sat behind me. I looked out at the masses of green shrubbery and occasional spots of color as the van curved on the twisting narrow road. Hibiscus blooms even in January, but the riot of color that I always remember of Bermuda would begin in March, especially the bougainvillea with blooms of purple, magenta and salmon. As I took pleasure in the lovely pastel houses, I wondered at the human capacity for stupidity. And boorishness. Patterson's booming laugh was exuberant. Connor giggled like a schoolgirl.

As the van veered from Collectors Hill Road into Middle Road, I half-turned, wondering about Lloyd and the children. Diana was talking to her father, her voice light and cheery, her face far too satisfied. I wanted to catch a moment alone with Diana. There was no way—no good way—to reconcile Diana's outburst on the headland and her apparently friendly overture to Connor on the hotel steps. One had to be false and I had no doubt which. What did Diana intend? What was her objective? Why corral everyone in our group for a photo session on the headland? That was the very place where this morning Diana had wished for Connor to
die. I didn't like remembering that moment, but I knew I had to talk to Diana. The sooner, the better.

If I hadn't been uneasy about Diana and concerned for Lloyd, I would have enjoyed the drive, the incredible vistas of the sea, the cottages in pastels softer than summer sunsets, and Mrs. Worrell's brisk commentary. She recommended future day trips to Spittal Pond and the Bermuda Aquarium, regretted that the Leamington Caves were closed but suggested a visit to the Crystal Caves, and pointed out a majestic old tamarind tree, a favorite lounging spot of Mark Twain, who thought Bermuda might well be preferable to heaven. And I listened to the snatches of conversation swirling within the van:

Connor: “…early Saturday afternoon and I hope the weather…”

Patterson: “…perfect spot to get married…”

Marlow: “…the last time we went down, there was a huge squid…”

Aaron: “…like to fish for barracuda…”

Jasmine: “…said there would be trifle tonight. I love…”

Neal: “…look at that catamaran…”

Diana: “…remember the time we…”

But not a word from Lloyd.

The van reached the causeway and I knew we were almost to St. George's. Mrs. Worrell pointed out Mullet Bay, where boats seized by privateers were held in the eighteen hundreds. At the entrance to the old town, we passed a pink-walled flower bed chock-full of purple pansies. The tourist area would be jammed in summer, but on this cool January day, there was plenty of parking available in the Town Square. January didn't offer fabulous blooms. It did offer quiet and peace. As
we climbed off the van, Mrs. Worrell pointed toward the Globe Hotel. “We'll start there. It's now the Bermuda National Trust Museum. Actually, it was built in 1699 to serve as the Governor's House and…”

I lagged behind the group moving toward the softly pink building. I had no wish to watch Lloyd's grim face. I wanted to grab his arm and say, “Laugh, Lloyd. Connor doesn't mean any harm and this is going to be the pattern of your lives.” I was equally ready to grab Diana's arm and give her a good shake and say, “Don't gloat, Dinny.” I couldn't at this moment do either. Moreover, Lloyd, hurt and angry, would neither listen nor understand. As for Diana, I'd get only a toss of her head and a bland expression.

I stopped. Neal and Diana had already disappeared into the building. I reached out a hand to brace myself against the rose-pink wall.

“Mrs. Collins, are you all right?” Steve Jennings was beside me, a firm hand on my elbow.

I blinked. I was dizzy, likely the result of worry combined with fatigue and too little breakfast and the lingering malaise from the pneumonia. I'd not had any appetite when I came in from my early rocky excursion. I was still hearing the ugly tone in Diana's voice, “I wish she'd die.”

Jennings and I were alone on the quiet street. “Would you like to rest for a moment? There's a café in the next block. We can get some tea.”

He kept a firm hand on my elbow as we walked up the cobbled street. When we settled at an outside table overlooking the harbor, I ordered coffee and a sweet roll. Jennings chose tea.