Resort to Murder (21 page)

Neal gripped his sister's arm. “Take it easy, Dinny. We'll handle this.” But his eyes, too, were frightened.

I held out my hands. “Tell me.”

They tumbled into speech, one interrupting the other.

“We were in the main lobby”—Diana pointed at chairs on either side of a wrought-iron table where
crimson poinsettias bloomed in a blue pottery planter—“because we thought they would take Dad to the room where the chief inspector talked to us, but—”

“Instead of the guy that came for us”—Neal looked toward the room where they all had waited—“here came the chief inspector. He went into the conference room. I guess Dad was the only one left, Dad and the policewoman. The inspector was in there for a little while; then he came out with Dad. They walked straight across the lobby toward the door. Dad saw us and—”

Diana pressed her hands against her cheeks. “Dad kind of stumbled to a stop. He looked at us like we were on the other side of a canyon, like he was never going to see us again. He said, ‘Stay with your grandmother. She'll take care of you. I'm going into town for a while.'”

Neal's broad face was suddenly combative. “The policewoman was walking right behind him. I got up and went straight to the chief inspector and I asked him where he was taking Dad.”

“He was so smooth and pleasant.” Diana's tone was bitter. “And he looked at me with those cold eyes even though his voice was nice. He said something like the investigation was continuing into the death of Mrs. Bailey and Mr. Drake had been invited to the Hamilton Police Station to assist with the inquiries.”

Yes, they put it politely in Bermuda, but the message was clear: Lloyd Drake was to be interrogated as the number one suspect in Connor's murder. Chief Inspector Foster was focusing on his quarry. Given the facts, I certainly wasn't surprised. But, if Lloyd was innocent, there had to be other facts.

And there was no time to lose.

“Diana, Neal.” It was a call to arms.

They looked at me in relief, sudden hope in their eyes, welling eagerness in their faces.

I maintained a confident composure, though my heart ached. Oh, children, this isn't a moment that Grandmother can make right simply because she loves you and will always fight for you. But perhaps it was as well that they invested me with power far greater than I possessed. It's amazing what faith can achieve. “I want you to get on the phone, contact Kevin Ellis at
The Royal Gazette
, get the name of a criminal lawyer—”

Neal nodded, pulled my earlier note from his pocket.

“And I will—” Oh, Lord, what would I do? Quick, quick, I needed definite objectives for all of us. “—determine how the actual murderer got into Connor's room.” I didn't give them time to ask what difference that could make or how I could possibly discover that information. “Use the phone in your room. Get some help from the consulate if you need it. They must have a list of lawyers. Call around. Get a lawyer. Then go to the police station—”

“Where's that?” Neal was all business, poised to begin.

“Parliament Street. Right up the hill from Front Street.” I didn't know that it would help, but I didn't think it would hurt for Lloyd's family to appear at the police station. In any event, they needed to talk to the lawyer and surely the lawyer would agree to meet them there.

Diana was impatient. “That doesn't matter right now, Neal. Let's go call.”

They were halfway across the lobby when Marlow and Aaron and Jasmine, carrying luggage and backpacks, came in the side door.

Diana stopped, glared at them. “I hope you're satis
fied, all of you. You've said horrid things about my father. He didn't hurt your mother. He never would have”—her voice rose—“not in a million years.”

Neal grabbed his sister's arm. “Come on, Dinny. They don't care.”

Marlow jerked her head toward Aaron. “Go on upstairs with Jasmine. Get our stuff into the new rooms.”

Aaron nudged Jasmine toward the curving staircase, just past the counter.

Jasmine wrapped her arms around her backpack. The head of a teddy bear poked out of the opened pack. “I haven't said anything bad about Lloyd.” Tears welled, spilled down her cheeks. “See, Lloyd gave me Teddy and he told me he'd always be here for me. I want to tell Lloyd I think everybody's wrong. I don't think Lloyd hurt Mom.”

“Jasmine, shut up.” Marlow's voice was sharp. “You don't know anything! Go on with Aaron—”

Jasmine pulled away from Aaron. She whirled and darted toward the French doors to the terrace, the head of the stuffed bear bobbing up and down in the backpack.

“Jasmine!” Marlow's cry was ragged.

Aaron took a step toward the terrace, then shook his head. “Let her go, Marlow. Let her be alone for a while. Maybe out in the sun…”

“She knows Dad's innocent.” Diana's voice was triumphant.

“Innocent!” Marlow cried. “If he's innocent, then who killed my mom? Tell me that, damn you. Who killed my mom?” She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving.

Aaron dropped the suitcases, pulled Marlow into his arms. His face was hard as he met Diana's gaze.
“Leave us alone. Okay? You've done enough, all of you. Just, for God's sake, leave us alone.” His handsome features twisted with misery. “We're stuck here for now. Don't make it any harder than it has to be.” Awkwardly, he turned Marlow toward the stairs, scrambled to pick up the cases.

Neal took two strides. “I'll get them. You go on ahead with Marlow.” He glanced at his sister. “I'll meet you in your room. Get started on the phone.” He hoisted several pieces of luggage, turned away from Marlow and Aaron, moving toward the stairs. “I'll put them in the hall up there.”

Aaron didn't answer, his look startled, uncomfortable, grudgingly accepting. “Come on, Marlow.”

Diana watched them leave, face slack. She lifted trembling fingers to her lips.

I patted her shoulder. “Go on to your room, honey, and make those calls. We need to hurry. Your dad needs help.” I wanted to pull her back from the no-man's-land opening in her mind, the cold and stricken realization that Connor's murderer had to be someone Connor knew and knew well.

Diana stepped toward me. “What Marlow said…” Her voice was uneven.

I understood. “Yes, that's the point, isn't it? If your father is innocent, then who killed Connor? She would never have opened her door to a stranger. It had to be someone she knew”—I ticked the names off on my fingers—“Marlow, Jasmine, Aaron, Steve, you, Neal, me, and, less likely but still possible, Mrs. Worrell or a hotel employee or a guest that she'd met.” The only hotel guest who might qualify was Curt Patterson, the big redhead from Fort Worth who had been so assiduous in his attentions to Connor.

It was, obviously, the first moment that Diana had moved beyond her father's danger to grapple with the reality that someone she knew—almost certainly someone with whom she had spoken, someone whose face she would recognize—had committed a brutal and violent murder. Clearly, she found the possibilities almost beyond belief.

“One of them…” Her voice trailed away. “But, Grandma, why?”

Why, indeed?

Neal's footsteps clattered down the stairs. He reached us, frowning. “Hey, Dinny, why haven't you gotten started? Come on.” He jerked his head toward the door.

As they moved away, I looked after them, glad they were going to be busy, glad they faced a task that required concentration and effort. And now it was time for me to look for answers to questions nobody had yet asked.

N
O one was behind the front desk. I looked to my left at the pigeonhole cabinet attached to the wall in the hotel office, within easy reach for a desk clerk, just beyond the grasp of anyone on this side of the counter. Tower Ridge House was an old-fashioned hotel with actual room keys, not electronic cards. The last crimson splash of the setting sun slanted through open blinds, falling across the lower rows of pigeonholes, glinting on the shiny metal tower that served as a tag for each key. Most of the compartments held two keys because so few of the rooms were occupied.

There was one key in the slot for room 32, one in the slot for room 34. I made up my mind in an instant. At the far end, to my right, a portion of the counter was hinged and could be raised. I stepped quietly in that direction. I gave one swift glance around the lobby and the entrance to the drawing room and the hallways branching off. There was utter quiet, no voices, no movement.

I lifted the counter, stepped into the small office. My shoes clicked on the uncarpeted floor as I moved toward the cabinet. I reached for the keys.

“Mrs. Collins.” Thelma Worrell hurried through the archway from the back room. She strode across the
small space, stood so near I could see the glisten of her mascara, the deep indentations on either side of her mouth and the flicker of anger in her eyes. I realized once again how big and strong she was. “It is not our policy to have guests in this area. If you will step beyond the counter, I will be glad to assist you.”

I didn't answer. Instead, I plucked the keys from the slots for rooms 32 and 34.

A bony hand gripped my wrist, hard and tight and painful.

We stood close together, two women, each of us determined to prevail.

“I shall call the police.” Her voice was thin, but determined.

I closed my fingers tightly around the keys. “Let go of me.” I stared into her eyes.

Slowly, her grip eased, her hand dropped away. She folded her lips together, continued to block my way. “I shall call the police.”

“I don't think so.” I put the keys in my pocket, met her angry gaze with calm. “You are going to move out of my way and you aren't going to call anyone.”

“You can't walk in here, take keys to other rooms.” Her long fingers curled into tight balls. “This is private property.” She whirled away, walked toward the desk, grabbed a telephone.

“Do you want the police to question you again about the night Roddy died?” I spoke to her back.

Her shoulders hunched. She leaned against the desk, slowly returned the receiver to its cradle.

“That's going to happen, you know.” I stared at her angular body, motionless as a threatened crab. “Just because the police have arrested Lloyd Drake”—I knew arrest was coming even if at this point Lloyd was
simply being questioned—“that won't end the investigation into George's murder. Who had a motive to kill George? Certainly not Lloyd.” I was working it out in my mind as I spoke and I knew this was what puzzled me about the murder of Connor Bailey. In a reasonable world, whoever strangled Connor should have been the person who pushed George off the cliff. Otherwise, two different murderers had claimed victims within a matter of days. That didn't seem reasonable, but that definitely had to be the case if Lloyd was guilty. There was simply no way to link Lloyd to George. Of course, the world is often a jumbled, irrational swirl of chaos. There were other reasons to assume the deaths were separate and distinct. George died from a push. Connor was strangled. Repeat murderers have a well-known tendency to use the same method—firearms, knives, poison, blunt force, strangulation. The deaths of George Smith and Roddy Worrell were clearly similar. The death of Connor Bailey did not follow that pattern. Although Connor's murder apparently resulted from the turmoil created by Roddy's ghost, her death could not be considered sequential.

As I came to that realization, I understood just how difficult Lloyd's situation was. The police analysis—and my late-come understanding—of Connor's murder made all kinds of sense:

The wedding party arrived on the eve of the anniversary of the death of Roddy Worrell in a fall from the tower. Connor Bailey was reluctant to return to the site of Roddy's death. Her fiancé, Lloyd Drake, had insisted. Other members of the wedding party opposed the upcoming marriage. Someone hostile to the wedding hired George Smith to create Roddy's ghost. The ghost terrified Connor. Connor insisted upon returning
home, regardless of the wedding. Lloyd was infuriated. The objective had been accomplished: the wedding was off. Last night either Connor and Lloyd quarreled and he killed her or, furious at the ruin of his plans, willing to see her dead rather than lose her, Lloyd woke Connor, gained access to her room, and killed her. I felt sure that these were the facts that seemed apparent to the police.

Everything depended upon the reason for Connor's murder. Why was Connor killed? The wedding was off. That had obviously been the plan behind the ghost. It certainly wasn't necessary to kill Connor to prevent the marriage.

Why did Connor die? And who killed George? That brought me back to this room, back to the woman who braced herself against an old wooden desk as if her body had no strength.

“You hated Connor.” I walked slowly toward that defeated, weary figure. I moved past the desk, turned to face her. “You were jealous—”

“It was her fault.” Her eyes were dull and empty, as if no matter how long she looked, she would never see. “If she hadn't chased after Roddy…”

“There were always women with Roddy, weren't there?” I knew that kind of man, the cocky bantam rooster strutting his masculinity, always seeking a conquest.

“I loved Roddy.” It wasn't an answer. Or maybe it was the most complete answer of all. “If only…”

“If only you'd not been so angry that night.” I spoke quietly.

Her eyes closed, her sandy lashes light against her freckled skin.

“You went up to the tower.” I could see the moonlit
platform, Roddy sitting on the ledge, legs dangling on the outside. He must have heard the footsteps coming up the stone stairs. He was just a little drunk, maybe sliding toward the maudlin, singing something old-fashioned, one of the songs so popular with the guests, maybe “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” or “Paper Doll,” his husky voice soft as velvet. A cocky guy, used to wowing the ladies. “Did he think you were Connor, coming to say she was sorry? That's what happened, isn't it? He didn't even look around, did he?' He didn't need to. Let the woman come to him.

Thelma's eyes opened. But she wasn't looking at me. She was looking into a grave.

“He thought you were Connor. What did he say? Something sweet? Something crude?” Or was it worse than that? “Did he ask about his ticket to Atlanta, and you knew that this time he really was walking out?”

Her lined face drooped, the slack skin flaccid as a punctured balloon. She moved like a sleepwalker toward the counter, lifted the hinged section.

I followed, a hound on the heels of a wounded fox, pleasing to a dog, sickening to me. But if the fox had bloodied fangs…“Was it you George saw that night at the tower? You claimed he saw Connor. You made that up, didn't you?”

She opened the door to her office. “Get away from me.” She was almost in command of herself, her voice once again cold and hard. “I don't have to talk to you.” The door slammed in my face.

I turned on my heel and moved swiftly across the lobby and out onto the side terrace. I moved fast just in case Mrs. Worrell decided to call the police. It wouldn't take me long to do what I needed to do. My fingers tightened on the keys in my pocket.

When I stepped into the long shadowy hall of our floor, I was shaken by the utter quiet. But perhaps it was the very ordinariness of the hall which shocked me most. There was no trace here of drama. Investigators had walked here, carrying their paraphernalia—lights, cameras, sketchbooks, fingerprint powders. A pathologist had knelt beside Connor's body, examined the trauma, made observations and came to conclusions. I walked on tiled floors which might possibly, here or there, show a scuff. But that was all. The doors along the corridor were closed, as mute as the doors to anonymous hotel rooms around the world. This could be a hallway in Bangkok. This could be a hallway in Paris. There was nothing in this hallway to mark the murder of a woman.

I hesitated outside Neal's door, glanced from it to my own and on to Diana's. The doors were closed. It didn't matter which room they occupied. All that mattered was their search for help.

I walked on, then stopped, listened, every fiber of my being alert and wary.

The sound came again, a click and a rattle. I realized there was a break in that long series of closed panels. The door to Connor's room was open. There was no police tape, no sealing of the room. The investigation was done, the forensic team departed, the body removed.

I eased ahead as carefully as a cat burglar in the bedroom of a sleeping socialite, jewels casually tumbled on a nightstand.

The last ten feet I heard no sound, no movement. Why was the door to Connor's room open? I reached the doorway, looked into the room.

Steve Jennings was a big man, but he looked old and
shrunken leaning against one of the sliding doors to the closet. His head rested on his crooked arm. In one hand dangled a red silk dress. His face burrowed into the soft folds.

I looked past him, at the suitcases ranged along the wall, the unmade bed, the half-open door to the bath.

They'd packed for Connor last night. But, of course, that would not include the things she would need for today. Now Steve was readying Connor's belongings for return to the United States. “Where was she lying, Steve?” It was a hard question. I made my voice gentle.

Steve jerked toward me, the dress crumpled in his big hand. He had finally completed shaving, but his face looked like old leather swollen by rain, baked by sun, puffy, a sickly shade of ocher. He studied me like a man spotting something particularly nasty, a bloated corpse, a bloodsucking leech, a crow picking at a carcass. “Goddamn ghoul. That's what you are.” He pushed away from the closet door, blocked my view into the room. “I'll be goddamned if I'll satisfy your curiosity.”

I didn't look at him. I looked at the red dress, so enduringly feminine in his huge hand. “Was that what Connor was going to wear home today?”

A spasm of grief rippled over his face. He tried to speak, closed his eyes, once again buried his face in the crook of his arm.

“I'm sorry, Steve.” And I was, desperately sorry. Life should never end this way. Never.

“Sorry.” His voice was muffled. He tried to control his ragged breathing.

“Steve, you cared for Connor. You don't want to let the person who killed her get away with it, do you?” I forced myself to speak quietly, to be patient. I needed
to get in that room. More than that, I needed this man's help.

His head jerked up. Eyes bright with tears glazed into hard, bright anger. “They've got him. They've taken Drake into Hamilton. I never liked him, prissy, humorless, selfish bastard. I tried to tell Connor. Oh God, if she'd only listened to me.”

“You didn't want her to marry him.” This was a man who could think and plan. He'd been here last year. He knew all about Roddy. He could have flown to Bermuda, met with George at the BUEI. Steve knew Connor Bailey better than perhaps any of the others. He'd known her for years, her insecurities and uncertainties. He could have foreseen the results of the ghostly visitations—vulnerable Connor frightened, unimaginative Lloyd dismissive. Had Steve hoped to be there to pick up the pieces? But once again I slammed into a dead end. He wanted Connor's love. Why would he want Connor dead? The only possible reason would be mismanagement of Connor's money. And then, to save himself, would he kill the woman he loved? He might still press the soft folds of her dress to his face, breathe in the scent that would never exist again.

He glared at me. “I knew he was wrong for Connor. But I never thought he would hurt her.”

I met his gaze directly. “Lloyd says he didn't kill Connor.”

Steve's look was contemptuous. “What else would he say?”

I smoothed back a strand of hair, taking an instant to fashion my answer. “I have known Lloyd for almost a quarter century, Steve. Yes, he is a far cry from macho, definitely humorless, serious. And yes, he has
a temper and he can be selfish. The fact that he pressed for the wedding to be here is an example of that, but do you know, it is also an example of a sweet side of Lloyd, a romantic sensitive desire to wed the woman he loved where he first saw her.” I could hear his voice—”Yes, it was love at first sight”—as he'd replied to my joking query. Serious, sensitive Lloyd.

I took a deep breath. “I won't tell you that I know Lloyd is innocent. I don't know that. I can see the facts. But I will tell you that the man I've known for twenty-five years would not strangle anyone and certainly not the woman he loved. And he did love Connor. Maybe they weren't well suited”—I waved my hand in dismissal—“but their love was genuine.” I took a step toward Steve. “I want you to think for a moment, Steve, about this man, now at the police station in Hamilton, facing question after question after question, and I want you to believe that he is innocent. Just for an instant, imagine how he feels. He isn't young. He came to the most romantic island in the world to marry a woman he adored. They quarreled and he was jealous—jealous of you, jealous of the big Texan. His dreams crash into nothing—the wedding off, Connor turning to you for support. But there is worse to come, much worse. Connor is strangled and now he is at the police station, and they are accusing him. If he is innocent, he is torn by the anguish of loss and the helpless terror that he is going to be jailed for a crime he did not commit, would never have committed. And Steve, if you don't care about Lloyd, if in one way or another you still blame him for everything that happened, think about Connor. Do you want her murderer brought to justice?” I held his gaze. “No matter who it is?”