Resort to Murder (9 page)

I inclined toward the latter. I doubted George would provide what I wanted to know without actually receiving money and, since I had no intention of paying him, I might as well see what I could learn by threat.

I wondered if it had occurred to him to wear gloves when he handled the envelope and note? After all, Mrs. Worrell would be justified in taking the note to the police on the basis that her livelihood was being endangered by the disturbances.

Actually, I felt fairly confident. George had made a mistake when he'd agreed that he could prevent the apparition at the tower. That was a clear admission of more knowledge than he would possess if he was an innocent bystander.

Last night screams tore apart the quiet, and a luminous glow hovered near the platform.

Somebody made it happen. I thought that someone was George. However, George could claim he was guilty of nothing more than trying to scam a tourist and insist he had nothing to do with the apparitions and had made the offer to me simply hoping nothing more would happen before we left Bermuda, making him the grateful recipient of an unearned thousand.

Maybe, damnit, that would turn out to be the fact and I'd be no nearer learning the truth behind the luminous glow even if I reported George to Mrs. Worrell. Still, the threat of talking to her, even if the more innocent explanation served, might be enough to scare him into cooperating. Or at least spinning another story to satisfy me. After all, his attempt to get money from a guest should be enough to get him fired. I didn't know how hard it was to get a job on Bermuda, how important a recommendation might be, how much his job mattered to him, whether a complaint
could jeopardize his work permit. I might still have the upper hand.

However, I knew without doubt that George wanted money. All right, maybe I should talk to Lloyd, see how much he would be willing to pay to expose the nonsense about the tower as trickery. Maybe bargaining was still the best route. I would decide how to deal with George when we talked.

I reached the end of the tunnel of greenery. I stopped at the ridged concrete walkway that shelved down to the rocky, seaweed-strewn beach. Surf as white as Chantilly lace foamed against the rocks, rippled over the pale pink sand. The sky gleamed bright blue, shiny as enamel. If I were a painter, I'd take that sky and splash it by the handfuls on a stark-white canvas and add dollops of the lighter, richer turquoise of the water, but no art could ever match the grandeur of color in Bermudian sky and sea.

I edged down the ridged slab and crossed the damp sand to the base of the headland. I found the faint trail, followed it. When I reached the top, I could see all the way to the point and far, far out to sea, the glorious, compellingly blue sea.

“Damn.” No one waited.

Was George a no-show? Had he given up on me because I was late? But if that was the case, we should have met in the green tunnel. I walked slowly toward the point, feeling the strength of the breeze, welcoming the salty scent of the water. I passed the moongate and stopped at the edge of the cliff.

The breeze was cool and fresh. I wanted to stand there and draw the freshness inside, feel young again, buoyed by beauty which feeds hope. I clung to the moment, knowing I must turn away. I needed to find
George. And I must approach Lloyd. Would he listen? I believed that Lloyd loved Connor, but could he provide the accepting love Marlow thought Connor needed? And yet I lingered, still as a lizard, basking in the sun. Finally, with a sigh, I turned to go and my gaze swept out to the reef and the bubbly line of surf, then closer to shore and the sharp rocks below…

I froze, shocked into immobility, staring down at the crumpled body wedged facedown between black pinnacles. Foamy surf submerged the body as each wave broke and for that instant I lost sight of the lolling head.

Dead. George was dead. I didn't need to see his face to recognize him. The body was that of a young man in a white shirt and khaki trousers. I stood for another moment, listening to the crash of the surf. There was no way to climb down the cliff face without ropes and pitons. The only access to the rugged rocks would be from the beach over wet boulders and that would be a struggle. But there was no hurry. The water sloshing over the body, pummeling the inert form, had long since extinguished any spark of life that might have survived the brutal plummet onto the rocks.

I
PACED up and down at the top of the hotel steps. I'd grabbed up the phone at the front desk to make the 911 call, ignoring the shocked questions from Rosalind, the young woman at the desk, saying only that I was going outside to await the arrival of the police. It wasn't my job to announce the discovery of George's body to the staff. But I'd known as I hung up the phone and moved toward the front door that word would spread faster than the click of castanets. I wasn't surprised a few minutes later when Mrs. Worrell burst through the main door. Lloyd was right behind her.

Mrs. Worrell's angular face was taut with irritation. “Mrs. Collins, please explain this call you've placed.” Her hands curled into bony fists.

Lloyd's voice was shocked. “Henrie O, what the hell's going on? Did you really find a body? Where? What happened?” He paced back and forth beside me, peering down at the drive. “Have you actually called the police?”

I held up my hands. I spoke to the manager. “There's a body at the foot of the point, caught in the rocks.” I hesitated, then, watching her carefully, I said, “I think it may be George.”

Her head shake was decisive. “I just saw George a little while ago, Mrs. Collins. And certainly he wouldn't fall on the rocks. That's absurd. Besides, he'd have no reason to be out on the point. You may have seen a log—”

“In a white shirt and khaki slacks?” My tone was sharp.

Her pale blue eyes bulged.

Lloyd jolted to a stop, stared at me. “God, that's too bad.” He ran a hand through his reddish-gold hair. “Oh, hell, this is going to upset Connor.” He glanced down at his watch. “We're supposed to take off in the van in about twenty minutes. Maybe I can round everyone up and we'll leave a little earlier, miss all the…” His voice trailed off. He didn't meet my eyes.

I stared at him. “What a shame if you are inconvenienced.”

“Oh, hell.” He chewed on his lower lip.

I didn't say a word.

Lloyd finally met my stony gaze. “I'm sorry, Henrie O. God knows it's a shame but we can't help anything by hanging around here, and Connor…She's not up to any more stress. Look, it has nothing to do with us—”

The manager nodded emphatically. “That's a very good plan. The fewer people in the hotel this morning, the better it will be. Please gather up your group, Mr. Drake.” Mrs. Worrell glanced down the steps. “I must stay and speak with the police, but I'll arrange for another driver.”

Lloyd gave me a shamefaced look, ducked his head and hurried up the steps.

A white station wagon rolled to a stop by the front steps of the hotel. I walked down to meet the uni
formed officers, two of them, a slender black woman in her forties and a young man who reminded me sharply of George, tall, gangly, smooth young skin and a sunburned nose. Mrs. Worrell was right on my heels.

The woman officer was in the lead. “Mrs. Collins?”

I'd made the call, so they had my name.

The officer observed me politely but with care, noting, I was sure, that my clothing showed no signs of disarray, that I was dry, sober, and apparently compos mentis.

“Yes, officer. The body is on the rocks below the headland. A man.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Collins. I am Police Constable Howard.” She nodded toward the young man. “Police Constable Dugan. We will accompany you to the beach.” It was a simple statement, but it reminded me that for the time being I had no freedom of movement.

Mrs. Worrell clasped her hands tightly together. “If you could direct the ambulance to use the lower road…I don't want to disturb the guests. It has nothing to do with the hotel.”

P.C. Howard was polite but firm. “There will be a number of cars, ma'am. In the event of an unexplained death, it is necessary for a forensics team to assemble.” She unloosed a cell phone from her belt. “I will ask that the vehicles be deployed to the lower road.”

Mrs. Worrell took a step or two with us.

“I suggest you remain here, ma'am.” P.C. Howard was pleasant but insistent. “Access to the beach will be closed until the field search is complete.”

As we moved away, I glanced back at Mrs. Worrell. She looked shaken. And frightened. I carried that picture of her with me as we walked down to the beach. My mind was jumbled with thoughts, but I was puz
zled by the sense of fear emanating from the hotel manager. Certainly she should know what happened when a body was found. She'd had that experience last year with her husband's death. Why, then, did she appear to be frightened? I pushed the thought aside. I had plenty of other concerns, including what I should tell the police. The officers waited patiently as I paused twice during the descent. I began to explain, “I was walking out on the headland—”

P.C. Howard interrupted. “The chief inspector will interview you, Mrs. Collins.”

And that was that. I led the rest of the way in silence, through the long cool tunnel to the outcropping of black rock above the sand, down the cement grid and the slow climb up the faint trail to the top of the narrow headland. When we stood on the point and looked down, the tide was coming in. Most of the body was hidden beneath the swirling water. As the waves broke, a floating hand could be glimpsed for an instant.

The young officer spoke for the first time. “May go out with the tide.”

P.C. Howard lifted her cell phone, then looked at me. She nodded toward a rustic wooden bench some twenty feet from the point. “If you will be kind enough to wait there, Mrs. Collins.”

I spent almost two hours on the bench. Occasionally, I rose and paced a few feet, careful to stay out of the way of the field search team. In the water, marine experts were at work. The forensics team included a slim young woman who turned out to be the pathologist there to view the body in situ.

I briefly met Chief Inspector Gerald Foster, who had a shock of iron-gray hair, the chiseled good looks of Harry Belafonte, and a probing gaze. His gray suit
had a fine blue pinstripe and it fitted him perfectly. He spoke with the beautiful, clear diction of an educated Bermudian, his voice pleasant but nonetheless commanding.

“Mrs. Collins?” He didn't refer to notes to call up my name. “You found the body?”

“Yes.” Would he ask what brought me to the end of the point?

“At what time?” He glanced at his watch.

“Approximately eight thirty-five.” If I'd been on time for my appointment, would George be alive?

'There was no sign of life?”

“None.” Sodden clothes and a lolling head.

“Do you know the deceased?”

I hesitated. That was a mistake. Chief Inspector Foster's gaze sharpened. He looked at me with alert interest.

I spoke too quickly. “I can't be certain. I thought it might be George, a young waiter from the hotel.”

Foster studied me, then swung around and walked to the end of the point and stared down at the quiet activity on the rocks below him. He stood in a relaxed way, head cocked, hands loose at his side.

I dropped onto the bench, wishing I could hurry back to the hotel, although I wasn't sure what I would do when I got there. Because, of course, everything depended upon what had happened to George. Was his death murder, accident, or suicide? I had a cold feeling that there might not be a definitive answer and an even colder feeling that George's death might have resulted directly from my dealings with him. I'd offered George money to close down the ghost of Roddy Worrell. Had I set in motion, inexorable as an avalanche, a series of events resulting in George's murder?

I looked at it clearly. I offered George money to stop the ghost. The ghost hovered near the tower last night. This morning I found the note which, in effect, informed me my thousand dollars had been trumped but I could have the truth about the ghost for five thousand.

Had George pushed his luck? If I accepted the implications of the note, someone upped my offer to two thousand and the ghost walked—or floated—last night. Then George asked me for five thousand. What if he'd asked someone else for six thousand—or more—in exchange for silence?

What if that person decided to kill George instead?

I rubbed my temple. Was keeping the secret of Roddy Worrell's ghost worth murder? Why?

Perhaps George fell. Perhaps he walked to the end of the point and lost his balance. I shook my head. George had been young, strong, agile. It didn't make sense. But accidents happen. Suicide? No. A depressed person contemplating suicide would not have written the note asking for money.

It came down to murder or accident. Accident or murder.

Firm footsteps sounded. I looked up. Chief Inspector Foster walked toward me.

 

Chief Inspector Foster sat opposite me, the width of a card table between us, in a small room along the short corridor that branched from the main lobby. To one side, a uniformed officer, a young man in his twenties, held a notebook and pen. The chief inspector rested his elbows on the table, looked at me intently. “The body was facedown in the water. It could not be identified from the headland. You thought it might be a waiter here at the hotel. The body has now been iden
tified as that of George Edward Smith, an employee of Tower Ridge House.” He cocked his head, like an old, thoughtful parrot. “I'm a little curious, Mrs. Collins, how did you know the dead man was this young man whom you called George?”

I'd known this moment would be coming, though I'd not expected his first question to place me squarely on the spot. I slipped my hand into my pocket, felt the envelope I'd tucked there. If I gave the envelope and note to him, I would have to explain the significance of those sums—the crossed-out 1000, the 2000, and the 5000. At this point, I was reluctant to tell the police of my attempts to persuade George to corral the ghost. Moreover, I didn't want to expose Connor to the rigors of questioning in a police investigation. Admittedly, Connor was upset about the ghost's appearance, but surely, whatever the truth behind the ghost, it couldn't have anything to do with the Drake-Bailey wedding party. I didn't know the whys and wherefores of the apparition, but I knew that George Smith didn't believe Roddy Worrell fell from the tower. That was the important point. I pulled my hand out of my pocket, folded my hands loosely together.

“I wasn't certain that the dead man was George, Chief Inspector. But there was something about the shape of the body,” I said vaguely. “And he'd been out on the point with our group the morning before, taking a photograph for us. I suppose that came to my mind.”

Foster continued to look at me.

Before the silence could grow oppressive, I said briskly, “And I had such a long chat with George yesterday afternoon. About the ghost. And about Mr. Worrell's murder.”

Foster's smooth dark face remained expressionless. “Mr. Worrell's murder?”

I hitched my chair closer to the table, met his gaze eagerly. “It's an extraordinary story. Last year, as you may know—”

Of course Foster knew, but he made no response.

“—the hotel manager's husband, Roddy Worrell, died in a fall from the tower. The first anniversary of his death is apparently coming up and this week there have been several sightings of some kind of luminous cloud near the top of the tower. George told the little girl in our party—Jasmine—all about it. I was quite curious, so I spoke to George after tea yesterday afternoon. He confirmed the sightings, but perhaps even more important”—I spoke with great clarity—“George insisted Mr. Worrell could handle himself even if he was drunk. George didn't believe he fell.”

Foster leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. “What basis did Smith give for that statement?” His voice was crisp.

The young policeman wrote swiftly.

“He said…” I paused to try and remember George's words: “‘Roddy Worrell never fell out of that tower. Even drunk, he could handle himself. And he wasn't that drunk.'” I looked expectantly at the chief inspector.

“Worrell's blood alcohol level was point zero nine.” Foster left it at that. “Did Smith accuse anyone?”

“No. He simply said Worrell didn't fall.” I didn't have to point out that a killer who pushed once would be quick to push again if danger threatened. “George made the point that Worrell could handle himself. Yet he ends up dead at the base of the tower. Now George is dead, yet he appeared very athletic. Why would he fall off a cliff?”

“We don't know what happened, Mrs. Collins. Accidents occur. The young and quick are often careless. I won't have the official report from the pathologist for several days. Her preliminary judgment is that death was due to drowning, that he likely was rendered unconscious by the fall. There are no suspicious circumstances”—now his eyes raked my face—“except for your statement.”

 

“Grandma, are you sure you don't want to come?” Diana touched my arm. Her reddish-gold hair was drawn back in a ponytail, perhaps too severe a style for her fine features. But I knew her bleak expression reflected shock at George's death.

I welcomed the soft pressure of her fingers. Yes, I wanted to climb on the pillion of Neal's scooter and ride to Harrington Sound with my grandchildren as if this were a normal vacation day and a young man's body had not been slipped into a rubberized bag for its journey to the cold air and harsh glare of the morgue.

“I'm a little tired. I believe I'll stay here and rest.” I was tired, but I had no intention of resting. It wasn't fatigue that weighted me. It was the nagging worry that my less than frank interview with the chief inspector might hamper his investigation. So I was determined to nose around until I could give Chief Inspector Foster the name of the unknown figure who'd trumped my thousand-dollar offer to George.

Was I looking for a ghost-raiser? Or a murderer?

Diana shivered. “It seems all wrong to go and play—just as if nothing had happened.” She looked over her shoulder at the steps leading down to the lower terrace. The paramedics had carried the body bag up those steps.