Resort to Murder (14 page)

There had to be more. There had to be a reason why this experienced police officer suspected murder. I sat very still. The police like to ask questions, not answer them. Would he tell me?

He kept his eyes on my face, skeptical, probing, measuring eyes. Abruptly, he continued. “I spoke with the pathologist this morning. She informed me that the toxicology tests were not yet finished.” A pause. “She also informed me of two fist-shaped bruises in the lumbar region.”

I pictured the headland and George Smith standing at the edge, the breeze ruffling his hair, pressing
his clothes against him. Had he heard footsteps behind him? Over the crash of the waves, quite possibly not.

I nodded, the picture clear in my mind. “Someone came at him from behind, came fast, punched him in the lower back.” I made my hands into fists, thrust them forward. “That's what happened.”

“You speak as though you were there.” His voice was silky.

“No. But the bruises tell the story. That's why you're investigating.” I hitched my chair nearer the table. “I knew it was murder. George told too many people that Roddy Worrell was pushed. And Thursday morning he was on the phone with someone, telling them he'd figured out what happened to Roddy and telling his listener he was going to meet me on the headland and he was going to sell what he knew. Don't you see: George was killed because he knew who pushed Roddy Worrell from the tower.”

Foster leaned back in his chair, his eyebrows drawn in a thick line over thoughtful eyes. “In the event of unexplained death, Mrs. Collins, an inquest is conducted in Magistrate's Court to determine the cause of that death. An inquest was duly held after Mr. Worrell's death. After extensive testimony from the police, from forensic authorities and from interested parties, Mr. Worrell's death was adjudged an accident.” He threw up his hands as if shooing away troublesome insects. “All this talk about Roddy Worrell—there's no doubt what happened to him. I investigated his death, Mrs. Collins. He'd had too much to drink. And he was careless. Whatever George Smith claimed about Worrell's death is so much nonsense.”

I looked at him in surprise. “But last night you asked Mrs. Bailey about the night of his death. You asked her to describe her actions that evening.”

He looked irritated. “As Mrs. Bailey must have told you”—he clearly attributed my knowledge of that interview to my connection with the family—“my questions were prompted by a report that she was seen at the tower with Mr. Worrell. Of course, it was necessary to explore the possibility. But Mrs. Bailey reaffirmed her previous statement.”

If I'd felt uneasy at the start of our conversation, I felt doubly so now. Obviously Foster didn't believe there was any truth in George's claim that Worrell was pushed from the tower. That left me as Foster's obvious choice for prime suspect in George's death, thanks to George's creative story about Diana.

“You can't simply dismiss the apparition at the tower. Someone made that happen.” I could be just as determined as the chief inspector. “It isn't nonsense that George agreed to lay the ghost to rest for money, took more money to break that promise and came back to me asking for yet more money!”

Foster glanced down at the note lying on the card table, the note I'd found yesterday morning in my room. He pointed at it, carefully not touching the sheet. “You claim that you did not reach the headland in time for your appointment—”

“Not”—and my voice was sharp—“an appointment I sought, Chief Inspector. Don't you see, that note proves that George had spoken to someone else, that someone else had given him money to override my promised thousand and so the ghost floated by the tower Wednesday night. Can't you see what happened?” I was sure I was right. I gripped
the edge of the table. “Jasmine heard George tell someone that he was going to meet me on the headland. That person got there before I did and pushed him over the cliff.”

“You are the only person known to have gone out on the headland yesterday morning.” The words were precise; the accusation clear.

“Jasmine heard—”

“I will speak to the child.” He made a note. “Now, Mrs. Collins, about this fire—”

I pushed back my chair, stood. I didn't think he would arrest me. I was sure of it, actually. He was suspicious of me, but there is a big leap between suspicion and arrest.

“I did not set the fire. I did my best to preserve that evidence for you. However, I'm quite sure someone set the fire to prevent anyone from ever knowing for certain who flew the kite. Now we'll never—”

“Wait, Mrs. Collins!” Foster's voice was sharp. He held up a commanding hand. “You claim there was a kite that glowed in the dark. You claim—”

“You can check with James, the bartender.” Would James admit that he'd told me? I didn't feel confident of it.

“We will do so, of course. But you left no word about this kite in your telephone message to me last night. The fire makes it impossible to prove or disprove the existence of the kite and, thus, the ghost, as you imagine it. Did you invent this kite to explain your contacts with George Smith?”

I stared at him. Another unspoken question hung in the air: Did you set the fire?

“No.” I kept it short and crisp. I turned away, but at the door, I paused. “Find out who George called on his
cell phone yesterday morning. You owe me that much, Chief Inspector.”

It was a nice exit line. But I was going to need more than an exit line to convince the chief inspector of my innocence.

T
HANKS to my interview with the chief inspector, I was late for breakfast. Jasmine was the only occupant of our table, diligently spooning whipped cream over a waffle. Curt Patterson's red hair was just visible over the top of
The Royal Gazette
at the table nearest the fireplace. He lowered the newspaper and there was a flicker of disappointment. “Morning, Mrs. Collins,” he said, then lifted the paper. Not, obviously, looking for me. I pulled out my chair at the table.

Jasmine looked at me in surprise. “Aren't you going with them?”

It seemed an eternity since I'd felt a part of the Drake-Bailey wedding party and the printed “Programme.” Today was Friday. I didn't remember what had been scheduled. I slipped into my chair.

Frederick was there immediately, bringing coffee and juice. “Your regular, Mrs. Collins?”

I have a weakness for bacon and eggs and English muffins when in a hotel. I usually choose applesauce and toast when home. I have a sense of no tomorrow when traveling. So…“Yes, thanks, Frederick.”

He poured the steaming coffee and I gratefully picked up my cup. I had the beginnings of a dull
headache, as much due to the lateness of coffee as to my session with Chief Inspector Foster.

I smiled at Jasmine. “Where's everyone going?”

She wriggled importantly, enjoying a moment in the limelight. I wondered just how much fun this trip could be for Jasmine, surrounded by adults; her mother at first absorbed in the approaching wedding and now nervous over the nagging reminders of Roddy Worrell; her sister kind but understandably focused on her boyfriend, and the rest of us polite but seldom attentive. “They're going into Hamilton to see about having the wedding in Victoria Park. There's a gazebo there, a really big one—”

I nodded. The park's elegant bandstand was built to commemorate Queen Victoria's Jubilee and was a wrought-iron reminder of another time. The entire park, with its tall and elegant palms and statuesque Norfolk pines, seems like a picture postcard from another era. It would indeed be a much more cheerful site for the wedding than the hotel garden.

“—and it would be fun even though there isn't a moongate.” She frowned, a shadow in her eyes, then continued hurriedly, “Do you know about moongates?” Jasmine eagerly described the romantic associations with the semicircle of stones so often seen in Bermuda. “…so Mother and Marlow and Diana have gone to talk to the wedding lady—”

Diana? I suppose my face was revealing.

“—Diana looked grumpy.” I didn't doubt Jasmine's appraisal. “She wanted to play golf with Lloyd and Neal and Steve. But Lloyd asked her to go with Mom and Marlow and she said she would.”

I was enjoying my bacon and eggs and hoped Jasmine's waffle wasn't getting cold. “So we're the only ones here?”

She lifted her fork with a piece of waffle laden with whipped cream. “Oh, no, Aaron's here. He and I are going to play badminton. He's gone to get the rackets.”

I doubted very much indeed that a badminton game was going to occur. The Sports closet would be off limits until the arson investigation was completed. I realized the fire wasn't common knowledge yet. Apparently, I had been the only one curious enough about the sirens to walk down to the pool.

“Didn't Aaron want to play golf?” Had Marlow asked him to stay at the hotel and keep an eye on Jasmine?

Jasmine's face scrunched into disdain. “Aaron thinks golf's stupid. He says grown men should have something better to do than whack away at a little white ball with fancy metal clubs.” She looked thoughtful. “Marlow used to play a lot until she started dating Aaron. He's funny about things.”

“How's he funny?” I added marmalade to my second half of English muffin and refilled my coffee cup.

She picked up her spoon and scraped the last dollop of whipped cream from the plate. “He's always talking about keeping things simple and how he and Marlow are going to live on what he earns after they get married and how you don't need money to be happy, that money just complicates your life. Mother says he's an idiot and he'll outgrow all that. Marlow thinks he's wonderful.” Jasmine licked her spoon. “Do you think it would be piggy to ask for more whipped cream?”

“Not the least bit.” I raised my hand and Frederick was there. “A little bowl of whipped cream, please.”

Jasmine applied herself to the whipped cream, her spoon flicking in and out of the bowl with the regularity of a cat's pink tongue lapping up cream.

I'd almost finished my coffee when Aaron came through the archway. I looked at him curiously. Handsome, confident, charming, he blended well into this enclave of wealth. His polo shirt was new and his khakis crisp. If he didn't like conspicuous consumption, Bermuda was scarcely the right place for him. However, he seemed to have no compunctions about visiting here as the guest of Marlow's family. The island's remote location made everything expensive—land, building, hotels, food. Bermuda had been an elegant playground for the wealthy since Princess Louise, Queen Victoria's daughter, spent several months here in 1883. It was still a holiday destination beyond the reach of the average traveler. Equal beauty could be had for a quarter of the price on the Mexican coast or in the Caribbean. Of course, Bermuda was also famed for its gentility and safety for tourists.

I knew Aaron's presence here surely might not reflect his personal preferences. He obviously had no control over the setting chosen for Marlow's mother's wedding, and perhaps he'd felt that he couldn't refuse the invitation to attend. The year before? Well, love has its power and certainly might cause any young man to compromise his principles to enjoy a beach holiday with his girlfriend. Right now he looked more like a young country clubber than an impecunious graduate student. I rather agreed with Connor. He would very likely change his attitudes with time, slip comfortably into the role of a wealthy young woman's husband. And if he didn't, I was willing to guess, that would be all right with Marlow, too. Although she was always understated in dress and manner, I'd caught her glance upon him several times and there was unmistakable passion there.

Aaron raised a hand in greeting. “Morning, Mrs.
Collins. Hey, Jasmine, we can't play badminton after all.”

“Oh, Aaron.” Her face crumpled.

“There was a fire last night and the Sports closet is messed up. But listen, I was thinking we could go down to the beach and make some boats out of bark. You know that little cove…” He crouched beside her chair. They made an appealing picture, the eager young man with tousled chestnut curls and the sweet-faced little girl who obviously adored him.

I wished I could join them. I wished very much that I could walk slowly down the slope to the magnificent beach with its pale pink sand and follow Aaron and Jasmine to the secluded cove and watch as they launched driftwood boats.

But I had other tasks before me.

They scarcely heard me as I left, they were so deep in their plans. Jasmine clapped her hands. “I'm going to call my boat
The Jolly Roger
…”

I paused outside the dining room. The main desk was unattended for the moment. I wondered if Foster was still interviewing witnesses and if the door to the adjoining room remained open just a sliver. Mrs. Worrell was keeping a close watch on the chief inspector. I tucked that thought away. Her knowledge might come in handy at some point—not, of course, that she was likely to be readily forthcoming. It would be an interesting contest.

I walked swiftly to my room. I had to discover some fact that would support my arguments to the chief inspector. I stepped out on my balcony, looked first at the tower, looming to my right, then straight ahead, beyond the pool and the gardens, to the headland poking out into the ocean. I looked from one to the other and it
seemed so clear to me. Two fatal falls, a year apart. Why did Foster see murder in George Smith's death and accident in Roddy Worrell's? I needed to know more of the facts of Roddy's fall, but it would not do any good to ask Foster.

I shaded my eyes against the warm, soft sunlight and smiled. This was a very small island. The intimacy of Bermuda is perhaps most obvious when riding in a taxi. Often the driver taps his horn, not in warning or irritation but to greet a friend. In effect, all of Bermuda comprises the equivalent of a small town. In a small town, newspaper reporters either know almost everyone or know about almost everyone. I swung back into my room, moved purposefully toward the telephone.

 

I looked up at the facade of the
Royal Gazette
building. I liked its pale purple hue and the gold crest beneath the newspaper's name. I hurried up the shallow steps and entered the main door. A receptionist looked up from a gray counter and smiled a welcome. Beyond her, accessible through a small half-door to the left, ranged the newsroom, a warren of cubicles. Computer screens glowed a soft green.

I spoke with the receptionist, a pretty young woman with a chartreuse bow in her hair. “Mr. Ellis is expecting you.” She pointed to my left. “Please go through the gate and walk to the end of the first corridor. He will meet you there.” She smiled again and picked up a phone.

When I reached the end of the corridor, a plump young man bounded toward me.

“Mrs. Collins? Kevin Ellis. This way, this way.” He hustled me right, then left, and right again and ushered me into a narrow work cubicle. He pulled a chair up to
his desk and waved me toward it. “So you want to know about the fellow who took a dive out at the Tower Ridge House last year. I punched up the stories and printed out a couple. Here's the one that tells the tale.”

“Thanks so much.” I sat down and took the computer printout.

Ellis's hazel eyes were bright and curious and I knew some questions were coming. He leaned back in his chair, a small legal pad in one hand, a pen in the other. Around us was the disciplined energy of a newsroom, the ring of phones, brisk voices, hurried footsteps. Some things never change.

I read the story quickly:

I didn't have to read any more. I understood now why the chief inspector believed Worrell's death to be accidental. The autopsy had, obviously, not revealed bruises similar to those found on George Smith's back. But I wondered if it hadn't at least occurred to Foster that it would take very little force to push a man sitting on a ledge, especially a man who'd had too much whiskey to drink.

“So you are staying at Tower Ridge House?” Ellis was youngish, perhaps mid-thirties, thinning sandy hair, ready smile, but his eyes had the skeptical, inquiring, nothing-you-say-will-surprise-me savvy of an experienced reporter.

“Yes. It's a lovely hotel.” I folded the printout, placed it on his desk.

His eyes flickered toward the paper, then back to me. “One of the nicest small hotels on the island. Rather hard times there now. The police are investigating the death of an employee as a possible homicide. You found the body.” He didn't have to check his notes. “Why?”

Oh, smart fellow. Damn good question.

I hesitated for an instant. I needed to pick my words with care. Although I didn't expect Chief Inspector Foster to reveal much of the current investigation to me, I didn't want to irritate him. I wanted to be able to ask him a few questions with the hope of receiving answers. And, as a lawyer I knew once observed, there are a great many ways to tell the truth.

“I'd gone out to the headland to meet George.” I was rather pleased with the natural sound of my voice, as if
I were simply confiding to a friend. “I'd visited with George several times since my arrival about the rumor that Roddy Worrell's ghost had been seen late at night near the top of the tower—”

Ellis's pudgy fingers gripped his pen. His eyes glowed. “Oh, I say. A ghost. Tell me all about it.”

Everyone loves a ghost story. Of course, I kept my recital to the information I'd received from George and made no mention of my offer of money to dissuade the ghost from appearing.

“—quite shocking when a shout awakened a number of guests late Wednesday night. Several of us saw the apparition, a luminous glow near the top of the tower, and when we ran to the tower and searched it, we found nothing to explain the appearance.”

Ellis hitched his chair closer to mine. “This was Wednesday night, you say. And you found Smith's body Thursday morning. Why were you meeting him on the headland?”

“I had a conviction he knew all about the ghost and who was making it appear and why.” There was no need to mention George's note. What I said was true and a nice example of one way of offering truth.

The reporter tapped his pen on his pad. “You don't believe in ghosts?”

“No. I'm convinced it was a hoax of some kind.” I waved my hand. “There are always ways to create physical phenomena to dupe people.” If only I'd taken the phosphorescent kite out of the closet…

He looked down at his notes. “You say that Smith told you the apparition was first seen this past week?” At my nod, he rattled on. “Of course, it could be a prank of some sort. But why would anyone want to do it?”