Resort to Murder (15 page)

“Perhaps the idea was to suggest that Roddy Worrell's death wasn't an accident.” This was dangerous ground.

Ellis's head jerked up. “Are you suggesting that Worrell was pushed from the tower and Smith knew about it?”

This was farther than I wished to go. I shrugged. “Mr. Ellis, I don't know. But why else would anyone murder George Smith? Have you learned anything that would suggest a reason for his death?”

Ellis's young-old eyes were suddenly wary. Reporters protect their sources. His answer was smooth. “The police have said only that an investigation is under way into the circumstances of Smith's death and there is suspicion of foul play.”

If Ellis knew anything more about the investigation, he wasn't going to share it with me. But maybe I could approach it a different way. “Have you learned anything about Smith?”

Ellis hesitated for an instant. I knew he was reviewing what information he had and whether it mattered if he revealed it to me. His eyes dropped to his notes. Perhaps he appreciated my report of the ghost. That would make a good story. In any event, he swung toward his monitor, clicked on the file folder, clicked on a file and brought it onto the screen. He spoke rapidly, “Canadian. From Toronto. Big family. Parents shocked, said he'd written that he was coming home and planned to go to the university, that he'd saved some money. No bad habits, according to his father. Hard worker. Liked sports. He'd been here for three years. One ticket for speeding on his moped. No other official record. Lived by himself in a basement apartment in Warwick Parish. Landlady said he paid his rent
promptly, was a quiet tenant. I haven't found a close friend yet. If he had a girlfriend, nobody's mentioned her.” Ellis closed down the file, swung toward me. “Seems like a pretty innocuous chap.”

I wanted very much to ask for the address of George's basement apartment;, but I didn't want Ellis to know that I might go there: Instead, I murmured, “He does indeed. Well”—I stood, smiled—“I hope the police are successful in their investigation and I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me.”

Ellis wasn't going to let me slip away that easily. “Just what is your interest in all of this, Mrs. Collins?” He stood, too.

“I've always been interested in the so-called appearances of ghosts, Mr. Ellis. Usually, there is something in the person's background that accounts for the apparition. So I wanted to find out more about Mr. Worrell.”

“I see.” His tone was equable, but his gaze was skeptical.

I reached out, shook his hand. “Thanks so much for your time.” I smiled and moved briskly away. I glanced back as I turned into a narrow corridor. He was looking after me and I knew he was going to find out everything he could about me and that he was going to wonder a good deal about Roddy Worrell, the ghost, and George Smith.

I like stirring pots. Maybe, if I was patient, this one would begin to boil.

Outside, I took a deep breath. I'd come to
The Royal Gazette
to learn more about Roddy Worrell's fall. Although I'd accomplished that goal, I was discouraged. I hesitated on the sidewalk. That avenue of investigation seemed closed. All that was left was to learn more about George Smith.

I walked down Par-la-Ville Road and turned left on Front Street, Hamilton's main street, which overlooks the harbor. Hamilton, the capital of Bermuda, is graced with both beauty and charm. Two- and three-story buildings on Front Street glow in delicate shades of lemon, blue, rose, green, and orange. Arches and columns support an overhang that provides shoppers with protection from rain. I wished I could duck into Trimingham's, a department store that wore its one hundred and fifty-plus years comfortably, but I had no time to be a tourist. I was apparently the main suspect in George's murder. I had to know more about George Smith. Somewhere in his life, there had to be a pointer to his death. It was up to me to find it. I lifted my hand, hailed a taxi.

M
Y shoes clicked on the wooden floor of the lobby. I reached the front desk. No one was there. I heard the tick of a clock, the soft whisper of blinds rattled by the breeze through an open window, the chirping of birds. I moved a few steps, glanced into the drawing room. A coffee service sat on a butler's table, but the room was empty except for the black cat stretched comfortably on the mantel, one paw resting on the foot of a pink porcelain clock. The cat's golden eyes flicked open, regarded me coolly.

Cats are night creatures. Had the sleek creature been abroad the night Roddy Worrell died? Quite likely, but even if the cat could speak, it likely would not have cared enough to remember.

I walked back to the counter, punched the silver bell.

Footsteps sounded. Rosalind, patting her lips with a napkin, came through the archway from a back office. “Mrs. Collins, how are you today?” Her tone was cheerful, but her eyes had a skittish look. No doubt there was a good deal of gossip among hotel employees. Was there a rumor out that I had quarreled with George? If I'd had any hopes of obtaining George's ad
dress from the desk, I relinquished them. Instead, I smiled. “Where is Mrs. Worrell?”

Rosalind brushed a crumb from her sweater. “Uh, she's not in her office this morning.” Clearly, Rosalind was reluctant to say where the manager might be found.

“Is Chief Inspector Foster still in the hotel?” If so, I knew where to find Mrs. Worrell.

Rosalind shook her head. “No. He left an hour or so ago.”

“I need to speak with Mrs. Worrell, then. Let me see”—I was scrambling to remember that disorganized scene at the foot of the tower Wednesday night and Steve Jennings's comment about a flashlight bobbing up from the lower terrace—“her cottage is the one where the road curves before reaching the hotel entrance.” I made it a statement, not a question.

Rosalind looked nervously toward the corridor leading to the upper terrace. “She said she didn't want anyone to bother her. If you like, I'll give her a message.”

“Oh, it's no trouble.” There is nothing so impossible to combat as obtuseness. I beamed at her. “Thanks, Rosalind. I'll see you later.”

“But Mrs. Collins…” Her plaintive tone followed me down the corridor.

Once in the sunlight, I walked fast to the stone steps, skirting a spectacular plumeria. Its glossy green leaves glistened in the sun, another of the infinite variations of green that mark the island in January. There weren't many shrubs in bloom now, an occasional hibiscus with a few pink or white flowers, but the subtle shadings of green had their own special magic.

On the lower terrace, I paused just long enough to see that there was little evidence a fire had occurred.
The yellow tape was gone. A gardener pushed a roller over the ground marked by the firemen's boots. The door to the Sports closet was open and a sound of hammering echoed out. The Canadian women were stretched out on deck chairs, magazines in hand.

At the base of the second stairway, I looked across the road at a small yellow cottage. The shutters were closed on the landward side. The view over the bay from the front would be magnificent. I was glad Thelma Worrell prized her privacy. She would not see me approach. I stepped up onto the narrow wooden back porch and knocked three times, peremptorily.

When the door opened, I caught a scent of old tobacco smoke and cinnamon potpourri. Mrs. Worrell stood a scant foot away, her white face empty of expression. The door began to close.

“I shall tell the chief inspector you've eavesdropped on his interviews.” I don't like to bully. I felt I had no choice.

The door stopped. Thin fingers curled around its edge.

“Please,” and I let my voice soften, “let me talk to you.”

“I wish you'd never come here. All of you.” Her voice was rough.

“I'm sorry.” And I was.

In the silence that stretched between us, the persistent, unending boom of the surf was disturbing. George Smith tumbled to his death not forty yards away from where I stood. Surf can mask so many noises—the quick pound of steps on the headland, the soft tiptoe of shoes on the platform of the tower.

The high chirrup of a cell phone startled us both. She pulled the phone from her pocket. “Hello.” She listened, her narrow face stony. “It's all right, Rosalind.”
The manager stared at me. “Mrs. Collins is here now.” She spoke distinctly. “She says she needs to speak with me. I will talk to her, then I'll be up to the office in a few minutes.”

She clicked off the phone, pushed open the screen door.

I stepped inside. We stood in a narrow, dark kitchen. There was a musty smell, no hint of foods or cooking, only mold and the memory of tobacco smoke. She turned and walked heavily into a short hallway made to look smaller by the wallpaper of huge cabbage roses and a twining ivy.

The hallway opened to a shallow but wide room with four—no, five—windows that looked out to the ocean. These windows were bare to the world below. No shutters, no drapes, no blinds marred the magnificent view of turquoise water, tumbled black rocks, crashing surf and the riffle of white that marked the encircling reef.

The cottage interior was unremarkable: a shabby chintz-covered sofa, an old green armchair, a pair of wing chairs with faded petit-point upholstery. Cast-offs from the hotel? The oriental rug had a discolored fringe. I suspected these were remnants of the days when the Tower Ridge House had been an elegant home. A man's brown leather recliner sat next to a small cedar table. A wooden rack held pipes—big ones, little ones, sleek ones, knobby ones. The smell of old tobacco was stronger here.

Thelma Worrell swung about to face me. The stark light flooding through the windows emphasized the purplish shadows beneath her staring eyes and the deep lines grooved by her thin lips. “Rosalind knows you are here.” Her voice was high, uneven.

I realized abruptly that she was afraid of me. She was not simply worried that I might reveal her surreptitious eavesdropping to the chief inspector. She watched me with uneasy eyes, nervously fingered a jade brooch at her throat. She pulled the cell phone from her pocket. “I can call her. If I need to.”

“You won't need to call Rosalind, Mrs. Worrell.” My tone was dry. “All I want from you is George Smith's address.”

“His address?” She spoke the words as if they were in an unknown tongue.

“Where did he live?” I opened my purse, pulled out a notepad and pen.

She dropped the cell phone into her sweater pocket, pushed back a fringe of frizzy hair. “What did George have that you want? What's going on? Did you and George make up this ugly story about Roddy?”

She knew everything I'd told the inspector. I wished I knew what else she'd learned, pressed so quietly against that adjoining door. Obviously, she'd heard nothing to explain more about the ghost.

“I had nothing to do with the ghost.” It was like being tangled in an unseen spider's web. “That's what I'm trying to find out more about. You heard me tell the inspector about the kite—”

“There's no proof there was ever a kite in the Sports closet!” Her tone accused me. “I asked James and he said he didn't tell you anything about the closet. He said he didn't tell you anything at all about a ghost, that he doesn't know anything about a ghost.”

“James is your employee.” I didn't want to get James in trouble. I chose my words carefully. “He doesn't want to lose his job. I don't think he does know much. When he told me to look there, I had the sense
that he thought there might be something of interest but that it was a guess. I had no feeling that he was a party to anything George had done. He was afraid George had involved himself in something and it might have to do with his murder.”

Her eyes narrowed. She lifted her fingers to one temple, pressed for a moment. “Murder.” She repeated the word, shaking her head. “I can't believe it. George—why would anyone kill George? And why do you want to know where he lived?”

“I want to see where he lived. I want to look around. Ask questions.” I held her gaze. “Somewhere there has to be a link between George and the person who murdered him. I'm sure George created your husband's ghost. He did it for a reason. When we know that reason, we will know why he died.”

“That ghost”—she shuddered—“shiny and white and hanging there.” Her voice shook. She took a step toward me. “You think it was a kite? You think George did it? But why, why?” Her voice rose.

“Because he knew who killed your husband. He may have tried blackmail.” I was ordering the facts in my mind, clear and cogent and compelling, George talking on the cell phone, telling someone that he should go to the police…

Her eyes flared. She clutched at her throat with a shaking hand.

We stared at each other. I couldn't pull my eyes away from hers. I looked at misery so intense, I wanted to turn and run. The memory of a dark and ugly night pulsed between us, raw and painful as an open wound.

“No.” Her voice was harsh. “It was her fault. Her fault.”

I wondered uneasily then if Thelma Worrell had
crept up behind her husband, pushed him from the ledge of the tower. It was possible. Why else was she frightened? Why else was she so insistent that Connor caused Roddy's death? After all, we had only Thelma's word that George had seen Connor at the tower that night. I thought of George's words, on the cell phone yesterday morning—at least the report of them from Jasmine—and yes, George remembered seeing a woman at the tower. He had not said what woman. Yes, he'd been talking about Connor. But what if it was Thelma Worrell he saw that night?

“George didn't—” She stopped, licked dry lips. She fumbled with the brooch, unloosed it. She turned the piece of jewelry over and over in her fingers. “Maybe George tried to get money from her.” The sentence wavered uncertainly. Then, more strongly, she said it again. “Maybe that's what happened. Maybe George tried to get money out of her.”

I scarcely heard her. My thoughts tumbled. I'd been so certain that George's death was tied to Roddy Worrell's. If I was wrong about that…if Thelma Worrell was truly frightened of me, if she thought I'd killed George, then I had to seek George's murderer elsewhere even if she had indeed pushed her husband.

“…George said he saw her that night. Maybe he saw her push Roddy.” Her eyes glittered with an anger that would never be satisfied.

Was Thelma Worrell an actress of great accomplishment? Had she pretended to be afraid of me? Or was it possible that she truly thought I might have murdered George because he'd paid too much attention to Diana? Or indeed for some more obscure reason? What was it she'd asked: “What did George have that you want?”

I couldn't be sure of the truth, but I held fast to one overriding suspicion: Thelma might have murdered her husband. If that was true, it definitely gave her a motive to get rid of George.

“George didn't see Connor.” That's all I said.

Her pale blue eyes shifted away from mine. Did she know better than anyone in the world how Roddy died?

I watched her closely. “Nothing happened to George until Roddy's ghost appeared.”

“The ghost.” She shivered. “Roddy died one year ago this Saturday.”

Someone wanted everyone at Tower Ridge House to remember Roddy Worrell. If I knew who planned the ghost, I would understand everything. I was sure of it. And George had known.

“I want George's address.” Once again I held my pen ready. “A basement apartment?” Bermuda has a tight housing crunch, especially for working people. Basement apartments were very popular.

Her mouth shut in a tight line.

“I will tell the chief inspector that you listened to his interviews.” I watched as she decided, saw the uncertainty in her eyes. She didn't want the chief inspector to ask why she had eavesdropped. She didn't want him to think again about the night that Roddy Worrell died and perhaps wonder about his wife's anger. On the other hand, she might worry about what I might discover if I gained access to George's living quarters.

She blew out a spurt of angry breath. She turned, was gone for a moment, came back with a sheet in her hand. “A basement apartment in Warwick,” she said abruptly. “10 Apple Rose Lane. Half-Crescent Court.”

 

I stepped over the railing from my balcony to Diana's. I pushed on the sliding door and wasn't surprised that it moved. Her helmet and the moped keys were lying on the table. I picked them up, scrawled a note, propped it against the ceramic tower.

I returned to my room, changed into slacks and a sweater. I didn't see anyone on my way to the moped parking area behind the pittosporum shrub near the main entrance. I took time to write another note just in case she noticed that her moped was missing before she went to her room:

I looked around for something heavy. I walked along the flower bed, pushing on the decorative border of broken bricks. The sixth was loose. I reached down, pulled it free and used the portion of brick to anchor the note on the cement block where the moped was parked.

I'm not much of a helmet wearer, but they are required by law in Bermuda. I adjusted it, snapped the chin strap, and straddled the bike. The key turned smoothly and the motor rumbled. As I'd hoped, riding a motorbike was a quickly remembered skill. I felt fairly wobbly and took my time going down the drive, but the balance came back to me. I drove slowly, of course. Fortunately, the speed limit is 20 miles per hour. That definitely seemed fast enough. I concentrated on keeping to the left.

The curving road—all roads curve and twist in Bermuda—sloped down. At the base of a fairly steep hill, I turned left onto Middle Road. Pastel-painted houses with the distinctive stepped white roofs dotted the hillsides. At the traffic light, I turned onto South Shore Road. I had a hand-drawn map, reluctant courtesy of Mrs. Worrell, tucked in my pocket. I'd studied it carefully before I left. She'd even marked familiar sites. I passed the entrance to Elbow Beach Hotel. So far, so good. A taxi pressed a little too close behind me, but I didn't increase my speed.