Resort to Murder (20 page)

Foster stood very still, a man deep in thought. I knew suddenly that the question worried him. Finally, his voice expressionless, he said, “The autopsy report, of course, is not complete.”

“Chief Inspector, please.” I looked at him eagerly. “Tell me—”

“The investigation is continuing, Mrs. Collins.” He was abrupt. “Detective Sergeant Barnes, summon Mr. Jennings.”

And I was out in the hall. But as I walked away, I had the beginnings of hope that Lloyd might be innocent. Some fact about the manner of Connor's death puzzled Chief Inspector Foster. Maybe it was a stretch to take his apparent concern to be a pointer toward Lloyd's innocence, but we were talking about Lloyd and violence and the trauma suffered by Connor when Foster took refuge in blandness and diversion.

I reached the main lobby and hesitated for a moment, uncertain which direction to go, and realized that was true in every respect. Still, no matter what happened, I was determined to look at the facts as they existed, unswayed by my longing to protect my grandchildren. If Lloyd had committed murder, I wanted him caught and tried and convicted. If he hadn't, I wanted to do everything I could to help Chief Inspector Foster discover the guilty person.

First and foremost, I needed to talk to Lloyd. I glanced toward the door where Lloyd and the others awaited their summons. It wouldn't do any good to go
in there. The police constable had her instructions. In fact, it might be difficult for me to obtain any moment alone with Lloyd. No, to discover what Lloyd knew and perhaps gain a better picture of the chief inspector's suspicions, my best bet was to try once again to slip unobserved into the room next to the interviews. That was treading on dangerous ground. But, frankly, what could—or would—the chief inspector do, even if I was discovered there? In fact, if I hurried, I might catch part of Foster's interrogation of Steve Jennings.

I moved casually toward an open door to the terrace. I kept my pace slow until I was out of sight of both the drawing room and the conference room so starkly divided between Lloyd's and Connor's families. As soon as I rounded the corner of the hotel, I picked up speed. Or tried to. I realized I was desperately tired, a combination of weakness and lack of food as well as stress. I took a moment to root in my purse. When traveling, I always have a candy bar available. Chocolate, sugar and peanuts can work miracles. I pulled out the Baby Ruth, and hurrying once again, stripped the paper and carefully bit around the central core of sweetness—I save that for last—and welcomed the instant surge of energy.

At the end of the short wing, I looked carefully about. A gardener pruned a pittosporum bush. There was no evidence of police presence—if the gardener was what he seemed—on this side of the hotel. I opened the door, poked in my head. The hallway was deserted. I moved fast, taking the last bite of candy as I turned the knob and slipped inside the room.

Mrs. Worrell's head jerked toward the door. When she saw me, the tension eased out of her body. She once again bent near the sliver of light that marked the narrow space between the connecting door and jamb.

I eased across the room. She and I stood no more than inches apart. I smelled a faint scent of geranium. I tilted my head to listen.

“…don't understand why you haven't arrested him.” Steve's chair scraped. “What more do you need?” His voice was nearer and I knew he stood over Foster's card table, glaring down at him. The lawyer spoke fast and hard, a prosecuting attorney lining up his facts. “Drake and Connor argued. She struck him. The marriage was off. He stormed away. Connor had dinner with her family. She packed to go home. We said good night and she was safe in her room, the balcony door locked, the connecting door to Drake's room locked, the hall door locked and chained. Don't forget that chain, Chief Inspector.” Ladies and gentlemen of the jury…“That chain means no one entered her room from the hall. We know the balcony door was barred. That leaves only the connecting door to Drake's room. The next morning, Drake claims that door is locked. It was not locked. I opened it and we found Connor dead, strangled with the belt to a hotel bathrobe. I'll tell you my question, Chief Inspector. Where is the belt to Lloyd Drake's bathrobe?”

The belt to a bathrobe—I understood now why Foster hadn't answered my question. He had questions of his own. Using the belt of a bathrobe argued premeditation, not a crime of uncontrolled passion.

“Our investigation will address that question, Mr. Jennings.” Foster's tone was mild. I pictured him watching the lawyer, eyes half closed, face impassive, his mind toying with the puzzle: If Lloyd wore the bathrobe into Connor's room, was it likely, if they quarreled, that he would pull the belt free and use it to strangle her? Possible, yes. Likely, no. If he entered
her room carrying the belt, that meant there was no quarrel, that he came with murder in his heart.

“You can test the belt for DNA. If Lloyd held it in his hands”—Steve's voice shook—“pulled it tight around Connor's neck, it will have traces of his sweat, the moisture from his hands. And if the belt that was used to kill Connor has Lloyd's DNA, what more would you need, Chief Inspector?” It was a harsh demand.

A chair creaked. Foster spoke briskly. “I appreciate your suggestions, Mr. Jennings. And your cooperation. Sergeant Barnes, please summon Mr. Reed.” The door opened. “Mr. Jennings, I trust you and the rest of your party will remain on the island until Mrs. Bailey's body is released.”

“We aren't going anywhere, Chief Inspector, until justice is done.”

Substitute “Sheriff' for “Chief Inspector” and it was the kind of exit line that would, have been delivered well by Gary Cooper in an old Western flick. I was afraid that all the good lines in the upcoming scenes belonged to Connor Bailey's retinue. It was time, if I could figure out a way, that the posse rode over the hill to save Lloyd.

I
MOVED quickly to the hall door, opened it. I waited until the sound of Steve's brisk footsteps ceased, peered cautiously out and stepped into the empty hall. Again, I moved fast, and I succeeded in reaching the exit before Detective Sergeant Barnes returned with Aaron Reed. I doubted Aaron would contribute anything new. It was Steve who had opened the connecting door in Lloyd's room and discovered Connor's body. I'd already heard Marlow's report of that last evening. Aaron knew no more than Marlow or Steve about Connor's quarrel with Lloyd. Aaron would simply confirm the accusations already made against Lloyd.

I reached the terrace and entered a side door into the drawing room. I stopped just inside the door, next to a tall vase with flaming birds-of-paradise, and watched as Marlow and Jasmine came out of the room where the Drake family waited.

Jasmine tried to wriggle free of her sister's grasp. “I want to say good-bye to Lloyd.” I couldn't hear Marlow's murmured reply. Jasmine leaned back on her heels. “I don't want to go to the beach.” Marlow smoothed her little sister's hair in a forlorn, hopeless gesture. “Later, Jasmine. We'll talk later. I've got to…
There are things I have to do. Come on.” She managed a brisk tone. “We haven't had lunch. Let's go down to the pool and get something to eat.” She took Jasmine's arm in a firm grip and tugged her toward the terrace. Jasmine gave a final worried look back at the closed door. “Lloyd hasn't had anything to eat…”

Jasmine either didn't understand or refused to understand. I'd tried to be a character witness for Lloyd, and here was another one. But kind words and good thoughts were not enough. I probably had at least ten or fifteen minutes before the sergeant returned for Neal or Diana. I felt rather certain the chief inspector would leave Lloyd for last.

Just for an instant, I thought about Lloyd—unshaven, haphazardly dressed, and, if innocent, struggling with terrible pain and guilt. Oh, yes, he would feel guilt, not that he had caused Connor's death but that he had not listened, that he had been angry, that he had turned away from her when she needed him. Nothing would ever lessen that ugly, searing, irremediable truth. Just for an instant, I reached out and held on to the rim of the big blue vase.

I understood guilt. Years ago it was I who insisted on a trip on a narrow twisting mountain road that ended in a car smash and the death of my son. My hand tightened on the pottery rim, held so hard I felt the edge crease my palm. Nothing can change the past. Lloyd—and I—would always live with our own sins of commission and omission. But sometimes the future can be changed.

I darted a glance toward the closed door. Neal and Diana and Lloyd waited, but time was running out for Lloyd. I'd known when I heard Steve's description of the thick terry-cloth belt used to strangle Connor. I
knew precisely what the belt looked like. Every room in the hotel had two of the comfortable white robes with the Tower Ridge House crest on the lapel. I'd worn the robe in my room. I remembered the thickness of the white belt.

I dropped into a wing chair near the blue vase and pulled a small notebook and pen from my purse. Old reporters never travel without paper and pen. I wrote a quick note for Neal and Diana, instructing them to call the American Consulate and request a list of criminal defense lawyers. They were then to contact the lawyers until someone agreed to represent Lloyd and come either to the hotel or, if such was the case, to the police station. I frowned. If I had time, I'd call Kevin Ellis, get his recommendation, but there was so little time. However—I scrawled Kevin's name at the top of the page. He had covered plenty of stories in Magistrate's Court and would very likely have a savvy view of the local bar.

Shoes clicked on the wooden floor. Detective Sergeant Barnes strode toward the door.

I added beside Kevin's name: “Reporter,
The Royal Gazette
. Use my name, try him first for suggestions in re lawyers. Don't worry about me. I'll check with you later this afternoon.” I folded the note and was almost to the door when it opened.

Detective Sergeant Barnes followed Neal into the lobby. I glimpsed Lloyd sagging on the sofa, chin on his chest, hands hanging limply. His face sagged too, gray and empty, hopeless and despairing. Diana looked after her brother, her eyes bright with fear.

I stepped in front of Neal and the sergeant. “Neal, I'm going to rest for a while on the terrace.” I looked at the sergeant, held his gaze, “I'm just recovering from
pneumonia, officer. I wanted to let my grandson know where to find me.” I'd turned so that my left hand with the note was hidden from view by my body. I tucked the note into Neal's hand. Neal's fingers closed around the piece of paper. His expression didn't change. “I will see you later,” and I moved toward the terrace.

I settled in a white wooden chair overlooking the lower terrace, the pool and, beyond the cottages and the dark green of the headland, the ever-changing ocean. The surf was a dull roar today, the turquoise water placid with only a faint ripple marking the dangerous reef. No clouds marred the perfect blue of the sky. I gave myself twenty minutes to rest. I leaned back, closed my eyes, welcomed the warmth of the sun on my face, let my thoughts range. I'd told the chief inspector that Lloyd was not a man to commit murder. My witness, of course, would not weigh against the facts, and the facts were grim: Lloyd's jealousy, the quarrel between Lloyd and Connor, the cancellation of the wedding, the unlocked connecting door between Lloyd's room and Connor's, Lloyd's assertion that the door was locked, the chained door to the hall, the barred balcony door.

If the belt used to strangle Connor proved to belong to Lloyd's robe, his arrest would be almost certain.

And there was the insidious, dreadful, inescapable question: If not Lloyd, then who?

I sat up straight, turned to look toward the hotel wing. Quite likely the police investigation of the site was complete. After all, these were hotel rooms with standard furnishings. The only additions were belongings brought by guests. The search in this instance would be confined to the room where Connor died and Lloyd's room.

Lloyd. Everything came back to Lloyd.

I swung my eyes away from the wing. It did no good to stare at the smooth yellow stucco exterior walls and the balconies with their big pots of flowers and webbed chairs. I knew the process of careful exploration that had occurred since the police forensic team arrived this morning. I needed to know what had happened last night. The chief inspector estimated that Connor died between midnight and 3
A.M
.

Surely Connor was asleep at that hour. She'd said good night to Marlow and Jasmine and Steve about ten. Marlow insisted the balcony was barred, the connecting door locked, and that she heard Connor chain the hall door.

What happened then?

I'd had one late-evening talk with Connor, a frightened and worried Connor who'd been drinking. I'd ask the chief inspector about the autopsy results. I thought it very likely that last night, after her family left, Connor had hurried to the wet bar, opened one of the small bottles of whiskey. Perhaps she'd drunk it as she made a final check of her luggage, making certain everything was packed, ready for departure the next day.

I had a sudden sad vision of Connor in her room and Lloyd in his, beset by loneliness and hurt, drinking to dull their pain, both finally curling into a restless sleep. Did Connor wake and, restless and edgy, seek comfort? Did she knock on Lloyd's door? That would presume that he came at her invitation and a quarrel ensued. Or did Lloyd knock on her door? Did she wake, admit him? Connor, after all, might have been angry with Lloyd, but she was not afraid of him. She was afraid of Roddy Worrell. She would not have hesitated to open the connecting door to
Lloyd. Did they quarrel again and did this quarrel end in murder?

No. My conclusion was as quick and hard as the slam of a door. There had been no late-night quarrel. A screaming match between them would surely have been heard. Marlow and Jasmine were in room 30, Connor in 32, Lloyd in 34. Had the furniture been disarranged in Connor's room? Was there evidence of a struggle? The chief inspector indicated that Connor had not resisted her attacker. Why?

All right. There was no quarrel. If Lloyd committed the murder, he had done so quietly, moving with deliberation and stealth. Wasn't that at odds with his apparent motive? Were stealth and deliberation the attributes of a man deviled by jealousy, trembling with anger?

But once again came the stiletto-sharp question: If not Lloyd, then who?

The answer was simple. If Lloyd was innocent, there were two possibilities. Connor had awakened and contacted someone or someone knocked on her door. Whichever, Connor unfastened the chain and admitted the visitor. Whom would Connor call upon in the middle of the night? Her daughter Marlow or Steve Jennings. Whom would she admit to her room in the middle of the night? Marlow, Jasmine, Steve, Aaron. Why would she open her door at that late hour? That was the easiest answer of all. All that would be needed was the urgent message that Jasmine was sick and needed her mother. That was a message no mother would resist or question. Even if the caller at the door was Thelma Worrell, Connor, befuddled by sleep, perceptions likely dulled by alcohol, would no doubt open her door.

All right, I had no trouble figuring out how the mur
derer got access to Connor. But that was only half the equation. What motive did anyone have? So far as I'd been able to determine, Connor was on excellent terms with both her daughters. I had no suspicion of Jasmine. Yes, children sometimes kill, but a young child could not strangle a parent. That simply couldn't be. Not Jasmine. Marlow? Her attitude throughout this journey had been one of caring and concern for her mother. I'd never spotted a trace of anger or dislike. If they had any quarrel, it was well hidden.

That left money, always a possibility when great sums are involved. I didn't know how much of Connor's fortune might be diverted through her marriage to Lloyd. But that marriage was already canceled. Could the thought have been to make certain that Connor and Lloyd didn't patch up their problems? Connor's fortune was now permanently out of Lloyd's reach. It was also now under the control of Steve Jennings as executor of Connor's estate. Had that been imperative for Steve? Had he made financial transactions that wouldn't have borne the scrutiny of Connor's new husband, also a lawyer?

As for Aaron, he professed to have little interest in money, yet he fitted into Marlow's expensive world quite well.

Finally there was revenge. Thelma Worrell loathed Connor Bailey. But would that dislike, that sense of grievance over the death of her husband, be enough to propel Thelma Worrell to murder?

I rather thought it possible that Thelma had climbed the tower last year and found her drunken husband sitting on the ledge and that she'd pushed him to his death. She blamed Connor because Connor had enticed Roddy and humiliated Thelma. If Thelma pushed
Roddy and George threatened to tell the police something that would reopen the investigation, that was motive enough to explain George Smith's murder. But Connor posed no threat to Thelma. And I didn't see that I could have it both ways. Actually three ways: Thelma guilty of her husband's death, Thelma killing George Smith in a desperate move to hush him, and Thelma strangling Connor in revenge. Moreover, I always came back to George's January 6 meeting at the BUEI. Why would Thelma meet him there when she could easily speak to him privately here at the hotel?

I sighed and pushed up from the chair, walked slowly across the terrace. I judged that Chief Inspector Foster had likely finished talking with both Neal and Diana. It would be Lloyd's turn.

I wanted to hear what Lloyd would say, not only about his own actions, about the connecting door and the bathrobe tie and his feelings about the quarrel with Connor; I wanted to hear what he said about Marlow and Jasmine and Steve and Aaron and Mrs. Worrell. Lloyd was shaken, distraught and despondent, but he must by now realize his peril. Surely he was thinking, and thinking hard. Who wanted Connor dead?

The short hall was empty. I quietly opened the door to the room adjacent to the cardroom and slipped inside. I had the room to myself. Had Mrs. Worrell lost interest, or learned everything she needed to know? It might be useful to find out what she had overheard that I had missed. But I was eager to overhear Lloyd's interview. I somehow felt that if I heard his answers to Foster's questions, I would know whether Lloyd was innocent or guilty. That judgment would be grounded on instinct, but it is instinct that we follow when we
fall in love, when we trust, when we fear and when we dislike. Instinct can be a faulty barometer, but we ignore it at our peril.

I eased across the wooden floor. The connecting door was closed. Carefully I turned the knob, opened it a sliver. The door opened to darkness and silence. My breath caught in my throat. I had the same startled, shocked feeling I'd once felt during the onset of an earthquake in Mexico City: the expected, orderly world suddenly shaken. Where was Chief Inspector Foster? Where, for God's sake, was Lloyd?

I pushed the door wide, stepped inside. The room might never have held a living creature on this day. The chairs were drawn up to the card tables. There was no trace of occupancy—no papers, no disarray, nothing to reflect the emotions that had pulsed in this small room, the sorrow and fear and anger.

I hurried across the room to the hall door, making no effort to be quiet, and yanked it open. In the hall, my shoes clipped against the wooden floor. I darted out of the wing, past the counter, where Rosalind's round face was still and watchful, and into the main lobby.

Footsteps clattered up the outside steps. Diana burst through the open front door. “Grandma, where have you been? We've looked everywhere. Oh, Grandma, they've taken Daddy away.” Diana's voice trembled. Her eyes were huge, her features taut with strain.