Resort to Murder (23 page)

Indications of prior planning:

 

George's meeting at the BUEI on January 6.

The appearance of Roddy's ghost.

The possession of stage blood and the message on Connor's table.

 

Then, as earlier, I smashed hard against the unalterable fact that no one in the wedding party had passed through Bermuda Immigration on January 6.

That brought me full circle to Mrs. Worrell.

I took my last sip of coffee, paid my check. By the time I hailed a taxi on Front Street to return to the hotel, I had the beginnings of a plan.

 

“Finished, Dinny?” Neal stared at Diana's plate, only a bite or two gone from the club sandwich, the beet salad untouched.

Diana flung down her napkin, jumped up. “I can't eat.” She paced up and down beside the table. “Grandma, I know you mean well but she'll just laugh at you.”

I pressed my fingers against my temple. Despite the food at the Hog Penny, I was terribly tired. I'd pushed myself close to exhaustion. But Lloyd was in jail and time was running out. Tonight was the moment to act.

Neal slipped the cover atop Diana's plate, picked up the dishes from the table and placed them on the room service tray. “Let me put this stuff out in the hall.”

I waited until he returned. “It's worth a try.”

Neal nodded, his young face pale and tired.

I spoke to Diana's back. She stood at the balcony door, staring out into the night, fingers twisting a strand of her red-gold hair.

“Look at it this way. There is simply no other explanation. Either your father's guilty”—the silence in Diana's room was as heavy and cold as sodden snow—“or Mrs. Worrell killed Connor.” I'd told them everything I knew and I needed their help.

Neal rubbed his nose. “Okay, we'll give it a try. You want to wait until midnight, go down to her cottage, wake her up—”

I would bully myself inside, no matter what it took. I was sure I could do it. “She'll let me in when I tell her I have a note from George and he describes seeing her follow Roddy up the tower steps—”

“Wait a minute.” Diana waved her hand toward us. She bent forward. “Something's going on out there.” She slid open the balcony door, stepped outside.

With the door open, there came the sound of faint shouts, running footsteps.

In four quick strides, Neal was across the room and out on the balcony. “Hey, those must be flashlights!”

“What do you suppose is going on?” Diana and Neal stood at the railing.

I came up behind them. Neal was right, the swoop and dance of lights had to be the beams of flashlights, several in the gardens, at least two others glinting like faraway fireflies among the tangle of shrubs and trees near the rugged shore. I leaned forward, listened. “They are calling for Jasmine!”

 

“I've rung nine-one-one.” Mrs. Worrell's bony fingers clutched the carnelian beads at her throat. “Surely one of the boys will find her. They know the grounds…” Her voice trailed away. She stood by the front desk, her tired face creased with worry.

Marlow sagged in one of the green tapestry oversize
chairs near the center table. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” She looked desperately ill, her eyes glazed with pain, her face bleached white. She tried to get up, wavered, fell back. “I'm so sick. My head…I've got to look for Jasmine.”

Aaron thudded down the stairs from the second floor. He carried a small towel bunched in his hands. “I've got some ice here. Hold it to your head, Marlow. Listen, you've got to rest. We'll look for Jasmine. Maybe she fell asleep down on the beach. Don't worry. We'll find her. You come back upstairs.”

I remembered then that Marlow had a migraine, the devastating headache that makes thought and action impossible.

Steve came through the front door carrying an armful of flashlights. He nodded toward Mrs. Worrell. “I found these in the storeroom off the drive like you said.” He looked at Diana and Neal and me. “Can you help? The staff's out looking.”

I took a big plastic flash. “How long has she been missing?” It could not be as simple as Aaron suggested. This was January and the nighttime temperature often fell to the mid-fifties. With the darkness and the onshore breeze, it would be far too cold to sleep on the beach even if Jasmine had worn a sweater.

Hands outstretched, Neal and Diana hurried toward Steve. They each took a flashlight, headed for the terrace. “Dinny, be careful on the cliffs.” Neal was the younger sibling, but he had the protective instinct of all good brothers. “Sometimes the ground's soft at the edges…”

Marlow touched the tips of her fingers against her temples.

Steve, his face grim, was almost to the terrace door.
“Nobody's quite sure how long she's been gone. She went out this afternoon late—”

I remembered now—Aaron and Marlow moving their belongings into the main hotel and Jasmine darting out the French windows. She'd had her backpack with her, so surely she did have a jacket, perhaps even some crackers or cookies.

“—and nobody's seen her since.”

Marlow shuddered. “I should have gone after her.”

If Marlow lost both her mother and her sister…The thought slid through my mind as cold and dark as an eel easing along the ocean floor. Her mother and her sister. I moved slowly after the others. By the time I reached the wall at the end of the terrace, the others were far ahead, the bobbing lights marking their progress.

I thought Aaron's shout came from near the top of the sloping green tunnel that led down to the sea. His voice was loud enough to carry over the ever-present roar of the ocean and the rattle of the palm fronds in the onshore breeze. He called out, “I'll check the caves on the headland. Diana, there's a picnic grove that branches off from the walk down to the beach. Neal, you go to that natural pool…” Aaron's voice faded. He must already be running down the leafy passageway toward the beach.

I shivered in the sharpening breeze and buttoned my sweater as I walked. The lights on the garden paths blazed, but they made little impress on the heavy shadows, the swaths of light surrounded by impenetrable splotches of darkness. Yes, the tower loomed white on its high ridge, but most of the garden was hidden, the shrubbery and trees mysterious and sinister shapes. Cloud cover hid the moon and stars.
Somewhere out there a little girl was hidden or lost. Or dead.

I was swept by an atavistic awareness of evil, like a dimly seen but hideously realized specter in a nightmare—slimy poison-tipped tentacles quivering, seeking, ready to destroy. I breathed deeply, trying to force the image from my mind. I was overtired. This was no time to be frightened. Yes, we'd been surrounded by evil these past few days, but tonight was nothing more than a search for a girl distraught, by her mother's death. That was all that had happened. Jasmine had run away from sorrow she couldn't bear. And she'd fought against the idea that Lloyd was involved. She'd been terribly angry with Marlow and Aaron and Steve. She'd left the hotel behind. My head jerked up. What was it Jasmine had told me? She loved the magnolia tree. Perhaps she was there, hunkered between a big branch and the trunk, listening to the crash of the waves below and hearing the frantic calls. Would Jasmine box her ears with her hands and be very quiet, afraid she was in trouble?

It was going to be all right. I realized that I'd said the last words aloud to myself…
all right
. I blinked against tears. Damnit, Jasmine with her curly blond hair and pug nose and saucy smile was not at risk.

Still, I had that sense of sickening evil.

Her mother and her sister. That phrase lodged in my mind. Oh God, no one would want to hurt a little girl.

I reached the stairs to the lower terrace, looked down at the pool area, barely glimpsed the figure of a young man in a white polo shirt and chino slacks and then he was gone, lost in the darkness by the arbor. “Neal?” But I realized as I called that, of course, I'd not seen Neal. He was down at the beach by now, his flashlight beam pok
ing into the dark crannies of rock, sweeping along the pale pink sand. One young man was so like another that it was easy, even for a grandmother, to make a mistake.

I was halfway down the stairs when I stopped. All the thoughts and feelings, the little pieces of knowledge and the presence of evil swirled and coalesced. I thought of the planning to create a perfect murder, perfect in that the murderer was never to be a suspect, in that another man was cleverly placed in utter peril. I thought of the meeting with George at the BUEI, the appearances of Roddy's ghost, George's murder, the destruction of the Sports closet, the vial of stage blood brought from the United States and used to write the message that terrified Connor, the theft of the belt from Lloyd's robe, the knock on Connor's door and the message—
Jasmine's sick
, can you come? Or perhaps
Marlow sent me. She needs help
—something on that order, the entry into Connor's room, her turn to get her glasses, the swift and brutal garrote, the chaining of the hall door, the unlocking of the connecting door to Lloyd's room and a stealthy exit. And I thought of the sense of evil and the knowledge that it would be to only one person's advantage for Jasmine to die. If Jasmine was dead, all of Connor's fortune would belong to Marlow, every last penny of it.

But the planning had started long before Connor's murder. I turned and hurried up the steps, ran across the terrace, burst into the drawing room. Mrs. Worrell pressed her hand against her chest. Marlow lifted her head, struggled to her feet. “Oh my God, what—”

“There's no time. Marlow, tell me. When you met Aaron, you said he'd taken his friend's place to come here during spring break.” I looked into dazed, pain-filled eyes, willed her to answer, now, now, now.

“Aaron.” Her voice was dull. “I don't know…”

I gripped her arm, my fingers gouging. “Tell me. You must. Did he use his friend's passport?”

“Passport?” Her voice was thick, either from the exploding pulses of agony in her skull or from drugs for the headache. Marlow squeezed her eyes almost shut, struggling against the pain, against my question. “That's a secret. Aaron said we'd never tell anyone. Paul might get in trouble.”

Paul. Paul's passport. Did Paul and Aaron look alike? Enough so, I was sure, that there'd been no question at Immigration. The chief inspector could discover Paul's last name. And I knew Paul's passport carried an entry-date stamp for January 6.

Paul didn't matter now. Even Aaron didn't matter now. All that mattered was Jasmine. I swung away from Marlow, ran to Mrs. Worrell. “Tell the chief inspector when he comes. The big magnolia tree by the cliff. That's where Jasmine must be. We've got to get to her before Aaron does.”

I
WAS breathing hard by the time I reached the garden. The lights in the trees illuminated the flagstone path that curved in a lazy, summery meander among the cultivated beds. The blooms, mostly pansies and poinsettias in January, were invisible in the darkness. I almost struck out across the dark grounds, ignoring the walk, the quicker to reach the far end of the garden where the huge magnolia loomed at the cliff's edge. I had a flashlight, but I didn't want to use it. I wanted to come up quietly in the darkness, just in case. I took some comfort in the fact that Aaron had led the sally toward the beach. But as I remembered his shouted directions, I realized that in only a moment more, he and Diana and Neal would have gone their separate ways—Diana to the picnic area, Neal up the beach to the natural pool in a small cove, and Aaron to the caves.

I was midway through the gardens now. I saw the occasional dart of a flashlight, heard shouts over the boom of the surf.

“Jasmine…Jasmine…Jasmine…”

These would be legitimate searchers, moving openly and loudly.

If Aaron was coming to the magnolia tree, he would
slip silently through the darkness, carrying death in his heart. My only hope was that Aaron didn't know of Jasmine's passion for the magnolia tree. But Aaron had made it a point to charm Jasmine, to play with her, to pay attention to her. I was terribly, desperately, sickeningly certain he knew about the magnolia tree. And, if he knew, he'd kept quiet about that knowledge. There would be only one reason not to tell everyone—not to lead the searchers to the tree. If he killed Connor to keep her from marrying Lloyd and funneling away part of the Bailey fortune, he would kill Jasmine to secure even greater money for the woman he intended to marry. And when would he ever have an easier opportunity than now? It would seem such a tragedy, Marlow's little sister, distraught over their mother's death, flinging herself out of the hotel, running to sanctuary in a big tree, but a tree with limbs that hung over the edge of the cliff, and far below were the sharp and deadly rocks and the water. A terribly sad accident and Marlow left all alone, with only Aaron to comfort and care for her.

Aaron had professed to spurn the life of the wealthy—big homes, fine cars, expensive clothes, elegant resorts. So why did he first come to Bermuda? It was the playground—had always been the playground—of the very wealthy. Only well-heeled college students chose Bermuda for their spring break. Aaron claimed to love the simple, the homespun, but his clothes were expensive.

Ostensibly, Aaron's spring break in Bermuda was happenstance, a free ticket not to be used by his roommate and the decision not to waste it. I rather doubted any of it was happenstance. The Aaron we all thought we knew, carefree, smiling, easygoing, charming, was a mask, and behind that mask lay cunning and greed
and evil. Aaron had planned far in advance, and I was sure he'd planned his meeting with Marlow. I suspected he already knew a great deal about Marlow before they met on the beach in Bermuda over spring break. Marlow was serious, unpretentious, rather dowdy, and very rich. Who would appeal to that kind of young woman more than an impecunious graduate student uninterested in wealth?

I moved past the last batch of lighted trees. The shouts were far away now. I walked softly. There were no flagstones here. The ground was humpy and I stepped carefully. I wouldn't use my flashlight until I reached the magnolia. I could see the dark mass of the tree against the velvet of the sky. The steady rumble of the surf masked the sound of my steps. I stopped twice, sensing movement somewhere near. I peered into the darkness, straining to see. The tree was now so near it seemed to fill the horizon. The onshore breeze rattled the huge glossy leaves.

“Jasmine?” The call was soft as the distant cry of a mourning dove. “It's Aaron. Hey, I've got a sandwich for you.”

A branch creaked. Magnolia leaves rustled like the slap of bare feet on a boardwalk.

I shouted, “Jasmine, don't answer! Don't say anything.” I flicked on the flashlight, swung it back and forth, stopped the beam at the base of the huge tree, held it on a crouching figure. Aaron flung up his hand to shield his eyes in a face suddenly distorted by rage.

I clicked off the light, moved sideways, stumbled. Even as I fell, I was scrambling to get up. But Aaron had a flashlight, too, and now I was pinned in its glare, the hard white beam dazzling my eyes. I heard the thud of his feet and knew he was hurtling toward me; my knee flamed in agony.

I rolled over onto my elbow, screamed, “Jasmine, get down, run, get to the hotel. Aaron killed your mom. Run—”

The yelp of pain and crash of bodies was so near.

“I got him, Grandma, I got—-”

I turned on my light. Neal and Aaron were a writhing mass of arms and legs. Grunts of effort, hoarse and desperate, came from their throats.

Oh, Neal, Neal…I tried to get up, sank back, knew I had to help. My knee throbbed. I pulled myself across the ground toward Neal and Aaron.

Jasmine called for Marlow, her voice high and frightened. “Marlow, come, please, please…” She ran past me and I knew she was on her way to safety. There were other calls now, too, loud shouts, coming nearer and nearer.

Aaron was on top of Neal. He lifted his flashlight, the beam slicing crazily through the night sky. “…kill you, you…”

Neal heaved, tossing Aaron to the side. Aaron rolled away, came to his feet in a crouch. Neal scrambled up, took two steps, tackled Aaron and they thudded heavily to the ground just as Chief Inspector Foster arrived. Foster pulled them apart.

Aaron blinked in the brightness of Foster's flashlight. He lunged away but police officers swarmed around him. They pinned Aaron's arms behind him, hustled him away.

I had a last glimpse of Aaron's face, suffused with rage, eyes glittering, mouth twisted. How had I ever thought him handsome?

Neal, breathing heavily, blood staining one cheek, his left arm crooked in pain, knelt beside me.

“Neal…” I'd wrenched my knee in my fall and I
knew I'd need help getting up. But I would never have gotten up if Neal had not come. I looked at him in wonder. “If you hadn't come…” One old life would have ended and one so very young.

Neal swiped at the blood dripping from the cut beneath his eye. His words came in bursts as he drew breath into strained lungs. “I was coming back up the beach…I saw Aaron. He didn't have his flashlight on.” Another gulp of air. “He was supposed to be checking the caves. I knew he couldn't even have got to them yet. And there he was at the top of the concrete walk…looking around like he didn't want anybody to see him. That seemed damn strange to me, so I followed him.”

And saved two lives.