Resort to Murder (5 page)

A white wicker sofa with cheerful yellow chintz cushions sat along the wall to my right. The print containers lay in a casual tumble on the sofa. The bathroom opened to the left. Light burned there.

Lloyd and I had engaged in a fairly long conversation, which likely meant that Connor didn't see the broken tower when she first reached the room. No, she'd stepped inside the door, dropped the cardboard cylinders onto the sofa, stepped into the bathroom. No doubt she'd redone her makeup, brushed her hair, then returned to the bedroom.

I walked into the bedroom. The sliding glass door to the balcony was open. I passed the bed, stopped at the balcony. The gardens spread below. The tower loomed on the ridge to the right. Perhaps Connor had stood a moment enjoying the view. Then she'd turned…

I swiveled. A table and three chairs were between me and the bed. I skirted the table. Midway between the table and the bed lay a half dozen pieces of broken porcelain. I stepped close, knelt. I swiped one finger against the smooth glaze of the largest piece. My finger came away damp. I poked the rug with another finger. The rug was moist. I sniffed each finger in turn. It didn't take a bartender to identify that odor.

I pushed up from the floor and wavered on my feet, dizzy for a moment. Damn, would I ever be over the aftereffects of the pneumonia? I moved as fast as I could, if a little unsteadily, concerned my examination
was taking too long. I went out to the balcony, glanced quickly about. I reached down near the metal railing and touched a sliver of porcelain. That sliver told me everything.

I left it where it lay. Perhaps Lloyd would find it. I wondered, as I hurried back across the bedroom, reached the door and poked my head into the hall, whether Lloyd would reach the same conclusion as I. The hall was empty. I plunged into the corridor and was at the door to my room when Lloyd and Connor came through the entrance. I pretended to be closing my door. I smiled. “Will I see you at tea?”

Lloyd was hearty. “We'll be down in a few minutes.”

Connor, staring straight ahead, made no reply. She stopped in the hall outside her room. “I'll wait here.”

I was thoughtful as I walked down the hall and out the entrance. I don't believe in poltergeists, disembodied spirits or any of the other folderol of psychic phenomena. There is always a rational explanation of any occurrence.

A reasoned appraisal of the smashed tower suggested a carefully set stage rather than a spirit's violent effort. The tower could not have broken as it did by being dropped or thrown onto the floor because that floor was carpeted. In fact, I was almost certain that someone took the tower out to the balcony and struck it hard against the railing to break it into several pieces. The pieces were then placed where they were found. As a final touch, gin was splashed generously over the broken shards.

Obviously, the intent was to disturb Connor. Why? Simply for sheer malevolence? I pushed away the memory of Diana's angry young voice. Whatever the purpose, it seemed clear that Connor was to be fright
ened by the prospect that the ghost of Roddy Worrell was near.

I put aside for the moment speculation as to why Connor should be afraid. Had her connection to the dead man been stronger than Lloyd believed?

Worrell died in a fall from the tower. George told Jasmine about his fall. Moreover, George had apparently told Diana about the tower and Roddy Worrell's death and the connection between Roddy and Connor. The place to start was with George. I checked my watch. Almost four. Tea was offered every afternoon at three on the patio near the pool. George was the server. I walked faster.

I
WAS almost to the steps leading down to the lower terrace when I heard the rumble of mopeds. I hesitated. Yes, I wanted to help Lloyd. But first things first. I turned and hurried to the limestone wall that overlooked the drive. I was leaning over the top of the wall when the mopeds—Neal's red, Diana's green—careened around the curve, so fast my heart thudded. Children, slow down, slow down, take care.

They were laughing. The mopeds slowed. Neal looked up, saw me, waved. They parked. Diana climbed off the bike, removed her helmet and ran her fingers through her reddish-gold hair. She called up, “Are we back in time for tea?” Neal looped his helmet over the handle.

“Plenty of time.” I would catch George after tea.

Neal and Diana ran lightly up the steps, Diana in the lead. “Grandma, tomorrow we have to take you to see the Spanish Rock. It's amazing. It has the date 1543 on it and they think a sailor—”

“Portuguese, not Spanish,” Neal interrupted.

“—whatever,” his sister said impatiently. “He was shipwrecked here and he climbed to the top of a cliff and scratched the year and his initials on this rock—”

“But now they think the letters aren't his initials after all, but an inscription meaning
Rex Portugaliae,
for the ‘King of Portugal.' The date and initials are cast in bronze because they were wearing away from the rock. It's really neat,” Neal exclaimed. “It's right on the edge of the cliff, seventy feet high.”

“—and a cross,” Diana continued, “and you have to wonder if he died here like Amelia Earhart did on that island in the Pacific—”

Neal shook his head. “Nope. I read about it. Their ship foundered on a reef but they built a new boat and made it back to Santo Domingo. Earhart and Noonan crashed on an atoll and there was nothing to build with. So they died unless they were captured by the Japanese. But that's been generally discredited.” He stared out at the water, richly blue, inviting, beautiful, merciless. “Pretty awful. To crash-land and think you're going to live and find out you're on a scrap of land without any water. No water, only scraps of food in the cockpit; no way to get help, no way to build a boat.”

I was proud of him, proud that he looked beyond a glib recital of Earhart's end, sensed the pain, understood the fear. Neal's imagination would make his life harder, sometimes almost unendurable, but far, far richer.

Then he was young again. “Think I'll go put on my suit, take a swim. Coming, Dinny?”

I spoke quickly. “Stay with me, Diana. We'll go down for tea.”

“See you later.” Neal strode quickly away.

Diana smiled, took my arm. We walked slowly down the path. I wondered how to begin. Diana looked out toward the sea. The pleasure of the outing with her brother seeped away, leaving her face somber. Her del
icate features sharpened. Her lips pressed together. She should have been lovely, with strawberry-blond curls framing finely chiseled features. But if I were in the business of giving beauty advice, I'd be succinct: Be happy.

I've spent a lifetime asking questions. All reporters know that the unexpected question can yield enormous dividends. It's not a polygraph, but definitely the next best thing. Even the slickest liar can be startled by a totally unexpected inquiry. My granddaughter was not a slick liar, but she was a very unhappy young woman.

We were at the top of the steps leading down to the lower terrace. The sounds of conversation drifted up to us. Abruptly, I demanded, “Diana, was the tower hard to break?” I watched her closely, alert for the flare of eyes, for the sudden immobility of shock, for a quick-drawn breath.

Diana stopped, puzzled. She bent toward me. “I'm sorry, Grandma. What did you say?” Her voice was polite. And untroubled.

Not even a trill of joy by a choir of angels could match the relief that flooded through me. “I said that you look as though your heart was about to break.”

“Oh, Grandma.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I can't stand it if Daddy marries her. She's a mess. You saw the way she acted in the bar last night, playing up to that awful man from Texas. It made me sick. And she doesn't care a bit about what matters to Daddy. He's going to leave Dallas and you know how he's always loved Dallas. And he's going to leave his law firm. And all of his friends.”

I could have told her that a city, no matter how much enjoyed, and friends, no matter how treasured, are cold comfort in a double bed alone. I
reached out, took her hand. “Diana, don't make your father unhappy. I know it's hard for you and Neal, but try to see this from your father's—”

She gripped my hand in her hands, held it tightly. “Grandma, she's a tramp. Listen, I've found out all about her. They've been coming here for years and she always had men clustered around her, even when Marlow and Jasmine's father was alive. Just like that Mr. Patterson. She's always stayed up late in the bar and there was always somebody drinking with her. And Mrs. Worrell's husband followed her around and he'd get drunk and sing to her. Mrs. Worrell got really upset. But last year, Dad was here and Connor went after him and that made Mr. Worrell mad. He and Connor had a big fight and the next morning they found his body at the foot of the tower.”

“Is that why you engineered the picture on the point this morning?” My tone was sharp.

She dropped my hand, looked at me defiantly. “All right. It bothered her, didn't it? Why should the tower upset her unless there's something about it she doesn't want to think about? Like a man getting drunk over her and falling off and getting killed.”

“You said you've found out all about her…”

“She's a slut.” Diana was disdainful, her voice hard.

“Really. And how did you achieve this intelligence?” I gazed at her steadily.

Diana's eyes fell away. She fingered a shell button on her cardigan.

“From George? The ever-helpful young waiter?” My tone was cool.

“He knows.” Diana's retort was impassioned. “He sees everything. He knows all about her.”

“And apparently can't wait to broadcast it to others.
Diana, look at your source. Why is George doing this?” If Diana didn't wonder, I damn sure did.

“No, no. It isn't like that. He didn't even want to tell me,” she protested. “Here's what happened. I had lunch down at the pool yesterday. And he was nice—”

Read “cute.” Diana is at the age when all young men are interesting.

“—and we got to talking and I asked how long he'd worked here. He's Canadian and he dropped out of college. He's been here three years but he's thinking of going back to school—”

Always a good line with a college girl.

“—and I asked if he remembered my dad being here last January. He said he'd never forget last January because that was when Mr. Worrell got drunk and fell out of the tower. And George said it was all because of the American woman. Then he broke off and looked embarrassed and tried to change the subject. But I got it out of him. I told him I didn't like her at all and she was going to marry my dad and I was just sick about it.”

Two sides to every story. At the least. George's revelations to Diana could be as innocent as she claimed. As for his dramatic description of a ghost to Jasmine, he might simply enjoy entertaining, and all the world loves ghostly tales. None of that, however, explained the knock on Steve Jennings's door last night. Moreover, Jennings obviously saw something near the tower that disturbed him. Or he thought he saw something. And the broken ceramic tower in Connor's room argued a degree of hostility that was disturbing. I wasn't persuaded that Roddy Worrell's purported ghost could be responsible. I believed a living hand knocked on Steve's door and broke the pottery tower in Connor's
room. If the young waiter was behind either event, it needed to be discovered because the happiness of both Connor and Lloyd was at stake. As for my granddaughter…

“Diana.” I spoke gently. “I understand your concern about your dad's marriage. But you should remember that George's description of last January is that of one person. Is it smart—or fair—to rely on a single source?”

Diana grew up in a newspaper family. She understood what I was telling her. George could be right or wrong, he could be mistaken, he could be hostile, he could be credulous.

“One source?” I let the question hang, then said quietly, “Talk to Steve Jennings.”

“He's in love with her, too,” Diana said bitterly. “I don't need anyone to tell me anything about her. I know what she is and she's nothing but trouble. And I'll do anything I can to get rid of her.” She whirled and ran away.

I almost followed Diana, then, lips pressed together, I walked down the steps to the lower terrace. I paused in the shadow of the arbor to look over the clusters of guests on the sunny side of the swimming pool. In summer, of course, most would likely have chosen a table beneath the arbor, but the January air was cool in the shade. In fact, I doubted that tea was served around the pool during the summer months, more likely in the drawing room that overlooked the upper terrace. This January afternoon, only a half dozen tables were occupied. Voices murmured, teacups clinked. The two angular women who'd sunbathed despite the cool air were now dressed in dark sweaters and slacks and accompanied by their husbands. Two couples in their
thirties, unmistakably New Yorkers, talked loudly, as New Yorkers do, about the mayor and police reform and what might happen if there was a transit strike. An austere old lady in a well-worn tweed suit listened with a slight smile as her companion, his gentle features intent, gestured enthusiastically. He was possibly in his forties. Two cheerful young women shared a magazine. One turned the page and the other giggled. They both had soft blond curls and bright blue eyes. I wondered if they were sisters. Curt Patterson held court at the table nearest the arbor, lounging back in a webbed chair. His sister looked much like him, bright red hair, lots of freckles and a confident face. Her dark-haired, burly husband munched tea sandwiches and listened, occasionally nodding as Patterson jabbed the air for emphasis. A young family occupied the farthest table. The sweet-faced mother placed tea sandwiches on the plates of her little boys, perhaps four and seven. Her husband sipped tea and spoke in a voice too low for me to hear. She replied and they chatted. The children sat so patiently and quietly, their sneakered feet dangling from the adult chairs, that I was quite sure they were not American.

I chose a table in the partial shade of the arbor, as it afforded the best view of the steps leading down from the upper terrace as well as the walk that curved past the cabana toward the garden. The tower loomed high above the garden. This morning George claimed to have seen something white near the tower, then said he was mistaken. A seagull flashed past the tower. Yes, he might have glimpsed a bird. Or, if someone was on the platform and stepping inside, there could have been a brief flash of white. Those who fancy the supernatural might believe George was psychic and that
he saw Roddy Worrell though there was actually no one there. Or he might have seen nothing at all. It was the latter possibility that most intrigued me. If he invented the glimpse, he did so for a purpose and it was that purpose I wanted to divine.

George was serving the tea by himself. He came out from the pool food-service area and immediately saw me. He paused on his way to replenish the other tables. “Would you like tea, Mrs. Collins? Or would you prefer sherry?” He leaned forward, his bony face attentive. In his role as a waiter, there was nothing to distinguish him from a hundred other young men. He had the attractiveness of youth—bright eyes, smooth skin, an insouciant confidence. After all, he wouldn't have traveled so far from home unless he was eager to see new places, learn other ways. He had a nice face, wide-spaced eyes, a spatter of freckles, lips that often curved into a grin. He served with an easy banter that was friendly, yet not overly familiar.

“Tea, please.” I had plenty of opportunity to observe George as I enjoyed the tea and the little sandwiches, salmon-and-cream cheese, tomatoes-and-cucumber, the flaky scones with clotted cream, and the delicate fruit pastries. He addressed every guest by name, which argued a good memory and some effort. He served our table in the evenings.

I wondered what he was like at his local pub drinking a beer with friends. I guessed boisterous, cheerful and outgoing. He was thin but athletic, with a lanky build. Diana thought he was cute.

I deliberately dawdled until everyone else had left. Dusk was falling. The lights came on around the pool. He was clearing the last table except mine. “George…”

He turned toward me. If he was impatient to be done, he gave no hint of it, his gaze polite. “More tea, Mrs. Collins?”

“No, thank you. It was lovely. Actually, I'd hoped to have a visit with you. My granddaughter told me about Roddy Worrell's ghost. She said you know all about it.” I looked at him earnestly. “I've always been fascinated by ghosts. Is there really a ghost in the tower?”

He picked up his tray, stepped to my table. “I know it sounds crazy.” His voice held a note of embarrassment. “My grandmother always said there were ghosts. I didn't believe it until now. But a couple of nights ago I was on my way home and I heard a kind of odd sound, kind of like a rustle, and I looked up and saw this white glow near the top of the tower. I'll have to tell you”—his eyes were wide—“it got my attention.” He rested his tray on the table. As he cleared the tea service, he lifted his shoulders, let them fall. “I knew it had to be Roddy. This Saturday night it will be a year ago that he died.” The dishes clinked as he placed them on the tray.

“Do you really think you saw a ghost?” I didn't try to keep the disbelief from my voice.

“It's not just me.” His reply was sharp. “Frederick told me this morning that he saw something last night. He said he was walking down the back steps.” George nodded toward the wall that curved behind the pool. “That's where we park our mopeds, out of sight of the guests. He said it was right about midnight. He got his bike and he was just at the curve when he looked up”—George stopped, pointed up the hill at the tower—“there was a shiny glow. He said the whiteness moved around the tower like it was hunting for some
thing. Then, all of a sudden, it was gone. Nothing. There one minute, gone the next. He said it scared the hell out of him.” I heard the reflection of Frederick's fear in George's voice.