Resort to Murder (3 page)

As the waitress served us, Jennings gave me a rueful smile. “Did you have a bad night's sleep, too?”

I'd slept the heavy, weighted sleep of one recently ill. I shook my head. “No. Actually, I slept deeply.” I'd still felt tired upon awakening. “Is your room not comfortable?” I was surprised. The block of rooms reserved for the Drake-Bailey party was contiguous and I assumed all the rooms were as lovely as mine. The appointments were charming: white wicker furniture, rose walls, paintings of Bermudian scenes including the steep, stepped, brilliantly white roofs, Gombey dancers, and the ever-changing sea. The paintings could only dimly reflect the beauty of the tiny country. I had only to step onto my balcony for a dramatic view—the white tower on the ridge to my right which gave the hotel its name, the dazzling gardens below, the terraces and pool, and then, always, the rugged black rocks and sapphire sea.

“Oh, the room's fine.” He rubbed his cheek, looked at me sharply. “So you weren't awakened? I thought you might have been. I believe our rooms are next to each other. I'm in room twenty-six.”

“No. I'm in room twenty-two.” Diana was in room 24 and Neal in room 20. I sipped the strong, hot invigorating coffee, relished the spurt of energy from the sugary roll, and wondered what excitement I'd missed. I spent almost fifty years as a reporter, so I'm not shy about asking questions. “What happened? Loud guests?” That seemed unlikely. The small hotel was genteel, and none of the guests I had seen appeared to be the sort likely to erupt with late-night festivities.

Jennings frowned. “Somebody knocked on my door. About two
A.M.
I thought you might have heard it.”

“No.” If I heard the knocking, the noise had merged into my dreams—dreary, tiring dreams of locked doors
and blocked hallways, the subconscious signaling fatigue and frustration.

“It was quite loud. And sustained.” Jennings no longer looked genial. “It took me a moment to wake up.”

I understood. Two
A.M.
is not an hour when most of us awaken easily.

“When I got to the door, there was no one there.” He frowned. “I thought I heard running steps. I slipped on some clothes and came out to the upper terrace.”

“Was that wise?” I asked mildly.

He shrugged. “Oh, it's very safe here. Besides, if anyone meant harm, they'd scarcely knock on the door and disappear. Anyway, it made me mad. Like a kid's trick, you know, knocking on the door and running. But at two o'clock in the morning…”

No, that wasn't an hour when kids were likely to be out playing pranks.

“When I reached the terrace, I looked toward the garden—” He broke off, his silvery brows drawn in a puzzled frown.

I waited, but he seemed to have come to a full stop. “You saw something odd.”

His head jerked up. “How did you know?”

I don't claim psychic abilities, but I've read a lot of faces. “You'd just been awakened. You were half mad, half worried. You didn't see a person or animal. But you saw something that puzzled you.” And worries you.

“Oh, it was late. I was half asleep.” He almost seemed to be talking to himself, persuading himself. Abruptly, he forced a smile. “Nothing worth mentioning. Now, tell me, Mrs. Collins, is this your first trip to Bermuda?”

If Steve Jennings hadn't resisted describing what he
had seen, I might not have been concerned. But I didn't like the possibility, which occurred to me at once, that the rousing knock on the door might have been intended for Diana's room. Surely she would not open the door without checking the peephole. But she might assume that her brother was in the hall…

I definitely wanted to know what Steve Jennings saw in the deserted garden late last night. I ignored his question. “Perhaps you should inform Mrs. Worrell—”

His interruption was sharp and final. “I couldn't do that. Absolutely not.”

How odd. Wasn't the manager the first person who should be informed if someone played a malicious prank on a guest? And “malicious” seemed apt. Being awakened late at night to find no one at the door is disturbing. But Jennings's response to my suggestion was immediate and I thought its sharpness and finality out of proportion. Why would it be unacceptable to inform the manager? I was dealing with nuances I didn't understand.

Jennings shrugged. “Sorry I brought it up.” His tone was brisk. “Believe me, it doesn't matter—”

Didn't it? What had he seen in the garden? Why wouldn't he tell me? After all, my grandchildren were staying in the hotel. I intended to be certain no danger threatened them. But clearly I would not find out anything from Jennings. However, I had no compunction about speaking to Mrs. Worrell.

“—and I'm sure it won't happen again. Is this your first visit to Bermuda?”

This time I answered his question. “No.” I remembered the warmth of the sand beneath our feet as Richard and I walked hand in hand on Windsor Beach, alone together with only the crash of the surf and the
cry of the seabirds and the sand that shimmered a delicate, elegant pink in the late-afternoon sunlight.

Perhaps it was a result of my recent illness, perhaps it came from the turmoil of emotions accompanying this journey, but sudden tears burned my eyes. I do know that grief ambushes the heart without warning, triggered by a scent, a sound, a memory.

Jennings looked at me kindly.

I blinked and managed a smile. “My late husband, Richard, and I came here several times. We always stayed at the Rosedon. The garden…” The Rosedon's garden is extraordinarily beautiful. Richard and I often walked just after dawn to watch the sun spill over the horizon and touch the gorgeous plants with glory.

Jennings looked away. It was a moment before he spoke. “I've never known whether memories help or hurt.”

I drank my coffee. “Both.”

We looked at each other with understanding.

He stared toward the water, but I knew his gaze went far beyond St. George's Harbour. “This is the first time I've been back since…” He stopped, took a sip of his tea. “My wife, Ellen, died last April. Ellen and I started coming here almost thirty years ago with R.T. and Margaret. Margaret was R.T.'s first wife. They were only married a few years when she died. R.T. worked like a madman but I was always able to persuade him to come to Bermuda with Ellen and me. When he married Connor—”

I attached the identities to the names. Ellen had been Steve Jennings's wife. R.T. must have been R. T. Bailey, Connor's husband. R.T. had been married previously to Margaret, who predeceased him.

“—we picked up the old habit, Ellen and I and R.T.
and Connor. We didn't come the year that R.T. died, but the next year Ellen and I encouraged Connor to come with us. We continued to come every January. I suppose we took Connor under our wing. She was much younger than R.T. and was left a widow very early. Actually”—his eyes narrowed—“I was surprised when Connor and Lloyd decided to get married here.”

We were silent. I was curious whether he would explain what he meant, but he simply continued to look out at the glittering blue water. Jennings had piqued my curiosity. I didn't have faces for Ellen or R.T. or Margaret, but they pressed against the edge of my consciousness. I'd given no thought at all to Connor Bailey's past when I agreed to attend the wedding. I knew only that she was a widow with two daughters. I'd had no idea that she and Lloyd had met here, nor had I known that this was a favorite resort of her first marriage.

“Did Connor and her first husband stay at Tower Ridge House?” I finished my coffee, shaded my eyes against the sun.

“Always.” His tone was casual.

“Are there children from R.T.'s first marriage?” I was guessing there were not, or surely they would be in attendance.

Jennings confirmed my guess. “No. R.T. and Margaret were married such a short time before her death. And he didn't meet Connor until he was almost fifty. It came as quite a surprise to everyone when he remarried.” Jennings looked amused. “R.T. was a tough old bird, but Connor bowled him over. She was just out of college and had her first job with an ad agency that was doing a corporate promotion featuring R.T. and she was assigned to follow him around for a cou
ple of weeks. By the end of a month, he'd decided to marry her.”

I wondered at Jennings's bemused tone. Had he opposed that long-ago marriage?

Perhaps the lawyer sensed my question or perhaps he wanted to keep talking about anything other than what he'd seen last night in the garden. He cleared his throat. “I thought it would be a disaster. But R.T. knew what he was doing. Connor thought he was wonderful. And he decided Connor needed looking after and he was the man for the job. She took to his protective manner like a duck to water. And the greatest happiness, of course, was the children. R.T. loved his kids. He thought Marlow was the neatest person he ever met and he was proud of Jasmine being a towhead the way he'd been as a kid. And he loved bringing them here. I think that's why Connor decided to keep coming back, even after he was gone.”

“And this is where Lloyd and Connor met?”

“Last year.” The words were clipped, his face impassive. Was he remembering that meeting or was he thinking of his wife's last visit here and her death only a few months later? Suddenly, he lifted a hand, his face breaking into an easy smile. “Here they come.” He stood.

Jasmine Bailey ran toward us, her hand outstretched. “Uncle Steve, look what I got!” She raced up to us and opened pudgy fingers to reveal a silver charm of the
Sea Venture
. “Lloyd got it for me.”

“That's wonderful, honey.” He patted her head.

We were swept up by the others. Connor was gesturing energetically to Lloyd, but the big Texan was close at hand, still booming. I felt sorry for Lloyd, wished my granddaughter would stop frowning, and
continued to battle occasional waves of dizziness. Yet these were swift, surface thoughts. During the rest of our visit in the narrow streets of old St. George's, despite the pleasure of seeing an altar in St. Peter's and knowing that human hands lovingly fashioned it more than 376 years ago, and my disappointment that the Featherbed Alley Print Shop wasn't open, I was preoccupied by my talk with Steve Jennings. I kept wondering about a knock in the dead of night and something glimpsed in the silent garden.

L
OW-HANGING metallic-looking clouds had turned the sky a pale gray. The wind was picking up, whipping whitecaps as far as the eye could see and roiling the water over the reef. I steadied myself against the breeze, strong enough to pluck at my hair, tug at my clothes.

Connor's dress flattened against her. “Oh, it's too windy. Let's go back.” She lifted her hands to press against her wind-ruffled hair.

“Oh, Mom, it's fun!” Jasmine exclaimed.

We bunched at the beginning of the headland, everyone except Aaron. He strode exuberantly toward the narrow point, moving through a moongate to stand at the farthest edge. He peered over the side. “Hey.” He turned toward us, gestured with his arm. The wind lifted his brown curls, ballooned his jacket, flared his trousers. “The waves are huge!” He shouted to be heard over the crash of the surf.

“Come on, Dad.” Diana urged everyone forward. “It won't take long. And this will be a picture no one will ever forget.” The breeze tangled her strawberry curls, touched her cheeks with pink.

Neal laughed. “We can title it ‘Waiting for Rain.'”

Jasmine pointed out to sea. “Look at the waves coming over the reef.” She darted to Lloyd. “How close can we go to the edge?”

Connor reached out. “Stay close, Jasmine.”

Lloyd laughed, took Jasmine's hand. “Let's take a look.” He called over his shoulder, “It's okay, Connor, I'll keep her safe.” He and Jasmine stepped through the moongate, went almost to the edge.

Steve Jennings grinned at Connor. “The sooner we get it done, the sooner we can retreat with dignity.” But his voice was good-humored.

Connor looked out at the darkening water. “All right, all right.” She was suddenly amused, an impish smile lighting her face. “It's a good thing I'm going to the beauty shop Friday.”

For the first time I had an inkling of Connor Bailey's charm. I was glad I'd decided to make the climb and be part of the picture even though I'd almost stayed behind to rest. But I hadn't wanted to disappoint Diana and I hoped to catch her for a quiet chat after the picture taking was done. Diana had announced her plan at lunch. “I have it all arranged. George will come up with us and take the pictures.” George was a lanky young Canadian who worked at the hotel as a waiter. He had a mop of light brown hair, a peeling, sunburned nose and an agreeable smile. Now he held Diana's Leica comfortably in one big, rawboned hand and looked expectantly toward her.

Diana waved her hand. “We'll stand in a semicircle looking out to the ocean. Dad, you and Connor in the center. Mr. Jennings next to Connor—”

Lloyd's face was rigid for an instant.

“—Marlow next to him, then Aaron and Jasmine. Neal, you can be next to Dad, then Grandma and me.
George, why don't you go to the moongate and look toward us.”

As we sorted ourselves out, stepping carefully because the rocky surface fell away sharply on both sides, George edged past us, stood with his back to the moongate. When George lifted the camera, Diana called out, “What's in the background? Does the hotel show?”

George peered through the viewfinder. “Some of it. Mostly you see the tower…Hey.” He lowered the camera, squinted toward the hotel, “There's something on the platform of the tower…no, no, I'm wrong. I thought I saw something white—”

Steve Jennings's head jerked around to look up the hill at the tower. He wasn't alone. Connor, too, her face stiff, swung to look. She remained half-turned, face taut, intent on the tower.

“Okay, everybody. Look this way,” George instructed. “Now come a little closer together…” He lifted the camera.

I slipped my arms around my grandchildren, felt their arms around me, and looked toward George.

George took one step nearer, another. “Smile…”

Obediently, we smiled.

The camera clicked. “One more for luck.” George snapped another picture.

As we moved apart, Connor gripped Lloyd's arm. Head down, she was tugging him along the narrow path.

Steve Jennings looked after Connor and Lloyd, his face creased in concern. But it wasn't Jennings's expression that disturbed me. I could see Diana clearly. Her green eyes flashed; her lips curved in triumph. She gave her brother a swift, utterly satisfied glance, then moved quickly along the path. Neal frowned.

Jasmine tugged at her sister's arm. “Did you hear George? He said—”

“Hush, Jasmine.” Marlow's voice was sharp.

I was the last one off the headland. I followed the others slowly down the craggy path to the sand. We picked our way across the boulder-strewn beach to a gridded cement walkway, avoiding the mounds of sargassum seaweed that smelled of rot and drew tiny flies in whirling clouds. The walkway was steep. It led from the beach to a hard dirt path that sloped up toward the hotel beneath the interlocking branches of leathery-leaved bay grapes that created a tunnel of greenery. The pathway was always dim. Now the clouds had turned the sky pewter-gray, and the tunnel was almost dark.

I stopped to rest midway up the long slope, perhaps a city block in length. I heard the others far ahead. I felt cut off from their cheerful holiday chatter. I wasn't cheerful. I was disturbed. That picture-taking session on the headland had been planned by my granddaughter and I was afraid the object had been to distress Connor. When George claimed to have seen something white near the tower, Connor was startled. Perhaps even frightened. I wanted to know why. I wanted to know what George thought he saw. I wanted to know why Connor Bailey and Steve Jennings stared at the tower. And these questions reminded me of Steve's refusal to tell me what he saw last night in the garden. The tower dominated the ridge beyond the garden. Most of all, I wanted to know whether my granddaughter had engineered a family photograph on the windswept headland solely because the tower loomed in the background.

 

I had the hotel hallway to myself. It didn't matter, of course, whether anyone saw me, but I wanted to be alone to make a quiet survey. The others had scattered after the picture session. Lloyd, Connor, and Steve had taken a cab into the capital city of Hamilton to shop at Trimingham's. The large old department store had the same fusty charm as Woodward and Lathrop's in Washington, D.C., in the 1950s. The young people had sped off on their mopeds. I would try to find Diana upon their return. Jasmine had refused to go shopping, insisting she'd be fine at the hotel and wanted to play in the pool until the rain came. It rains often in Bermuda, sometimes with force and fury, more often a gentle, steady downpour that lasts a little while and then the day brightens again.

I studied the silent corridor. There were entrances at either end of the hallway. This two-story building sat atop a ridge, separate from the smaller main house. Our rooms were on the second floor facing the ocean. I was in room 22, Neal in room 20, Diana in room 24, Steve Jennings in room 26, and the rest of the party on down the hall: Aaron in room 28, Marlow and Jasmine in room 30, Connor in room 32, Lloyd in room 34. I'd been a little surprised that Connor and Lloyd were in separate, although adjoining, rooms. I wondered who made that decision and thought it displayed remarkable delicacy, considering today's mores. I guessed that the Drake-Bailey party were the only guests on this floor and that the opposite rooms were empty. There were perhaps a dozen or so other guests at the hotel and I thought most of them were in the main building. January was, of course, the off-season.

Jennings said he'd dressed last night after the knock on his door awakened him, and hurried out to the upper
terrace. I walked down the hall. A push bar opened the door. Outside, I stopped on the step and noted the small placard which informed that the doors were locked after 9
P.M.
but would open to a room key. That indicated access to the building after 9
P.M.
was restricted to guests or hotel employees. Of course, an intruder might enter through the balcony of an unoccupied room although the sliding door should be locked.

I walked slowly down the steps. I had a choice at the bottom. One walkway led west to the main house past a wall covered with bougainvillea. A second walkway led south to the upper terrace. I took the south walk. The terrace was a broad grassy expanse between the hotel and another rock wall that marked a drop-off. I looked over the wall at the swimming pool on the lower terrace. No one was in the water. Despite the gray skies and freshening wind, two leathery-skinned middle-aged women in swimsuits rested on deck chairs, one knitting, the other immersed in a book. I welcomed the warmth of a cashmere cardigan and wool slacks. No doubt they were Canadians.

Jennings said he came to the main terrace, then looked toward the garden. It was there that he broke off, refused to say more.

The garden sloped to the east, beds of flowers and shrubs running downhill, then up. The poinsettias blazed a vivid coral and blue petunias wavered in the wind. My gaze rose to the tower that stood at the crest of the ridge, overlooking the garden. Despite the sweep of flowers and shrubs, the eye was drawn immediately to the thirty-foot-tall, shining white tower. The parapet at the top was crenellated, so the tower had the appearance of a battlement on an English castle.

I walked through the garden, down and up the hill
sides, past orange blossoms of an African tulip tree, poinsettias and lacy green ferns, always keeping the tower in view. I paused to rest midway up the far slope. Moist air pressed against me. Rain could not be far distant. I started on, picking up my pace. The wind was brisk when I reached the base of the tower. I circled, looking for an entrance.

I don't know whether there was a sound or whether I simply sensed movement above me. I looked up and jerked back as a white shape fell toward me. A round face poked over the side of the parapet, then quickly disappeared. I looked down. A big bed pillow in a smudged white case lay on the flagstones. I left it there and moved on. The door to the tower, on the far side, was ajar. I pulled it wider, stepped onto a stone floor. Uneven circular steps curled upward.

I didn't relish climbing the steep stairs. There was utter silence above. I wished for a flashlight, but there was a patch of lighter gray far above where daylight streamed into the tower from the openings to the platform. I started up. I made no effort to be quiet. “Hello!” I called out.

I was midway to the top when a young voice responded warily, “Hello.”

I was out of breath when I reached the platform. The wind made an eerie sound in the rafters, rustled the shrubbery far below, stirred Jasmine Bailey's short blond curls as she leaned against the parapet.

She cut her eyes toward me when I stepped out onto the platform.

I doubted it would get us very far for me to admonish her about the pillow or question whether her mother would want her to be in the tower dropping pillows or suggest she was rather a distance from the
hotel. Instead, after catching my breath, I said quizzically, “An experiment?”

Her round face creased in a pleased smile. “Oh, yes. That's where Mr. Worrell landed, you know.”

“I didn't know.” I came up beside her, looked over the edge of the stone wall at the pillow far below. Mr. Worrell. Steve Jennings had insisted he couldn't mention what he had seen in the garden to Mrs. Worrell. “Down there?”

Jasmine wriggled with eagerness. “Right there. And now he's a ghost. George says he came last night. At least, George thinks it was him because there was something white and Mr. Worrell always wore white.”

“Really.” I kept my tone casual, but I was surprised. It seemed apparent that the young waiter was quite willing to provide information to hotel guests, even young ones. “Did you know Mr. Worrell?”

Jasmine said importantly, “He sang songs in the bar. He was married to Mrs. Worrell, but she's the one who takes care of the hotel. And he fell out of the tower and killed himself.”

I doubted that Mrs. Worrell would be pleased to hear that an employee had been telling a very young guest that her dead husband appeared as a ghost at the tower. And now I understood Steve Jennings's reluctance to discuss disturbances in the garden with Mrs. Worrell. And I was afraid I now knew why Diana planned the picture session out on the point.

Jasmine peered over the edge at the pillow. “George says ghosts come back to the place where they died if they have unfinished business.” She glanced at me, her eyes bright with inquiry. “Why do you suppose Mr. Worrell's come back?”

“I don't know.” The first fine drops of rain spattered
on us. “Maybe we'd better go down and get the pillow. You don't want to sleep on a wet pillow tonight”

She giggled. “I'd just trade with Marlow. Wouldn't that surprise her!” The little girl whirled and plunged for the steps. I hoped she'd hold on to the railing, but the hurried scuff of her sneakers indicated a rapid descent.

I followed more slowly, chilled not by the wet wind on the parapet but by the child's casual announcement: “That's where Mr. Worrell landed, you know.”

Jasmine stood in the doorway, clutching the pillow, looking out at the steady sweep of rain. I hoped the moped riders were safe and dry and would seek shelter until the rain passed.

Jasmine plopped the pillow on the bottom step of the staircase. “Would you like to sit down?”

The pillow was long and oversized and must have been a challenge for her to wrestle all the way to the tower. I grinned. “Thanks.” I patted the pillow beside me. “We can share.”

She plopped down beside me, regarded me curiously. “You know,” she confided, “you don't look like a skeleton.”

I'd lost some weight from the pneumonia and was a bit bonier than usual. I knew I seemed very old to Jasmine, my dark hair streaked with silver and my eyes deep-socketed in a lined face. But I had an inkling she'd overheard someone else's comment. “The skeleton at the feast,” I murmured.