Resort to Murder (4 page)

“That's what Mom said.” She peered at me.

So Connor had indeed taken note of the presence of her husband-to-be's former mother-in-law. That was surely more normal than her apparently casual acceptance. I smiled and said easily, “Oh, that's just an ex
pression, Jasmine.” But, of course, it was Death who was the unseen companion at merry feasts. “Now tell me about your experiment. Did Mr. Worrell die a long time ago?”

“Oh, no.” She hunched forward eagerly. “It was last year. We were here. Mr. Worrell fell out of the tower late one night.” Her face screwed up in disgust. “I didn't hear a thing! I was asleep. Aaron said he'd had too much to drink. Anyway, Mr. Worrell fell over the edge. They said it was an accident. The police came and everything. All of the guests went over to the Southampton Princess the day of the funeral, so Mrs. Worrell could have everybody here. Have you ever been to that hotel? It's huge. There were Gombey dancers and it was so loud I thought my ears were going to burst. We left two days later.”

“Did you like Mr. Worrell?” I looked at her curiously. Her report had all been delivered in the same tone, Mr. Worrell's fall given the same emphasis as the loud Gombey dancers.

The excitement fled. “I did like him.” She spoke assertively and I gathered there were those who had not. “He was nice to the kids and he had a big laugh. Not like Mrs. Worrell. She frowns all the time. I don't think she likes kids. And she always seemed mad at him. She was always frowning”—Jasmine turned her lips down into a scowl—“when he talked to my mom. Of course,” and she spoke proudly, “he was in love with my mother. Everybody always is.”

I doubted Jasmine was quite yet into an adolescent girl's preoccupation with sex. There was no hint of adult understanding in her pronouncement. I guessed she'd heard someone else comment on her mother's attractiveness. Steve Jennings?

The rain pattered softly. I pictured the water sluicing down the steep-stepped roofs to swirl down pipes to the catchment, lifeblood for a remote island without springs or streams. “I'm sure everyone finds your mother very charming.”

She cocked her head at me. “Uncle Steve doesn't like Lloyd.” She scuffed her toe on the stone floor, her face suddenly forlorn. “Marlow doesn't either. But Lloyd's really nice. He plays Monopoly with me.” Her eyes were suddenly shrewd. “I think he lets me win. Of course, he isn't funny like Mr. Worrell—”

No, serious, striving Lloyd was not the least bit funny.

“—but Mr. Worrell could be kind of mean. I heard him tell his wife she was about as much fun as a wooden leg. She turned away and I think she was trying not to cry.” Her face crinkled into puzzlement. “But when he died, she cried and cried.” Jasmine stared out at the curtain of rain.

“And George says he's come back?”

Jasmine twisted to look up the curving stairway. “Yes. Maybe if I stay up real late I can see him.”

I almost told Jasmine ghosts didn't exist. But she wouldn't have believed me. No, I didn't believe in ghosts, but that was unimportant. What mattered was the effort being made to create the ghost of Mr. Worrell. Who was doing it, and why? I had no idea. I only knew that something dark and ugly and devious was near at hand. Moreover, my granddaughter had involved herself and was apparently trying to exploit the unhappy history of the tower.

Oh, Diana. It was time we talked.

I
CARRIED a beach towel up the steps from the pool area to the upper terrace and dried a rain-wet wooden chair. Water still gurgled softly down drain spouts, but the rain had ended, one of Bermuda's quick, gentle showers. The sun felt warm. It might be winter in Bermuda, too cool for the chirp of the tree frogs and the blooms paltry compared to those of spring and summer, but it was definitely summery compared to the weather in my small-town Missouri home in January. My spirits lightened as the pale yellow walls of the hotel glowed from sunlight. I settled in the chair, listening to the splashes in the swimming pool on the lower terrace. From here, I would also be able to hear the mopeds curling uphill to the parking area near the entrance to the hotel.

I pulled a paperback from my pocket. I'd found an old copy of
Around the World in Eighty Days
in the book cabinet in the hotel drawing room. I was midway through. I began to read, but closed the book in a few minutes. The charm of the familiar story was lost on me today.

A motor chugged. I rose, dropped the book into my pocket and strolled toward the curve in the wall that overlooked the drive. As I looked down, Lloyd and
Connor stepped out of an elegant old-fashioned, London-style cab. Lloyd reached into the backseat and lifted out four cardboard cylinders.

Connor smiled and held out her arms. “I'll take them up.”

“Are you sure?” He was eager to help, his good humor obviously restored by a sojourn alone with Connor. I hoped Curt Patterson wasn't anywhere near.

“Yes. I'll rest a bit, then meet you for tea.” She gave him a swift, sweet smile.

Lloyd looked after her as she moved gracefully up the main stairs, his square face softened by love.

I backed away from the wall, returned to my chair, thinking idly that Steve had apparently stayed in Hamilton, that the kids weren't back yet, that Lloyd and Connor had likely bought prints of Bermuda scenes to take home as keepsakes of their wedding journey, and most of all, that Lloyd was very much in love.

I sank into a reverie, my mind a collage of memories: Emily's wedding day; my first glimpse of Diana as a tiny, wispy-haired baby; Richard and I one perfect October day in Mexico City; Neal running into his grandfather's arms. The common thread was faces full of love. I was far away in time and place.

“Henrie.” Lloyd's voice was cheerful.

I jolted to the reality of place.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.” Lloyd dropped into the chair beside me. “Are you enjoying the trip?” His glance was hopeful but tentative.

This was likely the first time in more than a decade that we'd been alone together. It had taken some courage for him to approach me. Also, of course, Lloyd was one of those persons who always want to be around people. Perhaps an ex-mother-in-law was
preferable to solitude. “Absolutely.” I spoke warmly. “I'm so glad I was able to come. It was very kind of you to invite me to accompany the children.”

“My pleasure.” His tone was expansive. And pleased.

“It's truly lovely here.” I spread my hand to encompass the hotel and the terrace and the garden. “I hadn't realized this was where you and Connor met.”

Once again, happiness transformed his face. The slight puffiness under his eyes, the heaviness of his jowls, all the telltale traces of middle age disappeared in the eagerness of his gaze, the joyous curve of his lips. “Right there.” He pointed to the moongate and the steps leading down to the lower terrace. “That's where I saw her.”

“Was it love at first sight?” My tone was gently gibing.

Serious, intense Lloyd simply nodded. “Yes. Yes, it was. That's the way it should be, you know. One day you walk along and suddenly you see someone and you know nothing will ever be the same, that the future's going to be different and wonderful. It happened for us.” His light green eyes glowed. “And the neat thing is, the same thing happened for Marlow and Aaron on Elbow Beach the year before. They just happened to be on the beach at the same time. Both of them came here for spring break and they'd never met on the campus even though they both were in school at Emory. It's fate, you see.”

I was long past belief in fate or karma, but I was glad Lloyd had a romantic illusion that pleased him. He was so open, his love there for everyone to see. There are none so vulnerable as those who love. I reached out, patted his hand.

He turned his fingers, held mine. “That's nice of you. You're a very nice person. To wish me well.”

I was not at all sure how nice I was. But I was too old to be critical. One of the surprising by-products of age is empathy for everyone—the right, the wrong, the good, the bad, the best, the worst, the kind, the cruel, never approving evil or ugliness or selfishness but recognizing the corrosive cost to those in the grip of darkness. “I hope everyone will wish you and Connor happiness.”

His grasp slackened. He lifted his hand, brushed his fingers against his face as if smoothing away a cobweb. “Yeah.”

The single word told me that serious, intense Lloyd was well aware of the unhappiness swirling around them.

I saw no point in talking about the resistance Lloyd and Connor faced and I doubted he wanted to discuss that with me. I said briskly, “What prompted you to come to Bermuda last year?”

“Golf.” Happily, he described his foursome and some of their previous journeys. “One of the guys had stayed here before. The hotel has privileges at some of the best courses. Even the Mid Ocean Golf Course.” There was awe in his voice. “Actually, I'd wanted to stay at the Southampton Princess. That's a great course, too. But thank God, we didn't. The very first night we got here I saw Connor. By the third night, I knew I wasn't going to let her get away from me.” He spoke in a possessive-caveman tone, but it was more endearing than overbearing.

“That must have posed a logistics problem.” My tone was light.

Lloyd never met a joke he recognized. “I flew to Atlanta every weekend. It's a direct flight from Dallas.”

I'd not given any thought to the aftermath of Lloyd
and Connor's marriage. Lloyd was a partner in a small law firm in Dallas, his specialty corporate mergers. Connor and her daughters lived in Buckhead, a posh Atlanta suburb. I'd known she was a widow. Since my talk with Steve Jennings, I realized R. T. Bailey must have been very successful. I didn't know what kind of company he had owned. It wasn't, as a matter of fact, any of my business.

“Will Connor and the children move to Dallas?” It was a casual question.

For an instant, the brightness left Lloyd's face and he looked more than middle-aged. He looked lost. He cleared his throat. “Connor's lived in Atlanta all her life. Jasmine's in school and Connor doesn't want to upset her. And Marlow said they couldn't ever move from their house.”

Instead, Lloyd could close down his law practice and lose his golf foursome. What price love?

Lloyd said loudly, a man reassuring himself, “I'll have plenty to do. Connor says there's lots to look after with her properties and the business. Steve's been handling all of that, but I can give her advice. And I'll be looking around. There will be opportunities.”

Opportunities. That sounded to me like the old corporate line: “Mr. Who's-it has left to pursue other opportunities.” Sure.

I smiled reassuringly. “Everything will work out.” Yes, it was inane, but bromides paper over moments that would otherwise be too uncomfortable.

Lloyd's glance was grateful. Then he scowled.

I looked at him in surprise but his eyes, sharp now, gazed past me. I turned and glimpsed the young waiter, George, carrying a heavy silver tray covered with a damask cloth.

“I don't want to cause trouble”—Lloyd's voice was tight with anger—“but Jasmine told me something that George said to her. And if Connor hears about it…” Lloyd shook his head. “I'd talk to Mrs. Worrell, but it's a damned awkward situation.”

“Mrs. Worrell appears rather tense. Do you know what's troubling her?” This morning the manager had looked up the main steps and given Connor a look of utter loathing.

Lloyd gazed carefully about. “You never know when Mrs. Worrell's going to pop around a corner. Nice woman, but like having a death's-head at a party. Damn awkward.”

Death's-head. I felt a moment's chill. When Jasmine chattered about the skeleton at the feast, I'd been amused. There was nothing amusing about Lloyd's observation.

He leaned closer to me, dropped his voice. “Of course you wouldn't know anything about it. There was a very unfortunate accident here last year. It was awful for Connor because the fellow'd been a bit too friendly. I was about ready to put him in his place, but I was glad later that I hadn't said anything. Poor devil got drunk and fell out of the tower. Or jumped. Mrs. Worrell's husband. A blowhard.”

Jasmine had liked Mr. Worrell. Obviously, Lloyd had not.

Lloyd looked suddenly forlorn and uncertain. “Maybe I shouldn't have insisted we come here for the wedding. But this is where we met…” His voice trailed off.

I understood. Lloyd was sentimental. That didn't surprise me. Oddly, I was swept by a mixture of anger and compassion, anger at the forces combining to ruin
this special journey for Lloyd and compassion for his very human hunger to love and be loved. I wanted everything to go well for him. Yes, he'd caused my daughter great unhappiness, but I was sure he'd done his best. The haunting truth is that most of us at most times do our best, no matter how short we fall.

“So the good outweighs the bad.” I gave him a reassuring smile.

“I thought it did. But ever since we got here, Connor's been on edge. She wanted us to get different rooms so she wouldn't see that damn tower. They couldn't make a change because they're painting a bunch of the rooms and they don't have enough that are all together. But if Connor hears what that waiter's saying, I don't know what will happen.” Lloyd rubbed the back of his neck.

“What's George saying?” I wanted to hear what Lloyd knew.

He slammed a hand against his leg. “He's been spreading all kinds of nonsense about, saying that Roddy Worrell's ghost is walking. That would upset Connor a lot.” Lloyd's face flushed.

I looked at him curiously. I almost inquired why a rumor of ghostly doings would be especially distressing to Connor. I would have thought that Mrs. Worrell would be most affected. As, of course, she probably was.

“Something's got to be done.” His face was grim.

“Would you like for me to speak to George?” I heard my own words with surprise. I'd intended to talk to Diana, of course. I didn't like her taking part in what appeared to be an effort to harass Connor. I'd not cared, frankly, what the young waiter did or why. But if I could help Lloyd…

His face lightened. “Would you do that? Listen, if—” He broke off, looked past me. “Here comes Connor.” He spoke in an undertone. “Don't tell her what we've been talking about.” He scrambled to his feet.

I nodded, then turned toward the walk.

Connor hurried toward us, dark head bent. She had changed sweaters. This one was a pale yellow patchwork with a sea motif, embroidered with shells and starfish. I wondered if she'd bought it at Trimingham's.

She broke into a stumbling run.

I came to my feet, realizing that something was wrong. Lloyd hurried toward her, calling out, “Connor, what's wrong? The children…”

I felt a quiver of fear. Those damn mopeds.

Connor never even saw me. She flung herself into Lloyd's arms. “In my room! The tower…” She shuddered. “It's smashed—”

Automatically, my head swung toward the hillside and the shining white tower, a dramatic beacon.

“—and there's a smell of gin. Oh, God, Lloyd, I'm frightened.”

Lloyd frowned. “I don't see how it could have fallen—”

Abruptly, I understood. In my room, a miniature white porcelain tower sat in the middle of the circular table near the sliding glass door to the balcony. The legend
TOWER RIDGE HOUSE
was printed in dark blue Gothic script on one side. Likely, there was an identical miniature tower in every room. Connor was talking about a decorative tower, not the actual tower on the ridge.

“—unless someone bumped the table. Maybe Jasmine…”

Connor jerked away from him. “It wasn't an acci
dent.” Her voice was tight and strained. “It couldn't have fallen where I found it.” She shuddered. “Lloyd, that last night, Roddy was angry with me.” Connor reached out, clung to Lloyd, her face imploring. “He's come back. He's come back and he hates me—”

“Nonsense.” Lloyd was gruff. “Just because that stupid tower got broken—”

“Gin. I smelled gin. That's what Roddy smelled like, a sea of gin.” She flung away from Lloyd. “I want to go home.” Her voice could scarcely be heard.

“Connor, it's all right. I'm here.” His voice softened. “Honey, it's all right. You're upset over nothing. Maybe a maid knocked…”

I slipped away, left them there, and hurried across the grass. I looked back as I opened the door to the corridor to our quarters. They had not even noticed my departure. I walked swiftly up the hall. I always like to see for myself. I paused outside Connor's room. The door was wide open. I wasn't surprised. She'd seen the smashed tower and turned and run away.

I poked my head into the room. “Hello,” I called softly.

There was no answer. I looked down the hall. I was sure that Connor and Lloyd would soon be here. I imagined that Lloyd would make every effort to reassure Connor, but she would insist that he see the breakage.

I moved quickly. This room was much like mine, only the walls were a pale cream instead of rose, the pillowcases silk instead of cotton. I wasn't surprised that Connor traveled with her own pillowcases and likely with her own sheets. I knew if I opened the closet, her dresses would be hanging neatly. Connor
had never, I was sure, lived out of a suitcase. Cosmetics in gold-accented ebony cases were neatly arranged on the dresser. Wire-rimmed glasses were lying next to a magazine. There was a faint scent of lilac, either bath powder or cologne. My nose wrinkled. And the even sweeter smell of gin.