Resort to Murder

by Carolyn Hart

  Diana gripped her fork. But she didn’t eat. She stared at her plate, the corners of her mouth turned down.

  Neal picked up the wine bottle. “Here, Dinny.” He filled his sister’s glass. He looked politely across the table at Connor. “Connor, would you like some more wine?”

  “Wine?” Connor shook her head, then touched her temple and closed her eyes.

  Marlow’s too-loud voice was sharp. “Jasmine, stop staring at Mrs. Worrell. It’s rude to stare.”

  Everyone looked toward Jasmine, who ducked her head.

  “Honestly,” her sister continued, “you haven’t taken your eyes off her since we sat down.”

  “Shh,” Jasmine warned. “She’ll hear you. And I can look where I want to.” She gave her big sister a defiant glare. “I was waiting to see if the ghost came. I’d know by the way she acted. Everybody says she knows he’s walking. They say ghosts come back to where they spent a lot of time and that’s where Mr. Worrell sat every evening and I remember last year he—”

  “Jasmine, hush.” Connor’s voice was harsh. “There is no such thing as a ghost.”

  Jasmine’s blue eyes widened. “Oh, yes, there is. Didn’t you know? Mr. Worrell’s come back.” Her voice was excited. “They’ve seen him late at night near the tower. I want to stay up and—”

  “Jasmine.” Connor held tight to the edge of the table. Her eyes were glassy. “What are you talking about? That’s impossible.”

  Jasmine stared at her mother, her face uneasy but stubborn. “It’s true. Mr. Worrell’s come back.”

  George replenished Marlow’s water glass, moved on to Aaron.

  Jasmine pointed to the waiter. “He knows all about it. Ask him. He’s seen the ghost.”

  Connor’s head jerked toward the waiter. “Come here.”

  George stood stiffly for a moment, then took a slow step toward Connor.

  “What is this nonsense?” Connor’s voice was sharp.

  George glanced uneasily toward Mrs. Worrell, who was watching our table, her face intent, her eyes cold. “I don’t know much about it, Mrs. Bailey.” He spoke almost in a whisper, obviously fearful of being overheard by Mrs. Worrell. “There’s been something seen late at night near the tower. Nobody knows what it is. A white shape. That’s all I know.” And he turned away, hurried toward the kitchen.

  Lloyd reached out for Connor’s hand, but she was pushing back her chair, coming to her feet, face blanched. “Steve.” She turned toward him, a trembling hand outstretched.

  Steve rose, cupped an aim around Connor’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Connor. I’m here. Come on, I’ll take you to your room.” They moved toward the door, Connor clinging to him for support.

  All the men were standing now. Aaron looked uncomfortable, Neal uneasy, but it was Lloyd whose face was stricken. I looked down at my plate. I didn’t want to see the pain in his eyes, the flush of humiliation, the flicker of jealousy.

  Marlow said quickly, and this time I welcomed her loud, carrying voice. “Mother doesn’t mind looking like a fool in front of Steve. She’ll be embarrassed in the morning, Lloyd. We’ll pretend none of this happened. You know, she always wants you to think she’s totally cool.” Marlow poked her glasses higher on her nose.

  It was as graceful a face-saving gesture as any I’d ever seen. And a total surprise to me. It had been clear throughout the trip that Marlow was not enthusiastic about her mother’s remarriage, yet at this moment she had gone out of her way to spare Lloyd public humiliation. It argued a kind and thoughtful nature. I looked at Diana, wondering if she understood what Marlow had done. Diana’s gaze was thoughtful.

  A look of relief eased the tightness in Lloyd’s face. He said eagerly, “I’ll bet you’re right, Marlow. We won’t talk about any of it again. After all, Connor’s very sensitive.”

  Diana frowned, heaved an exasperated sigh.

  Neal gave his sister a warning poke with his elbow.

  Jasmine frowned. “But we have a chance to see a ghost and—”

  “Shut up, Jasmine.” Marlow reached over, put her finger on Jasmine’s lips. “I’ll get you your very own copy of Ghostbusters on the condition”—she drew out her words—“that you do not mention Mr. Worrell again. Or his so-called ghost.” Her tone was light, but there was a steely glint in her eyes.

  Jasmine heaved a sigh. “Okay.” Her face was glum.

  George had quietly removed the dinner plates and was pushing a dessert trolley toward the table, laden with assorted French pastries, cherry and apple pie, and trifle. As the desserts were served, Lloyd said, “Okay, everybody.” His tone was expansive, including them all in a team effort. “No mention of anything unpleasant to Connor. And tomorrow we’ll have a great day. We’re going to Spittal Pond in the morning. The afternoon’s free, but I think I’ll see if Connor would like to go to the Bermuda Perfumery. I’ll keep her really busy.” Lloyd was upbeat again.

  As George poured coffee, I decided to add a little insurance. “I think this ghost business is going to be resolved.”

  Everyone looked at me, including George.

  I gave the waiter a swift, hard glance. “I did a little investigating today. In fact, if my inquiries work out, we may discover who was behind it.”

  George’s face was an expressionless mask.

  For good measure, I added, “In any event, I’ve learned enough to know it’s all a prank. I don’t expect the ghost will walk again. At least, not while we are in Bermuda.”

  Jasmine opened her mouth. Marlow shook her head and the little girl said nothing, but her eyes flashed with disdain.

  Jasmine wasn’t convinced. But that didn’t matter. My words had not been intended for her.

  I smiled as I turned the page. Jules Verne certainly knew how to tell a good story. It was fun to reread this classic entertainment, a reminder that readers once were pleased by humor and adventure sans violence. An extraterrestrial trying to understand our world by reading current fiction would very likely conclude serial killers were the norm. I put down my book and relaxed sleepily against my pillow. I suppose I’d drifted off because it took me a moment to realize someone was knocking on my door.

  I pushed up from the bed and glanced toward the clock. Almost eleven. I hurried toward the door, remembering Steve Jennings’s experience the night before. I looked through the peephole and felt an instant shock. I would not have been surprised, frankly, had the hallway been empty, or to have seen one of my grandchildren. But I would never have expected to see Connor Bailey. She’d changed after dinner to a silver silk blouse, red linen slacks and woven sling sandals. She pushed a pair of glasses higher on her nose, looked uneasily up and down the hall.

  I opened the door. “Hello, Connor. Please come in.”

  “I wanted to talk to you.” Her words were faintly slurred. As she brushed past me, I smelled a heady mixture of Scotch and perfume. I closed the door and followed.

  Connor stood by the circular table, staring at the miniature tower. “Mine got broken.” She shivered.

  “Please sit down.” I gestured toward a chair.

  She reached out, picked up the tower, and flung it to the floor.

  I was startled and my voice was sharp. “Connor—”

  “See?” Her tone was triumphant. She wavered on her feet, but her gaze clung to the tower. “It didn’t break. Lloyd kept saying the damn thing fell off the table. He said maybe Jasmine knocked it over. But see”—she pointed with a bright red fingernail—“I threw that one down and it didn’t break.”

  I saw. I also saw that her hand was trembling and her eyes, magnified by thick lenses, were wide and frightened. I’d never seen her in glasses.

  A woman intensely attuned to others’ perceptions of her, she touched the gold wire frame. “Already took out my contacts, decided to talk to you.” She blinked, stared down at the ceramic tower. She took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes.

  “It’s breakable.” I picked up the ceramic piece, put it back on the table. “Someone broke the
one in your room.”

  She swallowed convulsively, wrapped her arms across her front. “How?”

  I wasn’t at all certain she’d believe me. But she needed help and I thought I could reassure her. “Some person—some living person—carried the tower out onto your balcony and whacked it on the railing. There’s a sliver of ceramic out there.” I wondered if she’d challenge me. Demand to know what I was doing on her balcony. I was ready to admit to curiosity and hoped she wouldn’t be angry. But she didn’t say a word, she simply stared at me with those huge, frightened, myopic eyes. “I found a piece of ceramic on your balcony this afternoon. Someone’s playing tricks—”

  “Marlow told me what you said at dinner.” She slipped the glasses on, then moved forward so eagerly that she stumbled, caught herself on the table. “What did you mean?” She wavered against the table. “I need a drink. Fix me one.”

  I don’t usually respond to peremptory orders. But I didn’t hesitate for that reason. Connor shouldn’t have another drink.

  She didn’t wait for me to answer. She moved with great determination to the bar provided by the hotel. I never use minibars. I prefer tea to whiskey and it’s cheaper to travel with my own candy.

  Connor fumbled with the key, pulled open the door, reached without hesitation to the second shelf for a small bottle of Scotch.

  I tossed some ice cubes in a glass and handed it to her.

  She waved away my offer of soda, poured the whiskey, drank deeply. “You told everyone the ghost was a trick. How do you know?” She paced unsteadily back toward the table.

  “I heard about the ghost, so I checked around with some of the staff.” I dropped into a chair, looked up at her. “There’s nothing much to it. And actually, nothing to connect the ‘ghost’ to Mr. Worrell.” I gave her time to digest that. “Something white moves around the top of the tower…”

  “White,” she muttered. “That’s what that waiter said out on the point this morning. He said he saw something white. White.” She shuddered. “Roddy always wore white—white shirt, white trousers, a white hat when he was out in the sun.” She thumped onto the end of my bed, stared at me.

  “That’s why something white’s been seen there.” I was impatient. I have little tolerance for credulity. “Someone planned it that way.”

  She lifted a shaking hand. “What if it’s Roddy? What if he’s come back?”

  “It isn’t. He hasn’t. Connor, relax. The ghost isn’t coming back. Trust me.” And I’d better talk to Lloyd first thing in the morning, make sure he would ante up the thousand.

  Connor stared at the tower on my table. “Roddy was mad at me that night.” She pulled off her glasses, rubbed her eyes. “I didn’t do anything.” The denial was that of a frightened child. “Roddy fell in love with me. Men do. I can’t help it. R.T. understood.” Her voice was soft and the words folded into each other until the syllables were hard to discern. “And now”—she swallowed and tears spilled down her cheeks—“Lloyd wants me to leave Steve out of things. He didn’t want Steve to come to the wedding. I told Lloyd that I had to have him here. Why, Steve has been wonderful to me. And that nice man from Texas—Lloyd doesn’t like him. I don’t want to marry someone who doesn’t like people.”

  “Oh, Lloyd likes people well enough, but he loves you, Connor, and he wants to spend time with you. Perhaps this trip isn’t the time to make new friends.” It was the best I could do in the Ann Landers line.

  “I can’t help it if men fall in love with me.” Her look at me was an odd mixture of defiance and sadness. “Why can’t Lloyd understand?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that.

  She tried to stand. Some of the whiskey splashed out of the glass. Her face puckered in dismay.

  I reached down, helped her rise. “It will evaporate,” I said briskly.

  She patted ineffectually at her blouse.

  I smelled the Scotch. It reminded me of the odor of gin in her room that afternoon. “And it was real gin someone spilled on your floor today. No ghost did that.” I shepherded her toward the door. “Don’t worry anymore, Connor. Get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow will be fun. Remember we’re going to Spittal Pond.”

  “Spittal Pond,” she murmured as I turned the knob, stood aside for her. “Yes, Spittal Pond.” She walked unsteadily down the hall. I waited until her door shut behind her before I closed my own.

  I walked slowly toward the phone. Should I call Lloyd? I shook my head. They were in adjoining rooms. If Connor wanted his help, she could knock on that door. I doubted that she would. She was half-drunk, scared, upset. I wondered if I should call Marlow. I decided to stay out of it. Connor was a grown woman and, when distraught, as vulnerable and lost as any child. But surely if the night went without incident, Connor would be in better shape tomorrow.

  I stepped out on the balcony, grateful in the cool of the night for the heavy terry-cloth robe. The tower glimmered in the moonlight, silent as a grave, unnerving in its pale whiteness. I turned away, impatient with myself. The memory of violent death tainted the tower. Tomorrow I would climb those curving steps again, stand on the platform in bright sunshine, banish any and all ghosts.

  seven

  A SCREAM roused me. I struggled out of bed, flailing and disoriented. The ragged, tortured cry penetrated the walls, punched deep into my mind. After a frozen moment, I ran to the sliding glass door of the balcony, lifted the bar, flipped the lock, pulled the glass wide. A second scream rose to a piercing crescendo, higher, higher, then abruptly cut off.

  Doors scraped open on the other balconies. Voices rose in frantic calls.

  “Where is it?” Lloyd’s voice was gruff, sodden with sleep. “What the hell is it?”

  “Oh my God,” Connor moaned. “Look, look!”

  I was aware of so many fleeting images at once:

  Connor clinging to Lloyd’s arm on her balcony and my scarcely conscious realization that she must indeed have knocked on their connecting door.

  Neal clambering over the railing of his balcony, climbing down a wrought iron pillar toward the ground.

  Diana whirling toward my balcony and the obvious relief when she saw me. Dear child.

  Aaron Reed shouting, “Stay where you are, Marlow,” and throwing one leg over the railing of his balcony.

  Marlow holding Jasmine tightly in her arms, but Jasmine struggled to see and her high voice rose, “He’s there. Mr. Worrell’s there!”

  Steve Jennings pointing toward the tower.

  But all of these images were peripheral to the luminous glow that moved as softly as a drifting cloud near the top of the tower, formless, insubstantial, frightful.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God…” Connor’s voice wavered. She buried her face in her hands.

  The silvery glow hovered near the platform, slid sideways, dipped, rose, disappeared behind the tower.

  The scream sounded a third time, its intensity shocking, so loud I cupped my hands over my ears.

  Neal thudded to the ground, ran toward the tower, his bare feet slapping on the cement walk. Aaron was only a few feet behind him, shouting, “I’ll circle to the right, you go to the left. We’ll catch them.” Aaron was fastening his jeans as he ran.

  Lights glowed along the garden paths, but the shadows were dark and deep away from the paths. Neal and Aaron ran toward the tower. There was no movement at all in the shadows near the base of the tower. The white radiance that had hovered near the platform was gone.

  Was it gone? Or hidden behind the tower? Or was the glow now inside the tower?

  I turned and hurried into my room. I always travel with a small flashlight, a precaution against a hotel fire and loss of electricity. I’ve been lucky enough to avoid a fire, but was grateful once to have the pocket flash in California when an earthquake downed electric lines. Tonight I snatched it up from the top of the TV, ran to the hall. I couldn’t move nearly as fast as Neal and Aaron, but I was only a few minutes behind them.

  As I hurried up the garden walk,
Diana called out, “Grandma, wait for me.”

  I didn’t wait but she, too, swung over the edge of the balcony, dropped to the ground and, running fast, caught up with me. When we reached the tower, the door was open. The boys’ voices echoed hollowly inside.

  I flashed the light and began to circle the tower.

  Diana caught my arm. “What are you looking for?”

  “Everything. Nothing.” I didn’t know. But surely somewhere there would be some trace of what had just occurred. Except, I thought coldly, the glow had moved high in the air, had never come near the ground. The excruciatingly loud scream—wasn’t it almost too loud to be real?—had seemed to come from the tower, though at night it was hard to pinpoint the source of any sound. It was easy to imagine the cry was that of a man plummeting to his death, falling and knowing he was going to die, having just a few seconds left, and those seconds hideous with an agony of fear.

  My light swept back and forth across the walk. A few fallen leaves, a crumpled cigarette package, a discarded cup.

  Diana held tight to my arm. “Grandma,” she whispered, “someone must be hurt. Do you think we should look in the garden?” She stared out into the dark grounds beyond the lighted paths.

  “I don’t think we’ll find anyone.” We had circled the tower, were once again at the entrance.

  Steve Jennings stood in the doorway, peering inside. “Hello. Who’s up there?”

  Far above, Neal leaned over the platform railing. “It’s okay. Nobody’s here. Nobody’s been here so far as we can tell.”

  I believed him, but I wanted to see for myself. “I’m going up.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Diana still held firmly to my elbow.

  Jennings shrugged and moved out of the doorway. “Maybe you’d better wait a minute.”

  “Yes?” I frowned. Why shouldn’t I go up in the tower?

  Jennings rubbed his bristly jaw. “There’s a light coming up from the lower terrace. I’m afraid it’s Mrs. Worrell. She lives in a cottage down that way.”