Resort to Murder

by Carolyn Hart

  The light bobbed toward us.

  I hesitated, then decided to wait.

  The flashlight in her hand was huge, throwing our shadows thin and black against the tower. Neal and Aaron clattered down the tower stairs and spilled out beside us.

  “There’s nobody up there, absolutely nobody!” Neal announced. He was shirtless. Red reindeer pranced on his boxer shorts.

  Aaron squinted up at the platform. “Hell of it is, nobody came away from here. Neal and I ran up on either side of the tower. I don’t see how anybody could have been up there and had time to run down and get away before we came. So what the hell do you suppose that white thing was?”

  Mrs. Worrell’s shoes clipped against the flagstones. She stopped a few feet away. Her light, stark and harsh, flooded over our small group, all of us in various kinds of night attire.

  “May I ask what is happening?” The light revealed her mercilessly, too, her hair tucked tight beneath a pink cap, her face colorless, one hand tightly clutching the lapels of her red corduroy robe.

  No lawyer ever lacks for an answer. Jennings was combative. “Who the hell knows. Did you hear the screams?”

  “Screams?” Mrs. Worrell forced out the word.

  “Yells. Shouts. Loud enough to wake—” He broke off, cleared his throat.

  “A scream. The same sound. Three times.” I was sure about that. Although the first cry had awakened me and I could not re-create it exactly in my mind, the second and third were the same in tone, in duration, in scale. “The sound seemed to come from the tower. And up there”—I pointed toward the platform—“we saw some kind of white glow.”

  Aaron jammed a hand through his tangled curls. “Yeah, kind of white, kind of silver. Maybe two feet by five feet. Bobbing around by the platform.”

  “Not on the platform.” Neal was precise. “Off to the side. And then, all of a sudden, nothing.”

  Mrs. Worrell stared up at the tower, one hand pressed against her lips. “A bird,” she began.

  “No way,” Aaron said flatly. “Not unless it was as big as a moose.”

  “We all saw it.” Jennings shrugged. “Not a bird, Mrs. Worrell. As for what it was, I don’t think we’ll ever know. Not in this lifetime. And I don’t think we’ll accomplish a damn thing by standing here talking about it.”

  Mrs. Worrell’s voice was thin and tired. “I regret very much that some prankster…”

  Neal stared up at the tower, his face creased in a frown. “You can call it whatever you want to, a joke, some crazy deal. But how? We all saw it and it wasn’t even in the tower, it was out there in the air.”

  “We’ll find out.” I spoke with more confidence than I felt, but I was damned if I was going to succumb to hysteria. Even though there didn’t appear to be a rational explanation, I had to believe that somehow, some way, the apparition had been rigged. “I’m going up there.”

  Mrs. Worrell shivered. “Mrs. Collins, perhaps it would be better if you stayed here. I’ll get the keys, lock the tower. Then there can’t be any more of…” She trailed off.

  Any more of what? Mrs. Worrell didn’t know. None of us knew.

  “There’s nothing up there, Grandma.” Neal shook his head, folded his arms across his chest.

  “I know. But the exercise will do me good.” I moved through the tower door.

  “Mrs. Collins…” Mrs. Worrell’s voice was sharp. I kept on going.

  Diana and Neal climbed right behind me. When we stepped out on the platform, I drew in deep breaths, trembling a little from the effort. We looked over the railing at the dark masses of shrubbery far below. The lights on the paths didn’t penetrate the dark grounds. Beyond the shoreline, surf foamed bright in the moonlight on the black surging water.

  Neal gestured over the parapet. “That stuff was right out there. Maybe five or six feet from the platform. I don’t see how anybody could have held something out there. Besides that, there wasn’t time for anyone to run down the stairs and get away before Aaron and I got to the tower.”

  I turned away from the railing, held up my pocket flash, swept the light up and down the white limestone slabs of the tower.

  Neal understood at once. He moved faster than I did. But when we’d circled, reached the spot where we started, he ran his hand over the unbroken slabs. “Nope. No ladder. Nobody went up. Nobody went down. Where does that leave us?”

  “In the morning, we’ll look thoroughly through the garden—”

  Diana gripped my arm. “That won’t do any good. There wasn’t anyone in the garden. We’d have heard them running away. There wasn’t anyone anywhere.”

  “No one,” Neal said reluctantly, “alive.”

  “We’ll look in the morning,” I said firmly.

  We didn’t talk as we climbed down the curving steps. When we reached the garden, Mrs. Worrell was waiting, holding a padlock in her hand. The others were gone. The manager said nothing to us. She waited until we were outside the tower; then she pulled the big wooden door closed, slipped the padlock through a hasp, clicked it shut.

  The snap of the lock had a permanent sound.

  But as we walked back toward the hotel, Neal bent and whispered in my ear. “Locks can’t stop ghosts.”

  I splashed water on my face, scrubbed it dry, wishing I could wash away the memory of the night. I was unhappy on several counts. I didn’t like remembering the frightened sound in Diana’s voice or Neal’s dogged insistence that there was no one near the tower, no living person. I didn’t like the fact that I’d reassured Connor, insisted the ghost was a prank. Most of all, I didn’t like the fact that George had played me for a fool.

  I intended to have a talk with George. As soon as possible.

  I plugged in the coffeemaker. The coffee perked as I dressed, a white cotton turtleneck and navy slacks. But it wasn’t until I poured the steaming dark brew into a mug, a blue mug with a white tower on one side, and moved toward the closet for my shoes that I saw the square white envelope lying on the floor where it had been slipped beneath the door.

  I stared at the envelope. Obviously, it had been put beneath my door after our wing quieted down. As we came back into the hotel, Aaron was insisting that a chaise longue was a great place to sleep as he stepped into Marlow and Jasmine’s room. Connor clutched Lloyd’s arm and said, “We’ll pack. We’ll pack right now.” As their door shut, Lloyd said sharply, “But we can’t leave…”

  Jennings and I had exchanged swift glances as we stood by our doors.

  “That’s what you saw last night.” I made it a statement.

  He grunted, “Yeah,” stepped into his room, slammed the door.

  Neal had checked my room and Diana’s, making sure the balcony doors were locked, waiting to hear us snap the chains in place.

  It was almost two before I’d turned out my light, lain wide-eyed and angry in my bed, rerunning the moment in my mind, the sound of the screams—why precisely the same each time?—and the luminous swath of whiteness so tantalizingly near the tower, so far from the ground, so inexplicable.

  No one there.

  The words had ricocheted in my mind for the remainder of the night, sometimes an angry shout, sometimes a forlorn mumble, but over and over again, an ugly counterpoint to recurring screams.

  But now in the brightness of a new morning, I was not so much angry as determined. I was going to find out what had happened last night. And maybe this envelope would show me the way. I bent down, snatched up the envelope. I didn’t know what was in it, but I knew that I held in my hand the beginnings of a trail, one that I could follow with sharp questions and quiet observations. By God, here was a specific discrete entity. Somebody had slipped a message beneath my door and I never doubted that it was connected directly to the apparition near the tower.

  I put the mug on the table, studied the envelope, turning it over in my hands. It was hotel stationery, the Tower Ridge House address in the upper left corner, and, of course, the white tower, outlined in blue. My name was printed neatly
on the outside in red ink:

  MRS. COLLINS

  The envelope was sealed. I loosened the flap, pulled out a folded sheet. The message was printed in bright red block letters on a sheet of hotel stationery:

  $1000—NO GHOST

  $2000—GHOST

  $5000—PARTICULARS???????

  The first sum was crossed out, the second sum circled.

  A simple sketch at the bottom of the page showed a headland jutting into the water, sharp rocks below the prong of land. The time—8 A.M.—was written below.

  There was no signature, of course. But George didn’t need to sign this missive. Only he and I knew that I had offered him one thousand dollars to lay the ghost to rest. Oh, well, to be precise, perhaps he and I and one other person were aware of that fact. Because someone else, obviously, had paid him two thousand to raise the ghost last night. And now, for five thousand dollars, he was willing to reveal the truth behind the screams and the luminous apparition near the tower.

  I was amused in a grim way. But I intended to get the information out of George without paying a cent. And I certainly didn’t need to ask Lloyd for the original one thousand. George’s double-dealing scotched that debt. I was looking forward to 8 A.M. I put the sheet in the envelope and tucked it into the pocket of my slacks.

  I detoured through the garden on my way to breakfast. The garden at Tower Ridge House was almost as spectacular as that at Rosedon with a profusion of poinciana, frangipani, and palmetto trees. I climbed the steps of a pink gazebo that overlooked the grounds. Diana had been right the night before. It was quite obvious in the brightness of the morning that no one could have run away from the tower without being seen. Three lighted paths led from the tower, all of them visible to those of us on the balconies. If anyone had plunged into the flower beds or tried to skirt the shrubbery in the darkness, we would have heard the thrashing, been able to follow the movement.

  What about the far side of the tower? The tower sat high on a ridge and just beyond ran a limestone wall. I shaded my eyes. Not a very tall wall. Could someone have ducked away from the tower, run to the wall and climbed over without being seen from the balconies or the garden?

  I climbed down the gazebo steps, followed a winding path bounded by masses of crimson blooms. There were delicate camellias, cheery daffodils, pink and white and red hibiscus. The sweet scent of frangipani mingled with the ever-present salty tang from the ocean.

  Frangipani…I rested for a moment before climbing the far slope. In Hawaii, the tree was known as plumeria. In early days there, it was often planted around graveyards, and its delicate white, apricot, yellow or maroon blossoms were associated with death. Millions of tourists never knew this, so today the blossom is the mainstay of leis and its sweet scent automatically invokes the Islands.

  The wind rustled the frangipani. I reached up, carefully pulled loose an apricot flower. I would give it to Connor, if all went well in my interview with George. Success would mean the tower could once again be enjoyed for its view, not avoided as a haven for a vengeful spirit. I wondered if Connor knew the Hawaiian custom. A single flower behind the right ear meant the wearer was available. A flower tucked behind the left ear indicated the wearer’s affections were already engaged. I carried the blossom loosely in my hand, careful not to bruise it.

  Once on the ridge, I looked out at the ocean first. No one could attain this clear, sweet, clean eminence and ignore the thrusting black rocks, the crashing waves with foam that sparkled like diamonds, and water so brightly blue it looked like turquoise glass. Bermuda, beautiful Bermuda. I took a final glance, then turned and walked briskly toward the tower. A lawn stretched another fifteen feet past the tower, ending at a limestone wall covered by honeysuckle. The wall curved to the farthest point of land, where a huge magnolia splayed its branches almost forty feet high.

  I imagined a figure darting from the tower to the wall…I reached the wall, looked over, and saw a drop of more than twenty feet to a curving road. No one could escape this way without a ladder of some sort. I walked the length of the wall and, near the magnolia, looked down at the pounding surf crashing against black rocks.

  As I sauntered back through the garden, I faced facts. Whatever moved briefly in the night sky near the tower, it hadn’t been engineered from either the tower or the garden. A beam of light, perhaps? But once again, beamed from where?

  It was irritating not to have an idea. But George knew. And George was going to tell me.

  It was a few minutes past seven when I reached the dining room. Three tables were occupied, but no one from our group was there. I settled at a table for two with my back to the door. I didn’t want to converse with anyone. I drank the freshly squeezed orange juice and enjoyed every bite of my bacon and eggs as I considered what I knew. I needed to be clear in my mind.

  I pulled the envelope out of my pocket, opened it, studied the sheet as I ate.

  I was sure the marked-out “$1000” meant that George had taken my offer to someone who topped it, paid him two thousand to be sure that the ghost appeared last night. Clearly, the appearance of the ghost—or its nonappearance—was within George’s control. So he either created the phenomenon himself or he knew who did.

  If George did not himself arrange the ghostly doings, how could he prevent another person from doing so? Persuasion? Money? Fear of public revelation?

  I finished my breakfast, sipped coffee. It was possible, I thought wryly, that George was simply a first-class opportunist and didn’t have any knowledge but was willing to take advantage of my (presumed) credulity. Under that scenario, he turned the loss of my thousand into a gain by pretending someone paid him for last night’s performance and, carrying it to a chutzpah high, was hitting me up for five thousand for information he didn’t possess!

  It was rather like an intricate chess game. His move. My move. I was sure of only one fact: George was not going to pocket five thousand dollars.

  I was almost finished with my coffee when I heard footsteps behind me, swift and purposeful.

  eight

  MARLOW Bailey came around the end of the table, gripped the top of the chair opposite me. She studied me with cool, appraising eyes. “I went to your room.” There was no bun this morning The cloud of dusky hair made her face softer, less severe, but her pale skin still lacked makeup. I imagined at home she’d come down for breakfast in an oversize T-shirt and terry-cloth scuffles. In deference to Bermuda’s formality, she wore a white cotton turtleneck and black slacks. In another era, she’d have tucked flowers in her hair and favored worn blue work shirts and likely eschewed the thought of travel here. In yet an earlier era, every woman in the Tower Ridge House dining room would have been in a dress, but not even this most British outpost could turn back that clock.

  She leaned against the chair as if it were a gate to vault. “I need to talk to you.” Despite the softness of her Georgia accent, her voice was curt.

  I didn’t like her tone. “Indeed.” I put down my coffee cup with a decided click.

  She reached out a slender hand, the nails short with clear polish. “Please.” She took a deep breath. “I hate doing this. I hate talking about family to strangers but I’ve got to do something and you’re the only person I can think of who might be able to help.”

  We gazed at each other. Taking measure? I wasn’t quite certain, but the depth of worry in her eyes tempered my irritation.

  I gestured toward the chair.

  Marlow pulled it back, slipped into the seat, never taking her eyes off my face. She was pale and her eyes were worried, yet hopeful.

  I glanced at my watch. I had twenty minutes. And I was curious. Why had this self-possessed young woman sought me out?

  Brian, thirtyish, slender, self-effacing, was our waiter this morning, not George. When I’d arrived, I’d glanced around the room, wondering if George was near. But I doubted it. He must have the morning off if he’d planned our appointment for eight o’clock. As Brian poured more coffee for me and filled
Marlow’s cup, she waved her hand. “Fruit, And oatmeal. And orange juice, please.”

  But when he moved away, she was silent. She looked tired, bluish half-moons beneath her eyes, a droop to her mouth. She picked up her napkin, spread it on her lap. Her fingers nervously worked one corner. “I went to Emory. I wanted to go to Pomona.”

  I didn’t say anything. I must have looked blank. I felt blank.

  She bit her lip. Her look was both scathing and defensive. “You’re a rather formidable woman, you know. So arrogant. I wouldn’t even try to talk to you, but I have to. I mean, I know you’re kind of famous, but do you have to be so damn sure of yourself?” She rolled the napkin into a strip, held it like a rope. “You won’t understand. You’re too capable, too controlled. You’ve never been afraid everything would smash to pieces.”

  “Smash to pieces…” I didn’t look at her. I wasn’t seeing her. I was seeing my little boy and the bloody bruise on his temple where his head struck the side of the car that night so long ago. If we hadn’t gone to the fiesta, if I hadn’t insisted we go, the ramshackle truck would not have rammed us and Bobby wouldn’t have died. “Smash to pieces…” And the emptiness that enveloped me, cold as a shroud, when the phone call came that my husband, Richard, was dead in a fall from a cliff and the corrosive flicker of anger at the place of his death.

  We sat at the breakfast table, each of us quite alone.

  Neither of us spoke while Brian served her breakfast.

  As he walked away, I said in as level a voice as I could manage. “Not arrogant, Marlow. I have too much guilt ever to be arrogant. I know what happens when things smash.” Yes, I knew. I knew how it felt when life was like a small boat caught in huge waves and everything on deck slips and slides. But obviously this young girl, too, knew uncertainty and fear. I asked gently, “Why didn’t you go to Pomona?”

  “I couldn’t go away and leave Mother.” There was utter weariness in her voice. She brushed back a soft pouf of black hair. She was plain, but there was a grave dignity, a kind of beauty in her strong, sad face. “You see, Daddy understood Mother. Everybody always thought she married him because he was so rich. She didn’t. She married Daddy because he was strong. He understood her, how vulnerable she is, how easily frightened. And he knew she couldn’t help it about men. She doesn’t try to get them, but they can’t stay away from her. Oh, I know, I know.” Her head shake was impatient. “Sure, it takes two…but Mother has to have attention. That’s what keeps her going, attention and admiration and love. But she doesn’t mean anything by it.”