by Carolyn Hart
Mrs. Worrell took a step or two with us.
“I suggest you remain here, ma’am.” P.C. Howard was pleasant but insistent. “Access to the beach will be closed until the field search is complete.”
As we moved away, I glanced back at Mrs. Worrell. She looked shaken. And frightened. I carried that picture of her with me as we walked down to the beach. My mind was jumbled with thoughts, but I was puzzled by the sense of fear emanating from the hotel manager. Certainly she should know what happened when a body was found. She’d had that experience last year with her husband’s death. Why, then, did she appear to be frightened? I pushed the thought aside. I had plenty of other concerns, including what I should tell the police. The officers waited patiently as I paused twice during the descent. I began to explain, “I was walking out on the headland—”
P.C. Howard interrupted. “The chief inspector will interview you, Mrs. Collins.”
And that was that. I led the rest of the way in silence, through the long cool tunnel to the outcropping of black rock above the sand, down the cement grid and the slow climb up the faint trail to the top of the narrow headland. When we stood on the point and looked down, the tide was coming in. Most of the body was hidden beneath the swirling water. As the waves broke, a floating hand could be glimpsed for an instant.
The young officer spoke for the first time. “May go out with the tide.”
P.C. Howard lifted her cell phone, then looked at me. She nodded toward a rustic wooden bench some twenty feet from the point. “If you will be kind enough to wait there, Mrs. Collins.”
I spent almost two hours on the bench. Occasionally, I rose and paced a few feet, careful to stay out of the way of the field search team. In the water, marine experts were at work. The forensics team included a slim young woman who turned out to be the pathologist there to view the body in situ.
I briefly met Chief Inspector Gerald Foster, who had a shock of iron-gray hair, the chiseled good looks of Harry Belafonte, and a probing gaze. His gray suit had a fine blue pinstripe and it fitted him perfectly. He spoke with the beautiful, clear diction of an educated Bermudian, his voice pleasant but nonetheless commanding.
“Mrs. Collins?” He didn’t refer to notes to call up my name. “You found the body?”
“Yes.” Would he ask what brought me to the end of the point?
“At what time?” He glanced at his watch.
“Approximately eight thirty-five.” If I’d been on time for my appointment, would George be alive?
’There was no sign of life?”
“None.” Sodden clothes and a lolling head.
“Do you know the deceased?”
I hesitated. That was a mistake. Chief Inspector Foster’s gaze sharpened. He looked at me with alert interest.
I spoke too quickly. “I can’t be certain. I thought it might be George, a young waiter from the hotel.”
Foster studied me, then swung around and walked to the end of the point and stared down at the quiet activity on the rocks below him. He stood in a relaxed way, head cocked, hands loose at his side.
I dropped onto the bench, wishing I could hurry back to the hotel, although I wasn’t sure what I would do when I got there. Because, of course, everything depended upon what had happened to George. Was his death murder, accident, or suicide? I had a cold feeling that there might not be a definitive answer and an even colder feeling that George’s death might have resulted directly from my dealings with him. I’d offered George money to close down the ghost of Roddy Worrell. Had I set in motion, inexorable as an avalanche, a series of events resulting in George’s murder?
I looked at it clearly. I offered George money to stop the ghost. The ghost hovered near the tower last night. This morning I found the note which, in effect, informed me my thousand dollars had been trumped but I could have the truth about the ghost for five thousand.
Had George pushed his luck? If I accepted the implications of the note, someone upped my offer to two thousand and the ghost walked—or floated—last night. Then George asked me for five thousand. What if he’d asked someone else for six thousand—or more—in exchange for silence?
What if that person decided to kill George instead?
I rubbed my temple. Was keeping the secret of Roddy Worrell’s ghost worth murder? Why?
Perhaps George fell. Perhaps he walked to the end of the point and lost his balance. I shook my head. George had been young, strong, agile. It didn’t make sense. But accidents happen. Suicide? No. A depressed person contemplating suicide would not have written the note asking for money.
It came down to murder or accident. Accident or murder.
Firm footsteps sounded. I looked up. Chief Inspector Foster walked toward me.
Chief Inspector Foster sat opposite me, the width of a card table between us, in a small room along the short corridor that branched from the main lobby. To one side, a uniformed officer, a young man in his twenties, held a notebook and pen. The chief inspector rested his elbows on the table, looked at me intently. “The body was facedown in the water. It could not be identified from the headland. You thought it might be a waiter here at the hotel. The body has now been identified as that of George Edward Smith, an employee of Tower Ridge House.” He cocked his head, like an old, thoughtful parrot. “I’m a little curious, Mrs. Collins, how did you know the dead man was this young man whom you called George?”
I’d known this moment would be coming, though I’d not expected his first question to place me squarely on the spot. I slipped my hand into my pocket, felt the envelope I’d tucked there. If I gave the envelope and note to him, I would have to explain the significance of those sums—the crossed-out 1000, the 2000, and the 5000. At this point, I was reluctant to tell the police of my attempts to persuade George to corral the ghost. Moreover, I didn’t want to expose Connor to the rigors of questioning in a police investigation. Admittedly, Connor was upset about the ghost’s appearance, but surely, whatever the truth behind the ghost, it couldn’t have anything to do with the Drake-Bailey wedding party. I didn’t know the whys and wherefores of the apparition, but I knew that George Smith didn’t believe Roddy Worrell fell from the tower. That was the important point. I pulled my hand out of my pocket, folded my hands loosely together.
“I wasn’t certain that the dead man was George, Chief Inspector. But there was something about the shape of the body,” I said vaguely. “And he’d been out on the point with our group the morning before, taking a photograph for us. I suppose that came to my mind.”
Foster continued to look at me.
Before the silence could grow oppressive, I said briskly, “And I had such a long chat with George yesterday afternoon. About the ghost. And about Mr. Worrell’s murder.”
Foster’s smooth dark face remained expressionless. “Mr. Worrell’s murder?”
I hitched my chair closer to the table, met his gaze eagerly. “It’s an extraordinary story. Last year, as you may know—”
Of course Foster knew, but he made no response.
“—the hotel manager’s husband, Roddy Worrell, died in a fall from the tower. The first anniversary of his death is apparently coming up and this week there have been several sightings of some kind of luminous cloud near the top of the tower. George told the little girl in our party—Jasmine—all about it. I was quite curious, so I spoke to George after tea yesterday afternoon. He confirmed the sightings, but perhaps even more important”—I spoke with great clarity—“George insisted Mr. Worrell could handle himself even if he was drunk. George didn’t believe he fell.”
Foster leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. “What basis did Smith give for that statement?” His voice was crisp.
The young policeman wrote swiftly.
“He said…” I paused to try and remember George’s words: “‘Roddy Worrell never fell out of that tower. Even drunk, he could handle himself. And he wasn’t that drunk.’” I looked expectantly at the chief inspector.
“Worrell’s bloo
d alcohol level was point zero nine.” Foster left it at that. “Did Smith accuse anyone?”
“No. He simply said Worrell didn’t fall.” I didn’t have to point out that a killer who pushed once would be quick to push again if danger threatened. “George made the point that Worrell could handle himself. Yet he ends up dead at the base of the tower. Now George is dead, yet he appeared very athletic. Why would he fall off a cliff?”
“We don’t know what happened, Mrs. Collins. Accidents occur. The young and quick are often careless. I won’t have the official report from the pathologist for several days. Her preliminary judgment is that death was due to drowning, that he likely was rendered unconscious by the fall. There are no suspicious circumstances”—now his eyes raked my face—“except for your statement.”
“Grandma, are you sure you don’t want to come?” Diana touched my arm. Her reddish-gold hair was drawn back in a ponytail, perhaps too severe a style for her fine features. But I knew her bleak expression reflected shock at George’s death.
I welcomed the soft pressure of her fingers. Yes, I wanted to climb on the pillion of Neal’s scooter and ride to Harrington Sound with my grandchildren as if this were a normal vacation day and a young man’s body had not been slipped into a rubberized bag for its journey to the cold air and harsh glare of the morgue.
“I’m a little tired. I believe I’ll stay here and rest.” I was tired, but I had no intention of resting. It wasn’t fatigue that weighted me. It was the nagging worry that my less than frank interview with the chief inspector might hamper his investigation. So I was determined to nose around until I could give Chief Inspector Foster the name of the unknown figure who’d trumped my thousand-dollar offer to George.
Was I looking for a ghost-raiser? Or a murderer?
Diana shivered. “It seems all wrong to go and play—just as if nothing had happened.” She looked over her shoulder at the steps leading down to the lower terrace. The paramedics had carried the body bag up those steps.
“Nothing we do will change the fact of George’s death, Diana. You and Neal go now. Look for beauty.” It was another way of saying a prayer.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Grandma?” Neal was astride the moped, his blunt face creased with concern.
I managed a smile. “I’m fine.” I waved my hand at them. “Scoot.”
I stayed on the drive until I no longer heard the putt-putt of the mopeds. They were going to Devil’s Hole, a clear natural pool famous for its sharks and moray eels and brilliantly hued fighting fish. For a fee, a visitor could fish with baited but hookless lines.
I was going fishing, too. I wasn’t sure about my bait—a hint of dangerous knowledge?—but I hoped my line had a sharp hook.
Tower Ridge House drowsed in the afternoon sun. The presence of the police was unobtrusive. The door to the manager’s office was closed. So far as I knew, no one in our party was in the hotel. Lloyd and Connor and Steve, along with Marlow and Jasmine and Aaron, were gone when I climbed up the slope from the beach, and I assumed they’d departed on their excursion to Spittal Pond and on to Hamilton for a late lunch at the Hog Penny on Burnaby Hill. The restaurant, decorated like an old English pub with dark-paneled walls, was well known for its fish and chips and steak-and-kidney pie. My last visit there was on a long-ago July day with Richard. I’d chosen a curried dish. Beneath the inconsequential thought of food, I tried to decide what I should do. I hesitated in the center of the hallway between the lounge and the bar.
Huge poinsettias in cobalt-blue pots sat on either side of the folded-back doors to the bar, where wall sconces burned dimly against the coppery planks of cedar. Behind the bar, the bartender, round-faced with thinning blond hair, polished glasses. Not surprisingly on a sunny afternoon, he had no customers.
I walked in with a smile, slid atop a red leatherette seat. “I’ll have a glass of sherry, please.”
“Sweet or dry, ma’am?” His voice was young. He was balding but probably not even thirty yet. Long bristly sideburns framed plump cheeks.
“Bristol Cream, if you have it.” I like sherry for the same reason I enjoy chocolate truffles.
“Yes, ma’am.” He swung about, reached for a dark green bottle.
When he brought the glass, I took a sip. “That’s very good.”
“It’s Harvey’s, Mrs. Collins.” He picked up a glass, wiped it carefully.
“Oh, yes. Thank you, James.” I recognized him as one of the other waiters at lunch. “It is James, isn’t it?” I held him with my gaze.
He remained opposite me. Most bartenders quickly pick up on a customer’s need to talk. “Yes, ma’am.”
I sighed. “I’m sorry about George.”
The professional veneer almost held, but not quite. His blue eyes looked shocked. He crumpled the dish towel in pudgy hands. “I saw him this morning. Just about eight, it was.” His voice held disbelief. “He was heading down to the lower terrace and I wondered about that. He should have been in the dining room, getting everything ready for breakfast. But I talked to Brian a little while ago and he told me he took over for George this morning. That George had something to do.”
That placed the time of George’s death between eight and eight forty-five.
“Do you suppose George was going down to the beach when you saw him?” I kept my tone casual.
James swept his cloth in little circles on the mahogany of the bar. “I guess so. But what he said didn’t make any sense.”
“Really.” The sherry was as sweet and rich as dollops of cream.
James looked at me, his round face earnest. “I keep trying to get it straight in my mind. The policeman’s asking everybody when they last saw George, what he said. But see, he told Brian he had someplace to go and when I saw George, he grinned at me and gave me a thumbs-up and said he was going to get his ticket home. He was walking cocky like he’d won the lottery.”
“Ticket home?” Yes, I’d known that George wanted money.
“He was saving money to go home. Toronto. I know he was a long way from having enough.” He shook his head. “But that’s what he said.
A thumbs-up and a cocky walk. On his way to die.
“It doesn’t make any sense.” James’s tone was querulous. “Who’d have money down at the beach?”
I felt empty. If George hadn’t hoped I would bring a promise of five thousand, he wouldn’t have been standing on the point, above the deadly rocks. “No, I wouldn’t think there would be money down at the beach.”
James made a sour face. “Well, I can tell you it didn’t have anything to do with drugs. Not at this hotel. And not on our beach. Sure, there are drugs on the island. But George wasn’t into drugs. He didn’t even drink. He was a scuba diver and a Rugby player. He told me he’d quit his job before he’d work in here.” James waved his hand. “The bar is the only place anybody can smoke in the hotel except in their own rooms. I told the police George didn’t have any use for drugs. He didn’t go down there for a drug deal.”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” I agreed.
James’s combative look eased.
“I suppose George got too near the edge of the point and slipped.” I shook my head. “And I’d had the most interesting visit with George yesterday afternoon. He told me all about the ghost at the tower.” I simulated a shiver. “I suppose you’ve heard about last night?”
“Yes, ma’am.” His eyes slid past me, stared through the doorway into the hall.
“Have you ever seen the ghost, James?”
His reaction surprised me. He didn’t look uneasy, as if afraid of otherworldly apparitions. Instead, he darted another cautious look at the doorway and bent toward me. I heard his quick whisper, “Look in the Sports cupboard down by the pool. Don’t say I told you.” The clatter of heels on the wooden floor almost drowned out the final words.
“Mrs. Collins.” The voice was shaken, breathless.
I turned to face Mrs. Worrell. Behind me, James set a glass down sharply on the bar.
“Please.” The words were so faint they could scarcely be heard. “I must speak with you.”
ten
THE sleek black cat on the purple silk cushion lifted his head, stared at me with unblinking yellow eyes and aloof disdain. I’ve always suspected that cats see beyond our pretenses and affectations, cataloging human behavior with humorless precision, unswayed in their final estimate by charm, affection, or choice cuts of meat.
Mrs. Worrell closed her office door behind us, leaned against it as if she had lost strength. Although she was a big-boned woman, she seemed small, propped against the wooden panels like a discarded rag doll. “I’m sorry,” she began, “I’ve no right to trouble you, but I must know. I simply must.” She pushed away from the door, reached out a hand toward me, though the trembling fingers didn’t touch me. “I have to find out, and you must be the one…” She stopped, shook her head. “Please, did you tell the police officer that George said Roddy”—she drew in short, quick drafts of air as if her lungs were strained to the bursting—“was murdered?” The last word could scarcely be heard, a faint whisper.
I’d not thought what effect my statement to Chief Inspector Foster might have on others. My intent was to raise a doubt in Foster’s mind that George Smith’s fall from the point was an accident, to link George’s death to Roddy Worrell’s death, a link that seemed quite likely to me. Moreover, my statement to Foster was accurate. It was not I who questioned Roddy Worrell’s death. It was George who had called Roddy’s death murder.
Mrs. Worrell mistook my silence. “Oh, I thought it must have been you who told the inspector. You’re the only person he’s talked to. You and he were in the cardroom, and I assumed…but you must forgive me. He said he’d been informed that George insisted Roddy was pushed from the tower. But the inspector wouldn’t tell me who told him. I have to know. I have to know what George said.”