Resort to Murder

by Carolyn Hart

  I knew Aaron’s presence here surely might not reflect his personal preferences. He obviously had no control over the setting chosen for Marlow’s mother’s wedding, and perhaps he’d felt that he couldn’t refuse the invitation to attend. The year before? Well, love has its power and certainly might cause any young man to compromise his principles to enjoy a beach holiday with his girlfriend. Right now he looked more like a young country clubber than an impecunious graduate student. I rather agreed with Connor. He would very likely change his attitudes with time, slip comfortably into the role of a wealthy young woman’s husband. And if he didn’t, I was willing to guess, that would be all right with Marlow, too. Although she was always understated in dress and manner, I’d caught her glance upon him several times and there was unmistakable passion there.

  Aaron raised a hand in greeting. “Morning, Mrs. Collins. Hey, Jasmine, we can’t play badminton after all.”

  “Oh, Aaron.” Her face crumpled.

  “There was a fire last night and the Sports closet is messed up. But listen, I was thinking we could go down to the beach and make some boats out of bark. You know that little cove…” He crouched beside her chair. They made an appealing picture, the eager young man with tousled chestnut curls and the sweet-faced little girl who obviously adored him.

  I wished I could join them. I wished very much that I could walk slowly down the slope to the magnificent beach with its pale pink sand and follow Aaron and Jasmine to the secluded cove and watch as they launched driftwood boats.

  But I had other tasks before me.

  They scarcely heard me as I left, they were so deep in their plans. Jasmine clapped her hands. “I’m going to call my boat The Jolly Roger…”

  I paused outside the dining room. The main desk was unattended for the moment. I wondered if Foster was still interviewing witnesses and if the door to the adjoining room remained open just a sliver. Mrs. Worrell was keeping a close watch on the chief inspector. I tucked that thought away. Her knowledge might come in handy at some point—not, of course, that she was likely to be readily forthcoming. It would be an interesting contest.

  I walked swiftly to my room. I had to discover some fact that would support my arguments to the chief inspector. I stepped out on my balcony, looked first at the tower, looming to my right, then straight ahead, beyond the pool and the gardens, to the headland poking out into the ocean. I looked from one to the other and it seemed so clear to me. Two fatal falls, a year apart. Why did Foster see murder in George Smith’s death and accident in Roddy Worrell’s? I needed to know more of the facts of Roddy’s fall, but it would not do any good to ask Foster.

  I shaded my eyes against the warm, soft sunlight and smiled. This was a very small island. The intimacy of Bermuda is perhaps most obvious when riding in a taxi. Often the driver taps his horn, not in warning or irritation but to greet a friend. In effect, all of Bermuda comprises the equivalent of a small town. In a small town, newspaper reporters either know almost everyone or know about almost everyone. I swung back into my room, moved purposefully toward the telephone.

  I looked up at the facade of the Royal Gazette building. I liked its pale purple hue and the gold crest beneath the newspaper’s name. I hurried up the shallow steps and entered the main door. A receptionist looked up from a gray counter and smiled a welcome. Beyond her, accessible through a small half-door to the left, ranged the newsroom, a warren of cubicles. Computer screens glowed a soft green.

  I spoke with the receptionist, a pretty young woman with a chartreuse bow in her hair. “Mr. Ellis is expecting you.” She pointed to my left. “Please go through the gate and walk to the end of the first corridor. He will meet you there.” She smiled again and picked up a phone.

  When I reached the end of the corridor, a plump young man bounded toward me.

  “Mrs. Collins? Kevin Ellis. This way, this way.” He hustled me right, then left, and right again and ushered me into a narrow work cubicle. He pulled a chair up to his desk and waved me toward it. “So you want to know about the fellow who took a dive out at the Tower Ridge House last year. I punched up the stories and printed out a couple. Here’s the one that tells the tale.”

  “Thanks so much.” I sat down and took the computer printout.

  Ellis’s hazel eyes were bright and curious and I knew some questions were coming. He leaned back in his chair, a small legal pad in one hand, a pen in the other. Around us was the disciplined energy of a newsroom, the ring of phones, brisk voices, hurried footsteps. Some things never change.

  I read the story quickly:

  Proceedings in Magistrate’s Court Wednesday resulted in a finding of Death by Misadventure in the fatal late-night fall last month of well-known island entertainer Roderick Worrell from the tower located at Tower Ridge House in Paget. The small hotel has long belonged to the Palmer family.

  Police reported that Worrell, a mellow tenor who often sang with the Coral Reef Trio, lived at the hotel, managed by his wife, Thelma. Mrs. Worrell was distraught on the witness stand as she testified that she had often warned her husband against his custom of sitting on the ledge of the tower, legs dangling outside, and singing.

  Worrell’s body was found in the early morning of January 20. The autopsy report, also entered in evidence, indicated death resulted from massive trauma consistent with a fall from the top of the tower. Police said the tower was forty feet tall. Worrell was last seen leaving the hotel bar around midnight of the preceding evening…

  I didn’t have to read any more. I understood now why the chief inspector believed Worrell’s death to be accidental. The autopsy had, obviously, not revealed bruises similar to those found on George Smith’s back. But I wondered if it hadn’t at least occurred to Foster that it would take very little force to push a man sitting on a ledge, especially a man who’d had too much whiskey to drink.

  “So you are staying at Tower Ridge House?” Ellis was youngish, perhaps mid-thirties, thinning sandy hair, ready smile, but his eyes had the skeptical, inquiring, nothing-you-say-will-surprise-me savvy of an experienced reporter.

  “Yes. It’s a lovely hotel.” I folded the printout, placed it on his desk.

  His eyes flickered toward the paper, then back to me. “One of the nicest small hotels on the island. Rather hard times there now. The police are investigating the death of an employee as a possible homicide. You found the body.” He didn’t have to check his notes. “Why?”

  Oh, smart fellow. Damn good question.

  I hesitated for an instant. I needed to pick my words with care. Although I didn’t expect Chief Inspector Foster to reveal much of the current investigation to me, I didn’t want to irritate him. I wanted to be able to ask him a few questions with the hope of receiving answers. And, as a lawyer I knew once observed, there are a great many ways to tell the truth.

  “I’d gone out to the headland to meet George.” I was rather pleased with the natural sound of my voice, as if I were simply confiding to a friend. “I’d visited with George several times since my arrival about the rumor that Roddy Worrell’s ghost had been seen late at night near the top of the tower—”

  Ellis’s pudgy fingers gripped his pen. His eyes glowed. “Oh, I say. A ghost. Tell me all about it.”

  Everyone loves a ghost story. Of course, I kept my recital to the information I’d received from George and made no mention of my offer of money to dissuade the ghost from appearing.

  “—quite shocking when a shout awakened a number of guests late Wednesday night. Several of us saw the apparition, a luminous glow near the top of the tower, and when we ran to the tower and searched it, we found nothing to explain the appearance.”

  Ellis hitched his chair closer to mine. “This was Wednesday night, you say. And you found Smith’s body Thursday morning. Why were you meeting him on the headland?”

  “I had a conviction he knew all about the ghost and who was making it appear and why.” There was no need to mention George’s note. What I said was true and a nice example of
one way of offering truth.

  The reporter tapped his pen on his pad. “You don’t believe in ghosts?”

  “No. I’m convinced it was a hoax of some kind.” I waved my hand. “There are always ways to create physical phenomena to dupe people.” If only I’d taken the phosphorescent kite out of the closet…

  He looked down at his notes. “You say that Smith told you the apparition was first seen this past week?” At my nod, he rattled on. “Of course, it could be a prank of some sort. But why would anyone want to do it?”

  “Perhaps the idea was to suggest that Roddy Worrell’s death wasn’t an accident.” This was dangerous ground.

  Ellis’s head jerked up. “Are you suggesting that Worrell was pushed from the tower and Smith knew about it?”

  This was farther than I wished to go. I shrugged. “Mr. Ellis, I don’t know. But why else would anyone murder George Smith? Have you learned anything that would suggest a reason for his death?”

  Ellis’s young-old eyes were suddenly wary. Reporters protect their sources. His answer was smooth. “The police have said only that an investigation is under way into the circumstances of Smith’s death and there is suspicion of foul play.”

  If Ellis knew anything more about the investigation, he wasn’t going to share it with me. But maybe I could approach it a different way. “Have you learned anything about Smith?”

  Ellis hesitated for an instant. I knew he was reviewing what information he had and whether it mattered if he revealed it to me. His eyes dropped to his notes. Perhaps he appreciated my report of the ghost. That would make a good story. In any event, he swung toward his monitor, clicked on the file folder, clicked on a file and brought it onto the screen. He spoke rapidly, “Canadian. From Toronto. Big family. Parents shocked, said he’d written that he was coming home and planned to go to the university, that he’d saved some money. No bad habits, according to his father. Hard worker. Liked sports. He’d been here for three years. One ticket for speeding on his moped. No other official record. Lived by himself in a basement apartment in Warwick Parish. Landlady said he paid his rent promptly, was a quiet tenant. I haven’t found a close friend yet. If he had a girlfriend, nobody’s mentioned her.” Ellis closed down the file, swung toward me. “Seems like a pretty innocuous chap.”

  I wanted very much to ask for the address of George’s basement apartment;, but I didn’t want Ellis to know that I might go there: Instead, I murmured, “He does indeed. Well”—I stood, smiled—“I hope the police are successful in their investigation and I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me.”

  Ellis wasn’t going to let me slip away that easily. “Just what is your interest in all of this, Mrs. Collins?” He stood, too.

  “I’ve always been interested in the so-called appearances of ghosts, Mr. Ellis. Usually, there is something in the person’s background that accounts for the apparition. So I wanted to find out more about Mr. Worrell.”

  “I see.” His tone was equable, but his gaze was skeptical.

  I reached out, shook his hand. “Thanks so much for your time.” I smiled and moved briskly away. I glanced back as I turned into a narrow corridor. He was looking after me and I knew he was going to find out everything he could about me and that he was going to wonder a good deal about Roddy Worrell, the ghost, and George Smith.

  I like stirring pots. Maybe, if I was patient, this one would begin to boil.

  Outside, I took a deep breath. I’d come to The Royal Gazette to learn more about Roddy Worrell’s fall. Although I’d accomplished that goal, I was discouraged. I hesitated on the sidewalk. That avenue of investigation seemed closed. All that was left was to learn more about George Smith.

  I walked down Par-la-Ville Road and turned left on Front Street, Hamilton’s main street, which overlooks the harbor. Hamilton, the capital of Bermuda, is graced with both beauty and charm. Two- and three-story buildings on Front Street glow in delicate shades of lemon, blue, rose, green, and orange. Arches and columns support an overhang that provides shoppers with protection from rain. I wished I could duck into Trimingham’s, a department store that wore its one hundred and fifty-plus years comfortably, but I had no time to be a tourist. I was apparently the main suspect in George’s murder. I had to know more about George Smith. Somewhere in his life, there had to be a pointer to his death. It was up to me to find it. I lifted my hand, hailed a taxi.

  fifteen

  MY shoes clicked on the wooden floor of the lobby. I reached the front desk. No one was there. I heard the tick of a clock, the soft whisper of blinds rattled by the breeze through an open window, the chirping of birds. I moved a few steps, glanced into the drawing room. A coffee service sat on a butler’s table, but the room was empty except for the black cat stretched comfortably on the mantel, one paw resting on the foot of a pink porcelain clock. The cat’s golden eyes flicked open, regarded me coolly.

  Cats are night creatures. Had the sleek creature been abroad the night Roddy Worrell died? Quite likely, but even if the cat could speak, it likely would not have cared enough to remember.

  I walked back to the counter, punched the silver bell.

  Footsteps sounded. Rosalind, patting her lips with a napkin, came through the archway from a back office. “Mrs. Collins, how are you today?” Her tone was cheerful, but her eyes had a skittish look. No doubt there was a good deal of gossip among hotel employees. Was there a rumor out that I had quarreled with George? If I’d had any hopes of obtaining George’s address from the desk, I relinquished them. Instead, I smiled. “Where is Mrs. Worrell?”

  Rosalind brushed a crumb from her sweater. “Uh, she’s not in her office this morning.” Clearly, Rosalind was reluctant to say where the manager might be found.

  “Is Chief Inspector Foster still in the hotel?” If so, I knew where to find Mrs. Worrell.

  Rosalind shook her head. “No. He left an hour or so ago.”

  “I need to speak with Mrs. Worrell, then. Let me see”—I was scrambling to remember that disorganized scene at the foot of the tower Wednesday night and Steve Jennings’s comment about a flashlight bobbing up from the lower terrace—“her cottage is the one where the road curves before reaching the hotel entrance.” I made it a statement, not a question.

  Rosalind looked nervously toward the corridor leading to the upper terrace. “She said she didn’t want anyone to bother her. If you like, I’ll give her a message.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble.” There is nothing so impossible to combat as obtuseness. I beamed at her. “Thanks, Rosalind. I’ll see you later.”

  “But Mrs. Collins…” Her plaintive tone followed me down the corridor.

  Once in the sunlight, I walked fast to the stone steps, skirting a spectacular plumeria. Its glossy green leaves glistened in the sun, another of the infinite variations of green that mark the island in January. There weren’t many shrubs in bloom now, an occasional hibiscus with a few pink or white flowers, but the subtle shadings of green had their own special magic.

  On the lower terrace, I paused just long enough to see that there was little evidence a fire had occurred. The yellow tape was gone. A gardener pushed a roller over the ground marked by the firemen’s boots. The door to the Sports closet was open and a sound of hammering echoed out. The Canadian women were stretched out on deck chairs, magazines in hand.

  At the base of the second stairway, I looked across the road at a small yellow cottage. The shutters were closed on the landward side. The view over the bay from the front would be magnificent. I was glad Thelma Worrell prized her privacy. She would not see me approach. I stepped up onto the narrow wooden back porch and knocked three times, peremptorily.

  When the door opened, I caught a scent of old tobacco smoke and cinnamon potpourri. Mrs. Worrell stood a scant foot away, her white face empty of expression. The door began to close.

  “I shall tell the chief inspector you’ve eavesdropped on his interviews.” I don’t like to bully. I felt I had no choice.

  The doo
r stopped. Thin fingers curled around its edge.

  “Please,” and I let my voice soften, “let me talk to you.”

  “I wish you’d never come here. All of you.” Her voice was rough.

  “I’m sorry.” And I was.

  In the silence that stretched between us, the persistent, unending boom of the surf was disturbing. George Smith tumbled to his death not forty yards away from where I stood. Surf can mask so many noises—the quick pound of steps on the headland, the soft tiptoe of shoes on the platform of the tower.

  The high chirrup of a cell phone startled us both. She pulled the phone from her pocket. “Hello.” She listened, her narrow face stony. “It’s all right, Rosalind.” The manager stared at me. “Mrs. Collins is here now.” She spoke distinctly. “She says she needs to speak with me. I will talk to her, then I’ll be up to the office in a few minutes.”

  She clicked off the phone, pushed open the screen door.

  I stepped inside. We stood in a narrow, dark kitchen. There was a musty smell, no hint of foods or cooking, only mold and the memory of tobacco smoke. She turned and walked heavily into a short hallway made to look smaller by the wallpaper of huge cabbage roses and a twining ivy.

  The hallway opened to a shallow but wide room with four—no, five—windows that looked out to the ocean. These windows were bare to the world below. No shutters, no drapes, no blinds marred the magnificent view of turquoise water, tumbled black rocks, crashing surf and the riffle of white that marked the encircling reef.