Resort to Murder

by Carolyn Hart

  Marlow pressed her hands to her cheeks. Jasmine clung to her sister. Aaron said thickly, “Maybe that’s enough, Inspector.”

  “Was she able to—” I hesitated. I’d intended to ask whether Connor had been able to claw her attacker. Instead, I said, “Resist in any fashion?”

  His glance at me was quick and appraising. “That will be determined during the autopsy procedures, Mrs. Collins.”

  I met his stare. “How was she strangled?” I heard Marlow’s quick-drawn breath and I was sorry, but the answer mattered.

  Steve jerked toward me, glared. I understood his repugnance. But I asked for a purpose.

  Foster said blandly, “These matters are under investigation.”

  I felt stymied. Foster was speaking, but not communicating. Was Connor strangled manually? Or had a rope or cord of some sort been used? But obviously, Foster didn’t intend to reveal any fact which might be of use to him in his interviews.

  Foster’s eyes moved from person to person.

  Lloyd wavered unsteadily, his face sagging. His bristly face puffy and pale, he’d never managed to tuck the rest of the T-shirt into his blue jeans and he looked disheveled and disreputable. Diana, her face bare of makeup, clutched her father’s arm. Neal gave a deep sigh. Marlow hugged her little sister and leaned against Aaron. Steve, his face hard and suspicious, watched Lloyd.

  “Oh God.” Lloyd’s moan was deep and agonized. “Oh God, it’s my fault.”

  The stillness was abrupt.

  Steve took an angry step toward Lloyd.

  Foster held up his hand. “Wait, Mr. Jennings.” There was absolute authority in his voice.

  The lawyer jolted to a stop, though his hands balled into fists. He’d dressed hurriedly, a wrinkled shirt and trousers from yesterday and sand-stained boat shoes. His half-shaven face looked lopsided, but he was still an imposing man, a dangerous enemy.

  Lloyd was unaware of the circle of watching faces, the pain and fear in the eyes of his children, the anger and dislike in the glares of Marlow and Aaron and Steve. Lloyd’s lips trembled. His breaths were labored. “I got mad at her.” The words came in uneven spurts, as if he pulled them from deep within.

  The silence was cold and hostile, sharp and ugly as barbs on a gaff.

  Lloyd touched his head as if every strand of hair hurt, as if his skin flamed in agony. “She was so scared. That message—‘I’m coming for you’—somebody put it on the table in her room and it scared her and she wanted to go home. She acted like the wedding was just something we could forget about, that all that mattered was to leave. I got mad. Oh God, I got mad! I didn’t listen. And somebody did come for her, somebody came and killed her”—Lloyd was sobbing now—“and it’s my fault. I should have listened. I should have taken her in my arms and held her and told her it was all right. Oh, God, I was supposed to take care of her”—Lloyd turned away, burying his face in his hands. He stumbled blindly toward a sofa, flung himself down.

  Diana followed her father, dropping to her knees beside the sofa. She gripped his hand. “Dad, it’s not your fault. Dad, nobody could have known—”

  “Oh, yeah.” Steve’s voice grated. He stared at Lloyd with loathing and a deep, pulsing anger. “Somebody knew. I think Lloyd knew. He’s the murderer. He killed Connor. He got mad at her and he killed her because he was eaten up with jealousy. Ask him how he yelled at her, accused her of chasing another man. Ask him how mad he got when she begged me to help her go home. Connor realized what kind of man he was and she called off the wedding. So he killed her. Damn him to hell, he killed her!”

  “And he lied about the door!” Aaron paced toward Foster. “That’s important.” Aaron swung toward the lawyer. “Steve, tell him.” Aaron pointed at the chief inspector. “Tell him about the door.”

  Lloyd’s hands fell away from his face. He looked at Steve, then at Aaron. Slowly, he began to shake his head. Awkwardly, as if it took every ounce of energy he possessed, he pushed himself to his feet, leaned forward as if to hear better. “Wait a minute, what are you talking about? What door are you talking about?”

  “The connecting door.” Aaron’s tone was urgent.

  Marlow’s voice was high and shrill. “That’s what must have happened. Oh my God.”

  Lloyd turned toward her, his face stricken. “Marlow, you can’t believe that.”

  “Quiet, please.” Foster’s sharp tone threw them back into silence, a silence that quivered with anger and fear. “I will interview everyone in turn and we will determine all of the facts in due order. Miss Bailey, I will speak with you first.” His gaze slid over us. “I am requesting that the rest of you remain here until you are summoned.” He nodded toward the uniformed policewoman. “Police Constable Phillips will be on duty.”

  Steve moved quickly to Marlow’s side. “I will accompany Miss Bailey.” He didn’t ask; he announced. “I am both a longtime family friend and the lawyer for Mrs. Bailey’s estate.”

  Chief Inspector Foster nodded gravely. “I’m sure Miss Bailey appreciates your support, Mr. Jennings. However, I will first speak with each witness privately. Miss Bailey is not a suspect in her mother’s death and is not in need of counsel.”

  “Nonetheless, Inspector”—Steve’s voice was combative—“she has a right to have counsel present and I am going to insist upon that right.”

  Aaron reached out toward Marlow. “Miss Bailey is my fiancée. I want to be with her.”

  Marlow shook her head impatiently. “I don’t need anyone with me. Let’s not slow things down.” Her eyes touched Lloyd’s face, jerked away as if she couldn’t bear to see him. “Besides, Steve, I want you and Aaron to stay with Jasmine.” She bent down, kissed her sister’s blond curls, whispered.

  Jasmine nodded twice. “Okay.” She rubbed at her eyes. She looked toward Lloyd, took a step in his direction. “Lloyd, you didn’t hurt Mom. Did you?”

  “No, never. I never did. Jasmine, honey, I loved your mother.” Tears brimmed in his eyes. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Jasmine reached out, grabbed her sister’s hand. “See, Lloyd didn’t do it.”

  Marlow shuddered. “Baby, please, we’ll talk later. You stay with Steve and Aaron. Okay?”

  For an instant, Jasmine resisted, then she moved away, with Steve’s hand on her shoulder.

  As the door closed behind Foster and Marlow, the occupants of the room were divided again, Steve and Aaron standing near the windows by Jasmine, Neal and Diana following their father back to the sofa.

  The breeze through the open French window ruffled Aaron’s hair. He leaned forward. “Hey, Jasmine, take a look. Way out there.” He pointed. “Can you see the ship?”

  She tumbled to her feet, ran to the window. “Where? I don’t see it!”

  Aaron knelt beside her. “This way.” He lifted her hand, held it to the south. “Look straight—”

  The policewoman was watching Jasmine and Aaron.

  I drifted casually closer to Lloyd and the children. My back was to the policewoman. “Lloyd, don’t talk to Chief Inspector Foster without a lawyer present.” I spoke softly.

  Diana and Neal looked at me with scared, sick eyes.

  Lloyd’s head jerked up. “Henrie, you don’t believe Steve, do you? You can’t think I would hurt Connor?” His eyes were stricken and desperate.

  I looked deep into his eyes, saw pain and despair and misery. But if he had killed Connor, that would be precisely what I should expect to see. I didn’t answer him directly. I hoped he was innocent. I wanted him to be innocent. I would do everything possible to help him establish his innocence. But, at this moment, I didn’t know who had murdered Connor. I did know this was the father of my grandchildren and I would give him the advice anyone in his situation should follow. “It doesn’t matter what any of us think, Lloyd. Insist on counsel before you answer questions. That should keep you free from questioning until late today, possibly until Monday.”

  Lloyd got up, faced me. “Hell, no. I don’t need a lawyer.” He glar
ed at me and, beyond me, at Steve and Aaron. “Goddamn, I didn’t kill Connor. I can talk to the police. I’m not—”

  The policewoman moved quickly toward us, her shoes clicking on the wooden floor. “If you please, sir.” She was soft-voiced but firm. “I will ask you to remain calm and not to speak until your interview with the chief inspector is concluded.”

  Perhaps only a lawyer would have the arrogance to think that the advice common to all in a criminal investigation need not apply to himself. Of course, Lloyd was not a criminal lawyer.

  “Grandma!” Diana’s voice wobbled.

  “It will work out,” I said briskly, but I didn’t look directly at Diana or Neal. I turned away. I’d done my best. I walked toward the young policewoman and murmured, “There’s a rest room in the hallway near the desk. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She followed me toward the door, resumed her patient stance by the entrance.

  In an instant, I was in the hall. I walked swiftly toward the main lobby, my goal the short hallway that contained the telephones, rest rooms, and, of course, the cardroom where Chief Inspector Foster was interviewing Marlow.

  nineteen

  I REACHED the short hallway and was relieved to find it empty. I slipped past the cardroom and reached the second door. I turned the knob, moved the door quietly and slipped inside. The light was off, but sunlight slanted through the partially open wooden blinds. It came as no surprise that Mrs. Worrell stood near the connecting door, which, once again, was ajar the merest sliver, not enough to attract notice but quite adequate to overhear the conversation. Moreover, as I recalled the cardroom, Chief Inspector Foster sat with his back to this door.

  Thelma Worrell’s mossy-green dress sagged against her, emphasizing her height. She was a big woman. She hunched beside the connecting door, her bony face intent. One hand clutched the double-strand carnelian necklace that echoed the dull orange of her hair. She darted an angry yet defensive look toward me.

  I tiptoed across the floor, came up beside her, and bent my head to listen.

  “…Mother was terrified. I tried to convince her she shouldn’t be afraid, that the silly message was just an ugly prank, but she insisted we fly home immediately. Of course, that infuriated Lloyd. She didn’t even seem to focus on the fact that the wedding was canceled. All she could think about was getting away from here.” Marlow’s voice wavered. “If only we could have flown out yesterday.”

  Chief Inspector Foster’s chair creaked. “Did Mr. Drake make any threats against your mother?”

  Her reply was slow in coming. Finally, doubtfully, she said, “No. No, he was really mad, but it was the red-faced, shouting kind of mad. I never thought he would hurt Mother. None of us thought that or we would have stayed all night with her.”

  “You’ve said she was frightened. Exactly what did she fear?” The chief inspector sounded puzzled.

  Marlow sighed. “Oh, it’s all so stupid. She thought Roddy Worrell was a ghost and he was going to come back and kill her.”

  “A ghost.” He was silent for a moment, then said briskly, “I understand there were sightings of some kind of phenomena near the tower. Why should your mother believe that Mr. Worrell—or his ghost—would intend to harm her?”

  “Oh, it isn’t rational. But Mother felt guilty about his death,” Marlow said reluctantly.

  Thelma Worrell drew her breath in sharply.

  “And why is that?” Foster was polite but insistent.

  Marlow didn’t answer.

  Foster waited a moment. “Miss Bailey?” Clearly he wanted an answer.

  “It’s very complicated, Chief Inspector. Mother was very attractive to men and she loved attention. But she didn’t expect men to take her seriously. Unfortunately, Mr. Worrell became very upset when she made it clear she wasn’t looking for any kind of long-term relationship.” Marlow cleared her throat. “I think Mother was afraid he jumped from the tower because he was upset and had been drinking heavily. She felt guilty.”

  “Yes.” The whisper was so faint I might have imagined it, but I didn’t imagine the burning hatred in Mrs. Worrell’s tortured eyes.

  The chief inspector rustled a paper. “So your mother saw the message on the table and she thought Mr. Worrell’s ghost was going to come for her.”

  “It’s so terrible. She was afraid she was going to die—and she did.” Marlow clapped her hands together. “If only I had stayed with her.”

  “Why didn’t you?” He said it quietly.

  “I thought it was all nonsense.” There was a sharpness in her reply. “And, of course, it was. She wasn’t killed by a ghost. We spent the evening with her. Jasmine and I had dinner in her room. I helped her pack. Steve had taken care of getting the tickets changed. He came up after dinner. We had her calmed down and almost cheerful. Before we left—oh, I think it was about ten—Steve checked the sliding door to the balcony. I saw him swing shut the metal rod that prevents the door from opening. Mother locked the door to Lloyd’s room. Out in the hall, I waited until I heard the chain in place. There was no way anyone could get into that room.”

  Marlow was right. At that moment, no one could have entered Connor’s room. Obviously, Connor later opened either the hall door or the connecting door to Lloyd’s room or opened the balcony door. Finding out which could make the difference between life and death for Lloyd Drake.

  Foster tapped a pen on the card table. “The chain was in place when we arrived this morning.”

  The muscles in my throat tightened. If the chain was in place this morning…

  Marlow saw it at once. “That means whoever killed Mother came through Lloyd’s room.” A quick-drawn breath. “So it must have been Lloyd.” There was a faint uncertainty in her voice.

  “Not necessarily, Miss Bailey.” He spoke matter-of-factly. “Your mother might have admitted her killer through the hall door and the chain could have been hooked after her death. She might have opened the sliding door to the balcony. The only fact of which we can be positive is that the murderer exited from her room through the connecting door to Mr. Drake’s room, since the hall door was chained and the bar was in place at the balcony door when her body was found this morning. Of course, the murderer also could have been admitted through the connecting door.” Foster clearly understood the possibilities.

  “Lloyd’s room…” There was horror in Marlow’s voice. “Mother thought Lloyd was wonderful. Even as upset as she was, if he’d called to her, apologized, she was always so hungry for love. Oh, God, she would have opened that door…”

  Foster said quickly, “Do you think Mr. Drake was responsible for the message which presumably was left by Mr. Worrell’s ghost?”

  “Oh, no.” Her surprise was evident. “Why would he do that?”

  Foster waited.

  “That message…” Marlow thought out loud. “Somebody who hated Mother left it. And the only person—” She broke off.

  “The only person…” The chief inspector repeated her words.

  Marlow’s tone was reluctant. “Mrs. Worrell. She must have left that message. She looks at Mother—looked at Mother—as though she’d like to push her out of the tower.”

  Mrs. Worrell twisted the beads in her fingers, hunched her head between her shoulders like a turtle drawing into its shell.

  I looked at the manager’s rigid face, willing her to lift her eyes, to meet my gaze.

  She remained as still as a snake poised to strike emanating malignancy.

  “Chief Inspector?” Marlow’s voice was breathless. “Do you think Mrs. Worrell—”

  A knock sounded. A door opened. “Chief Inspector, excuse me, please.” The musical voice was strained.

  “What is it, Constable?” His voice was patient.

  “The older lady, sir. Among the witnesses still to be seen. She asked to be excused to go to the ladies room and she hasn’t returned. I checked the rest room and she isn’t there. Apparently, she is still in the hotel or on the grounds. There has been
no call for a taxi and…”

  I was already at the hall door, pulling it open, peeking out. I stepped into the hall, closed the door behind me, and lightly ran to the exit, propped it open, hurried outside, turned about, and reentered the hall just as the door to the cardroom opened. I let the outer door slam behind me.

  The young policewoman looked toward the exit. “Ma’am!”

  I smiled and strolled toward her. “Yes, officer?”

  “You did not return.” Her tone was sharp.

  “Return?” I looked blank. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it mattered. I’ve just been out for some air. Do you need me?” I picked up my pace.

  Chief Inspector Foster came to the doorway.

  I strode toward him. “Are you ready for me, Chief Inspector?” If I was lucky, he’d agree to speak with me now, then I would be free to discover what I could and hope the damning facts against Lloyd could be explained away. However, I looked at the chief inspector with only casual inquiry, as if his decision were of little moment.

  He hesitated, shrugged. “If you’ll wait here in the hallway for a moment, Mrs. Collins?”

  “Of course.”

  He nodded at the policewoman, said, “Thank you, Constable,” and shut the door.

  I sat down on an upholstered bench near the pay phone. I had learned a very important—and sobering—fact through my eavesdropping: Connor’s hall door had been chained. I wanted to talk to Lloyd. Would he claim to have slept so heavily, so deeply that someone might have moved through his room? But how had access to his room been obtained? Yes, I needed to talk to Lloyd. He had either lied about the connecting door’s being locked or he’d meant that it was locked on Connor’s side, not his. But whichever, facts consistent with his guilt were stacking up, much like scraps of timber that could flame into a devouring fire.