by Carolyn Hart
I pushed away thoughts of Diana and Neal. Their father…If he was guilty, that would be a burden on them throughout their lives. But, even worse, if Lloyd was innocent yet falsely accused, the pain would be even greater. I wanted Lloyd to be innocent, but deep inside I could not swear that he was.
I wished I were still crouched next to Mrs. Worrell. However, I could imagine much of the rest of the chief inspector’s inquiry. Was Marlow on good terms with her mother? Had Connor approved of Marlow’s engagement? Whom might Foster contact in Atlanta for information about Connor’s estate? What was Steve Jennings’s attitude toward Connor’s planned marriage? Was Jennings hostile to or jealous of Lloyd Drake?
The door opened. Marlow didn’t notice me on the bench. She walked back toward the main lobby, shoulders slumped, gait leaden.
I looked after her for a moment. She was in such pain. Whatever I could do to help, however little it might be, I would do. I walked toward Foster.
The chief inspector held the door for me, closed it behind us.
I took the chair that faced the card table and the connecting door, my gaze sliding over the slight opening.
Foster stopped beside the card table, jingled some coins in his pocket. “Where were you, Mrs. Collins?”
I looked at him steadily. “I stepped outside. I wanted to think.” It was true as far as it went.
Foster drew out his chair, dropped into it with athletic grace. He nodded toward a corner where a young man with rather long dark hair and a tweedy jacket sat on a straight chair, pad of paper on his knee, pen in hand. “Detective Sergeant Barnes will transcribe our interview. If you have no objection.”
I wondered if an objection would result in detention? But I had no objection. “That’s fine, Chief Inspector.”
He eased back in his chair, placed his fingertips together, and regarded me thoughtfully. I was reminded of the old children’s rhyme. If only he could turn his fingers and out would come a murderer. “When did you last see Mrs. Bailey?”
The question surprised me. I’d expected to be queried about the message found yesterday afternoon and Connor’s response and Lloyd’s anger. But, of course, I’d already described that episode to him. He was not going to cover old ground.
“Shortly before I called you. Marlow took her mother into the bathroom because she was angry”—I wished I could change the words, but it was too late—“with Lloyd.”
“Mrs. Bailey slapped Mr. Drake.” Foster’s eyes were half closed.
“Yes.” I didn’t elaborate.
“You didn’t see her again?”
“No. I went to my room, called you. My granddaughter came and we had a brief visit. She and her father and brother went out to dinner. I had dinner here with Steve Jennings and Aaron Reed.” I remembered Steve’s angry departure. “You might ask Aaron whether Steve Jennings was in love with Connor.”
Foster dropped his hands to the table. “Are you suggesting that Mr. Jennings would kill Mrs. Bailey rather than see her marry Mr. Drake?”
I massaged my temple, a headache created by tension and lack of food. “I know that sounds absurd. But there could be other reasons. Perhaps Steve has embezzled funds from Connor. She didn’t strike me as a sophisticated woman about money. But I’m quite sure he didn’t want to see her marry Lloyd.” I spoke with confidence. “And if he isn’t a thwarted lover, why should it matter to him?”
“Perhaps”—and the chief inspector’s tone was dry—“as a longtime friend of the family, Mr. Jennings didn’t trust Mr. Drake.” He cleared his throat. “In any event, you didn’t see Mrs. Bailey after the incident of the message. To your knowledge”—he emphasized the last word—“had anyone at any time threatened harm to Mrs. Bailey?”
Marlow and Steve didn’t want Connor to marry Lloyd and both Diana and Neal opposed the marriage, but that certainly had no relevance here. I looked at Foster bleakly. “I don’t know of any threat to Connor.” It was an admission that I didn’t have any idea who might want to kill Connor. And I saw no correlation between the murder of George Smith and the murder of Connor Bailey. “Except…Mrs. Worrell. She blamed Connor for her husband’s death.”
“I understand that is so. I will speak with Mrs. Worrell.” I wondered that he didn’t feel the anger pulsing so near him behind that slightly open door. He stood. “Very well, Mrs. Collins. I appreciate your cooperation.”
Our interview was at an end. I rose, moved toward the door, then looked back at him. “Chief Inspector, Mr. Drake is my former son-in-law.”
Foster’s face was impassive.
Pictures of Lloyd through the years fluttered in my mind: Emily and Lloyd hand in hand as they left their wedding reception; Lloyd bending down to scoop up the baby Diana; Lloyd at his mother’s funeral; serious, intense Lloyd only days ago looking at me earnestly and saying, “Yes, it was love at first sight.”
“Chief Inspector.” I knew my words would not help, but I felt impelled to say them. “Lloyd is not a violent man. Oh, he can explode”—I remembered years ago when a car rear-ended Lloyd’s and Emily had clamped her hand on his arm to keep him in the car until his temper was under control—“but he is genuinely kind and decent and serious.” He’d won the heart of a little girl as well as that of her mother. “The idea that he would strangle a woman…” I took a deep breath, forced myself to ask, “Was Connor bruised?” I was thinking of a man torn by jealousy and heartbreak, losing control, grabbing a woman by her arms, gripping painfully tight, and those hands plunging toward her throat, squeezing until her face turned purple and her body sagged into death.
Foster stood very still, a man deep in thought. I knew suddenly that the question worried him. Finally, his voice expressionless, he said, “The autopsy report, of course, is not complete.”
“Chief Inspector, please.” I looked at him eagerly. “Tell me—”
“The investigation is continuing, Mrs. Collins.” He was abrupt. “Detective Sergeant Barnes, summon Mr. Jennings.”
And I was out in the hall. But as I walked away, I had the beginnings of hope that Lloyd might be innocent. Some fact about the manner of Connor’s death puzzled Chief Inspector Foster. Maybe it was a stretch to take his apparent concern to be a pointer toward Lloyd’s innocence, but we were talking about Lloyd and violence and the trauma suffered by Connor when Foster took refuge in blandness and diversion.
I reached the main lobby and hesitated for a moment, uncertain which direction to go, and realized that was true in every respect. Still, no matter what happened, I was determined to look at the facts as they existed, unswayed by my longing to protect my grandchildren. If Lloyd had committed murder, I wanted him caught and tried and convicted. If he hadn’t, I wanted to do everything I could to help Chief Inspector Foster discover the guilty person.
First and foremost, I needed to talk to Lloyd. I glanced toward the door where Lloyd and the others awaited their summons. It wouldn’t do any good to go in there. The police constable had her instructions. In fact, it might be difficult for me to obtain any moment alone with Lloyd. No, to discover what Lloyd knew and perhaps gain a better picture of the chief inspector’s suspicions, my best bet was to try once again to slip unobserved into the room next to the interviews. That was treading on dangerous ground. But, frankly, what could—or would—the chief inspector do, even if I was discovered there? In fact, if I hurried, I might catch part of Foster’s interrogation of Steve Jennings.
I moved casually toward an open door to the terrace. I kept my pace slow until I was out of sight of both the drawing room and the conference room so starkly divided between Lloyd’s and Connor’s families. As soon as I rounded the corner of the hotel, I picked up speed. Or tried to. I realized I was desperately tired, a combination of weakness and lack of food as well as stress. I took a moment to root in my purse. When traveling, I always have a candy bar available. Chocolate, sugar and peanuts can work miracles. I pulled out the Baby Ruth, and hurrying once again, stripped the paper and carefully bit around the central core of sweetness
—I save that for last—and welcomed the instant surge of energy.
At the end of the short wing, I looked carefully about. A gardener pruned a pittosporum bush. There was no evidence of police presence—if the gardener was what he seemed—on this side of the hotel. I opened the door, poked in my head. The hallway was deserted. I moved fast, taking the last bite of candy as I turned the knob and slipped inside the room.
Mrs. Worrell’s head jerked toward the door. When she saw me, the tension eased out of her body. She once again bent near the sliver of light that marked the narrow space between the connecting door and jamb.
I eased across the room. She and I stood no more than inches apart. I smelled a faint scent of geranium. I tilted my head to listen.
“…don’t understand why you haven’t arrested him.” Steve’s chair scraped. “What more do you need?” His voice was nearer and I knew he stood over Foster’s card table, glaring down at him. The lawyer spoke fast and hard, a prosecuting attorney lining up his facts. “Drake and Connor argued. She struck him. The marriage was off. He stormed away. Connor had dinner with her family. She packed to go home. We said good night and she was safe in her room, the balcony door locked, the connecting door to Drake’s room locked, the hall door locked and chained. Don’t forget that chain, Chief Inspector.” Ladies and gentlemen of the jury…“That chain means no one entered her room from the hall. We know the balcony door was barred. That leaves only the connecting door to Drake’s room. The next morning, Drake claims that door is locked. It was not locked. I opened it and we found Connor dead, strangled with the belt to a hotel bathrobe. I’ll tell you my question, Chief Inspector. Where is the belt to Lloyd Drake’s bathrobe?”
The belt to a bathrobe—I understood now why Foster hadn’t answered my question. He had questions of his own. Using the belt of a bathrobe argued premeditation, not a crime of uncontrolled passion.
“Our investigation will address that question, Mr. Jennings.” Foster’s tone was mild. I pictured him watching the lawyer, eyes half closed, face impassive, his mind toying with the puzzle: If Lloyd wore the bathrobe into Connor’s room, was it likely, if they quarreled, that he would pull the belt free and use it to strangle her? Possible, yes. Likely, no. If he entered her room carrying the belt, that meant there was no quarrel, that he came with murder in his heart.
“You can test the belt for DNA. If Lloyd held it in his hands”—Steve’s voice shook—“pulled it tight around Connor’s neck, it will have traces of his sweat, the moisture from his hands. And if the belt that was used to kill Connor has Lloyd’s DNA, what more would you need, Chief Inspector?” It was a harsh demand.
A chair creaked. Foster spoke briskly. “I appreciate your suggestions, Mr. Jennings. And your cooperation. Sergeant Barnes, please summon Mr. Reed.” The door opened. “Mr. Jennings, I trust you and the rest of your party will remain on the island until Mrs. Bailey’s body is released.”
“We aren’t going anywhere, Chief Inspector, until justice is done.”
Substitute “Sheriff’ for “Chief Inspector” and it was the kind of exit line that would, have been delivered well by Gary Cooper in an old Western flick. I was afraid that all the good lines in the upcoming scenes belonged to Connor Bailey’s retinue. It was time, if I could figure out a way, that the posse rode over the hill to save Lloyd.
twenty
I MOVED quickly to the hall door, opened it. I waited until the sound of Steve’s brisk footsteps ceased, peered cautiously out and stepped into the empty hall. Again, I moved fast, and I succeeded in reaching the exit before Detective Sergeant Barnes returned with Aaron Reed. I doubted Aaron would contribute anything new. It was Steve who had opened the connecting door in Lloyd’s room and discovered Connor’s body. I’d already heard Marlow’s report of that last evening. Aaron knew no more than Marlow or Steve about Connor’s quarrel with Lloyd. Aaron would simply confirm the accusations already made against Lloyd.
I reached the terrace and entered a side door into the drawing room. I stopped just inside the door, next to a tall vase with flaming birds-of-paradise, and watched as Marlow and Jasmine came out of the room where the Drake family waited.
Jasmine tried to wriggle free of her sister’s grasp. “I want to say good-bye to Lloyd.” I couldn’t hear Marlow’s murmured reply. Jasmine leaned back on her heels. “I don’t want to go to the beach.” Marlow smoothed her little sister’s hair in a forlorn, hopeless gesture. “Later, Jasmine. We’ll talk later. I’ve got to… There are things I have to do. Come on.” She managed a brisk tone. “We haven’t had lunch. Let’s go down to the pool and get something to eat.” She took Jasmine’s arm in a firm grip and tugged her toward the terrace. Jasmine gave a final worried look back at the closed door. “Lloyd hasn’t had anything to eat…”
Jasmine either didn’t understand or refused to understand. I’d tried to be a character witness for Lloyd, and here was another one. But kind words and good thoughts were not enough. I probably had at least ten or fifteen minutes before the sergeant returned for Neal or Diana. I felt rather certain the chief inspector would leave Lloyd for last.
Just for an instant, I thought about Lloyd—unshaven, haphazardly dressed, and, if innocent, struggling with terrible pain and guilt. Oh, yes, he would feel guilt, not that he had caused Connor’s death but that he had not listened, that he had been angry, that he had turned away from her when she needed him. Nothing would ever lessen that ugly, searing, irremediable truth. Just for an instant, I reached out and held on to the rim of the big blue vase.
I understood guilt. Years ago it was I who insisted on a trip on a narrow twisting mountain road that ended in a car smash and the death of my son. My hand tightened on the pottery rim, held so hard I felt the edge crease my palm. Nothing can change the past. Lloyd—and I—would always live with our own sins of commission and omission. But sometimes the future can be changed.
I darted a glance toward the closed door. Neal and Diana and Lloyd waited, but time was running out for Lloyd. I’d known when I heard Steve’s description of the thick terry-cloth belt used to strangle Connor. I knew precisely what the belt looked like. Every room in the hotel had two of the comfortable white robes with the Tower Ridge House crest on the lapel. I’d worn the robe in my room. I remembered the thickness of the white belt.
I dropped into a wing chair near the blue vase and pulled a small notebook and pen from my purse. Old reporters never travel without paper and pen. I wrote a quick note for Neal and Diana, instructing them to call the American Consulate and request a list of criminal defense lawyers. They were then to contact the lawyers until someone agreed to represent Lloyd and come either to the hotel or, if such was the case, to the police station. I frowned. If I had time, I’d call Kevin Ellis, get his recommendation, but there was so little time. However—I scrawled Kevin’s name at the top of the page. He had covered plenty of stories in Magistrate’s Court and would very likely have a savvy view of the local bar.
Shoes clicked on the wooden floor. Detective Sergeant Barnes strode toward the door.
I added beside Kevin’s name: “Reporter, The Royal Gazette. Use my name, try him first for suggestions in re lawyers. Don’t worry about me. I’ll check with you later this afternoon.” I folded the note and was almost to the door when it opened.
Detective Sergeant Barnes followed Neal into the lobby. I glimpsed Lloyd sagging on the sofa, chin on his chest, hands hanging limply. His face sagged too, gray and empty, hopeless and despairing. Diana looked after her brother, her eyes bright with fear.
I stepped in front of Neal and the sergeant. “Neal, I’m going to rest for a while on the terrace.” I looked at the sergeant, held his gaze, “I’m just recovering from pneumonia, officer. I wanted to let my grandson know where to find me.” I’d turned so that my left hand with the note was hidden from view by my body. I tucked the note into Neal’s hand. Neal’s fingers closed around the piece of paper. His expression didn’t change. “I will see you later,” and I moved toward
the terrace.
I settled in a white wooden chair overlooking the lower terrace, the pool and, beyond the cottages and the dark green of the headland, the ever-changing ocean. The surf was a dull roar today, the turquoise water placid with only a faint ripple marking the dangerous reef. No clouds marred the perfect blue of the sky. I gave myself twenty minutes to rest. I leaned back, closed my eyes, welcomed the warmth of the sun on my face, let my thoughts range. I’d told the chief inspector that Lloyd was not a man to commit murder. My witness, of course, would not weigh against the facts, and the facts were grim: Lloyd’s jealousy, the quarrel between Lloyd and Connor, the cancellation of the wedding, the unlocked connecting door between Lloyd’s room and Connor’s, Lloyd’s assertion that the door was locked, the chained door to the hall, the barred balcony door.
If the belt used to strangle Connor proved to belong to Lloyd’s robe, his arrest would be almost certain.
And there was the insidious, dreadful, inescapable question: If not Lloyd, then who?
I sat up straight, turned to look toward the hotel wing. Quite likely the police investigation of the site was complete. After all, these were hotel rooms with standard furnishings. The only additions were belongings brought by guests. The search in this instance would be confined to the room where Connor died and Lloyd’s room.
Lloyd. Everything came back to Lloyd.
I swung my eyes away from the wing. It did no good to stare at the smooth yellow stucco exterior walls and the balconies with their big pots of flowers and webbed chairs. I knew the process of careful exploration that had occurred since the police forensic team arrived this morning. I needed to know what had happened last night. The chief inspector estimated that Connor died between midnight and 3 A.M.
Surely Connor was asleep at that hour. She’d said good night to Marlow and Jasmine and Steve about ten. Marlow insisted the balcony was barred, the connecting door locked, and that she heard Connor chain the hall door.