by Carolyn Hart
What happened then?
I’d had one late-evening talk with Connor, a frightened and worried Connor who’d been drinking. I’d ask the chief inspector about the autopsy results. I thought it very likely that last night, after her family left, Connor had hurried to the wet bar, opened one of the small bottles of whiskey. Perhaps she’d drunk it as she made a final check of her luggage, making certain everything was packed, ready for departure the next day.
I had a sudden sad vision of Connor in her room and Lloyd in his, beset by loneliness and hurt, drinking to dull their pain, both finally curling into a restless sleep. Did Connor wake and, restless and edgy, seek comfort? Did she knock on Lloyd’s door? That would presume that he came at her invitation and a quarrel ensued. Or did Lloyd knock on her door? Did she wake, admit him? Connor, after all, might have been angry with Lloyd, but she was not afraid of him. She was afraid of Roddy Worrell. She would not have hesitated to open the connecting door to Lloyd. Did they quarrel again and did this quarrel end in murder?
No. My conclusion was as quick and hard as the slam of a door. There had been no late-night quarrel. A screaming match between them would surely have been heard. Marlow and Jasmine were in room 30, Connor in 32, Lloyd in 34. Had the furniture been disarranged in Connor’s room? Was there evidence of a struggle? The chief inspector indicated that Connor had not resisted her attacker. Why?
All right. There was no quarrel. If Lloyd committed the murder, he had done so quietly, moving with deliberation and stealth. Wasn’t that at odds with his apparent motive? Were stealth and deliberation the attributes of a man deviled by jealousy, trembling with anger?
But once again came the stiletto-sharp question: If not Lloyd, then who?
The answer was simple. If Lloyd was innocent, there were two possibilities. Connor had awakened and contacted someone or someone knocked on her door. Whichever, Connor unfastened the chain and admitted the visitor. Whom would Connor call upon in the middle of the night? Her daughter Marlow or Steve Jennings. Whom would she admit to her room in the middle of the night? Marlow, Jasmine, Steve, Aaron. Why would she open her door at that late hour? That was the easiest answer of all. All that would be needed was the urgent message that Jasmine was sick and needed her mother. That was a message no mother would resist or question. Even if the caller at the door was Thelma Worrell, Connor, befuddled by sleep, perceptions likely dulled by alcohol, would no doubt open her door.
All right, I had no trouble figuring out how the murderer got access to Connor. But that was only half the equation. What motive did anyone have? So far as I’d been able to determine, Connor was on excellent terms with both her daughters. I had no suspicion of Jasmine. Yes, children sometimes kill, but a young child could not strangle a parent. That simply couldn’t be. Not Jasmine. Marlow? Her attitude throughout this journey had been one of caring and concern for her mother. I’d never spotted a trace of anger or dislike. If they had any quarrel, it was well hidden.
That left money, always a possibility when great sums are involved. I didn’t know how much of Connor’s fortune might be diverted through her marriage to Lloyd. But that marriage was already canceled. Could the thought have been to make certain that Connor and Lloyd didn’t patch up their problems? Connor’s fortune was now permanently out of Lloyd’s reach. It was also now under the control of Steve Jennings as executor of Connor’s estate. Had that been imperative for Steve? Had he made financial transactions that wouldn’t have borne the scrutiny of Connor’s new husband, also a lawyer?
As for Aaron, he professed to have little interest in money, yet he fitted into Marlow’s expensive world quite well.
Finally there was revenge. Thelma Worrell loathed Connor Bailey. But would that dislike, that sense of grievance over the death of her husband, be enough to propel Thelma Worrell to murder?
I rather thought it possible that Thelma had climbed the tower last year and found her drunken husband sitting on the ledge and that she’d pushed him to his death. She blamed Connor because Connor had enticed Roddy and humiliated Thelma. If Thelma pushed Roddy and George threatened to tell the police something that would reopen the investigation, that was motive enough to explain George Smith’s murder. But Connor posed no threat to Thelma. And I didn’t see that I could have it both ways. Actually three ways: Thelma guilty of her husband’s death, Thelma killing George Smith in a desperate move to hush him, and Thelma strangling Connor in revenge. Moreover, I always came back to George’s January 6 meeting at the BUEI. Why would Thelma meet him there when she could easily speak to him privately here at the hotel?
I sighed and pushed up from the chair, walked slowly across the terrace. I judged that Chief Inspector Foster had likely finished talking with both Neal and Diana. It would be Lloyd’s turn.
I wanted to hear what Lloyd would say, not only about his own actions, about the connecting door and the bathrobe tie and his feelings about the quarrel with Connor; I wanted to hear what he said about Marlow and Jasmine and Steve and Aaron and Mrs. Worrell. Lloyd was shaken, distraught and despondent, but he must by now realize his peril. Surely he was thinking, and thinking hard. Who wanted Connor dead?
The short hall was empty. I quietly opened the door to the room adjacent to the cardroom and slipped inside. I had the room to myself. Had Mrs. Worrell lost interest, or learned everything she needed to know? It might be useful to find out what she had overheard that I had missed. But I was eager to overhear Lloyd’s interview. I somehow felt that if I heard his answers to Foster’s questions, I would know whether Lloyd was innocent or guilty. That judgment would be grounded on instinct, but it is instinct that we follow when we fall in love, when we trust, when we fear and when we dislike. Instinct can be a faulty barometer, but we ignore it at our peril.
I eased across the wooden floor. The connecting door was closed. Carefully I turned the knob, opened it a sliver. The door opened to darkness and silence. My breath caught in my throat. I had the same startled, shocked feeling I’d once felt during the onset of an earthquake in Mexico City: the expected, orderly world suddenly shaken. Where was Chief Inspector Foster? Where, for God’s sake, was Lloyd?
I pushed the door wide, stepped inside. The room might never have held a living creature on this day. The chairs were drawn up to the card tables. There was no trace of occupancy—no papers, no disarray, nothing to reflect the emotions that had pulsed in this small room, the sorrow and fear and anger.
I hurried across the room to the hall door, making no effort to be quiet, and yanked it open. In the hall, my shoes clipped against the wooden floor. I darted out of the wing, past the counter, where Rosalind’s round face was still and watchful, and into the main lobby.
Footsteps clattered up the outside steps. Diana burst through the open front door. “Grandma, where have you been? We’ve looked everywhere. Oh, Grandma, they’ve taken Daddy away.” Diana’s voice trembled. Her eyes were huge, her features taut with strain.
Neal gripped his sister’s arm. “Take it easy, Dinny. We’ll handle this.” But his eyes, too, were frightened.
I held out my hands. “Tell me.”
They tumbled into speech, one interrupting the other.
“We were in the main lobby”—Diana pointed at chairs on either side of a wrought-iron table where crimson poinsettias bloomed in a blue pottery planter—“because we thought they would take Dad to the room where the chief inspector talked to us, but—”
“Instead of the guy that came for us”—Neal looked toward the room where they all had waited—“here came the chief inspector. He went into the conference room. I guess Dad was the only one left, Dad and the policewoman. The inspector was in there for a little while; then he came out with Dad. They walked straight across the lobby toward the door. Dad saw us and—”
Diana pressed her hands against her cheeks. “Dad kind of stumbled to a stop. He looked at us like we were on the other side of a canyon, like he was never going to see us again. He said, ‘Stay with your grandmother. She’ll
take care of you. I’m going into town for a while.’”
Neal’s broad face was suddenly combative. “The policewoman was walking right behind him. I got up and went straight to the chief inspector and I asked him where he was taking Dad.”
“He was so smooth and pleasant.” Diana’s tone was bitter. “And he looked at me with those cold eyes even though his voice was nice. He said something like the investigation was continuing into the death of Mrs. Bailey and Mr. Drake had been invited to the Hamilton Police Station to assist with the inquiries.”
Yes, they put it politely in Bermuda, but the message was clear: Lloyd Drake was to be interrogated as the number one suspect in Connor’s murder. Chief Inspector Foster was focusing on his quarry. Given the facts, I certainly wasn’t surprised. But, if Lloyd was innocent, there had to be other facts.
And there was no time to lose.
“Diana, Neal.” It was a call to arms.
They looked at me in relief, sudden hope in their eyes, welling eagerness in their faces.
I maintained a confident composure, though my heart ached. Oh, children, this isn’t a moment that Grandmother can make right simply because she loves you and will always fight for you. But perhaps it was as well that they invested me with power far greater than I possessed. It’s amazing what faith can achieve. “I want you to get on the phone, contact Kevin Ellis at The Royal Gazette, get the name of a criminal lawyer—”
Neal nodded, pulled my earlier note from his pocket.
“And I will—” Oh, Lord, what would I do? Quick, quick, I needed definite objectives for all of us. “—determine how the actual murderer got into Connor’s room.” I didn’t give them time to ask what difference that could make or how I could possibly discover that information. “Use the phone in your room. Get some help from the consulate if you need it. They must have a list of lawyers. Call around. Get a lawyer. Then go to the police station—”
“Where’s that?” Neal was all business, poised to begin.
“Parliament Street. Right up the hill from Front Street.” I didn’t know that it would help, but I didn’t think it would hurt for Lloyd’s family to appear at the police station. In any event, they needed to talk to the lawyer and surely the lawyer would agree to meet them there.
Diana was impatient. “That doesn’t matter right now, Neal. Let’s go call.”
They were halfway across the lobby when Marlow and Aaron and Jasmine, carrying luggage and backpacks, came in the side door.
Diana stopped, glared at them. “I hope you’re satisfied, all of you. You’ve said horrid things about my father. He didn’t hurt your mother. He never would have”—her voice rose—“not in a million years.”
Neal grabbed his sister’s arm. “Come on, Dinny. They don’t care.”
Marlow jerked her head toward Aaron. “Go on upstairs with Jasmine. Get our stuff into the new rooms.”
Aaron nudged Jasmine toward the curving staircase, just past the counter.
Jasmine wrapped her arms around her backpack. The head of a teddy bear poked out of the opened pack. “I haven’t said anything bad about Lloyd.” Tears welled, spilled down her cheeks. “See, Lloyd gave me Teddy and he told me he’d always be here for me. I want to tell Lloyd I think everybody’s wrong. I don’t think Lloyd hurt Mom.”
“Jasmine, shut up.” Marlow’s voice was sharp. “You don’t know anything! Go on with Aaron—”
Jasmine pulled away from Aaron. She whirled and darted toward the French doors to the terrace, the head of the stuffed bear bobbing up and down in the backpack.
“Jasmine!” Marlow’s cry was ragged.
Aaron took a step toward the terrace, then shook his head. “Let her go, Marlow. Let her be alone for a while. Maybe out in the sun…”
“She knows Dad’s innocent.” Diana’s voice was triumphant.
“Innocent!” Marlow cried. “If he’s innocent, then who killed my mom? Tell me that, damn you. Who killed my mom?” She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving.
Aaron dropped the suitcases, pulled Marlow into his arms. His face was hard as he met Diana’s gaze. “Leave us alone. Okay? You’ve done enough, all of you. Just, for God’s sake, leave us alone.” His handsome features twisted with misery. “We’re stuck here for now. Don’t make it any harder than it has to be.” Awkwardly, he turned Marlow toward the stairs, scrambled to pick up the cases.
Neal took two strides. “I’ll get them. You go on ahead with Marlow.” He glanced at his sister. “I’ll meet you in your room. Get started on the phone.” He hoisted several pieces of luggage, turned away from Marlow and Aaron, moving toward the stairs. “I’ll put them in the hall up there.”
Aaron didn’t answer, his look startled, uncomfortable, grudgingly accepting. “Come on, Marlow.”
Diana watched them leave, face slack. She lifted trembling fingers to her lips.
I patted her shoulder. “Go on to your room, honey, and make those calls. We need to hurry. Your dad needs help.” I wanted to pull her back from the no-man’s-land opening in her mind, the cold and stricken realization that Connor’s murderer had to be someone Connor knew and knew well.
Diana stepped toward me. “What Marlow said…” Her voice was uneven.
I understood. “Yes, that’s the point, isn’t it? If your father is innocent, then who killed Connor? She would never have opened her door to a stranger. It had to be someone she knew”—I ticked the names off on my fingers—“Marlow, Jasmine, Aaron, Steve, you, Neal, me, and, less likely but still possible, Mrs. Worrell or a hotel employee or a guest that she’d met.” The only hotel guest who might qualify was Curt Patterson, the big redhead from Fort Worth who had been so assiduous in his attentions to Connor.
It was, obviously, the first moment that Diana had moved beyond her father’s danger to grapple with the reality that someone she knew—almost certainly someone with whom she had spoken, someone whose face she would recognize—had committed a brutal and violent murder. Clearly, she found the possibilities almost beyond belief.
“One of them…” Her voice trailed away. “But, Grandma, why?”
Why, indeed?
Neal’s footsteps clattered down the stairs. He reached us, frowning. “Hey, Dinny, why haven’t you gotten started? Come on.” He jerked his head toward the door.
As they moved away, I looked after them, glad they were going to be busy, glad they faced a task that required concentration and effort. And now it was time for me to look for answers to questions nobody had yet asked.
twenty-one
NO one was behind the front desk. I looked to my left at the pigeonhole cabinet attached to the wall in the hotel office, within easy reach for a desk clerk, just beyond the grasp of anyone on this side of the counter. Tower Ridge House was an old-fashioned hotel with actual room keys, not electronic cards. The last crimson splash of the setting sun slanted through open blinds, falling across the lower rows of pigeonholes, glinting on the shiny metal tower that served as a tag for each key. Most of the compartments held two keys because so few of the rooms were occupied.
There was one key in the slot for room 32, one in the slot for room 34. I made up my mind in an instant. At the far end, to my right, a portion of the counter was hinged and could be raised. I stepped quietly in that direction. I gave one swift glance around the lobby and the entrance to the drawing room and the hallways branching off. There was utter quiet, no voices, no movement.
I lifted the counter, stepped into the small office. My shoes clicked on the uncarpeted floor as I moved toward the cabinet. I reached for the keys.
“Mrs. Collins.” Thelma Worrell hurried through the archway from the back room. She strode across the small space, stood so near I could see the glisten of her mascara, the deep indentations on either side of her mouth and the flicker of anger in her eyes. I realized once again how big and strong she was. “It is not our policy to have guests in this area. If you will step beyond the counter, I will be glad to assist you.”
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nbsp; I didn’t answer. Instead, I plucked the keys from the slots for rooms 32 and 34.
A bony hand gripped my wrist, hard and tight and painful.
We stood close together, two women, each of us determined to prevail.
“I shall call the police.” Her voice was thin, but determined.
I closed my fingers tightly around the keys. “Let go of me.” I stared into her eyes.
Slowly, her grip eased, her hand dropped away. She folded her lips together, continued to block my way. “I shall call the police.”
“I don’t think so.” I put the keys in my pocket, met her angry gaze with calm. “You are going to move out of my way and you aren’t going to call anyone.”
“You can’t walk in here, take keys to other rooms.” Her long fingers curled into tight balls. “This is private property.” She whirled away, walked toward the desk, grabbed a telephone.
“Do you want the police to question you again about the night Roddy died?” I spoke to her back.
Her shoulders hunched. She leaned against the desk, slowly returned the receiver to its cradle.
“That’s going to happen, you know.” I stared at her angular body, motionless as a threatened crab. “Just because the police have arrested Lloyd Drake”—I knew arrest was coming even if at this point Lloyd was simply being questioned—“that won’t end the investigation into George’s murder. Who had a motive to kill George? Certainly not Lloyd.” I was working it out in my mind as I spoke and I knew this was what puzzled me about the murder of Connor Bailey. In a reasonable world, whoever strangled Connor should have been the person who pushed George off the cliff. Otherwise, two different murderers had claimed victims within a matter of days. That didn’t seem reasonable, but that definitely had to be the case if Lloyd was guilty. There was simply no way to link Lloyd to George. Of course, the world is often a jumbled, irrational swirl of chaos. There were other reasons to assume the deaths were separate and distinct. George died from a push. Connor was strangled. Repeat murderers have a well-known tendency to use the same method—firearms, knives, poison, blunt force, strangulation. The deaths of George Smith and Roddy Worrell were clearly similar. The death of Connor Bailey did not follow that pattern. Although Connor’s murder apparently resulted from the turmoil created by Roddy’s ghost, her death could not be considered sequential.