Resort to Murder (8 page)

I was amused in a grim way. But I intended to get the information out of George without paying a cent. And I certainly didn't need to ask Lloyd for the original one thousand. George's double-dealing scotched that debt. I was looking forward to 8
A.M.
I put the sheet in the envelope and tucked it into the pocket of my slacks.

 

I detoured through the garden on my way to breakfast. The garden at Tower Ridge House was almost as spectacular as that at Rosedon with a profusion of poinciana, frangipani, and palmetto trees. I climbed the steps of a pink gazebo that overlooked the grounds. Diana had been right the night before. It was quite obvious in the brightness of the morning that no one could have run away from the tower without being seen. Three lighted paths led from the tower, all of them visible to those of us on the balconies. If anyone had plunged into the flower beds or tried to skirt the shrubbery in the darkness, we would have heard the thrashing, been able to follow the movement.

What about the far side of the tower? The tower sat high on a ridge and just beyond ran a limestone wall. I shaded my eyes. Not a very tall wall. Could someone have ducked away from the tower, run to the wall and climbed over without being seen from the balconies or the garden?

I climbed down the gazebo steps, followed a winding path bounded by masses of crimson blooms. There were delicate camellias, cheery daffodils, pink
and white and red hibiscus. The sweet scent of frangipani mingled with the ever-present salty tang from the ocean.

Frangipani…I rested for a moment before climbing the far slope. In Hawaii, the tree was known as plumeria. In early days there, it was often planted around graveyards, and its delicate white, apricot, yellow or maroon blossoms were associated with death. Millions of tourists never knew this, so today the blossom is the mainstay of leis and its sweet scent automatically invokes the Islands.

The wind rustled the frangipani. I reached up, carefully pulled loose an apricot flower. I would give it to Connor, if all went well in my interview with George. Success would mean the tower could once again be enjoyed for its view, not avoided as a haven for a vengeful spirit. I wondered if Connor knew the Hawaiian custom. A single flower behind the right ear meant the wearer was available. A flower tucked behind the left ear indicated the wearer's affections were already engaged. I carried the blossom loosely in my hand, careful not to bruise it.

Once on the ridge, I looked out at the ocean first. No one could attain this clear, sweet, clean eminence and ignore the thrusting black rocks, the crashing waves with foam that sparkled like diamonds, and water so brightly blue it looked like turquoise glass. Bermuda, beautiful Bermuda. I took a final glance, then turned and walked briskly toward the tower. A lawn stretched another fifteen feet past the tower, ending at a limestone wall covered by honeysuckle. The wall curved to the farthest point of land, where a huge magnolia splayed its branches almost forty feet high.

I imagined a figure darting from the tower to the
wall…I reached the wall, looked over, and saw a drop of more than twenty feet to a curving road. No one could escape this way without a ladder of some sort. I walked the length of the wall and, near the magnolia, looked down at the pounding surf crashing against black rocks.

As I sauntered back through the garden, I faced facts. Whatever moved briefly in the night sky near the tower, it hadn't been engineered from either the tower or the garden. A beam of light, perhaps? But once again, beamed from where?

It was irritating not to have an idea. But George knew. And George was going to tell me.

It was a few minutes past seven when I reached the dining room. Three tables were occupied, but no one from our group was there. I settled at a table for two with my back to the door. I didn't want to converse with anyone. I drank the freshly squeezed orange juice and enjoyed every bite of my bacon and eggs as I considered what I knew. I needed to be clear in my mind.

I pulled the envelope out of my pocket, opened it, studied the sheet as I ate.

I was sure the marked-out “$1000” meant that George had taken my offer to someone who topped it, paid him two thousand to be sure that the ghost appeared last night. Clearly, the appearance of the ghost—or its nonappearance—was within George's control. So he either created the phenomenon himself or he knew who did.

If George did not himself arrange the ghostly doings, how could he prevent another person from doing so? Persuasion? Money? Fear of public revelation?

I finished my breakfast, sipped coffee. It was possible, I thought wryly, that George was simply a first-
class opportunist and didn't have any knowledge but was willing to take advantage of my (presumed) credulity. Under that scenario, he turned the loss of my thousand into a gain by pretending someone paid him for last night's performance and, carrying it to a chutzpah high, was hitting me up for five thousand for information he didn't possess!

It was rather like an intricate chess game. His move. My move. I was sure of only one fact: George was not going to pocket five thousand dollars.

I was almost finished with my coffee when I heard footsteps behind me, swift and purposeful.

M
ARLOW Bailey came around the end of the table, gripped the top of the chair opposite me. She studied me with cool, appraising eyes. “I went to your room.” There was no bun this morning The cloud of dusky hair made her face softer, less severe, but her pale skin still lacked makeup. I imagined at home she'd come down for breakfast in an oversize T-shirt and terry-cloth scuffles. In deference to Bermuda's formality, she wore a white cotton turtleneck and black slacks. In another era, she'd have tucked flowers in her hair and favored worn blue work shirts and likely eschewed the thought of travel here. In yet an earlier era, every woman in the Tower Ridge House dining room would have been in a dress, but not even this most British outpost could turn back that clock.

She leaned against the chair as if it were a gate to vault. “I need to talk to you.” Despite the softness of her Georgia accent, her voice was curt.

I didn't like her tone. “Indeed.” I put down my coffee cup with a decided click.

She reached out a slender hand, the nails short with clear polish. “Please.” She took a deep breath. “I hate doing this. I hate talking about family to strangers but
I've got to do something and you're the only person I can think of who might be able to help.”

We gazed at each other. Taking measure? I wasn't quite certain, but the depth of worry in her eyes tempered my irritation.

I gestured toward the chair.

Marlow pulled it back, slipped into the seat, never taking her eyes off my face. She was pale and her eyes were worried, yet hopeful.

I glanced at my watch. I had twenty minutes. And I was curious. Why had this self-possessed young woman sought me out?

Brian, thirtyish, slender, self-effacing, was our waiter this morning, not George. When I'd arrived, I'd glanced around the room, wondering if George was near. But I doubted it. He must have the morning off if he'd planned our appointment for eight o'clock. As Brian poured more coffee for me and filled Marlow's cup, she waved her hand. “Fruit, And oatmeal. And orange juice, please.”

But when he moved away, she was silent. She looked tired, bluish half-moons beneath her eyes, a droop to her mouth. She picked up her napkin, spread it on her lap. Her fingers nervously worked one corner. “I went to Emory. I wanted to go to Pomona.”

I didn't say anything. I must have looked blank. I felt blank.

She bit her lip. Her look was both scathing and defensive. “You're a rather formidable woman, you know. So arrogant. I wouldn't even try to talk to you, but I have to. I mean, I know you're kind of famous, but do you have to be so damn sure of yourself?” She rolled the napkin into a strip, held it like a rope. “You won't understand. You're too capable, too controlled.
You've never been afraid everything would smash to pieces.”

“Smash to pieces…” I didn't look at her. I wasn't seeing her. I was seeing my little boy and the bloody bruise on his temple where his head struck the side of the car that night so long ago. If we hadn't gone to the fiesta, if I hadn't insisted we go, the ramshackle truck would not have rammed us and Bobby wouldn't have died. “Smash to pieces…” And the emptiness that enveloped me, cold as a shroud, when the phone call came that my husband, Richard, was dead in a fall from a cliff and the corrosive flicker of anger at the place of his death.

We sat at the breakfast table, each of us quite alone.

Neither of us spoke while Brian served her breakfast.

As he walked away, I said in as level a voice as I could manage. “Not arrogant, Marlow. I have too much guilt ever to be arrogant. I know what happens when things smash.” Yes, I knew. I knew how it felt when life was like a small boat caught in huge waves and everything on deck slips and slides. But obviously this young girl, too, knew uncertainty and fear. I asked gently, “Why didn't you go to Pomona?”

“I couldn't go away and leave Mother.” There was utter weariness in her voice. She brushed back a soft pouf of black hair. She was plain, but there was a grave dignity, a kind of beauty in her strong, sad face. “You see, Daddy understood Mother. Everybody always thought she married him because he was so rich. She didn't. She married Daddy because he was strong. He understood her, how vulnerable she is, how easily frightened. And he knew she couldn't help it about men. She doesn't try to get them, but they can't stay
away from her. Oh, I know, I know.” Her head shake was impatient. “Sure, it takes two…but Mother has to have attention. That's what keeps her going, attention and admiration and love. But she doesn't mean anything by it.”

I thought I understood. “But if a man means it…”

“Things get difficult.” She spooned brown sugar over her oatmeal.

“Was it difficult with Roddy Worrell?” I wondered if Mrs. Worrell was near and what she would think about this conversation.

Marlow sighed. “None of it would have happened if Daddy had been here…But he wasn't here. Roddy was pressing her. He knew she was rich. He wanted to go back to America with her. He didn't understand.”

No, I doubted he understood a woman who beckoned, but was always out of reach to those who followed.

“It was awful…” Marlow put down her spoon, her face heavy with remembered pain.

“When he fell?” I imagined the shock had been enormous.

Marlow blinked. “Oh, that. Yes, of course.” She sighed. “They didn't find him until daylight. Somebody went for a walk in the garden. If Mr. Worrell cried out as he fell, no one heard him.” She frowned. “That yell last night was dreadful, just the way you'd think someone might cry out if they fell and knew they were falling, but we didn't hear anything the night he died. It was the next morning—Mrs. Worrell screamed and screamed. I remember that. I was coming up the steps from the pool and so I saw her—Mrs. Worrell—she was on her knees beside him. I didn't know it was him. It looked like a bunch of clothes or a heap of
trash. Nothing live. But he wasn't alive. Later they said he'd been dead for hours, that he must have fallen out of the tower not long after he left the bar. He slammed away, yelling that Mother was…It was hateful. And of course that's what she remembers. When we got home to Atlanta, she didn't want to come out of her room. She huddled there. She said he—Roddy—had told her she was cruel and that if anything happened to him, she would have to bear the blame in her soul forever.”

“A bit extravagant, I think.” My tone was dry.

Marlow looked at me eagerly. “You see that, don't you? It's the kind of thing a man says to make a woman feel bad. He doesn't mean it, not really.”

Not unless he intended to commit suicide and wanted to make his lover suffer. Was that the kind of man Roddy Worrell was?

Marlow pushed her hands against her hair. “Mother was absolutely distraught. She withdrew. I was frightened for her. It was awful.”

This was what Marlow found awful, Connor's depression after Roddy Worrell's death, not the fact of his death.

“Lloyd helped.” Marlow's tone was grudging. “Of course, Lloyd was part of the problem with Roddy. Lloyd went after Mother the minute he saw her. That really ticked off Roddy. But after Roddy died, Lloyd was really kind and gentle. Still, when we got home, Mother had nightmares and she holed up in her room and wouldn't talk. I could scarcely get her to eat. Then Lloyd started coming to visit and she was more and more like her old self. I encouraged him.” Her tone was bitter. “God, what a fool I was.”

“Why do you dislike Lloyd so much?” That dislike
made all she said suspect. If she wanted her mother's happiness, why was she opposed to a man who obviously adored Connor?

“I don't dislike him.” Her tone was dismissive. “But he's all wrong for Mother. He absolutely doesn't have a clue. I mean, he insisted they come here for the wedding. He kept going on and on about how romantic it was that he and Mother met here and that Aaron and I met here and it would be so much fun for all of us to come here for the wedding. All because this is where they met. He seemed to think it had some kind of cosmic significance that Aaron and I met here on spring break instead of at school. He went on and on about how he'd wanted to stay at the Southampton Princess but came here instead and met Mom, and Aaron was only here because his roommate had planned to come here on a spring-break trip but couldn't and Aaron took his place at the last minute. I mean, people have to meet somewhere! But to Lloyd, it's part of some divine plan. I mean, he is really a sentimental ass, all without having any real empathy! He didn't give a thought to how Mother might feel about coming back here. And anybody who looked back at last year should have known that it would be an awful mistake. Anybody but good old Lloyd. Doesn't he have any imagination—”

Lloyd had good qualities. He was honest, steady, and kind. But imaginative? No.

“—at all? Mother kept saying no and finally he booked everything without telling her and showed up with the tickets, looking like a lovesick calf. I honestly think she felt sorry for him. But she never should have come back here. Never, never, never. But that's not the big problem.” She looked at me, her eyes desperate. “Listen, you must know him really well. I mean, he
was married to your daughter and he asked you to come to the wedding. He must think a lot of you.”

I understood her reasoning. But she was wrong on all counts. I never lived in the same town with Emily and Lloyd and so had very little close contact with Lloyd over the years. I was his mother-in-law and therefore treated with respect and thoughtfulness. But my conversation with Lloyd on the terrace here in Bermuda might have been the most in-depth communication we'd ever had. Moreover, I was sure he'd invited me because Emily had asked him to do so and perhaps he felt, too, I'd be a buffer between him and his children.

I shook my head. “Marlow, I have scarcely ever spent a moment alone with Lloyd—”

“Oh, God.” Her voice was ragged with despair. “Somebody has got to talk to him. I can't. Maybe Uncle Steve…But that won't work. Lloyd's jealous of him. And that scares me. And I don't think he'd pay any attention to Aaron. I thought maybe you…”

“Talk to Lloyd about what? Roddy Worrell?” Talk to a man I'd exchanged pleasantries with over the course of twenty-some years about the woman he was going to marry, a woman too attractive to too many men?

“Roddy. No. Not really.” Marlow's eyes widened. She clapped her hands together sharply. “Or maybe that's exactly what Lloyd needs to know about. Roddy Worrell. And all the men before him.” She ticked them off on her fingers: “Bob Simpson at the tennis club and Coley Howell at church and George Fisher in Daddy's office and”—she drew a deep breath—“all the others. And maybe about here and now and that jerk from Texas. Lloyd was furious when he—”

Oh, yes, the big redhead, Curt Patterson.

“—tagged along yesterday. If Lloyd will understand about him, it will be all right. Because there will always be men tagging along.” She managed a smile. “So please, if you can, if you will, talk to Lloyd, try to explain that men come after Mother and it doesn't do any harm, but he can't be jealous. If he's jealous, it will ruin everything. If he's jealous”—she pushed back her chair, stood, looked down at me with grave, sad eyes—“he mustn't marry her.”

 

I tried to walk fast, realized I simply didn't have the energy. I was late for my meeting with George. Marlow's unexpected revelations—and how much of those I could accept as truth and how much was a daughter's defense, I wasn't sure—had taken all of the allotted twenty minutes and a few more.

And I walked slowly because I was troubled. I should have told Marlow emphatically that I could not be an emissary to Lloyd. But I had not done so. That lack of refusal was tantamount to acquiescence. Was I willing to embark on a futile and potentially distressing mission simply to improve Marlow's opinion of me? I'd been shocked at her picture of me. Arrogant? No. Aloof, perhaps. Reserved, yes. Sometimes weary, tired of insincerity and triviality and unwitting cruelty. But she had seen me as a cold and dismissive woman. Why should I care what Marlow thought of me? It is not only Rhett Butler who doesn't give a damn. No one over sixty gives a damn. That is a very great freedom and one to be prized.

The sea breeze stirred the branches of a glossy-leaved magnolia. Sunlight speared between the branches, dappling the dew-laden grass. I pulled my cardigan tight. Although the early-morning air was cool, it wasn't the
air that chilled me. It was almost as if I walked alongside myself, saw the dark-haired woman with a worn face and thoughtful eyes. I valued the freedom of age, but I didn't want to be hard, encased in an impervious shell. I didn't want to be arrogant.

Everything had seemed simple this morning. I'd had a clear-cut plan: Confront George, roust out the truth of Roddy Worrell's ghost, convince Connor she had nothing to fear. Marlow's request and her cold-eyed appraisal of me had re-sorted my priorities. I was afraid Lloyd would refuse to listen to me, but, damnit, I would try. As for George, now it was even more important for me to determine the truth of the visions at the tower.

I glanced again at my watch. I was more than a half hour late. I started down the steps to the lower terrace. However, George had an incentive to be patient. He was hoping to reel in a five-thousand-dollar fish. I hadn't decided how to proceed, but I had no compunction about misleading him. In my view, George wasn't due honest dealing.

I stopped a moment at the bottom of the second flight of steps. The long, inviting green tunnel to the beach was another hundred yards along. I was very late. But if George had given up on me, I'd seek him out. I didn't hurry. I had plenty to think about. I understood my options:

1. Promise George the five thousand but on the condition that he explain the ghostly phenomena first.
   
2. Tell him his easy-money days were over and either he revealed what he knew about the tower or I would take the note he'd left in my room, give it to Mrs. Worrell, and inform her of my conversation with him after tea.