by Carolyn Hart
CAROLYN HART
RESORT TO MURDER
A HENRIE O MYSTERY
Contents
one
THE honeycomb-weathered limestone, prickly as tiny needles, poked into my…
two
I STOOD beside a huge azure pot brimming with lace-white…
three
LOW-HANGING metallic-looking clouds had turned the sky a pale gray.
four
I CARRIED a beach towel up the steps from the…
five
I WAS almost to the steps leading down to the…
six
I LUXURIATED in the hotel’s thick, soft terry-cloth robe as…
seven
A SCREAM roused me. I struggled out of bed, flailing…
eight
MARLOW Bailey came around the end of the table, gripped…
nine
I PACED up and down at the top of the…
ten
THE sleek black cat on the purple silk cushion lifted…
eleven
I WELCOMED the tang of the chutney on the sandwich…
twelve
WE met Marlow halfway up the steps. She grabbed Steve’s…
thirteen
THE siren was far away, no more an intrusion into…
fourteen
THANKS to my interview with the chief inspector, I was…
fifteen
MY shoes clicked on the wooden floor of the lobby.
sixteen
I SAT on the balcony of my room, a mug…
seventeen
SO I called Chief Inspector Foster.
eighteen
I FINISHED dressing—navy blouse, white corduroy slacks, well-worn sneakers—and debated…
nineteen
I REACHED the short hallway and was relieved to find…
twenty
I MOVED quickly to the hall door, opened it. I…
twenty-one
NO one was behind the front desk. I looked to…
twenty-two
THE Central Division Police Station at 42 Parliament Street was…
twenty-three
I WAS breathing hard by the time I reached the…
twenty-four
RAIN slatted against the huge panes on the second floor…
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Carolyn Hart
Copyright
About the Publisher
one
THE honeycomb-weathered limestone, prickly as tiny needles, poked into my hands. I edged my sneakered feet on the narrow trail and pressed against the outward-bowing boulder. A wave crashed on the rock pinnacles beneath me, the water swishing with a thousand eager fingers into the crannies of the cliff, relentlessly sculpting the ancient fissures.
The grainy rock, the thunderous crash of the waves, the fine mist beading my face and hands, the scent of seaweed and salt water enveloped me, creating an embryonic world confined to this place, this moment, these sensations. Slowly, carefully, knowing a false step could tumble me onto the rock pinnacles below, I moved ahead, easing around the bulge.
I felt a moment of triumph when I saw a widening shelf, a three-foot indentation invisible from the rocky headland above, cupped on either side by jutting boulders. Trails lead somewhere. I’d followed the faint ridge in the rock and my gamble had paid off.
Breathing hard, I dropped shakily to the mist-slick ledge, drew my knees up under my chin and looked out at the dark surging ocean. I watched as the pink tendrils of sunrise turned the water from the blackness of night to vivid color. I don’t know how long I sat, long enough for the sky to move from a milky opalescence, streaked with red and gold, to a pale cloudless blue. I looked south at the distant horizon and knew there was nothing beyond that meeting of sky and sea but hundreds of miles of water. Ships were out there, of course, and birds and ocean flotsam, but at this moment nothing moved on that endless horizon and I had this spectacular marine world to myself.
My lips quirked in a wry smile. That was always the problem, wasn’t it? Wherever you go, the old saying points out, there you are. Here I was, recuperating from pneumonia, a guest at Tower Ridge House, one of Bermuda’s lovelier small hotels, and yet I was not at peace. Instead, I was trying to empty my mind of fleeting images jostling and tumbling as unpleasantly as modern television’s witless flip-flip-flip of pictures. I’d pushed those images away, submerged them in the moment of struggle on the rock face, savoring the challenge, glorying in the feel of sun and mist on my skin and the sensation—one I’d not had in many years—of sheer adventure.
I cocked my head, watched a flock of terns diving for fish. I’d had an instant of fun, the kind of fun you know when you are ten and the limbs of a tree beckon you high above a garden or the roller-coaster crests the rise and plunges down the slope. But I wasn’t ten. I was seventy-odd and, truth to tell, had no damn business clinging to slick rock with waves crashing beneath me. Besides, now that I was alone in my retreat, the images could not be denied:
Diana slumped in the window seat, staring determinedly out of the airplane at the expanse of ocean, her young jaw set, a tear trickling down her cheek. She had her mother’s delicate, almost sharp, features, her father’s fair complexion and reddish-gold hair. Lovely Diana, my cherished granddaughter, facing a future she could not alter and was unwilling to accept.
Dark-haired Neal astride the bright red scooter, remembering to stay left on the steep hill, shouting, “Hey, Grandma, hold tight,” his voice exuberant, but his sideways glance at his sister somber and concerned. Chunky, blunt-faced, direct, uncompromising, my adored grandson. Neal, though, was always pragmatic. What would be, would be.
And the others:
Lloyd Drake, my former son-in-law, raising his champagne glass, earnest face flushed: “To Connor, the loveliest woman I know.” Lloyd had looked across the dinner table last night with doglike devotion, uncritical, impervious to the waves of dismay and hostility and anger rising from the other guests, his attention focused solely upon Connor. Lloyd was enjoying late-come love with the enthusiasm of a basketball fan at the Final Four, pumped up, eager and oblivious to criticism.
Connor Bailey fingering the quite perfect pearl choker at her slender throat, her coral nails bright as the bougainvillea spilling over the yellow stucco walls of the hotel. Connor was almost beautiful—sleek black hair cupping a Dresden-china face, flashing eyes shiny as amethyst, a lithe yet voluptuous body. What kept her from true beauty? The restless movement of her hands? The glance that demanded too much, gave too little? The unceasing hunger for admiration in her bright, beseeching eyes?
Marlow Bailey pushing up too-heavy, unfeminine tortoiseshell glasses, her dark brows drawn in a worried frown. She was near in age to Diana, but they might have sprung from different planets—Diana graceful and vibrant, Marlow subdued and understated. Odd to see them in such agreement, both opposed to the wedding scheduled for Saturday afternoon.
Aaron Reed smiling ruefully at his future mother-in-law—Connor—and future stepfather-in-law—Lloyd. Last night Aaron had looked perplexed and sad when Marlow stormed from the bar, angry because Lloyd had dismissed Marlow’s suggestion that they plan a ski trip in March to the Bailey family’s lodge in Vail. “Not this year,” Connor said firmly. “Lloyd wants to go to Barcelona.” Aaron tried to patch over the moment. “Things sort themselves out.” His voice was husky, pleasant and vacuous, but his eyes were sharp and thoughtful.
Jasmine Bailey, perhaps the most cheerful member of the Bailey family, staring adoringly at Lloyd, her ten-year-old face wreathed in a sunrise smile when she and Lloyd tossed a beach ball back and forth. “Lloyd, I’ll bet I can catch it a hundred times,” and Lloyd’s good-humored laught
er. “Hey, if you do, I’ll go up to the pool and get you a Shirley Temple.” But Marlow’s glance at her little sister held a touch of pity.
Steve Jennings, the Bailey family lawyer and old friend, sipping a Dark ’n Stormy and listening attentively as Lloyd described one more time the first day he ever saw Connor: “…it was right there”—Lloyd pointed to the moongate at the top of the limestone steps that curved down from the first terrace to the second—“and there she was and everybody knows moongates are all about love and she had a kind of blue dress and it made me think of that song, you know the one, ‘Alice Blue Gown’…” I looked at the moongate, knowing the common semicircles of limestone often serve as a frame for newlyweds in Bermuda—what was a wedding without a picture of the happy couple standing beneath the stone arch of a moongate?—and I wasn’t sure which astounded me the most: Lloyd responding to the old tradition, or Lloyd dredging from somewhere deep in his mind a song that had been old when I was a child, or his lack of poetry in re-creating a moment that obviously meant much to him, or the unfaltering geniality of Connor Bailey’s old friend. Of course, Jennings was drinking the national drink of Bermuda, a mixture of Black Seal rum and ginger beer, which argued automatic conformity or a total lack of imagination. Yet the lawyer’s light eyes—tan flecked with green—were bright and shrewd and, when he looked at Lloyd, cold.
Those images were worrisome. There were other, darker moments from the bar last night. I was tired and didn’t want to join the group there after dinner, but I was disturbed by the pinched look on Diana’s face, so I’d forced myself to join them. I’d gained a different picture of Connor, realized that Lloyd certainly wasn’t the only man in the room aware of her presence. The bartender was a darkly handsome man in his forties. His demeanor was polite, deferential, but his eyes returned again and again to Connor. Steve Jennings sat close enough to Connor that their shoulders touched. Another hotel guest, drinking at the bar by himself, half turned to watch her. He was a big man with a shock of red hair, and when he spoke, a flat Texas drawl. He moved toward our table. “Did I hear you folks mention Dallas?” He stuck out a rawboned hand. “Curt Patterson. Fort Worth.” He’d even taken the trouble to repeat my name. “Henrie Collins? I have an Aunt Henrietta, but nobody would ever have called her Henrie. Her loss, ma’am.” His tone was admiring. Soon he had joined us. Before long, Connor’s face was flushed and her voice gay. She absorbed the attention of the men as hungrily as a sponge soaking up water. Lloyd’s smile was strained. He tried twice to close the evening down and each time Connor resisted, turning to Jennings or the Texan with an eager laugh and glowing eyes.
I’d stayed until Diana pushed back her chair, said flatly, “Good night, Dad.” Lloyd had scarcely noticed her departure. As we walked to our rooms, I wanted to tell Diana that some women, often without conscious effort, exert an incalculable magnetism upon men. But I wasn’t sure that observation would be helpful to Diana. I doubted it would be helpful to Lloyd either. Diana and I bade each other good night, neither of us saying what was in our hearts.
This morning I’d left the hotel, but I had not left behind my concern over this wedding journey so freighted with undercurrents of unhappiness. I wished the fresh mist spraying up from the water could wash those images from my mind. Below me, a bigger wave crashed against the headland. The tide was coming in. I’d better start back. It would be trickier now, the rough rocks shining with wetness. I felt suddenly exhausted and wondered if I’d pushed too far in making the climb. It takes a long time to recover from pneumonia. I took a leaden step, pausing to rest.
I hoped it was the aftermath from pneumonia that made me feel dull and old, apprehensive and weary. Surely this lassitude was coloring my perceptions of Lloyd and Connor and their entourage even though it was reasonable that a second marriage could create enormous tension for all involved, especially the extended family.
A quick grin touched my face. Connor Bailey had taken the addition of her husband-to-be’s former mother-in-law to the wedding party with grace. Or was it simply disinterest? Moreover, Connor scarcely seemed to notice when either Diana or Neal appeared. Her glance swept right over them, a negligent nod her only greeting. She’d merely given me a cool glance when we’d met at the airport in Atlanta.
I’d mightily resisted the idea of accompanying Diana and Neal to Bermuda for their father’s wedding. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact of the impending marriage. Lloyd and Emily had been divorced for almost ten years. Emily had remarried two years ago and was, I believed, quite happy. It would surely be churlish to wish less for Lloyd. As for Emily and Lloyd’s marriage, as with any and all marriages, I would never presume to judge why one marriage succeeds and another fails. I’d had misgivings for them from the first—Emily mercurial and passionate in her enthusiasms, Lloyd conventional to an extreme and terribly sensitive to the opinions of others. I’d never felt they understood each other. When they began to draw apart, Emily plunging into the children’s world and into the community, and sometimes sponsoring unpopular causes, such as the battle against teaching creationism in the schools, and Lloyd working longer and longer hours, but always finding time for golf and eager for the approval of his conservative friends, I’d wondered if their common love for the children would be enough. It wasn’t. As with all broken marriages, there was pain enough for everyone.
I’m always puzzled by society’s casual attitude toward divorce. The very word is harsh and discordant, signaling breakage. But in a world where one of every two marriages ends by decree, perhaps dismissive acceptance is a kind of balm. In any event, today’s world accommodates all kinds of marital and nonmarital arrangements, so perhaps my attendance at my ex-son-in-law’s wedding was not that unusual.
Still, I wasn’t particularly comfortable in this role and wondered again at Emily’s entreaty that I come with Neal and Diana. After all, they were certainly old enough—Neal a high school senior, Diana in her second year of college—to make the trip unaccompanied.
As I carefully began to ease around the bulging boulder, my feet toeing hard against the trail, I remembered Emily’s voice, husky with strain, “Mother, please. Go with them. It’s fine with Lloyd. You know he’s always liked you”—I’d quirked a skeptical brow at that. Lloyd was alert and cautious around me, like a lawyer handed a contract with a codicil in Urdu. Of course, he always exercised a lawyer’s caution, since that was his training. At least, he had until he saw Connor Bailey framed by a limestone arch, the soft breeze of Bermuda stirring the folds of her blue gown.
“—and the trip will be good for you since you’ve been so sick. A week of sun and sea and sand…”
I hadn’t been tempted. I loved Bermuda, had spent several wonderful holidays there with Richard, my late husband, staying at lovely old Rosedon, built as a private residence in 1906 and at one time the only house in Bermuda with gaslights: walking on the pale pink sand of Elbow Beach, snorkeling in Church Bay, fishing for amberjack off Argus Bank, bicycling on the Railway Trail, playing tennis on a beautiful court above Whale Bay, climbing to the windswept top of Gibbs Hill Lighthouse. Yes, Bermuda was an isle for lovers, young or old, just beginning or nearing the end, first time around or tattered at the edges but clinging to hope.
“I’m too tired to travel—” I’d begun.
Emily had interrupted. “Mother, Diana needs you. Please.”
I’d held the telephone, frowning. There was more than concern in Emily’s voice. There was fear.
Now I clung to rock with arms that suddenly ached and wondered anew what Emily had meant. She’d given me no chance to probe, talked fast about travel dates and tickets and clothes. I didn’t yet understand why Emily wanted me here. Yes, I could see clearly that Diana was unhappy about her father’s remarriage, but my presence couldn’t change that fact. I hoped, whatever I said or did, to encourage Diana and Neal to accept Connor. It was important for the children to be a part of their father’s life. Or, to turn it around, it was important for Lloyd to be both
their father and Connor’s husband, just as Emily was their mother and now Warren’s wife. I wanted that to happen and would do my best to help it happen. Perhaps everything would go fairly smoothly. Certainly every effort was being made to make this a happy holiday for everyone. Connor had planned a full week of entertainment for the guests.
We’d each received a small photo album. Gold letters on the red leather cover read: BERMUDA. Within the outline of a heart, Connor and Lloyd’s names were intertwined in silver script. The inside front cover held a map of the coral archipelago, from Paget Island in the east to Ireland Island North in the west. On the facing page, in bright red print, was a “Programme.”
First on the schedule, this morning, was an outing to the old village of St. George’s. It was the nearest an American would ever come to seeing a reflection of Jamestown. St. George’s was founded in 1612, five years after the earliest colony and three years after the Sea Venture, en route to Jamestown, was wrecked on Bermuda’s reefs. I looked forward to seeing some parts of the old village again, especially the Featherbed Alley Print Shop where Bermuda’s first newspaper, the Bermuda Gazette, was printed in 1784. And I always visited St. Peter’s on Duke of York Street, the oldest continuously used Anglican church in the world. I wasn’t interested in noting the blue channel where trussed victims of witch-hunts were thrown in the late sixteen hundreds. If they floated, it surely meant the Devil held them up, so they were quickly dragged out of the water and hanged. The original no-win situation.
I was a little hesitant to plunge into the activities for the wedding party. Even though I definitely was an invited guest, I felt that perhaps Connor’s creativity actually hadn’t been intended to include the mother of Lloyd’s former wife. Although it would be fun to see St. George’s again, there was almost a full week ahead of us, with plenty of free time. Excursions were planned for either morning or afternoon and the rest of the day devoted to the beach or napping or shopping or cards or golf or fishing, or whatever the guest desired. It would be easiest to take part in planned outings in the hotel minivan. But I could walk down the steep hill to the South Shore Road and catch the bus into Hamilton and transfer to a bus to St. George’s. Perhaps at breakfast there might be a moment to exchange some pleasantry with Connor and I would feel less an interloper. I would decide after breakfast.
