by Carolyn Hart
A grandfather clock in one corner ticked, the sound slow and somber in the heavy quiet, a sonorous counterpoint to the manager’s shallow breaths. The wedge-shaped office was lit by a small pottery lamp on the corner of the pine desk. The single window of blue and white art glass, a wave endlessly breaking, afforded no natural light. The office ceiling sloped, giving the room a tucked-away, secretive air, as if the worn desk had been discarded there by accident. The ubiquitous computer on a metal stand looked like an afterthought, its coil of gray wires dangling to the floor like a tangle of dead snakes. A faint smell of potpourri mingled with the dry must of old books.
For a moment, I felt captured with the stricken woman in a dim circle of pain because I understood her distress. Oh, how well I understood. I would never forget the searing instant when I looked down at an anonymous letter informing me that my husband, Richard, had not died in an accident, as I had believed. That letter took me on a determined journey thousands of miles from my home, where I used guile and cold determination to gain access to a remote mountaintop mansion stalked by death.
My well-intentioned report to the chief inspector was bringing the same kind of torment to Mrs. Worrell, the swift uprush of anger that life had been deliberately wrested away, the anguish in knowing that days and hours and minutes that belonged to her and her husband had been stolen and, no matter what happened, even if the murderer was found, that the time which should have been theirs was gone forever.
“Mrs. Worrell, I’m sorry.” Some of my own anguish must have been clear on my face. “Of course I will tell you what George said. You have every right to know.”
Her sandy eyelashes fluttered. She lifted a hand to her throat as if to still the pulse that throbbed there. “So it was you.” She moved unsteadily, pulled two shabby green wooden chairs close together, sank into the far one. She waited, her hands twining together in unceasing movement, her unwavering gaze almost a physical pressure against my face. She didn’t speak, but her eyes begged.
I sat on the second chair, so near I felt her tension as clearly as summer lightning crackling in the sky, and recounted what George had said about Roddy’s death. I did not, of course, mention Connor or the broken miniature tower in her room or George’s suggestion that Roddy’s ghost was seeking revenge. Yes, I was still trying to protect Connor. I had not forgotten Mrs. Worrell’s icy glare yesterday morning when Connor and Lloyd stepped out of the main door.
When I finished, she gave a tiny moan. “Oh my God. I should have known. I should have known.” She rocked in the chair, her hands now clasped so tightly the fingers blanched. “That night”—her tone was feverish—“when Roddy slammed out of the bar, I didn’t go after him.” Her head jerked up. The eyes that stared at me were terrible with accusation. “Because she did. She went after him. She couldn’t bear it that he was angry with her. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t have a right! She’d flounced around him, teased him, led him on. That’s what she did. Another woman’s husband, but she couldn’t stay away from him. When he came after her because he was a man and he thought she wanted him, she ran to Mr. Jennings, complained as if it were all Roddy’s fault. Roddy had put up with enough. He told me how she’d treated him, that she was no better than a slut.” She pulled one hand free, brushed back her gingery hair. “He told me he was sorry. But that night she smiled at him, asked him to dance, one of those slow dances. And then Mr. Drake came in the bar and she went after him.”
Mrs. Worrell was talking about Connor, of course. I’d not mentioned Connor’s name, but I’d obviously not needed to do so. Mrs. Worrell’s memories of her husband’s last night of life were corroded by her unremitting anger with Connor.
Mrs. Worrell pushed up from her chair. She wavered on her feet.
I rose, too, reached out to catch her arm. I was startled at the thinness of her forearm and the rigidity of her muscles.
She seemed unaware of my grip. “Now I know what George meant. I didn’t understand until now. George knew she killed him, he knew it and tried to tell me. The day after Roddy fell”—she shuddered—“was pushed, George came in here.” She pulled her arm free, pointed at her desk. “He stood right there and said that he’d seen Roddy at the tower and that the American woman was with him. I shushed George. I told him I didn’t want to hear about it, that he was not to talk about it to anyone. I told him to get out. He hesitated and”—she gave a little moan—“I screamed at him to leave. When the door shut, I threw myself into my chair and I grabbed up Roddy’s picture and I cried.”
I looked at the desk. There were a half dozen photos in frames, mostly family shots of Mrs. Worrell with a little boy, then a slender teenager and later young man. Her son? A nephew? I didn’t see any pictures of a man. Jasmine had described Roddy Worrell as smiling and with a big laugh.
“But now”—and she wasn’t speaking to me, she was throwing out words as if they were knives flung toward a target—“I understand. George saw something that night. He knew what happened to Roddy. He tried to tell me but I wouldn’t listen. Oh, I always knew Roddy died because of her. But I never suspected her of killing him. Now I know. I must tell the police. They’ll arrest her. That’s what they’ll do.” She whirled away from me, flung open the door.
I didn’t try to follow. There was no way to deflect her. She was sure of her facts, certain she now knew the truth about her husband’s death. Connor Bailey’s troubles were just starting.
I closed the office door behind me, walked down the short hall to an exit to the upper terrace. I was tired, so tired. I felt as if I’d fought my way through turbulent water, pummeled by currents. I realized that I’d had no lunch. But I had one more task to accomplish.
I paused at the top of the rock stairs, then took a deep breath and trudged down the steps. It seemed a long time since my early breakfast with Marlow and her request that I talk with Lloyd about Connor’s penchant for attracting men and the problems that could ensue. But everything was changed now. What was I going to do about Mrs. Worrell and her accusations to the police? Certainly Connor needed to know.
What would happen if I told Connor? Was she capable of handling this information? Damnit, she was a grown woman. Certainly I should tell her. Yet, I felt unsure. I needed to think it through. Perhaps I should talk to either Lloyd or Marlow first. My instinct rebelled. The thought of treating Connor as a helpless woman who had to be protected by her menfolk or her daughter was repellent. But was that judgment true, no matter how condescending it might be?
That was the decision I had to make and make soon. Although Chief Inspector Foster might not be in any hurry to reclassify Roddy Worrell’s death as murder, he would not ignore Mrs. Worrell’s accusations, especially not since my report of George’s statements lent a frightening credence to her claims.
No one can be accused of murder on hearsay evidence, but Foster might reopen the investigation into Roddy Worrell’s death, especially if the autopsy on George suggested any possibility of murder. Connor had to be told that this might happen because, if the investigation into Worrell’s death began again, Connor would be high on the chief inspector’s list of persons to interview.
As I passed the pool, I nodded a pleasant good afternoon to the two Canadian ladies, determinedly sunbathing despite a brisk wind and a temperature in the mid-sixties. The clear blue water rippled in the wind and the umbrellas over the tables were closed. No one was on duty behind the snack bar. It wasn’t yet time for tea.
I passed the snack counter. Dressing rooms for men and women were next. The final door, painted a bright orange, bore the legend SPORTS in capital letters. I assumed this was what James had meant when he responded to my question about the ghost: “Look in the Sports cupboard…Don’t say I told you.”
I’d visited this storeroom several times, ducking inside to pick up a light aluminum folding chair to carry down to the beach. There were folded beach umbrellas, a stack of foam surfboards, a folded volleyball net, a bin filled with soccer balls, plastic life rings for
the pool, a croquet set. Obviously, James believed there was something here that would tell me more about the ghost. I was quite certain he would deny ever having said so.
I flicked on the light, a single low-watt bulb that hung from the ceiling and only faintly illuminated the narrow closet. The brightly striped umbrellas were bunched in the near corner. Sand gritted underfoot on the gray cement floor. I took my time, looking behind the umbrellas, peering around the bin of soccer balls, opening several wicker picnic hampers to find them all clean and empty, tugging the stack of surfboards to one side. Finally I stood at the far end of the closet and gingerly poked a mound of discards: some old croquet mallets, a hand air pump with a broken handle, a folded-up tarp, a deflated air mattress, a coil of hawser-thick rope.
I leaned against the rough stone wall and felt a wave of irritation mixed with disappointment. I’d not realized how much I’d counted on finding a link here to the tower ghost. But if there was anything secreted among the beach and water paraphernalia, I was not clever enough to find it.
I sighed and turned to retrace my steps. My head ached and my bones felt like water. Perhaps I’d better retire to my room, order a late lunch. If I was lucky, I’d get both sustenance and information. I flicked off the light. As I turned to step out of the closet, my gaze swept the darkened cupboard. For an instant, I froze into stillness. There was a faint glow at the very end of the closet, floating like a cloud of silver in the darkness.
I turned on the light, blinked. The glow was gone. A high shelf ran the length of the storage area and it was at about that level where I’d seen that silvery splotch. I walked to the end of the closet, looked up on the shelf. A ball of cord, dark paper stretched over plywood strips…
It took me a moment, then I understood. Oh, yes, of course. Clever. Damn clever. I reached up, then yanked back my hand. I should not touch the box kite. I didn’t need to pull it down. I understood now how a luminous cloud floated near the tower. Not magic, not otherworldly, not a spirit, simply a kite liberally coated with phosphorescent paint. Clever and cruel, a child’s toy used to trick and terrify.
I suppose I should have tried to find Chief Inspector Foster first, but fatigue weighted me down like seaweed dragging at a wave-tossed swimmer. Instead, I walked slowly back to my room, called room service and ordered lunch, a grilled chicken sandwich with chutney, chips, and coffee. Especially coffee. Then I dialed the desk.
A cheerful voice answered immediately. “How may I help you, Mrs. Collins?”
There are few secrets that can be kept in today’s computerized world, and certainly there is no anonymity in a hotel. “Rosalind?” I thought I recognized the voice of the buxom blonde who was on duty during the daytime.
“Yes, Mrs. Collins?”
“Do you know where the police inspector is?” I was stretched out on the chaise longue, a notepad balanced on my knee. I drew a box kite. A gloved hand held the line. I blinked at my drawing. I hoped fervently that George—I was almost sure the kite expert was George—had not worn gloves. I wanted to establish the identity of the creator of Roddy Worrell’s ghost. That would be the first step in discovering why Roddy Worrell’s ghost had appeared.
The pause on the other end of the line lengthened.
“Rosalind?” I tapped on my pad.
Her voice dropped. “We’re not supposed to talk about the police. The”—a brief pause—“accident on the beach is most unfortunate, but it has no connection to the hotel.”
Interesting, Mrs. Worrell had wasted no time setting out in search of Chief Inspector Foster with her accusation against Connor Bailey, but she apparently saw no connection between George’s death and her husband’s. Or was she simply trying to maintain a semblance of life as usual within the hotel? Whichever, I wasn’t going to be put off. “I need to speak with the chief inspector. Do you know where he is?”
“He is not presently in the hotel. But,” she whispered, “he left a phone number.”
I wrote down the number. My call was answered on the second ring.
“Chief Inspector Foster’s office.” The woman’s voice was brisk and pleasant.
“May I speak with the chief inspector, please.”
“I’m sorry. He is not in his office. May I take a message?”
I didn’t think a message about a box kite and phosphorescent paint would be intelligible. “Yes. Please tell him Mrs. Collins called from Tower Ridge House and I have some information for him in the death he is investigating here.”
When I hung up, I leaned back against the chair, but I couldn’t relax. Trouble was coming. Once, long ago, I watched spiked mines bob in ocean swells, coming ever nearer the ship on which I sailed. I had held tight to the railing on that calm, moonlit night and stared down, my mind and heart frozen, knowing an explosion was inevitable. The explosion came, but it was another ship that lurched, blew apart, sank in flames. I’d felt helpless then. And now—
A brisk knock on the door.
The stocky young waiter placed the tray on the table, moving the ceramic tower to one edge.
I signed the ticket, then looked at him inquiringly, “Frederick?”
“Yes, Mrs. Collins. Is there anything else you need?” Frederick’s plump black face was usually creased in a smile, but not today. His somber expression made him look older.
I was hungry and aching with fatigue, but I could handle that. What bothered me more was the uneasiness that plucked at my mind, the sense of impending doom. I wasn’t going to stand there like a deer frozen in on-rushing headlights. I was damn well going to do something, to claw and scratch for facts, to arrange what I had discovered in some semblance of order. “Yes, indeed, Frederick, you can certainly be of help to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” A spark of interest flickered in his dark eyes.
I shut the door, smiled at him. “I’ve just been visiting with Mrs. Worrell and learning a great deal about Tower Ridge House and the people who make it such a special small hotel. I’m a writer and I sometimes do travel articles. Mrs. Worrell understood immediately when I explained that I like to have the viewpoints of both management and staff and I have just a few questions for you.”
Frederick tucked the tray under his arm and rested the weight on his hip. He looked interested. “I’ll be glad to help if I can.”
“Now you’ve worked here…”
“Four years, Mrs. Collins. I started as a busboy when I finished school.”
“How would you describe working here?”
He rubbed his nose. “A good place. Mrs. Worrell runs a tight ship. She oversees how things are done and she keeps a close eye on everything from the towels at the pool to the flower buds that go on the room service trays. Quiet and perfect, that’s how she wants everything done. She’s nice about it, but she won’t tell you twice.” He was respectful, not resentful. “She’s been manager here for years and years.”
I didn’t doubt that she was a martinet. “Has anything changed since Mr. Worrell’s death?”
Frederick’s reply was immediate, definite. “No, ma’am. But Mrs. Worrell was always in charge.” He grinned. “Oh, sure, it’s changed some. It’s been a lot quieter at night. Mr. Worrell liked to visit with the guests. Sometimes he played the piano in the bar, even sang a little. Nightclub songs. Yes, it’s been quieter.”
“Such a sad thing. To fall to his death.” I sighed. “Were you working at the hotel that night?”
“In the kitchen.” He was suddenly tight with his words.
“Oh, I know all about that night.” I spoke in a confidential tone. “I certainly won’t put anything about the accident in my article. I know how upsetting it was for Mrs. Worrell. Of course, I understand Mr. Worrell often had a bit too much to drink. And I know Mrs. Bailey must have been sorry about everything, since she followed him out of the bar.”
He relaxed. “I was carrying out some trash and I saw them walk toward the stairs down to the lower terrace. Mrs. Bailey was running after Mr. Worrell.” His brows drew together. �
��She was calling his name.”
The lower terrace? I managed not to look surprised. “What time was that?”
“Just past midnight.”
“Did you see him again? Or Mrs. Bailey?”
“No, ma’am. I was busy in the kitchen. It was almost two when I left. But I took the main steps down to the lower level. I didn’t pass the tower.”
“So you didn’t see him again.” Or pass by his body. My tone was vague; my thoughts were not. Where were Roddy and Connor going? Was he drunk? What time did he—or they—return to the upper terrace? Did Connor go to the tower with him? Was he alone? Or did someone else walk with Roddy Worrell that night? Mrs. Worrell claimed that George told her he’d seen Roddy with Connor at the tower. “To fall all that way…” I shuddered. “And now there’s been another fatal accident here. I’m so sorry about George. He seemed like a nice young man. Was he a friend of yours?”
“Oh, sure.” There was no particular warmth or regret in Frederick’s voice. “He was a nice guy. He liked sports.”
“Were he and Mr. Worrell on good terms?”
Frederick looked puzzled. “Mr. Worrell was nice to everybody. He never got on us about anything. He left that to Mrs. Worrell.”
Frederick didn’t say more, but the implication was clear that Mrs. Worrell had no difficulty keeping employees in line.
“Was George particularly grieved about Mr. Worrell’s death?”
“George?” Again that tone of surprise. “He never said much about it.”
So George had not created the ghost in an indirect effort to avenge Roddy Worrell’s death.
“It seems odd that George would die in a fall, too.” I watched him carefully.
Frederick frowned. “Yeah. Weird. George asked me to handle breakfast. I got the idea he was going to do something for one of the guests. But I don’t know why he would have been out on the end of the point. Maybe somebody left a book there and he went to get it. I guess he got too close to the edge. It’s kind of crumbly.”
