Resort to Murder by Carolyn Hart Read Free Book Online

she likes kids. And she always seemed mad at him. She was always frowning”—Jasmine turned her lips down into a scowl—“when he talked to my mom. Of course,” and she spoke proudly, “he was in love with my mother. Everybody always is.”
    I doubted Jasmine was quite yet into an adolescent girl’s preoccupation with sex. There was no hint of adult understanding in her pronouncement. I guessed she’d heard someone else comment on her mother’s attractiveness. Steve Jennings?
    The rain pattered softly. I pictured the water sluicing down the steep-stepped roofs to swirl down pipes to the catchment, lifeblood for a remote island without springs or streams. “I’m sure everyone finds your mother very charming.”
    She cocked her head at me. “Uncle Steve doesn’t like Lloyd.” She scuffed her toe on the stone floor, her face suddenly forlorn. “Marlow doesn’t either. But Lloyd’s really nice. He plays Monopoly with me.” Her eyes were suddenly shrewd. “I think he lets me win. Of course, he isn’t funny like Mr. Worrell—”
    No, serious, striving Lloyd was not the least bit funny.
    â€œâ€”but Mr. Worrell could be kind of mean. I heard him tell his wife she was about as much fun as a wooden leg. She turned away and I think she was trying not to cry.” Her face crinkled into puzzlement. “But when he died, she cried and cried.” Jasmine stared out at the curtain of rain.
    â€œAnd George says he’s come back?”
    Jasmine twisted to look up the curving stairway. “Yes. Maybe if I stay up real late I can see him.”
    I almost told Jasmine ghosts didn’t exist. But she wouldn’t have believed me. No, I didn’t believe in ghosts, but that was unimportant. What mattered was the effort being made to create the ghost of Mr. Worrell. Who was doing it, and why? I had no idea. I only knew that something dark and ugly and devious was near at hand. Moreover, my granddaughter had involved herself and was apparently trying to exploit the unhappy history of the tower.
    Oh, Diana. It was time we talked.

four
    I CARRIED a beach towel up the steps from the pool area to the upper terrace and dried a rain-wet wooden chair. Water still gurgled softly down drain spouts, but the rain had ended, one of Bermuda’s quick, gentle showers. The sun felt warm. It might be winter in Bermuda, too cool for the chirp of the tree frogs and the blooms paltry compared to those of spring and summer, but it was definitely summery compared to the weather in my small-town Missouri home in January. My spirits lightened as the pale yellow walls of the hotel glowed from sunlight. I settled in the chair, listening to the splashes in the swimming pool on the lower terrace. From here, I would also be able to hear the mopeds curling uphill to the parking area near the entrance to the hotel.
    I pulled a paperback from my pocket. I’d found an old copy of Around the World in Eighty Days in the book cabinet in the hotel drawing room. I was midway through. I began to read, but closed the book in a few minutes. The charm of the familiar story was lost on me today.
    A motor chugged. I rose, dropped the book into my pocket and strolled toward the curve in the wall that overlooked the drive. As I looked down, Lloyd andConnor stepped out of an elegant old-fashioned, London-style cab. Lloyd reached into the backseat and lifted out four cardboard cylinders.
    Connor smiled and held out her arms. “I’ll take them up.”
    â€œAre you sure?” He was eager to help, his good humor obviously restored by a sojourn alone with Connor. I hoped Curt Patterson wasn’t anywhere near.
    â€œYes. I’ll rest a bit, then meet you for tea.” She gave him a swift, sweet smile.
    Lloyd looked after her as she moved gracefully up the main stairs, his square face softened by love.
    I backed away from the wall, returned to my chair,