Free Resort to Murder by Carolyn Hart Page A

people see.” There was just a hint of insolence.
    As he moved toward the service area, I knew that my stricture was too little, too late. After all, the damage had already been done. Then I had what seemed like an inspiration. After all, George worked here at the hotel. Surely he must have some idea what—and who—was behind the whiteness that came late at night to the tower.
    â€œGeorge.” My tone was peremptory. “I want more than your silence.”
    Slowly, he turned, faced me. He stood in a bar of light from the pool canteen, his face respectful but his eyes defiant.
    â€œI don’t believe in ghosts.” I took a step toward him. “Somehow I doubt that you do, either.”
    â€œI saw—”
    â€œSpecial effects,” I interrupted impatiently. “If there is an apparition late at night near the tower, someone created it and did so on purpose.”
    George stood very still, his eyes alert.
    â€œI don’t give a damn who’s doing it.” I wanted to be clear about this. “I don’t care why they are doing it. But I’m willing to pay a substantial sum to make sure that Mr. Worrell’s ghost doesn’t stir again until after we leave the island.” I watched his dark eyes, unusual eyes flecked with green and gold.
    He was still for so long that I knew I’d played the right card. Money not only talks, it whistles and dances.
    George gave a sudden decided nod, as if he’d made up his mind. “How much?”
    I didn’t hesitate. I was confident Lloyd would pay a good deal for peace and harmony. “A thousand dollars. To be paid in full upon our departure if the ghost does not walk again.”
    He gave a swift nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”

six
    I LUXURIATED in the hotel’s thick, soft terry-cloth robe as I rested on the chaise longue, sipping a cup of decaffeinated tea. I’d brewed the tea after my quick shower, quick in deference to Bermuda’s paucity of water. This fall, a placard announced, rainfall was below average, so guests were asked to be sparing in the use of water. I felt tired but content. On reflection, I believed I’d solved Lloyd’s problem. The more I considered my interview with George, the more confident I felt that Roddy Worrell’s ghost would walk no more. George obviously wanted the thousand dollars. He would not get the money unless all was quiet around the tower. Therefore, he either knew what or who was causing the apparition, or he himself had created the ghost. I rather leaned toward the latter proposition. Although he’d made no promise, he’d said he would see what he could do. I took that as a clear indication he thought he could prevent the reappearance of the ghost.
    I sipped the tea and listened through the open balcony door to the distant crash of the surf. George’s willingness to cooperate was simply more proof, though I’d never needed any, that the visitation was notsupernatural. I wondered idly why George (or someone) had gone to so much effort. What was the objective? I wondered if Mrs. Worrell was a demanding boss. Was the answer that simple? Was George merely a disgruntled employee?
    None of it really mattered, not so long as Connor was left in peace and she and Lloyd were permitted to take their vows Saturday afternoon with smiling faces and untroubled hearts. A large order, actually. One I couldn’t hope to deliver. There was too much unhappiness emanating from too many people, especially Diana and Marlow. Moreover, I doubted that Steve Jennings was overjoyed at the prospect of Connor’s marriage. Would he like having Lloyd as an overseer to Connor’s business interests? Diana thought that Steve was in love with Connor. And though Neal put a good face on it, he was worried for his father. Curt Patterson was one more complicating factor. I doubted the likelihood of an unblemished wedding day. But I was doing my part. At