Free Resort to Murder by Carolyn Hart Page B

least everyone would get an unbroken sleep tonight.
    The small clock on the mantel chimed the quarter hour. I finished the tea and walked to the closet. Dinner was at seven, a series of courses in the formal dining room. I’d brought a black rayon georgette dress. It was simple but elegant and the boat neck was a perfect setting for my necklace of matched pearls. I slipped on silver cross-strap slippers. I drew my hair back, fastened it with a seed-pearl ribbon. I dropped my key, a lipstick and a comb into the small black evening bag. I checked my reflection as I opened the door. I looked festive and cheerful.
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    The hotel had grown, a new room here, a wing there. According to the brochure in my room, it had beenbuilt in the late eighteen hundreds by the Palmer family and still belonged to the family, although the current owner, Burton Palmer, was an international banker in Singapore. The original structure provided the public rooms. The dining room stretched long and narrow, with a high tray ceiling. Coppery planks of Bermuda cedar gave the walls a rich, mellow air. The draperies, bright red and yellow peonies against a cream chintz, embraced wide, high windows. Damask cloths covered the five tables set for dinner. In high season, the dining area accommodated some twenty round tables, each capable of seating ten, as well as a number of smaller tables designed for two or four guests. Tonight the far portion of the room was unlighted, so the bare tables weren’t noticeable. The chandeliers in the front area spilled golden light over the appointed tables, the crystal and china glistening in the glow.
    Holly wreaths encircled the ceramic tower in the center of every table but ours. On our table, there was a different centerpiece, a slender chalcedony vase containing a single majestic stalk of bird-of-paradise, the orange sepals bright as sails at sunset. The faint strains of a Debussy waltz provided a gentle accompaniment to low-voiced conversations.
    As I slipped into my seat next to Connor, I wondered who had ordered the miniature tower removed from our table. But I knew it was a topic better left unexplored during dinner. Lloyd had rather fussily arranged the seating on our first evening and, not surprisingly, we all returned to our original spots. In a circle, beginning with Lloyd and running clockwise, were Connor, myself, Steve, Marlow, Aaron, Jasmine, Neal and Diana.
    George served our table deftly. The first course wasa fish chowder, followed by mixed greens. There was a choice of grilled red snapper or curried lamb for the entrée. As I ate, I glanced around the table. Connor, to my right, had nothing to say, and Steve, to my left, was rather quiet, so I was free to observe my companions.
    The splash of golden light from the chandelier emphasized the forlorn droop of Lloyd’s face. He didn’t look like a man about to go on a honeymoon. He toyed with his spoon and it made tiny little chimes against the fine crystal base of his wineglass. He ate mechanically, every so often attempting to engage Connor in conversation.
    Connor’s ebony hair, smooth and glistening, cupped a white, strained face. Her lipstick was startlingly red against the waxy paleness of her skin. Her shoulders hunched beneath a black silk jacket with a dramatic crimson piping, her posture at odds with the effervescence of her costume. She stared blankly at the table, making little pretense of eating.
    Steve Jennings passed an occasional comment my way, but his glance always edged past, seeking Connor. I thought that Lloyd’s choice of seating had been quite deliberate. Steve Jennings and Connor would have no tête-à-têtes at meals. Steve’s usually genial expression was somber.
    Marlow spoke too loudly. Her voice resounded in the quiet of our table, caromed across the room. “…don’t have any patience with people who always want to be safe. You know what Katharine Hepburn said: ‘If you obey all