Resort to Murder by Carolyn Hart Page A

go home.” Her voice could scarcely be heard.
    â€œConnor, it’s all right. I’m here.” His voice softened. “Honey, it’s all right. You’re upset over nothing. Maybe a maid knocked…”
    I slipped away, left them there, and hurried across the grass. I looked back as I opened the door to the corridor to our quarters. They had not even noticed my departure. I walked swiftly up the hall. I always like to see for myself. I paused outside Connor’s room. The door was wide open. I wasn’t surprised. She’d seen the smashed tower and turned and run away.
    I poked my head into the room. “Hello,” I called softly.
    There was no answer. I looked down the hall. I was sure that Connor and Lloyd would soon be here. I imagined that Lloyd would make every effort to reassure Connor, but she would insist that he see the breakage.
    I moved quickly. This room was much like mine, only the walls were a pale cream instead of rose, the pillowcases silk instead of cotton. I wasn’t surprised that Connor traveled with her own pillowcases and likely with her own sheets. I knew if I opened the closet, her dresses would be hanging neatly. Connorhad never, I was sure, lived out of a suitcase. Cosmetics in gold-accented ebony cases were neatly arranged on the dresser. Wire-rimmed glasses were lying next to a magazine. There was a faint scent of lilac, either bath powder or cologne. My nose wrinkled. And the even sweeter smell of gin.
    A white wicker sofa with cheerful yellow chintz cushions sat along the wall to my right. The print containers lay in a casual tumble on the sofa. The bathroom opened to the left. Light burned there.
    Lloyd and I had engaged in a fairly long conversation, which likely meant that Connor didn’t see the broken tower when she first reached the room. No, she’d stepped inside the door, dropped the cardboard cylinders onto the sofa, stepped into the bathroom. No doubt she’d redone her makeup, brushed her hair, then returned to the bedroom.
    I walked into the bedroom. The sliding glass door to the balcony was open. I passed the bed, stopped at the balcony. The gardens spread below. The tower loomed on the ridge to the right. Perhaps Connor had stood a moment enjoying the view. Then she’d turned…
    I swiveled. A table and three chairs were between me and the bed. I skirted the table. Midway between the table and the bed lay a half dozen pieces of broken porcelain. I stepped close, knelt. I swiped one finger against the smooth glaze of the largest piece. My finger came away damp. I poked the rug with another finger. The rug was moist. I sniffed each finger in turn. It didn’t take a bartender to identify that odor.
    I pushed up from the floor and wavered on my feet, dizzy for a moment. Damn, would I ever be over the aftereffects of the pneumonia? I moved as fast as I could, if a little unsteadily, concerned my examinationwas taking too long. I went out to the balcony, glanced quickly about. I reached down near the metal railing and touched a sliver of porcelain. That sliver told me everything.
    I left it where it lay. Perhaps Lloyd would find it. I wondered, as I hurried back across the bedroom, reached the door and poked my head into the hall, whether Lloyd would reach the same conclusion as I. The hall was empty. I plunged into the corridor and was at the door to my room when Lloyd and Connor came through the entrance. I pretended to be closing my door. I smiled. “Will I see you at tea?”
    Lloyd was hearty. “We’ll be down in a few minutes.”
    Connor, staring straight ahead, made no reply. She stopped in the hall outside her room. “I’ll wait here.”
    I was thoughtful as I walked down the hall and out the entrance. I don’t believe in poltergeists, disembodied spirits or any of the other folderol of psychic phenomena. There is always a rational explanation of any occurrence.
    A reasoned appraisal of the