Resort to Murder by Carolyn Hart Page B

smashed tower suggested a carefully set stage rather than a spirit’s violent effort. The tower could not have broken as it did by being dropped or thrown onto the floor because that floor was carpeted. In fact, I was almost certain that someone took the tower out to the balcony and struck it hard against the railing to break it into several pieces. The pieces were then placed where they were found. As a final touch, gin was splashed generously over the broken shards.
    Obviously, the intent was to disturb Connor. Why? Simply for sheer malevolence? I pushed away the memory of Diana’s angry young voice. Whatever the purpose, it seemed clear that Connor was to be frightened by the prospect that the ghost of Roddy Worrell was near.
    I put aside for the moment speculation as to why Connor should be afraid. Had her connection to the dead man been stronger than Lloyd believed?
    Worrell died in a fall from the tower. George told Jasmine about his fall. Moreover, George had apparently told Diana about the tower and Roddy Worrell’s death and the connection between Roddy and Connor. The place to start was with George. I checked my watch. Almost four. Tea was offered every afternoon at three on the patio near the pool. George was the server. I walked faster.

five
    I WAS almost to the steps leading down to the lower terrace when I heard the rumble of mopeds. I hesitated. Yes, I wanted to help Lloyd. But first things first. I turned and hurried to the limestone wall that overlooked the drive. I was leaning over the top of the wall when the mopeds—Neal’s red, Diana’s green—careened around the curve, so fast my heart thudded. Children, slow down, slow down, take care.
    They were laughing. The mopeds slowed. Neal looked up, saw me, waved. They parked. Diana climbed off the bike, removed her helmet and ran her fingers through her reddish-gold hair. She called up, “Are we back in time for tea?” Neal looped his helmet over the handle.
    â€œPlenty of time.” I would catch George after tea.
    Neal and Diana ran lightly up the steps, Diana in the lead. “Grandma, tomorrow we have to take you to see the Spanish Rock. It’s amazing. It has the date 1543 on it and they think a sailor—”
    â€œPortuguese, not Spanish,” Neal interrupted.
    â€œâ€”whatever,” his sister said impatiently. “He was shipwrecked here and he climbed to the top of a cliff and scratched the year and his initials on this rock—”
    â€œBut now they think the letters aren’t his initials after all, but an inscription meaning Rex Portugaliae, for the ‘King of Portugal.’ The date and initials are cast in bronze because they were wearing away from the rock. It’s really neat,” Neal exclaimed. “It’s right on the edge of the cliff, seventy feet high.”
    â€œâ€”and a cross,” Diana continued, “and you have to wonder if he died here like Amelia Earhart did on that island in the Pacific—”
    Neal shook his head. “Nope. I read about it. Their ship foundered on a reef but they built a new boat and made it back to Santo Domingo. Earhart and Noonan crashed on an atoll and there was nothing to build with. So they died unless they were captured by the Japanese. But that’s been generally discredited.” He stared out at the water, richly blue, inviting, beautiful, merciless. “Pretty awful. To crash-land and think you’re going to live and find out you’re on a scrap of land without any water. No water, only scraps of food in the cockpit; no way to get help, no way to build a boat.”
    I was proud of him, proud that he looked beyond a glib recital of Earhart’s end, sensed the pain, understood the fear. Neal’s imagination would make his life harder, sometimes almost unendurable, but far, far richer.
    Then he was young again. “Think I’ll go put on my suit, take a swim. Coming, Dinny?”
    I spoke