Read Online Resort to Murder by Carolyn Hart - Free Book Online Page A

did.
    â€œNo, no. It isn’t like that. He didn’t even want to tell me,” she protested. “Here’s what happened. I had lunch down at the pool yesterday. And he was nice—”
    Read “cute.” Diana is at the age when all young men are interesting.
    â€œâ€”and we got to talking and I asked how long he’d worked here. He’s Canadian and he dropped out of college. He’s been here three years but he’s thinking of going back to school—”
    Always a good line with a college girl.
    â€œâ€”and I asked if he remembered my dad being here last January. He said he’d never forget last January because that was when Mr. Worrell got drunk and fell out of the tower. And George said it was all because of the American woman. Then he broke off and looked embarrassed and tried to change the subject. But I got it out of him. I told him I didn’t like her at all and she was going to marry my dad and I was just sick about it.”
    Two sides to every story. At the least. George’s revelations to Diana could be as innocent as she claimed. As for his dramatic description of a ghost to Jasmine, he might simply enjoy entertaining, and all the world loves ghostly tales. None of that, however, explained the knock on Steve Jennings’s door last night. Moreover, Jennings obviously saw something near the tower that disturbed him. Or he thought he saw something. And the broken ceramic tower in Connor’s room argued a degree of hostility that was disturbing. I wasn’t persuaded that Roddy Worrell’s purported ghost could be responsible. I believed a living hand knocked on Steve’s door and broke the pottery tower in Connor’sroom. If the young waiter was behind either event, it needed to be discovered because the happiness of both Connor and Lloyd was at stake. As for my granddaughter…
    â€œDiana.” I spoke gently. “I understand your concern about your dad’s marriage. But you should remember that George’s description of last January is that of one person. Is it smart—or fair—to rely on a single source?”
    Diana grew up in a newspaper family. She understood what I was telling her. George could be right or wrong, he could be mistaken, he could be hostile, he could be credulous.
    â€œOne source?” I let the question hang, then said quietly, “Talk to Steve Jennings.”
    â€œHe’s in love with her, too,” Diana said bitterly. “I don’t need anyone to tell me anything about her. I know what she is and she’s nothing but trouble. And I’ll do anything I can to get rid of her.” She whirled and ran away.
    I almost followed Diana, then, lips pressed together, I walked down the steps to the lower terrace. I paused in the shadow of the arbor to look over the clusters of guests on the sunny side of the swimming pool. In summer, of course, most would likely have chosen a table beneath the arbor, but the January air was cool in the shade. In fact, I doubted that tea was served around the pool during the summer months, more likely in the drawing room that overlooked the upper terrace. This January afternoon, only a half dozen tables were occupied. Voices murmured, teacups clinked. The two angular women who’d sunbathed despite the cool air were now dressed in dark sweaters and slacks and accompanied by their husbands. Two couples in theirthirties, unmistakably New Yorkers, talked loudly, as New Yorkers do, about the mayor and police reform and what might happen if there was a transit strike. An austere old lady in a well-worn tweed suit listened with a slight smile as her companion, his gentle features intent, gestured enthusiastically. He was possibly in his forties. Two cheerful young women shared a magazine. One turned the page and the other giggled. They both had soft blond curls and bright blue eyes. I wondered if they were sisters. Curt Patterson held court at the table