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

nearest the arbor, lounging back in a webbed chair. His sister looked much like him, bright red hair, lots of freckles and a confident face. Her dark-haired, burly husband munched tea sandwiches and listened, occasionally nodding as Patterson jabbed the air for emphasis. A young family occupied the farthest table. The sweet-faced mother placed tea sandwiches on the plates of her little boys, perhaps four and seven. Her husband sipped tea and spoke in a voice too low for me to hear. She replied and they chatted. The children sat so patiently and quietly, their sneakered feet dangling from the adult chairs, that I was quite sure they were not American.
    I chose a table in the partial shade of the arbor, as it afforded the best view of the steps leading down from the upper terrace as well as the walk that curved past the cabana toward the garden. The tower loomed high above the garden. This morning George claimed to have seen something white near the tower, then said he was mistaken. A seagull flashed past the tower. Yes, he might have glimpsed a bird. Or, if someone was on the platform and stepping inside, there could have been a brief flash of white. Those who fancy the supernatural might believe George was psychic and thathe saw Roddy Worrell though there was actually no one there. Or he might have seen nothing at all. It was the latter possibility that most intrigued me. If he invented the glimpse, he did so for a purpose and it was that purpose I wanted to divine.
    George was serving the tea by himself. He came out from the pool food-service area and immediately saw me. He paused on his way to replenish the other tables. “Would you like tea, Mrs. Collins? Or would you prefer sherry?” He leaned forward, his bony face attentive. In his role as a waiter, there was nothing to distinguish him from a hundred other young men. He had the attractiveness of youth—bright eyes, smooth skin, an insouciant confidence. After all, he wouldn’t have traveled so far from home unless he was eager to see new places, learn other ways. He had a nice face, wide-spaced eyes, a spatter of freckles, lips that often curved into a grin. He served with an easy banter that was friendly, yet not overly familiar.
    â€œTea, please.” I had plenty of opportunity to observe George as I enjoyed the tea and the little sandwiches, salmon-and-cream cheese, tomatoes-and-cucumber, the flaky scones with clotted cream, and the delicate fruit pastries. He addressed every guest by name, which argued a good memory and some effort. He served our table in the evenings.
    I wondered what he was like at his local pub drinking a beer with friends. I guessed boisterous, cheerful and outgoing. He was thin but athletic, with a lanky build. Diana thought he was cute.
    I deliberately dawdled until everyone else had left. Dusk was falling. The lights came on around the pool. He was clearing the last table except mine. “George…”
    He turned toward me. If he was impatient to be done, he gave no hint of it, his gaze polite. “More tea, Mrs. Collins?”
    â€œNo, thank you. It was lovely. Actually, I’d hoped to have a visit with you. My granddaughter told me about Roddy Worrell’s ghost. She said you know all about it.” I looked at him earnestly. “I’ve always been fascinated by ghosts. Is there really a ghost in the tower?”
    He picked up his tray, stepped to my table. “I know it sounds crazy.” His voice held a note of embarrassment. “My grandmother always said there were ghosts. I didn’t believe it until now. But a couple of nights ago I was on my way home and I heard a kind of odd sound, kind of like a rustle, and I looked up and saw this white glow near the top of the tower. I’ll have to tell you”—his eyes were wide—“it got my attention.” He rested his tray on the table. As he cleared the tea service, he lifted his shoulders, let them fall. “I knew it had