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was restricted to guests or hotel employees. Of course, an intruder might enter through the balcony of an unoccupied room although the sliding door should be locked.
    I walked slowly down the steps. I had a choice at the bottom. One walkway led west to the main house past a wall covered with bougainvillea. A second walkway led south to the upper terrace. I took the south walk. The terrace was a broad grassy expanse between the hotel and another rock wall that marked a drop-off. I looked over the wall at the swimming pool on the lower terrace. No one was in the water. Despite the gray skies and freshening wind, two leathery-skinned middle-aged women in swimsuits rested on deck chairs, one knitting, the other immersed in a book. I welcomed the warmth of a cashmere cardigan and wool slacks. No doubt they were Canadians.
    Jennings said he came to the main terrace, then looked toward the garden. It was there that he broke off, refused to say more.
    The garden sloped to the east, beds of flowers and shrubs running downhill, then up. The poinsettias blazed a vivid coral and blue petunias wavered in the wind. My gaze rose to the tower that stood at the crest of the ridge, overlooking the garden. Despite the sweep of flowers and shrubs, the eye was drawn immediately to the thirty-foot-tall, shining white tower. The parapet at the top was crenellated, so the tower had the appearance of a battlement on an English castle.
    I walked through the garden, down and up the hillsides, past orange blossoms of an African tulip tree, poinsettias and lacy green ferns, always keeping the tower in view. I paused to rest midway up the far slope. Moist air pressed against me. Rain could not be far distant. I started on, picking up my pace. The wind was brisk when I reached the base of the tower. I circled, looking for an entrance.
    I don’t know whether there was a sound or whether I simply sensed movement above me. I looked up and jerked back as a white shape fell toward me. A round face poked over the side of the parapet, then quickly disappeared. I looked down. A big bed pillow in a smudged white case lay on the flagstones. I left it there and moved on. The door to the tower, on the far side, was ajar. I pulled it wider, stepped onto a stone floor. Uneven circular steps curled upward.
    I didn’t relish climbing the steep stairs. There was utter silence above. I wished for a flashlight, but there was a patch of lighter gray far above where daylight streamed into the tower from the openings to the platform. I started up. I made no effort to be quiet. “Hello!” I called out.
    I was midway to the top when a young voice responded warily, “Hello.”
    I was out of breath when I reached the platform. The wind made an eerie sound in the rafters, rustled the shrubbery far below, stirred Jasmine Bailey’s short blond curls as she leaned against the parapet.
    She cut her eyes toward me when I stepped out onto the platform.
    I doubted it would get us very far for me to admonish her about the pillow or question whether her mother would want her to be in the tower dropping pillows or suggest she was rather a distance from thehotel. Instead, after catching my breath, I said quizzically, “An experiment?”
    Her round face creased in a pleased smile. “Oh, yes. That’s where Mr. Worrell landed, you know.”
    â€œI didn’t know.” I came up beside her, looked over the edge of the stone wall at the pillow far below. Mr. Worrell. Steve Jennings had insisted he couldn’t mention what he had seen in the garden to Mrs. Worrell. “Down there?”
    Jasmine wriggled with eagerness. “Right there. And now he’s a ghost. George says he came last night. At least, George thinks it was him because there was something white and Mr. Worrell always wore white.”
    â€œReally.” I kept my tone casual, but I was surprised. It seemed apparent that the young waiter was quite willing to provide information