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to hotel guests, even young ones. “Did you know Mr. Worrell?”
    Jasmine said importantly, “He sang songs in the bar. He was married to Mrs. Worrell, but she’s the one who takes care of the hotel. And he fell out of the tower and killed himself.”
    I doubted that Mrs. Worrell would be pleased to hear that an employee had been telling a very young guest that her dead husband appeared as a ghost at the tower. And now I understood Steve Jennings’s reluctance to discuss disturbances in the garden with Mrs. Worrell. And I was afraid I now knew why Diana planned the picture session out on the point.
    Jasmine peered over the edge at the pillow. “George says ghosts come back to the place where they died if they have unfinished business.” She glanced at me, her eyes bright with inquiry. “Why do you suppose Mr. Worrell’s come back?”
    â€œI don’t know.” The first fine drops of rain spatteredon us. “Maybe we’d better go down and get the pillow. You don’t want to sleep on a wet pillow tonight”
    She giggled. “I’d just trade with Marlow. Wouldn’t that surprise her!” The little girl whirled and plunged for the steps. I hoped she’d hold on to the railing, but the hurried scuff of her sneakers indicated a rapid descent.
    I followed more slowly, chilled not by the wet wind on the parapet but by the child’s casual announcement: “That’s where Mr. Worrell landed, you know.”
    Jasmine stood in the doorway, clutching the pillow, looking out at the steady sweep of rain. I hoped the moped riders were safe and dry and would seek shelter until the rain passed.
    Jasmine plopped the pillow on the bottom step of the staircase. “Would you like to sit down?”
    The pillow was long and oversized and must have been a challenge for her to wrestle all the way to the tower. I grinned. “Thanks.” I patted the pillow beside me. “We can share.”
    She plopped down beside me, regarded me curiously. “You know,” she confided, “you don’t look like a skeleton.”
    I’d lost some weight from the pneumonia and was a bit bonier than usual. I knew I seemed very old to Jasmine, my dark hair streaked with silver and my eyes deep-socketed in a lined face. But I had an inkling she’d overheard someone else’s comment. “The skeleton at the feast,” I murmured.
    â€œThat’s what Mom said.” She peered at me.
    So Connor had indeed taken note of the presence of her husband-to-be’s former mother-in-law. That was surely more normal than her apparently casual acceptance. I smiled and said easily, “Oh, that’s just an expression, Jasmine.” But, of course, it was Death who was the unseen companion at merry feasts. “Now tell me about your experiment. Did Mr. Worrell die a long time ago?”
    â€œOh, no.” She hunched forward eagerly. “It was last year. We were here. Mr. Worrell fell out of the tower late one night.” Her face screwed up in disgust. “I didn’t hear a thing! I was asleep. Aaron said he’d had too much to drink. Anyway, Mr. Worrell fell over the edge. They said it was an accident. The police came and everything. All of the guests went over to the Southampton Princess the day of the funeral, so Mrs. Worrell could have everybody here. Have you ever been to that hotel? It’s huge. There were Gombey dancers and it was so loud I thought my ears were going to burst. We left two days later.”
    â€œDid you like Mr. Worrell?” I looked at her curiously. Her report had all been delivered in the same tone, Mr. Worrell’s fall given the same emphasis as the loud Gombey dancers.
    The excitement fled. “I did like him.” She spoke assertively and I gathered there were those who had not. “He was nice to the kids and he had a big laugh. Not like Mrs. Worrell. She frowns all the time. I don’t think