He shook his head again. Pam had been standing close to him and she moved nearer. A downward flick of a hazel eye acknowledged her presence. Laurent put his hands in his pockets and stretched the fabric with his fists.
Then he looked at the Jeep, the diving gear still piled on the back seat. "Someone snorkeling?"
"We were on our way when it happened," said Robin.
"We were vacationing."
"How'd the kids at the clinic react?" I said.
"They don't know exactly what happened yet," she said. "Some of them looked up when they heard the noise, but their minds were on their shots. We just kept the line going for a while and then broke for a snack."
"How many shots did you get through?" said Ben.
"About half. We were going to finish this afternoon, but I guess not."
"Planning to dive at South Beach lagoon?" Laurent asked us.
"Yes," said Robin.
"It's beautiful there," he said. "Give it another go when you're ready. Life generally goes smoothly here."
• • •
Pam walked him back to his car and stayed to talk after he got behind the wheel.
Ben called out KiKo's name, and the monkey and Spike followed us into the house. Cheryl was washing the front room's big windows and didn't turn to acknowledge us. Except for the hiss of the glass-cleaner spray, the interior was silent.
Robin said, "I think I'll go up and see how Jo's doing."
She hurried up the stairs.
"Something to drink?" Ben asked me.
"No, thanks. We had a couple of beers in town. A guy named Creedman was buying."
"Oh?" He stared straight ahead. "Where'd he snag you, front of the Palace?"
"Does he make a habit of snagging people there?"
"That's his spot. I figured he'd go for you, being outsiders and all that. He used to live here for a while."
"He mentioned that."
"Did he also mention he was asked to leave?"
"No. He said it was too intense an environment for him."
"Intense? I guess you could say that."
He turned and looked me in the eye. "The thing you need to understand is that Dr. Bill is the most hospitable person you'll ever meet. Anyone visits the island, they get an invite. That's how the Pickers ended up here, and after meeting them you can see what a patient man Dr. Bill is. Creedman was also extended hospitality. He was up here for only three days when we found him snooping around."
"Snooping where?"
"Dr. Bill's office. I caught him red-handed. Not that there's anything to hide, but patient info's confidential. Except, of course, for something scientific like you and Dr. Bill are doing. Some thanks for hospitality, huh?"
"Did he have an excuse?"
"Nope." His jaw bunched the way it had when Picker had asked him to serve drinks, and he pushed his aviators up his nose. "He tried to laugh it off. Said he was taking a walk and had just wandered in looking for something to read. Except the books were in the back room and he was in the front, so give me a break. I called him on it and he told me to screw myself. Then he complained to Dr. Bill that I'd harassed him. Dr. Bill might have tolerated the snooping, but he didn't appreciate Creedman badmouthing me. Did he badmouth us some more?"
"Not really," I said. "But he did say the reason the southern road was blockaded was because of a murder half a year ago. A local girl killed on the beach, and passions toward the Navy got high."
"The guy makes like he's an ace reporter— probably told you he was a media hotshot, right? Truth is he was strictly small-time. And keep him away from Ms. Castagna. He thinks he's God's gift to women."
"So I noticed. But she can handle herself."
"My wife can, too, but he still annoyed her. Right after I kicked him out. Came up to her in the market, making small talk, offering to carry her bags. Real subtle."
He shoved his glasses harder. "Did you meet the owner of the Palace, a tall woman named Jacqui?"
I nodded.
"He came on to her, too, till he found out she was Chief Laurent's mother."
"She looks way too young."
"She's in her forties, had Dennis when she was a teenager. She and Dennis are good people. He was a couple of grades behind me. Jacqui's half islander, half Cauc, originally from Saipan. Dennis's dad was a French sea captain, used to run cargo boats between the bigger islands, died at sea just before Dennis was born. She raised him right. Anyway, do what you want, but in my humble opinion Creedman's someone to avoid. He just hangs out all day, acting superior."
"He told us he was working on a book."
"Maybe a book on beer." His laugh was merciless.
"Speaking of unwanted attention," I said, "the guy who was working on the shark with Skip Amalfi seemed to notice Robin too. Any potential problems there?"
"That's Anders Haygood. He's a bit of a lowlife, but no problems with him so far. Came over a year ago, mostly keeps to himself. Lives in back of Harry's place."
"Working for Harry?"
"Odd jobs now and then. Once in a while someone brings them an appliance to fix or a car to tune. Basically, he and Skip are beach bums and Harry's an old bum."
He laughed. "I'm some chamber of commerce, huh? By now you probably think Aruk's nothing but lowlife. But between Skip and Harry and Haygood and Creedman, you've just about exhausted the list. Everyone else is great. You'll end up having a great time."
10
"He wasn't Mr. Charm," said Robin, "but to go like that . . ."
We were up in the sitting room of our suite. No sounds came through the wall bordering Jo Picker's room.
"How's Jo?" I said.
"Wiped out. She decided to call his family. I left her trying to get a phone connection. . . . I know it's trite, but one moment you're talking to someone, the next they're gone."
She put her head on my chest and I traced her jawline.
"How're you doing?" I said.
"With what?"
"Vacation."
She laughed. "Is that what it is? No, I'm fine. Assuming we've used up all the bad vibes, nothing but sunshine and sweetness ahead."
"Ben assures me we've exhausted the island's supply of miscreants."
I told her about Creedman's snooping, his hitting on Jacqui and Claire Romero.
"I'm not surprised," she said. "When we were sitting there he put his hand on my knee."
"What!"
"It's okay, honey, I handled it."
"I didn't see a thing!"
"It happened right at the beginning, when Jacqui came out to take our order. You looked up for a second and he made his move. No big deal— I ended it."
"How?"
"Pinched the top of his hand." She grinned. "Hard. With my nails."
"He didn't react," I said.
"Nope, just kept on talking and cooled the hand on his beer bottle."
I remembered that. "Bastard."
"Forget it, Alex. I know the type. He won't try it again."
"Someone else noticed you," I said. "At the airfield. Skip Amalfi's buddy, that wild-haired guy. Now that I think about it, both he and Skip were probably ogling you the minute we stepped off the boat."
"Probably a woman shortage. Don't worry, I'll stick close to home. Work on my pinching."
"Don't you think Creedman's behavior is pretty risky for a small place like this? You should have seen Ben's face when he talked about Creedman coming on to his wife."
"Maybe that's his kick," she said. "That stupid thrill-of-the-hunt thing. Or maybe Aruk's such a peaceful place that the locals are able to laugh him off as a fool."
"It certainly doesn't seem to be high-crime. The police chief's unarmed."
"I noticed that. Probably why everyone was so sure the murderer was a sailor."
"Does the murder bother you?"
"I didn't love hearing about it, but one homicide a year is heaven compared to L.A., right?"
"According to Ben, it wasn't the reason for the blockade."
"What was?"
I thought back. "He didn't say."
"He's an interesting fellow," she said.
"In what way?"
"Nice, but a bit . . . hard, don't you think? Like the way he reacted to the crash. Angry at Picker, no sympathy."
"Picker gave him a hard time," I said. "But you're right, it was cold. Maybe it's his training as a nurse. Struggling to save people and then watching someone take what he thought was a stupid risk. Or maybe he's just one of those perfectionists incapable of suffering fools. He seems awfully meticulous. Proprietary about Moreland and Aruk, too. Now Moreland's getting old and Aruk's having problems, so he could be under stress."
"Could be," she said. "Aruk's definitely having problems. All those businesses boarded up, and did you see the gas ration sign in town? How do you think people make a living?"
"In his letters, Moreland said fishing and some crafts. But I haven't seen much sign of either. Ben's educated, could live anywhere, so perhaps he stays here because of some special commitment."
"Yes, it must be hard for him." She snuggled closer. "It is lovely, though. Look at those mountains."
"Want to try diving tomorrow?"
"Maybe." She closed her eyes.
"I'd like everything to go smoothly for you," I said.
"Don't worry. I'll have a great time."
"How's your wrist?"
She laughed. "Much better. And I pledge to go to bed on time and drink my milk."
"I know, I know."
"It's okay, honey. You like to take care of me."
"It's not just that. For some reason, after all these years, I still feel I need to court you."
"I know that, too," she said softly, and slipped her hand under my shirt.
• • •
The phone woke us up.
Moreland said, "Oh . . . were you sleeping? I'm terribly sorry."
"No problem," I said. "What's up?"
"Picker's accident— I just wanted to make sure you were all right."
"It was a shock but we're fine."
"I tried to warn him. . . . I want to reassure you that it was a freak event. The last crash we had was in sixty-three, when a military transport went down over the water. Nothing since. I just feel terrible that your welcome has been interrupted by something like this."
"Don't worry about it, Bill."
"I dropped in on Mrs. Picker, gave her some brandy. She's resting peacefully."
"Good."
"All right then, Alex. Sorry again for disturbing your rest." He paused. "We can start working whenever you're ready. Just give me a call downstairs."
Robin sat up and yawned. "Who is it?"
I covered the phone. "Bill. Do you mind if I work a bit?"
She shook her head. "I'm going to get up, too."
"I've got some time right now," I told Moreland.
"Well then," he said, "I could show you your office. Come down when you're ready. I'll be waiting."
We found him sitting in an overstuffed chair near a picture window, drinking orange juice. His legs looked so thin they seemed to fold rather than cross. He wore the same type of plain white shirt. This time the baggy pants were gray. The chained glasses rested low on his nose. He stood, closed his book and put it down. Leather-bound copy of Flaubert's L'Éducation sentimentale.
"Have you read him, son?"
"Just Madame Bovary, years ago."
"A great realistic novel," he said. "Flaubert was excoriated for being realistic." Bending slowly, he petted Spike. "I've set up a little run for this fellow, in a shaded area behind the rose garden. That is, if you feel comfortable leaving him alone."
"Is there a problem with his coming along?"
"Not at all. No zoo this morning. Come, let me show you the smaller library."
He led us through the dining room, pale blue with Chippendale furniture.
"We rarely dine here," he said. "We go outside whenever we can."
The former silver room was on the other side of a mahogany door. He opened it halfway. Salmon moirÉ walls, two dark bookcases, carved moldings, crystal lamps. Dried flowers on the verge of disintegration sprouted from a huge famille verte vase.
He closed the door. "As I said, you'll probably have little use for it."
We continued through a waxed-pine breakfast room, yellow pantry, industrial kitchen, past wall-freezers and out the rear door, ending on one of the rock paths. The closest bungalow was the same light brown as the main house, the roof tiles replaced with asphalt shingles.
Inside the bungalow was a small, cool room paneled beautifully with red-gold koa and set up with an old but flawless walnut desk topped by a leather blotter, a sterling silver inkwell, and an electric typewriter.
Another ceiling fan, desultory rotations. On the opposite wall was a brown couch and matching armchair, some tables and lamps. A carved Japanese motif ran along the top of the paneling. Seashells and corals rested on high shelves. Below hung more of Mrs. Moreland's watercolors.
Two small, open windows let in the breeze and offered a long view of the entry to the estate. The spray from the fountain sparkled like Tivoli lights. Between Spike's heavy breathing, more of that same narcotic silence.
"Very nice," I said.
Behind the desk was a door that Moreland opened, revealing a much larger room with four walls of ceiling-high bookcases. The floor was crowded with high stacks of cardboard cartons— brown columns rising nearly to the ceiling.
Hundreds of boxes, nearly filling the space, randomly separated by narrow aisles.
Moreland shrugged apologetically. "As you can see, I've been waiting for you."
I laughed, as much at his flamingo awkwardness as at the enormity of the task.
"It's shameful, Alex. I won't insult you by making excuses. I can't tell you how many times I've sat down to figure out some system of classification only to get overwhelmed and give up before I began."
"Is it alphabetized?"
He rubbed one sandal against his shin, a curiously boyish gesture. "After my first few years in practice, I tried to alphabetize. Repeated the process every few years. But somewhat . . . haphazardly. All in all, there are probably a dozen or so independently alphabetized series." He threw up his hands. "Why pretend— it's virtually random. But at least my handwriting's not bad for a doctor."
Robin grinned and I knew she was thinking of my scrawl.
"I don't expect miracles," said Moreland. "Skim, peruse, whatever, tell me if anything jumps out at you. I've always tried to include psychological and social data. . . . Now permit me to show you your atelier, dear."
The adjoining bungalow was identical, but the interior walls were painted white. More old but well-maintained furniture, a drafting table and stool, easels, a flat file. Disposable pallets still wrapped in plastic sat atop the file, along with trays of oil-paint tubes, acrylics, and watercolors. Ink bottles, pens, charcoal sticks, brushes in every shape and size. Everything brand-new. The price tag on a brush was from an artists' supply store in Honolulu.
Off to one side was a table full of shiny things.
"Shell," said Moreland. "Cowry, abalone, mother-of-pearl. Some hardwood remnants as well. And carving tools. I bought them from an old man whose specialties were USMC insignia and leaping dolphins. Back when there was a trinket business."
Robin picked up a small handsaw. "Good quality."
"This was Barbara— my wife's special place. I know you're not carving right now, but Alex told me how gifted you were, so I thought you might like to . . ."
He trailed off and rubbed his hands together.
"I'd love to," said Robin.
"Only when your hand permits, of course. It's too bad you didn't get a chance to swim."
"We'll try again."
"Good, good. . . . Would you like to stay here and look around, dear? Or do you prefer to be there as Alex discovers how truly disordered I am?"
It was as gracious a way as any to ask for privacy.
"There
's plenty here to keep me busy, Bill," Robin said. "Pick me up when you're done, Alex."
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