by Hy Conrad
“And sweet Herb. Was it really so long ago when you brought young, handsome David into our home? There were a lot of delicate moments in those first few years. At times it was almost like a French sex farce, the two of you and your secret friends, with doors slamming and naked strangers tiptoeing around and hiding in closets. But we were all discreet, and it all worked out for the best.
“And, of course, dear Evan and Barbara. I never knew how you could afford a full-time maid. Half the time it seemed you were just taking money from one account and throwing it into another. But I’m so glad you were able to afford me. Such fun-loving people. I don’t think I ever laughed so much in my life.
“Last but not least, Laila and Maury. You found me right after you found each other. Second marriages are hard, so I’ve heard. It must have been especially hard for Maury, giving up his own gallery and joining Laila’s business. A lot of men would have felt emasculated by it. But not you, Maury. I don’t want to keep rambling, but the memories are golden. I wish I could be there to share a glass of champagne, which I’m afraid I’m no longer allowed to have in my situation.
“And now, if you’ll indulge me, whoever is reading this is going to also read my will. All my love, my dears. It’s been grand.”
Amy paused and peered up over the rims of her glasses. Her audience sat frozen in place, too self-conscious to even glance at their own partners, like eight stone-faced mannequins displaying a line of expensive resort wear. She took a sip from her bottle of Evian and flipped to the next document. “The Last Will and Testament of Paisley Louise MacGregor,” Amy read aloud to the mannequins. This document was longer and much less dramatic.
It began by asserting Miss MacGregor’s sound mind and selecting the law firm of Corns and Associates to be her executor. At this news, Evan and Barbara came back to life, looking relieved, almost jubilant, then turning stone-faced again, embarrassed by their momentary enthusiasm.
There were a few small gifts mentioned first, for a children’s charity in New York, for Joy Archer, her “loyal maid and friend,” and for a few others. Amy kept reading, although momentarily distracted by the fact that MacGregor’s humorless maid was named Joy.
The will went on. “I request that all my remaining personal papers be destroyed without being read or cataloged, and that the remainder of my possessions be publicly auctioned and the proceeds added to my estate. I hereby stipulate that this estate, including but not limited to all investments and accounts, be liquidated and divided evenly among the following individuals, provided that they are present, as requested, for the reading of this will.” And here she went on to name her eight ex-bosses.
Amy had barely put down the will when Nicole spoke up, shouting into the whirl of motors and the wind, which had come out of nowhere and was starting to attack the hale. “Divided evenly?” she demanded over the din. “That’s my money. And now you’re saying the Steinbergs get twice as much as me because they’re two people? And the Corns?” She probably also added the Pepper-Sands. But by this time the whirlwind of propeller blades was rendering her shouts inaudible.
Two waiters from the catering company approached the bamboo chairs, one on each side. They began to lead the guests to a pair of silver helicopters warming up at the twin helipads situated fifty yards inland, on either side of the black lava promontory. Above a row of coconut palms a third helicopter was just hovering into view.
CHAPTER 25
Amy knew better than to flirt on the job, especially with vendors.
Desmond Mansfield happened to be an Australian who had moved to the Big Island a few years back to buy a trio of Hughes 500s and start his own business. Aloha Jack, he’d named it. “Because,” as he explained from between a set of perfectly dimpled cheeks, “no one wants to hire from a company called Aloha Desmond.” His logo, emblazoned on each side of each of his helicopters, was a cartoon kangaroo in a bush hat.
In all their correspondence, Desmond had assured her that it would be no problem. The Volcanoes National Park allowed private helicopters to fly over the Kilauea volcano, and the rim of Halemaumau Crater was safe enough to permit the simultaneous landing of his choppers, which would be carrying three pilots, including him, and nine passengers, including her.
She had checked with him again in person hours after they arrived, and had found him just as cute as he was in the photo on his Web site. “This is more complicated than the usual tourist flyover, no doubt.” He put on his work face, and his dimples disappeared, allowing Amy to pay more attention to the rest of him. Muscularly thin, a square jaw, with a sandy brown crew cut and an unlined face. Why do small-craft pilots always look sixteen and adorable? Amy had wondered, not for the first time.
“Have you tested the crater edge?” she’d had to ask. “Is it safe for three helicopters?”
“No worries,” he drawled. “The park service wouldn’t let us go if it weren’t safe. My boys and me did a test run this morning. And conditions tomorrow will be even better. Of course, we won’t be exactly on the rim. Sorry to disappoint.”
“You’re not disappointing me,” Amy said. “The less danger, the better.”
His dimples returned. “Good. I hate to disappoint.”
“You probably don’t get many requests for ashes to be dumped into a volcano.”
“Seems a little redundant, eh? But rich blokes do all sorts of things, and no one calls it crazy.”
“You’re right.” She decided not to mention that the ashes in the urn would be chicken and charcoal.
From the will reading, the mourners walked directly to the helicopters. Like a good guide, she made sure the first two were safely filled with clients. Then she and Peter and a simmeringly silent Nicole waited for the third. Amy found herself riding shotgun beside Desmond, although the one-way headphones made conversation impossible.
All three choppers landed on the upwind side of Halemaumau Crater, the only option, since the gas vents from the active volcano rendered the downwind side nearly invisible in the white mist. This was vog, the pilots explained through the headphones, volcanic fog. The helicopters wound up fifty yards away from each other, lined up along the rim, rotors locked down. The guests slowly emerged, following their pilots, like aliens from their shiny spaceships.
As promised, they weren’t all that close to the edge. But they could easily see down inside, down the perilous, rock-strewn slope and out to the red-orange glow of lava and the gas vents beyond. It was a breathtaking setting, just a shade windy, with bright blue skies above, an active volcano below, and white plumes shooting up and away into the vog.
Desmond led them to a two-ton basalt boulder that had been coughed out in some angry, unrecorded moment during the past million years. This became their podium. And this time no one insisted on telling any self-serving stories about long-lost vacations. The moment was simple, dramatic, and relatively short. Amy, for the first time, took part in the scattering and was glad to see the last of the chicken, several spoonfuls apiece, fly into the wind and down toward the lava.
No one had to encourage anyone to hurry back down the crater’s side to the helicopters.
“This deceased one,” Desmond said, looking back over his shoulder. “She had quite the sense of drama.”
Amy had found herself walking beside Desmond again. “The woman led a quiet life. What’s wrong with a little adventure after you’re gone?”
“The ultimate example of living vicariously.”
The air had turned surprisingly still, with their words echoing off the slope of the crater. Amy sighed and could feel the relief. It was a nice moment. A handsome man, an amazing setting. Her odyssey was nearing its end, with only one more night before their long flight back home. She probably wasn’t paying quite as much attention as she should have.
On reaching their chopper, she turned to watch the stragglers. Out of habit she began counting. The Steinbergs, walking together, one, two. Herb Sands, three. Nicole, four. Now to the left. David Pepper, five. No, that was
one of the pilots. And the woman she thought was Nicole was actually one of the pilots, too, the female pilot. By the time, Amy got to six, she had to start over.
And then came the echo of a shout. Or was it a scream? Whatever it was, it was followed by the grumbling, tumbling sound of a rock slide. Everyone heard it and stopped in their tracks. Amy paused, as well, then grabbed Desmond by the arm and began racing—gingerly—back up the slope.
When they reached the crater’s edge, the real edge this time, a mini-avalanche of rocks was still pouring down the insides of the crater, on its way to being reheated by the red-orange lava swirling lazily at the mouth. Amy tried to get a better view, but Desmond held her back.
Everyone was coming now. The two other pilots, plus . . . She started counting again. One, two, three . . . She saw Barbara walking by herself at a nervous trot, coming faster than the others. Amy scanned the slope, not counting this time, but looking for one person in particular.
Evan Corns. Where the hell was Evan Corns?
Landing choppers on the crater rim had been totally illegal, despite Desmond’s assurance to the contrary. That was the smallest of their newfound problems, although Desmond would probably argue otherwise.
Within two minutes of the rock slide, the Aussie pilot was in the air, diving inside the crater as far as he could, given the unpredictable air currents and the heat and the vog. Aloha Jack’s other pilots, a best friend from Sydney and Desmond’s wife, also took to the air and flew in increasingly wider circles around the crater.
Ten minutes later the park service responded with their own battered helicopter. But there wasn’t much they could add to the situation, besides yelling at Desmond and promising to start an investigation. The crater’s interior was too dangerous for climbers, not unless some trace of Evan Corns could be found to justify their efforts. Then a few volunteers might try the descent.
The best friend and the pilot wife ferried the other guests back to the estate, where the Hawaii County police were waiting to question them, then flew back out to join Desmond, Amy, Peter, and Barbara, who had refused to leave with the others.
An hour after sunset, when it was no longer safe for anyone to be hovering over an active volcano, they called off the search, with the promise of starting again tomorrow at sunrise.
The night was breezy and moist, with only a few clouds flitting across the moon. Amy stood on her veranda with a much-needed Campari and soda. She watched the police cars pull out of the estate around 9:00 p.m., then gave Barbara a few minutes to settle in or pour herself a drink. At 9:05 p.m., Amy wandered over to the Corns cottage, prepared to knock. The door was open. Barbara was sitting on a brightly flowered bamboo sofa, hands clasped in her lap, head down, no drink. Amy left hers on a side table on the porch.
Evan’s wife looked up and moaned. “Why did we even go there? An active volcano, for God’s sake.”
“Herb and David did this trip years ago. They had this volcano photo on MacGregor’s piano.” Amy stepped inside the cottage and settled into a bamboo chair facing the sofa. Barbara seemed to welcome the company.
“The police kept asking if Evan was depressed. That’s ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous,” Amy agreed. “Seemed like he was in a wonderful mood.”
The black basalt boulder had been perhaps ten yards from the actual rim, all uphill. The only reason for Evan to walk up to the rim might have been to get a slightly better view of the crater. But they had been warned not to, and no one had been seen attempting it. Also, Evan had been one of the few not to bring a camera, not even a phone camera.
Shortly after getting there, the park service had found the spot where the mini-avalanche had started. They had taken pictures of scuff marks that seemed to go over the rim and had placed a water bottle beside what might have been shoe prints in order to give scale to the photos.
“When did you last see Evan?” Amy asked, knowing this question had been asked a dozen times.
“Right after you threw the last of the ashes. After that, I was too busy watching out for my own footing. I think we all were. Those rocks are sharp.”
“Can you think of any reason why he might have gone back up to the rim?”
“Maybe he had to pee,” suggested Barbara.
Pee into the crater of an active volcano? Who would do such a thing? Go out of his way to walk up to the rim . . . ? “Actually, that kind of sounds like Evan,” Amy had to admit.
Evan’s tiny bladder had become something of a running joke with the group. He had been sighted by Nicole relieving himself in the river by the Taj Mahal, right before the ceremony began. She had been suitably disgusted and had told everyone. A similar incident occurred on the Great Wall of China just as Maury was concluding some endless Paisley story they’d all heard before. David and Peter had both seen Evan wander off to urinate over a crumbling edge of the wall, and both had gotten the giggles. The others noticed, too, even Maury. But far from being embarrassed, Evan seemed to enjoy the attention.
“I know,” Barbara said, with the closest she’d come to a chuckle in the past five hours. “Evan could be like a big kid. He would totally pee into a volcano.”
“Except he would want people to see,” Amy added. “I mean, what’s the point of doing something funny if no one sees it?”
“Maybe he did call out, ‘Hey, everybody, look!’ and no one heard him. Then he fell.”
Amy tried to envision it, the burly, fun-loving man with his pants unzipped trying to get someone’s attention, shouting, perhaps waving his arms, then falling backward, pants still unzipped, down the side of a crater. The whole scenario sounded comical, which was exactly why it struck her as so enormously tragic. “I think we would have heard him,” she said softly.
“Well, it’s more believable than what they’re saying. My husband did not commit suicide.”
“I’m sure it was an accident.”
“He may not even be dead.” Barbara’s face brightened in a desperate, jittery smile. “He could have tripped and fallen the other direction. Away from the crater.”
“It’s possible.” Amy had never been in this position, trading theories with a possible widow. She wasn’t good at it, with too logical a mind to be of much comfort. “But wouldn’t he have rolled past us?”
“It depends on the angle he fell.”
“What about the helicopters? They circled around for hours. They would have seen him.”
“Helicopters don’t see everything. He could have been hiding. Under a ledge or behind a rock.”
“Hiding?” Amy was taken aback. “Why would Evan be hiding?”
“I didn’t mean hiding,” Barbara said quickly. “Hidden.”
“You think he started the avalanche, then ran away while the rest of us were looking over the edge?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Do you think it’s a possibility? But that would mean . . .” Wow, thought Amy. “Did Evan have any reason to fake his death?” She hadn’t intended to say that out loud.
“Fake his death?” Barbara stood up, her ruddy face turning even ruddier. “How can you suggest such a thing?”
“Actually, you suggested it.”
“I meant he could have fallen unconscious under a rock or a ledge. Hidden, not hiding.”
“Right. Sorry.” But there was something about Barbara’s demeanor that left her troubled. Amy glanced through the open door and regretted having left her drink on the porch. She got up to leave. “I guess we’ll take it day by day.”
“Take what day by day?”
“The search. Not that it’ll take more than a day to find him. Alive. Find him alive,” she added. “But we’ll have to book you into a hotel for the duration. Not that it’ll be a duration. There’s a lodge in the park with a nice view of the volcano. Not a nice view, but you can see the spot . . .” She was just digging herself in deeper.
“I understand,” Barbara said. “We’ll take it day by day.”
When Amy stepped out the door
, she veered slightly left and scooped up the Campari without missing a beat.
PART TWO
THE AFTER-WAKE
CHAPTER 26
“I know for a fact that Michael Bublé is performing in a casino in Macao.”
“Do you even know where Macao is?”
“That’s not the point.” Gavin was determined not to fall for this distraction. “It’s somewhere around China.”
“Around China? That’s a big perimeter.”
“I think it’s in China.”
“You’re kidding. China has casinos?”
Gavin shook his head in disgust. “You already know this, Alvarez. At least you should.”
Marcus kept his smug smile in place, even though he figured his chances were about fifty-fifty. “I also know,” he said, “that you can lease a Gulfstream V at Macao International and get to New York in just under eighteen hours.” He was making it up, but it sounded good.
“A Gulfstream V?” Gavin choked. “Do you have any idea how much a Gulfstream V would cost?”
“I know exactly,” Marcus lied. “To the penny.”
The last time Marcus had seen Franklin George and his fiancée was ten minutes ago, as they were arguing their way across the lobby, batting insults back and forth in quietly explosive hisses. They had been coming in, not going out, and Marcus figured he had maybe another five minutes to see if his scheme had worked.
“And did you bother to okay this expenditure with Mr. George?”
“I think his exact phrase was, ‘Whatever it costs.’”
“Yes, I can imagine. But even a billionaire might balk a little. . . .”
The knock on the door came two minutes later, toward the end of Gavin’s lecture on the importance of communicating with guests and managing expectations, although Marcus knew Gavin would have come down on the other side of the argument if Marcus hadn’t done everything possible to fulfill the customer’s demands. There would be no winning. That was the whole idea.