by Ann Ripley
Dr. Bouting’s praise of Christopher Bailey almost exceeded his praise for Anne Lansing. “Chris not only runs our research gardens, he’s a wizard at crossing plants—I even named one after him. And he does a million things—I can’t remember them all at the moment. He works closely with Anne, of course.”
“Hi, folks, nice to meet you,” Bailey said in a shy voice, his magnified eyes carefully moving from person to person. Good thing Dr. Bouting built him up, thought Louise, or it would have been hard to get any attention at all with the dramatic but dignified Anne Lansing nearby. Right now, Marty hardly seemed to have heard the introduction to the male assistant, since he was still checking out the female assistant.
At last Marty turned his gaze on Bouting. Louise knew he was irritated, for he disliked it when people came along at the last minute and tried to change a planned shoot.
“You want these two to stroll along—is that what you’re saying?” asked Marty. He shook his head. “Naw, that would be too many people strolling along.”
“You probably are right about that,” said Bouting. “How about interviewing Anne and Chris and me after we get through with our three-way philosophical fisticuffs?” That engaging grin overcame his face again. Louise looked at her producer and saw him again covertly looking at the garden writer. She could see he was weighing the options; after all, the elusive Dr. Bouting had done Marty a favor just agreeing to be interviewed. And here was this attractive horticulturalist who was being offered up to him as fodder for the videocam. Even though he should refuse, how could a man refuse this bait?
Matthew Flynn, along with everyone else, had been taking in this exchange without comment. Now he sat back and his mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Hey,” he said, “I have a dandy assistant, too. This particular man cuts through a jungle with his strong, straight machete as if he’s running a knife through warm butter—the clever George Wyant. He even brought it on this trip, in case he encounters an impenetrable section of jungle when we hike the Kalalau Trail up in the Na Pali. George can also treat someone who’s fallen ill with malaria like a nurse at Mass General.” He grinned at Bouting. “But no, you don’t like either one of us, do you, Bruce? I won’t insist we include my good man George in the show, any more than Charles, here, would insist on dragging in his man, Nate Bernstein. Pretty soon we’d have the whole world in it, right, Bruce?”
Bruce Bouting hadn’t cracked a smile. He said, “Matthew, you have to understand that I’m a little different from you and Charles; I’m an international businessman and these are my right-hand people. Why, you know Anne and how good she is.”
Flynn flashed a mischievous smile at the woman. “Yeah. Of course. We all know Anne and how good she is. Aloha, Anne,” he said, though he must have left her no more than an hour ago at the conference session. He reached a hand out to clasp hers and succeeded in grabbing her whole forearm, as if his hand were the mouth of a boa constrictor.
A very physical man, this Matthew Flynn, thought Louise. “And Christopher is good, too,” said Flynn. “Hi, again, Chris. And by the way, friend, I need to get you alone one of these moments and talk about some technical plant lab stuff.”
Christopher Bailey gave Flynn a sincere nod. “Any time, Matt.” Anne smiled icily at Flynn. Perhaps she knew that more important things were at hand than palavering with colleagues.
Bouting said, “You may not have heard of Chris Bailey yet, but you will. They’re both rising stars in this field, topnotch botanists. Did I remember to tell you that Chris has crossed more successful new plant varieties than any scientist in the whole darned nation?”
“Yes, you did, in fact,” said Marty.
Bouting went on, undaunted, “You’re familiar with the two-crowned fuchsia coneflower, of course—Echinacea purpurea ‘Bailey’s Double Crown’? It’s a real market winner. That’s Chris’s flower.” He gave his assistant a fatherly smile. “Both he and Anne deserve a little time in front of the camera.”
For Marty Corbin, this Linnean lingo of genus, species, and cultivar was the last straw. He looked in despair at Joel Greene. The young associate producer nonchalantly murmured to the producer, “No problema.” Her producer was going to give in.
“Sure,” said Marty, “we can tape a scene with the three of you. You can talk over your business and how you do it.” A tight little grin and he continued, “God knows it’s a big enough business to be worth talkin’ about.” The producer looked at Anne Lansing standing there, ignoring Christopher Bailey. “But don’t forget what your boss said—you might end up on the cutting room floor.”
Anne Lansing smiled demurely and said, “I’m sure your cutting room floor is an interesting place to be.”
7
Thursday evening
Marty Corbin looked like a big, angry bear as he sat on the hotel terrace and drank his Lava Flow. Though bears, Louise realized, did not perspire like Marty did. He was muttering something to Steffi and Louise was just as glad that she couldn’t quite hear it.
Steffi reached over and grabbed her husband’s hand in hers. “Now, dear,” she advised him quietly, “don’t be profane. You’re just making it worse.” She turned to Louise and smiled indulgently. “He goes to St. Thomas’s almost every Sunday with me, you know. But he does lapse into profanity. I don’t know why he puts a middle initial in Jesus’s name.”
Louise sipped her tonic water. “Maybe he has a right to be upset.” She looked around the dimly lit terrace and noted the dress code hadn’t changed from last night. It was a little bit of everything: a woman or two in coif, jewels, and stylish gown; most people in laid-back sports outfits; and quite a number of couples in ponchos and rough shorts. These last had probably blown in from all-day boat and snorkling trips to the rugged northwest Na Pali coast. Louise felt she was dressed up just the right amount in a sleeveless navy blue pantsuit trimmed in white, worn with a bulky white necklace.
As if he were talking to himself, Marty growled, “That man Bouting, who does he think he is?”
“Millionaires think differently,” calmly retorted Louise.
“And how would you know that?” grumped Marty.
“From reading the business section of The Times.” She added, “And certain books. The Smartest Guys in the Room. Confederacy of Fools. It’s in their genetic code to think they can get away with things. That’s why so many of them are being prosecuted.”
“All I know is that now I got three goddamn segments to tape tomorrow and a whole flock of last-minute logistics. Where the hell’s Joel when I need him?” He frowned out at the world, as if the young man were lurking about. “No, he had to go home. Probably having his mother change his diapers, he’s so young.”
“Marty,” she cautioned him, “Joel’s twenty-three; he told me. And he’s acting like a real pro and you know it.” She didn’t know why her producer was still upset about having his shoot disrupted. The cutting room floor seemed a fine solution to her; it wouldn’t be the first time the crew had deliberately taped demanding people who were summarily cut from the tape during editing. Instead of talking about this ad infinitum, she looked at her producer and ran a hand across her throat and made a gutteral noise.
“Huh?” he said and then smiled. “Okay, Lou. So I just cut ’em out.”
“Whatever. Let’s order. I’m hungry.”
It wasn’t the way Louise had pictured a luau, complete with roasted pig in a pit. This one was in hotel style. It commenced immediately after the holy moment of sunset, with the trio of ukuleles, a singer, and two hula dancers performing as the torches were lit on the hotel terrace. The hula dancers were not especially beautiful except for their long brown hair and dazzling smiles, yet their rhythmic movements mesmerized the crowd. Their hips seemed to have a locomotive power totally separate from the rest of their bodies. They were big women, even bigger than Steffi, who was sitting there in her new muumuu from Hilo Hattie, another shop she and Louise had visited this afternoon. Louise had bought a muumuu too, but hadn’t felt c
omfortable enough to wear it. The dancers, like Steffi, had plenty of bust volume but little uplift. At Hilo Hattie, when Steffi bemoaned the difficulty of finding a proper bra to wear with her dress, the saleswoman had said, “This is Hawaii, hon; you just let ’em hang.”
Marty, Steffi, and John were all drinking mai tais. So that she wouldn’t feel left out of things, Louise had whispered to the waiter and he obligingly placed an umbrella atop her tonic water. As they drank and waited for their dinners to arrive, a lithe Hawaiian man in feathery headdress, G-string, and little else, came out on the terrace and appeared to swallow a fiery stick, bringing applause from the audience for both his feat and his remarkable brown body.
As soon as the women stopped doing the hula, Louise’s table was invaded. First to appear was Bruce Bouting, dapper as ever in a sports jacket and linen trousers. On either side of him were Anne Lansing and Christopher Bailey. Anne looked luminous in a green linen dress that matched her extraordinary eyes. Louise was familiar with this trick, since she had a lot of green in her own eyes. A green outfit brought the color out to its best advantage. Bouting was whispering in Anne’s ear. Christopher Bailey had dressed up a bit, but still fit the image of an intellectual nerd with faulty vision.
“Louise, Marty, John!” cried the white-haired scientist.
Uh oh, thought Louise, what does he want now?
Bouting spied Steffi Corbin, whom he apparently hadn’t met. He stepped close to her, bowed down and took her hand in his, and pressed it gently to his lips. “And I believe I can guess who this lovely lady is.”
As Marty introduced his wife, Louise could see her producer’s facial expression soften. Steffi positively melted as the scientist continued to hold onto her hand. Bouting certainly knew how to charm people, she thought.
The horticulturalist said, “I just stopped for a moment to say mahalo to you, Marty, for accommodating me.”
Marty waved a casual hand, his gaze flicking over to the beautiful Anne. “Don’t mention it.”
“Well, then,” said the scientist, as he bowed again and relinquished Steffi’s hand, “it’s been so good to meet you, dear lady. Now, we’d better be off to get our dinner. We’ll see you bright and early tomorrow at the Botanical Garden.”
After they’d left, Steffi cocked her head back, as if pretending to swoon. “What a charmer he is!” She looked at her hand. “I’ve never had my hand kissed before.”
Her husband laughed. “Tell her the real story, Lou—about how that thin layer of refinement covers an egocentric SOB who’s makin’ my job into a nightmare.”
“He is a bit difficult,” said Louise. “But as I said, it’s that millionaire mentality. Bruce Bouting doesn’t think like most people—”
“No,” interrupted Marty, “he thinks like an oversized baby.”
8
Not long after Bouting and his aides left to find seats in the dining room, two men strolled onto the terrace. One was Dr. Matthew Flynn. The other intrigued Louise. With their complexions like finely tanned leather and their campy shorts and boots, they looked like they had just stepped out of a jungle. Singly, each was handsome. Together, they made a striking pair that attracted every eye. Dr. Matthew Flynn’s white smile flashed a greeting as he strode toward their table. With him was a younger man, in his midthirties, Louise guessed, with hair bleached blond either from the sun or peroxide. He was as tall, well over six feet, and as fit looking as Flynn himself. A battered leather carry-all hung jauntily from his shoulder.
Flynn beamed down at Louise and her companions. “Since none of you have made any of the conference sessions yet,” he said, “you’ve not had the pleasure of meeting George Wyant, my assistant in the jungles. The one I bragged about this afternoon.”
Keeping his sun-bleached head low in an almost deferential way, Wyant shoved the carry-all out of the way and shook hands all around. At first, Louise could not understand why he looked a bit otherworldly. Then she realized it was because the pupils of his eyes were so large. He said, “I also help Matt, uh, Dr. Flynn, send herbarium sheets to various institutes for analysis. When we think we have something, I help pitch the products to worthy pharmaceutical outlets.” He gazed warily at first one, then another, at the table. Probably he was more comfortable in an Indian village in the Amazon than a luxury hotel.
“How versatile you are,” said Louise. “Have the two of you worked together for long?”
“It’s been five years now that I’ve accompanied Matt down to the Amazon basin—thanks mainly to National Scientific Foundation funding. On a few occasions I’ve come with him to the islands here to work with Tom Schoonover and Tim Raddant and Henry Hilaeo and the historian, Sam Folsom. You know, contributing chapters to books they’re writing. I’ve been with Dr. Flynn ever since I entered the doctoral program at Eastern.” He finally smiled and it took years off his golden face, which would probably still look youthful when he was fifty.
“My dissertation’s all about a great plant from the Amazon, one from the uncaria genus, a subspecies of Uncaria quianensis.” He glanced nervously at Matthew Flynn, as if for approval. Flynn quietly nodded. The older scientist was slouched back on his heels with his hands resting on his hips, like a runner at the conclusion of a race. He was as relaxed as his companion was nervous.
Having been given the go-ahead, Wyant continued, “The plant has dynamite possibilities, for instance, as an anti-inflammatory. But this subspecies seems especially promising in restoring cells after chemotherapy. That, of course, would be a fantastic breakthrough. I’ve written a little preview of its wonders for Science Magazine.”
“Great,” said Louise. “Uncaria quianensis. I better write that one down; I don’t think I’ve heard of it.” She took the pad and pen from her purse and jotted the name down as Wyant hovered over her shoulder to help her with the spelling.
Matthew Flynn laid a light hand on George Wyant’s bare forearm. “Now to change the subject.” He slid his other hand onto Marty Corbin’s shoulder, massaged the spot a little as if to take the knots out, and looked down at him sympathetically. Louise noted how freely this man liked to touch people. “I wanted to tell you, my man,” he said to her startled producer, who wasn’t used to being manipulated this way by another man, “that you handled all that second-guessing about the location shoot very graciously.”
“I hope so,” grumbled Marty.
Flynn laughed and said, “I had a wild idea I was gonna throw into the hopper, just as a joke.”
“What was that?” asked the producer.
“That we move all of us, the whole shoot, to the top of Tom Schoonover’s favorite cliff there.”
Louise said, “The one with all the native species? Actually, tomorrow, Henry Hilaeo—”
Flynn rushed on with his flippant idea. “There’s a little landing flat spot on top of it. We could all go up there and argue about the future of tropical plants.”
George Wyant shook his blond head. “Hey, I don’t think so,” he said slowly, enunciating each word. That was when Louise was convinced Wyant was high, even though she had scant experience in this realm. ”I can just see you and Bouting and Reuter having it out up there amidst the native plants.” He laughed. “One of you’d probably get pitched off the cliff.”
Now Louise could guess at least part of the contents of Wyant’s carry-on.
“I suppose that’s a distinct possibility,” said Dr. Flynn, not missing a beat. “Probably as dangerous as the Kalalau Trail.”
Louise had been attracted by this most dramatic of all trails in Kauai, but there was not enough time to do that difficult hike. “I hear that trail’s steep and muddy, but is it that dangerous?”
“Only if you don’t pay attention on those twelve-inch-wide paths along knife-edged slopes,” said Flynn. “More danger comes from the fact that the valleys are perfect places to raise pakalolo.” A euphoric look passed over his face, which gave his audience the clue that this was the Hawaiian word for marijuana.
“I
’ve tried it, of course,” said Flynn. “Very high quality, very nice. But maybe you don’t want the short course in native cannabis cultivation.”
John Batchelder, looking straight as an arrow, said, “I think it’s interesting.”
“All right,” said Flynn, in a voice that warned, you asked for it. “The problem up in the Na Pali is that the farmers who’re growing it don’t want tourists near their operations. That’s the way they make their nut, because the job market here, just like on the mainland, is not that great.” He shrugged gracefully. “Tourists are fine if they stay on the trails. But if they stray off the path and start to nose around, the growers are obliged to hassle ’em.”
The four at the table sat in silence. “Huh,” John Batchelder finally said, “it must be pretty strong, that marijuana.”
At this moment, the waiter arrived with the appetizers. He gave a sideways glance at their two table visitors, who’d become such a fixture that Louise wondered whether she shouldn’t invite them to pull up chairs and join them.
Flynn continued unabated. “As you know, there are various types of cannabis—you’ve heard of ‘Maui Wowie’ and ‘Kona Gold,’ haven’t you, John?”
“I . . . I guess so,” said John.
“Two hundred an ounce and worth every cent.” Another enigmatic smile, as his gaze slid from John to the dark ocean beyond the terrace. “It’s definitely the best for sex.” Then, as if remembering where he was, Flynn pulled in a deep breath and turned to Louise and Steffi. “Sorry, ladies,” he said, “I didn’t mean to get graphic.”
Louise’s mouth was agape, but Steffi was unfazed. Comfortable and mother-of-the-world-looking in her braless Hawaiian dress, she slanted a look up at Matthew Flynn. “I bet the ganja on this island is not as strong as some of the hallucinogenics you two run into in the Amazonian forests, right? I’ve read about you people in books—what do you call yourselves?”