by Ann Ripley
“Why do you think that?”
“Because it’s a good place to throw a weapon. The murderer probably thinks the water there descends like a mountain. I mean, folks read the guide books and picture a huge, twenty-five thousand-foot tall cone that is the underwater base of this island. But I happen to know that there’s a shelf down there about eighteen feet. Some big, gougy knife—I figure that’s what the killer used—could have been flung down there. It wouldn’t slide all the way from here to eternity, like some gullible murderer might think. It’s perched right down there, ready for some diver to retrieve.”
Louise was tugging to retrieve a memory of something said about a big knife . . .
They’d reached the mouth of the path leading to the hotel’s lagoon. The surfer said, “You take it easy, now. Will we see you at sunset?”
She shook her head, already missing the thought of the quasi-religious sunset ceremony. “As much as I enjoy those streaks of green, my colleagues and I are going off campus tonight.”
He waved. “I may be busy at sunset, too. You have a good time and stay out of trouble, now.”
She glanced at his tall, muscular figure. The man who was always on the beach, at daybreak and at dusk, who’d turned up just moments after she’d discovered Matthew Flynn’s body; surely he had been questioned about Flynn’s fall. The police probably knew the man, for he was as much a fixture here as beach umbrellas and hotly contested beach chairs.
Approaching the lagoon, she saw that the coast was clear. No Bruce Bouting lurking about. Dropping off her beach bag in the shady alcove, she walked back to the family beach, found a big, white chaise longue, and dragged it the considerable distance to her hiding place.
She adjusted the longue and looked up. The monkeypod tree let through only dappled patches of sunlight, but just for good luck she slapped sunblock on her face, shoulders, chest, stomach, and legs. Then, hoping to take a quick nap, she adjusted her hat over her forehead and lay back. Before she could close her eyes, however, she glimpsed a nearby Sago palm, which brought her wide awake again. She sat up straight and stared at it.
The plant was a beauty, its repetitive, curving leaves a masterpiece of order. Louise knew little about fractals, but conjectured that this palm was an example of fractal geometric design in nature.
She lay back on the chaise and quietly groaned. Would that her life had such order! A wave of depression swarmed over her, as powerful as one of the salty ocean waves she’d battled. Instead of order, she realized, her life often verged on chaos. Why was it that she was continually drawn into crime? It was never of her volition. Nonsensically, the words of poet Emily Dickinson came to mind: Because I could not stop for death / He kindly stopped for me . . .
Death had unkindly stopped for her more than once. Last summer, she’d had no desire to find two corpses buried in her own backyard garden, nor was it her wish to stumble upon Matthew Flynn’s body last night while viewing a Hawaiian sunset.
Her husband was right: At all costs, she needed to stay out of the police investigation or she’d end up needing that rest cure. With this thought, she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
21
Cold drops fell on her calf and she leapt from sleep into wakefulness. “What!” she cried, sitting up suddenly so that her book fell to the grass.
“Gotcha,” said John Batchelder, standing over her and grinning like a kid. His 7UP was poised over her leg.
He plunked down beside her chair. “You were dead to the world, Louise.”
She gradually relaxed again and rested her head back on the chaise, her hat tilted far over her eyes. “John, I’m exhausted. You’ve interrupted my sleep.”
Her ebullient colleague had no regrets. “You’re the one who said I could find you here. So here I am, loaded with ideas.”
“Ohhh,” she groaned and shoved her hat back so she could get a look at him. It was shocking, for she’d never seen this young cohost of hers without his clothes on. The reverse was also true, she realized, as she reclined there in her brief, two-piece suit.
Besides his handsome face and outstandingly attractive golden eyes, John had a body with surprisingly wide shoulders and slim hips. She was relieved not to have a view of anything more—his bathing suit was an old-fashioned boxy style that might have been popular in the fifties. Since she knew he’d seen her turning her laser eye on him, Louise admitted as much. “John, you’ve got a very nice body. I hope your fiancée Linda appreciates that.” She tried not to smile.
“She does, she does, I swear she does,” said John. Louise realized he was in one of his manic moods. She’d read about hypomania in the Times, which had published a chart on the subject. She’d diagnosed her compatriot as being an “occasionally” manic type without the tendency to get depressed. Since she noticed the same qualities in herself, she’d concluded it was a positive and not a negative. “Louise,” he said, giving her a sincere look, “let’s not dwell on how beautiful my body is, though I sincerely enjoy the compliment. What I want to talk about is the murder.”
“You’re sure it’s a murder?”
“I’m pretty sure. I could tell from that little bit you told us last night, before the cops advised you not to tell us any more.”
“Well,” she said, “aren’t you the smart one.”
“Yes, I am,” he said and pulled a notepad out of his beach bag. “I’ve got notes, Louise, lots of notes. I’ve been taking them all morning.” He fastened his gaze on her again. “Look, we’ve got to investigate.”
“Why?”
“Well, we’re right here. We’ve gotten to know all these people. It had to be one of the people we’ve been dealing with for three days or so. Here, let me read this.” He flipped open the notepad. “Number one; George Wyant—who looks awful, I might add—has had some big fights with the dead man.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me himself after that police briefing. It was like he was in a confessional. ‘I feel so bad because I’d just gotten in a big battle with Matt over how to proceed next with something-or-other-research on something-or-other plant.’ Didn’t get the name of the plant.”
“Maybe it was the plant the two of them were hoping would be a medical breakthrough.”
“Yeah,” said John, “that was it.”
“It’s the subject of George Wyant’s doctoral dissertation.”
“Well, there you have it—one suspect in Matthew Flynn’s murder.”
Louise couldn’t help smiling. “I think we’re getting ahead of the police.”
“It isn’t going to hurt. I don’t think they have that many cops out here, Louise. There’s not much crime in the islands, you know.”
“I suppose not.”
He flipped over another page. “Here’s what I’ve got on Charles Reuter. Want to hear about that?”
“Sure,” said Louise. She pulled her hat farther over her eyes and closed them.
“I heard, from Chris and Anne—you know those two—that Charles Reuter has waged a print fight in Nature and magazines like that with our Dr. Flynn. Reuter, and by extension, you might say, his man Bernstein, hated Flynn’s guts.”
“That’s what Chris Bailey and Anne Lansing told you, hmm?”
“Yep. Dr. Reuter is one of those who takes seriously the fact that third world countries have been ripped off forever by botanists coming in and stealing their plants. He apparently accused Matthew Flynn of hypocrisy in the way he operates in the Amazon.”
“So that’s enough motive to kill a person?”
John shrugged his expansive, golden shoulders. “I don’t know. What do you think?”
“In the interests of full disclosure, I guess I’d better tell you what Dr. Bouting told me this morning.”
“You’d better,” replied John. “He’s a smart old coot and he’s sure been around.”
“He told me of several instances where Dr. Flynn beat out someone else while plant hunting in foreign lands. For instance, Flynn’s
discovery of a cattleya orchid right here in Hawaii. Bouting thinks either Tom Schoonover or Henry Hilaeo would be sore over that.”
“So we have Wyant, Reuter, Bernstein, Schoonover, and Hilaeo. Of course, we can’t limit the suspects to just them. There’s also the Bouting crowd—Bouting himself, or Chris, or Anne. But what would their motive be?”
“Chris, as you call him now, was outmaneuvered by Matthew Flynn when they were both hunting for a species of mum in China. So, incidentally, was Dr. Ralph Pinsky. That plant grab took place in Turkey.” She pointed to his notepad. “You’d better jot down Pinsky on your list, if you insist on making a list. On the other hand, the Bouting Horticulture people don’t seem to have a reason to kill. Their company’s making money hand over fist. Christopher and Anne and their boss seem to get along well. Why ruin everything by committing a murder?”
“I see your point,” conceded John.
She waved her hand in the air, warming to the topic at last. “We have to remember something about people who murder—most of them only do it once. And the person wouldn’t kill lightly, just for the sake of killing. The person would have had to have a good reason. I’m not sure these motives we’re talking about are strong enough. On the other hand—”
She didn’t want to share this with her colleague, but her husband back in Washington, D.C., might shed light on the question of motive. She ought to hear back from Bill before the day was over.
“On the other hand what?” asked John.
“On the other hand, it’s very responsible of you to be so concerned. Murder is an insult to us all. That is, if it is murder.”
“Quit saying that, Louise,” rebuked John. “You know darned well in your heart—” He had been hunched forward, his arms clasped around his bare legs, staring out into the ocean. Suddenly, he sat up straight and slapped a palm against the side of his head. “Of course,” he said, “that could be the weapon . . .”
He leaped up and shoved his beach bag onto his shoulder. “I’ve just had a brainstorm: I know where the murder weapon is and I’m gonna go tell that police chief all about it.” He loped off across the lawn. Louise took a deep, relieved breath and soon drifted off to sleep again.
22
Saturday afternoon
Police Chief Randy Hau had been at it for hours, interviewing hotel guests in this improvised police office that looked like a peacock’s den. He’d be glad to return to his dull beige-walled office in Lihue when this was over. Not only were the surroundings overdone, but his stomach was growling. All he’d had to eat this day was that puny gourmet breakfast in the conference room. With this Matthew Flynn death, not only was he overdue for lunch, he was overdue at home to start a two-week vacation with his wife and little boys. He sighed, picked up his Coke from off the sandalwood desk, and gulped down the remaining contents.
Kauai-by-the-Sea’s public relations manager Melanie Sando had turned her well-equipped office over to the chief for the interviews. Otherwise, he would have had a stream of protesting hotel clients traveling the twelve miles to police headquarters. Lieutenant Payne came to the office door, cocked his head back a fraction of an inch, and reported, “Got another one.”
“Fine,” said Hau. “Send him or her in.”
“Him,” said the lieutenant, looking dubious. “It’s John Batchelder, one of the TV people.”
He’d had a few words already with Batchelder. What else did he have to offer? Maybe he was a nut-hatch, thought Hau. Suspicious deaths brought out the nutty side of characters who had their own theory of what happened.
“Aloha,” said the man, who wore only a bathing suit and one of the hotel’s distinctive towels with green and white stripes and the hotel emblem slung around his wide shoulders. “I’m John Batchelder. We met in the police briefing this morning. I’m with WTBA-TV; I’m cohost of the gardening show.”
“I remember talking to you, Mr. Batchelder. You look excited. Sit down first and relax.” Hau could see the man was bursting to tell his story.
Batchelder sat forward in his seat and whipped off his sunglasses, revealing what Hau thought of as a sissy face. “Chief Hau, I heard something the other night, Thursday night, I guess. No, I take that back. It was Thursday afternoon when a group of us were talking about the Friday shoot at the tropical gardens. Now, I distinctly remember Dr. Flynn bragging about his assistant.”
“George Wyant, you mean?”
“Yeah.” Batchelder looked around the highly decorated office, momentarily distracted, or was he having second thoughts? “I feel a little uncomfortable about telling you about this. I mean, I have no gripe with George Wyant; I hope you understand that.”
“Just go ahead, Mr. Batchelder, with your account. What did Dr. Flynn say about his assistant?”
The young man’s eyes were unusual, thought Chief Hau. He couldn’t decide whether it was the shape of the eyes or the character of the man that gave them that look.
Batchelder said, “Matthew Flynn bragged about how well George Wyant could cut through the Amazonian jungles with his machete. Like a ‘knife through hot butter,’ or some such metaphor.”
“That’s very interesting, Mr. Batchelder. Did Dr. Flynn mention that he had a machete?”
“Yes, he said Wyant carried it with him in case he needed it when he went to the Na Pali coast, or something.”
Hau leaned back in the tall-backed leather executive chair. “Why would you think the machete was pertinent to Dr. Flynn’s death?”
“Because of what Louise said when she first came back to the hotel last night. She told us Matthew Flynn had a terrible deep gash on his neck and that his head was partially crushed.”
“Of course. She told you and the Corbins that, right? I don’t think she mentioned it to others, because I caught up with her and told her to keep the details to herself.”
Batchelder’s remarkable eyes widened. “Oh, I’m sure she did. That was all she ever told us about it, except she did describe the way she hurt her hand.”
“How’d she say she did that?” The thrown rock had convinced Chief Hau that it was murder, for investigation showed there were few loose rocks on the top of the Shipwreck Rock cliff.
“She said she scraped it when she was moving his body back from the ledge.”
Good girl, thought Randy Hau. Mrs. Eldridge knows how to tell a white lie.
On the other hand, it didn’t matter whether or not the Eldridge woman had gossiped to her friends. The word was already out through Bobby Rankin that this was more than an accident. In fact, when Bobby had dropped in a few minutes ago, he cheerily admitted to the chief that he was the one who’d passed the word that Flynn’s head was almost “torn off.” No one but Hau and his evidence technicians knew that the pool of blood found this morning near the edge of the cliff indicated clearly that a murder was committed up there and the body then thrown over the edge.
“So, getting back to this machete, you apparently believe that it might be the murder weapon—provided that it was a murder.”
“That’s what I think,” said Batchelder. “And what’s more, I think you might find it if you sent some divers down off Shipwreck Rock.”
Randy Hau, a native of Kauai, knew that water and knew there was another slab of underwater lava laid down at some earlier time, all around 5 million years back. He and Bobby Rankin had just finished talking about how it might make sense to dive down and search that shelf and how Bobby could have the job if he did it discreetly.
Hau stood up behind his desk and extended his hand. “Good thinking, John Batchelder. We’ll look into this.”
Batchelder smiled broadly. “I enjoy the thought of helping the police. Remember, I did tell you that Louise Eldridge has done just that on a number of occasions.”
Chief Hau nodded his head. “You mentioned that this morning. She told me that she wasn’t interested in pursuing this case.”
Batchelder chuckled. “She may not want to, but I do. And when I learn something, I’m going to bring it r
ight to you, Chief.”
“Um, Mr. Batchelder, do all the speculating you want, but please try not to get . . . involved. After all, if you think Matthew Flynn was killed, that means there’s a killer out there. Right?”
“Right,” said the young man, looking uncertain.
“So you be careful. Let us do our job, okay?”
“Yes, Chief Hau, I take your point.” He bound out of the office, apparently eager to get on with things. Randy Hau rolled his eyes. It was one thing to have a local friend like Bobby Rankin helping him out, but John Batchelder was too much. Manic, Hau would say if he were to make a diagnosis. He just hoped the fellow didn’t get himself in any deeper than he could handle.
The bane of the police’s existence, the chief had heard, was the amateur detective butting in. He’d never had this happen before and it was dispiriting that it had to happen with his first murder case.
23
The kielbasa from the lagoon-side snack shop cost only three times what she would have paid at home, so Louise thought it a relative bargain, especially since the snack shop itself was picturesque, complete with faux thatched roof, to resemble an old Hawaiian house. Refreshed from her nap, she was at last doing the ultimate tourist thing: simultaneously eating, lounging, and reading. She could almost forget the recurring image of Matthew Flynn’s eyes staring up at her.
She was well protected, shielded with a mass of shrubs and trees. She heard people chatting as they passed, but did not see them nor could they see her. Just beyond the foliage was a bench where people stopped to rest and converse in low but audible voices. One conversation was between giggling newlyweds. The bride had misplaced her birth control pills in the excess of luggage in their hotel room. The groom assured her that they probably wouldn’t need them right away. Louise stared out toward the voices, knowing how wrong he was. She felt her back muscles tensing; the do-good busybody inside her said to leap up and tell this couple that they’d better find those pills if they weren’t ready for a baby next November. She thought the better of it, sat back in her lounge chair, and reminisced.