Death in the Orchid Garden

by Ann Ripley

  There was a murmur of agreement.

  Schoonover rubbed his hands, as if in anticipation. His hazel eyes crinkled with pleasure. “Let me finish quickly. Since we arrive at Volcanoes National Park around twelve thirty, that gives us three hours to see the other sights. Some may want to come with me when I hike the Kilauea Iki crater; it is adjacent to the larger crater. It takes you across an old lava field with lots of new plant growth in it and a tropical rain forest as well. I have to warn you that it’s a little steep in spots.”

  John Batchelder gave Louise a wall-eyed look; she guessed he wouldn’t choose to take the crater hike.

  Schoonover continued in a reverential voice. “These craters, folks, with their steam vents and tiny new trees, are the essential story of the volcano—destruction leading to rebirth.”

  “I’ll go down the crater with you,” said Charles Reuter with a grin. “You had me with ‘old crackly lava field.’” Louise was glad to see the man had a little humor in him. “Nate will come, too.”

  “Great,” said Schoonover. Apparently sensing he’d digressed, he snapped back into a practical mode: “Some may prefer an easier trip—driving around the big Kilauea Crater, maybe visiting the museum, and walking the Thurston Lava Tube. If you do the tube, remember the best part is the second part, which is pitch dark and has stalactites.

  “In other words,” he continued, “we can go in two directions. Sergeant Yee and Sergeant Binder”—he nodded at the two uniformed policemen—“have agreed to be our drivers. They’ll pick people up at one of two places. At four o’clock, the two carfuls can regroup at Volcano House and we’ll grab dinner. That gives us plenty of time to drive in tandem down Chain of Craters Road and park as close as possible to the fireworks. Once there, we employ the buddy system; it’s better to be with someone than to be alone.”

  Sergeant David Binder chimed in. “A reality check, folks: The plane back to Kauai leaves Hilo at ten-thirty. That means we have to depart the Volcanoes National Park area promptly at eight. That allows maybe a couple of hours to view lava. We’ll have lots of company down there at the vent because people all over the world have heard about it. You’d never get a hotel room on the Big Island, so good thing we’re flying back tonight, where you do have a room.”

  Schoonover smiled at the policeman and turned to his little tour group. “The lava’s an absolutely captivating sight and you’ll feel like staying all night. But under the circumstances, we’re lucky to be able to make this trip at all. Two hours of viewing ought to be fine.”

  27

  Early Sunday afternoon

  It was a windy trip and the pilot had warned there might be turbulence, but they had nearly reached the Big Island. Travel time to Hilo from Lihue was less than an hour. In that scant period, Louise, sitting in a rear seat, watched Bruce Bouting in safari hat and dashing khakis flourishing a silver-tipped cane and working the plane like a celebrity working a room. His hat shoved well back on his thatch of white hair, the plantsman was the picture of a bon vivant, she noticed. The only thing missing was a drink in his hand. And yet he was a high-strung bon vivant, talking a little too much for anyone’s comfort, his blue eyes darting about as if he were concerned about a surprise attack from the rear.

  He chatted about things Louise knew from reading travel books: how this hottest spot on earth with its myriad volcanic craters had attracted thousands of people over the years, including notables like Mark Twain and European royalty, who stood gaping in awe at the boiling lava in the Halemaumau crater.

  “It’s a truly hypnotic experience, if you haven’t been here before during an eruption.” He spoke of how they would have to be careful, since the steam vents occasionally broke open and scalded a bystander or two to death. “Or, even more remotely, the earth could open up right by your feet, exposing a brand-new vent in a lava tube that has been pressured toward the sea.” On a more personal note, he told them about how he’d tumbled down the steps to the hotel dining room this morning. “A depth perception thing, you know.” He’d ended up with a sore knee. Thus the cane. He’d have to save the knee for walking down near the lava flow.

  Injured knee or not, he hardly sat at all on the short trip, traveling from seat to seat. He started in back, chatting first with her and John, who had been busy talking about some future program ideas for Gardening with Nature.

  Since Louise sat in the aisle seat, Bouting took that as an excuse to lean into her space; she could even smell his peppermint breath. Hadn’t he understood her message that she was married and unavailable? It was a windy day today. She wondered what would happen if they ran into turbulence. Would the flirty old coot topple into her lap?

  Then he’d moved over for a few polite words with Nate Bernstein and Charles Reuter. Reuter, for a change, didn’t give him the cold shoulder. Maybe the prospect of a field trip had mellowed him. Next, Bouting had a conversation with Ralph Pinsky, the one he’d claimed had a possible reason to murder Matthew Flynn. It was short and apparently unproductive, with Pinsky seemingly more interested in adjusting and readjusting the cord on his wide-brimmed Trilby hat than talking.

  Louise knew how hard it was to engage the soft-spoken Pinsky, for she’d tried to talk to him as they’d waited to board the plane. He’d looked down at her through those blank eyes and deflected every question. Then he turned the tables and inquired about her, her TV program, and even asking her what she raised in her northern Virginia garden. His pleasant midwestern twang barely masked his standoffishness.

  Bouting stopped next to talk to Tom Schoonover and Henry Hilaeo, but that was also a no-go, since Tom was busily editing page proofs and Henry was his usual taciturn self.

  Finally, the scientist approached the two sober-faced Kauai County policemen sent with them on the trip and tried to jolly them up a bit. Then, looking drained, he returned to his seat near his seatmate, Anne Lansing, who was togged out in a khaki-colored suit with a turquoise bandanna at the neck. He jumped up again when he spied Christopher Bailey leaving the minuscule restroom and limped up to his aide. This forced Ralph Pinsky to crowd around the horticulturalist to get into the restroom and John, next in line, to press against the bulkhead.

  Bouting began whispering to his aide, appearing agitated. Christopher looked at him with his usual devoted and businesslike expression and tried to calm him down. Anne then got up and joined them, offering Bouting a pill and a plastic water bottle. Once he’d downed the pill, she and Chris quietly persuaded their boss to return to his seat.

  Louise wondered about the exact state of Bruce Bouting’s health. Today, his infirmities were noticeable, but fortunately, Chris and Anne were there to act as nurses. She was relieved that the man had finally come to rest; he had tired her out just watching him.

  Only George Wyant, huddled in a seat behind the cockpit and frowning out the plane window, had been spared Bouting’s manic chatter. Wyant was a traumatized human being, she observed, only a shadow of his cocky, youthful self. Was it because he’d killed Matthew Flynn and knew the cops were closing in, or because he didn’t kill him and wondered who had? One thing was sure, everyone in this group thought Flynn had been murdered. Thanks to the young man’s public outburst last night, word had spread that his machete was missing and the police were suspicious of him. They also knew that divers had gone down off Shipwreck Rock to look for a discarded weapon. It would be an uncomfortable day for George Wyant.

  Louise was startled out of her thoughts when the plane took a hard bounce. The pilot immediately came on the loudspeaker and warned that they’d encountered “a little rough air.” This sent John Batchelder hurrying back to his seat.

  As he secured his seat belt, he turned to Louise. “I have something to tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  Just then, the plane made a convulsive sweep downward, then up again. Her colleague froze in his seat and closed his eyes. John was suspicious of the least deviance in airplanes, even the sound of landing gear descending and retracting, much
less this bucketing-bronco ride. “I’ll tell you about it later,” he said through clenched teeth.

  In the hustle and bustle of leaving the plane, she failed to ask him what he wanted to tell her, for he was still shaky from the rough landing. And she had her focus on another person, George Wyant.

  She decided to take the initiative. True, the police might be checking him out as a murder suspect, but she felt sorry for the young man. It wouldn’t hurt to be nice to him, especially with two uniformed police around in case she’d judged him too sympathetically.

  28

  At the rental car lot, those who preferred exploring the Thurston Tube and the periphery of the Kilauea caldera got in one van with Sergeant Binder. They were the gimpy Dr. Bouting, Anne Lansing, Christopher Bailey, Henry Hilaeo, and, to Louise’s surprise, John Batchelder. Louise had guessed that her cohost disliked the prospect of hiking down four hundred almost-vertical feet into the Kilauea Iki caldera. Sitting happily between Bouting and the toothsome Anne in the backseat, John gaily waved good-bye to her.

  Now on her own with a clutch of scientists and Sergeant William Yee, Louise approached the droopy-shouldered Wyant. He was like a tall young tree suffering from drought.

  “Aloha, George,” she said.

  “Hey,” he said. She could sense that through his dark glasses he was trying to read her face.

  “So you’re hiking with us today. That’s great.”

  “I had to do something besides sitting in that hotel.” Apparently convinced her friendliness was genuine, he fell in step with her. She glanced at the others, Tom Schoonover, Ralph Pinsky, Charles Reuter, and Nate Bernstein, and could hardly restrain a smile. She would be hiking in one of the world’s magical places with five outstanding botanists. She only hoped they’d accept Wyant into the group.

  As she turned to Tom Schoonover, she said, “I see that you’ve wisely sent Henry Hilaeo with the others.”

  The scientist dropped his gaze, as if he didn’t want to reveal his true feelings. “I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at, Louise.” He held out his hand. “Here, let me help you into the van.”

  It was a brief trip to the trail head in Volcanoes National Park. After that, the next three hours unfolded like a dream. From the moment they began their magical descent through a tropical thicket into the caldera, her scientist companions took on a different persona. They accepted her and the Kauai policeman, Sergeant Yee, as eager pupils. If anyone bore animosity against George Wyant, it seemed to be forgotten. What brought them together was their passion for nature. They chattered happily about each passing wonder like children at a theme park, with even George chiming in.

  Once they’d descended from the lush forest to the stark lava floor, they saw a small green growth in the cracks in the barren ground. Ralph Pinsky, no longer unapproachable, caught her eye. “Mrs. Eldridge and Sergeant Yee, you newcomers to the field of botany must check out this fine new little Ohia lehua,” he said, pulling out his hand lens and bending over the tiny tree for a better look. “It’s somewhat imperiled and is making its way under difficult conditions.” Politely, he handed the lens to Louise and said, “It’s one of the first plants to take root after a lava flow. The honeycreepers, the iiwi, and apapane find sanctuary in this active volcanic world. They feed on these lehua blossoms.” She gave it a close inspection, then passed the lens on to Sergeant Yee.

  The sergeant looked, turned to her with a grin, and said, “I feel like I’m in an advanced placement science class. What about you?” She agreed, then returned the lens to the scientist.

  Forgotten, seemingly, by all of them was the fact that Matthew Flynn was dead and his death a mystery yet to be solved. For here they were, in a unique place where new land was being formed by molten rock before their eyes, where volcanoes had given rise to a tumultous, otherworldly landscape of craters, forests, lava tubes, hills, and nature systems such as the lush rain forest in which they now walked. Ascending again into the rain forest, the scientists greeted each new variety of fern and plant such as a rare lobelia, as if it were an old friend, identifying and sometimes arguing about its provenance. Tom Schoonover, the taxonomist, was bowed to as the final authority. In the wonder of it all, time seemed to stand still.

  But all too soon the hike was over. They finished their climb to the crater’s rim and saw that the six from the other van were lounging in the shade, waiting for them. John gave her only a distant wave as he continued to converse with Anne Lansing and Christopher Bailey. In two vans they drove the short distance to the historic Volcano House, where they were to have dinner.

  It took only the walk into this rustic relic of a building for her to see that John had fallen under Anne Lansing’s spell. It was obvious in the way that he ignored her and made a beeline to Anne’s side and took a seat next to her at the table. Louise quickly sat in the seat on the other side of him, but then was faintly annoyed when Bruce Bouting sat on the other side of her.

  Before Dr. Bouting could launch into his monologues, she turned to her cohost. “John, you were going to tell me something.”

  He pulled in a noisy breath between his teeth, then looked self-consciously around in case anyone had noticed. No one had. “Not now, Louise,” he said, in an impatient voice and immediately turned back to Anne Lansing.

  She dipped her head to get a better look at Anne. Louise saw that the woman’s clothes clung to her curves in a tempting way. Her unusual yellow-green eyes, red-painted lips, and glossy bob were only accented by the bland colors that she wore.

  Louise sighed. She’d have thought a newly engaged man like John would have more self-control. For some reason, she’d had a protective feeling toward John, but realized this was silly; her colleague ought to be mature enough to handle dealings with strange, beautiful women. She studied her menu, ordered the restaurant’s famous duck l’orange, then turned to Dr. Bouting, resigned to the fact that she was trapped in his conversational lair. Looking into his lively face, she searched it to find the good there, the good that her wise father said resided in every man.

  “My dear,” he said, a gleam in his eye as he reached over a big paw and placed it on hers. She had the clear feeling he’d temporarily forgotten her name. “We dropped into the snack bar here earlier for a soft drink and saw the most incredible films of old eruptions. Those volcanists, what plucky people they are, walking right up to the flows! How I wish I were twenty years younger.”

  Smiling philosophically, she withdrew her hand. “Indeed, Dr. Bouting, you seem to be doing just fine at the age you are. You are quite an unstoppable man.”

  29

  Sunday evening

  In a herd of other cars, the two vans moved slowly down toward the sea, where the action took place. Within ten miles of the new vents, they could see eruptions of lava into the sky. While their excitement grew, their pace slowed. The cars had to maneuver into a crowded parking lot. National park rangers in their muted green uniforms ringed the area, waving flashlights to direct the drivers into snug parking slots.

  “My God, that’s wonderful,” exclaimed George Wyant.

  “It truly is,” echoed Charles Reuter. “I’ve visited this place before, but I never thought I’d be able to get as close as this.”

  Nor did I, thought Louise.

  Along with a crowd of other wide-eyed visitors, they stepped out of the van for the hike to the edge of the flow. The first thing that struck Louise was the noise, not only of the excited crowd, but the explosive sounds from the lava vent, then the crackling sounds as the thick, viscous pahoehoe thinned out and turned into a’a. Finally, there were the huge hissing reverberations from the boiling sea as two thousand-degree molten rock hit its cool depths.

  Before anyone dispersed, Tom Schoonover managed to round up the group. “This is going to be one of the exceptional experiences of your life,” he told them. “I urge you to stay together, with a partner or partners. It’s perfectly safe, but be wary of a change in the wind, which might blow noxious fumes your
way. Watch out underfoot. If you fall, you can get cut badly by the jagged lava. Don’t forget to drink water to avoid dehydration. You must, of course, stay within the boundaries set by the park rangers.”

  “Something we already understand full well,” snapped Bruce Bouting, who seemed to soar loftily above all instructions.

  Tom Schoonover continued unfazed. He looked up through a sky still rosy-colored from the sunset at a white quarter of a moon. As they watched, a cloud passed over it. “Consider the sky and the clouds and the moon, folks, and then look there.” He pointed to a molten trench some thousand yards up the hill, where the earth was boiling. Orange lava spewed far up into the air, then fell into hundreds of rivulets that came streaming down toward the sea. “It’s eating up more ground as we speak—and also creating more benches of land near the ocean.”

  Louise caught her breath, for in the dimming light Tom’s face looked almost saintly. “Again,” he said, “that pattern of destruction and creation which we are privileged to see. Now, go enjoy this wonderful moment on this wonderful planet. And remember to go with a buddy or two for safety.”

  The others hurried off, Charles Reuter and Nate Bernstein in the company of George Wyant, who’d lost his desolate manner and seemed almost a happy man. Ralph Pinsky had pulled a professional-quality face mask out of his fanny pack and adjusted it over his nose, then went off with Henry Hilaeo.