Death In Paradise

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Our thongs shushed against apricot tiles. Belle reached the center of the iron railing. She looked over the railing. “Do you see the trail? Steps go down from each lanai to a trail that’s been cut out of the cliff. It runs the length of the house. Other paths lead down to the pond beneath the falls. And there is a path up to the falls, but that isn’t safe. I’m sure Richard was on the main trail. It is well lighted at night.”

  We looked down. I saw the trail, perhaps three feet in width at the most, clinging to the side of the cliff, a walkway with an eagle’s view. It would take a good head for heights. And then I looked past the trail, down, down, down.

  “The police thought he must have fallen not far from the steps to his lanai.”

  My lanai now.

  “He was found near the kukui trees.” Belle pointed far down the canyon to a stand of trees with pale green foliage.

  I held tight to the railing, fighting off dizziness and such a surge of feeling—anger and despair and horror—that I was afraid for a moment I might fall. Or faint.

  Thin, strong fingers gripped my elbow. Even through the pain, I was terribly aware of Belle’s touch. She led me away from the railing to a wicker sofa.

  Her words seemed to come from a long distance. “…still don’t understand how it happened. Perhaps vertigo. Perhaps he slipped. We’ll never know.” Her face was bleak. “It must have happened quickly. He didn’t call out. Or if he did, no one heard him.” Her voice wavered.

  I looked deep into her eyes. For an instant, those brilliant blue eyes were alive with pain and sorrow and anguish.

  We told each other so much without words in that silent exchange.

  I loved Richard.

  Belle loved Richard.

  We looked at each other and understood that this man had meant the world to both of us.

  She settled back against the couch, folded her arms. Now her face was cool and aloof. The emotion I’d seen in her eyes—a softness, a caring—was gone as if it had never been. The gaze she turned on me was thoughtful, considering. “Is this why you’ve come?”

  I’d been pummeled by emotion, but I couldn’t afford at this moment to be affected by my sorrow and anger over Richard’s death. I could not think about his terror and pain. Not now. Later I could weep. But now I had to control my feelings. I must be careful, without seeming at all to be careful.

  When facing despair and destruction, Richard often found comfort in Hugh Latimer’s exhortation to his compan

  ion as both were to be burned at the stake for heresy: Play

  the man, Master Ridley…

  Play the man.

  How hard it is to have courage.

  “I hope I will find closure.” Yes, indeed, that was my hope. And now, now came the lie. “I was so grateful to receive your letter inviting me to come this week. Every year the anniversary of his death has been very hard. I couldn’t picture what happened. It had no reality. I only knew how it felt to see his casket lowered from an airplane. But now, I can see where he died. The cliff—what a terrible fall!” I closed my eyes briefly, then said determinedly, “But I needed to see it. I appreciate being able to come here.”

  Belle was quiet for so long I thought she wasn’t going to answer. Those cool dark blue eyes studied me. Finally, she said, “I would not turn away Richard’s wife.”

  Once again our glances met. This time I wasn’t sure what I saw.

  Her silvery voice was thoughtful as she continued, “But I must tell you, Henrie O, that I did not write to you.”

  Now I faced the greatest challenge.

  I felt a sudden wash of sheer misery. I hated doing this. Belle had made me welcome as Richard’s wife. I was accepting her hospitality, had, in effect, demanded her hospitality. But I’d begun the lie, and I had to carry on.

  It had seemed, thousands of miles away, propelled by the message that Richard was murdered, the only possible way to gain entrance here. I’d gone to a great deal of trouble, taking time to find a letter from Belle to Richard, carefully copying her signature. (“Dear Richard, Thank you so much for the review of the new book on William Allen White. He has always…”) A letter between friends, between colleagues. I’d simply plucked an envelope from his files, having no idea what I would find. I was so grateful that there was no trace of passion in that letter. I would not, could not

  read all the letters they’d exchanged. That was not my right. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

  Oh, yes, I had my forged invitation with me. I’d even made certain it had fingerprints other than mine. Just in case. How? I’d dropped it out of my purse at the grocery and the woman standing behind me picked it up, handed it to me. At that point, it was a cerebral exercise, a coldly calculated, carefully devised game.

  Now I struggled to maintain my composure. Was it any wonder I looked uncomfortable? “You didn’t write to me? But I have the letter. I can show it to you.” Indeed I could. If I had the stomach for it. “You…the letter invited me to come, to arrive today and spend a week. I don’t understand.”

  “Nor do I.” She studied me intently and now I saw a reserve, a question. Not suspicion. Not yet.

  “You didn’t…Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll leave at once. I’m so sorry…” I started to rise.

  “No.” She reached out, caught my hand, her touch again cool but firm. “You mustn’t leave. I am delighted to have you at Ahiahi.”

  “Belle, I wouldn’t dream of—”

  “No, you must stay. There’s no more to be said about that. Come.” Once again she was a hostess with a determined smile. “Let’s go inside. We’ve left our sherry there.”

  I suppose I should have felt triumphant as we walked back into the lovely room. Instead I felt weary, tired, empty. Yet I knew I had to remain alert. It would be so easy to say the wrong thing. I don’t know when I’ve ever felt more alone, more uncertain.

  Oh, Richard, have I gone at it all wrong? She cared for you. Should I have told her the truth? Should I tell her now?

  But I had arrived under false pretenses. Wouldn’t Belle toss me out of her home? Even if she understood the desperate reason for deception?

  And I had to stay here. I would never know the truth of Richard’s death unless I plumbed the secrets of this mountain hideaway. What happened to Richard six years ago was locked within the heart of someone here at Ahiahi.

  I steeled myself and faced her. We stood near her desk.

  But Belle wasn’t looking at me. She held the glass of sherry in her hands and gazed down at an elegant antique globe. “You’ve come such a long way. Just as Richard did.” She lifted her head. “It was such a lovely surprise to come home that day and be told he’d arrived.” Her elegant face was impassive, but her eyes watched me closely.

  So now Belle wondered about the reason for his journey. I knew why Richard came. Richard had responded to Johnnie Rodriguez’s call. Richard had talked to Johnnie. Whatever it was that Richard learned, it brought him here to see Belle.

  But if I told her what I knew, I would have to tell her everything.

  If only I knew Belle better, could gauge what effect my revelations might have.

  “I didn’t know Richard was coming here,” I said carefully. That was true at the time.

  “He wasn’t”—her choice of words was equally careful—“in Honolulu on a story?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “I see. I thought…” she shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter. Very little matters anymore.” She put down her sherry and reached out and gently touched the cold sculpted cheek of a marble bust of a young woman.

  I glanced at a face forever young, at lips forever tilted in a buoyant smile.

  “My daughter, CeeCee.” Her composure almost held. Then, catching her breath, Belle leaned down, pressed her cheek for a moment against the cold marble. “Damn whoever did it. Damn them.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t answer.

  I had to ask. “Them?”

  Her head jerked up. Her
eyes blazed with a dark and fervid anger. I understood that anger, the awful anguish of unjust heartbreak. Life is not fair. Evil flourishes. But there is something in our souls that will not accept this.

  “Whoever it was that took CeeCee and killed her. The police didn’t find anything. No trace. Nothing, nothing, nothing.”

  Nada, nada, nada, the deputy had rasped.

  And there I stood, watching this mother grieve—and I knew something. I didn’t know what Richard had discovered, but I knew more than Belle. I knew that Richard came to Ahiahi because of something he had learned from Johnnie Rodriguez, something that had to do with the kidnapping and death of CeeCee Burke.

  If Richard indeed was murdered because of that knowledge, it meant—it had to mean—that CeeCee’s kidnapper, CeeCee’s murderer had been here in Belle’s secluded island home when Richard arrived.

  And Belle had no idea of this.

  None.

  I saw it clearly then. I had to speak out. My plan, to insinuate myself into this house, to watch and observe and learn as much as I could, no longer seemed defensible. Not in the face of her grief.

  I had not looked past my own grief. Now I had to think of Belle. My lips parted—

  She lifted her head and her smile was so gallant I wanted to cry. “Please forgive me. I know you understand. It’s always harder this time of year. So hard.” Her voice broke. She blinked away tears. “I’m sorry. I’ll see you at dinner.” She turned and walked unevenly away, her cane clicking against the wood.

  I almost called out to stop her. But this wasn’t the moment. Let Belle regain her composure. And let me regain mine.

  I walked slowly from the study onto the lanai. Did I dare tell Belle the truth? Could I show her the anonymous message I’d received? And tell her how it had led me to discover Richard’s stop in Texas before he came to Ahiahi? Could I insist that Richard’s death meant someone in her family or on her staff had kidnapped and killed her daughter?

  Why should she believe me?

  Because Richard was dead.

  That was the terrible, awful, unmistakable proof.

  But Belle could insist that he’d fallen and either I had created this absurd story for who knew what deranged purpose or I had been used as a tool by someone wishing to destroy her family. And I had to remember that I was here to serve someone else’s purpose, a purpose I knew nothing about.

  I wanted to do the right thing.

  It’s frightening how difficult it is sometimes to know what is right and what is wrong.

  I had come to Kauai to discover the truth of Richard’s death. That still was my goal. And my only hope of discovering what happened on the cliffside trail was to be here at Ahiahi.

  I stood on the lanai, miserable, uncertain, but clinging to my purpose. I’d known this was going to be hard. I hadn’t known how hard it would be and how Belle, the woman I’d feared, the woman I’d been jealous of, how appealing she would be. No, I can’t say I felt a liking. But I was intrigued, fascinated, charmed as I suppose everyone had always been with her. Yet, I couldn’t let Belle’s personality prevent me from pursuing justice.

  All right. I was here. And unobserved. I would take this time to explore. I wanted to talk to Lester Mackey. As soon as possible. And at this moment, there was no one about, no one to notice if I quietly surveyed Ahiahi.

  The blossoms in the gold tree rustled. But that couldn’t account for my sudden uneasiness, the sense that this lovely scene hid malignity and evil. The beauty was everywhere: blossoms, bright birds, trees and ferns shockingly green; the sumptuous rooms curving along the rim of the cliff; the iridescent sheen of the huge greenish-blue Chinese pottery vases on pedestals near the steps leading down from each lanai.

  And then I saw the shadows. Two of them. The huge, irregular shadow of the gold tree shifted against the smooth surface of the lanai, the blooms and leaves softly rustled by the breeze. The other shadow was thick and long and motionless, unlike the wavering, breeze-stirred image of the tree. Then the long shadow moved.

  Stan Dugan walked out of his hiding place. His craggy face was somber, hostile.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded, my voice sharp because I felt a thrill of fear as the big, quiet man approached. We were alone on this lanai and the cliff fell away from the railing, down, down, down.

  “I’ll ask you that, too, Mrs. Collins. You didn’t tell Belle that somebody killed your husband.” His eyes once again were cold and suspicious.

  “You listened to our conversation?” I knew that, of course. I was scrambling for a response that would satisfy him. I had to keep him from revealing to Belle what I’d said to him.

  He didn’t bother to answer. He didn’t have to. And my uneasiness increased. Why would he skulk in the shadows, eavesdrop?

  “I have no proof.” I eased away from the railing, back toward the study.

  He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets, rocked back on his heels. Was this how he examined a witness?

  “Where’s the famous daybook?”

  “I don’t have it with me.”

  “Gee, that’s a hell of a surprise. I’d think you’d have it. Or a copy. Or something. But maybe that’s all fiction. Maybe you made it up.” His raspy voice was full of disdain. “Could it be because that’s all bullshit and you’re here because you write true crime books?”

  Dugan had moved fast, built an excellent dossier on me just as I had all of Belle’s family. But why did he care about me? And why was he angry? Or was his outrage simulated, a cover for fear?

  “I’m here because I’m going to find out what happened to Richard. Why are you here? It’s a last-minute trip, isn’t it?”

  Those big owlish eyes gazed at me.

  I pressed my attack. “What did you tell Belle when you arrived unexpectedly?” I’d never expected trouble from him.

  His mouth twisted in brief amusement. “You’re pretty good, lady. A good offense and all that. Yeah, you’re right. I lied to Belle. But so did you.” He gave me a considering, thoughtful, cold look. “I wonder what will happen…if one of us tells Belle the truth?” He turned away, and with his long, swift stride was gone before I could answer.

  Why had he come? Of course, if he cared for CeeCee, truly loved her, my accusation would bring him. But he’d been here when Richard died. I had to remember that fact.

  I’d felt I was balancing on a tightrope ever since I arrived at Ahiahi. Now I felt as if I were balancing on a frayed tightrope that could easily unravel.

  I looked down the lanai. Stan Dugan was long out of sight. Yet I still had a sense of an inimical presence. I looked all around the lanai. Then I glanced over my shoulder and just glimpsed a flash of white.

  Someone had stood on the far side of the entryway to Belle’s study and watched me. Ahiahi with all its shrubberies and rooms that flowed into each other offered easy concealment.

  Had the unknown watcher listened to Belle and me, then overheard my sharp and odd exchange with Stan Dugan?

  Danger. I felt it sharply. I wanted to find another human being, talk to someone, do something to dispel the atmosphere of evil. But I had to take advantage of this moment alone, explore Ahiahi while I had the chance.

  I walked along the lanai past the study and found a library. Farther on, I glimpsed individual lanais to the separate living quarters. I turned back, passed Belle’s office and reached the huge living-dining-room area. The lanai curved as the rooms followed the contour of the canyon. Succulent smells indicated the kitchen. I took a glimpse through the wide archway and saw a cheery woman bustling about with several helpers doing her bidding. This domestic scene was normal and right, and the feeling of danger and discord eased. I was in a beautiful home and walking in its public areas in broad daylight. I was all right.

  I turned up the flagstone passageway between the dining area and the kitchen and reached the garden side of the house. To my left, nestled among hibiscus shrubs, were several cottages. No waterfall view here. No doubt this was wher
e the staff lived.

  I passed a gardener snipping a hedge with huge rosy blooms. “Hello.”

  “Hello, ma’am.”

  “Which cottage belongs to Mr. Mackey?” I smiled.

  He nodded toward the first.

  Again inside and out flowed together. A Mexican creeper bloomed along the wall of his lanai. I walked to the open doorway, looked into a spare and sparsely furnished living area. “Mr. Mackey?”

  There was no answer.

  Reluctantly, I retraced my steps. But now I knew where to find him. I took the path back between the kitchen and the dining area. This time I passed one of the huge vases and hurried down the steps at the end of the lanai to the narrow path that had been gouged out of the mountain slope. I saw a steep path down the slope, ending, I supposed, at the pool formed by the splash of the waterfalls. Belle had mentioned a similar path beneath the study.

  If I followed the path to my left I would eventually fetch up beneath the lanai to my suite. I looked to my right. The cliff jutted out here. The path curved out of sight.

  I picked my way carefully along the cliff face. As I came around the curve, I looked up to see yet another lanai, the last one. I was deep in shadow. A slim, imperious figure stood near the railing.

  “…want you to find out everything about her. Everything. What she’s been doing these past years. What kind of person she is.” Belle’s light, clear, bell-like voice carried clearly.

  It was hard to breathe. I put my hand against the rock face, felt the crumbly soil.

  “Yes, Belle.” This voice was young, deferential.

  “Right now.”

  “Yes, Belle.”

  Belle moved away from the railing. But I could still hear her voice.

  “…something’s going on, Elise. She’s here for some purpose I don’t understand. Check and see when she arrived. And where she came from. And tell Keith I want to see him as soon…”