Death In Paradise

by Carolyn G. Hart

  The words faded.

  I turned away, walked back along the path.

  I didn’t need a primer to tell me who Belle was talking about. So my story of a letter hadn’t fooled her.

  My time at Ahiahi might be measured in hours. Not only was Belle suspicious of me, there was Stan Dugan to fear. It

  would only take a word from him and I would be ousted. But I was here for the moment. I’d work as fast as I could.

  seven

  Torches on the lanais above me suddenly glowed as well as small lanterns spaced every few feet along the path. It was easy to see my way, even though dusk was falling and much of the canyon was in dark shadow. I passed the last lanai, noting notched steps up to my own suite. The path rose steadily higher. In another twenty feet, I came out near the top of the ridge.

  Great swaths of topaz and coral streaked the darkening sky as the sun began to slip behind the mountain. The falls were glistening strands of silver pulsing down the cliffside, sounding like the rustle of thousands of birds lifting into the sky.

  The path forked. One way led to the left alongside a tall lava-rock wall adorned with crimson, pink, and yellow bougainvillea. I continued straight ahead, following a dusty upward ribbon. I watched the way carefully. Belle had said a path led to the falls and it was dangerous. But this path seemed fine.

  A hawser-thick rope was anchored waist high to the side of the cliff. My foot kicked a loose stone and it spun over the edge of the trail, beginning its hundred-foot fall. I didn’t look down. I grabbed the rope and welcomed the harsh prickly feel of its fibers.

  The trail led out to a point. The cliff rose sheer on my left. The trail curled around the point. A verdant semicircle awaited me. Straight ahead, the falls tumbled in splendor down a jagged rock face. To my left, the canyon wall curved inward, offering a deep, shadowy recess. And in the wide ledge was a single grave enclosed on three sides by a low wall of lava rock. The open side faced the canyon, forever overlooking the falls and the trees. The view of the falls and the darkening canyon surpassed everything I’d seen before. It was the kind of beauty that touches your heart, as ineffable as a baby’s smile or the peal of a church bell in solemn farewell.

  Bright red blossoms dotted the twisted gray branches of an ohia tree that shaded the bronze marker. It was not an especially pretty tree, but it was particularly, distinctively Hawaiian. In olden days the ohia was sacred, used only for carving temple images and war gods.

  Flagstones led through an opening in the wall. I reached the grave, looked down at the marker:

  CHARMAINE CELIA BURKE APRIL 1, 1962-MARCH 30, 1990 ALOHA

  The wind rustled the glossy green leaves of the ohia and the quickly cooling late afternoon air touched me with a chill. I looked past the grave. The path continued to the top of the cliff where the stream rushed forward to the falls. A sign barred the way, stark crimson letters on white:

  DANGER DO NOT PASS SLIPPERY ROCKS

  “Don’t even think about it,” a cool voice advised.

  I swung around.

  The wind ruffled bright red hair, molded a white cover-up to an athletic body. “Occasionally a smart-ass trespasser ignores the warning, thinks he’ll be okay if he stays away from the falls, strolls by the stream. But those rocks”—she lifted a freckled hand, pointed to the dark, gleaming, wet rocks—“are slick from the water. Step on them and you’re history.”

  I glanced at the swift-running water, watched it thunder over the rocks, plummeting in a swirl of mist and splendor far below to a boulder-ringed pool. “I wasn’t thinking about it,” I said pleasantly. “I was thinking how lovely it is here, what a beautiful site for a grave.”

  She hunched her shoulders and stared at the ohia tree. “If there are spirits, CeeCee’s perched on a low branch, feet dangling, looking out over the valley and planning a party.” The voice was light and mocking. “She dearly loved parties. She’d have the best-looking surfer up here, some guy who could handle the waves on the north coast, and the handsomest ukelele player. Probably have to shanghai him from some club on Maui. It’s too tame here. Believe me, the sex scene’s all on Maui. Banana shakes and kiwi fruit are the standard here. And early to bed. Lamentably, usually alone. But she’d have managed. There were never any flies on CeeCee when it came to attracting hunks. Damn shame she’s not here. Trust me, Belle’s way past the hunk stage.”

  I read the dismissive summation in bright hazel eyes: And so are you, lady.

  I met her glance steadily and her mouth quirked in a quick grin. Perhaps she read the summation in my eyes: Not on your life, kid. But she was clearly a young woman with an attitude and a lively disregard for convention. I wondered if this was her usual demeanor. I recognized her as Belle’s youngest stepchild, Gretchen Gallagher. She was about my height. Late twenties. She looked at me boldly from a bright, quizzical, oddly defiant face. Her swim cover was a bright white with a bird-of-paradise appliqué. She carried a red-andgreen-striped beach bag.

  “I’m Gretchen Gallagher.” It was more of a challenge than a greeting.

  “Henrie O Collins.”

  “I’m on my way to the pool.” Her glance was speculative, as in, “And where the hell are you going, lady? And who the hell are you?”

  “Pool?” I supposed the tall lava-rock wall where the path forked was part of an enclosure for the pool, creating a barrier against the wind that fluttered the tree branches here on the unprotected ridge. And perhaps Belle had enclosed the play area so that this remote grave site would remain eternally calm and peaceful.

  “On the other side of the wall. Pool, tennis courts, even a picnic pavilion. You can’t miss it if you come from the garden.”

  “I didn’t pass the pool. I came up the path from Belle’s study.”

  “I saw you on the trail.” She spoke casually, but her eyes were sharp.

  And wondered where I was going. And who I was.

  I waved my hand toward the falls. “I’ve been exploring.”

  The young woman glanced down at the grave, then at me. “Did you know CeeCee?” It was a polite way of asking

  why I was standing at her stepsister’s grave.

  “No.”

  “So you didn’t come here to visit CeeCee’s grave?”

  “No. I didn’t know the grave was here. And I don’t want to intrude if—”

  She gave a quick, humorless laugh. “I’m not into grave vigils. I’m going to take a quick swim before dinner.” But she wasn’t completely satisfied. “Belle invited you for this week?”

  I wasn’t going to explain about the letter. I’d leave that up to Belle. “Belle and my husband Richard were good friends.”

  “Richard…Oh. Richard Collins? The guy who fell…”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice was contrite. “I didn’t mean to be rude. But we’ve been hounded so much, the last few years. Actually, it’s nice to have a new face here this week. We’re all getting a little tired of the annual wake.” The animation fled from her face. She looked grim and resentful.

  “Wake?”

  She pointed to the bronze marker. “You know about CeeCee.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, she was nuts about Kauai. So after she…she died”—even this casual young woman wasn’t going to be flippant about murder—“Belle decided to bury her here. Because CeeCee’d camped here and said it was the most beautiful spot in the whole world. But Belle’s not content to get the land and have a grave. She builds a house and stays. And every year we all come. Belle says it’s to celebrate CeeCee’s birthday. But it isn’t exactly damn festive.”

  “No,” I said quietly, “I wouldn’t think it would be festive.”

  “So, are you into wakes?” It was a cocky demand.

  “They serve a useful function.” She was too young to understand. “The wake is to help the living.”

  “It doesn’t help me. I mean, CeeCee’s been dead for years now. Why can’t Belle let go?” She scowled.


  “Perhaps because she doesn’t know what happened to CeeCee. Or why.”

  “But she’s never going to know!” Gretchen’s voice was querulous.

  For an instant, I felt like an ancient priestess, an oracle. Perhaps that’s why I spoke so confidently. “The truth has an odd way of coming out. Sometimes years later. Someone will remember something. Discover something.”

  She drew her breath in sharply. “Do you know something?” she demanded. “Did your husband tell you something?” She peered through the dusky air as if I possessed some secret that might make a difference.

  So she not only knew who Richard was, she was well aware of his part in the aftermath of CeeCee’s kidnapping.

  “Richard never talked about the kidnapping.” Certainly that was true.

  Steps gritted on the rocky path. “Gretchen, hey, Gretchen, where are you?” A muscular young man in tennis clothes came around the curve. I watched him with the same pleasure I would have taken in observing the smooth stride of a panther. He moved with exquisite grace and power. And he carried with him a masculine magnetism that would attract any woman—red hair damp with exertion, sloe eyes that exuded confidence, full, sensuous lips.

  She looked at him fondly and her face remade itself, the pettish discontent dissolving into affection. “Mrs. Collins, my brother Wheeler. Wheeler, this is Mrs. Collins. Belle’s invited her to visit. Maybe it’s going to be a real house party this year.”

  “Hello, Mr. Gallagher.”

  “Wheeler, please.” Those full lips spread in a lazy, appealing smile. “I heard voices. It’s nice to have a visitor.”

  I wondered suddenly if Belle realized how difficult the annual gathering was for the siblings, at least if the reaction of these two reflected the feelings of the others.

  “Do you know Kauai, Mrs. Collins?” Wheeler asked.

  “Not well.”

  “I’m just the man to remedy that.” His voice had a soft Southern sound.

  “We’ll give you a guided tour you won’t forget,” Gretchen said eagerly.

  “I doubt anywhere could be lovelier than here.” I spread my hand toward the falls and the dusk-shrouded canyon.

  But they stood silent and both stared down—just for an instant—at CeeCee’s grave.

  “It’s getting dark,” Gretchen said abruptly. “I think I’ll head for the pool.”

  “You know how Belle is about being on time for dinner.” Wheeler’s voice was pleasant, but there was an underlying edge.

  “I’ll be good.” But her voice was irritated.

  He reached out, patted his sister’s arm, a big brother encouraging good behavior.

  Wheeler shepherded us back toward the fork in the path. Huge night lights glowed from the corners of the sports compound. I glimpsed two courts through an arched entryway and heard the thwock of a tennis ball expertly struck.

  “The pool’s just past the courts. With another grand vista.” Gretchen shrugged away the magnificent scenery. “If you like to spend a holiday stretched out on a chaise longue, you’ve come to the right place. Though there’s plenty to see on the island. We’ll plan an outing tomorrow. Did you know the Nurses’ Beach in South Pacific was filmed on the north shore? I can take you there if you like.”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  “I’ll see you at dinner then.” Gretchen veered off toward the sports area.

  Wheeler ambled alongside me. “If you like a challenge, there’s always the Na Pali.”

  Richard and I had holidayed on Kauai many years before and climbed the rugged Kalalau Trail along the magnificent Na Pali cliffs, perhaps one of the last bastions of untouched majesty in the world.

  I’m in good enough shape for my age. But, no, I couldn’t tackle the Na Pali now. Crumbly soil, deep ruts and tangled roots made the hike a difficult and sometimes dangerous challenge. I can wrap my arthritic knee and still manage a slow jog and a couple of sets of doubles with players of my era. But not the Na Pali. “Perhaps I’ll have time for a helicopter tour.”

  “Better go by raft,” Wheeler said. Then he added quickly, “Sorry. Not trying to tell you how to spend your vacation, but Belle’s really down on helicopters. She thinks the noise is an intrusion, a kind of ecological trauma. Anders is big on that sort of thing. And there have been some crashes, too. Oh, here we are.”

  The path sloped down suddenly and we came into the garden. Now we could see the clusters of rooms perched on the rim of the canyon. Lights glowed here, too, indoors and out, the living areas spotlighted like stage sets, the garden’s colors softly illuminated. The mélange of colors was richer than a rainbow: the purples of bougainvillea, glory-bush, and orchid trees; the oranges of silk oak, hibiscus, and kou; the pinks of oleander, pink shower tree, and pink tecoma, and the majestic whites of plumeria, oleander, and angel’strumpet. Near the front lanai, the jacaranda blossoms looked like festive lavender bouquets bunched on their delicate feathery leaves. The fragrances mingled, scenting the night air like a sweet and spicy perfume.

  “I’m staying here.” I gestured toward the first and highest suite. “What time is dinner?”

  Wheeler glanced at his watch. “At seven-thirty. But everyone gathers about seven for a drink.”

  “I’ll see you then. I’m looking forward to meeting everyone.”

  We parted with smiles. But I knew my eyes were cold. Yes, this would be a memorable evening. I would study the inhabitants of Ahiahi carefully indeed. I wanted to look hard at each and every one of them.

  One smiling face masked a murderer’s soul.

  In my absence, a maid had unpacked my cases. I opened the closet and chose my black rayon-crepe dress with small white seabirds. I liked the oversized collar and ribbed sleeves. Dressy but resortish. I put the dress and lingerie on the bed. I slipped into the pale apricot terry-cloth robe hanging in the bath. I was leaning over to turn on the bathwater when I paused.

  I turned back to the closet. Yes, my clothes were there. And I’d found my lingerie in the top drawer of the wicker chest. My purse sat on the chest.

  But I didn’t see my briefcase.

  My carry-on and suitcase were in the corner. I checked. Both were empty. I tried the other drawers in the chest. Shorts, slacks, tees. No briefcase. It took only a moment to be certain. The briefcase was not in the suite.

  My first impulse was to plunge out of my room, search. But I knew that was foolish. Wherever my papers were, they would not be easy to find. And I didn’t dare invade the rooms of the other guests.

  Or Belle’s quarters.

  The sense of menace I’d experienced on the lanai outside Belle’s study was back in full force. I’d been right to feel an inimical spirit was near. It had been very near.

  I walked to the open doorway, pushed the cream button. When the panel was shut, I pressed the red button. I moved to the lanai and pulled shut the louvered panels, slid the bolt shut.

  Safe. And stuffy. I turned on the ceiling fans.

  I checked the time. Twenty minutes to seven. I was bathed and dressed in ten minutes. Then I opened the door and the panels. I walked out on the lanai. I leaned against the railing, looking up at a sky spangled with stars so bright they looked like diamonds nestling against black velvet.

  Anyone in the house could have gained access to my suite through the open threshold or through the lanai. Obviously Belle had not considered security a problem when building Ahiahi. After all, only her family, her guests, and her employees had entrée to this cliffside haven. The main entrance was barred to all outsiders and the rugged canyon and mountain ridges were inaccessible except to exceptionally hardy trespassers.

  The theft of my briefcase meant that someone—one of a small number of persons—was very curious indeed about me. Could it be Belle herself? After all, she’d told her secretary to find out everything about me. Immediately.

  Or the case might have been taken by my unknown correspondent. Or by someone else for some unknown purpose.

  But, whatever
the reason for the theft, the disappearance of the briefcase put me in a difficult position. It hadn’t occurred to me to copy the poster about Richard. Now there was only my word that I’d ever received it. I could not prove its existence. And if I confessed to Belle that I’d forged a letter to gain entry here, why should she believe my tale about a poster?

  Moreover, the briefcase contained my research about Belle and her family. What would anyone—especially Belle—make of that?

  It didn’t matter to my quest that the research was gone.

  I had good reason to retain every fact, every nugget that might help me strip away the mask of a killer. I have a reporter’s memory for detail. There was plenty of information available about Belle and her family, and I’d retrieved it.

  I’d found dozens of photos of CeeCee that were carried after the story broke about her kidnapping: CeeCee dancing, riding her quarter horse, playing tennis, at a cotillion. But the one I liked best was an unstudied shot—obviously a photo taken by a friend—of CeeCee sitting by a fire. Dark hair cupped her narrow face. Her expression was thoughtful, pensive, and intense. Such a young face—unlined, care-free—and yet even in repose there was a clear indication of determination. Yes, I had a sense of CeeCee’s appearance, even perhaps a tiny gauge to her character. I felt sure she’d been a complex young woman. There were other pho-tos—CeeCee dancing after midnight, her face dreamy and sensuous—that seemed to confirm Gretchen’s drawled comments.

  I’d found photographs of them all, taken when they were society darlings, before heartbreak intruded.

  Anders leading a march against cruelty to animals. Pointing toward a poster of a struggling cat strapped to an operating table, Anders had shouted, his narrow face twisted in disgust, his dark eyes glittering. Anders was as dark as his dead sister. But where her face had been thin and elegant, like Belle’s, his features were almost unnaturally sharp and gaunt.

  Joss dancing in the chorus line in a fraternity skit, a straw boater riding atop his curly blond hair, his good-natured face split by a huge grin.