Death In Paradise

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Wheeler at a track meet, plunging through a tape, the winner in the 440. Bright red hair curled above a freckled, flushed face stretched in gut-wrenching effort. Strong, swift, confident, I would guess he excelled at many sports. His manner reminded me of a long-ago tennis player, Alex Olmedo.

  Megan sweeping down a runway, elegant and aloof, in a swirling silver-beaded short evening dress. She was by far the most photogenic of all the Burkes and Gallaghers. A brilliantly successful international model, she split her time between New York and Paris. Tall, leggy, and blond, she looked more like Belle than her natural children. I wondered if she looked like her own mother, Quentin Gallagher’s first wife. That would prove the old adage that men always marry the same kind of woman.

  Gretchen jabbing a pitchfork into a mound of hay. Denim coveralls flopped on her thin body. She was more attractive in person than in photographs. The press hadn’t managed to come up with very many of her. Perhaps she’d resented the notoriety.

  The tabloids had loved it—six brothers and sisters, rich, good-looking, with an appetite for excitement and a history of immensely complicated rivalry.

  Sometimes the teasing had gone too far.

  Late one night a few years before the kidnapping, Wheeler had convinced Joss that the yacht on Lake Texoma had been hijacked. Joss jumped overboard without a life preserver, and it was touch and go whether he’d be found before he drowned.

  Anders was especially gifted at computer snooping. He managed to get into Gretchen’s college records and alter her transcript to all Fs, which she discovered when she applied for an internship with Texas Monthly.

  Not to be outdone, Gretchen sent the uncompromisingly prim (and brunette) fiancée of Anders an altered photograph of him in bed with a buxom blond showgirl.

  For Belle’s fifty-fourth birthday, Joss arranged fifty-four pink plastic flamingos on the front lawn, causing sheer anguish on the part of their Highland Park neighbors. Joss had definitely taken to his new Southern background. Many of the flamingos had extra decorations: golf clubs, tennis rackets, ballet slippers, and Hook ’em Horns pennants. Joss was attending the University of Texas at the time.

  Megan seemed to be the only one who apparently hadn’t been involved, at least publicly, in some kind of hoax on her siblings.

  CeeCee, of course, was always the target of great fun because of her April 1 birthday, and there was constant competition in the family for the most outrageous joke to play on her.

  Joss was considered the all-time winner the year he placed CeeCee’s name on several hundred religious-tract mailing lists and she was inundated with exhortations to bathe in the Blood of the Lamb from as far away as Zimbabwe. For months, earnest-faced women in plain blouses and dark skirts arrived at the Highland Park house hoping to talk with Sister Charmaine.

  But on March 30, 1990, the laughter ended.

  Yes, I knew a great deal about those who were here at Ahiahi. But not yet enough. Not nearly enough.

  This would be unlike any puzzle I’d ever pursued. It was far too late to be concerned about alibis on the afternoon Richard fell or the purported whereabouts of Belle’s family and staff when CeeCee disappeared. No. That had been the province of the police at the time, and it was too late by years to pinpoint comings and goings. My task was far more difficult and subtle and discreet.

  I must cleverly and carefully pierce the social pretenses of those who were staying at Ahiahi. I must discover the truth of their souls.

  I’ve always been good at features. Those are the stories that focus on personality rather than fact. Now it was time to use every scrap of skill I possessed for stakes far beyond any I’d ever imagined.

  eight

  Torches flared along the cliff railings. The flames were reflected in the shiny glaze of huge pottery vases that sat on pedestals at the top of the steps leading up to the lanais. I stood in the shadow of one of the Chinese vases on the lanai by the living-dining area. More light came from a long, narrow reflecting pool. Beams angled up through the water, luminous as moonlight in a tidal basin.

  Identical wicker furniture, lamps, and sculptures were clustered the length of the living-dining area and on the lanai, the outdoors mirroring the indoors. The interior walls were covered with hand-painted tapa bark, decorated with designs that reminded me of stylized butterflies. There was an eclectic mix of Polynesian, Japanese, and Chinese artworks, including Tahitian fertility-god carvings, silk screens of Japanese calligraphy, and a Chinese scholar’s rock on a teak base.

  White wicker chairs with emerald-green cushions surrounded a huge pink marble dining room table. The odd combination of marble and wicker created a saucy air, like an elegant seaside hotel coupled with a jaunty carousel.

  Voices melded in desultory conversation. I looked from face to face. Most of them I had yet to meet. But all their faces were familiar from my lost collection of clips: Belle’s athletic husband, the surviving children and stepchildren, Anders Burke’s wife. I had met Belle’s man-of-all-work Lester Mackey and her secretary Elise Ford. And, of course, Stan Dugan, CeeCee’s fiancé.

  One of them was my enemy, mine and Belle’s. One of them had killed Richard and kidnapped CeeCee. One face belonged to a murderer. I knew it. Belle did not. Once again I was swept with misgiving. But for this moment, I had to play the hand I held.

  Belle stood near the reflecting pool, next to a bronze alligator with heavy-lidded malachite eyes. One hand tightly gripped the head of her cane. Her pale ivory dress had a rosy sheen in the crimson light from the torch. She was speaking in a low tone to her husband.

  Standing near them was Elise Ford, alert and attentive, still the perfect secretary despite the social setting. She looked like a demure kindergarten teacher in a navy blue linen shirtwaist dress. I wondered if she was as circumspect as her choice of fashion indicated. Or if she simply liked plain and simple clothing. Or if it was her instinct to avoid notice. I wondered, too, if she’d discovered anything about me yet. More than likely she had. Computers with a modem make gathering information quick and easy.

  From my vantage point I could see everyone. I noted the occasional sidelong glances toward Belle, the unnatural awareness of her on the part of her family and guests.

  Her husband, Keith Scanlon, had a look of professional charm: bright eyes, plump cheeks, a broad smile. He was tanned and muscular, the epitome of the sporting man in his vivid Hawaiian shirt and white tropical trousers. He, too, was attentive and alert—and tense. The hands clasped behind his back gripped each other tightly even though his face was determinedly genial. Was it the purpose of this gathering that stressed him? Or the presence of Belle’s family?

  Anders Burke paced on the far side of the pool, talking rapidly and intently. He was as dark as his mother was fair. His narrow face was an exaggerated version of hers, his cheekbones too sharp, his chin too pointed. His eyes blazed with fervor. He gestured excitedly.

  Watching Anders, an indulgent smile on her face, was Megan Gallagher, the middle child Belle had acquired from her short marriage to Quentin Gallagher. Megan looked like the model she was in a shirred pink-and-beige satin jacket and champagne satin trousers. One beautifully manicured hand toyed with an enameled button shaped like a recumbent lion. Her oval face was smooth, pretty, and empty. I was reminded irresistibly of a porcelain doll. Anybody home?

  Peggy Burke, Anders’s wife, watched him, too, her face creased in an uncertain frown, like a mother hen whose chick is perilously near the barnyard cat. She looked prim and unfashionable, her rose silk dress too vividly flowered and ill-fitting, but her passion for her husband was nakedly clear in that watchful gaze. And I never underestimate the power of passion.

  Joss Burke, Belle’s second son, sat at the grand piano near the fireplace. Strains of Cole Porter drifted on the night air. He played very well indeed. I wasn’t surprised. I’d retrieved a half dozen pictures of him involved in student musicals while he was at the University of Texas. Absorbed and withdrawn, he stared down at the keys as
if he were alone in the room. He wore a candy-striped shirt and white trousers. All he lacked was a white straw hat and a cane. And a smile.

  Gretchen Gallagher leaned against the piano. Her short black-and-white polka-dotted dress had a flouncy two-tiered skirt, perfect for a night of dancing. She sipped at a drink, her freckled face discontented. And mournful. Did the music—“Night and Day”—stir melancholy memories?

  Wheeler Gallagher was busy at the bar, his sloe eyes intent, his sensuously handsome face remote, his red hair glistening like flame. His pale green Oxford shirt and white tropical trousers were a perfect foil for his coloring. He poured a jigger of amber whiskey into a tumbler, a commonplace act made special by the fluidity of his movements. Some men have extraordinary appeal; some men don’t. Wheeler definitely did.

  The last guest—the other surprise guest besides my-self—was Stan Dugan.

  I’d found out a lot about him before I visited his office. Dugan came from a working class background, making it through college and law school on scholarships and by holding down jobs that ranged from driving a cab to bartending. Tonight he combined a highly fashionable collarless dress shirt with Levi’s and alligator cowboy boots, part Brooks Brothers, part rebellious outsider. He sprawled in a big easy chair sipping a drink, his owlish eyes studying his hostess and his fellow guests.

  Lester Mackey stood alone in a shadowy niche next to an antique Venetian lantern, one hand loosely gripping the bright red lamppost. The eye was drawn to the ornate ironwork around the glass and the flickering glow of the candle. He was so slender and self-effacing, my glance almost passed him by. Was it deliberate that he chose one of the few areas in the room where his face could only dimly be seen?

  It has been my experience that those who least seek the limelight often have the most interesting stories to tell, stories they are reluctant to yield.

  Out of all this assemblage, I was abruptly the most curious about Lester Mackey, perhaps because I knew so little of

  him. I knew he’d been a military driver for Belle in Vietnam, had joined her household when his tour of duty ended, and had worked for her ever since. And I knew he had a soft voice and Johnnie Rodriguez’s mother disliked him.

  He seemed lost and lonely standing in the shadows, not a part of the evening, yet I had the sense he was utterly absorbed in this family gathering.

  Just as I stood and surveyed the collection of guests, so did he, his eyes moving slowly from face to face as mine had. But he knew them all well. They had been a part of his life for decades, everyone but Stan Dugan.

  I watched these people carefully because I was suspicious of them, seeking to discover a killer among them. What caused Lester Mackey to watch with equal concentration?

  Lester Mackey. I had to talk to him.

  It should have been an elegant and enticing party. Soft-footed maids glided in and out of the room, bringing dishes for a magnificent buffet along one wall. There was even an ice sculpture of a humpback whale.

  The dining room table wasn’t set, so I assumed the guests would sit in smaller groups at the tables scattered about the lanai. The reddish glow of the torches was supplemented by a full moon that bathed the lanai and the reflecting pool in silver. The small tables should encourage easier conversations.

  I didn’t think the casual seating would accomplish its goal. Wariness permeated this gathering. It was apparent in the carefully schooled faces, the uneasy glances, the bland conversations:

  “…wish they’d rebuild that hotel. Don’t you know it’s full of rats and…”

  “…most of the hurricane damage is gone except…”

  “…interminable flight. Each time I swear I’m going to stop over in…”

  “…thinking about moving to Paris. It would be…”

  I looked again from face to face, all with social masks intact. Or nearly so. Anders looked gauchely intense. But I suspected that was his customary manner. Belle’s husband was oddly ill at ease for a man who’d spent his life in a country-club setting. But there was no hint in any face of a marauding tiger. That’s what I was looking for—the quick, feral willingness to destroy.

  I’d traveled thousands of miles in response to a challenge. Someone wanted me at Ahiahi for an unknown purpose. And now I was here. I’d been uneasy ever since my encounter with Stan near Belle’s office. When he left, I’d had such a strong sense of danger. When I returned to my room and discovered the briefcase was missing, I felt even more threatened. My feeling of discomfort increased as I stood watching, despite the beauty of the surroundings and the ostensible party setting. There was a dark purpose to my presence. I had to thwart that purpose. But I had no guidelines. Whom should I talk to? How could I learn the right facts quickly enough? Which might be the weakest link in this tension-filled family?

  I stepped out onto the lanai.

  Belle saw me at once. “Good evening, Henrie O.” She clapped her hands. “Everyone, please.” It was abruptly quiet, every eye on me. “I want to introduce Henrietta O’Dwyer Collins. You all remember Richard Collins, my old friend.”

  Keith Scanlon’s eyes narrowed, his customary bonhomie was gone for an instant, supplanted by a flash of dislike. I knew instinctively the dislike was of Richard, his memory of Richard, the man Belle had turned to when CeeCee disappeared.

  Belle’s secretary looked at me curiously.

  Anders flicked a dismissive glance toward me.

  Peggy plucked at her husband’s sleeve while flashing a bright smile.

  Gretchen nodded, but her face still looked forlorn. And wary.

  Joss studied me with cool blue eyes and lightly sounded introductory chords.

  Wheeler lifted his glass, a cheerful gesture, but his eyes were thoughtful.

  Stan Dugan watched me like a hawk spotting a mouse.

  Megan glanced down at her perfectly manicured nails.

  Lester Mackey’s face was still in shadows. He stood very still. Unnaturally still.

  Belle’s light voice carried clearly. “I want everyone to give Henrie O a warm welcome. She’ll be with us this week.”

  There was an instant of silence. Nothing was said of CeeCee’s birthday. Or of Richard’s fall.

  But their images overlay the sumptuous room like the shadow of shifting leaves dappling a forest clearing, intangible but inescapable.

  “Come, I want you to meet everyone.” Belle was at my side. “My husband, Keith.” Her hand lightly brushed his arm.

  Keith Scanlon grinned and pumped my hand, seemingly with genuine warmth. “Do you play tennis, Mrs. Collins?”

  “Yes. At a relaxed pace.” No longer did I dart around a court. But I still had fun.

  “I have a tennis academy. Near Poipu Beach. A lot of retirees play and they’re always looking for a sub. You’ll have to come down one day and I’ll find you a game. Clay courts.” He was like a cocker spaniel offering a ball.

  I smiled. “I’d love it.”

  Belle gave him a fond glance.

  As we moved away, his smile vanished. Belle was a step ahead of me and didn’t notice.

  “You’ve met Elise Ford,” Belle said carelessly. “If you need any help”—Belle’s glance was suddenly searching—“Elise can find out anything about anyone.”

  “Really. That’s a useful skill.”

  Elise smiled pleasantly, but her gaze was avid.

  Belle paused by the shadowy niche. “And you’ve met Lester. I don’t know what we would do without Lester. He keeps us all in order.”

  Lester Mackey nodded at me. “Good evening, Mrs. Collins.”

  I wished the light were brighter. I wished I could see his face clearly. But Belle’s hand was firm on my elbow. We stopped in front of Stan Dugan.

  He came to his feet and suddenly everyone else in the room seemed small. “Hello, Mrs. Collins.” His voice was deep and agreeable enough, but it had an underlying challenge in it.

  I shook his massive hand. “Hello.” So we were going to pretend we’d not met. That suited m
e. But I had a gut feeling I’d better not count on his silence. Could I pretend astonishment, deny having talked with him? How many lies could I tell with any hope of success?

  Belle gave his muscular forearm a quick squeeze. “Stan and CeeCee were engaged.”

  Dugan’s face was determinedly blank. Was the reserve there because he distrusted me? Or was it deeper, a reflection of continuing grief for CeeCee? Or did he resent Belle’s tying him to a past that had ended?

  “Stan’s a trial lawyer. That’s how he and CeeCee met.” We moved toward Anders and his wife. “My son Anders.”

  There was pride in Belle’s voice, but concern in her eyes.

  Did she worry about what Anders might do or say at this moment? Or was her concern deeper, a mother’s recognition of a child at peril for some reason?

  Anders brushed back a lock of dark hair. “Hello, Mrs. Collins. Your husband worked for the wire services.” His tone was almost contemptuous. Wasn’t that odd for the son of one of America’s most famous foreign correspondents?

  “Sometimes. And so did I,” I said lightly. “And for assorted newspapers. And we freelanced. What do you do, Anders?”

  He looked at me proudly. “I fight dragons, Mrs. Collins. Not a game your husband played. Or you either, I guess.” His gaze was pitying.

  Dragons? What did this boy know about dragons? Richard escaped from Nazi-occupied France, but he parachuted back with American troops to cover the invasion. I could respond with a lifetime of Richard’s achievements, but that wasn’t—at this moment—the point.

  “Everything’s different now,” Anders continued. “Back in the old days, the press was pretty much a toady to corporate America. But now environmental issues get the attention they deserve.”

  Ignorance can be amusing. I wondered if he’d ever heard of the greening of America, if he had any inkling of how powerful the press had been in convincing at least one generation that war was wrong and people were more important than profits. Or, more profoundly, if he grasped the inconstancy of the public. And the press. This year’s darling can well be next year’s pariah, and it is also true of causes. One year the press worries about the plight of loggers, the next it trumpets the possible extinction of a rare species.