I met his gaze. “I told the world about a lot of different kinds of America, Anders. And so did my husband. Jonas Salk. Birmingham and Bull Connor. Watts. The Challenger. Habitat for Humanity. The good and the bad.” I refrained from pointing out that his mother’s private fortune was very much the fruit of corporate America. And asking whether he liked being a rich woman’s son with all the privileges that provided. I was still on my company manners. For the moment.
Anders gave me a condescending smile.
I smiled pleasantly in return though I understood exactly how much pleasure it must give a terrier to take a rat by the throat and shake it.
Belle’s gaze lingered on her son. She almost spoke to him, then, with a tiny shake of her head, she turned to his wife. Peggy’s face mirrored Belle’s uneasiness. Anders worried the women who loved him. Belle said briskly, “And this is Peggy, Anders’s wife.” She patted Peggy’s hand. “CeeCee introduced Peggy to Anders.”
“I’m so glad to meet you, Mrs. Collins.” Peggy’s voice was high and fluttery. I had a sudden picture of her at fifty, anxious and awkward. She wouldn’t be much changed.
“And what do you do, Peggy?”
She looked surprised. And pleased. “I have an antique shop, Mrs. Collins.”
So Peggy loved old and beautiful artifacts. And money, of course. Antiques require money.
I smiled and tucked another fact into my collection. Later I could sort through what I’d learned. But slowly, piece by piece, I was beginning to find out who these people were. And remembering—always remembering—that one of them was a murderer. I managed to keep on smiling.
Belle and I reached the piano. Joss still played softly.
Belle’s face was suddenly pinched and weary. “‘September Song.’ CeeCee loved it.” She reached out, touched her son’s shoulder. “My son Joss.”
He dropped his hands to his lap. “Hello, Mrs. Collins.” He started to rise.
“Please don’t get up,” I said quickly. “You play very well.”
“Thank you. I enjoy it. I’m glad you do, too.” He had all the charm his brother lacked.
“Joss is an actor,” Belle said without expression.
I glanced at her. There was a definite tightness to her mouth.
“Sometimes.” His good-humored mouth curved into a wry smile. “Resting, at the moment. But available. I do soaps,
television movies, big screen, stage. Whatever. I’m for hire.”
I smiled in return. “It’s a tough life.”
Belle touched his shoulder. “Joss is also a wonderful writer. I’m trying to persuade him to come here. I can’t think of a better place for a writer to live.”
“Not this writer, Mom.” He said it nicely, but his voice was determined. The blue eyes that gazed up at her held a mixture of defiance and sadness.
“Nobody who’s alive would want to live here.” Then Gretchen clasped a hand over her mouth.
Belle drew her breath in sharply.
Wheeler came out from behind the bar. “Stuff a sock in your mouth, sis. And no more Mai Tais. How about you, Mrs. Collins? Let me fix you an island special.” He grinned at Belle. “Gretchen and I met Mrs. Collins at—” He paused for just an instant. “—near the tennis courts this afternoon.” He waved toward the bar. “One of my dad’s legacies. I can mix drinks better than a licensed bartender. Coco locos, fog cutters, scorpions. Name your poison.”
“I’ll take pineapple juice.” I stepped to the bar. “How about pineapple juice and ginger ale. With a squirt of orange juice and a squeeze of lemon.”
“Coming right up. I can even garnish it with an orchid.” He opened the refrigerator, picked out containers of juices.
“Wheeler, I have a lei for Mrs. Collins. On the top shelf of the refrigerator.” Belle smiled, but there was so little life and pleasure in that smile.
“Sure. Here we are.” He lifted out a lovely plumeria lei and handed it to his stepmother.
Belle slipped the fragrant wreath over my head. “Aloha.” Her musical voice made a lovely word even lovelier.
“Thank you.” I touched the cool petals. Welcome to paradise.
“There’s a lei for Megan, too.” Belle held out her hand.
He handed his stepmother the second lei, and Belle smiled her thanks.
Wheeler swiftly splashed juices into a tall frosted glass.
Megan sauntered gracefully toward us. “For me, too?” There was a childlike pleasure in her voice as Belle dropped the lei lightly onto her shoulders. “Thank you, Belle.”
“Of course.” Belle brushed back a strand of Megan’s lovely hair.
They stood close together, the young woman and the old, and I was once again struck by their resemblance—both fine-featured, both silver-blond, both tall and willowy.
Belle slipped an arm around her stepdaughter’s thin shoulders. “Megan is our exotic creature. She’s a model and spends her time in New York and Paris.”
“That sounds very exciting.” I smiled.
Megan’s perfect brows arched. “Oh, people think so. But it can be very tiring. And I get so hungry.”
“Then eat,” Gretchen said crisply. She was standing near the buffet. She picked up a shrimp ball and poked it into a pink sauce.
Megan sighed. “I never get to eat. Carrots. And club soda. But they pay me very well.”
There was an odd silence.
Belle looked at her in concern. “Megan, you aren’t starving yourself?”
For an instant, something dark and angry stirred in the model’s deep blue eyes. “Of course I am, Belle. All models starve.” She held up one slim arm and it was simply a bone sheathed in skin, a Picasso-like rendition of a limb.
Belle stepped back, looked Megan up and down. “I won’t have it. You certainly don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t have to. But I will.” Her vivid eyes flicked around the room, pausing just for an instant on each face in turn. “I”—and there was a marked emphasis on the pronoun—“don’t have to ask anyone for anything. Ever.”
Belle started to speak, then, her face stiff, turned away.
Wheeler looked amused. He darted a sardonic glance at his sister, then picked up a swizzle stick and twirled it in a tall frosted glass. “Here you are, Mrs. Collins.”
There was a sudden babel of conversation.
A tiny smile of satisfaction curved Megan’s perfect lips.
I looked at her with more interest. Yes, indeed, somebody was home. That would teach me—once again—never to succumb to first impressions. Or be swayed by stereotypes.
Anders gave a hoot of laughter. “Looking for a halo, Megan? They’re in short supply around here. But you have a lei. That may not please you, though. Did you know plumerias were first planted around cemeteries? So plumeria’s called the graveyard tree. And white means death, too.”
Belle was shaking her head. “It’s the Japanese who associate white with death, Anders. Not Hawaiians. Plumerias are very popular for leis.”
Megan reached up and stroked the delicate blooms. “I don’t know about you, Anders, but I’m not superstitious.”
“Don’t tease Megan,” Peggy said quickly.
“Oh, I’m not teasing,” Anders said softly.
Megan crossed to her stepbrother and swiftly dropped the lei over his head. “It’s just the thing for you, Anders. Enjoy it.”
Anders reached up. His hand closed tightly around the blossoms, crushing them, then he shrugged.
“That’s enough, you two.” Belle waved toward the buffet. “Come now, let’s have dinner.”
And what a delicious dinner it was: dainty steamed meat dumplings, egg rolls, and shrimp balls to dip in plum-brandy sauce; sea bass with pine nuts; spareribs with black bean sauce; bean sprouts and peppers; cauliflower with water chestnuts and mushrooms; and baked papaya.
I filled my plate with a sampling, not too much of any one food. I was more interested in the company. I took my
time finding a seat, pausing
to admire a spectacular flower arrangement with a half dozen bird-of-paradise flowers. So I ended up at a table with Joss, Anders, and Peggy.
Joss set out to charm us.
“…could have happened to somebody in a situation comedy. But this was real life!”
Peggy and I looked expectant.
“Not very real,” Anders muttered. He made a little pile of water chestnuts, then began to eat one after the other, crunch, crunch, crunch. The sweet-scented lei still hung from his shoulders.
Joss smiled at the ladies, ignored his brother. “I was on 101 and the traffic was snout to butt and we kept stopping. And stopping. I tried to make a couple of calls, but the static was busier than a porno site on the net.”
Peggy’s eyes widened.
Joss grinned at her. “Kitten, it’s a big bad world out there.” His drawl was deliberately provocative. “Anyway, there I was, stalled. I don’t like to waste time. So I decided to work on my lines for an audition the next day. Can’t get in trouble for that. Right?” He paused for dramatic effect.
Anders rolled his eyes. “Joss, don’t you ever make yourself want to puke?”
But Peggy and I watched attentively. We were a good audience.
Joss flipped up the collar of his sports shirt, mussed his hair so that a thick blond strand fell across his forehead, jutted his face forward.
It was generations ago but I wondered if Joss had ever heard of Richard Widmark, once the Hollywood king of menace. There was that same aura of horror about to happen, made doubly horrific because of Widmark’s gentlemanly appearance, as befitted a one-time English professor.
“I got you now. You won’t get away from me. Not ever,” Joss growled. “See this knife?” He raised his hand and a
knife glittered. It was only a table knife, but he seemed a deadly figure of menace. It was the look in his eyes, the tautness of his muscles, the way his fingers gripped the knife, held it aloft, as if at any moment it might flash down in a violent arc.
“Ooooh,” Peggy shivered.
Joss’s face was suddenly transformed, a merry gaze, a brilliant smile. “Nice, huh?” His satisfaction was open and charming.
“Very good. But on the freeway—” I prompted.
“Never again on the freeway. Believe me. There I was. Practicing. Not bothering anybody. And there’s this gorgeous gal in a red Porsche, stopped right next to me. And you know what she did?”
“Called the cops on her mobile phone.” Anders sounded bored.
That didn’t bother Joss. “Damned if she didn’t,” Joss agreed. “Guess her model was pricier. No static. Anyway, the next exit a shitload of cop cars came on and I spent two hours at a substation asking them for Christ’s sake to look at my script! But all they wanted to talk about was the bone-handled hunting knife I’d been brandishing.” He leaned forward, his scowl pugnacious, jabbing a forefinger. “‘All right, buddy, explain this knife. What’s this knife for?’” He straightened his collar, returned the knife to his plate. “Can I help it if I like good props?”
“And good food and good whiskey and no-good women,” Anders muttered, pushing back his plate. He’d eaten very little. All the water chestnuts.
Joss scooped out a spoonful of mashed papaya. “Anders, go soak your head. It might improve your outlook on life. We’re all sorry for the little kitties and doggies who don’t have homes, but somehow we bear up.”
“At least I know what real life’s all about.” Anders’s voice was hard-edged.
Joss clapped his hand to his heart. “Oh, poor me. Lost in the canyons of Hollywood, adrift on a sea of celluloid.”
“And enjoying every minute,” I observed.
He grinned. “You bet I am.”
“Now, Joss, it’s fine for you to do what you want to do, but you have to admit that Anders’s efforts for animal rights have made a huge difference,” Peggy said earnestly. “Why, there was an article all about him in Time.”
I finished my last bite of cauliflower, savoring the faint seasoning of soy sauce. It seemed to me that Peggy’s comment didn’t need an answer. Instead, I looked at Joss. “How long have you lived in Hollywood?”
Just for an instant, fine lines creased the corners of Joss’s eyes. He looked much older. “Several years.”
The maid deftly removed our plates and offered us coffee. I shook my head.
“Several years,” Anders mimicked. He put two heaping teaspoons of sugar in his coffee. “Now you can come closer than that, bro. How about you dumped Janet and hit the road the week after CeeCee died.”
Joss’s eyes were cold and hard. “You never quite have your facts right, Anders. For the record, Janet dumped me. And it’s been a while.”
Peggy squirmed in her chair, bent close to me, and whispered, not very adroitly, “Janet was Joss’s wife.”
Anders watched the steam rise from his coffee like a diviner studying a portent. “Yeah, after CeeCee died, everybody got to do what they wanted to do, go wherever they wanted to go. Belle had a guilt trip. She’d pretty well kept us around in Dallas—working for the foundation. Of course, she meant it for the best. But after CeeCee was gone, Belle let everybody do what they wanted to do. Joss headed straight to Hollywood and Gretchen to D.C. and Megan to New York and Wheeler to Seattle.”
I had most of them pretty well assorted in my mind at this point. Joss was an actor, Gretchen a writer, Megan a model. “What does Wheeler do?”
For the first time, Anders looked genuinely amused. “Oh, he has a sailing sloop and takes out charters. Tough duty, right?”
“And you, Anders?” I asked.
“I stayed in Dallas. Somebody had to take over the foundation. I was elected.” He tried to sound casual, but he couldn’t suppress his satisfaction.
“Anders.” Peggy’s voice was anguished.
Anders ignored his wife, just as he ignored anything that wasn’t connected to the passion of his life, protection of animals and the environment.
There was no trace of the charming, ebullient Joss when he looked levelly at his brother. “You’re a fool, Anders.”
Anders looked dourly from Joss to me. “Am I?” He shoved back his chair, stood. He raised his voice a little. “I thought Mrs. Collins might like a little truth in packaging. Even if it isn’t her usual beat.”
The other diners looked toward us.
“What is your usual beat, Mrs. Collins?” Elise Ford’s voice was smooth, polite. She stood near our table, a shawl over one arm.
“I’m between projects right now.”
The silence lasted just an instant too long and I was aware of a wave of malignity. I looked searchingly at each of them in turn, but all I saw were inquiring expressions.
Elise raised an eyebrow. “Do you intend to write another true-crime book soon?” She lifted her voice. The words carried clearly across the lanai. She reached Belle, held out the fleecy white wrap.
Belle slipped the shawl around her shoulders. She, too, looked toward me, her face clear and cold in the moonlight like marble statuary in a garden.
So Elise had indeed been busy this afternoon. I supposed Belle now had my entire dossier. Had that seemingly innocent question been planned by the two of them?
I pushed back my chair and stood. “I’ve written one true-crime book. Several years ago. But at the moment I’m between projects. I’m looking forward to learning more about this lovely island. And getting to know all of you.” I smiled. “It’s been a fascinating evening. Good night.” I didn’t mind leaving the party early.
Let them wonder if there was a fox in the chicken coop.
nine
Iwasn’t going to bed. I had other plans. It took me only a few minutes to reach my room and change into a navy pull-over—the mountain air was crisp and cool—and dark slacks and sneakers. I waited on my lanai, watching the shadows of the valley change shape as clouds drifted across the moon. I wanted to plunge into the night now, to wrest facts from fancies, but I had to be patient and give Lester Mackey time to reac
h his quarters.
I felt pressed. It was like driving on a torturous mountain road with a heavy truck crowding too close behind. A sense of imminent danger flashed deep in my mind like a beacon on a foggy night. I felt an unaccustomed lack of control, although I am old enough and, I hope, wise enough to know that any semblance of control is illusory. At best, we can control our responses to a world often chaotic and fortuitous. But I am also old enough and wise enough to heed inner warnings. I wondered whether my fear—and fear it was— sprang from my awareness of the undercurrents swirling about the dining room or from that wave of malignity I’d sensed so keenly at the last. Uneasiness consumed me, yet I was in a wild hurry. I had to discover the hidden design before it was too late.
Too late for what?
Why, why, why was I here?
I paced like a caged beast until the swaths of light falling from the lanais into the valley one by one disappeared. Finally, it was dark and quiet, only the torches on the lanais flickering against the velvet of the night.
I felt as though I’d burst free from chains when I climbed down the steps from my lanai to the narrow path.
I always travel with a pocket flashlight. I carried it with me, but the intermittent lighting along the path and the wands of fire from the torches gave sufficient illumination. I was glad. I didn’t want a bobbing light to attract attention. It would be difficult to explain this late-night excursion.
I stepped carefully. In hiking parlance, this was an exposed trail. A misstep could be fatal.
I reached the path beneath the dining room. I stopped still when I heard the music. I supposed it was Joss, once again at the piano. Now he played “Star Dust.” I was transported across the world to a nightclub in Hong Kong when Richard came back from Vietnam. We danced, his arms tightly around me. I rested my head on his shoulder. I didn’t want the moment or the music ever to end. I could feel the beat of his heart through his jacket, steady, strong. Alive.
A bird cawed, for an instant drowning out the song. I looked down. But I couldn’t see the drop in the darkness. Or the kukui trees where it all ended for Richard. Somehow I moved forward. I hated to leave behind the familiar notes. I wanted to cling to them because they brought Richard back, if only for a moment.
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