Death In Paradise

by Carolyn G. Hart

  I’d left a small lamp burning. Nothing more. Certainly not every light in the place.

  I approached slowly on the walkway. Twenty yards away I stopped. I had no weapon unless the small flashlight in my pocket could be used as one. Moreover, whomever I might face—should there be someone in my rooms—would surely be much younger and much stronger than I.

  I stared at the light.

  I almost turned back to seek an escort from Stan Dugan. But I didn’t want him to think his new confederate was cowardly. Or foolish.

  Of course, it would be infinitely preferable to be embarrassed than to be dead.

  Light…

  Murderers move in darkness. Evil thrives in secret. It would take an odd turn of mind to wait in ambush in a flood of light.

  Yet, I approached the doorway carefully, ready to whirl and run. And shout. And I grasped the flashlight to use as a truncheon.

  Every light in the little living room was on. The overhead light glowed in the bedroom. The lights on the lanai blazed.

  It was easy to see the larger rooms at a glance. No one awaited me. I checked the bathroom, the closet, the lanai. There was no trace of a visitor, other than the fact of the lights.

  I was tired. I’d matched wits at dinner, confronted Lester Mackey, dueled with Stan Dugan. That could account for my visceral sense of danger.

  But I couldn’t deny the lights. And it would be absurd to attribute this flood of illumination to the result of a visit by a housemaid.

  Not all the lights.

  No. And though perhaps I could attribute the deep feeling of malignity to my fatigue, I was careful to close and lock the front panel and to shut and bolt the louvers. All the while I prepared for bed—but how could I sleep, even though I must sleep?—I continued to wonder what the visit signaled.

  I was walking to the bed when I stopped and stared.

  The spread was rumpled over the pillows.

  Slowly, I reached down, yanked back the cover.

  My throat closed tight. My chest ached.

  There wasn’t much blood. But then bats are small creatures. The little dead animal, its neck broken, looked pitiful rather than horrific.

  But the act was ugly. The intention ugly.

  And yes, I was frightened. I knew this was a warning, a clear announcement that I should leave, desist, withdraw.

  And if I didn’t?

  Richard fell hideously. I didn’t want to die. Not like that. Not at all. So the bat succeeded in its objective. Yes. I was frightened.

  And yet, I could not leave.

  I would not leave.

  ten

  Istood on the edge of my lanai. Mist obscured the tumbling falls, though I could hear their unceasing roar, rather like the muted rumble of a subway beneath city pavement. Closer at hand, a curious noise sounded. It took me back more than a half century to a Kansas plain and the squeak of the rusty hinge on the wooden door of the storm cellar. The sound came again, closer. I looked down and saw a brilliantly red bird with a salmon-colored hooked bill.

  Squeak. Squeak.

  “Good morning,” I said in turn.

  The bird launched in flight and for an instant was a spectacular streak of flame against the dense green of the canyon wall.

  I couldn’t see the valley floor because of the pools of thick mist, but the first tendrils of sunrise were curling over the top of the mountain, orange and red, mauve and apricot, gold and rose, colors more vivid than a shower of jewels.

  CeeCee Burke found this rugged mountain ridge the loveliest place she’d ever been. I wished I could relinquish myself to beauty, shed cares and worries and grief. Perhaps that day would come. But not yet.

  I draped a sweater over my shoulders. This morning I chose to go through the main garden. Although the cliff path ran well below the individual lanais, I didn’t want to disturb those still sleeping.

  Sunlight splashed in pools of gold in the huge living-dining area. I walked through to the lanai and the scattered tables around the reflecting pool. Only one small table was occupied. Keith Scanlon and Anders Burke looked up. Scanlon greeted me cheerfully. In his tennis whites he looked trim and muscular. Anders lowered his newspaper for an instant, murmured, “Morning,” then resumed reading. He looked slight even in a bulky cotton sweater and baggy jeans.

  Once again there was a bountiful buffet. I must confess to a great fondness for bacon and eggs. I added two pineapple fritters to my plate.

  Scanlon and Anders stood as I neared the table.

  “Please.” I waved my hand.

  They sat down, and I joined them.

  Scanlon poured coffee all around. He and I made desultory conversation—the possibility of rain in the afternoon, the leader in the golf tournament underway on Maui, the best time of day to visit Waimea Canyon.

  Anders was absorbed in the morning paper, though he rattled it hard once, peered at us, and announced in disgust, “Some fools still want to feed the dolphins.” But he submerged himself in the newspaper again before either of us could answer.

  Scanlon finished his coffee and pushed back his chair. “Will you come down for some tennis this morning?”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll definitely do that.” I wanted to see him away from Ahiahi, talk to him on his own turf.

  He sketched a quick map, while proudly describing his complex. “You can’t miss it.”

  He moved away with a bounce in his step, a man obviously on his way to work he loved. Interesting. The easy assumption would be that he married Belle for her money. But equally obviously he didn’t mind working, preferred to work. Certainly he didn’t have to. So, did he marry Belle for love? Fascination? Excitement?

  Anders put down his paper, piled jam on a croissant.

  When the sound of Scanlon’s footsteps had faded away, I turned to Anders. “What are you working on now, Anders?”

  “Do you really want to know?” It was a challenge. He didn’t believe in polite inquiries; he wasn’t going to respond to one.

  “Yes. Actually, I really do.” I smiled at him.

  “Why?” He cocked his head to one side, studied me as he might an unfamiliar life form.

  “I always want to know all about everyone I meet.” Yes, I did. I loved playing out the line and the thrill of discovery when someone answered me without pretense. Every human being has a story and every story is fascinating.

  His eyes creased in puzzlement. “For God’s sake, why?”

  “Why do you care about animals?”

  It was the right question and the wrong question. He unleashed such a flood of impassioned rhetoric that I had plenty of time to finish my breakfast and pour more coffee.

  “…don’t appreciate how intelligent animals are, how much emotion they feel. All of them—elephants, wolves, bears, deer—all of them. You just don’t realize!” His face was flushed.

  “So what are you working on now?”

  “Puppy mills. Do you know what they are?” His eyes flashed with anger.

  “I know.” I’d been with a sheriff once on a raid. It was the kind of memory that made you ashamed to be human.

  “Doesn’t it make you sick? Dogs crammed in little cages, not fed enough, not kept clean, not treated for disease and parasites, just kept alive long enough to breed and have puppies and then the puppies are taken—”

  “I know.” Unfortunately, mall pet shops get puppies as cheaply as possible and wherever a profit can be made; some will cut costs in any way they can.

  “Don’t you care?” It was an anguished demand.

  “Yes.” Yes, puppy mills are wrong, but the litany of wrongs—for me—has to begin with hungry children and the homeless. “So you’re using the Ericcson Foundation to fight animal abuse.”

  It was interesting to see the anger seep out of his face and the sense of peace settle over him. The tight muscles in his face relaxed. He leaned back in his chair. “You bet I am.”

  “What would CeeCee have thought about the foundation going in that direction?”
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  He considered the question, then shrugged. “It’s a winnertake-all world.” The words were callous. But they had a tinge of the bravado used by small boys shouting unacceptable phrases.

  I drank coffee, said nothing.

  He wriggled uncomfortably and said quickly, “CeeCee never blinked at seeing things the way they really are.”

  I looked at him.

  He folded his arms. “You surprise me, Mrs. Collins. No personal questions about my late sis? How she looked the last time I saw her? My favorite memory of her?”

  I sipped the coffee, spectacularly good coffee. “You can tell me whatever you wish.”

  For an instant, he looked discomfited, then he said sharply, “If you write a book about her, don’t be maudlin.”

  “I’m rarely maudlin, Anders. And I’m not writing a book about CeeCee.”

  “So you arrived coincidentally on the anniversary of her kidnapping?” He watched me carefully.

  “No. Not coincidentally. It is also the anniversary of my husband’s death.” I looked away, toward the canyon. The sunrise spilled over the mountain, a golden cascade. “My husband died here. That’s why I came.”

  He shaded his eyes from the sun. “So you’re going down memory lane.” He sighed. “Just like we are.” His voice was resentful. “Carefully orchestrated, of course. Every year I wonder what would happen if we let it all come out. But it never happens.”

  “Come out?”

  “The truth.” His tone was defiant. “How we all felt about CeeCee. Belle acts like my dead sister was some kind of saint.” Many adult children call their mothers by a first name. But I had the sense Anders was distancing himself from his mother. “Let me tell you, CeeCee was no saint. And being kidnapped didn’t make her one. It just made her unlucky.”

  Anders wanted to talk about CeeCee. Maybe he still believed I was working on a true-crime book and was determined to get my attention. Maybe he simply wanted to talk, had wanted to talk for a long time.

  I hoped to find out more about him. Perhaps this was as good a way as any. “Being kidnapped is more than bad luck. Someone planned it, Anders, someone picked her.”

  “Bad luck,” he repeated stubbornly. “CeeCee was the first one to arrive at the lake. It could have been me. Or Joss. Any of us. I think somebody was waiting, somebody up at the lake.”

  “How do you explain the ransom note with CeeCee’s name?”

  “They grabbed CeeCee, then wrote the note and dropped it in the mail. Like I said, they could have kidnapped any of us.” Anders rubbed the bridge of his nose. “There was a guy who worked for us, Johnnie somebody. I thought later he acted spooky as hell. I told the deputy, but he said Johnnie was okay. A little slow, but a good guy.” Anders shrugged. “Maybe the deputy was in on it. It had to be somebody local. There’re some tough dudes out in the country. I think it was somebody who lived around there, watched us, and that Friday night CeeCee came up by herself. Bad luck.”

  “So you think it had nothing to do with CeeCee personally?” I kept my voice casual, as if this were just a simple question, nothing terribly important.

  “It had to do”—his tone was patronizing—“with money. M-O-N-E-Y. They didn’t care who they snagged. What they wanted was Belle’s money. And that’s another reason I think it was locals. They didn’t ask for enough money. Big-time crooks would know Belle’s richer than shit. What’s a couple of hundred thousand? They should’ve asked for a million.”

  “It would take a pretty big box.”

  “Small-time yokels.” He took a bite of cinnamon roll. “Of course, I don’t know if Belle would have paid up as quick for anyone else. They got her favorite. And now she’s canonized CeeCee.”

  “What was CeeCee like?” The juice was so fresh the flavor burst on my tongue.

  His chin jutted. “She was a first class bitch.” Anders picked up his fork, speared a chunk of papaya. “So she was the oldest. Was that a mandate to rule the world?” He shoved the fruit in his mouth.

  I sipped my coffee. “Was it?”

  He chewed, swallowed. “She thought so. Always in charge, always sure that she had all the answers and the rest of us didn’t have a clue. She was in rare form that last month. Had us all jumping through hoops. Joss and Gretchen and Wheeler and Megan and me. All of us. Stuck in Dallas working for her.” He flung down the remainder of the roll. “The Ericcson Foundation. CeeCee’s empire. Why didn’t she do it and leave the rest of us alone? But no, that wouldn’t do. We all had to work there. Joss made pitches to civic groups. Hell, I think he liked it. Give him a stage and he’s happy. Wheeler handled the PR. Gretchen did the books. Megan was CeeCee’s assistant.”

  “And you?”

  “Was I lucky! I got to write all the promo stuff. As long as it suited CeeCee.”

  “But now you’re in charge.”

  There was a flash of triumph in his eyes. “That’s right.”

  “And the focus has changed,” I said mildly.

  “We fight for animals,” he said proudly. “And for the environment. We make a difference.”

  “Is Belle pleased?”

  His good humor fled. His face was suddenly bleak. “I don’t know. She’s never come there. Not since CeeCee died.” He shoved back his chair, flinging down his napkin. He strode away, head down.

  “Anders. Anders!” Peggy hurried across the lanai.

  But Anders didn’t stop.

  Peggy stared after him, then marched determinedly to the table. “Anders loved CeeCee,” she said breathlessly.

  Maybe he did. Love has many faces.

  She chose yogurt and a bagel from the buffet, then plopped into the chair opposite me, her earnest face intent. “Really, if you knew Anders better, you’d understand. Belle doesn’t realize how hard it was for him, CeeCee always taking charge.”

  “Really,” I murmured encouragingly.

  Peggy pulled her chair closer. “Anders had his own ideas, but CeeCee always thought she knew best. And she was the oldest, you see.”

  I must have looked puzzled.

  “I’m the oldest in my family,” Peggy explained patiently. “I have five sisters. And, of course, you have to take charge. CeeCee meant well.”

  “I’m sure she did. Coffee?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you, Mrs. Collins.”

  “Henrie O, please.” I filled our cups.

  She beamed at me and launched into a glowing tribute to CeeCee: “…so intense…very serious about life…felt the others were slackers and really that was so unfair…” laced with exculpatory justifications for Anders, “…really he and CeeCee were so much alike…CeeCee never saw how much his work for animals mattered to him…still grieving…”

  It was like being swarmed by gnats. Finally I said, “I suppose coming here every year to mark the anniversary of her death must be very difficult.”

  Peggy stirred the fruit-laden yogurt. “It upsets Anders.” She watched me carefully. “It really does. He was an adoring little brother.”

  I looked at her curiously. Egoists relate every situation, every comment to themselves. Peggy automatically linked every remark to Anders. Was it love? Or obsession?

  “Now, Joss.” Her tone was cool. “He’s certainly gone right on with his life. And, of course, she was only a stepsister to Wheeler and Megan and Gretchen. Not that they weren’t fond of CeeCee. But I don’t think they make any pretense. Not like some people.” She looked like a Persian cat smelling something disagreeable.

  “Pretense?”

  She looked swiftly around the lanai, peered into the dim interior, then leaned toward me. “Well, I told Anders I thought we should tell Belle. But he wouldn’t let me.” Malice flickered in her pale blue eyes.

  Did she think I might make a good messenger? Whatever it was, I was certain I would not tell Belle. But I kept a pleasant, inquiring look on my face.

  “Stan Dugan ought to be ashamed of himself! He’s never breathed a word to anybody about breaking up with CeeCee.”

  “H
e broke up with—”

  “No. No. She broke the engagement. CeeCee called me that afternoon, that last afternoon, and told me she’d given his ring back. She said she’d tell me all about it when she saw me.”

  I fell in love with Keith Scanlon’s tennis center. And I certainly understood why he enjoyed it. He might be a rich woman’s husband, but he certainly knew how to run a tennis complex. Sixteen clay courts. And a clubhouse humming with activity.

  Doubles on clay courts is heavenly. The clay slows the ball and is soft on your feet, pleasant attributes at my age. I swung my racket up and back-hand lobbed the ball over the net player into the far corner, one of my favorite shots. Her partner made a valiant effort, but the point was ours. Game, set, match. I thanked my new friends and joined them on the veranda for a drink. I stayed long enough to be courteous, then excused myself and set out in search of Scanlon. I found him behind some scaffolding at the exhibition court.

  “How’d it go?” he asked cheerfully, shoving his tennis hat higher above a flushed face.

  “Terrific. Great courts. And a beautiful clubhouse.” I pulled off a terry-cloth headband and shook my damp hair loose. “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Tennis? Oh, all my life. Played my college tennis in Austin. Then I did pretty well on the European circuit. A long time ago.” His voice was wistful. There was just a trace of a flat Texas accent. He reached out, grabbed a railing on the temporary bleachers and gave it a hard yank. “Just checking.

  We’re going to have an exhibition match tomorrow. Want to be sure they put the bleachers together right.” He looked at me earnestly. “There’s a lot involved in running a tennis club. You have to keep on top of everything—stocking the pro shop, the food concession, hiring the pros, scheduling the classes, putting together weekend clinics, keeping the regulars happy.”

  The automatic sprinklers came on and the earthy smell of damp clay wafted toward us.

  “That’s how you met Belle, wasn’t it?” I smiled encouragingly.

  “Yeah. She came down from Dallas for one of our weekend clinics.” He took off his hat to wave away a wasp that buzzed near the hibiscus. “Normally I teach the juniors.” He paused, amended, “Taught the juniors. Anyway, I didn’t usually do the women’s clinics. But a couple of the pros got ptomaine, so I took over that weekend. It was supposed to be a clinic on lobs. Damn Belle won’t lob.” His expression was both bemused and wry. “She and I really got into it and that night I was trying to put a good face on it, so I invited her out to dinner.” A sudden smile lighted his face and his considerable charm was evident.