Death In Paradise

by Carolyn G. Hart

  So Belle refused to lob. I’ve known players like that. They see a lob as a confession of weakness. Me, I love lobs. But maybe that indicates I have a Byzantine mind. It certainly indicates I’ll use whatever shot works. And if I ever played Belle, I’d lob her all day long. And enjoy it enormously.

  “Did she persuade you lobs are for wimps?”

  He laughed. “She was like a whirlwind. I’ve never spent an evening like that. Belle can outtalk anyone. And she was so much fun. We had a great time until—”

  I don’t suppose he would have continued. But I thought I knew. “Until the kidnapping?”

  The happiness seeped out of his face. He looked suddenly morose. “Nothing’s been the same since. Of course, I know it can’t be. But Belle’s not the same.”

  I would have given a good deal to know his thoughts. I don’t run a talk show, so I couldn’t ask the man if he regretted his marriage. But I could make a stab at it. “Belle’s a very remarkable woman.”

  He got a Dennis Thatcher look on his face, formally pleased and proud. “Oh, yes, she is remarkable.”

  “Do you miss Texas?” It was an idle question, the kind you throw into an interview to relax a subject. Nothing tough, nothing stressful. And sometimes—bingo!—you hit the jackpot.

  Just for an instant, Keith Scanlon’s broad face was unguarded, his eyes full of longing. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I do. I had my own place. All mine. Took the money I’d earned on the tour and sank every penny into it. People came from all over. Oh, I wasn’t as famous as Bollettieri, anybody like that. But I was getting a good name. And I had some kids who were good, really good.”

  “This isn’t the same?” I gestured toward the compound of courts. There was the familiar thwock of balls, the occasional cries of success or frustration.

  “No. This is—God, it’s so temporary. People on a holiday. Just for a few days or weeks. Oh, we’ve got one kid—Tommy Yamamoto—God, he’s good. But this is a small place. It isn’t the same.”

  “Would you like to go back?”

  “No chance.” His voice was grim. “Belle doesn’t—she can’t—” He took a deep breath. “Well, anyway. Life changes, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. Yes, it does.”

  His beeper sounded. He pulled it from his pocket, looked at the display. He gave me a quick, uneasy glance. “If you’ll excuse me, Henrie O.”

  “Of course. Thanks for the tennis.”

  “Anytime. Please come again.”

  He walked swiftly around the path.

  I waited for just an instant, then followed.

  He walked around the clubhouse, heading toward the parking area. Huge hibiscus shrubs surrounded the lot. A path led between the shrubs and the first four courts. I plunged down the path, pausing every so often to peer through the thick tangle of greenery.

  Scanlon reached his jeep, pulled out the mobile phone. He turned it on, punched in the numbers. His face was creased in a worried frown. “Why are you calling me?” He listened for only an instant, then said angrily, “Don’t call me again. Somebody might hear you, for God’s sake. Cool it for now.” He punched off the phone.

  I suppose the housekeeper kept an eye peeled to arrivals and departures. I was midway up the central path through the front garden when Amelia stepped out on the porch. “Good morning, Mrs. Collins.”

  “Good morning, Amelia.”

  A macaw hovered for a moment near the glossy leaves of a ti shrub at the main entrance. Placing a ti plant to the right of a home’s front door is supposed to ward off evil spirits. In the midday sunlight, the colors were breathtaking—the bird’s feathered stripes of crimson and jade, the glossy green of the huge shiny leaves. If sheer beauty could deter bad luck, success was ensured.

  Everywhere I looked in the garden there was color—lavender of the jacaranda, orange of the African tulip tree, yellow of the golden shower tree, red of the royal poinciana. I was still new enough to Ahiahi that every view was startlingly lovely.

  The quiet was broken only by the chirps and warbles of the birds, the distant rumble of the falls, the occasional hum of a vacuum cleaner, and the rustle of gardeners clipping and pruning. I didn’t see any of the family in a quick survey of the main rooms.

  The housekeeper waited until I reached her. “Ms. Ericcson asked me to wish you a good morning. She’s gone to Princeville with Mr. Joss and Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Stan. They’re playing golf and they’ll be back late in the afternoon. She hopes you will have a nice day. If you need any assistance, please speak with Miss Ford.”

  “Thanks so much.” Nice. Carte blanche to speak with Belle’s secretary. Yes, indeed, I would take advantage of that. “I’ll check with her after I change. And the rest of the family?”

  “I believe Miss Gretchen is reading on the lanai near the library. Mr. Anders has gone out on the boat with Mr. Mackey. Miss Megan and Miss Peggy have gone to Hanapepe. There are some artists’ shops there.”

  I wondered how Megan, elegant, thin, and aloof, felt about a day in the company of her stepbrother’s garrulous wife. They would make an interesting combination.

  “Rather an active group,” I said pleasantly.

  “Yes, ma’am. And, as always, there will be a buffet at lunchtime. That is the custom for all the mealtimes when there are guests.”

  “That’s very sensible. I’m sure it will be excellent.” I started to turn away, then paused. “Amelia, my husband—Richard Collins—died in a fall here.”

  She inclined her head gravely. “I know. I’m very sorry, ma’am.”

  “Were you working at Ahiahi when Richard fell?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She looked at me solemnly.

  “Do you remember the day he arrived?”

  She brushed back a wisp of dark hair. “Yes, ma’am. It had been stormy. It rained heavily that afternoon. Later I wondered if he slipped from the trail.”

  “No one heard Richard call out?” A final, desperate shout, I could feel its vibration in my heart.

  “No, ma’am. Not to my knowledge.” Her face was smooth and impassive, but I glimpsed a sudden flicker in her eyes. A question? A thought?

  So I kept after it. “Were you awake late that evening?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She was polite, but the answer was grudging. She cleared her throat. “If you’ll excuse me now, Mrs. Collins, I—”

  “What kept you awake?”

  For an instant I thought she wasn’t going to answer. But courtesy was too firmly bred in her.

  “Sometimes when it’s stormy, my bones ache. I couldn’t sleep. But I didn’t hear Mr. Collins fall. Now, I must get back to work, Mrs. Collins.” She turned away.

  I stood and watched her go. She was walking quickly. Too quickly. All right, Amelia. For now.

  I hurried up the walk leading to my suite. I felt a little chilled from the ever-present breeze here atop the ridge. I was in a hurry to get into my shower.

  The room was already straightened, the bed made, everything in order.

  A folded sheet of notepaper lay in the center of the bed. I picked it up. The message was printed and unsigned:

  SPOUTING HORN, NOON TOMORROW. IN RE DISCUSSION OF SUBJECT WHO FELL FROM DOCK.

  I folded the note into a small square. Lester Mackey was a liar. But maybe he was ready now to tell the truth. I didn’t understand his role in CeeCee’s kidnapping, but he knew more than he’d ever told the police. I was sure of that, or Johnnie Rodriguez would still be alive.

  Lester Mackey, soft spoken, devoted to Belle. Yes, I thought I could count on that. Whatever had happened to

  him in Vietnam, Belle had been his rescuer. I was sure of it. So his loyalties, always, would be to Belle. How did that figure into CeeCee’s kidnapping?

  I needed to know more about Lester Mackey. I knew he drank. Did he gamble? But even needing money in the worst way, I couldn’t believe he’d betray Belle.

  Something didn’t jibe here. I tucked the note into my purse. But I’d no more than clicked the purse shut when I ope
ned it, retrieved the paper. I tore it into tiny strips, flushed it away. Someone—witness the disappearance of my notes on the family, the dead bat on my pillow—was keeping a close eye on me. And women house guests do not carry their purses to dinner.

  I wouldn’t forget this appointment. And before I arrived at Spouting Horn, I’d know more about Lester Mackey. Stan Dugan had hired a private detective to scour Dallas after the kidnapping. That detective would surely have nosed about everyone who’d been at Lake Texoma that weekend. Yes, I’d talk again with Stan Dugan before I drove to Spouting Horn tomorrow.

  eleven

  Islipped quickly and quietly into Belle’s office. I didn’t turn on any lights. It took me only a few minutes at the computer to print out a sheet with a single line repeated several times. All caps for emphasis:

  TONIGHT. SAME TIME. SAME PLACE. WE HAVE TO TALK. I’M SORRY.

  I found scissors in Elise’s desk, cut the sentences apart, four of them. Then, strolling casually, I wandered by the guest bedrooms. It wasn’t hard to figure out the occupants: a new book on the vanishing rain forest in Anders and Peggy’s room; elegant matching luggage with the initials MMG in Megan’s room; half-opened drawers, a sea-green negligee flung across a chair, a travel guide to Bali on the coffee table in Gretchen’s room.

  I left the notice tucked in Peggy’s bath powder. I took a leaf from Lester Mackey’s book and put the notices to Megan and Gretchen squarely in the center of their beds. I did the same in Elise’s quarters when I found them, two doors down from Lester Mackey.

  It was certainly a variation on the old familiar ALL IS DISCOVERED, FLY AT ONCE. But it never hurts to try.

  Satisfied, I strolled to the dining room. A petite maid smiled at me. “Please.” Her voice was soft. “Everything is ready. Guests are welcome to eat whenever they wish.”

  Gretchen hurried in from the lanai, a book in her hand. “Hi, Henrie O. Good tennis?”

  “Super. Have you had a nice morning?”

  She waggled a hand, “Comme ci, comme ça. Getting a little restless. I loathe golf, and I can’t abide funky shopping. When I shop, I want stores that glitter and glow. I’ve seen enough shell necklaces to last me a lifetime. But I love to show off tourist highlights. How about a trip to the Nurses’ Beach?”

  “Sure.” On our long-ago trip to Kauai, Richard and I had walked hand in hand on the beach made famous in the 1958 South Pacific movie. The wind ruffled his hair and he’d smiled when I pointed toward dancing dolphins. The children built sand castles. Bobby was six, Emily eight, perfect ages for a beach holiday. I’d written Emily a letter, casually said I was going to be in Hawaii this week. She’d probably receive it today. I hadn’t wanted to call her. She reads my voice too well. Yes, I’d like to see that lovely beach again. It had golden memories for me.

  In just a few minutes, a picnic basket in hand, we were on our way in a little two-seater sports car. Gretchen was indeed a good tour guide. We drove down to Hanapepe and turned left onto Kaumualii Highway. Gretchen kept up a running commentary. “…if you look up that way”—withered gray trees, splintered and broken—“you can see where the hurricane barreled down the mountain. The amount of

  destruction depended upon the geography. Fortunately for Belle, it missed Ahiahi…” As we reached Kalaheo—“…that’s the best pizza place on the island…there are some rocks with Hawaiian petroglyphs down that way but you have to get permission to see them. They’re on private property…” We swept past the outskirts of Lihue and turned north on Kuhio Highway. “…there’s Mount Kalepa. It’s the closest high point to Oahu. A long time ago, they used to raise flags there to indicate to canoes from other islands that they could come to trade…the Wailua Falls are up that way, but actually I don’t think they are any prettier than ours…Look to your right, those sand dunes are an ancient burial ground…” All the way up the coast, she talked a mile a minute, her eyes bright, her face pink from the sun. The commentary spewed from her, too strong a stream for me to divert. I smiled and occasionally responded.

  We’d just passed Princeville, the expensive north-shore resort, when I said cheerfully, “Have you considered a job with the Kauai Chamber of Commerce?”

  She laughed. “Sorry if I’ve overwhelmed you.” Her good humor fled and her face was thin and tense. “I’m just so damn glad to get away.”

  “From Ahiahi?”

  Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I feel trapped up there. That grave is so damn macabre.” She shivered.

  I looked at her curiously. CeeCee’s grave had a serene beauty and repose. But perhaps Gretchen was too young to see that.

  She leaned forward in anticipation, her eyes intent. We came around a bend and below us spread a huge, magnificent valley.

  Gretchen brightened. “Hanalei Valley. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Far below, a narrow bridge crossed a river. Taro patches covered the valley floor. To our right was a spectacular view of the bay.

  “Wait until you see Hanalei Beach.” She hummed a snatch from “Puff, the Magic Dragon.” “We’ll do the Nurses’ Beach—Kahalahala—after lunch. Tourists call it Lumahai, but it’s really Kahalahala.”

  When we reached Hanalei Beach and spread the blanket for our picnic, I remembered looking for Puff the Magic Dragon in a rocky cave along this shore. Just for an instant, I pictured two beloved faces, Bobby and Emily, like cameos in my heart. Yes, Hanalei Beach was indeed a magical place, a two-mile crescent of golden sand, the incredible sweep of the headland, and, always, the surging cobalt blue water. Today the surf thundered. There were no swimmers, not even surfers. It was beautiful, but deadly. As is so often true in Hawaii, beauty masks terrible danger. Every year tourists drown, despite the efforts to warn visitors.

  As we carried our blanket and basket to a spread of immaculate sand, a group of young men playing volleyball paused long enough to notice Gretchen. She flashed a quick, lively smile with a hint of enticement, then flounced ahead of me. They looked after her regretfully. I’m sure if I had not been there, she would soon have had a bevy of admiring companions. I suspected this was a game she often played, and played superbly. But she ignored their looks of inquiry as we settled on the sand. She handed me a plate with smoked salmon and chicken salad, papaya and mango and a mound of macadamia nuts. We had a choice of beer, wine or mixed juices. I took the juice and found it a fascinating blend of pineapple, guava, and orange.

  As we ate, I studied my companion. Her unruly red hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a gingham shirt with the tail tied at the midriff, khaki shorts and espadrilles. She had all the attributes of an ordinary vacationer, but there was a shadow in her eyes, and her mouth was too often folded into a thin line. This was not a happy young woman.

  She looked up, caught my glance. Her eyes glittered with equal parts anger and sheer unhappiness. She tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage.

  I understood. It takes a serene heart to enjoy beautiful surroundings. A serene heart was no longer mine. How could I immerse myself in beauty? And obviously, Gretchen wasn’t soothed by the magnificent vista.

  Gretchen stared out at the water, her face hard. “I thought if we got away for a while, I’d feel better. But I don’t! I wish I were a million miles from here.” The skin stretched tight across her narrow face. “Even if it weren’t for that grave, and God, it’s so lonely up there, at the end of nowhere, just CeeCee and silence. But even if she was buried in Dallas, I’d hate it here. Nothing ever happens on this island. It’s so…”

  I said nothing, but I thought how wrong she was. This island had all of life that mattered, births and deaths and love. And, unfortunately, hatred and sadness and despair. But it was all here.

  “…damn bucolic. Not like D.C. I can’t wait to get home.” She stared out at the pounding waves as if she wished she could fight her way through them.

  “That’s where you grew up, isn’t it?” I savored a handful of macadamia nuts.

  The taut muscles relaxed. A look
of almost unbearable sadness glistened in her eyes. “Oh, yes. We lived in Georgetown in an old Colonial house. An alley ran behind it. In the spring we had these gorgeous azaleas and a magnolia tree. I’ve never forgotten the way magnolia smells. And the way the leaves rattle in a breeze, like dominoes clicking on a wooden table. We had so much fun. Megan and I pretended we were highwaymen robbing the coach on its way to Alexandria.” She laughed, but there was a tremor in her laughter. “Bloodthirsty little creatures. There’d been an inn next

  door and we’d heard all the old stories about travelers and what happened to some of them. So we played highwaymen and soldiers and come-find-me-if-you-can. It was perfect when we were little. I wish it could have stayed that way.”

  I understood. Don’t we all look back in longing, those of us who had happy childhoods? Because the greatest loss we ever know is not the loss of family or place or money, it is the loss of innocence. There is forever a hollow place in our hearts once we realize that darkness rings the campfire.

  Gretchen picked up a handful of golden sand, let it trickle through her fingers. “There was always laughter in our house. Giggles and belly laughs, snickers and whoops. That’s what I remember—noise, excitement, like the quiver on a rail when the train’s coming. And Dad—the world seemed brighter when he was around. He was a loud, swaggering, crazy Irishman, and we adored him. But he was really a lamb underneath that bluster. Everything was wonderful—until Mother got sick. It all went wrong then. Mother was so sick and Dad started drinking way too much. After she died, he was drunk most of the time. Then he met Belle.” Gretchen looked out into the bay at the huge crashing waves, her face once again drawn and tight.

  I shaded my eyes. “Did it make you unhappy when he married Belle?”