Death In Paradise

by Carolyn G. Hart

  “I’m sorry to bother you.” Then I looked past her, toward the railing that guarded against the long, long fall to oblivion, and cared not at all that I was intruding into her personal, troubled world.

  She struggled to regain her composure, dissemble, bury the anger I’d glimpsed for an instant. “Mrs. Collins. What can I do for you?”

  An abacus was propped against a jade bowl on the red-lacquered table. I picked up the abacus, twirled the beads. “You knew my husband Richard.” My voice was crisp.

  “Yes. Of course. He was an old friend of Belle’s.”

  “Did you see him when he came to Ahiahi? The last time?” The beads were smooth and fast; they spun without meaning.

  “I was here when he arrived.” She looked at me curiously.

  “You talked to him?”

  “Briefly. He came in mid-afternoon and asked for Belle. I knew who he was. I’d seen him several times. He came to the lake when CeeCee was kidnapped. He wasn’t expected here at Ahiahi. But he and Belle were old friends. I didn’t know—” She broke off.

  I’ve finished a lot of sentences in my time. I had no trouble with this one. “You didn’t know he was married,” I said pleasantly. “Richard and I often had assignments that kept us apart.” I wasn’t going to ask this girl about Belle and Richard. If ever I asked, I would ask Belle. And I knew now—now that I was here at Ahiahi—that I would ask Belle. But there were other questions to be answered first.

  “The housekeeper left him in the game room—”

  “Where the photographs are?”

  She looked surprised. “Yes. That’s where he was standing when I came in.”

  Why had Richard moved to them?

  “Was he looking at the photographs?” The abacus beads were still as I waited for her answer.

  “Yes. Then he turned toward me.” She paused, an odd expression on her face.

  I knew she was recalling that moment and Richard, my tall and handsome Richard, looking at the photographs, turning toward her. Elise was remembering something in particular, a finite moment in time, the small parcel of time left to Richard.

  “He glanced at the pictures and he said, ‘Is—’ And then he hesitated for an instant before he said, ‘Is Belle here?’ I think he was going to ask for someone else.” Surprise lifted her voice. “And then he didn’t. I’m sure of it.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “It’s odd how you remember things, isn’t it? I’m sure he started to say another name. But it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “I don’t suppose it does. But thank you, Elise, for taking time to talk with me.” Boorish, determined, desperate me. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  Pride stiffened her shoulders. “Oh, no. No, I’m fine. I just…sometimes I feel so far from home.”

  When our hearts ache, we remember home, even if it hasn’t existed for years.

  “Where is home?” I asked gently.

  She shook her head. Suddenly tears welled.

  “Whatever it is,” I said softly, “I’m sorry,” and I turned away. By the time I reached the garden walkway and looked back, she was disappearing onto the fog-ridden lanai.

  I was held for a moment, wondering what was wrong in her young life, a seemingly idyllic life.

  But were there any idyllic lives in this lovely home? Wasn’t I confusing, as the world so often does, the proximity to ease and wealth and luxurious background with happiness? And happiness is like a capricious maiden, bestowing her favors without regard to rank or riches.

  I looked out at the foggy garden. It was odd to know that only a few steps away, unseen now, bloomed plants in brightest red or gold, softest lavender, coolest blue. I heard the faraway slam of car doors, the sound of voices muffled by the fog. So some of the others had returned. I didn’t envy them their tortoise-slow ascent through the fog. But it encouraged me to move as quickly as I could on the path toward Lester Mackey’s quarters. My quest would not take long.

  Ahiahi’s lack of doors suited my purpose well. Lester Mackey’s living room lay open to my arrival. Even without sunlight the room was warm, the oak walls shiny as honey, the koa floors vivid as sun-drenched amber. The Japanese-style furniture was spare, ascetic. No books, no pictures. Not even a scrap of paper marred the smooth surface of a koa table. A room such as this demanded introspection. Lester Mackey, whatever and whoever he was, was surely a man with an examined life.

  Every step was an intrusion into this bone-spare room. The slap of my thongs sounded loud. This room invited silence.

  One wall was made up of oak cabinets. No handles broke their smooth surface. The cabinets were cunningly designed, an open square affording fingers an edge to pull.

  I opened the first cabinet and felt a surge of satisfaction when I saw two shelves filled with cameras. In pride of place was a state of the art Nikon—

  “What the hell are you up to?”

  I jerked around.

  Wheeler Gallagher, his sloe eyes glittering with anger, moved menacingly toward me. My purse was in my room. And so, of course, was the Mace canister I always carried with me. There was nothing to serve as a weapon in this cell-like room. I’d glimpsed a sheathed tripod in the bottom of the cabinet, but Wheeler was almost upon me.

  There was no trace of last evening’s bonhomie in his taut face. His broad mouth twisted in a scowl. He came close to me, too close, close enough that I could see the irises of his eyes, smell a mixture of sweat and talcum, hear his short, quick breaths, and feel his anger.

  “I’ve been watching you. I was in the living room when you came in. I saw you check to see if there was anybody around. You decided you had the place to yourself. But it’s your bad luck I blew off the golf. I’ve had a bellyfull of Stan Dugan. I decided to see what you were up to. You headed straight for the pictures. I thought maybe you were going to steal some of them. Then you badgered Elise. But when you started this way, I knew you were up to something.” Contempt curdled his voice. “You’ve come here, wormed your way in. The poor widow woman. That’s your pitch. But you aren’t out there looking over the cliff where he died—”

  Oh, Richard, Richard.

  “—oh, no, you went to the beach today with Gretchen. Did you ask her a lot of questions about CeeCee? And Belle? And all of us? And last night I heard you talking to Stan—”

  I stood silent as he berated me. It is hard to respond when clearly in the wrong. There was no acceptable reason why I should be opening a cabinet in Lester Mackey’s living room.

  “—and who’s Stan to dump on us? And why are you sneaking around in Lester’s rooms?”

  I made an effort to deflect him. “Do you spend all of your time eavesdropping?”

  He was young, but not young enough to be cowed by irrelevancy. “Not as much time as you spend snooping. What are you looking for?”

  Oddly, I decided the truth, or at least a portion of it, would best serve, as it often does.

  I spoke quietly, thoughtfully. “I wanted to know if Lester Mackey took the photographs above the wet bar.” I waved my hand toward the open cabinet.

  “Oh, sure.” Wheeler folded his arms tight across his chest. “The pictures. That’s what you want, isn’t it? For your damn book. Well, I can tell you that you’ll never get them, not a one, not a bloody one. Not from Lester.”

  “For money?” I inquired softly.

  “Not for a million dollars, lady.” His eyes blazed with assurance.

  “You can speak for him?” I sounded deliberately skeptical.

  “Yeah, yeah, I can.” Like a dog’s hackles subsiding, the tension was seeping out of the room. Wheeler was no longer focusing on me. His eyes moved past me to the open cabinet and the cameras. “Yeah, I can tell you about Lester. He’s a quiet guy. Always in the background. But he’s a rock, lady. A guy who’s been like an uncle or a big brother to a bunch of kids who needed him. He wouldn’t sell us out. Ever.”

  I gently closed the cabinet door. “I believe you, Wheeler.” Then I slipped past him and walked br
iskly across the room, through the open doorway.

  I didn’t wait to see if he was coming. I wasn’t worried about it. I’d learned what I needed to know. And more besides.

  I was feeling pleased with myself when I reached my quarters. That sense of satisfaction lasted until I walked into the little living room.

  Belle was waiting for me.

  twelve

  Belle rose. It was difficult from the low couch. She levered herself up with her cane. That made her suddenly seem vulnerable. And her lovely face, though smooth and welcoming, looked fragile and uncertain.

  “Amelia said you were here. I hope you don’t mind my waiting?” She smiled, that cool, meaningless smile, but her deep blue eyes looked at me warily. “I wanted a chance to visit with you.”

  “I’m delighted.” And uneasy. And unsure how to proceed, how to respond, what to say.

  “I had Amelia bring us tea.” She spread her hand at the service on the bamboo table.

  “That’s wonderful.”

  We settled on the couch and she poured tea and offered me biscuits and little sandwiches.

  “And how is your daughter and her family?” Belle asked.

  How many times over the years had both of us held fine china cups, spoken cheerfully with beautifully dressed, socially poised women? It was such a familiar ritual. Yet this time dark emotion underlay the graceful moment, the shark’s fin beneath placid water.

  “Having fun,” I said brightly. Oh, Emily, how I wish Richard could see you now, take pleasure in your life now. “She and Warren recently relocated to a small town in east Texas. They bought the newspaper there. Warren’s the publisher, Emily’s the managing editor, the best kind of mom and pop newspaper.” Not so common anymore across the country, with so many small-town newspapers gobbled up by one of the big newspaper chains.

  Belle seemed genuinely interested and she had the good reporter’s knack of drawing out details—

  Yes, Emily’s children were fine. Diana was playing lots of tennis and Neal never met a crawling insect he didn’t like.

  This was a second marriage for Emily. Yes, I liked my new son-in-law quite well. It was a good match. I hoped to visit them soon.

  “Are you pleased with your visit here?” Another social question but her gaze was intense.

  I sipped Earl Grey tea and managed to smile. “I have found it very interesting.” And that was certainly true.

  Tea and inconsequential conversation and searching blue eyes.

  Belle replenished my cup. “I know coming to Ahiahi,” she spoke slowly, “has been hard for you. Have you found what you came for?”

  Now was my opportunity to speak out, to tell this lovely, vulnerable woman what compelled me to travel so far.

  I was tempted. I wanted terribly to share this burden, to have help, to come out in the open, flood secret places with light, wrench the truth from its hiding place.

  I opened my mouth. Fog wreathed on the lanai. I glanced toward the bedroom and remembered so vividly the sight of the little dead bat. I felt a chill and the nearness of danger. Fear was always near me now, touching me with spectral fingers. Was someone close in the fog, listening to us?

  What if I told Belle everything?

  I couldn’t take that chance. I knew I was in danger. I couldn’t put Belle in danger, too. I had nothing to substantiate my claim, no hard, solid facts. Not yet. I needed to know more.

  “I’m finding out a great deal.” I spoke loudly for listening ears. I was angry, and I was scared. I knew someone listened. “I’m learning more and more about Richard’s last day.”

  “And about my children?” Belle’s face was grim.

  I understood then why she had come. I picked my words carefully. “I am not writing a book about CeeCee.” An announcement for Belle. A revelation for a listener?

  Our eyes met and held.

  Slowly, she smiled, and now it was genuine and friendly. She reached out, clasped my hand.

  When she left, I waited until the sound of her cane was gone. Then I slipped quietly out onto the lanai. I looked down the steps. I could see just a foot or so. I heard a rattle as a stone fell. But I’d not catch our killer now. The fog was too thick, the escape too easy.

  Some moments are forever etched in memory. Sometimes you are aware that a particular time or event or happening will remain clear and sharp in your mind no matter how many years pass. Such was this moment as we gathered to remember CeeCee Burke.

  I looked about the lanai. The guests blended well with their tropical aerie, the women in bright Gauguin colors, the men in white jackets. There was a general flurry of movement as we settled into the chairs, carrying after-dinner coffee. The soft-cushioned wicker chairs and couches were arranged in an inner and outer half-circle facing the canyon. Chairs scraped. Spoons clinked against china cups.

  Belle stood with her back to the railing, silhouetted against the velvety purple of the tropical night sky. A quick flurry of rain just before dinner had dissipated the fog and now stars spangled the dark expanse of sky like sequins glittering on a witch’s hat. The pulsing sound of the falls was constant—exhilarating or ominous, depending upon mood. A choppy breeze whipped the flames in the corner torches and rustled the ti leaves and the palm fronds. The moist, soft air flowed over us and should have been as warm and soothing as the stroke of a masseuse’s hand.

  But there was no ease on this lanai.

  I was at one end of the outer half-circle. Deliberately, of course. I could see each person, though the faces were fitfully illumined by the undulating flames of the torches.

  Each and every person had a special relationship to CeeCee Burke.

  CeeCee’s fiancé—Stan Dugan hulked in his chair, a big brooding presence, his blunt-angled face stern and watchful, his massive hands braced on his legs.

  CeeCee’s brother and his wife—Anders Burke shrugged away his wife’s hand as she tried to take his drink. No coffee for Anders. He tilted the glass, emptied it, waved toward a maid. Peggy made little bleating noises, like bird wings brushing against plate glass.

  CeeCee’s youngest brother—Joss Burke stared into the distance at the moonlit falls. His handsome profile was as sharply etched as an engraving, his mobile mouth compressed, his jaw set. His arms were tightly folded across his chest. He could not remove himself physically, so he had removed his attention.

  CeeCee’s mother’s secretary—Elise Ford completed the inner half-circle. Her makeup was thick, but it didn’t hide the

  tight, hard angle of her jaw. The fingers of her right hand drummed nervously on the chair arm.

  CeeCee’s mother’s husband—Keith Scanlon was in the first chair of the outer half-circle. He moved uncomfortably, as if his muscles were tired. The flame in the near torch surged, touching him with a ruddy glow, illuminating his stony gaze. But he wasn’t looking at Belle. His face was turned toward the front row. Who was he watching? My glance slid over Stan, Peggy, Anders, Joss, and Elise. Which one? And why?

  CeeCee’s stepsister—Gretchen Gallagher bounced to her feet. “Don’t worry, Anders, time hasn’t been called yet. I’ll get you a stiff one. And me, too.” She moved, a little unsteadily, toward the wet bar.

  CeeCee’s stepbrother—Wheeler Gallagher reached out but Gretchen eluded his grasp. Wheeler frowned in exasperation. His eyes flicked toward me, then toward Lester Mackey.

  CeeCee’s other stepsister—Megan Gallagher was, as always, breathtakingly lovely and as elegant and remote as a faraway eagle glimpsed high in the sky. She stirred her coffee, and the clink of her spoon was startlingly sharp as silence fell on the lanai. But not as loud as the rattle of ice cubes when Gretchen handed a tumbler to Anders, then made a half-curtsey toward Belle. “Excuse me.” The proper words, but her tone was brittle. Wheeler grabbed his sister’s arm and pulled her roughly down to her chair. “Shut up.” It was a command. Her eyes blazed, but she settled in the chair, her mouth folding in resentment.

  CeeCee’s mother’s faithful retainer—Les
ter Mackey once again had removed himself from the group. He’d left the chair next to me vacant. He stood in the shadow of a huge carved black wooden swan, a dim figure dimly seen, his slight figure made smaller by the immense sculpture. Lester Mackey, the observer. Lester Mackey, superior photographer.

  Lester Mackey, who Wheeler had said “would never sell us out.”

  “This is, as every year, a very special night for me.” Belle’s voice was soft, reflective, eager. She gripped her cane tightly. Moonlight added a silver glow to her smooth hair and fine-boned face and a luminescent sheen to her sky-blue sheath dress.

  I felt such a rush of sorrow for her that I was shaken. I know what it is to grieve for a dead child as well as a dead husband. I know what it is to face the abyss of separation, colder than an arctic plain, wider than any sea, deeper than a pit in hell.

  And yes, memory is the only bridge that can span the abyss, the memory of laughter and tears, joy and anger, whatever memory comes. For that instant, a face and voice and touch live again in the mind, as real as a photograph that holds a finite instant of the universe in its exact molecular structure.

  Abruptly, passionately, I wanted this evening to answer Belle’s demand, to satisfy that endless hunger within her for the daughter taken from her.

  Belle smiled, her lips curving into delight.

  There was no hint that she sensed the turmoil around her. She appeared to be oblivious to the tempest of emotions swirling beneath this carefully ordered social scene.

  I scanned the watching faces quickly. I saw suspicion, fear, jealousy, dismissal, concern, rejection, avidness, misery, and appraisal.

  Lester’s face I could not see.

  Was Belle blind? Still she stood, a sheen of tears in her eyes, a tremulous smile curving her lips. Abruptly, I realized a terrible truth about Belle Ericcson. Belle saw—perhaps had always seen—what she wished to see: the world according to Belle Ericcson. She was the central figure: a beautiful

  woman, a superb reporter, a good wife, a loving mother. What would she put first?

  That wasn’t a fair question. Not for Belle, not for any woman. Life has many compartments and only the innermost soul can ever know what came first, who came first, and judge the power of the claimants.