Belle held up her hand. “Wait.” She walked into her study, punched an intercom. “Lester. Come to my office. Now.” Simple words, spoken with terrible restraint and a deadly intensity. She walked back to the lanai, her face as still and cold as a frozen landscape.
“Belle, I’m almost sure that Lester has an idea—”
Once again she held up her hand, the flesh so thin it was almost translucent. Her wedding ring, a double row of diamonds, flashed in the afternoon sun.
Belle Ericcson was accustomed to command. Had I continued to speak, she would not have listened. Could I have battered past her resistance? Should I have kept on talking, told her of the jealousies and passions among the children she loved, the unfaithfulness of her husband, the treachery of her employee, the faintheartedness of the loyal subordinate who’d been there—sometimes unwisely—for the children as they grew up?
But I stood silent. She would only listen when she had proof. And Lester Mackey would be her proof. Her heart refused to listen to me. This was a woman who had suffered terribly and I was now bringing her more suffering with the brutal accusation that someone she loved and trusted had robbed her of her first child, taken a vivid life and snuffed it out behind the facade of laughter. I was insisting that there was a false face among the family gathered about her, that behind a familiar countenance burned a murderous passion
that was not yet satisfied.
Was it any wonder she would not listen?
Rubber slippers slapped softly on the garden walkway. Lester walked into the study.
Belle lifted her cane imperiously.
Lester saw me. His gaze checked for an instant, moved on to Belle. “Yes, Belle. Do you need me?” His faded eyes squinted against the sun spilling in from the lanai.
“I want the truth, Lester. Through all the years, I’ve known I could count on you. Always.” Her eyes implored him. “What happened to CeeCee?” She held the knob of her cane with both hands, leaned on it.
His look of startled surprise was perfect. “But—” He was a study in bewilderment. “Belle, why are you asking me?” His whispery voice was calm, unworried.
Belle drew a deep breath. “Do you swear to me, Lester, do you swear on the night we met outside the bar in Saigon, do you swear to me that you don’t know what happened to CeeCee?”
Their eyes met and held.
“Belle, I swear to you, I don’t know what happened.”
I heard the faintest, telltale emphasis on the third from last word.
“Lester—” The cry was wrung from me.
They both turned toward me.
I knew even as I reached out toward him that this moment was exacting a dreadful toll from Lester Mackey. His face was white and rigid.
“Lester, you know Belle’s in danger. Please, we—”
“That’s enough.” Belle’s voice was as sharp and thin as the crack of a whip.
I took a step toward her. “Belle, every word I’ve—”
“—said is a lie.” She looked at me with cold, remote, reproving eyes. “It’s time for you to go. You came with a lie,
that’s how you’re leaving. For Richard’s sake, I will try to believe that you are sincere, that you believe this demented tale. But I will not have you in my home. Please, leave now.” She turned away, her cane clicking on the hardwood floor.
And I heard the whisper of thongs—
I whirled around. “Lester, Lester…”
But he was gone, my desperate cry to no avail. And Belle had ordered me to leave.
I was to be banished. And Belle was still at risk.
All the way down the mountain, red dust flying from beneath the jeep’s wheels, I struggled with indecision. What to do first, where to go, what possible recourse I had.
First things first. I must do what I could to keep Belle safe for the coming night. I drove directly to Keith Scanlon’s tennis center. He was teaching on a near court. I waited near a fragrant, glossy-leaved plumeria. The sweet smell, always recalling welcoming leis and happier days, caught at my heart. Once Richard and I had arrived in this lovely land and walked hand in hand and smelled this special, particular scent. We’d come to paradise, though we knew that paradise existed within ourselves, waiting to be found. And now—
Keith’s suntanned face was wreathed in a satisfied smile. He clicked off the ball machine. “Good work, Tim. I’ll see you after school on Monday.”
The lithe teenager flashed a grin. “Okay, Keith.”
Keith Scanlon was married to one of the world’s richest women. But on Saturday afternoon he was ending up a lesson at his tennis complex.
I wasn’t surprised. A man who’s cheating on his wife always finds reason not to be home.
Keith wound up the cord, covered the ball machine with a tarp. He was whistling as he came through the gate.
I stepped into the path.
“Hi, Henrie O. Looking for a game?” A smile wreathed his face.
For a moment, his welcome shocked me. Then I realized he had no idea I was an outcast and absolutely no idea I knew about him and Elise.
I didn’t smile in return, however. Bonhomie wasn’t my goal.
“Keith, as you will discover when you return to Ahiahi, I am no longer a guest. But I want to make absolutely clear to you—without any possibility of your mistaking me—that if anything happens to Belle, now or in the future, any kind of clever accident like the brakes going out in her car, I will immediately contact the Kauai police and tell them all about you and Elise.”
I whirled and walked swiftly away.
I didn’t have to look behind me to know he was staring after me as if I’d sprouted horns.
I didn’t give a damn.
I checked into the Poipu Beach Hyatt Regency, glad to find a vacancy. I ate an early dinner in my room, picking at a salad I didn’t want, forcing myself finally to choke down one of the high energy bars I always carry with me when I travel. My mind churned with possibilities. I knew that only a confession from Lester would convince Belle. I had to persuade Lester Mackey to tell the truth. Somehow I had to reach Lester, force him to admit the truth: There was a killer at Ahiahi. And I had to convince Lester now. Tonight.
The lobby of the Hyatt Regency is as lush as any tropical jungle. The screech of the clipped-wing parrots on their bars pierced the squeal of running children and the animated chatter from the various bars. I wasn’t interested in a drink. I wanted to be as alert as I’ve ever been this night. I wandered restlessly around the meandering lagoon until night fell.
Finally, it was time to go.
I left all traffic behind me when I turned on the cane road. I drove past the barred entrance. I nosed into a narrow gap in the cane not far from the gate. I left the jeep well-hidden.
I walked back to the gate and slipped past it, easy to do on foot. It was dark, but there was enough moonlight for me to walk up the road without using my flash. I wore my navy blouse and slacks and jogging shoes.
It was a long, steep ascent and it took me almost an hour to reach the parking area outside Ahiahi. There was plenty of light there, of course, light that I avoided. I slipped around the edge of the parking area, my objective the stucco wall that marked the perimeter of the grounds.
I wasn’t surprised to find a freshly mown grassy border on the outside of the wall. It wasn’t necessary. But it was nice. The very rich always enjoy the best of manicured surroundings. Nor did it surprise me finally, in an inconspicuous corner at the far end of the tennis courts, to find a toolshed and an entryway from the outside to the sports area. There was room for gardeners to maneuver lawn mowers easily in and out.
I heard again the solid thump of well-hit tennis balls. The lights shone down on the first court. I stepped softly, avoiding the shell path, and moved closer, keeping behind a line of ten-foot hibiscus. Enough light slanted through the leaves for me to realize I was walking along the edge of a croquet lawn. Between the lawn and the shrubs were several bricked areas with benches. I wormed my way
between two shrubs until I could see the court and hear Gretchen and Wheeler as they talked in short bursts between points.
“…think we can do anything about it?”
Gretchen served and the ball went wide. Her second serve was a soft shot that Wheeler returned to the backhand court, far out of her reach.
“No. But it isn’t the book that bothers me.” She served and they rallied until she curved a lob behind him to the baseline. “Right now Belle’s furious. But first there was Stan and his crazy stuff about CeeCee’s last hours, then this Collins woman claiming one of us planned CeeCee’s kidnapping, then killed her husband, for God’s sake. Of course, Lester showed her up for a liar. But what if Belle starts thinking there’s something to it?”
Wheeler scrambled back. He got his racket on the ball, but it spun lazily over the backstop. “Oh, she won’t. It’s crazy. Don’t worry about it.”
Gretchen pulled a ball from beneath her tennis skirt. She served and Wheeler hit into the net. She took the last two points, slamming one overhead, making an ace. “Thanks, Wheeler, that was fun. God, it’s nice to have fun sometimes.”
At the bench, as they slid their rackets into covers, Wheeler said abruptly, “I heard Belle and Mrs. Collins this afternoon.” His hand tightened around the handle of his racket. His face was suddenly heavy and somber, all traces of pleasure gone. “I remember one time—” He broke off, stared down at the ground.
“What, Wheeler?” There was an odd note in his sister’s voice.
“Lester. One time when I was back from college. I was drunk and I had a wreck. Nobody was hurt, thank God, but I would’ve lost my license. I drove away, made it home. The next morning, Lester told Belle he’d run the car into that big oak tree at the foot of the drive.” Wheeler lifted his eyes to his sister, eyes full of misery and pain.
“Lester wouldn’t—” Gretchen’s hair shimmered as she shook her head violently. “Lester wouldn’t!”
“Lester’s lied for all of us.” His voice was deep and harsh. “But this time, oh, Jesus, this time—if one of us killed CeeCee, I swear I’ll rip the world apart to find out. I will.” His face was savage. He lifted the racket, brought it down
with all his might against the wooden bench, then whirled
toward the gate.
“Wheeler. Wheeler!” But he was gone.
Gretchen had to know about Wheeler and CeeCee They all knew, everyone but Belle. But perhaps Gretchen hadn’t realized how inconsolable was his grief. She stood alone on the beautiful red clay court, her shoulders slumped, staring forlornly after her brother.
“Oh, Wheeler, dammit, she wasn’t worth it! Wheeler, she wasn’t!” There was a sob in Gretchen’s voice.
I could hear its echo long after she walked out of the tennis enclosure.
I waited a good half hour before I slipped through the gate. I didn’t encounter any other residents of Ahiahi. I went directly to the suite where I’d stayed. I took off my running shoes and walked in my socks across the room. The bottoms of the shoes would be stained by red dirt from my climb up the mountain road. I didn’t want to leave any trace, anywhere.
I was confident I could remain in my former suite undisturbed and undetected. This was a week for family only at Ahiahi. Except for Stan Dugan, I had been the only intruder. The suite would have been cleaned after my departure and there was no reason for anyone to come to it.
I settled on a very comfortable chaise longue on the lanai. And now I must wait until quiet reigned, until no one was abroad. I knew Stan Dugan was likely to wander to the pool table when it was late. But I could slip past unseen on the cliff path.
As I waited, I looked out across the night-shrouded valley, the shadows so deep and dark that the hillsides looked like piles of coal. Above, the stars seemed close enough to touch, as coldly lovely as pearls. The falls glistened in the moonlight like strands of silver Christmas foil. Their roar pulsed against me.
“Richard.”
There was no one there to hear my call. I knew that. I don’t believe in conjuring up the dead.
I do believe in memory.
A memory came, as sudden and inexplicable as the burst of joy that can lift your soul when touched by beauty. We all can remember such moments: the drone of cicadas and the smell of wet earth on an August afternoon; an unexpected smile and the touch of your mother’s hand; coming around a bend in the road to see a farmhouse at once so familiar and so strange your heart almost stops…we all remember moments like these, when the world is touched by magic.
I had a sudden picture of Richard lifting Emily high in the air. She was two and we were picnicking by a placid pond and as he whirled around with her, I could see their moving reflection in the water.
That was all. The moment was gone. I don’t remember now where that picnic was or what we ate that day or why Richard swung his daughter so high.
As long as I have memory, I can live.
Memories. Perhaps that’s how I would approach Lester Mackey. I had to reach him, to touch his heart. What happened the night he and Belle met? That was a special memory for her. I knew it would be a special memory for him.
Somehow, tonight, I would reach—
It was only a whisper of sound, but it wasn’t the falls, wasn’t the rustle of the ever bending foliage.
I slipped to my feet, moved quietly to the railing.
My lanai was dark. But, as always, the rim of lights along the cliff path lighted the way. The moving figure was still dark, indistinguishable. But I knew who was passing. Only Stan Dugan was that tall, walked with that long a stride.
He rounded the bluff.
This path reached a fork. One way led to the tennis courts and the pool, the other to CeeCee’s grave.
I thought I knew his destination.
It was almost an hour later that I heard him returning, an hour I’d spent thinking and planning, though I knew there wasn’t much I could plan now.
At midnight, I went to the bottom of the steps, put on my jogging shoes. I had a flashlight in my pocket. I didn’t think I would need it. I walked quietly along the cliff path, pausing occasionally to listen, but there were only the sounds of the night, the rumble of the falls and the sighing of the trees. I was utterly attuned to this moment, moving with care and caution, looking into every shadow, listening with the intensity of a fugitive.
I breathed more easily when I was past the public rooms of the house and reached the steps to the narrow passageway by the kitchen.
I stopped once again, took off my shoes, tied the laces together and hung them around my neck. I moved up the steps in my stocking feet.
Dim lights burned. Ahiahi was not a house that would ever drowse in total darkness. But there was no movement, no sound of voices, no hint that anyone else was awake.
Still, I was careful. Anyone else abroad would also treat this as a sleeping house, refrain from making any noise.
But I felt quite easy when I reached the garden. I was almost there. Almost there, almost there, the phrase danced in my mind. Once again, I slipped into my shoes.
A lamp burned dimly at the edge of Lester’s lanai. A golden swath of light flared through his open archway. So Lester was still awake.
I damn well hoped he was having trouble sleeping, that he was wrestling with the enormity of his lie, that he was beginning to worry and wonder how he could protect Belle.
He had to have a plan, of course. He loved Belle. He’d used his sensitive artist’s skill to create the dark message that brought me here. I knew he cared. Surely he would realize that Belle’s life was more important—if it came to that—than his cherished place in the family.
Of course, he knew Belle much better than I. Perhaps he was certain she would never forgive him.
I didn’t know if she was a forgiving woman.
But I would do my best to persuade Lester that she was.
I reached the open doorway. I took off my shoes, carried them in one hand.
The high-backed chair almost obsc
ured him where he sat at the desk. It was so quiet. I wondered if he had fallen asleep.
My stocking feet made very little sound on the bare wooden floor. Certainly not enough to wake a sleeper. But I knew before I circled around the desk that Lester Mackey was not asleep.
Lester Mackey was dead.
fifteen
This was a room designed for tranquillity: the wide expanse of honey-bright wooden floor, the gleaming oak walls, the geometrically shaped furniture in matte soft blues and grays. A room where space served an equal function with decor.
Not a room for violent death.
Never a room for self-inflicted death.
I stood across the desk and looked at Lester’s body, at the scorched small hole in his right temple, at the bright red blood that had oozed down his cheek, at the .22-caliber pistol cupped in his lax fingers.
And at the note in the center of the shining, otherwise bare, oak desk. I came around the desk, leaned forward to read.
DEAR BELLE, PLEASE FORGIVE ME.
That was all. There was no signature. I am not an expert in handwriting analysis, but the writing appeared smooth and uniform. I had no doubt it had been written by Lester. Otherwise it wouldn’t be here.
Suicide.
Lester Mackey, the man who’d spent his life loving Belle and her children, the man who’d been an unwitting accomplice in the kidnapping of CeeCee Burke. Lester Mackey, accomplished photographer, trusted servitor, reclusive aesthete.
Lester Mackey, suicide.
In a pig’s eye.
“You damn fool.” Yes, I said it aloud as I stared at the lifeless husk of a gallant, irresolute, caring man, said it with a catch in my voice.
I’d been wrong about Lester Mackey. I thought he lied to Belle because he was afraid of losing her love. It was worse than that. He lied because he would not—could not—accept the reality that someone in the family had engineered CeeCee’s death. And yet, flickering within him was a terrible knowledge. He had an idea who might be guilty. Once he realized that Richard had been murdered, the pieces came together. He saw someone that night, glimpsed a familiar figure on the cliff path. He would not reveal it, yet he was afraid enough for Belle that he made an effort to talk to that person.
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