Death In Paradise

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Tonight. Here. Tonight the circle finally closed. Yes, it was one of them:

  Strident Anders who cared more for animals than people.

  Obsessive Peggy who would do anything for Anders.

  Clever Joss who could so perfectly mimic a killer’s glower.

  Sensual Wheeler who had never forgotten the girl he loved.

  Moody Gretchen who remembered Georgetown when her family was whole.

  Clear-eyed and coldly beautiful Megan who valued freedom above all.

  Tough Stan Dugan who would always have his way.

  Charming Keith Scanlon who married money but hadn’t lost his roving eye.

  Pretty Elise Ford who turned out not to be the perfect secretary.

  One of them.

  Belle?

  The name whispered in my mind. Surely it was not Belle whom Lester protected. But Belle, too, was on this mountaintop tonight.

  No. Some proofs you don’t need. I didn’t need proof of her innocence. Her grief for CeeCee was genuine. And whether her injury came from an accident or a dark design, I knew she sought the truth from Lester Mackey.

  Not Belle. The circle was complete without her.

  I felt an emptiness in the pit of my stomach. Some of it was sorrow. Lester Mackey deserved better. He was a damn fool, but he deserved better. And part of it was dismay.

  Would the police accept this as suicide?

  I paced slowly around the desk. Such a clever killer. There was nothing out of place or untoward anywhere, nothing to suggest this was staged, nothing to indicate anyone else had been in this room except Lester.

  The gun was positioned correctly. He could have held it. I felt an instant of hope, then shook my head. There must have been a second shot, when the killer held the gun in Lester’s hand. I was sure Lester’s skin would show traces of gunshot residue. But what had absorbed that second bullet? A cushion, a pillow?

  I took a moment, walked into Lester’s bedroom. It was as spare and cell-like as the living area, its emptiness a cel

  ebration of simplicity. One bed, one pillow, a smooth, white bedspread.

  But this killer would have come prepared, bringing a spare pillow from a bedroom. And, of course, carrying it away afterward. That pillow could be anywhere, stuffed in a dark plastic bag, weighted and flung far, far down into the overgrown, densely vegetated valley.

  If I told the police everything that had happened, would they listen, would they look at this scene with more questioning eyes?

  And how would I be described to the police by Belle Ericcson, the rich and famous and renowned Belle Ericcson?

  I would have no credibility.

  If I could convince the police to look in the valley, hunt for the pillow or cushion—But the chance of finding anything flung over the edge of the cliff was so remote.

  I walked back into the living room. The killer had staged it perfectly.

  The idea came to me suddenly, brilliant in its simplicity, staggering in its implications.

  I am a law-abiding person. I do not run red lights, not even at midnight when the streets are empty. I’ve never knowingly defrauded or cheated anyone. I follow the rules because there are reasons for rules, and we flout them at our peril.

  But now I stood and looked at the gun in Lester’s hand and had the same breathless feeling as a skier poised to jump.

  It was up to me.

  I hurried into Lester’s bedroom, stepped into his bath, used a tissue to open a cupboard. I tucked the tissue in my pocket and grabbed a washcloth, shoving the cupboard shut with my elbow.

  Back in the living room, I spread the washcloth over the “suicide” note and crumpled it into a tight ball, then poked the wad of paper into my pocket.

  I looked down at the shiny gun. I hesitated. And then I thought of Richard, my handsome, wonderful, loving Richard, plummeting through beauty to nothingness. If I walked away, refused to gamble, my hope of discovering what happened to Richard would be ended. I was barred from this house. I was a pariah to this family. If ever I was to find the truth, I had to be willing to break taboos, discard a lifetime of obeisance to established authority.

  My husband’s murderer was within a stone’s throw of me.

  I walked to the open archway, looked out into the garden. No movement. Only the sounds of Ahiahi, the crackle of palm fronds, the rustle of the shrubs, and always, always the steady drone of the falls.

  I hurried to the desk. I wanted to be out of there, my task done as quickly as possible. I placed the cloth over the barrel of the gun, picked it up. As I did, the edge of my palm touched Lester’s wrist, warm flesh against cool. The minute I felt the barrel hard and solid within the cloth, I bent low and darted across the room to the lighted doorway. Swiftly, I slipped into my running shoes, then plunged into the garden.

  My heart thudded. If anyone found me now…The sound of my shoes on the oyster shells shocked me. I slowed to a tiptoe. I sought a familiar way. I reached the ti shrubs and poked the gun deep within the branches.

  Now I could breathe again. I swung toward the house, my goal the exterior lanai and the steps down to the cliff path. I moved cautiously through the huge living area. I reached the lanai.

  So close now, so close.

  I ran to the railing and threw the washcloth into the valley. I took two steps toward the stairs and the overhead lights blazed. I whirled to face the house.

  Anders Burke carried a book in his hand. He stared at me in disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Sometimes a strong offense is the only recourse that remains.

  I hurried toward him, my hands outstretched. “Anders, I have to talk to Lester Mackey.”

  Anders was focused on my unexpected arrival. “Where’d you come from?” He looked past me toward the valley.

  “The cliff path,” I said quickly. “I walked up the road and came through the tennis enclosure, then down to the cliff path.” I hoped this careful listing of my purported route would fix clearly in his mind that I had just arrived on the lanai. “All I want is a chance to talk to Lester.”

  His narrow face hardened. “Mother threw you out. She said you were making things up, that you lied about Lester—”

  “It’s Lester who lied.” I didn’t try to keep my voice down. I didn’t care if we woke the world. “Anders, listen to me. Last year the brakes in your mother’s car went out. She could have died. Somebody drained out the brake fluid. It all goes back to CeeCee’s kidnapping.”

  “What are you talking about?” But there was worry as well as anger in his voice.

  I told him. And it was a story I’d better tell well and smoothly, for soon I would have to face questioners who would wonder indeed when and why I had arrived tonight at Ahiahi.

  “Anders, if you want to protect your mother, you’ll let me talk to Lester. Come with me. Give me a chance to save your mother.”

  “Mother—” He looked at me with fear in his eyes.

  I met his gaze. “Who drained the brake fluid out of your mother’s car? Think about it, Anders.”

  “It was an accident.” But his voice was uncertain.

  “Megan drove the car the day before. The brakes were fine. If there’s another accident, Belle may not survive. Come with me. Let’s make Lester tell the truth. You know how he’s lied for all of you. Like the time Wheeler was drunk and had a wreck and Lester said he’d smashed the car into a tree himself. Lester’s covered up for all of you, not letting Belle know things that might upset her. And he doesn’t want to believe that one of you actually tried to kill her. But he knows, Anders, he knows.”

  Anders gripped the book tightly in his hands. “Lester’s always known everything.” His eyes bored into mine. “I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. Why should you want to help Mother?”

  “I want to catch a killer.”

  He didn’t want to believe me. Who would? But his sister was dead. Belle almost died. Richard had died. He tossed the book on the counter of the wet bar. “Come on.�
� He turned and headed toward the garden.

  I caught up with him.

  The sweet scent of plumeria graced the night.

  As before, light flared out from Lester’s living room.

  “He’s still up.” Anders walked faster. “He’ll tell me the truth.”

  We reached the archway.

  I called out. “Lester? Lester, we want to talk to you.” I hurried across the shining floor, came even with the desk, turned to face it. “Oh, God.” I pressed the back of my hand against my lips.

  But it didn’t matter whether I was as adept at playing roles as Joss. Anders had no eyes for me.

  He stopped. His face went slack. He reached out a shaking hand. “Lester. Lester!” Anders turned toward me, his face flaccid with shock. “He’s been shot.”

  I spoke gently. “We’re too late, Anders. I’m sorry. But not surprised. We’ve got to call the police.” I walked toward the desk, my hand outstretched.

  He grabbed my arm. “No. We have to get Mother. We have to tell her first.”

  “But the police—”

  His grip tightened. “A few minutes won’t make any difference.” Fighting tears, he looked again at Lester. “I have to get Mother.”

  I didn’t resist. I had no standing. But, as I followed Anders, plunging through the garden toward his mother’s quarters, I realized anew Belle’s power.

  I broke into a run, trying to keep up with Anders. We reached the lanai and curved around a rim of the canyon to Belle’s rooms. Kyoto dragons stood sentinel at either end of her veranda, their shadows monstrous in the moonlight.

  Anders shouted. “Mother, Mother.”

  He didn’t have to say something was wrong.

  No mother could hear the timbre of that call without knowing there was trouble.

  Lights flashed on in two rooms. Belle appeared in the first doorway, her silver hair streaming onto her shoulders, her pale blue negligee soft against her body. Keith bounded out of an archway ten feet away. He wore boxer shorts, nothing else. His arms and chest were muscular, his legs powerful.

  So Belle and Keith didn’t share a bedroom.

  That was important. Now I knew how Keith could slip to a rendezvous in the garden with Elise. And to Lester Mackey’s room?

  “Mother.” Anders’s voice broke. “Somebody’s killed Lester. Somebody shot him.”

  I was watching Keith Scanlon, had eyes for no one but him. It was important that he had his own bedroom, but the expression on his face as Anders blurted out his news was much more important. It was fleeting, but for an instant there was a look of sheer surprise. “Somebody shot him?” Keith’s voice rose.

  I made up my mind. I’d found the killer. I didn’t know yet the ins and outs of everything Keith had done, but now I felt certain it was Keith who planned CeeCee’s kidnapping. It was Keith who pushed Richard to his death, got rid of Johnnie Rodriguez, tampered with Belle’s brakes. It was Keith who shot Lester Mackey.

  Why else that look of utter surprise? He’d expected news of Lester’s suicide, not his murder.

  “Lester…” Belle’s voice was stricken. She stood for a moment in her son’s embrace. They clung to each other, the dark head bent protectively over the light.

  Then Belle stepped back. Her face was gaunt and harsh in the moonlight. As always, she was in command. And, as always, she was cognizant of her surroundings, no matter the force of emotion within her. She looked at me.

  I stepped forward. “I came back. I had to talk to Lester. I was too late.”

  She limped past me to the railing and stared out over the dark valley, toward the tinsel ribbons of the falls glittering in the moonlight. “Lester lied.” Her words fell into the silence of the night.

  I came up beside her. Far below, the silvery kukui trees glistened. “Yes. He lied. He was so afraid you would hate him. He thought the kidnapping was a prank, one of the jokes the children loved to play. Later, he was afraid to tell anyone what had happened.”

  Belle faced me. “Did Richard come here to talk to Lester?”

  Here was the hardest truth. “And to someone in the family. Johnnie Rodriguez must have seen someone at the cabin with CeeCee. That’s what he had to tell Richard. And that’s why Richard came here. Lester knew a part of it. But someone else knew it all.” I reached out, took a thin, cold hand in mine.

  “Someone in the family.” Her voice was cool and remote.

  “Yes.” The faces flashed in my mind, as I knew they flashed in Belle’s.

  “So that’s why Richard came.” Belle’s hand gripped mine. We stood, linked by loss.

  I wanted to help her. But there was nothing I could do or say to ease her pain. Or mine. “Yes, he came.” My voice was weary. “He talked with Lester—and with someone else.”

  Belle dropped my hand, stepped back to look at the house.

  The rooms lay dark along the rim of the canyon.

  “Someone here.” Belle’s voice was cold and harsh and unforgiving. “Someone here killed CeeCee and Richard—and now Lester.”

  And pushed Johnnie Rodriguez into the lake.

  “That’s crazy!” Keith exploded. “If anybody killed Lester, it’s her,” and he pointed at me. “She’s the one who’s come here causing trouble.”

  Belle ignored her husband. She limped across the lanai into her room and returned in a moment in an ivory robe and slippers. She walked past us.

  Keith started after her. “Where are you going?”

  “To Lester.” Her cane clicked on the tiles.

  We all followed through the garden. Once again I stood in Lester’s shining room. This time, I looked not only on death but on sorrow. Belle bowed her head, struggled for composure. Anders clasped his mother’s hand.

  “Someone here,” she said faintly. Slowly she lifted her head. She stepped away from Anders. She studied the position of Lester’s body. She noted the wound. Her eyes moved to Lester’s hand resting empty on the bare expanse of desk.

  “God, this is awful,” Keith said huskily.

  “No weapon,” Belle announced.

  I nodded. I didn’t feel any thrill of triumph. I had done what I felt I had to do, exchanged one set scene for another.

  She reached out, almost touched that sandy graying hair, then let her hand fall. “Call the police, Keith.”

  Only a few words, but they marked Belle’s passage from heartbreak to vengeance.

  Once again we followed, this time to Belle’s study.

  Belle sat at her desk. Her face was composed, but her eyes were dark with pain and anger.

  Keith made the call. When it was done and he had placed the phone in its cradle, there was a moment of silence. I don’t know what Belle or Keith or Anders envisioned in that moment, but I had a sense of inexorable progression: the unleashing of the force and majesty of the law. An investigation once begun is never ended until there is completion, whether now or years from now. A murder file once opened is ongoing until the crime is solved.

  I was focused on the present moment, the tidal wave of examination that would soon wash over us. I should have realized that Lester’s murder and the reason for it would sweep Belle back to the crime that began it all.

  She leaned forward, clicked a button on her intercom. “Attention, please.” She pressed another button. A shrill whistle sounded. “Attention, please.” Her voice was cold and commanding. “Everyone is to gather in the living room. Immediately.” She clicked off the intercom and stood.

  That grim announcement sounded in every room in this luxurious house. It was a shocking end to sleep for those in innocent slumber. But one listener was not innocent. To that person, the summons had to engender a moment of terror.

  “Belle, what are you doing?” Keith asked. His eyes were bewildered. And worried.

  There was a burning determination in her eyes. “I have to hurry.” She moved quickly across the room, her cane flicking against the wooden floor.

  “Mother, wait. You’re upset—”

  She shrugged
away from Anders’s outstretched hand.

  We followed, of course.

  Belle reached the huge living area first. She went to the panel of light switches, punched them all, until every light in the room glowed. She took her place at the edge of the lanai, facing the room.

  I watched faces.

  I don’t usually second-guess an intuitive flash.

  But as the roused household gathered in the immense living room, I wondered if I’d properly gauged Keith’s look of surprise when Anders announced that Lester had been murdered.

  Why should Lester Mackey protect Keith Scanlon?

  He wouldn’t have done so when CeeCee was kidnapped.

  But what if his suspicion of Keith was late-blooming? And uncertain at best. What if Lester became suspicious only after Belle’s accident?

  That timing made sense. What if Lester put pieces together over the years and suspected Keith but had no proof? What if Lester’s goal was to protect Belle and he felt the best way was to warn Keith and urge him to leave?

  That was possible. Foolish, but possible.

  And I knew Lester was foolish, a man who tried in every way to ignore the reality of murder within this family he loved.

  Good motives. Ignoble motives. Lester lied to keep Belle from learning of his unwitting complicity in CeeCee’s kidnapping. Had Lester decided that Belle, just now coming back to some sense of joy in life, was too fragile to learn that the man she’d married, the man she’d trusted, the man who knew her as only a lover could, was the man who had killed her daughter?

  Lester tried for years to evade thought about the kidnapping. Lester had protected the children of this family from many consequences. He wouldn’t connive to protect

  CeeCee’s killer, but-he might well be willing to give the person he suspected a chance to explain, to convince Lester of innocence.