Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_04 (10 page)

“Nor do I.” She studied me intently and now I saw a reserve, a question. Not suspicion. Not yet.

“You didn't…Oh, I'm sorry. I'll leave at once. I'm so sorry…” I started to rise.

“No.” She reached out, caught my hand, her touch again cool but firm. “You mustn't leave. I am delighted to have you at Ahiahi.”

“Belle, I wouldn't dream of—”

“No, you must stay. There's no more to be said about that. Come.” Once again she was a hostess with a determined smile. “Let's go inside. We've left our sherry there.”

I suppose I should have felt triumphant as we walked back into the lovely room. Instead I felt weary, tired, empty. Yet I knew I had to remain alert. It would be so easy to say the wrong thing. I don't know when I've ever felt more alone, more uncertain.

Oh, Richard, have I gone at it all wrong? She cared for you. Should I have told her the truth? Should I tell her now?

But I had arrived under false pretenses. Wouldn't Belle toss me out of her home? Even if she understood the desperate reason for deception?

And I
had
to stay here. I would never know the truth of
Richard's death unless I plumbed the secrets of this mountain hideaway. What happened to Richard six years ago was locked within the heart of someone here at Ahiahi.

I steeled myself and faced her. We stood near her desk.

But Belle wasn't looking at me. She held the glass of sherry in her hands and gazed down at an elegant antique globe. “You've come such a long way. Just as Richard did.” She lifted her head. “It was such a lovely surprise to come home that day and be told he'd arrived.” Her elegant face was impassive, but her eyes watched me closely.

So now Belle wondered about the reason for his journey. I knew why Richard came. Richard had responded to Johnnie Rodriguez's call. Richard had talked to Johnnie. Whatever it was that Richard learned, it brought him here to see Belle.

But if I told her what I knew, I would have to tell her everything.

If only I knew Belle better, could gauge what effect my revelations might have.

“I didn't know Richard was coming here,” I said carefully. That was true at the time.

“He wasn't”—her choice of words was equally careful—“in Honolulu on a story?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“I see. I thought…” she shrugged. “But it doesn't matter. Very little matters anymore.” She put down her sherry and reached out and gently touched the cold sculpted cheek of a marble bust of a young woman.

I glanced at a face forever young, at lips forever tilted in a buoyant smile.

“My daughter, CeeCee.” Her composure almost held. Then, catching her breath, Belle leaned down, pressed her cheek for a moment against the cold marble. “Damn whoever did it. Damn them.”

“I'm sorry.”

She didn't answer.

I had to ask. “Them?”

Her head jerked up. Her eyes blazed with a dark and fervid anger. I understood that anger, the awful anguish of unjust heartbreak. Life is not fair. Evil flourishes. But there is something in our souls that will not accept this.

“Whoever it was that took CeeCee and killed her. The police didn't find anything. No trace. Nothing, nothing, nothing.”

Nada, nada, nada
, the deputy had rasped.

And there I stood, watching this mother grieve—and I knew something. I didn't know what Richard had discovered, but I knew more than Belle. I knew that Richard came to Ahiahi because of something he had learned from Johnnie Rodriguez, something that had to do with the kidnapping and death of CeeCee Burke.

If Richard indeed was murdered because of that knowledge, it meant—it
had
to mean—that CeeCee's kidnapper, CeeCee's murderer had been here in Belle's secluded island home when Richard arrived.

And Belle had no idea of this.

None.

I saw it clearly then. I had to speak out. My plan, to insinuate myself into this house, to watch and observe and learn as much as I could, no longer seemed defensible. Not in the face of her grief.

I had not looked past my own grief. Now I had to think of Belle. My lips parted—

She lifted her head and her smile was so gallant I wanted to cry. “Please forgive me. I know you understand. It's always harder this time of year. So hard.” Her voice broke. She blinked away tears. “I'm sorry. I'll see you at dinner.” She turned and walked unevenly away, her cane clicking against the wood.

I almost called out to stop her. But this wasn't the mo
ment. Let Belle regain her composure. And let me regain mine.

I walked slowly from the study onto the lanai. Did I dare tell Belle the truth? Could I show her the anonymous message I'd received? And tell her how it had led me to discover Richard's stop in Texas before he came to Ahiahi? Could I insist that Richard's death meant someone in her family or on her staff had kidnapped and killed her daughter?

Why should she believe me?

Because Richard was dead.

That was the terrible, awful, unmistakable proof.

But Belle could insist that he'd fallen and either I had created this absurd story for who knew what deranged purpose or I had been used as a tool by someone wishing to destroy her family. And I had to remember that I was here to serve someone else's purpose, a purpose I knew nothing about.

I wanted to do the right thing.

It's frightening how difficult it is sometimes to know what is right and what is wrong.

I had come to Kauai to discover the truth of Richard's death. That still was my goal. And my only hope of discovering what happened on the cliffside trail was to be here at Ahiahi.

I stood on the lanai, miserable, uncertain, but clinging to my purpose. I'd known this was going to be hard. I hadn't known how hard it would be and how Belle, the woman I'd feared, the woman I'd been jealous of, how appealing she would be. No, I can't say I felt a liking. But I was intrigued, fascinated, charmed as I suppose everyone had always been with her. Yet, I couldn't let Belle's personality prevent me from pursuing justice.

All right. I was here. And unobserved. I would take this time to explore. I wanted to talk to Lester Mackey. As soon
as possible. And at this moment, there was no one about, no one to notice if I quietly surveyed Ahiahi.

The blossoms in the gold tree rustled. But that couldn't account for my sudden uneasiness, the sense that this lovely scene hid malignity and evil. The beauty was everywhere: blossoms, bright birds, trees and ferns shockingly green; the sumptuous rooms curving along the rim of the cliff; the iridescent sheen of the huge greenish-blue Chinese pottery vases on pedestals near the steps leading down from each lanai.

And then I saw the shadows. Two of them. The huge, irregular shadow of the gold tree shifted against the smooth surface of the lanai, the blooms and leaves softly rustled by the breeze. The other shadow was thick and long and motionless, unlike the wavering, breeze-stirred image of the tree. Then the long shadow moved.

Stan Dugan walked out of his hiding place. His craggy face was somber, hostile.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, my voice sharp because I felt a thrill of fear as the big, quiet man approached. We were alone on this lanai and the cliff fell away from the railing, down, down, down.

“I'll ask you that, too, Mrs. Collins. You didn't tell Belle that somebody killed your husband.” His eyes once again were cold and suspicious.

“You listened to our conversation?” I knew that, of course. I was scrambling for a response that would satisfy him. I had to keep him from revealing to Belle what I'd said to him.

He didn't bother to answer. He didn't have to. And my uneasiness increased. Why would he skulk in the shadows, eavesdrop?

“I have no proof.” I eased away from the railing, back toward the study.

He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets, rocked
back on his heels. Was this how he examined a witness? “Where's the famous daybook?”

“I don't have it with me.”

“Gee, that's a hell of a surprise. I'd think you'd have it. Or a copy. Or something. But maybe that's all fiction. Maybe you made it up.” His raspy voice was full of disdain. “Could it be because that's all bullshit and you're here because you write true crime books?”

Dugan had moved fast, built an excellent dossier on me just as I had all of Belle's family. But why did he care about me? And why was he angry? Or was his outrage simulated, a cover for fear?

“I'm here because I'm going to find out what happened to Richard. Why are you here? It's a last-minute trip, isn't it?”

Those big owlish eyes gazed at me.

I pressed my attack. “What did you tell Belle when you arrived unexpectedly?” I'd never expected trouble from him.

His mouth twisted in brief amusement. “You're pretty good, lady. A good offense and all that. Yeah, you're right. I lied to Belle. But so did you.” He gave me a considering, thoughtful, cold look. “I wonder what will happen…if one of us tells Belle the truth?” He turned away, and with his long, swift stride was gone before I could answer.

Why had he come? Of course, if he cared for CeeCee, truly loved her, my accusation would bring him. But he'd been here when Richard died. I had to remember that fact.

I'd felt I was balancing on a tightrope ever since I arrived at Ahiahi. Now I felt as if I were balancing on a frayed tightrope that could easily unravel.

I looked down the lanai. Stan Dugan was long out of sight. Yet I still had a sense of an inimical presence. I looked all around the lanai. Then I glanced over my shoulder and just glimpsed a flash of white.

Someone had stood on the far side of the entryway to
Belle's study and watched me. Ahiahi with all its shrubberies and rooms that flowed into each other offered easy concealment.

Had the unknown watcher listened to Belle and me, then overheard my sharp and odd exchange with Stan Dugan?

Danger. I felt it sharply. I wanted to find another human being, talk to someone, do something to dispel the atmosphere of evil. But I had to take advantage of this moment alone, explore Ahiahi while I had the chance.

I walked along the lanai past the study and found a library. Farther on, I glimpsed individual lanais to the separate living quarters. I turned back, passed Belle's office and reached the huge living-dining-room area. The lanai curved as the rooms followed the contour of the canyon. Succulent smells indicated the kitchen. I took a glimpse through the wide archway and saw a cheery woman bustling about with several helpers doing her bidding. This domestic scene was normal and right, and the feeling of danger and discord eased. I was in a beautiful home and walking in its public areas in broad daylight. I was all right.

I turned up the flagstone passageway between the dining area and the kitchen and reached the garden side of the house. To my left, nestled among hibiscus shrubs, were several cottages. No waterfall view here. No doubt this was where the staff lived.

I passed a gardener snipping a hedge with huge rosy blooms. “Hello.”

“Hello, ma'am.”

“Which cottage belongs to Mr. Mackey?” I smiled.

He nodded toward the first.

Again inside and out flowed together. A Mexican creeper bloomed along the wall of his lanai. I walked to the open doorway, looked into a spare and sparsely furnished living area. “Mr. Mackey?”

There was no answer.

Reluctantly, I retraced my steps. But now I knew where to find him. I took the path back between the kitchen and the dining area. This time I passed one of the huge vases and hurried down the steps at the end of the lanai to the narrow path that had been gouged out of the mountain slope. I saw a steep path down the slope, ending, I supposed, at the pool formed by the splash of the waterfalls. Belle had mentioned a similar path beneath the study.

If I followed the path to my left I would eventually fetch up beneath the lanai to my suite. I looked to my right. The cliff jutted out here. The path curved out of sight.

I picked my way carefully along the cliff face. As I came around the curve, I looked up to see yet another lanai, the last one. I was deep in shadow. A slim, imperious figure stood near the railing.

“…want you to find out everything about her. Everything. What she's been doing these past years. What kind of person she is.” Belle's light, clear, bell-like voice carried clearly.

It was hard to breathe. I put my hand against the rock face, felt the crumbly soil.

“Yes, Belle.” This voice was young, deferential.

“Right now.”

“Yes, Belle.”

Belle moved away from the railing. But I could still hear her voice.

“…something's going on, Elise. She's here for some purpose I don't understand. Check and see when she arrived. And where she came from. And tell Keith I want to see him as soon…”

The words faded.

I turned away, walked back along the path.

I didn't need a primer to tell me who Belle was talking about. So my story of a letter hadn't fooled her.

My time at Ahiahi might be measured in hours. Not only
was Belle suspicious of me, there was Stan Dugan to fear. It would only take a word from him and I would be ousted.

But I was here for the moment.

I'd work as fast as I could.

T
orches on the lanais above me suddenly glowed as well as small lanterns spaced every few feet along the path. It was easy to see my way, even though dusk was falling and much of the canyon was in dark shadow. I passed the last lanai, noting notched steps up to my own suite. The path rose steadily higher. In another twenty feet, I came out near the top of the ridge.

Great swaths of topaz and coral streaked the darkening sky as the sun began to slip behind the mountain. The falls were glistening strands of silver pulsing down the cliffside, sounding like the rustle of thousands of birds lifting into the sky.

The path forked. One way led to the left alongside a tall lava-rock wall adorned with crimson, pink, and yellow bougainvillea. I continued straight ahead, following a dusty upward ribbon. I watched the way carefully. Belle had said a
path led to the falls and it was dangerous. But this path seemed fine.

A hawser-thick rope was anchored waist high to the side of the cliff. My foot kicked a loose stone and it spun over the edge of the trail, beginning its hundred-foot fall. I didn't look down. I grabbed the rope and welcomed the harsh prickly feel of its fibers.

The trail led out to a point. The cliff rose sheer on my left. The trail curled around the point. A verdant semicircle awaited me. Straight ahead, the falls tumbled in splendor down a jagged rock face. To my left, the canyon wall curved inward, offering a deep, shadowy recess. And in the wide ledge was a single grave enclosed on three sides by a low wall of lava rock. The open side faced the canyon, forever overlooking the falls and the trees. The view of the falls and the darkening canyon surpassed everything I'd seen before. It was the kind of beauty that touches your heart, as ineffable as a baby's smile or the peal of a church bell in solemn farewell.

Bright red blossoms dotted the twisted gray branches of an ohia tree that shaded the bronze marker. It was not an especially pretty tree, but it was particularly, distinctively Hawaiian. In olden days the ohia was sacred, used only for carving temple images and war gods.

Flagstones led through an opening in the wall. I reached the grave, looked down at the marker:

 

C
HARMAINE
C
ELIA
B
URKE

A
PRIL
1, 1962-M
ARCH
30, 1990

A
LOHA

 

The wind rustled the glossy green leaves of the ohia and the quickly cooling late afternoon air touched me with a chill. I looked past the grave. The path continued to the top of the
cliff where the stream rushed forward to the falls. A sign barred the way, stark crimson letters on white:

 

DANGER

DO NOT PASS

SLIPPERY ROCKS

 

“Don't even think about it,” a cool voice advised.

I swung around.

The wind ruffled bright red hair, molded a white cover-up to an athletic body. “Occasionally a smart-ass trespasser ignores the warning, thinks he'll be okay if he stays away from the falls, strolls by the stream. But those rocks”—she lifted a freckled hand, pointed to the dark, gleaming, wet rocks—“are slick from the water. Step on them and you're history.”

I glanced at the swift-running water, watched it thunder over the rocks, plummeting in a swirl of mist and splendor far below to a boulder-ringed pool. “I wasn't thinking about it,” I said pleasantly. “I was thinking how lovely it is here, what a beautiful site for a grave.”

She hunched her shoulders and stared at the ohia tree. “If there are spirits, CeeCee's perched on a low branch, feet dangling, looking out over the valley and planning a party.” The voice was light and mocking. “She dearly loved parties. She'd have the best-looking surfer up here, some guy who could handle the waves on the north coast, and the handsomest ukelele player. Probably have to shanghai him from some club on Maui. It's too tame here. Believe me, the sex scene's all on Maui. Banana shakes and kiwi fruit are the standard here. And early to bed. Lamentably, usually alone. But she'd have managed. There were never any flies on CeeCee when it came to attracting hunks. Damn shame she's not here. Trust me, Belle's way past the hunk stage.”

I read the dismissive summation in bright hazel eyes: And so are you, lady.

I met her glance steadily and her mouth quirked in a quick grin. Perhaps she read the summation in my eyes: Not on your life, kid. But she was clearly a young woman with an attitude and a lively disregard for convention. I wondered if this was her usual demeanor. I recognized her as Belle's youngest stepchild, Gretchen Gallagher. She was about my height. Late twenties. She looked at me boldly from a bright, quizzical, oddly defiant face. Her swim cover was a bright white with a bird-of-paradise appliqué. She carried a red-and-green-striped beach bag.

“I'm Gretchen Gallagher.” It was more of a challenge than a greeting.

“Henrie O Collins.”

“I'm on my way to the pool.” Her glance was speculative, as in, “And where the hell are you going, lady? And who the hell are you?”

“Pool?” I supposed the tall lava-rock wall where the path forked was part of an enclosure for the pool, creating a barrier against the wind that fluttered the tree branches here on the unprotected ridge. And perhaps Belle had enclosed the play area so that this remote grave site would remain eternally calm and peaceful.

“On the other side of the wall. Pool, tennis courts, even a picnic pavilion. You can't miss it if you come from the garden.”

“I didn't pass the pool. I came up the path from Belle's study.”

“I saw you on the trail.” She spoke casually, but her eyes were sharp.

And wondered where I was going. And who I was.

I waved my hand toward the falls. “I've been exploring.”

The young woman glanced down at the grave, then at
me. “Did you know CeeCee?” It was a polite way of asking why I was standing at her stepsister's grave.

“No.”

“So you didn't come here to visit CeeCee's grave?”

“No. I didn't know the grave was here. And I don't want to intrude if—”

She gave a quick, humorless laugh. “I'm not into grave vigils. I'm going to take a quick swim before dinner.” But she wasn't completely satisfied. “Belle invited you for this week?”

I wasn't going to explain about the letter. I'd leave that up to Belle. “Belle and my husband Richard were good friends.”

“Richard…Oh. Richard Collins? The guy who fell…”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry.” Her voice was contrite. “I didn't mean to be rude. But we've been hounded so much, the last few years. Actually, it's nice to have a new face here this week. We're all getting a little tired of the annual wake.” The animation fled from her face. She looked grim and resentful.

“Wake?”

She pointed to the bronze marker. “You know about CeeCee.” It wasn't a question.

“Yes.”

“Well, she was nuts about Kauai. So after she…she died”—even this casual young woman wasn't going to be flippant about murder—“Belle decided to bury her here. Because CeeCee'd camped here and said it was the most beautiful spot in the whole world. But Belle's not content to get the land and have a grave. She builds a house and stays. And every year we all come. Belle says it's to celebrate CeeCee's birthday. But it isn't exactly damn festive.”

“No,” I said quietly, “I wouldn't think it would be festive.”

“So, are you into wakes?” It was a cocky demand.

“They serve a useful function.” She was too young to understand. “The wake is to help the living.”

“It doesn't help me. I mean, CeeCee's been dead for years now. Why can't Belle let go?” She scowled.

“Perhaps because she doesn't know what happened to CeeCee. Or why.”

“But she's never going to know!” Gretchen's voice was querulous.

For an instant, I felt like an ancient priestess, an oracle. Perhaps that's why I spoke so confidently. “The truth has an odd way of coming out. Sometimes years later. Someone will remember something. Discover something.”

She drew her breath in sharply. “Do you know something?” she demanded. “Did your husband tell you something?” She peered through the dusky air as if I possessed some secret that might make a difference.

So she not only knew who Richard was, she was well aware of his part in the aftermath of CeeCee's kidnapping.

“Richard never talked about the kidnapping.” Certainly that was true.

Steps gritted on the rocky path. “Gretchen, hey, Gretchen, where are you?” A muscular young man in tennis clothes came around the curve. I watched him with the same pleasure I would have taken in observing the smooth stride of a panther. He moved with exquisite grace and power. And he carried with him a masculine magnetism that would attract any woman—red hair damp with exertion, sloe eyes that exuded confidence, full, sensuous lips.

She looked at him fondly and her face remade itself, the pettish discontent dissolving into affection. “Mrs. Collins, my brother Wheeler. Wheeler, this is Mrs. Collins. Belle's invited her to visit. Maybe it's going to be a real house party this year.”

“Hello, Mr. Gallagher.”

“Wheeler, please.” Those full lips spread in a lazy, appealing smile. “I heard voices. It's nice to have a visitor.”

I wondered suddenly if Belle realized how difficult the annual gathering was for the siblings, at least if the reaction of these two reflected the feelings of the others.

“Do you know Kauai, Mrs. Collins?” Wheeler asked.

“Not well.”

“I'm just the man to remedy that.” His voice had a soft Southern sound.

“We'll give you a guided tour you won't forget,” Gretchen said eagerly.

“I doubt anywhere could be lovelier than here.” I spread my hand toward the falls and the dusk-shrouded canyon.

But they stood silent and both stared down—just for an instant—at CeeCee's grave.

“It's getting dark,” Gretchen said abruptly. “I think I'll head for the pool.”

“You know how Belle is about being on time for dinner.” Wheeler's voice was pleasant, but there was an underlying edge.

“I'll be good.” But her voice was irritated.

He reached out, patted his sister's arm, a big brother encouraging good behavior.

Wheeler shepherded us back toward the fork in the path. Huge night lights glowed from the corners of the sports compound. I glimpsed two courts through an arched entryway and heard the
thwock
of a tennis ball expertly struck.

“The pool's just past the courts. With another grand vista.” Gretchen shrugged away the magnificent scenery. “If you like to spend a holiday stretched out on a chaise longue, you've come to the right place. Though there's plenty to see on the island. We'll plan an outing tomorrow. Did you know the Nurses' Beach in
South Pacific
was filmed on the north shore? I can take you there if you like.”

“I'd like that very much.”

“I'll see you at dinner then.” Gretchen veered off toward the sports area.

Wheeler ambled alongside me. “If you like a challenge, there's always the Na Pali.”

Richard and I had holidayed on Kauai many years before and climbed the rugged Kalalau Trail along the magnificent Na Pali cliffs, perhaps one of the last bastions of untouched majesty in the world.

I'm in good enough shape for my age. But, no, I couldn't tackle the Na Pali now. Crumbly soil, deep ruts and tangled roots made the hike a difficult and sometimes dangerous challenge. I can wrap my arthritic knee and still manage a slow jog and a couple of sets of doubles with players of my era. But not the Na Pali. “Perhaps I'll have time for a helicopter tour.”

“Better go by raft,” Wheeler said. Then he added quickly, “Sorry. Not trying to tell you how to spend your vacation, but Belle's really down on helicopters. She thinks the noise is an intrusion, a kind of ecological trauma. Anders is big on that sort of thing. And there have been some crashes, too. Oh, here we are.”

The path sloped down suddenly and we came into the garden. Now we could see the clusters of rooms perched on the rim of the canyon. Lights glowed here, too, indoors and out, the living areas spotlighted like stage sets, the garden's colors softly illuminated. The mélange of colors was richer than a rainbow: the purples of bougainvillea, glory-bush, and orchid trees; the oranges of silk oak, hibiscus, and kou; the pinks of oleander, pink shower tree, and pink tecoma, and the majestic whites of plumeria, oleander, and angel's-trumpet. Near the front lanai, the jacaranda blossoms looked like festive lavender bouquets bunched on their delicate feathery leaves. The fragrances mingled, scenting the night air like a sweet and spicy perfume.

“I'm staying here.” I gestured toward the first and highest suite. “What time is dinner?”

Wheeler glanced at his watch. “At seven-thirty. But everyone gathers about seven for a drink.”

“I'll see you then. I'm looking forward to meeting everyone.”

We parted with smiles. But I knew my eyes were cold. Yes, this would be a memorable evening. I would study the inhabitants of Ahiahi carefully indeed. I wanted to look hard at each and every one of them.

One smiling face masked a murderer's soul.

 

In my absence, a maid had unpacked my cases. I opened the closet and chose my black rayon-crepe dress with small white seabirds. I liked the oversized collar and ribbed sleeves. Dressy but resortish. I put the dress and lingerie on the bed. I slipped into the pale apricot terry-cloth robe hanging in the bath. I was leaning over to turn on the bathwater when I paused.

I turned back to the closet. Yes, my clothes were there. And I'd found my lingerie in the top drawer of the wicker chest. My purse sat on the chest.