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Authors: Death in Paradise

Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Women Sleuths, #Henrie O (Fictitious Character), #Women Journalists, #Fiction, #Detective and Mystery Stories, #Contemporary Women, #Kauai (Hawaii), #Hawaii, #Mystery Fiction

Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_04 (7 page)

BOOK: Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_04
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“That wasn't publicly revealed.”

“Nope. The sheriff sat on that. Thought it might be useful.”

“Maybe the kidnappers fed her something with a narcotic. To keep her quiet.”

“Lady, this wasn't just a tablet or two. She'd had a bottle's worth. No way it wouldn't kill her. And that's a weird way to kill somebody. Most kidnappers shoot somebody, crack 'em over the head, hell, bury 'em alive. No, the minute we got the autopsy report, I told 'em it was suicide. She dropped the Express Mail envelope in a slot on her way here. When she got up here Friday night, she set it up to look like she'd been kidnapped, then took a rowboat out on the lake, drank a bottle of wine laced with the stuff, waited till it spaced her out, then rolled overboard.”

“Was a rowboat missing from the Ericcson dock?”

“As a matter of fact”—his voice oozed confidence—“there was a boat missing. It was found drifting near a public ramp.”

“But the ransom money
was
picked up.”

“Picked up? Maybe. Maybe not. Look at it this way, lady. The money was
gone
by the time cops checked it out.” His tone was sardonic. “Listen, how do we know any of the crap the family told us was true? Did they call us in when they got the ‘kidnapper's' note? Hell, no. We didn't even know there'd been this ‘kidnapping' until a fisherman pulled her
body up on Monday. She had on a silver bracelet with her name and it rang a bell with one of our troopers. He'd given her a ticket once. We ID'd her quick. We went out to the house and got this cock-and-bull story. I never did believe it.”

“But the money.” I wondered about Pierson's blood pressure. His entire face glistened like burnished copper.

“Yeah.” His tone was grudging. “The goddamned money. Two hundred thousand in fifties and hundreds. In a shoe box. Miz Ericcson followed the directions. She got this dude out of the east to take the shoe box to the old cemetery in Gainesville. I mean, can you believe that? A cemetery! If they'd called us, we could have sewn it up tighter than a bulldogged calf. But no, they don't call anybody, they get the cash from a bank in Dallas and give it to this dude to deliver to the cemetery at midnight that Sunday.”

I'd not known the details. As I said, Richard and I never discussed it. The news coverage didn't include information about the ransom drop.

When the story broke, Richard was identified simply as a friend of the family who had delivered the ransom.

“Midnight!” Pierson snorted. “Why didn't she throw in clanking chains and a buzz saw!”

“But the money was taken.”

“Sure. Hell, yes. The dude tucked it behind the Beckleman mausoleum and the cops got there on Monday afternoon. More than twenty-four hours! Sure, it was gone. Anybody could have gotten it. Kids out there necking and they see this dude hide a shoe box at midnight. Or next day somebody drops out there to decorate a grave. Somebody in the family, for that matter. Those damn people. Nobody'd look at you straight.”

“They didn't need the money,” I said dryly. There are people to whom two hundred thousand is pin money. Belle's family members fit that description.

He shrugged. “Maybe not. But who the hell should be surprised when we check it out after the body's found and the shoe box is gone! Plenty of candidates. Maybe the dude who delivered the shoe box came back. Maybe he never left it.”

“No.” My answer was swift and harsh.

He looked at me sharply. His green eyes brightened. “Oh, hey. Collins. You're Mrs. Collins. That was the dude's name.”

“Yes.” My throat felt tight. Yes, that was the dude's name.

“So what's your game, Mrs. Collins?”

I gave him stare for stare. “My husband Richard came here six years ago to talk to Johnnie Rodriguez. Then Richard went to Hawaii to see Belle Ericcson. He fell to his death from the terrace of her home. On April first.” I stopped, bent my head. It still hurt so damn much and the pain throbbed anew, as if Richard had just died. I took a deep breath. “This week I received an anonymous message saying he was pushed.”

Pierson kneaded his hand against his red cheek. “And Johnnie drowned that year.” His tone was speculative. “So, what are you going to do?”

“Go to Hawaii.” Yes, I was going to go to Kauai and claw my way into Belle Ericcson's home, do whatever I had to do, fight whomever I had to fight.

Pierson shook loose another cigarette, lit it, but his eyes never left my face, calculating, bright, hard eyes. “You know something, lady? If I was you, I'd be damn careful.”

T
he jeep squealed to a stop. I stared at the bar swung across the road and the stark sign:

 

NO TRESPASSING

 

I'd known the way would be barred. This was simply the first challenge.

I jumped down. The dark red dirt glistened greasily. The cane growing on either side of the narrow lane rustled in the light breeze. The cane was so tall, I stood in dusky shadow. Despite the languorous warmth of the air, I shivered.

I pushed the bar wide, jumped back into the jeep. When I drove past the barrier, I didn't stop to close it. Not because I was impatient. I kept going, driving faster and faster, red dust boiling from beneath the wheels, because if I drove slowly, I might turn back. I might not have the courage to persevere.

Fear rode with me.

Not only the bone weakening fear of danger. I knew danger awaited me at journey's end. Yes, I was afraid. But not simply of danger. I was tormented by a more complex fear, webbed like the silky strands spun by an industrious spider, a tendril of terror, a strand of anxiety, a wisp of apprehension, a thread of fright, all combining in a tremulous mélange of dread.

Oh, dear God, what was I going to learn at journey's end?

In the innermost recesses of my heart, I knew that I feared not so much learning the truth of Richard's death as the truth of his life.

What, finally, had Belle Ericcson meant to my husband? And could I bear to know that truth?

But I had to go on. A quick memory glittered in my mind, bright as a diamond: the softness of Richard's eyes on our fifth wedding anniversary; his eager smile as I unwrapped his present, a slim book of Millay's sonnets. I remembered, too, with a heart-wrenching clarity, the exquisite passion in our union that starry night.

Now the field of cane was behind me and the rusty red road began to climb, curving and twining, clinging to the edge of the rising escarpment.

Up and up and up. The cliff fell sharply away from the rutted roadway. Jutting up from the sides of the valley were trees and ferns so intensely green they glittered like sunlit prisms of jade, vivid enough to make the eyes wince and seek relief in the arch of softly blue sky.

I eased the pressure on the accelerator as I came around a curve. The road widened just enough for an outlook. Abruptly I braked, pulled to my right and stopped. I turned off the motor. My chest ached as if I'd run up that rising road.

No sound broke the quiet. I looked out over the valley to another ridge and beyond it to another and another. This was
a Hawaii far removed from the bustle of Honolulu, wild and open, no sign of people or habitations, only rocky cliffs and emerald valleys.

Kauai is called the Garden Isle with good reason. It is pastoral still with an innocence and simplicity that I had to delve back to a child's memory of rural France for comparison: narrow blacktopped roads and cars traveling sedately; towns, not cities; sweeps of rolling land unspoiled by high-rises. Kauai has yet to be consumed by the tourism that has devoured Oahu. Travelers come here in search of breathtaking loveliness and peace.

But I had not come to Kauai as a tourist seeking its beauty: dazzling gold trees with blooms more yellow than butter, chinaberry trees with clusters of pale pink or soft-azure flowers, magnificent banyans with hundreds of aerial roots; or the endlessly fascinating and awesome sea, crashing with inhuman force against outcroppings of jagged midnight-black lava, eddying in tidal pools behind barrier reefs, running in swift and dangerous currents, sometimes gentle, sometimes deadly.

I came seeking vengeance, understanding, release.

As I stared over the tropical growth, overwhelming in its fecundity, my hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my fingers ached.

Could I go through with my plan? Did I have the courage to plunge ahead to an uncertain and surely dangerous future?

It was an odd and singular moment. I'd spent a lifetime as a reporter, seeing much I would have preferred not to see, but always attempting to look with clear and non-judgmental eyes, speaking and writing as honorably as I knew how.

Now I'd left honor behind. I was prepared to lie, dissemble, employ every wile at my command. What would Richard have thought of me if he could see me now? My Richard, who was always straightforward and honorable.

Was it because of honor that he had never discussed Belle Ericcson with me?

Richard and I spent decades together. We knew passion and pain, joy and despair. I closed my eyes and for a moment he was in my mind as clearly as the last time I saw him, his face seamed with lines earned by a lifetime of effort and caring and loss.

That last view was such a familiar one, one of us departing or arriving. We'd done so much of that in our lives. I'd turned at the last moment before boarding the plane, looked back to see his steady, loving, generous gaze, his chiseled features, his ruddy skin with its age-won creases, his lopsided smile, ironic yet warm. His brown corduroy sports coat hung open. His shirt was a red-and-white houndstooth check. His chino slacks were crisp. We'd stopped on our leisurely walk through the airport at the shoeshine stand and his tasseled loafers glistened a cherry tan. His hand lifted in farewell, that broad, capable, strong hand.

I'd had no reason to suspect it would be our final farewell. Such an ordinary moment, but even then it was extraordinary because it was Richard and because he, standing there, meant so much to me, the center and heart and joy of my life.

Now Richard's face was always and ever in my memory, a talisman against despair and cynicism and hopelessness.

Faces tell everything you need to know. Do you see laughter or sourness, compassion or disdain, vigor or lassitude? And if the face lacks expression? That speaks, too.

Just for an instant, I felt Richard was so near, his broad, open face serious and intent, his quick eyes watchful, his generous mouth opening to speak.

To warn me? To admonish me? To salute me?

I opened my eyes and the illusion fled and with it all sense of comfort. Would Richard understand the course I'd set?

But I had to find out the truth. Dig it out, gouge it out, scratch it out, if need be. I couldn't leave unanswered any question about Richard's death. Even though I knew my arrival on Kauai served some purpose—dark or benign?—other than discovering what happened when Richard plummeted to his death.

Who wanted me here? And why?

Behind this pastoral scene there was a pattern I could not see. Perhaps I should turn back. I felt such a sweep of foreboding that I was shaken. I looked up. Once I reached the mountaintop, I would set forces into motion that I could not control. But control is always illusory. I knew that, could cling to that, but I couldn't ignore the fact that my actions would have consequences.

Take what you want, the old adage encourages, but pay for it. That philosophy requires arrogance. I'm not certain we ever know ourselves, but I think I can fairly insist I am not arrogant. No, I won't confess to arrogance. But I will admit to a passion for truth. And a bone-deep stubbornness. And a wild, unreasoning hatred for injustice.

Was Richard murdered? I had to know. I was impelled to follow this dark red, empty road because on that mountaintop I would find answers. I was determined, no matter the cost, to have those answers.

My hand shook as I twisted the key. Yes, dammit, I was scared, scared of what I might find, what I might learn, what might happen to me. The engine snarled to life. I jerked the wheel and gunned the jeep up that steep gradient. I leashed the speed as the curves sharpened. There were no guardrails. Not that a flimsy metal barrier could stop a plunge over the side and a sheer drop of more than a hundred feet.

Wind whipped my face, stirred my hair. Surely I was almost to the top of the ridge. I came around a curve fast.

It was almost the last curve I ever took.

A huge car loomed up in front of me.

I jammed my foot hard against the brake pedal, stomped the brake pedal. The jeep slewed a little sideways and bucked to a halt. A dark green Land Rover screeched to a stop only inches away. Red dust billowed around the cars. A pale face stared at me, the lips parted in a shout.

If we'd collided, the force would have propelled both cars over the edge. It had been a near thing.

The door to the Land Rover opened, then slammed shut, the noise harsh in the silence. A young woman jumped down and stalked toward me. “It's one way.” Her eyes glittered with anger. “You're supposed to punch the intercom on the gatepost to signal you're coming up. And this is a private road. You're trespassing.” She spoke in a crisp, decisive voice that was only a little breathless from the nearness of a crash. “I'll have to ask you to leave. At once.” Raven-dark hair cupped an intelligent, confident face with wide-spaced gray eyes and an appealing snub nose. The swift breeze molded her white cotton top and linen skirt against her.

I knew who she was: Belle's secretary, Elise Ford. Even Belle's secretary was pictured in the newspapers in the aftermath of the kidnapping. I knew so much about all of them—and they knew nothing of me.

Except one of them. One of them knew me. The thought was like a trickle of ice down my spine. One of them knew a great deal about me. One of them had spent hours painstakingly creating a document to wrench me out of the present, propel me into the past.

I looked at Belle's secretary pleasantly, but I was scanning for character. At first glance all seemed in order, just the right amount of makeup, her clothing appropriate. Only one item jarred, an extremely expensive jeweled platinum watch. But perhaps Belle gave nice presents. Or Miss Ford had a well-heeled admirer. Or generous parents. Or an extravagant streak.

“I'm sorry, I didn't know about the intercom.” I spoke
quickly, placatingly. “Belle offered to have me picked up at the airport, but I decided to rent a jeep. Awfully sorry if I've caused a problem.” I smiled at her. “You must be Belle's secretary. I'm Henrietta Collins.” I leaned out the car window to look past her. “Can you back up? Or should I back down to the outlook?”

She stared at me blankly. “You're expected?” Her questioning eyes noted my crimson hopsack suit and silver-and-turquoise earrings and necklace, looked past me at my luggage, sensible and sturdy black vinyl. “But Ms. Ericcson sees no one except by invitation.”

I feigned equal surprise. Now I had to be convincing. The very rich live on a different plane, their privacy guarded in every possible way. I had to get past Elise Ford. “I know. So I'm very appreciative that she's invited me to visit her. It's very thoughtful of her.”

She stood stiff and straight, like a sentinel. “Oh, no. There must be some mistake. I handle all of Ms. Ericcson's correspondence. This weekend is a family gathering.”

“A family gathering?” I repeated blankly. “But…” I reached down to my purse and lifted out a creamy square of cardboard. I scanned it, then nodded. “Yes. I was asked to arrive today. Thursday, the twenty-seventh.”

Elise Ford reached out. “May I?”

I handed the invitation to her, managing, I hoped, to look a trifle surprised, a little indignant.

She studied the card. It was quite tasteful, a thick square with a blue border. Belle's name was printed in raised blue ink. A coconut palm was embossed in the right margin. The secretary frowned, handed back the card. “Excuse me.”

She walked back to the Land Rover and retrieved a mobile phone.

I shaded my eyes and listened hard without appearing to do so.

“Lester, Elise. I'm on the road and there's a woman—a
Henrietta Collins—who says Belle's invited her to visit. She has an invitation. But—” Her voice dropped.

I would have liked to have heard the rest of it. But I could guess. Was the stationery unfamiliar to her? The signature? That was no wonder. My local print shop had made the invitation. I'd signed it. Not, of course, in my usual handwriting.

She swung toward me. “Are you Mrs. Richard Collins?”

Oh, Richard, Richard. “Yes. Yes, I am.” Yes, dammit, I still should be.

She spoke into the phone. “She says she is. All right, Lester. If you say so.” She punched the phone off. “I'll back around. You can come up.”

She swung up into the driver's seat, closed the door. Without a glance at the precipitous drop but with care and caution, she maneuvered the huge car around and roared away, up the mountain.

I followed in the jeep. I didn't mind the dust that swept back over me, almost obscuring my way. Another challenge met and bested. But this was just the beginning.

Yet another gate was at journey's end, a gate of bronze bars between twelve-foot whitewashed walls. Bougainvillea spilled over the walls, the crimson blossoms bright as blood. A semicircle parking area of red tiles fanned out from the walls.

I stopped the jeep next to the Land Rover. As I stepped down, the gate began to swing slowly inward. I glanced toward Elise Ford. She made no move to get out of the Land Rover. She looked past me toward the gate.

A tall, thin man in a checkered shirt and age-paled jeans walked out. He lifted a hand toward Elise. She nodded, backed and turned the big vehicle, and started down the mountain.

I walked toward him. We met beside a pink shower tree in full bloom, with masses of pink blooms.

“Mrs. Collins? I'm Lester Mackey. I work for Belle.” His voice was soft and light with a mournful quality. It reminded me of a long-ago disaster and the voice of a mine official, telling me about the men blocked off by a deadly landslide. Soft and light and mournful.

Johnnie Rodriguez's mother had compared Mackey's voice to the whispery slither of a snake. But there was nothing snakelike about Lester Mackey. I was struck, in fact, by the anxiousness of his light blue eyes and the fine crinkle of lines fanning out from his eyes and mouth. This man had served Belle Ericcson for many years. I'd envisioned him as a kind of bodyguard. He didn't fit that preconception. There was nothing tough or hard about him. He had a sensitive face and graceful hands and that anxious, diffident look.

BOOK: Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_04
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