Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_04 (8 page)

“I'm Henrietta Collins. Mrs. Richard Collins.” I spoke crisply, a woman confident of her welcome.

Mackey nodded. “I understand there's some confusion about your visit.” His soft voice was deferential.

I listened to his words, but I was gauging his eyes. I've watched eyes for a half century now. Lots of blinks? That's a liar. Dead and dull? That's despair. Shiny as marbles? Oh, watch out, that's a screen. Lester Mackey's eyes were shiny. I wondered what he was hiding.

“I called Belle. She's lunching in Princeville. She said of course to welcome you. She'll be back in late afternoon.” The words were hospitable, but he kept darting quick, appraising glances at me as we walked toward the opened gate. Quick, appraising, shiny glances.

A middle-aged Hawaiian woman in a starched gray uniform waited for us, her plump face grave and dignified.

As we neared, Mackey said, “Amelia, this is Mrs. Collins. She will be staying with us.”

Amelia smiled. “Hello, Mrs. Collins. Welcome to Ahiahi. I'm Mrs. Ericcson's housekeeper. If you will come with me,
I will show you to your room.” Her voice had the sweet lilt of a native Hawaiian.

I looked toward Mackey.

“I'll see to your bags.”

I wanted to talk to Lester Mackey. What did he know that he didn't want to reveal? It could have to do with Richard's death or with the reason Richard came to Ahiahi. More than ever, it seemed likely Lester Mackey and Johnnie Rodriguez indeed knew something about CeeCee Burke's kidnapping. But first things first. “Thank you, Mr. Mackey.” I nodded to him and followed the housekeeper.

I've traveled the world, seen the Taj Mahal at sunrise, Saint Paul's in the fog, the Sphinx in a sandstorm. But when I stepped through the gate, I stopped and gazed in awe.

Paths of crushed shells wound through a fairyland of blossoms. Macaws flitted against the backdrop of cotton-candy-pink tecomas and lacy apple-green tree ferns and the delicate blue blossoms of the jacaranda. Sunlight glinted on porcelain Kyoto dragons. But the luxuriant tropical blooms were simply the setting for the jewel.

Pale violet clusters of rooms were strung along the canyon's rim like amethysts on a chain. Indoors and out flowed together so gracefully it was hard to discern boundaries. It was a house, but more than a house; the rooms independent, yet parts of a whole.

Beyond the flowering trees and a pond with the flickering brightness of fish colored more imaginatively than a tropical Gauguin, beyond the tiled flooring of the courtyard with its primitive depiction of volcanoes and thundering waves and swaying palms, beyond the open and unscreened windows and doors ran lanais overlooking the verdant canyon and the falls.

The falls. Always, ultimately, the eye was drawn to the falls as they arched and curved and thundered, down and
down and down, the narrow, rushing water shimmering like diamonds glittering in a tiara.

If there was a more beautiful place in all the world, I'd never seen it.

Finally, I moved forward, catching up with the waiting housekeeper.

“If you please,” she murmured, “here are some rubber slippers.” She held out thongs.

“Of course.” I sat on a sleek koa bench the color of almonds and slipped off my low-slung red leather heels and put on the thongs.

“Everyone leaves their shoes here.” It was a gentle request. “If you don't mind,” she added quickly.

I smiled and put my shoes along the edge of the tiled walkway that fronted the clusters of rooms. I noted a half dozen other pairs—tennis shoes, jogging shoes, dress shoes. Even though the clusters of rooms drowsed quietly in the sunlight, obviously there were others about. Somewhere.

Eventually, I would meet them. If Belle Ericcson permitted me to stay.

But I quite literally had my thong in the door. I wanted to get settled, to be ensconced in a guest room before Belle returned. It would be much more awkward to send away a guest in possession of a room. Though from what I'd gleaned about Belle Ericcson—and what I'd surmised over the years Richard had known her—I felt sure that Belle was tough enough to do whatever she deemed necessary.

“Yes, I'd love to go on to my room. I'd like to rest for a bit.” It was surely a familiar comment from a visitor arriving from the mainland. Travelers reach Hawaii glassy-eyed and exhausted, so I'd flown to Honolulu on Wednesday and spent the night. I'd arrived on Kauai today well rested. I hoped to be fresh and quick and alert to face the most daunting challenge of my life.

“Yes, ma'am. This way.”

I followed her along the walkway. We passed a series of wide-open rooms, the soft cream and pale blue furniture subtle spots of color, subservient to the vibrant hues of the canyon. It was breathtaking to realize that this portion of the house ran along the lip of the canyon. It was like being a bird atop a towering tree, unfettered, exhilarated, godlike.

Amelia's rubber slippers shushed softly against the tiled walkway as it followed the terrain in a series of steps and platforms. “Everyone has a separate suite, each with a lanai that overlooks the canyon.” She slowed. “There are two suites available. The last one is the highest one. Mr. Mackey said I should tell you that the last one is where your husband stayed. Do you wish to choose it or the other one?”

There would be no trace of Richard in the suite. Nothing to show he had spent the last hours of his life there. But Richard had been there as he had never been in the house in which I now lived. Richard had been there.

I made my choice quickly. “The last one.”

She darted swift glances at me as we climbed the last set of steps, reached the level of the last suite.

I realized when I stepped across the threshold that there was no door, no door at all.

The housekeeper saw my surprise and her lips curved in a suddenly merry smile. “Everyone notices! Here.” She pointed at two buttons, one cream, one red, beneath the light switch. She reached out, touched the cream button, and a panel slid shut behind us. She touched it again and the panel opened, withdrawing into its recess. “When the panel is closed, you may push the red button if you wish to lock it.”

We stood in a small, cheerful living area with white wicker sofas and chairs. The walls were also white. The only color came from the vividly patterned pillows, splashed with gold and carnelian and emerald. I was reminded of the macaws in the garden.

A sandalwood latticework jutted out from one wall to
demarcate the bedroom, also furnished in white wicker. The bedroom was open to its own lanai and the canyon.

I scarcely listened as the housekeeper demonstrated how to pull out louvered panels to close off the lanai. And, of course, there were ceiling fans in both the living room and the bedroom.

A quick tattoo sounded behind us.

“Come in,” I called, but still I stood, staring out at the falls as a young woman placed my suitcase and carry-on in a corner of the bedroom.

I should have known Lester Mackey would not bring my cases himself. But that was all right. I would make an occasion to talk to him.

I smiled. “Thank you.” She nodded briskly and turned away.

The housekeeper pointed toward an intercom on the nightstand. “If you would like anything—a snack, coffee, a drink—press it and one of the maids will come. And there is a small refrigerator in an alcove. It is well stocked, but don't hesitate to ask for anything that you would like to have.”

“Thank you,” I said again. “I'm fine. If you'll let me know when Ms. Ericcson returns…”

“Oh, yes, ma'am.” Her quick footsteps pattered away.

I walked slowly across the floor, the lau hala matting soft beneath my feet. I stepped out onto the lanai and walked to the railing. It was a sheer drop of at least a hundred feet to the rocky valley floor.

I placed my hands on the railing, a wooden railing. I wondered if Richard had stood thus, if his fingers had felt the smoothness of the paint, if he'd been fascinated by the subtle variations in tones of green from the vines and ferns and trees that carpeted the hillside, if he'd watched the shadows lengthen in the valley as the sun slipped westward.

My hands gripped harder. Where had Richard fallen?

I would find out.

I swung away from the railing, found the little refrigerator in the alcove, fixed myself a tall tumbler of ice water.

But I didn't unpack. I must face Belle Ericcson first.

I settled on a comfortable wicker chaise on the lanai. Belle might return at any time.

I didn't know what I would say when I saw her. For the first time, I regretted the fact that we'd never met, not in all the years Richard had known Belle. I'd resented the phone calls across the years, from Belle to Richard. And from Richard to Belle. Yes, certainly, I should have welcomed a friend of my husband's. But there was something in the way he would respond to a call, dropping whatever plans we had to go to her side, that made me question the depth of their friendship. Or wonder, painfully, if it was more than friendship. Yet, I couldn't bring myself to ask Richard.

I could not do that.

He was always an honorable man. How could I accuse him of unfaithfulness? And it wasn't that I actually thought him unfaithful. I knew, knew beyond doubt, that he loved me. But between Richard and Belle there was a bond that exceeded friendship. And I was never willing to explore what that bond might be.

Now I wished I had not made that choice so long ago. Because everything hinged on Belle, on who she was and how she thought, on how much she cared for Richard, on her character.

Belle Ericcson, woman extraordinaire.

And my husband's lover?

I looked out at majestic beauty and steeled my mind and heart to think, not feel.

Belle Ericcson. If ever I needed to understand her mind, it was now. Of course, I knew a great deal about her as one knows about celebrities. I had some sense of her personality. I knew she was brave. It takes a gritty courage to cover wars.
Obviously, she was decisive, charming, intelligent. It took all of those qualities to forge the life she'd led.

As I waited for her to return to this spectacular retreat, I considered a quality I'd not expected. The more I had read about Belle, the harder I looked, the clearer it became to me that Belle Ericcson lived with élan. And that is no small achievement.

But I should remember that this was the public Belle. Even the tart-tongued Lifestyle editor Lou Kinkaid who knew every nuance of the social set in Dallas had more questions than answers about Belle.

What of the private woman? The woman who had known extraordinary success—and great unhappiness. Not even her autobiography truly revealed her.

When I'd made the decision to come here, to gain entrance to Belle's secluded retreat, I'd immediately set out to discover everything possible about her. I'd learned a great deal about the public Belle. And I'd picked up her autobiography on my way to the airport. I had to hope that every fact I'd gleaned would help me when finally—now in a matter of moments—we came face-to-face.

Belle's family history was as tangled and extravagant as golden necklaces heaped in a Middle Eastern souk.

Belle was born on the Fourth of July in 1935 in Seattle. Her father, Anders Ericcson, was a Swedish immigrant. Anders started off working as a lumberjack and ended up owning one of the largest lumber mills in the Northwest and marrying Abigail Joss, the daughter of a shipping magnate. Belle was an only child, and from the first, lovely and beloved, was showered with every attention and luxury.

A nanny recalled that Belle began reading the Seattle newspaper when she was four years old and shortly after her seventh birthday announced firmly at dinner one night that she was going to be a reporter.

Apocryphal? Probably. I'd vote for creative recall on the
nanny's part or poetic license by the author. Henry Ford's appraisal of history is not bunk.

In any event, Belle studied journalism at the University of Southern California and went on to Columbia Graduate School. And from there to the Paris
Herald Tribune
.

She met her first husband, Oliver Burke, in Paris. He was the third son of a British duke. Burke was an artist out of step with his own era. His paintings were as clear and precise as photographs. No matter that he painted with the lucent clarity of a shaft of sunlight striking a Gothic spire, he was forever dismissed as imitative, unoriginal, passé. Belle and Oliver were married in 1960 and their daughter, Charmaine Celia, was born in 1962. Their first son, Anders, was born in 1963.

In early 1964, Belle was transferred to the Tokyo bureau. Oliver obligingly gathered up his paints and came along. Their second son, Joss, was born in 1965. As American troops swelled to more than 300,000 in Vietnam, Belle took a plane to Saigon and Oliver stayed in Tokyo with the children.

She darted in and out of Tokyo, of course, seeing her family, but always she returned to the shifting, erratic, increasingly bitter and divisive war.

After the fall of Saigon, Belle and her family returned to Europe, living in Italy while Belle wrote a book about her war experiences. Oliver, a heavy smoker, died of lung cancer the next year.

Belle and her children came home to America and she authored a weekly column, “Fresh Eyes,” from the perspective of an American returned to these shores after years abroad. It was an immediate success and soon was carried in almost three hundred newspapers. In 1977 she married Quentin Gallagher, a brawling, two-fisted reporter who shut down every bar he ever visited. A widower, Quentin brought to the marriage three children: a son, Wheeler, and two daughters, Megan and Gretchen. He also brought a cocky,
flamboyant, fighting spirit and a penchant for one drink too many. Quentin died in a one-car crash with a blood alcohol level of .09.

Belle's household then consisted of CeeCee, Anders, Joss, Wheeler, Megan, and Gretchen. Belle celebrated her fiftieth birthday by marrying Keith Scanlon, a fortyish tennis pro she'd met at a health spa in Texas. She bought a Tara-style Southern mansion in Dallas's exclusive Highland Park. That became her primary home and jumping-off spot. She also bought the hilltop vacation home on the Texas shore of Lake Texoma.