Death in the Orchid Garden (17 page)

Louise looked over at Sergeant Binder and realized it might have been different had Sergeant Yee been doing the questioning. From her experience on the hike, William Yee was fascinated with nature and plants. But she was boring this officer almost to tears with her horticultural ramblings. With glazed eyes, he allowed that he was now done questioning her and quickly called in the next person.

L
ouise huddled in a window seat in the back of the charter plane, hoping no one would sit beside her and talk. It had been grueling over the past hour, telling and retelling her story to the park ranger and Sergeant Binder.

She yawned, feeling exhaustion in every pore. Yet she knew she could not fall asleep; too many images of that gruesome death scene were flashing through her mind. Even the smells clung to her, the sulfur fumes and the odor of burning flesh . . .

They'd left Kauai this morning with an unlucky thirteen people and they were coming home with only eleven.

Just ahead of her sat Anne Lansing and Christopher Bailey. As Louise took her seat two rows behind them, she noted that Bailey held the deceased Dr. Bouting's carryall on his lap. The scientist had left it in the van when he went to observe the lava flow. Bailey held the leather case reverentially, as if it had been blessed. Within that stylish piece of luggage, she knew, was Bouting's sleek black computer with its precious store of plant information. Just what would become of it now?

“Louise!” someone hissed. She jolted awake, not even realizing she'd been asleep. It was Anne Lansing. She stood unsteadily in the aisle and looked down at Louise. “Can I join you?”

She'd already told Tom, who'd wanted to sit with her, that she'd prefer to be by herself. He had gone back and taken a seat next to Henry Hilaeo.

Louise looked up at the woman. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks swollen from crying, her makeup half-gone, and her hair tousled and out of kilter. She nodded and Anne sat down and leaned into her. She immediately wondered if she would regret this.

“Oh, Louise, why, why?” cried Anne. “How could this have happened?” It only took that statement to release a new flood of tears, some of which landed on Louise's wash-and-wear white sleeve. Anne's big turquoise bandanna, which had become a handkerchief, already was saturated and now became super-saturated. “Why did he do such a foolish thing? He had everything to live for.”

“He appeared to. Why do you think he'd go so close to the edge?”

Her hands flared open, like two graceful flower petals. “Oh, it was his nature; you should have seen him on our China trip a few months ago. He'd clamber up ridges and walk on precipices that even Chris and I were afraid to traverse.” A momentary pause for a blow of the nose and wiping of more tears. Then silence.

Anne said, “I've been keeping this thought at bay, Louise, but I can't help wondering if someone did this to him.”

Now it was out there, the thought in everyone's mind.

Anne leaned back in her own space, for which Louise was grateful. Louise said, “That thought crossed my mind, too. Certainly the authorities are sensitive to the fact that this is the second scientist in a group of eight who has died in the past two days.”

“Twelve scientists at the conference,” amended Anne, “if you count those from the NTBG.”

“Yes. I guess we should count them, too.” Even in her sorrow, the woman had a mind like a steel trap. Louise could not explain what happened next. Perhaps because two deaths in two days were too much for her, Louise laughed out loud. A genuine laugh, one that turned heads. “It's so ludicrous, but forgive me, I can't help thinking that this is like an Agatha Christie mystery. Could this be a case of slowly killing off all the scientists who came to the conference?”

“But Louise,” said Anne, “that doesn't track.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, four of the eight visiting scientists have been permitted to go home already by Randy Hau.” Anne's tear-swollen eyes were nevertheless alert, a reflection of that active brain at work. “That weakens your theory—the only visiting scientists left are Charles Reuter and Ralph Pinsky—and George Wyant. I suppose he's considered a scientist.” She slumped back in her seat. “Of course, there's also Schoonover and his people.”

“I was just making an inappropriate joke, Anne,” said Louise. “I certainly hope that this isn't the work of a person who intends to kill even more people. I can believe that Matthew Flynn's death was deliberate, but what happened tonight is another matter. The park rangers as much as admitted it—people die once in a while at the Kilauea volcano, even though the Big Island doesn't broadcast statistics. That's because people take chances they shouldn't. Your boss was in that frame of mind. He
fantasized
that he could be one of those volcanists striding alongside the molten lava, risking life and limb for science.”

“I know. I suppose I just strengthened your belief that he may have done this to himself.” Anne sighed. “I must say, Louise, that your friend John is wonderful. I only hope he pulls through. I wish the best for him in that hospital.”

Anne's tears resumed and now Louise was crying. She fumbled in her pocket for her own bandanna. “He is wonderful.” Louise choked out the words. “And he'd better live, because I've just discovered what a truly fine person he is.”

Anne turned her intense green eyes on Louise. “You've known him a long time.”

“Four years.”

“I've been with Bouting Horticulture for ten years now. Dr. Bouting—Bruce—has been wonderful the whole time, guiding me, giving me opportunities to explore with him, teaching me the business. Besides that, he's been like a father to me.” Louise had seen the two together and felt that this was indeed a close parent-child bond. “You see, my own father's gone and it's as if Bruce were his substitute.” At this, Anne broke down again and said no more.

Louise hadn't heard the detail from her husband that Anne's prestigious professor father had passed away. Bouting's death was a double loss for this woman. Her seatmate's eyes were at half-mast, she looked as if she, too, were exhausted and might fall asleep.

Before she did, Anne turned to Louise and put a soft hand on her arm. “I hear you've solved a couple of crimes in the past, Louise. If you decide to look into Bruce's death as anything other than a horrible accident, would you tell me?”

“But I don't intend . . . well, yes, I guess I could tell you if I did a thing like that.”

“You want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I'd like to help you. If a killer did this, I want to help you catch the bastard. The Kauai police chief is a nice man—maybe too nice. I'm afraid he's inexperienced in things like murder. And the situation is only made worse because Bruce died on the Big Island.” She gave an impatient shake of her bobbed hair. “Those federal rangers act as if it's just another self-inflicted accident by a careless tourist. I'm going to hire a private investigator if they don't come up with some answers.”

As she drifted off to sleep, Louise thought that one could do worse than have the very smart Anne Lansing pursuing the truth about Bruce Bouting's horrible demise.

 

L
ouise reached over to stop the terrible little song in her ears. She grabbed her cell phone off the table and took a moment to pull herself awake. It was morning and she was in Hawaii. And something terrible had happened last night in this tropical paradise. Then it all came back, the spurting volcano vent, the awestruck crowds, the sulfur fumes, the two bodies lying near the streaming pahoehoe. . .

John Batchelder was terribly hurt. Dr. Bouting was dead.

She flipped the phone open and pressed it to her ear. “Hello,” she said.

“Louise, darling,” said her husband, “are you all right? I heard the news. My dear . . .”

Louise lay back on the pillow and cuddled the phone to her ear. “Bill, it was horrible. I don't know if John's going to make it.”

“It must have been like a nightmare, from what we've heard in Washington. I got a call from Charlie Hurd, our old friend from
The Washington Post
, hours ago. He recognized John Batchelder's name and figured you were in Kauai, too. I waited as long as I could so you could get some sleep. Tell me a little of what happened.”

“Dr. Bouting got too close to the lava and John tried to pull him away from it.” She swallowed, trying not cry.

“And Bouting died right on the spot?”

“I think so. He looked dead when they took him away on a stretcher. John has burns on the left side of his body. I'm sure he's in terrible pain.” She could almost feel those burns on his arm and the side of his face. “They wouldn't let me stay with him there.”

“At least he's alive, Louise, according to the last news here. How could this have happened? Don't they have a safety fence near that stuff?”

“Not exactly, just a row of electric torches and quite a few park police monitoring people. I don't know how it happened, Bill. There were hundreds of people up and down that line. It was so exciting for everyone and the lava was literally exploding up at the new vent. We were supposed to be in pairs, but it was easy to get separated—everyone in our party seemed to get separated. One of the Kauai policemen with us was worried, so people went looking for the others. I decided to look for John . . . and I found him.”

“He went to help Bouting?”

“He was trying to drag him out, but Bouting must have weighed well over two hundred pounds. His clothes were burning—
he
was burning . . .” She began to feel sick with the memory. “John tried, but the fumes were overcoming him. I pulled John out of there as best I could.”

“You probably saved his life. But take it easy now. You don't have to give me more details.”

She looked at the bedside clock, which read eight o'clock. “Bill, I have to go. I have to find out how he is. And the police want to talk to all of us—I'm already going to be late.” She swung her legs off the side of the bed and stood unsteadily.

“Hold on a minute,” said her husband. “Look, two of the three principals in your TV program are dead. I don't like it.”

She went over and unlocked the French doors and stepped out on the lanai. Before her was a view of the achingly beautiful plants and trees of Kauai and beyond them, the glorious ocean. “I'm not in danger.”

“It took awhile to come up with that conclusion, Louise.”

“I had to think it over. Right now, I feel like one of the walking dead. But my brain is starting to function again, because things are coming back to me that I haven't told the police. Just before John lost consciousness, he said something to me.”

“What was that?”

“He said that it was all for love.”

“Not very definitive,” said Bill.

“You don't think so?”

“Did he mean his love for mankind is why he put his life on the line and tried to save a man he hardly knew?”

“That could be it,” said Louise.

“I mean, John was a sincere, kind of mawkish guy, wasn't he?”

“You mean, ‘
Isn't
he?' He's not dead, Bill.”

“No, he's not. I'm sorry. Louise, you don't sound so good. Should I come there?”

“No, don't come. I'm coming home. I can't believe they won't let me go home tomorrow . . . and yet I hate the thought of leaving John behind in a hospital.”

“You may have to. Now, Louise, it's important that you stay in touch with me. If you don't call, I'll worry about you.”

“I promise to call.”

Her husband's voice had taken on an air of caution. “Now, are you up to it if I give you some information on those other scientists?”

“I'm out on the lanai. Wait until I get back in the room and get organized.” She stepped inside and found her pen and pad and sat down in a chair. “I'm ready,” she told him.

“I
have material on five additional people, four from the National Tropical Botanical Garden, plus that St. Louis guy, Dr. Ralph Pinsky. Now, the two most important people from the gardens there seem to be Tom Schoonover and Henry Hilaeo. The other two, Tim Raddant and Sam Folsom, are not as, shall we say, pertinent. They're said to be talented, comfortable in their own skins, and contented at what they're doing.”

“Good. I'd hate to think a man who runs a herbarium or a science library is also a killer.”

“Let's start with this Schoonover fellow,” said Bill. “He's a little more controversial. I hope he doesn't turn out to be mixed up in a crime, Louise. I can tell by the way you talk that you like him.”

“I do. But tell me what you know.”

“You know his background already. Schoonover is
the
authority on Hawaiian island plants and Pacific plants in general. He's said to be a hide-bound honest man; this sort always rubs some people the wrong way. Believes peer review should mean peer review and not a glossing-over approval of a scientist's work from another busy scientist who hasn't read the work. Makes everyone who contributes to his books certify the authenticity of the material, etcetera. He's generally very collaborative and willing to give credit to others. After all, lots of scientists come to Hawaii to do research. But the fairly recent expedition of Matthew Flynn presented problems for the people at the gardens. Flynn went off on his own with his aide-de-camp . . .”

“George Wyant.”

“He got lucky and quickly published his findings about a special orchid. It left a bad taste in the mouth of the staffers there who work their tails off in behalf of protecting the species they have and finding new ones.”

“Are you saying Matthew Flynn didn't follow protocol?”

“I guess that summarizes it. Protocol probably would have had someone like Henry Hilaeo accompanying them during their field work.”

“And what about Henry Hilaeo?” Hilaeo, with his unsmiling stare out into a world dominated by foreigners; but did his gloomy look mean anything?

“Hilaeo's a success story,” said Bill. “He's mixed race, but has a lot of Hawaiian blood in him. As a teenager, he got into trouble—petty theft, that sort of thing. But an interested teacher redirected him and he earned a degree at the University of Hawaii and then a graduate degree at Berkeley. He's working on his doctorate.”

“It's interesting how these scientists cross each other's paths as they go through years of education. Maybe Henry Hilaeo knew Dr. Charles Reuter.”

Bill said, “He not only knew him, but he has him on his doctoral committee. If Hilaeo is the sort who holds grudges, Matthew Flynn was a logical person against whom to hold a grudge.”

“But even if Hilaeo did hold a grudge against Flynn, he didn't have a reason to dislike Bruce Bouting, did he?”

There was a long silence. “Why would you say that, Louise? I thought we were talking about people who could have been mixed up in Matthew Flynn's death. Are you talking about two murders now? What are you implying?”

“Bill, I feel it in my bones, that's all. I think someone gave Bruce Bouting a shove into that lava. For one thing, the cane he was carrying was too far from his body. He wouldn't have left it behind if he'd gone poking closer to the lava flow.”

Another silence. “I don't like you being there alone.”

“It's all right, Marty and Steffi are here. Anyway, no one is the least bit interested in me. And maybe I'm just being paranoid and the man fell into the lava by sheer accident. Go ahead and tell me about Ralph Pinsky and then I'd better get dressed.”

But her husband was off on another tack. He said, “Now that I read these notes again, I see that there's a pattern. There are at least four hard-nosed purists among your scientists—Charles Reuter, Nate Bernstein, Tom Schoonover, and Henry Hilaeo. These are people who are impassioned on the topic of endangered species—who look askance at and don't necessarily trust bold plant explorers.”

“Pinsky is another of those plant explorers,” said Louise, “and he's best friends with the four ‘purists.' That makes five purists, as you call them.”

Bill said, “Pinsky has a terrific reputation, but he's tough. He may be the purest scientist of all, because he doesn't stand for any BS. Doesn't let charlatans in the field get away with anything, not if he has a chance to thwart them. He brings plants and seeds to his botanic garden, tests them to be sure they're safe and practical, then gets them into the commercial market.”

“He's one whom Matthew Flynn outsmarted; Flynn discovered a plant that Pinsky had been coveting, right under his nose.”

“It may not matter for long, Louise. Your Dr. Pinsky recently was diagnosed with lung cancer and he doesn't have a good prognosis. He's undergone chemotherapy, which means it's advanced. The man is a quiet sort, but very prestigious and proud—and, as I said, tough. He has no family; it's said that plants and his botanic garden are his life. He also writes a column for some garden magazine,
Garden Concepts
.”

With the phone clasped to her ear in one hand, Louise wandered over to the dresser, opened the drawer, and removed her fresh underwear for the day, then went to the closet and took out a yellow cotton sundress and her white sandals.

“But here's a tidbit that I found interesting,” continued Bill. Though she'd be tardy for the meeting with the police, she didn't want to miss out on anything her husband had worked so hard to learn. “They say Pinsky is foolhardy when it comes to his own health. He's planning one last field trip, though his field trip to Turkey last fall was supposed to be the last one.”

“I can guess why he's taking another one,” said Louise. “He wants one more shot at finding a new species. Matthew Flynn copped the Turkish tulip the last time.”

He didn't react for a moment. Finally, he said, “What scares me about all this is how deadly serious these scientists are about their work. It blows me away to think that pinching plants could be a motive for murder.”

She was just about to argue the point when Bill added, “Another thing—if Bruce Bouting was the victim of foul play, there could be two murderers out there.”