Death in the Orchid Garden (21 page)

L
ouise felt a little guilty going off swimming, but she had no real obligation to return Charlie Hurd's phone calls. When she returned to her room, she'd washed the blood out of her bandanna, then listened to Charlie's messages. By the time she'd played the sixth one, she was exhausted.

“
Louise, it's your old pal Charlie. Look, if you call me soon, I can still get your story in the late edition of the
Post
. And I know you have a story there—I bet you're right in the middle of it. Your husband acknowledged as much. And I know your sidekick got burned last night. Now, Louise, for old time's sake and for John Batchelder's sake and because we
need
one another, you and I, you should call me back and
pronto!
Aloha, now, or whatever good-bye is in Hawaiian, and I really hope you'll call. Here's the number in case you've forgotten . . .”

The rest of the messages had been pretty much the same, although the pleading tone increased as Charlie approached deadline. She could picture the cocky little reporter sitting by his telephone in
The Washington Post
city room, praying that she'd call with a story that would be a big scoop. He'd be dreaming of a headline that read something like, “Gardening Diva Describes Tragedy at Volcano.” She reflected that such a story would be no worse than Marty's selling the tape with the dead scientists to some TV news outlet. At least she wouldn't be selling, only telling, the story.

Her bedside clock read three o'clock, eight o'clock Charlie's time. She was sure it was past deadline. She'd call him tomorrow.

She put on her yellow bathing suit, grabbed her beach bag, and left the hotel by a side door, noticing a patrolman watching her leave. She was taking the circuitous way to the lagoon. A green-and-white-striped towel was slung over her shoulder, a beach bag on her arm. The route she took went by a prized garden filled with what Kauai-by-the-Sea's literature called “a sampler of the island's most noteworthy native plants.” It was a lush spread of plants and trees, many of them higher than a man's head. But among them she spied just that, a man's head in a turquoise ball cap. It was Christopher Bailey.

She sauntered over to the edge of the garden and saw that he was busily snipping samples of plants with a speed and ease that told her that his clippers were as sharp as Anne Lansing's.

When he saw Louise, he slid the gloved hand holding the shears down to his side and casually concealed them behind his hip. “Well, hello there, Mrs. Eldridge.”

“Hello, Christopher. Just call me Louise. Is this a great garden, or what?”

He pulled the tool forward and snapped it back on his belt, apparently deciding to own up. “It is, um, Louise. I've been given permission by the hotel management to take a few plant samples.”

“I'm curious,” she said. “For what purpose?”

“Oh, just a little study,” he muttered, “screening for plant diseases.”

“Oh. I'm on my way to swim before the sun goes down too far. Are you joining the group tonight for the dinner?”

He looked caught off guard, as if dinner were something he rarely gave a thought to. “Oh, the dinner. I hear the hotel is footing the bill and some famous musician is playing. I guess I can stand it for a while.” He smiled at her and once again it made him resemble a big, wise baby.

When she arrived at the lagoon, she went through her usual routine, finding an unoccupied chaise longue and dragging it laboriously over to her private glade under the monkeypod tree. Realizing that she'd eaten little today, she went to the snack stand and ordered a smoothie with strawberries, raspberries, and papaya. Thus equipped, she returned to her lair.

After downing the smoothie and reading a few pages of her book, she fell asleep. An hour or so later—she couldn't tell because she didn't wear a watch—the raucous cry of a big bird wakened her. Noting the position of the sun in the sky, she realized it was now or never for a swim.

Standing at the edge of the water, she thought of the people she'd met in this pool—first, Bruce Bouting, then Nate Bernstein and Charles Reuter. It was amazing that the place wasn't crowded with guests; instead, it was as isolated as the Garden of Eden must have been when Adam and Eve went out for the evening. She dove in, savoring again the natural feel of the saltwater against her skin. Angling to the surface, she began to swim her usual course: the pool, the channel, the second pool, another serpentine channel, and then the third pool, at which point she turned around and came back.

Though she would have preferred it otherwise, Louise was alone with her thoughts. It was impossible not to speculate on who murdered the two botanists. She could think of at least one motive, involving professional jealousy or a company takeover, for each of the eight scientists. But that was motive to commit one murder, not two. Besides, they seemed weak and insufficient reasons.
Would someone kill over a purloined orchid, or mum, or tulip? Would someone risk everything to climb faster to the top of Bouting Horticulture
?

Two pieces of information baffled Louise and both of them unfortunately involved her. In his note, Matthew Flynn urged Louise, whom he barely knew and yet knew to be an amateur sleuth, to “check out the equipment” if something happened to him. And after Bouting was shoved into the lava, John Batchelder told her that it was “all for love.”

Because of that provocative note from Flynn, she had checked out some equipment this very afternoon—Anne Lansing's well-sharpened garden shears and, later on, Christopher Bailey's equally razorlike tool.

Her head felt dizzy when she thought about it, that ghastly moment when she'd looked upon Matthew Flynn's horrible neck wound. Didn't it make more sense to think the murderer used a machete? Maybe Flynn had sensed that his erratic assistant George harbored murderous intentions and wanted someone to know about it. As for John's murmured words last night at the volcano, “love” was not a topic that had come up among scientists quibbling about native species, invasive plants, and “market winners.” The only thing that came close was Anne Lansing's remark that because of Bouting's death she would delay the announcement of her engagement. The murder of her boss only interrupted, and did not promote, the woman's happiness.

It was peculiar, the huge influence that these scientists, Bouting, Flynn, Reuter, and even Schoonover, had on their assistants. They guided them, instructed them, and thrust them forward; they were almost like fathers to them. Louise saw this in Christopher Bailey, Anne Lansing, George Wyant, and Nate Bernstein—and in Henry Hilaeo as well. These loyal employees wrote for their bosses, slaved for them, helped think for them, but lived in their shadows until something moved in the political firmament in which they operated.

It seemed odd that the only person she hadn't thought about much was the pale, pensive Ralph Pinsky. Yet Pinsky had the least to lose of any of these scientists; he was a dying man who'd spent a whole career preserving and studying plants. Why would he hesitate to murder men whom he felt were at cross-purposes with this lifetime goal?

She had returned to the first pool now and swam slowly across it. She was sorry to have to leave this idyllic place and rejoin a group of people whose nerves were getting as frayed as the bottoms of an old pair of jeans.

By the time Louise stepped out of the lagoon, she was humbled. On previous occasions when she'd been caught up in a murder inquiry, she'd been convinced that she could discover something the police couldn't. This time, she didn't feel that way.

The person who could help was her colleague, John. But John, who'd sat with her near this woodsy spot and bragged of how he would investigate Flynn's death, was in a hospital, semiconscious, moaning instead of talking. And because she was tied closely in people's minds to her colleague, the murderer could be thinking of harming her. Tom Schoonover had tried to tell her that this morning, but it hadn't sunk in until now.

She looked around the woodsy alcove and realized how alone she was out here. Her breathing quickened and her heart threatened to start its annoying palpitations. “Darn,” she muttered to herself, “where are those cops who are supposed to be patrolling this place?”

She grabbed up her beach bag, slid into her flip-flops, and hurried back toward the main building. She passed no one until she reached the family beach. There, a few fathers and mothers lay on chaise longues while their small children dumped imported sand into plastic pails with plastic shovels.

The children were the only ones unaware of the shadow of death hanging over Kauai-by-the-Sea. The parents, she guessed, had come on special family package deals. Unlike other guests who had more money to fritter away, they weren't going to let a couple of murders drive them home early.

In her hotel room, Louise found a surprise package, a long flower box. Opening it, she saw within its rustling waxy papers a lei made of white plumeria blossoms. She held it up to her face and took in its elegant perfume, then ripped open the envelope holding a card. It read, “From an admirer.”

She frowned. She had enough mysteries in her life right now without adding more. Nevertheless, a lei would add a touch of class to the casual outfit she intended to wear to dinner.

Remembering her promise to stay in touch, Louise, still in her bathing suit, sat on the edge of the bed and phoned Bill. Her husband, in his later time zone, sounded exhausted and was preparing to go to bed. She told him about the day's happenings and the condition of John Batchelder.

He said, “Let's just pray for the best for John. I hope he has good doctors there.”

“He does.”

“And Louise, you must call Charlie Hurd at the
Post
first thing in the morning. I'm busy as all get-out at work and I'm constantly having to fend off the guy's phone calls. He's called about eight times. I feel sorry for the fellow. There's a great story dangling out there. After all, you saved John Batchelder's skin. But you won't give Charlie the time of day.”

“Bill, the police chief doesn't want us talking to the press while he's still looking for the murderer. Besides, I don't exactly feel like talking to him. It's self-serving to talk about how I ‘saved' John. Any passerby would have done the same thing. I don't want to be associated with the kind of outrageous thing that Marty's doing, either.”

“What's Marty doing?”

“He wants to sell the tape of our program with the three scientists.”

“Hah,” said Bill, “and no wonder. It's a hot property, since it features two murdered guys. Who does he want to sell it to?”

“
Inside Story
,” said Louise, “or someone else. He thinks lots of media outlets will want to buy it. What bothers me, Bill, is that he decided on doing it this morning. Dr. Bouting died only last evening.”

“It is macabre,” admitted Bill, “but Marty's trying to re-coup his investment. PBS has too much good taste to run it, but lots of other media have coarser taste. There's one glitch: He might have trouble with those on-camera releases you have people sign—they might not allow him to use the tape in another program. Whatever happens, look at it this way—your producer's doing no real harm. And it might do some good to air the tape—it will publicize the issues those three scientists were talking about to a huge audience.”

“Oh,” she groaned, as her shoulders drooped in defeat.

“Now, let's get back to Charlie for a minute,” insisted Bill. “You and he have been through a lot over the years. In fact, he saved your skin last summer. Don't you think you owe him an interview?”

“Okay, I'll call Charlie first thing in the morning. Before I hang up, dear, I don't suppose you sent me flowers, did you?”

“No, but I wish I had, because I miss you. Did someone send you flowers?”

“It's a lei made out of white plumeria blossoms. It probably was from Marty. He's trying to make amends with me.” She told her husband good-bye, but didn't tell him that she felt spooked, as if someone might be out to get her. Otherwise, he'd be conflicted, trying to balance his hectic work life with a purported threat to his wife five thousand miles away.

She showered and then dressed carefully in what she now thought of as her defensive outfit. Too many layers for the tropics, but better too many than too few. Far from a fashion statement, these clothes were pure practicality and she intended to wear them around this hotel until the murders were solved. Louise now had her own equipment and both her cargo pants and her new pullover had lots of pockets, hidden and otherwise, in which to hide it.

 

A
s Louise walked down the big hotel hall toward the Lanai Room, she noticed the light was fading outdoors. She felt a pang of regret that she had missed the ritual of sunset and the chance to talk again with the beach oracle. Tomorrow she intended to catch up with Bobby Rankin. Who knew what crumbs of information the surfer might have picked up on the beach that might be important? She realized this criminal investigation might only be unraveled when someone like Bobby turned up an essential clue.

Down on the main floor of the hotel, she found her anxiety growing as she approached the dining room area. It took a moment to remember why: It was that parrot. She had not had to pass by her avian enemy during the entire day and he'd dropped from her consciousness, thank heavens. But now she was forced to pass his cage. She had a solution that would discourage him from screeching at her.

As she approached the bird, she hoisted the bottom of her bulky pullover over her face as if to remove it. Blinded but anonymous, she sidled by the cage. The bird, probably perplexed at the sight of someone with no visible head, remained silent; there wasn't even a cheep from him. Once she reached the dining room steps and before anyone saw her, she shoved her pullover back into place, readjusted the lei around her neck, and headed for the Lanai Room.

The small crowd had assembled and she realized she was late again. There were a couple of extra people: Tim Raddant and Sam Folsom had accompanied Tom Schoonover and Henry Hilaeo, even though they were not among the “captive” guests. She was glad, for she liked the NTBG bunch. Tom asked her to sit with him at the dinner table. Reluctantly, she told him, “I think I'd better hang loose.”

He smiled and said, “I understand. By their deeds ye shall know them. “ He turned away to talk to Henry Hilaeo.

At the small bar at the side of the room, she decided to break her usual abstemious rule and have a drink. Knowing vodka was less likely than other liquors to leave her with a headache, she ordered a vodka and tonic. Then she wandered the room, which was spacious and could have held sixty. Partially helping to fill the empty footage was a concert grand piano in one corner. This was for Joan Clayton's accompanist, Louise realized. She had expected the visiting scientists to be out of sorts, so it was surprising to see most were in good temper. Apparently they were resigned to the delay in their travel plans, though she overheard Charles Reuter assuring Ralph Pinsky that police would give them the go-sign to fly home in the morning. What made him think the police would get to the bottom of these two murders by tomorrow morning, she wondered.

Police Chief Randy Hau and Lieutenant Payne circulated among the guests, acting as informal hosts, even though the hotel was the purported sponsor of the event. Though many were in a sanguine mood, Anne Lansing was unsmiling, dressed soberly in her new black linen dress. She wore Christopher Bailey on her arm like an accessory. George Wyant stood by himself, bent over like an old man and staring out at the ocean. Louise went over to talk to him.

“Hello, George,” she said. When he turned and looked down at her, she stepped back in surprise. His pupils were so large that his eyes looked completely black. His blond beard had a day's growth.

“
Hey
,” he said and turned his gaze back to the sea. She stood silently, a little put off by his apathetic manner. He looked at her again and noticed she was staring at his eyes. “Don't
look
at me like that, Louise. You might get high, too, if you were on the verge of getting thrown into a Hawaiian jail.” He ran a hand through his streaked blond hair and scratched at the back of his scalp, as if oblivious as to where he was. His ravaged face, his demeanor, and his untidy clothes made him look like something the ocean threw up on the beach after a storm.

“George, tell me,” she said, “how can they tie that machete to you? Anyone could have taken it from your room.”

“I know. Someone named
Anyone
did take it, just to pin this thing on me.” He stood up a little straighter. “Chief Hau says they'll know by tomorrow if they're going to charge me. You better believe that they've been on the horn to Eastern and to Brazil and to Peru—to any place I've had the faintest connection with—to see if they can get the goods.” His head lolled sideways toward his shoulder. “It's so fuckin' tiring, Louise. I can't stand it without a little help from my friends.”

“George. I'm sorry. I wish I could do something.”

“Huh,” he grunted, “and I thought you were some kind of a detective. I don't see you
doin'
anything.” He nodded toward the front of the room. “Anyway, they're signaling us that we have to sit down. Do you want to sit next to a pariah like me?” His anguished eyes searched hers.

“Of course I'll sit next to you.”

What could she lose? Even men condemned to Death Row received visits from compassionate nuns. George hadn't even been arrested yet.

The table was U-shaped. She and George Wyant took seats at the end of one of the U's legs. Police Chief Randy Hau sat at the right-hand corner, Lieutenant Payne at the left hand corner, the better to eavesdrop on people, thought Louise. Marty and Steffi Corbin were given the seats of honor in the center part of the U. That was appropriate, for he would soon let them all know he was in charge of the night's activities.

Charles Reuter, Nate Bernstein, and their buddy, Ralph Pinsky, sat together on one side of the table, while the proprietary Christopher Bailey sat next to Anne Lansing on the other side. The National Tropical Botanic Garden foursome were scattered among these clusters of people.

Food arrived on huge platters, with waiters and waitresses going to each place to serve. As a young woman hoisted in a platter of fruit, she tripped, so that pineapple chunks, slices of guava and papaya, strawberries, and grapes flew far and wide. Ralph Pinksy, sitting nearby, hurried over and crouched down and efficiently helped the red-faced waitress clean up the spill.

A short, bald-headed supervisor rushed in and tried to shoo him away with thanks. Then, in a low voice he started lighting into the young woman. To Louise's surprise, Pinsky grabbed the man's white shirt with one of his scrawny hands and quietly said something to him. The man nodded agreement while looking warily into Pinsky's pasty face. The scientist released his grip on the man's shirt and calmly resumed his seat and his conversation with Charles Reuter. An interesting man and a fair one, thought Louise.

It was a sumptuous meal, featuring lobster and broiled ono for the main course. Not until after dessert and coffee had been served did the apparition that was Joan Clayton appear. As the woman entered the room, Louise turned to George Wyant and whispered, “I can't believe that she's is in her seventies.”

“Yeah,” he whispered back, “she sings like she's twenty. We saw her at the Café Carlyle a few months back.”

Her pale blond hair was arranged like a halo around her head, her large blue eyes defined with subtle makeup. Her mature body was in a flowing blue gown that shimmered in the overhead ceiling spotlights as she moved. She turned to the crowd with a gracious smile, then sidled over to the piano as if she were a lion tamer about to win control of a savage beast.

Her balding accompanist was already seated and awaited her with the same expectant look that was on the face of the spectators. The singer slowly leaned back against the flank of the piano, with one hip cocked forward, the classic diva's pose.

“My God, is she good,” whispered George Wyant. “The picture alone is worth it, even if she couldn't sing.”

The singer gestured with her chiffon scarf at the seated man and said, “This is the wonderful Richard Steele. And now we'll do a few songs by my favorite composer, Harold Arlen.” They opened with the upbeat number, “I've Got the World on a String,” followed with “That Old Black Magic,” “The Man That Got Away,” and “It's Only a Paper Moon.”

When she launched into her final number, her face was tilted up and her countenance was almost beatific: “
Last night / When we were young / Love was a star / A song unsung
. . .”

Louise didn't know whether Joan Clayton was experiencing God or the heartbreak of lost love. But she did know that the artist had touched her audience. Louise saw that Steffi and Anne had tears in their eyes. The men held back, but some of them, too, looked as if they might cry.