Death in the Orchid Garden (3 page)

It was almost as if she'd become intoxicated after landing on this beauteous island only five hours ago. She was overcome with its beauty, its moist and welcoming atmosphere, altogether co-opted by the sense of well-being around her.

Marty Corbin reached a big hand over and grabbed her forearm. “Lou, what's
with
you? Here we got John throwing all these ideas at me and you're sittin' there daydreaming.”

Steffi bent toward her, the cockatoos, bamboo, and hibiscus on her ample bosom bending with her. “Honey, are you feeling all right?”

Louise smiled back at her. “I feel wonderful. I've never felt better in my life.”

Her producer said, “Then you don't mind the fact that tomorrow you and John will go to the National Tropical Botanical Garden and meet Joel. And John will take charge of laying out the scenario for the segment we'll do with this Schoonover fellow.”

“Oh?” Her good feelings toward her coanchor dissipated like one of the zephyrs that danced across the terrace. She looked at Marty in surprise. While she'd been dreaming, John had been working.

Marty leaned in toward her. “He'll be calling the shots on this one. Wants the experience, he says. And he might know more than this whippersnapper Joel.”

She straightened and felt a little twinge in her back. “That's fine, Marty, just fine.” She looked at John across the table. He had the expression of the cat that ate the canary. “I'll be happy to help you, John, in any way I can.”

Louise forced her mind off these silly, murderous thoughts. “So, anyone going to the Main Ballroom to hear Dr. Schoonover speak?” Her companions shook their heads. She clutched her purse and rose from her chair. “Me neither, since we're talking to him tomorrow. Now please excuse me, I need my beauty sleep.”

She could have kicked herself. The remark instantly revealed her fear of aging.

 

L
ouise put on sturdy denim pedal pushers and a sleeveless khaki-colored shirt for what would probably be a vigorous day in the tropical gardens. On her feet she wore her waterproof sandals. Meeting John in the lobby, they agreed she'd drive the rental car, since she had studied the road maps. Their first stop was the Kilohana Golf Club down the road from their hotel. They'd heard breakfast at the club restaurant, Joe's on the Green, was not only fabulous, but a bargain, especially when compared with the $22 tab for the morning buffet at their own hotel.

Sipping her first cup of coffee, Louise began to forgive John for being John. After all, being in Kauai was, as the man on the beach had said, like being in paradise. Weather perfect after a spate of torrential rains, surroundings gorgeous, people friendly, and driving manageable, a world away from the paralysis of cars in metropolitan Washington. She didn't want to ruin the trip by scrapping with her colleague as if she were still on a grade school playground.

“Man-oh-man!” exclaimed John, sounding like a little boy. “Look at that! For $6.95 you get the whole works—sausage, eggs—or how about ‘Josephine's Ultimate Banana Macadamia Nut pancakes'? They're only nine dollars.” He slapped the menu shut. “And they have coconut juice to run over the pancakes.”

Her stomach contracted in protest. She was a purist who would never under any circumstances run coconut juice over her pancakes. Maple syrup and only maple syrup for her.

Louise took another sip of coffee and looked out on the emerald green fairway backing the restaurant. “You're going to have fun today working with Joel and blocking out this interview with Schoonover.”

John looked acclimated to the Hawaiian environment in a turquoise knit shirt and tan slacks. He reached a hand up and smoothed his healthy head of wavy brown hair. Louise realized that if he were a bird, one would have called this preening. “You know, I'm ambitious, Louise, probably a little more so than you in your particular . . . situation. I want to be a producer one of these days, a Marty Corbin, if you will.” Her cohost fastened his amber-eyed gaze on her and held it unflinchingly.

They both knew Marty had a solid if not brilliant reputation in the Public Broadcasting System world. Her show,
Gardening with Nature
, was his most widely syndicated product.

“I guess I sensed your ambition. It sounds like a logical move for you. Keep all your options open—you can be an on-air personality and a production expert as well.” She couldn't help inserting a little jab. “Then, if you should lose your looks, you can always go behind the camera.”

“Hey!” cried John in mock protest.

“But all kidding aside, John, what you're saying makes sense. I'll help you in any way I can.”

Her cohost looked surprised, but instantly covered up this emotion with his broad, perfect smile. Reaching over a hand and squeezing hers, he said, “You're a honey, Louise.”

Unfortunately, their compatibility lasted only about ten minutes. As she drove them to the National Tropical Botanical Garden, John let her know how he intended to run the Schoonover interview. Her heart sank, for she knew the producer had everything to do with the success of such a solo interview.

“The idea,” said John, “is to keep it simple. We don't want to bore our viewers with too much science.”

The oversimplified statement made her pull in a sharp breath. “John, this man is the world's expert on the geographic distribution of plants. They call it biogeography.”

“No way, Louise,” said her cohost, waving both hands for emphasis. “You're on the wrong track.
I
know what the writers say about you when you offer your two cents on a script. They say you get way too technical.” He smiled dismissively. “You realize that even though we have an intelligent viewership, half our viewers don't even understand the concept of evolution? Think of the trouble they'd have with biogeography.”

Oh my God
, she thought to herself,
how can I ever get along with this superficial human being?
All she knew was that the fight had gone out of her. The weather was too fine, the breeze too balmy. She was too laid-back and in tune with Hawaii to gripe at her colleague.

“Whatever you say, John,” she said.

Once at the garden gate, they drove in a back entrance for employees that anywhere else would be considered a grand entrance: gigantic banana and taro trees, beds filled with orchids, bromeliads, and ti shrubs. They arrived at a series of low-slung buildings and parked. An old jalopy had preceded them into the parking lot. Out of it jumped a tall, long-faced young man wearing a Chicago Bulls cap, threadbare jeans, and a short-sleeved white T-shirt advertising “Franz Ferdinand.” Sprinting up to them on coltlike legs, he whipped off his cap, revealing a head full of dark curls. He introduced himself as Joel Greene. Here was their associate producer. A cameraman and a sound guy also would be provided from the same PBS station, which used film students from the University of Hawaii to fill many jobs.

Louise and John exchanged a quick glance. Joel looked no more than eighteen. The young man's equinelike face broke into a captivating grin. “I bet ya think I'm too young. But believe me, folks, I've been around these islands for years producing films—I won't let ya down.”

She was immediately reassured, possibly by that grin, possibly by the Midwest accent. She said, “We know you won't.”

As they spoke, a tall man in tan shorts, gray-checked shirt, and heavy boots emerged from a nearby doorway and strolled toward them. His face was lined and browned from the sun; his hazel eyes twinkled below his high, wrinkle-filled forehead and curly graying hair in need of a haircut. He extended a hand and said, “
Aloha
, Louise.
Aloha
, John. I'm Tom Schoonover. You folks are right on time.”

Turning to the young man he said, “And good to see you again, Joel.” To Louise and John he said, “Joel's filmed the gardens before for KHET-TV. He knows us plant explorers; all we need is a hand lens, garden clippers, vascu-lum for carrying the specimens, a pair of tabis, some rope, and a harness and we're all set. We'll tour the place as if through the eyes of a plant explorer, then come back here and visit the herbarium.”

He intoned “herbarium,” the storing place for dried plant specimens, as if talking about a holy place. For this man, probably fifty-five, who'd devoted much of his life to identifying plants for the good of science, it probably was.

Another man trailed out of the building. He was swarthy-skinned, of medium height and stocky, part native Hawaiian, Louise was sure. Tom Schoonover introduced him. “And this is Henry Hilaeo, who works here at the Gardens as a botanist.” He laughed. “Henry'll do some climbing while we watch.” Henry was equipped, just as Schoonover had described, with a heavy web belt to which were attached several tools, including clippers and a khaki-colored carrying case.

Henry Hilaeo gave Louise and John a direct look and a hearty handshake. His broad, browned face seemed carved in stone, his brown eyes expressionless.

His stony expression surprised Louise, but she realized it shouldn't. Since she'd arrived in Kauai, she'd bought the glib line that this island was a paradise—but a paradise for whom, tourists and landowners? Was it paradise enough for a man with Hawaiian roots like Henry Hilaeo? Natives made up only 10 percent of Kauai's population and had been dealt out of a good share of their land over the past couple hundred years. No wonder there was resentment toward white persons, or
haole
, and efforts to gain rights similar to American Indians and native Alaskans through the Native Hawaiian Government Reorganization Act. As her gaze took in the idyllic surroundings, Louise realized Hilaeo was in a particularly ironic position: He worked for an Anglo scientist in a Garden of Eden that was the vacation home of Kauai's beloved Queen Emma until bought by Anglos in the 1880s.

Schoonover clamped an arm over Hilaeo's shoulders. “Henry and I just came from a trip to the Marquesas. We've been hunting plants in some of the roughest mountains you'll ever see. The rains drove us home a little earlier than we planned.” To Louise's relief, Henry's face broke into a semblance of a smile.

Hilaeo had ropes and climbing equipment clutched in one hand and was wearing strange shoes. They were blue canvas with red trim, the big toe separated from the other four, with bottoms made out of rough nubs of rubber. Apparently noticing her quizzical look, Hilaeo explained. “These fellas, they're called tabis, or surf waders. They're Japanese-made and sometimes the only thing keeping us from landing on our butts.”

They all laughed. Schoonover said, “Plant explorers face very primitive conditions, that's for sure.”

“Not the least of which is scraping gecko poop off your bed before you go to sleep at night,” added Hilaeo. “But we came up with a bonanza of new plant species.” His eyes shone with excitement.

“Yeah,” said Schoonover, “and one's going to be named after you, Henry. You well deserve it.” He turned to Louise and John. “Henry can climb places that a mountain goat couldn't reach. Well, enough of that. Off we go.” He struck off at a fast pace to the end of the parking lot where a large, dented gray vehicle sat. “We're driving around in a staff car—it's four-wheel drive. It'll take us everywhere.”

Climbing up into the front passenger seat, Louise read a warning sign in big letters on the dashboard:

“
Please be aware the engine cooling system is not functioning properly
.”

“Oh boy,” she muttered to herself.

While Henry Hilaeo and Joel Greene got in the backseat, Schoonover slipped behind the wheel. He looked over at Louise, who was staring at the warning sign. He said, “Don't worry about that. The mechanic's trying to cover his, um, options. It's most likely been fixed.” He grinned. “At least I know he fixed the brakes and that's the real important thing. We have lots of cliffs and rough roads in the gardens.”

John, who'd been delayed, was the last to climb into the van. Once he'd slammed the door shut, Schoonover ground the starter engine a few times without success, then said to Louise, “The starter engine's another issue, y'know. Maybe that sign should read, ‘Cooling system SNAFU, starter engine questionable.'” He grinned at her; she could imagine what perilous fun it would be climbing mountains with him in some rough spot like the Marquess Islands. Then he ground the ignition again until it finally caught and they roared off.

“Look at this, Dr. Schoonover,” shouted John from the backseat, shoving a small, leafy branch at him. “I picked it off that great bush back there.”

Schoonover took the sprig John had handed him. Attached to it was a pale lavender flower. The scientist carefully handed it over to Louise, then violently turned the wheel to master a tight curve, and scooted up a steep hill. Louise grabbed for the overhead handhold for support.

Only when they'd reached the flattened-out area on top did the botanist speak, his voice devoid of the warmth he'd been exuding until this moment. “You shouldn't do that, John. Think how the visitors would denude this place if everyone picked a sprig of some plant, half of which”—he nodded to the specimen now residing in Louise's lap—“are on the National Endangered Plant list. Picking plant specimens in the gardens is not allowed and could even be dangerous.” Darting a glance at John over his shoulder, he said, “Or perhaps you've studied about poisonous plants? Kauai's native plants are not poisonous, but some of the imports to the gardens
are
—the mere touch of a few of 'em and you're, you know,
phttt!”

“God, I'm sorry,” moaned John. “Was that one, uh, poisonous?”

Henry Hilaeo, sitting next to him, smiled and said, “I don't think so.”

John's penitential statement was unfinished. “I should have known better, Dr. Schoonover, I really should have.”

Schoonover said, “Needless to say, I don't think you'll do it again.” Louise thought he sounded like a priest absolving someone's sins:
Go now and sin no more
.

But her cohost's remorse was short-lived. She realized John was preoccupied with the responsibility of setting up the TV interview. “I hope this doesn't interfere with my main objective of planning the shoot for tomorrow.”

“Talk to Joel back there,” said the scientist. “He knows what we ought to do, because we've done it before.”

He turned to Louise. “It's a piece of cake—your colleague needn't worry. Joel's very talented. I'm sure he'll set John's mind at rest.” Louise glanced back and sure enough, Joel and John had their heads together and John was even taking notes. Henry Hilaeo ignored the two and turned his brown face toward the window, seemingly content to let the gentle breezes waft in and soothe his private reverie.

Schoonover drove them down a hill and into the area where visitors were shown a special garden full of endemic Hawaiian plants, that is, the ones that were there when people sailed in and began inhabiting the Hawaiian islands. They drove past several garden “rooms” developed by the Chicago millionaire and patron of the arts, Robert Allerton, and his adopted architect son, John, after Robert bought the property in 1937. Each featured a fountain and statuary, or a gazebo, pool, or waterfall. They passed lush trees, many supporting orchids or philodendrons in the small crevasses where branches divided, palms of many varieties, handsome blooming pandanus, mango, banyans, monkeypods, and a vast grove of Golden Jade bamboo. They fell silent as they came upon a magnificent Morton Bay fig, its gray roots as tall as a man. The roots reminded Louise of the buttresses on the Washington Cathedral.