Death in the Orchid Garden (9 page)

L
ouise stepped out of the elevator into the wide marble-and-carpet hall and walked in the opposite direction from the conference room where she was supposed to be twenty minutes ago. She was accustomed to being on time for appointments and it made her nervous to be late, but she desperately needed a cup of coffee from the dining room to take to the police briefing.

Immediately, she realized things had changed in the hotel. It was as if everyone knew what happened last night on Shipwreck Rock. Otherwise, why were the guests, who only yesterday smiled amiably at one another, now shooting suspicious glances at her?

A blond woman in a lime-colored suit and high-heeled lime green wedgies made her way down the hall a few paces ahead of Louise. She was schmoozing noisily with each guest she encountered, talking about the superb weather and the upcoming evening's entertainment. Apparently, thought Louise, she felt obliged to resell Kauai-by-the-Sea to visitors, wordlessly begging them not to check out and to disregard the fact that a man may have been murdered a stone's throw away.

Louise tried to avoid the woman by hurrying ahead of her to the end of the hall, then ducking quickly into the greenery that surrounded a huge brass parrot cage. The parrot, resplendently blue and yellow, with a distinguished feather tuft on his forehead, looked down at her for a long moment. Then he let her have it: “Bad baby . . . bad baby . . .”

She put her index finger to her lips. “Shhh!” she told him.

“
Bad baby!”
he screeched, even louder.

It attracted the eye of not only the woman in the lime green suit, but desultory guests as well. They turned and stared at her, causing her face to flame with embarrassment.

Louise rose slowly out of the plants like Venus out of the sea.

The woman came up to her and with a world-weary smile said, “That's what you get, dear, for trying to evade me. I was just trying to cover all the guests, you know, and you're one of the guests.”

Distracted by the woman's enormous lime green hanging earrings, Louise said the first thing that popped into her head, “I don't need positive reinforcement, because I'd never give up the lagoon.” Then she marched off with as much dignity as remained, which wasn't much.

Once out of the woman's range, Louise let out a deep, shuddering sigh and picked up speed. Bad enough to have a bird chastise her, but a bird and a bureaucrat were too much.

The reaction of the hotel guests was puzzling, she reflected. How did word get around so fast, even in this small environment? Kauai had a population of only sixty thousand and the hotel a complement of probably four or five hundred guests. Suddenly she thought of an answer. The “oracle” could have spread the news of Matthew Flynn's death. Not only his death, she realized, but his
violent
death. For though she'd barely registered it at the time, the swarthy man with the surfboard who inhabited the beach at sunset had turned up right after the police arrived.

The beach oracle naturally would have been attracted to Shipwreck Rock, what with all the commotion and sirens. The response team was bent on lifesaving at first, not securing the scene. The barefoot man would have had no trouble getting a close look at the fallen man. The floodlights had shone on the pathetic tableau, affording him a detailed view of Flynn's broken body and the blood leaking out of the back of his injured head.

It would have made complete sense for the garrulous surfer to conclude that Matthew Flynn was murdered. And if he thought this, he undoubtedly told everyone he saw and phoned the rest.

As Louise hustled down the steps toward the dining room, she realized what a shock this messy incident was for the hotel. Although Shipwreck Rock was not on Kauai-by-the-Sea's property, it was immediately adjacent; it was definitely “guilt-by-association,” she thought grimly. She guessed the woman in the lime suit was in the public relations department and her one-on-ones with guests were part of damage control. In her current punchy condition, Louise wasn't sure she was guessing right about any of this, for her head felt woozy and her mind was not functioning logically. On the other hand, her visual sense seemed laser sharp. She found herself noting irrelevant details such as the parrot's yellow head tuft, the fact that the woman's wedgies had been brand new, and, from the look of them, hellishly expensive.

Of one thing she was sure: No matter how the hotel tried to soft-pedal the tragedy, it could not deny the fact that the deceased, Matthew Flynn, had been a registered guest.

Louise marched through the elegantly chandeliered room, hoping to catch the eye of a helpful waiter. She slowed up when she heard someone call to her.

“Mrs. Eldridge, hold up there.” She turned. It was Police Chief Randy Hau. “G'morning,” he said, in a neutral voice. “I was trying to catch up with you.” He raised his wrist and looked pointedly at his watch. “We've already gathered the rest of the people together for our meeting.”

“I'm so sorry I'm late,” she said. “But I need—”

He interrupted, smiling. “Coffee? Food? I'm having breakfast brought in to our meeting room. Will that be good enough?”

“More than enough.”

“Well,” said Chief Hau as they walked back up the steps and down the long corridor to the conference room, “I heard something about you this morning.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, that you're somewhat of an amateur detective back where you come from.”

“You've been checking me out with the Fairfax County Sheriff's Office.”

“Yes, ma'am. One of your colleagues also mentioned it. You know it's part of my job, checking everybody out. I talked to a Detective Mike Geraghty. He had good things to say about you.” No smile went with this compliment. The chief was not an emotive type of man.

Louise had difficulty, after four days in the lush tropics, mentally conveying herself back to her woodsy northern Virginia home in Sylvan Valley. It was a place where she was not only known for hosting a TV garden show, but also for becoming embroiled in murder. She didn't need her lurid history known by people in this resort. But now the police chief knew.

“Detective Geraghty probably exaggerated,” she said crisply.

They'd arrived at the meeting room. Hau opened one of two big double doors, which were made of koa wood carved with a flower motif. Stepping aside so she could go first, he said, “Please take a seat with the others. The food should be along any minute.”

As she entered, twenty-one solemn people turned their heads and gazed at her. It was clear that they had all been affected by a colleague's violent death, but was she being paranoid in thinking they were looking at her too closely?

Seven visiting botanists from the conference were there—Matthew Flynn had made the eighth. Because Louise had not bothered to tune in on the botanic conference sessions, the only ones who were familiar were Charles Reuter and Bruce Bouting, though she recognized a third, Ralph Pinsky. Pinsky gazed at her through unblinking, large gray eyes. It was the first time she'd looked into his long, colorless face. Apparently, he was so sure of himself that he had no qualms about staring. Unsettled, she turned her attention to the others.

As usual, people sat in clusters, with the “planets” surrounded by their “moons.” Christopher Bailey and Anne Lansing huddled dutifully on either side of Dr. Bouting and as usual the scientist's head was bent in busy, quiet consultation with the two of them. Nate Bernstein sat attentively on one side of his boss, Dr. Reuter. Ralph Pinsky was on the other.

Making a group all of their own were Marty, encircled by Steffi and John and the young TV crew headed by Joel Greene. Marty waved her over.

Tom Schoonover also beckoned, as if saying, “Come sit with us.” Clustered around him were his NTBG colleagues, Tim, Sam, and Henry.

Unsure of where to perch, she peered into the far corner of the room and made up her mind.

The dead scientist's associate, George Wyant, blond hair disheveled, beard unshaven, and clothes rumpled and soiled looking, was holding up a back corner by himself. Slumped far down in a chair, he stared into space with eyes that seemed as dead as Matthew Flynn's. The young man wasn't high, she was relieved to see. In fact he was very low: sober, straight, and low. He saw her and tilted his head a degree or two to indicate that he'd like her to join him. She nodded back.

But first, she raised her nose and sniffed. The aroma of good coffee was filling the air and there was the rattle of dishes. Breakfast had arrived and was set on a table against the wall. Louise made a beeline to the buffet for her own drug of choice, caffeine. She noticed the enticing odors had caused Wyant to rise from his chair and shuffle over to the coffee urn like a wounded animal heading for an oasis.

“H
ello, Mr. Wyant,” she said, as she settled in a chair beside him.

“
Hey
,” he replied. Louise realized
hey
was George Wyant's version of
aloha.

“I'm so sorry about Matthew Flynn, Mr. Wyant.”

He turned and looked at her. “I'm too young for ‘Mr. Wyant.' Call me George and I'll call you Louise. Yeah, I'm sorry about Matt, too. We were good friends.” He took a sip from the cup balanced on his lap. He had forgone food, making Louise feel a little sheepish, for in addition to coffee, she'd piled up fruits, miniature rolls, and cereal on her tray. She offered him some of the food, but he refused.

Sitting next to him gave her a close-up of his remarkably modish spike hairdo. When meeting him before, she'd thought the blond streaks might be dyed; now she could see they were the product of a bleaching tropical sun. His eyebrows, too, she noticed, were blanched almost white. With an effort she turned her eyes away, popped a small quiche into her mouth, and tried to pay attention to what he was saying.

“This is so bloody awful that I can hardly believe it,” he said as he slowly and unsteadily replaced the cup on the saucer. He looked at Louise with watery eyes. “They told me you applied CPR and tried to save him. For that I have to thank you with all my heart.”

“I dashed over when I saw him on that rock shelf, but I couldn't feel his pulse. He had none. I think he was dead when I got there.”

Wyant stared into space. “At least you tried. Tried to save the life of a decent man.”

She realized George Wyant had been nowhere around last night, not even during the couple of hours she'd spent being questioned by police after they removed the body and returned to the hotel. In fact, the authorities had mentioned his absence.

She swallowed a bite of miniature sweet roll. “Um, no one could reach you last night.”

He answered unabashedly. “I told the cops where I was. I've got a girl I see when I'm here.” A faint smile crossed his troubled face. “Needless to say, I don't keep my cell phone turned on when I'm at her house—she lives up in Kapaa. So I didn't get the word until I took my messages early this morning. Then I hightailed it back to the hotel. I've spent more than an hour being interviewed by Chief Hau.” He nodded in the direction of the police chief, who was “doing the room,” chatting briefly with a person, then moving on to the next one. He had nearly completed this task and Louise realized in another few minutes he would be over to the corner that she and George Wyant occupied.

“Matt had his own plans for the evening,” continued Wyant, spreading his hands out. She saw that he wore a handsome, though worn, gold watch on his tanned wrist. “Let's face it, we didn't live in each other's pocket. He could've cared less where I went and vice versa. Only now I wish he'd told me who he had that rendezvous with.”

“Rendezvous?”

“Yeah, that's what he called it, a ‘little secret rendezvous.' After that, he was going to grab a bite at Brennecke's and hit the sack.”

“A rendezvous on Shipwreck Rock. Was he familiar with that place? Are you?”

He smiled. “Funny. You ask the same questions the cops asked me. Am I familiar with that old lava shelf? Not really. I haven't been up there in years and I doubt Matt had gone up because there's nothing much there. It's not outstanding geologically or horticulturally. Tourists like to climb up there for the view and local kids use it as a diving board, if they're gutsy enough or stoned, that is. It makes for a kind of a high dive into the ocean.”

“More coffee?” she asked him. When he nodded, she went and refilled their cups. On her return, she slid down in her chair, took up her tray again, and quietly said, “Who would kill Dr. Flynn?”

For an instant, his pale eyes blazed, but then he tried to cover up his anger. “Any number of people, Louise.” He gestured with his hand toward the others in the room. “Any number of people sitting right here hated his guts. Some are jealous, some are resentful because he has a penchant for finding new plants before they catch someone else's eye. You've heard 'em ridiculing him as if he's a freak, or
was
a freak, rather. But he was no freak—he was right about what he was doing, a true believer.”

The hand flapped again. “Oh, maybe we were a little wild at times, but that's part of the deal when you're spending a third of each year in a jungle with a bunch of primitives, trying to learn new languages, dealing with egocentric shamans who have all the”—he touched his temple, covered with tousled blond hair—“smarts about those tropical plants but aren't necessarily inclined to tell you their secrets. Sweating your fool head off, dirty, full of bites from bugs, some of which are hugely dangerous. Coming down for the umpteenth time with malaria— Matt, not me; I never contracted it. It isn't a life for normal people, so I guess you'd have to say that Matt and I aren't normal.”

He looked down and Louise saw that his eyes were overflowing with tears. “Shit,” he whispered, “I'm having a terrible time believing he's dead. I don't know what I'm going to do without him.”

Her heart went out to the young man. She gently clasped his arm with her good left hand. It was the best she could do, for Police Chief Hau, noting the two of them sharing an emotional moment, stopped short on his way over to them. Instead, he gave them a wave, as if to indicate he'd talk to them later, then called the informal meeting to order.

Hau first introduced his second-in command, Lieutenant Robert Payne, who was taller and heavier than his chief and who hovered a few feet behind him. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,” he said. “You have all heard of Dr. Matthew Flynn's death and I know you're in shock, because the violent death of a fellow human being, much less one of your colleagues, is hard to accept. I want to give you an update. As you know, his body was discovered last evening at about seven o'clock on the ledge underneath Shipwreck Rock. It was discovered by Mrs. Louise Eldridge here”—he nodded respectfully in Louise's direction and a few people turned around to look—“who, incidentally, tried to save his life by administering CPR. He was dead on arrival, however, at Wilcox Memorial Hospital in Lihue. The body is undergoing an autopsy; the exact cause of death is not yet fully determined. It's possible he received his injuries from a simple fall from Shipwreck Rock.”

Charles Reuter spoke up. He said, “I think that's crap, Mister Police Chief. That isn't the word that's going around the hotel and beach. The word is that the man was murdered, the back of his head practically ripped off. That's what every guest in this hotel has heard.”

A little murmur went through the small group. Hau raised his hand like a teacher wishing to restore order in gym class. “Now, folks, that much is not true. Dr. Flynn's head was
not
ripped off. However, he did suffer severe injuries to the head.” Hau stood his full five feet ten inches and spoke in a quiet voice designed to encourage equanimity in his audience. “The autopsy will determine whether there was foul play involved. That's why we need your cooperation.”

Nate Bernstein said, “Why are the staffers from the NTBG here and the TV crew from the shoot? You couldn't be operating on the theory that this was ‘just an accident' if you've rounded up all these people to sit in on this meeting.”

Chief Hau said, “We needed to include everybody who had recent contact with Matthew Flynn. It has no reflection on any one individual; it's just a matter of covering all the bases.”

Tom Schoonover, angled back comfortably in his chair, turned to Bernstein. “We at the National Tropical Botanical Garden will do everything we can to aid the investigation.”

Bruce Bouting's voice boomed out, “As long as I can leave on schedule Monday afternoon with my staffers Chris and Anne, I'll be happy. In the meantime, what do you expect of us?”

The police chief said, “I'm not sure you can fulfill that schedule, Dr. Bouting. I told you last night and I repeat it—there may be a delay if we can't clear this matter up by Monday. We are asking those of you with direct contact with Dr. Flynn to be prepared to stay on an extra day or so to assist us in our investigation. Lieutenant Payne will let you know at the conclusion of this meeting who you are. We're hoping to wrap this thing up quickly, so today we will do some repeat questioning beyond what we did last night. Please be prepared for that. Do not think of it as a suspicious thing, but rather a procedural measure. You can continue with the closing session of your botanic conference as soon as I finish up my remarks, but please try to wrap it up by noon because we do have to interrogate some of you further.”

The police chief looked soberly out at the little crowd. “You're not prisoners, ladies and gentlemen; you're free to go out of the hotel. You're also free to go on your planned trip to the Big Island tomorrow, though my officers, Sergeants William Yee and David Binder, will accompany you.”

“I was scheduled to get out of here tomorrow night,” said Dr. Charles Reuter. “I have something important coming up at the university. At the very least, I need to get out of here by Monday night.”

Hau said, “We'll try our best.” His gaze traveled around the other unhappy faces and he looked relieved when no one else voiced complaints. “Within twenty-four hours, or at least by tomorrow night, I'm hoping we'll have a better handle on this. You might be reassured to know that the entire special crime squad is working on Dr. Flynn's unfortunate death.”

“Unfortunate?” echoed George Wyant, in a voice too faint for any but Louise to hear. “What a fuckin' euphemism
that
is.”