Before I can wrap my mind around that, our flight attendant brings us warm nuts and asks what we’d like to drink. Marie orders a Pinot Noir. I order a beer.
I sink my teeth into a salty cashew and ask, “You’re convinced your mother didn’t slip or maybe jump?”
“My mother wasn’t careless and she wouldn’t deliberately leave me alone in the world. It’s unimaginable.”
“I’ve heard only good things about her,” I say.
“I’m prejudiced, of course, but she was a great woman. And you’ve no doubt heard about her giving?”
“To Paradise College, yes.” I recall the underlying reason for my trip to Paris—to keep her mother’s legacy flowing. “A great woman.” I echo Marie
“Then there’s my stepfather,” she replies. “A despicable man. He’s a psychiatrist, you know, and has access to all kinds of drugs. I believe he drugged my mother and drove her to Makapu‘u.”
"Drugs would probably show up in an autopsy,” I respond. “Anyway your stepfather told me when your mother died he got nothing but the right to remain in your family home. So what would be his motive to kill her?"
“I know his motive. I told my mother something horrid about him. She found it hard to believe at first, but then she confronted him. However he answered—whether he lied or admitted it—made her decide to expose him and file for divorce. That meant my stepfather might lose his practice and maybe end up in prison.”
"If he killed your mother, then why years later kill Pierre? What's the connection?"
"My stepfather wasn't trying to kill Pierre," she says. "He was trying to kill me. Why do you think he hired you to deliver that envelope?"
"I assumed to send you a message."
"No. To find me and run me down."
I try not to look skeptical. And apparently fail.
“You’ll see,” she says. "We have two long flights ahead of us. I will tell all."
Before she can begin our beverages arrive and there’s a break in the clouds. I look out the window. A receding shoreline below suggests we’re leaving France behind.
“That’s the Normandy coast.” Marie points. “Ahead is the English Channel. Keep watching and you’ll see the white cliffs of Dover.”
Across the channel I spot a cream-colored ribbon rippling along the bright blue coastline of what must be Britain. I take a good long look. It’s beautiful. Once the white cliffs disappear beneath the airplane’s wings I turn back to Marie. What she has to tell me, I expect, won’t be so beautiful.
“One day when I was high school,” she says matter-of-factly, “my stepfather came into my bedroom when my mother was away and asked me in his creepy voice why I’d been flirting with him. I didn’t know what to say. I felt guilty. I was a teenager, after all, and I probably was a little flirty. But I never intended . . .”
“You don’t have to tell me every detail,” I say as gently as I can. “I get the picture.”
She carries on. “He said he knew why I’d been flirting. And he was going to give me what I wanted. I’d been brought up to respect and obey my parents. And here was this man who was now my father, and a doctor, telling me these crazy things. Can you imagine how confused I was?”
“I’m very sorry,” I say, recalling allegations of sexual assault by the doctor’s own patients. A pattern?
“That was the first time. There were other times. Always when my mother was away. He told me to keep it between us. He told me I shouldn’t tell anyone, especially my mother. I felt shamed. And I thought it was my fault. So I didn’t tell.”
“That must have been very painful,” I say, “to hold it inside and to have nowhere to turn.”
“Let me tell you what finally made him stop,” Marie continues. “Eventually I confided in an older friend. She insisted it wasn’t my fault and she encouraged me to tell my mother. So against his orders, I did."
“And you think that’s when he decided to kill her? When your mother confronted him and asked for a divorce?”
She nods. “On the weekend my mother died he claimed he was on Moloka‘i. And he had alibis—witnesses who saw him there. But he could have slipped away during the night and piloted his speedboat to O‘ahu.”
“So you believe he returned to your family home, drugged your mother, and took her to Makapu‘u?”
She nods again. “He deserves to die.”
“Life in prison is the maximum sentence under Hawai‘i law."
“That’s not enough.” Marie sips her Pinot. “Not nearly enough.”
“You still might be able to bring charges against him for molestation. He could be tried for both,” I say. “That way, he might never get out.”
“I’ve thought about that. But after all these years it wouldn’t change anything for me and only bring shame on my family.”
Her recital of abuse continues. Even if I already didn’t have my own suspicions about her stepfather, even if I weren’t inclined to take a case like this, how could I refuse her? It looked like a lost cause from the get-go—trying to turn an accident or a suicide into a homicide. But lost causes are one of my specialties.
The pleasant amenities of flying first class keep coming, despite Marie’s dark revelations. If only a scented steaming towel could wipe them away. Lunch is soon served: squash ratatouille for Marie and tenderloin of beef for me, followed by hot fudge sundaes prepared to order. Hearing out Marie doesn’t leave me much appetite, but I sample everything. I may never fly this high again.
After eleven hours in the air we finally touch down at one in the afternoon in San Francisco. My body thinks it’s bedtime. And it is, in Paris.
We clear customs, recheck our luggage, and prepare to lay over until our Honolulu flight. Marie waves a blue card that gets us into the airline’s elite flyers lounge where we wait in relative comfort. She excuses herself to have another cigarette.
“A bad habit Pierre taught me,” she says when she returns.
“He wasn’t such a prince after all?”
“He was fine,” Marie says. “I miss him. But smoking wasn’t his only vice. Pierre had other women.”
“So he was a philanderer, like your stepfather said?”
“Pierre wasn’t devious. In fact, I wish he would have been a little less open about it. You saw some of his women.”
“I did?”
“The nude paintings in our Rue Saint-Dominique bedroom.”
“All of them?”
“Well, probably not all.”
“And you were okay with that?”
“Actually, no. I was seriously thinking of leaving Pierre and coming back home to Hawai‘i. But I didn’t want to be anywhere near my stepfather.”
“You’re coming home now.”
“Yes, to confront him. If all goes well, he’ll finally pay for what he’s done.”
“That’s a big ‘if,’” I reply.
“I’ll take that chance,” she says.
Soon we board our flight to Honolulu. We’re in first class again. Domestic first class. Not international. No sleeper seats. No champagne. I hardly care. I look at all the fresh faces aboard primed for their Hawaiian vacations. All I want is sleep.
After takeoff, I keep awake long enough to ask Marie where she’s staying on O‘ahu.
“In Kailua,” she says. “At Vivienne’s house. She’s so lovely. She’s letting me use her car, too. Her caretaker will meet me in Kailua this evening.”
“Once you’re settled you may want to see friends you haven’t seen for a while. That’s natural. And I wouldn’t think any of your friends would tell your stepfather you’re back. But word gets around.”
“I’m not planning to stay long—just long enough for you to complete your investigation. When can you get started? I can drive to your office tomorrow.”
“Why don’t I come to you?” I say. “The less you travel around the island the better. And I can check out the security of your accommodation.”
“That would be easier for me.” Marie gives me her cell number and the address of Vivienne’s home in Kailua. We agree to meet there tomorrow morning at eleven, giving us a bit of time to recover. Then a flight attendant arrives with hot towels.
I don’t remember much after this—except planting that steamy towel on my face—until the flight attendant awakens me to put my seatback forward for landing.
It’s six in the evening in Honolulu. Six in the morning in Paris. No wonder I can’t keep my eyes open.