I slipped quickly and quietly into Belle’s office. I didn’t turn on any lights. It took me only a few minutes at the computer to print out a sheet with a single line repeated several times. All caps for emphasis:
TONIGHT. SAME TIME. SAME PLACE.
WE HAVE TO TALK. I’M SORRY.
I found scissors in Elise’s desk, cut the sentences apart, four of them. Then, strolling casually, I wandered by the guest bedrooms. It wasn’t hard to figure out the occupants: a new book on the vanishing rain forest in Anders and Peggy’s room; elegant matching luggage with the initials MMG in Megan’s room; half-opened drawers, a sea-green negligee flung across a chair, a travel guide to Bali on the coffee table in Gretchen’s room.
I left the notice tucked in Peggy’s bath powder. I took a leaf from Lester Mackey’s book and put the notices to Megan and Gretchen squarely in the center of their beds. I did the same in Elise’s quarters when I found them, two doors down from Lester Mackey.
It was certainly a variation on the old familiar ALL IS DISCOVERED, FLY AT ONCE. But it never hurts to try.
Satisfied, I strolled to the dining room. A petite maid smiled at me. “Please.” Her voice was soft. “Everything is ready. Guests are welcome to eat whenever they wish.”
Gretchen hurried in from the lanai, a book in her hand. “Hi, Henrie O. Good tennis?”
“Super. Have you had a nice morning?”
She waggled a hand, “Comme ci, comme ça. Getting a little restless. I loathe golf, and I can’t abide funky shopping. When I shop, I want stores that glitter and glow. I’ve seen enough shell necklaces to last me a lifetime. But I love to show off tourist highlights. How about a trip to the Nurses’ Beach?”
“Sure.” On our long-ago trip to Kauai, Richard and I had walked hand in hand on the beach made famous in the 1958 South Pacific movie. The wind ruffled his hair and he’d smiled when I pointed toward dancing dolphins. The children built sand castles. Bobby was six, Emily eight, perfect ages for a beach holiday. I’d written Emily a letter, casually said I was going to be in Hawaii this week. She’d probably receive it today. I hadn’t wanted to call her. She reads my voice too well. Yes, I’d like to see that lovely beach again. It had golden memories for me.
In just a few minutes, a picnic basket in hand, we were on our way in a little two-seater sports car. Gretchen was indeed a good tour guide. We drove down to Hanapepe and turned left onto Kaumualii Highway. Gretchen kept up a running commentary. “…if you look up that way”—withered gray trees, splintered and broken—“you can see where the hurricane barreled down the mountain. The amount of destruction depended upon the geography. Fortunately for Belle, it missed Ahiahi…” As we reached Kalaheo—“…that’s the best pizza place on the island…there are some rocks with Hawaiian petroglyphs down that way but you have to get permission to see them. They’re on private property…” We swept past the outskirts of Lihue and turned north on Kuhio Highway. “…there’s Mount Kalepa. It’s the closest high point to Oahu. A long time ago, they used to raise flags there to indicate to canoes from other islands that they could come to trade…the Wailua Falls are up that way, but actually I don’t think they are any prettier than ours…Look to your right, those sand dunes are an ancient burial ground…” All the way up the coast, she talked a mile a minute, her eyes bright, her face pink from the sun. The commentary spewed from her, too strong a stream for me to divert. I smiled and occasionally responded.
We’d just passed Princeville, the expensive north-shore resort, when I said cheerfully, “Have you considered a job with the Kauai Chamber of Commerce?”
She laughed. “Sorry if I’ve overwhelmed you.” Her good humor fled and her face was thin and tense. “I’m just so damn glad to get away.”
“From Ahiahi?”
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I feel trapped up there. That grave is so damn macabre.” She shivered.
I looked at her curiously. CeeCee’s grave had a serene beauty and repose. But perhaps Gretchen was too young to see that.
She leaned forward in anticipation, her eyes intent. We came around a bend and below us spread a huge, magnificent valley.
Gretchen brightened. “Hanalei Valley. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Far below, a narrow bridge crossed a river. Taro patches covered the valley floor. To our right was a spectacular view of the bay.
“Wait until you see Hanalei Beach.” She hummed a snatch from “Puff, the Magic Dragon.” “We’ll do the Nurses’ Beach—Kahalahala—after lunch. Tourists call it Lumahai, but it’s really Kahalahala.”
When we reached Hanalei Beach and spread the blanket for our picnic, I remembered looking for Puff the Magic Dragon in a rocky cave along this shore. Just for an instant, I pictured two beloved faces, Bobby and Emily, like cameos in my heart. Yes, Hanalei Beach was indeed a magical place, a two-mile crescent of golden sand, the incredible sweep of the headland, and, always, the surging cobalt blue water. Today the surf thundered. There were no swimmers, not even surfers. It was beautiful, but deadly. As is so often true in Hawaii, beauty masks terrible danger. Every year tourists drown, despite the efforts to warn visitors.
As we carried our blanket and basket to a spread of immaculate sand, a group of young men playing volleyball paused long enough to notice Gretchen. She flashed a quick, lively smile with a hint of enticement, then flounced ahead of me. They looked after her regretfully. I’m sure if I had not been there, she would soon have had a bevy of admiring companions. I suspected this was a game she often played, and played superbly. But she ignored their looks of inquiry as we settled on the sand. She handed me a plate with smoked salmon and chicken salad, papaya and mango and a mound of macadamia nuts. We had a choice of beer, wine or mixed juices. I took the juice and found it a fascinating blend of pineapple, guava, and orange.
As we ate, I studied my companion. Her unruly red hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a gingham shirt with the tail tied at the midriff, khaki shorts and espadrilles. She had all the attributes of an ordinary vacationer, but there was a shadow in her eyes, and her mouth was too often folded into a thin line. This was not a happy young woman.
She looked up, caught my glance. Her eyes glittered with equal parts anger and sheer unhappiness. She tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage.
I understood. It takes a serene heart to enjoy beautiful surroundings. A serene heart was no longer mine. How could I immerse myself in beauty? And obviously, Gretchen wasn’t soothed by the magnificent vista.
Gretchen stared out at the water, her face hard. “I thought if we got away for a while, I’d feel better. But I don’t! I wish I were a million miles from here.” The skin stretched tight across her narrow face. “Even if it weren’t for that grave, and God, it’s so lonely up there, at the end of nowhere, just CeeCee and silence. But even if she was buried in Dallas, I’d hate it here. Nothing ever happens on this island. It’s so…”
I said nothing, but I thought how wrong she was. This island had all of life that mattered, births and deaths and love. And, unfortunately, hatred and sadness and despair. But it was all here.
“…damn bucolic. Not like D.C. I can’t wait to get home.” She stared out at the pounding waves as if she wished she could fight her way through them.
“That’s where you grew up, isn’t it?” I savored a handful of macadamia nuts.
The taut muscles relaxed. A look of almost unbearable sadness glistened in her eyes. “Oh, yes. We lived in Georgetown in an old Colonial house. An alley ran behind it. In the spring we had these gorgeous azaleas and a magnolia tree. I’ve never forgotten the way magnolia smells. And the way the leaves rattle in a breeze, like dominoes clicking on a wooden table. We had so much fun. Megan and I pretended we were highwaymen robbing the coach on its way to Alexandria.” She laughed, but there was a tremor in her laughter. “Bloodthirsty little creatures. There’d been an inn next door and we’d heard all the old stories about travelers and what happened to some of them. So we played highwaymen and soldiers and come-find-me-if-you-can. It was perfect when we were little. I wish it could have stayed that way.”
I understood. Don’t we all look back in longing, those of us who had happy childhoods? Because the greatest loss we ever know is not the loss of family or place or money, it is the loss of innocence. There is forever a hollow place in our hearts once we realize that darkness rings the campfire.
Gretchen picked up a handful of golden sand, let it trickle through her fingers. “There was always laughter in our house. Giggles and belly laughs, snickers and whoops. That’s what I remember—noise, excitement, like the quiver on a rail when the train’s coming. And Dad—the world seemed brighter when he was around. He was a loud, swaggering, crazy Irishman, and we adored him. But he was really a lamb underneath that bluster. Everything was wonderful—until Mother got sick. It all went wrong then. Mother was so sick and Dad started drinking way too much. After she died, he was drunk most of the time. Then he met Belle.” Gretchen looked out into the bay at the huge crashing waves, her face once again drawn and tight.
I shaded my eyes. “Did it make you unhappy when he married Belle?”
She reached for a sliver of driftwood. With swift strokes, she made neat Xes in the smooth golden sand, her face carefully blank. “I was almost ten. Pigtails and braces and knobby knees. And here came Belle, gorgeous and…and overpowering. It was all pretty exciting. I mean, Belle’s a big deal, you know. Famous and rich and beautiful.” Her voice sounded faintly puzzled, perhaps recalling the child trying to fit an unknown quantity into her life.
“How long were they married?”
“Two years.” She scraped the stick across the sand, making it smooth again. She drew a gravestone.
“I understand you blame Belle for your father’s death.”
Her hazel eyes flicked toward me. “And who suggested that to you?”
Normally I avoid creating trouble. But now I welcomed it. Raw emotion often reveals truth.
“Stan Dugan.” A huge wave crashed, flinging a massive tree limb shoreward.
“Dear old Stan. Always has a kind word for everybody.” She managed a tight smile, but her eyes were agate-hard. “It’s too bad CeeCee didn’t live long enough to marry him. He’s such an arrogant asshole, I’d have loved to see what happened when she started screwing around on him.”
I looked at her in surprise. “Why would she do that?”
Gretchen laughed. It wasn’t an attractive sound. She rolled onto her knees and began to gather up the remnants of our picnic. “Because my departed stepsister was a high-class slut. Or maybe that’s uncharitable. Let’s just say she had a high-level sexual appetite which she indulged with a variety of young men. And not so young men.” She turned to look at me, her eyes mocking. “Will you put that in your book?”
I lifted the blanket and shook it. “I’m not writing a book.” I didn’t say it with passion. I began to see the object of our afternoon trip. Yes, Gretchen probably wanted to get away from Ahiahi, but more than that, she wanted to give me her version of CeeCee Burke. So it was okay with me if she continued to think a true-crime book was my raison d’être.
Gretchen picked up the basket. I followed her across the sand. She unlocked the car, stowed the basket. I tossed in the blanket.
As we drove off, Gretchen said briskly, “Right, Henrie O. You’re not writing a book. Of course not. And Belle’s having us here because she loves us. Yeah. And it snows here every July.”
“Why do you come if you hate it so much?”
We turned north again and left Hanalei, the road twisting and turning. We came around a sharp curve and Gretchen pulled up beside a stone wall. As we got out of the car, she said bitterly, “Have you ever tried to withstand Belle? It would be easier to push back the tide. Oh, no, I have to come. And it isn’t remembering CeeCee that bothers me.”
She walked ahead, leading the way to a muddy, rutted trail that wound down through clumps of pandanus trees, the onshore breeze rustling their drooping fronds. “It’s rough here. Watch your step.”
Suddenly the beach lay clear and perfect below us.
“Nurses’ Beach,” Gretchen announced proudly.
No lovelier beach exists: sparkling white sand, jagged black lava rock, tumultuous, pounding waves, and midnight-blue water stretching out forever. Some say life’s a beach. If so, it should be this beach.
“It’s too rough to go down to the beach today,” Gretchen warned. “People get swept out to sea very easily here when the surf’s up.” She gave a tiny sigh. “But it’s so beautiful.”
Beautiful and dangerous, nature’s favorite combination.
“So there’s something you like in Kauai.”
She grinned. “If I could be a tourist, I’d like it a lot.” Then the bleak and lonely look returned. “But to come here and be stuck up on that mountain with a ghost—I hate it!”
She whirled around and climbed swiftly back up the trail. I followed more slowly.
In the car, I braced as she made a sharp U-turn. “Now we have to go back,” she said glumly. “And tonight will be worst of all. We’ll sit around and talk about CeeCee. It’s so damn spooky.” Abruptly, she gave a peal of laughter.
At my look of surprise, she laughed again, a little wildly. “I’m sorry. But CeeCee would have hooted at the whole idea, this come-and-let’s-talk-about-our-dear-dead-sister bit. Nobody was more down-to-earth than CeeCee. She’d have wanted us to get out and have fun.” The road ran straight and the car picked up speed. “Although I have to hand it to Belle. She does her best to make it a holiday. But it’s all wrong!”
I waited until we were past Hanalei, then said gently, “Perhaps it will help you if you look at it from Belle’s point of view. She wants to talk about CeeCee as if she were in the next room and might suddenly walk in and smile at everyone.”
We were climbing now. The taro patches in the valley floor glistened like jade in the afternoon sun. A herd of buffalo milled around the far end of the valley, incongruous but charming.
“But CeeCee never will. She never, never, never will.” The car picked up speed, swerved dangerously fast around a curve.
I wondered at the rasp in Gretchen’s voice. Was it anger at the kidnappers? Or at Belle?
“Do you miss CeeCee?”
“Me?” It was a spurt of surprise. She glanced at me, an odd look on her face. “Look, Henrie O, she was my stepsister. I thought she was ancient when Belle and Dad got married. Why, she was almost as old as Wheeler.” A smile slid across her face. “Funny, how little kids think a big teenager’s so old. But they seemed old to me. Then they went off to college while I was growing up. Oh, yeah, I knew CeeCee. But we were never close.”
“CeeCee was Belle’s favorite.” We were already passing the old lava rock church, Saint Sylvester’s. It never takes as long to return as to go.
“You got that right.” But the ache I had detected in Anders’s voice was absent in hers. After all, Belle was her stepmother, not her mother. Gretchen drove a little over the speed limit, pushing the car in front of us. “But Belle’s pretty high on all of us. She always loved the way we teased each other.” As we drove down the coast, she regaled me with some of the more entertaining episodes. “Funny, Belle’s private as hell about some things, but she liked the way the press touted us as the Hi-Jink Kids. That’s all over. Ever since CeeCee died.”
“No more jokes? Not even from Joss?” I welcomed the soft current of air through the open window. Hawaii definitely has a sports car climate.
Gretchen grinned and her face was pretty when it lighted up. “Joss always came up with the wildest scenarios.” She slowed for a traffic light by the Kukui Grove shopping center. “But now that he gets to display his talent in Hollywood, he doesn’t have to find a private stage.”
She drove fast through the outskirts of Lihue.
“Tell me about Lester.”
That caught her by surprise. She gave me a startled look. “What about Lester?”
“How does he fit in?”
She turned north out of Hanapepe. “Oh, Lester’s wonderful.” Perhaps for the first time that afternoon, I heard genuine softness in her voice. “Lester—hell, he loves all of us, even the late-come Gallaghers. Equal-opportunity foster pop, that’s Lester.”
I remembered the shine of tears on his stubbled cheeks the night before. “He loved CeeCee?”
“Oh, yes. Maybe it was harder on him than anyone. After CeeCee disappeared, God, he looked awful.”
We reached the end of the cane road and she punched the intercom to signal we were coming up the mountain.
“And now you’re all scattered.”
“Yes. But that’s better. You can’t stay home forever. Even Belle has to realize that. Though I don’t know if we would ever have gotten free except—” She broke off.
“How often do you see each other?”
“Twice a year. Christmas and now.”
“Does anyone seem especially changed? Different?”
The sports car sped up the narrow road. “Of course, we’ve all changed.” Her voice was disdainful. “Nothing’s been the same since the lake.”
The car jolted to a stop, and the bronze gate began to open.
As we walked into the fairyland garden, she gave me a scathing look. “What else would you expect? Why do you ask?”
“I wondered if it were someone here who’s making you uncomfortable. Perhaps it isn’t remembering CeeCee that upsets you.” Was Gretchen one of those people—they used to call them sensitives—who subconsciously react to the psychic emanations of those around them? Was Gretchen’s irritability a reflection of a killer’s hidden anger?
I felt the danger here at Ahiahi, the emanations of menace and hostility. Perhaps I had a stripe of the sensitive, too. But I had hard knowledge, the poster and Richard’s daybook, my missing briefcase, and, last night, the hoary bat with a broken neck and a splash of bright red blood.
The shade from a coral tree dissected Gretchen’s face, but couldn’t hide the hard angle of her jaw. “I’m not upset,” she said sharply. She whirled away, pausing only long enough to slip out of her shoes. She grabbed them up and ran barefoot down the garden walkway.
Ahiahi drowsed in the afternoon sun. Black clouds bulked to the north. Only the click of the gardeners’ shears and the drone of a blower sounded against the distant roar of the falls.
When I reached my room, I entered warily. I looked in the bath, the closet. Yes, I checked the bedspread, but it lay smooth and tight over the pillows. I stepped out on the lanai. The silvery ribbons of the falls splashed down the cliff face, sending up lacy sprays from the pools below. A gentle breeze rustled the monkeypod and kukui trees. The susurration of leaves and the trill of birds and the rumble of plummeting water created a lulling song of enchantment.
But I could not afford to be enchanted.
“Richard.”
I said his name softly, more a plea than an evocation.
A memory flashed in my mind, as bright and crisply delineated as a glossy black-and-white photo. We stood in the shadow of the Cathedral in the Zócalo Plaza in Mexico City, waiting for a minor government official who’d promised to bring proof of the president’s involvement in the assassination attempt on the opposition party’s candidate. I’d met our informant at a cocktail party the week before and set up this clandestine appointment. Richard was intrigued, but skeptical. “We’ll listen, Henrie O. But then we’ll dig. It always comes down to this: Who wins? Who loses? Who’s afraid? Who’s angry? Who’s lying? And why?”
The memory was so sharp and distinct I could smell coal from a vendor’s brazier and hear the bray of a donkey carrying firewood. And almost reach out and clasp Richard’s warm and living hand.
Then the memory was gone. But the words glittered in my mind like polished crystals: Who’s lying? And why?
The huge living-dining area was shadowy. I found a panel of light switches beside a bamboo-framed mirror. I flicked them on one by one. Pools of light dispelled the gloom, but the immense room remained daunting. This huge expanse needed people, talking, laughing, moving about. Quiet and untenanted, it had the lonely air of a deserted stage set.
A stage for Belle, of course. I’d not even glimpsed her today. Was she providing me time and space to seek out Richard? Was she simply absorbed in her family? Or was she avoiding me?
I would see her at dinner. But this was the evening devoted to memories of CeeCee, not an appropriate time for me to talk at length with my hostess. I could not suspect her of engineering the gathering to evade me. This evening had been scheduled long before I ever knew I would be at Ahiahi. If I were simply a guest, I’d have dinner in my room, afford this troubled family the privacy to recall CeeCee. But I was not simply a guest.
I would join them in this room tonight as they gathered, amid the cool and soothing Japanese screens, overseen by a blue terra-cotta laughing Chinese judge and an elegant cast bronze sea lion, to bring up the spirit of the dead.
Was that why this huge and eclectically decorated room was making me so uncomfortable? I felt edgy and nervous, as if danger lurked near. Was this an atavistic response, like that of a suddenly tense tiger poised to step upon seemingly innocent brush masking a hunter’s pit?
It was quiet, so quiet. To me, a foreboding, forbidding quiet. With the sudden change that can mark a mountaintop, a thick cloud abruptly settled over the canyon. I could no longer see the falls, but I could hear their constant roar, a menacing sound in a world hidden by gray mist. The milky fog wreathed ever closer until I could see only a few feet across the lanai, not even distinguishing the Chinese vases on their pedestals.
And—I jerked around. Then smiled in relief. A small green lizard flickered up the wall near me. But my smile faded. I still found the atmosphere oppressive. As if I were observed by unfriendly eyes.
I moved swiftly, eager to complete my task and leave this room behind. My thongs slapped against the planked floor.
When Stan Dugan and I had talked, he looked at the gallery of photographs above the wet bar and said that somebody’d been very, very clever.
I wanted to look again at the photographs. Faces do tell tales. Even formal studio photographs reveal much of the subject. But this gallery included a mélange of informal photos. It was these I particularly wanted to see. The candid shots, a hundred or more, were mounted within a six-foot-long frame that was, in effect, a time line of Belle’s married life. They began when CeeCee, Anders, and Joss were little schoolchildren. They wore uniforms and stood stiffly in front of a low building with a humpy, treeless brown mountain in the background. CeeCee looked inquisitive, her fine-featured face alert. Joss smiled, his rosy cheeks plump and appealing. Anders had turned away, one shoulder higher than the other, his narrow face drawn in a frown.
There were so many photos: of a radiant Belle and a remote Oliver Burke hand in hand in a Japanese garden; of Belle in fatigues hurrying down a plane ramp; of Belle and the children each holding a wriggling Dalmatian puppy; of CeeCee on a pony; of Belle and Oliver in evening dress; of Joss and Anders fencing; of a teenaged CeeCee at Trevi Fountain; of Belle and her children on the steps of the Capitol; of Belle in the exuberant embrace of a red-faced and ebullient Quentin Gallagher at their wedding.
Now the gallery included shots of the Gallagher children: Gretchen—as she’d said—with pigtails and knobby knees and a lost look; of Megan graceful and poised at a birthday party; of Wheeler kicking a soccer ball, and of all the children—growing up now—at dances and hay rides, deb parties and barbecues. And at the lake, Keith Scanlon gunning a speedboat, Wheeler lazing in a hammock, CeeCee and Joss elegant in all white as they played croquet.
It was like overhearing soft voices tell intimate secrets as I studied the faces, captured in unguarded moments.
Belle rarely revealed her inner self, usually maintaining a reserve, presenting a public face even in private moments. It is the response developed by most politicians: a quick smile and a pleasant mien so often exhibited they become automatic. But occasionally the photographer captured her in an open moment, her intelligent face quizzical or amused or affectionate.
CeeCee’s expressive, open face revealed that she came at life head-on, like a swimmer breasting a wave, welcoming the foam and the sparkle of sunlight and the struggle.
Anders was always at a little distance—half-turned or looking away or frowning—never quite in sync with the others. But there was one picture of Anders hand in hand with Peggy, and there was a private, special warmth in his smile.
Joss performed. Always. Only once had the camera pictured him without an FDR-bright smile. The shot was a little out of focus. He stood at the end of a pier, looking out across a choppy expanse of water, his face a study in isolation.
Gretchen was alternately vivacious and sullen, sometimes delirious with excitement, sometimes drooping with despair.
Wheeler’s heavy-lidded eyes and slow smile exuded sexuality, no matter the occasion. It was no surprise that he was often pictured with eager girls standing close.
Megan was always perfectly dressed with a perfect smile. Every picture was suitable for a magazine.
Keith Scanlon usually managed a smile, but he never looked quite comfortable, more like a visitor than a family member.
There were no photographs of Belle’s secretary, Elise. Elise had been with Belle for a number of years now. At the lake, it was Elise who had handed Belle the fateful envelope with its terrible message.
But, of course, this was a family record.
These were superior photographs, sharp and distinct, artfully composed and cropped, and, more importantly, filmed with care and thought and love. An excellent photographer’s work is distinctive. I would have wagered my plane ticket back to the mainland that most of these photographs had been made by the same person. And I felt confident I knew who had held the camera, watched these lives unfold, catching ephemeral moments forever with eyes of love. What was it Gretchen called Lester Mackey? Equal opportunity foster pop. That was nice. Very nice.
But what did he know of the evening that CeeCee Burke was kidnapped?
I turned off the lights. The room once again shrank into obscurity, the photographs becoming dim blotches.
I stopped occasionally to listen. I still had a sense of another presence, watchful and wary, just as I had while I surveyed the photos. Then I shrugged. I stepped out onto the walkway. The entrance to Belle’s study glowed through the fog. I hesitated, then headed that way. I didn’t deliberately walk quietly. But thongs make little noise. Elise sat at Belle’s desk, her face bleak and hard, staring out toward the foggy lanai, her thoughts clearly unpleasant. Obviously, she had no idea anyone was near.
Ordinarily, I would have slipped away, left her alone. But these were not ordinary times, not for me. Richard came here to die, and this young woman had been with Belle for years. Something was troubling her. It might be entirely personal, but it might reflect something of this family, and whatever I could learn about any of them could be helpful to me. I stepped into the office.
Her head jerked toward me. A cold and icy anger glittered in her eyes.
“I’m sorry to bother you.” Then I looked past her, toward the railing that guarded against the long, long fall to oblivion, and cared not at all that I was intruding into her personal, troubled world.
She struggled to regain her composure, dissemble, bury the anger I’d glimpsed for an instant. “Mrs. Collins. What can I do for you?”
An abacus was propped against a jade bowl on the redlacquered table. I picked up the abacus, twirled the beads. “You knew my husband Richard.” My voice was crisp.
“Yes. Of course. He was an old friend of Belle’s.”
“Did you see him when he came to Ahiahi? The last time?” The beads were smooth and fast; they spun without meaning.
“I was here when he arrived.” She looked at me curiously.
“You talked to him?”
“Briefly. He came in mid-afternoon and asked for Belle. I knew who he was. I’d seen him several times. He came to the lake when CeeCee was kidnapped. He wasn’t expected here at Ahiahi. But he and Belle were old friends. I didn’t know—” She broke off.
I’ve finished a lot of sentences in my time. I had no trouble with this one. “You didn’t know he was married,” I said pleasantly. “Richard and I often had assignments that kept us apart.” I wasn’t going to ask this girl about Belle and Richard. If ever I asked, I would ask Belle. And I knew now—now that I was here at Ahiahi—that I would ask Belle. But there were other questions to be answered first.
“The housekeeper left him in the game room—”
“Where the photographs are?”
She looked surprised. “Yes. That’s where he was standing when I came in.”
Why had Richard moved to them?
“Was he looking at the photographs?” The abacus beads were still as I waited for her answer.
“Yes. Then he turned toward me.” She paused, an odd expression on her face.
I knew she was recalling that moment and Richard, my tall and handsome Richard, looking at the photographs, turning toward her. Elise was remembering something in particular, a finite moment in time, the small parcel of time left to Richard.
“He glanced at the pictures and he said, ‘Is—’ And then he hesitated for an instant before he said, ‘Is Belle here?’ I think he was going to ask for someone else.” Surprise lifted her voice. “And then he didn’t. I’m sure of it.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “It’s odd how you remember things, isn’t it? I’m sure he started to say another name. But it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“I don’t suppose it does. But thank you, Elise, for taking time to talk with me.” Boorish, determined, desperate me. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
Pride stiffened her shoulders. “Oh, no. No, I’m fine. I just…sometimes I feel so far from home.”
When our hearts ache, we remember home, even if it hasn’t existed for years.
“Where is home?” I asked gently.
She shook her head. Suddenly tears welled.
“Whatever it is,” I said softly, “I’m sorry,” and I turned away. By the time I reached the garden walkway and looked back, she was disappearing onto the fog-ridden lanai.
I was held for a moment, wondering what was wrong in her young life, a seemingly idyllic life.
But were there any idyllic lives in this lovely home? Wasn’t I confusing, as the world so often does, the proximity to ease and wealth and luxurious background with happiness? And happiness is like a capricious maiden, bestowing her favors without regard to rank or riches.
I looked out at the foggy garden. It was odd to know that only a few steps away, unseen now, bloomed plants in brightest red or gold, softest lavender, coolest blue. I heard the faraway slam of car doors, the sound of voices muffled by the fog. So some of the others had returned. I didn’t envy them their tortoise-slow ascent through the fog. But it encouraged me to move as quickly as I could on the path toward Lester Mackey’s quarters. My quest would not take long.
Ahiahi’s lack of doors suited my purpose well. Lester Mackey’s living room lay open to my arrival. Even without sunlight the room was warm, the oak walls shiny as honey, the koa floors vivid as sun-drenched amber. The Japanese-style furniture was spare, ascetic. No books, no pictures. Not even a scrap of paper marred the smooth surface of a koa table. A room such as this demanded introspection. Lester Mackey, whatever and whoever he was, was surely a man with an examined life.
Every step was an intrusion into this bone-spare room. The slap of my thongs sounded loud. This room invited silence.
One wall was made up of oak cabinets. No handles broke their smooth surface. The cabinets were cunningly designed, an open square affording fingers an edge to pull.
I opened the first cabinet and felt a surge of satisfaction when I saw two shelves filled with cameras. In pride of place was a state of the art Nikon—
“What the hell are you up to?”
I jerked around.
Wheeler Gallagher, his sloe eyes glittering with anger, moved menacingly toward me. My purse was in my room. And so, of course, was the Mace canister I always carried with me. There was nothing to serve as a weapon in this cell-like room. I’d glimpsed a sheathed tripod in the bottom of the cabinet, but Wheeler was almost upon me.
There was no trace of last evening’s bonhomie in his taut face. His broad mouth twisted in a scowl. He came close to me, too close, close enough that I could see the irises of his eyes, smell a mixture of sweat and talcum, hear his short, quick breaths, and feel his anger.
“I’ve been watching you. I was in the living room when you came in. I saw you check to see if there was anybody around. You decided you had the place to yourself. But it’s your bad luck I blew off the golf. I’ve had a bellyfull of Stan Dugan. I decided to see what you were up to. You headed straight for the pictures. I thought maybe you were going to steal some of them. Then you badgered Elise. But when you started this way, I knew you were up to something.” Contempt curdled his voice. “You’ve come here, wormed your way in. The poor widow woman. That’s your pitch. But you aren’t out there looking over the cliff where he died—”
Oh, Richard, Richard.
“—oh, no, you went to the beach today with Gretchen. Did you ask her a lot of questions about CeeCee? And Belle? And all of us? And last night I heard you talking to Stan—”
I stood silent as he berated me. It is hard to respond when clearly in the wrong. There was no acceptable reason why I should be opening a cabinet in Lester Mackey’s living room.
“—and who’s Stan to dump on us? And why are you sneaking around in Lester’s rooms?”
I made an effort to deflect him. “Do you spend all of your time eavesdropping?”
He was young, but not young enough to be cowed by irrelevancy. “Not as much time as you spend snooping. What are you looking for?”
Oddly, I decided the truth, or at least a portion of it, would best serve, as it often does.
I spoke quietly, thoughtfully. “I wanted to know if Lester Mackey took the photographs above the wet bar.” I waved my hand toward the open cabinet.
“Oh, sure.” Wheeler folded his arms tight across his chest. “The pictures. That’s what you want, isn’t it? For your damn book. Well, I can tell you that you’ll never get them, not a one, not a bloody one. Not from Lester.”
“For money?” I inquired softly.
“Not for a million dollars, lady.” His eyes blazed with assurance.
“You can speak for him?” I sounded deliberately skeptical.
“Yeah, yeah, I can.” Like a dog’s hackles subsiding, the tension was seeping out of the room. Wheeler was no longer focusing on me. His eyes moved past me to the open cabinet and the cameras. “Yeah, I can tell you about Lester. He’s a quiet guy. Always in the background. But he’s a rock, lady. A guy who’s been like an uncle or a big brother to a bunch of kids who needed him. He wouldn’t sell us out. Ever.”
I gently closed the cabinet door. “I believe you, Wheeler.” Then I slipped past him and walked briskly across the room, through the open doorway.
I didn’t wait to see if he was coming. I wasn’t worried about it. I’d learned what I needed to know. And more besides.
I was feeling pleased with myself when I reached my quarters. That sense of satisfaction lasted until I walked into the little living room.
Belle was waiting for me.