A thirtyish patrolman with shiny black hair and a flat, calm face watched us. He stood at ease, hands behind his back, his dark eyes moving constantly around the room.
The garden blazed with lights. We could hear the occasional slam of a car door, the murmur of voices. Right now the homicide unit was performing its duties, but eventually the detective in charge would be ready to talk to us.
We sat in tired, tense silence. The patrolman had instructed us not to talk. “Lieutenant Kanoa will speak with each of you soon.”
Keith Scanlon stared somberly at the floor. Occasionally he glanced at Belle, then looked away from her icy face.
Elise huddled in an overstuffed chair, her arms wrapped around her knees.
Joss, his curly hair tousled, slumped back in his chair, his face bereft, a study in grief. If it was acting, it was superb.
Wheeler paced back and forth, back and forth, across the lanai, his sensuous face twisted in a scowl.
Gretchen stood by the wet bar, looking up at Lester’s gallery of photographs, her eyes shiny with tears. All of her kinetic energy seemed to have drained away.
Megan reached out to smooth her sister’s tumbling red hair. Megan’s lovely face drooped in sorrow.
Anders stared balefully toward the brightly lit garden. He looked resentful as well as anguished. Occasionally he shot a puzzled, worried look at his mother.
Peggy sat close to her husband, one hand clutching his arm. Peggy’s glance caught mine. Outright hostility flashed in her eyes. It is always tempting to blame the stranger.
Stan Dugan straddled a chair, his massive arms folded on the top. He looked curiously from Peggy to me. “Watch your back, Mrs. Collins.” Although he spoke in—for him—a normal tone, his booming voice jerked every face toward him.
“Thanks,” I said coolly.
The patrolman held up a warning hand, as if stopping traffic. “Quiet, please.”
Anders pulled away from Peggy, jumped to his feet. “What the hell does that mean, Stan?”
Our guard swung toward Anders.
There was a melee of sound:
“…looking for trouble, that’s…”
“…what’s she doing here?”
“…who’s in charge…”
“Enough.” Belle’s crisp voice cut through. Again the silence was sudden and absolute. Everyone looked toward her.
I don’t know if it was the anger in her eyes or the merciless line of her lips, but the silence took on an uncomfortable, threatened quality.
Slowly, Belle rose to her feet. She stood very straight, both hands clasping the knob of her cane. “I will know the truth. Before this night is out.” She looked at each one in turn.
“Ma’am.” A young policeman stood in the archway. He inclined his head politely to Belle. “Lieutenant Kanoa will see you now.”
Five minutes passed. Ten. The policeman returned. “Anders Burke.”
Peggy popped to her feet.
“One at a time, ma’am,” the officer instructed.
“Anders.” It was a frightened wail. And I didn’t think Peggy was afraid for herself.
“It’s all right,” Anders said impatiently. “I found Lester, Peggy. They need to talk to me. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
But Peggy simply stood there, staring after him.
Stan Dugan’s big mouth curved in a malicious grin. “He’s a big boy, Peggy. I’ll bet he can even zip his own trousers.”
Her face flamed. “You think you’re so important.” Her voice trembled. “Well, I know CeeCee dumped you. She told you that last Friday, didn’t she?” She looked wildly around the room. “CeeCee dumped him. Did you know that? It’s true. So why is he here? What right does he have?”
“Ma’am, ma’am.” The patrolman moved close enough that Peggy backed away, sank down on the couch. But she glowered at Stan.
The big lawyer sprawled back in the overstuffed chair, his hands behind his head, his face expressionless.
The patrolman returned every few minutes, ushering out in order Peggy, Keith, Elise, Joss, Wheeler, Gretchen, Megan, Amelia, and, finally, Stan.
No one returned. I assumed they were told to go to their rooms when the interviews ended.
It didn’t take me long to wonder why I wasn’t being called early on. All the possible reasons came up hard and sour like pinball lemons:
I was the intruder.
My jeep was hidden in a side lane near the road to Ahiahi.
I’d quarreled publicly with Lester at Spouting Horn. The police would trace his last day, learn about that encounter.
Amelia would report that she’d told me this afternoon that Lester had been near the cliff trail late the night Richard died.
When Stan and I had been the only ones left, I read the same judgment in his craggy face.
“If you’re looking for a lawyer—”
“Quiet, please,” the patrolman had said.
Then Stan was gone.
I stood and walked across the room.
“Ma’am,” the patrolman said quickly.
“The ladies’ room,” I said firmly.
He hesitated, then nodded.
He took up his post right next to the door.
I shut the door. Quickly I pulled the crumpled note from my pocket and tore it into tiny pieces. I flushed the toilet and some of the tension eased out of my shoulders. I splashed water on my face, washed my hands.
When I opened the door, two of them waited. The younger man said, “Lieutenant Kanoa will see you now.”
I’d gotten rid of the note just in time.
As I followed my escort, I moved slowly. I was so tired that every step was an effort. But I needed to be alert. I needed to remember so much in this upcoming interview. I must be careful, but I must answer easily, without hesitation. I must appear confident and unworried. And I must do these things while groggy from exhaustion. It was a quarter past three in the morning. My mind felt clogged, like a silt-laden pond. My body ached with fatigue.
The patrolman stood aside for me to enter Belle’s office. “Mrs. Collins, sir.”
I blinked my eyes, took a deep breath. One more time, I had to perform, think, grapple, combat, respond, defend, attack. I reached deep inside for a surge of alertness.
My first glimpse of Lieutenant Kanoa roused me, like a shock of cold water, like the crash of a thunderous wave. He dwarfed Belle’s desk. He had to weigh at least two hundred and fifty pounds. A moon face and a neck like a concrete piling rested on a tree-trunk thick torso. His aloha shirt pulled across his massive chest. His arms bulged with muscles. Hamhock-sized hands made the notebook and pencil in front of him look like a child’s toys.
“Come in, please.” His voice was so deep it sounded as if he spoke from a cavern.
He was so immense, it took a moment to look beyond his size at sleepy eyes in a bland face.
A danger signal flashed in my mind. I knew an affectation when I saw one. Sleepy eyes, yes, but I had glimpsed, just for an instant, a quick, keen intelligence.
Lieutenant Kanoa had now talked to everyone but me. He had a great deal of information—and misinformation—about the stranger within the gates, the suspect stranger.
I walked up to Belle’s desk.
“Sit down.” A command.
For an instant, I almost opted to stand. What the hell could he do about it? But I was tired, tired to the bone. I couldn’t afford to waste any energy, not an atom of it. I sat down in the straight chair. And shaded my eyes. The gooseneck lamp on the desk was twisted to spotlight the chair. Old hat, I felt like saying. But I saved that tendril of energy and squinted against the glare and waited.
He reached out a meaty hand and flicked the switch on a small black tape recorder. “With your permission, Mrs. Collins?”
“Of course.” The bright light hurt my eyes. I leaned forward and pushed the lamp, moving away the harsh glare. “With your permission, Lieutenant Kanoa.”
“Of course.” There might have been a faint lilt of amusement in that deep voice. He leaned back in his chair, placed cigar-thick fingers in a steeple. He studied me, a man in no hurry. But there was nothing tranquil about the silence.
I’d spent a lifetime searching for truth in people’s faces. Had my gaze been quite so cold and skeptical?
“I understand you came here to avenge your husband’s death.” Blunt, sharp, unequivocal.
My answer was swift. “I came here to find out what happened to Richard.”
He leaned forward, folded his massive arms on the desk. “What did you find out?”
I felt as if the earth had split in front of me and I teetered on the edge of a chasm.
“Someone in this house killed Richard.” Anger flooded through me. I wanted to shout it. I wanted to grab his huge shoulders, shake them, demand that he listen.
I would have as much effect pounding my fists on the trunk of a redwood.
“Mr. Collins died several years ago. Why have you waited until now to come to Kauai—if indeed he was murdered?” His huge head tilted forward attentively.
I was afraid the deck was stacked. But I had to play the hand.
I began with the poster. Once again, I told it all, but this time I repeated my angry conversation with Lester at Spouting Horn, my effort to inform Belle, and Lester’s subsequent lies.
Kanoa said lazily, as if it didn’t matter, but his eyes were alert and intelligent, “Johnnie Rodriguez. Let’s start there.” His deep voice had the lilting Hawaiian cadence. For once I wasn’t charmed. “You believe Rodriguez knew what happened to CeeCee Burke.”
“That’s correct.” I massaged the tight tendons in the back of my neck.
“But you don’t know what Rodriguez said to your husband.” His dark brown eyes were bright and interested.
“Richard came here…” My voice was weary. “And was pushed off the cliff.”
“That’s what you believe.”
I didn’t like the emphasis on “you.”
“That’s what happened.”
“You learned of this from a poster. That’s very dramatic.” And, his tone said, as likely as a personal visit from a menehune.
Yes, it had been dramatic. Life-changing. For me. For, ultimately, everyone at Ahiahi.
“Lester sent me the poster. He was doing his best to protect Belle. Lester for years had refused to believe the kidnapper was one of them. He’d resisted the idea when Richard came. And he’d made himself accept Richard’s fall as an accident. Lester didn’t face his doubts and fears until Belle’s car crashed down the mountain. Even then he waited, wondering and worrying. He waited until it was time for everyone to gather again at Ahiahi. Lester was frantic. Was Belle in danger? What could he do? I know what he did, Lieutenant. He posed me a challenge I could not refuse. He sent me a poster telling me my husband was murdered.”
“Mrs. Collins.” Those sleepy eyes watched me so closely.
“Yes.”
“Where is this poster?”
“I told you.” I was so tired. My head pounded. “It was stolen from my room the day I arrived.”
“You are very creative, Mrs. Collins.” Once again his hands formed a steeple.
“I am telling the truth, Lieutenant.”
“You are telling some of the truth. You believe Johnnie Rodriguez and Lester Mackey kidnapped CeeCee Burke and that your husband came here to confront Lester Mackey.”
“I know that Richard came here because of what he learned from Johnnie Rodriguez. I know Richard came here to see someone—”
“Obviously Mr. Collins came to see Mr. Mackey.” Kanoa was impatient.
“Perhaps. But we know that Johnnie Rodriguez took a walk the night CeeCee Burke was kidnapped. What if he went to the cabin where he and Lester had left her? What if he saw someone in the family there with CeeCee?”
“And Rodriguez kept that a secret from everyone after her body was found?” Kanoa’s disbelief was apparent.
“Johnnie was afraid no one would believe him. And he followed Lester’s lead when Lester told him to keep quiet. But”—I leaned forward—“it had to be something like that. Why else would Rodriguez call Richard, tell him he had to tell someone the truth about the kidnapping?”
“Because he and Mackey kidnapped her.” Kanoa spoke with quiet finality.
“But someone engineered it!” I was angry now. Kanoa wasn’t listening to me. He was shaking that huge head, throwing a great pumpkin of a shadow against the wall behind him.
“That’s what you claim now, Mrs. Collins.” His dark eyes accused me.
I felt a sudden emptiness in my chest, the visceral response to shock.
Because now I understood exactly what Kanoa believed. He had figured it out to his satisfaction. He believed that I had come to Kauai seeking retribution. I found the man who committed the kidnapping, ergo I found the man who had to silence Richard.
“You talked with Lester Mackey the night you arrived.” He ticked off the points on his fingers. “This afternoon you learned that Mackey was seen near the cliff trail the night your husband died. You accused him to Mrs. Scanlon—”
How odd. He meant Belle. I wondered if anyone else had ever addressed her that way.
“—but Mackey convinced her you’d invented the story. So what were you going to do, Mrs. Collins? You had no proof.”
“Lester lied because he was trying to protect himself—”
“Exactly.” Kanoa looked at me curiously, wondering that I didn’t see that I had blurted out a damning truth.
It was frustrating, infuriating. “No. Not that way. Lester didn’t intend to kidnap CeeCee. He thought it was a joke, a prank, one of the silly games the children played. When I say he was trying to protect himself, I mean that he didn’t want Belle to know he had any knowledge of the kidnapping because he had lied about it for so many years and he was terrified that Belle would turn against him.”
“He and Rodriguez took the girl,” Kanoa said stubbornly.
“A joke.” My desperate, driven litany.
“That’s what you claim now.”
We’d come full circle. I damned his persistence, his twisted interpretation, though I understood how he had reached his conclusion.
“Mr. Mackey didn’t confirm your story.” Kanoa’s eyes bored into mine. “You were upset, Mrs. Collins.”
“I was very frustrated, Lieutenant Kanoa.”
“You were asked to leave the premises.”
“Yes.”
“When did you decide to return here to see Mr. Mackey?”
Nice. He was setting the groundwork for premeditation.
“I had to come back, make another effort. I decided to come back after dark so that I could talk to him. I was afraid for Belle.”
“So it was your intention to return from the moment you were ejected. Is that correct?”
He was certainly a persistent devil.
“I was determined to persuade Lester to tell the truth.”
Kanoa’s expression was especially sleepy as he asked, “Now what did Mr. Mackey say when you talked with him?”
I shook my head. “I had no chance to talk to him tonight, Lieutenant. I was on my way to see him when I met Anders.”
“But you left the hotel around eight o’clock, Mrs. Collins.” He regarded me steadily.
“Yes. I came directly here. It took me about an hour to climb the hill—”
Something flickered in his eyes and I knew they’d found the jeep.
“—I went around the wall and came in an entrance by the tennis courts. I went straight to my room—the room where I’d stayed—and waited on the lanai until it was—” I almost said past midnight. Careful, careful, careful, Henrie O. “—very late. Obviously, I didn’t want to run into anyone. But I did.” And I made my tone rueful.
“You went to Mr. Mackey’s quarters.” Kanoa’s deep voice was compelling. “You quarreled. You shot him. You were escaping when you encountered Mr. Burke.”
It was eerily close to the truth.
“No, Lieutenant. I came along the cliff path, climbed the steps to the living room and was heading toward Lester’s quarters when Anders turned on the light. We went together to see Lester and we found him. Dead.”
“Did you touch anything in that visit?”
“I did not. Anders insisted we go to Belle first. I wanted to call the police immediately.” Such a good citizen am I.
He looked at me skeptically and I knew we were back where we’d started. I was the intruder. I was the suspect.
“Lieutenant, I did not shoot Lester Mackey.”
He inclined his head gravely. “Thank you, Mrs. Collins.” He reached forward, clicked off the recorder, then scooped up his notebook and pen. He heaved himself to his feet. “Our investigation into Mr. Mackey’s death will continue. Do not leave the island, Mrs. Collins.”
I stood and looked after him.
Do not leave the island, Mrs. Collins.
I took a deep breath. Damn, damn, damn. And yes, I could appreciate the irony. Wasn’t I the clever one to rig up a murder scene?
What was I going to do now? I’d counted on Lester Mackey. I’d been sure I could wrest the truth from him, one way or the other.
Think, Henrie O, think!
I was exhausted, confused, threatened. What was—
The soft whisper buzzed like a faraway bee, a sound, yes, but not clear. Then, more loudly, “Henrie O!”
I stepped closer to Belle’s desk.
“Henrie O, can you hear me?” It was a faint whisper again.
I looked at the white intercom, bent near it. “Yes.”
“Pretend you are searching my desk.” My desk…It was Belle. “Don’t appear to be listening.”
Through my fatigue, I understood. Or understood in part. Belle had left on her intercom system so that she could listen to Lieutenant Kanoa’s interviews.
Clever.
But Belle Ericcson had always been clever. It gave me a solid spurt of satisfaction to know that she was a jump ahead of Lieutenant Kanoa. And that she knew exactly what had happened to this point in his investigation. She knew, and she wanted to talk to me.
“Search the desk, then go to your suite.” A click.
I opened the center drawer of the desk, checked its contents. Did Belle think I was being watched? Or was she merely being cautious? In any event, Belle had accepted the obvious. Tonight someone here committed murder. The murderer had to be afraid, watchful, wary, and was certainly keeping a close track of the investigation.
And of me. Because I was the catalyst.
I opened the side drawers, glanced through folders, then closed the drawers. I sighed and walked slowly toward the garden walkway. Belle wanted to talk to me without being observed. As soon as I was out of sight of her office, I began to walk swiftly.
I flicked on the lights in my suite. I was sharply disappointed to find it empty. I walked into the bedroom, stood there at a loss.
Once again I heard that faint sibilant whisper.
The intercom.
I was savvy now. Just in case I was being observed, I walked to the bed and sat on it, bent my head as if in deep weariness—and listened.
“He’s going to arrest you.” Belle spoke calmly.
Once again that feeling of emptiness struck me. “Yes, I’m afraid so. I tried to tell him—”
“He won’t listen,” she said crisply.
“No.”
“Then it’s up to us, Henrie O. All right, we’ll handle it.” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Here’s what we’ll do.” Yes, Belle had a plan, a gallant, reckless, dangerous plan. Her crisp emphatic words burned in my mind.
“Belle, I can’t let you—”
“Meet me on the lanai outside my office.” Click.
No ifs, ands, or buts. Belle at her imperious, brave best.
All right. I’d signed on and the ride wasn’t over. But if I hurried and if Belle and I were right that the night held watchful eyes and listening ears, I could—with luck—buy a little insurance.
This was a chance I felt I had to take. If a watch had been mounted on Belle’s office, the watcher was very likely on the cliff path. That would provide a vantage point to overhear exchanges in Belle’s office. Moreover, it would be difficult to remain unobserved by the police in the garden or the nearby rooms.
So I was going to assume that the killer, if nearby, was on the cliff path and therefore could not observe my actions on the garden side of the house.
I ran up the garden walkway, my goal the third suite from mine, the suite where Stan Dugan was staying.
I reached his open doorway and darted into the dark living room. I tiptoed to the bedroom, using my pocket flash for just an instant.
He lunged up from his bed.
“Shh. Shh. Stan, I need your help—”
A powerful hand gripped my arm.
I whispered fast and prayed he would listen and understand and help us.
“I got it.” His voice was low. He released me.
I heard a rustle as he pulled on clothes, then I felt a quick squeeze on my arm. We hurried out into the night. He turned toward the tennis courts.
I headed for Belle’s office.
Belle was standing on the lanai outside her office.
And we gave our performance.
“Belle, you have to help me. The police think I shot Lester.”
She faced me. “Why should I help you?” Her voice was bitter. “If you hadn’t come here, Lester would be alive.”
I came up beside her. We stood by the railing. In the heavy stillness of late night, the roar of the falls pulsed loudly.
“Lester protected CeeCee’s kidnapper. Will you protect the person who killed Lester—and CeeCee?”
“Never.”
I whirled away, faced out toward the valley. And the listening figure on the cliff walk? “Oh, what difference does it make what you do or say. The police won’t listen. There’s no way to convince them—”
“I can.” Belle spoke with finality.
I jerked toward her. “What are you saying?”
“I talked to Lester. Later. After you left.” Her voice ached with sadness. “He didn’t realize he’d given himself away. But I knew him so well. And after I talked to the police tonight, I thought about everything. And something he said. The pieces fell into place.”
“Are you going to let me be arrested for someone else’s crime?” My voice rose.
“No. No, I won’t let that happen.”
I grabbed her arm. “Let’s call them now. We can catch Lieutenant Kanoa.”
“Not tonight.” She shook free. “I want some time alone with CeeCee. Then I’ll do what I have to do. But I want you to give me this time.”
I didn’t answer for a long moment, then, finally, grudgingly, I replied. “All right, Belle. I understand. But in the morning you’ll call the police?”
“In the morning.” She turned, walked toward the garden, her cane clicking on the tiles. On her way—alone, unprotected, vulnerable—to CeeCee’s grave on that isolated, dark, and silent point.