six

Belle Ericcson stood next to a waist-high cloisonné vase filled with a spectacular arrangement of yellow ginger, heliconia, and bird-of-paradise. Any other woman would have been diminished.

Not Belle.

My reaction wasn’t simply an exaggerated response because she had been so much a part of Richard’s life and had been, since the arrival of the shocking poster, the backdrop to my every thought. Belle had presence, that magical quality which marks presidents, prime ministers, movie stars, financial moguls. No one could enter a room where she waited and not be immediately brought under her spell, a spell as inescapable and pervasive and intoxicating as that deployed by any ancient goddess. Even in repose, she exuded vitality.

She was startlingly attractive, quite as lovely as all the photographs I’d found. But I was struck most of all not by her beauty but by her fragility. She looked as if she were sculpted in attenuated ivory, her bones refined to their essence beneath alabaster skin. Her elegant clothes clung to her.

I had a swift, eerie memory of Johnnie Rodriguez’s wasted mother.

Yet, in astonishing contradiction, Belle emanated—without speaking, without moving—such a restless, relentless vigor that the very room quivered with energy. I felt exhilarated, intensely attuned, almost febrile in anticipation, and she had yet to speak a word. She had only to look across the room with her compelling gaze.

Her silver hair was drawn back in a chignon, emphasizing her deep-set blue eyes and high cheekbones. Her skin was lined and had the parchment-fine patina of age. This woman felt no compulsion to grasp artificially after the smoothness of youth. But it was her luminous eyes—as unforgettably, darkly blue as the Hawaiian waters—that mesmerized me.

And frightened me a little.

There was an emptiness in those eyes, a void, a longing, despite their intensity.

Her lips curved upward, but there was no more warmth than in the rosy brilliance of the crimson enamel in the cloisonné vase. It was the echo of a smile, a gesture once familiar and now foreign.

“Henrie O.” Belle’s voice was clear and high, like a silver bell rung as the shadows fall. I suddenly had a faint, ghost-like memory of hearing her say on that dreadful day, “I’m so sorry…Richard’s dead.” Then the memory was gone, like a flash of sunlight on chrome.

She walked toward me, a thin, graceful hand outstretched. It was not until then that I saw the cane in her left hand and her uneven, slightly halting gait. I was startled. An accident? Surgery? But such was her vitality that the cane and the limp immediately receded from notice. I was fascinated by her lovely, haggard, striking, unforgettable face.

The room—her study—was a marvelous backdrop. The walls were a pale, ethereal ivory, punctuated by brilliantly colored canvases. The pecan floors, sensuous as pools of honey, reflected light from globes inset in the ceiling. Chinese Buddhist temple hangings flanked a starkly plain marble fireplace. Crimson anthuriums rose regally from matching silver vases on the hearth. And, as I was beginning to expect in this cliffside home, there was the wide-open access to the lanai and the ever compelling vista of the robin’s-egg sky and silvery falls and verdant ridges—breathtaking, spectacular, ever changing.

But the elegant woman in the orchid silk blouse and white silk slacks would always be the focal point.

She reached me, grasped my hand. “May I call you Henrie O? As Richard did?” Her touch was firm and cool and fleeting. The delicate scent of gardenia wafted over me.

“Of course.” I returned her gaze. I could not return that ceremonial smile.

Those bright lips still curved, but there was no smile in her dark blue eyes. “And I’m Belle.” She studied me.

I knew what she saw, a woman as dark as she was fair, my hair touched, too, with silver, my face lined with a lifetime of both joy and sadness. I don’t claim even a particle of Belle’s charisma, but I am lean and quick and still move with eagerness and energy.

I saw a quick flicker of approval in her eyes and I was surprised that it pleased me. That was even one more indication of the power of her personality.

“Now we meet.” There was a shade more warmth in her voice. “After all these years…Richard spoke of you often.”

I was not able to respond in kind. That was my doing. I was the one who had blocked that expression. But I could honestly say, had to honestly say, “Richard cared for you.”

Her remote smile softened. “I valued him as the best friend I ever had. And now, finally, you and I meet.” She led the way, moving carefully, the cane clicking against the golden floor, to huge rattan easy chairs on either side of the fireplace. As she eased down onto the oversized cushion, her eyes flickered toward the lanai, and the sharp planes of her face tightened.

It was like a rough hand squeezing my heart. Richard fell near here, I was sure of it.

I took the seat opposite her, but I gazed out at the turquoise sky and emerald canyon. “I’ve never known what happened to Richard,” I said tightly.

Yes, I asked without preamble. It wasn’t what I’d planned to do. But entering this room, meeting this woman, I knew I could not count on anything. She was formidable. I would not easily fool her. Or persuade her. My manufactured invitation was in my purse and I knew it wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on. Belle Ericcson was neither simple nor credulous. I’d better snatch what I could while I could.

If my blunt opening shocked her, she gave no sign of it. “None of us know, Henrie O.” Her face was somber. “We said good night about ten. The next morning, I thought he’d slept late. You know how tiring it is to come from the mainland. And when the mist burned off, oh, it was late morning, Wheeler looked down from his lanai and saw him. Richard was still dressed and his bed had not been slept in. He must have walked along the cliff path late in the evening. Perhaps he was returning to the main house for a book. We’ll never know.”

Belle clasped her hands tightly together. A bracelet of square amethysts in ornate gold settings glistened like the purpling sky outside. “I’m sorry.” Her silvery voice expressed true grief.

“Thank you.” I stared out at the steep, foliage-sheathed cliffs, beautiful and merciless, as nature so often is.

“It was doubly hard,” she sighed, “because I’d been so pleased to see him. And surprised. It was a wonderful surprise.”

“You had not expected him?” I had to feel my way carefully here.

“Oh, no.” Belle’s reply was swift. “The children were all here. And Stan Dugan, CeeCee’s fiancé. I ask them to come every year. That was the first year. I want them to remember CeeCee. But not in a sad way. I always want this gathering to be cheerful, as cheerful as CeeCee always was. I make sure it is a holiday, filled with golf, swimming, boating. Or simply relaxing. I’d played golf that afternoon with Joss and Anders and Wheeler. Richard was here when we returned.” A quick smile quirked her lips. Her eyes brightened. “It was wonderful to see him. At first he said he didn’t intend to spend the night, but I insisted. Now, of course, I wish…” Her voice trailed away.

“Did Richard indicate why he’d come?” I watched her intently.

She frowned and stood, using the cane to lever herself upright. She moved to a cut-glass decanter on a red lacquered table. “Sherry?”

It was hard to be polite, to welcome hospitality. All I wanted was answers. “Yes, yes, thank you.” I forced the words, forced a smile.

She poured the wine, brought a glass to me. Then she stood, leaning just a bit on her cane, her expression thoughtful. She held her wine, but didn’t taste it. “We had only a moment alone that evening. He came into the dining room and we went out on the lanai together. I asked him if he’d come to the island for a holiday. He looked at me and his face was very serious, very grave. He said no, it was a matter he might wish to discuss with me. But he wasn’t yet certain. Then Gretchen and Peggy came out and we talked about their afternoon snorkeling at Anini. Everything after that was very general.”

Richard didn’t tell Belle what he knew—or what he suspected. Richard, always so careful and fair. He must have come with some knowledge, and yet he wanted to ask the person involved first. Had he made plans to see someone that evening, alone, in a quiet place?

I put my wineglass down and gestured toward the lanai. “Can we see where Richard was found from here?”

Slowly, she nodded.

“Will you show me?” I wanted to know. And I didn’t want to know. But I had to know.

Shakily, I stood. For an instant, I thought she was going to refuse. She stared at me, her gaze probing. But I was Richard’s widow. I had every right to want to see where he died.

Belle put down her glass. She walked slowly, the cane clicking. I followed her onto the lanai. The magnificent gold trees at either end of the lanai were in full bloom, their masses of yellow flowers shiny as butter. Hibiscus in a huge wooden tub were bright as a painter’s palette, orange and pink, red and white. The breeze rustled a plumeria shrub with pale pink blossoms, and the most familiar perfume of the islands swept over me.

Our thongs shushed against apricot tiles. Belle reached the center of the iron railing. She looked over the railing. “Do you see the trail? Steps go down from each lanai to a trail that’s been cut out of the cliff. It runs the length of the house. Other paths lead down to the pond beneath the falls. And there is a path up to the falls, but that isn’t safe. I’m sure Richard was on the main trail. It is well lighted at night.”

We looked down. I saw the trail, perhaps three feet in width at the most, clinging to the side of the cliff, a walkway with an eagle’s view. It would take a good head for heights. And then I looked past the trail, down, down, down.

“The police thought he must have fallen not far from the steps to his lanai.”

My lanai now.

“He was found near the kukui trees.” Belle pointed far down the canyon to a stand of trees with pale green foliage.

I held tight to the railing, fighting off dizziness and such a surge of feeling—anger and despair and horror—that I was afraid for a moment I might fall. Or faint.

Thin, strong fingers gripped my elbow. Even through the pain, I was terribly aware of Belle’s touch. She led me away from the railing to a wicker sofa.

Her words seemed to come from a long distance. “…still don’t understand how it happened. Perhaps vertigo. Perhaps he slipped. We’ll never know.” Her face was bleak. “It must have happened quickly. He didn’t call out. Or if he did, no one heard him.” Her voice wavered.

I looked deep into her eyes. For an instant, those brilliant blue eyes were alive with pain and sorrow and anguish.

We told each other so much without words in that silent exchange.

I loved Richard.

Belle loved Richard.

We looked at each other and understood that this man had meant the world to both of us.

She settled back against the couch, folded her arms. Now her face was cool and aloof. The emotion I’d seen in her eyes—a softness, a caring—was gone as if it had never been. The gaze she turned on me was thoughtful, considering. “Is this why you’ve come?”

I’d been pummeled by emotion, but I couldn’t afford at this moment to be affected by my sorrow and anger over Richard’s death. I could not think about his terror and pain. Not now. Later I could weep. But now I had to control my feelings. I must be careful, without seeming at all to be careful.

When facing despair and destruction, Richard often found comfort in Hugh Latimer’s exhortation to his companion as both were to be burned at the stake for heresy: Play the man, Master Ridley…

Play the man.

How hard it is to have courage.

“I hope I will find closure.” Yes, indeed, that was my hope. And now, now came the lie. “I was so grateful to receive your letter inviting me to come this week. Every year the anniversary of his death has been very hard. I couldn’t picture what happened. It had no reality. I only knew how it felt to see his casket lowered from an airplane. But now, I can see where he died. The cliff—what a terrible fall!” I closed my eyes briefly, then said determinedly, “But I needed to see it. I appreciate being able to come here.”

Belle was quiet for so long I thought she wasn’t going to answer. Those cool dark blue eyes studied me. Finally, she said, “I would not turn away Richard’s wife.”

Once again our glances met. This time I wasn’t sure what I saw.

Her silvery voice was thoughtful as she continued, “But I must tell you, Henrie O, that I did not write to you.”

Now I faced the greatest challenge.

I felt a sudden wash of sheer misery. I hated doing this. Belle had made me welcome as Richard’s wife. I was accepting her hospitality, had, in effect, demanded her hospitality. But I’d begun the lie, and I had to carry on.

It had seemed, thousands of miles away, propelled by the message that Richard was murdered, the only possible way to gain entrance here. I’d gone to a great deal of trouble, taking time to find a letter from Belle to Richard, carefully copying her signature. (“Dear Richard, Thank you so much for the review of the new book on William Allen White. He has always…”) A letter between friends, between colleagues. I’d simply plucked an envelope from his files, having no idea what I would find. I was so grateful that there was no trace of passion in that letter. I would not, could not read all the letters they’d exchanged. That was not my right. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

Oh, yes, I had my forged invitation with me. I’d even made certain it had fingerprints other than mine. Just in case. How? I’d dropped it out of my purse at the grocery and the woman standing behind me picked it up, handed it to me. At that point, it was a cerebral exercise, a coldly calculated, carefully devised game.

Now I struggled to maintain my composure. Was it any wonder I looked uncomfortable? “You didn’t write to me? But I have the letter. I can show it to you.” Indeed I could. If I had the stomach for it. “You…the letter invited me to come, to arrive today and spend a week. I don’t understand.”

“Nor do I.” She studied me intently and now I saw a reserve, a question. Not suspicion. Not yet.

“You didn’t…Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll leave at once. I’m so sorry…” I started to rise.

“No.” She reached out, caught my hand, her touch again cool but firm. “You mustn’t leave. I am delighted to have you at Ahiahi.”

“Belle, I wouldn’t dream of—”

“No, you must stay. There’s no more to be said about that. Come.” Once again she was a hostess with a determined smile. “Let’s go inside. We’ve left our sherry there.”

I suppose I should have felt triumphant as we walked back into the lovely room. Instead I felt weary, tired, empty. Yet I knew I had to remain alert. It would be so easy to say the wrong thing. I don’t know when I’ve ever felt more alone, more uncertain.

Oh, Richard, have I gone at it all wrong? She cared for you. Should I have told her the truth? Should I tell her now?

But I had arrived under false pretenses. Wouldn’t Belle toss me out of her home? Even if she understood the desperate reason for deception?

And I had to stay here. I would never know the truth of Richard’s death unless I plumbed the secrets of this mountain hideaway. What happened to Richard six years ago was locked within the heart of someone here at Ahiahi.

I steeled myself and faced her. We stood near her desk.

But Belle wasn’t looking at me. She held the glass of sherry in her hands and gazed down at an elegant antique globe. “You’ve come such a long way. Just as Richard did.” She lifted her head. “It was such a lovely surprise to come home that day and be told he’d arrived.” Her elegant face was impassive, but her eyes watched me closely.

So now Belle wondered about the reason for his journey. I knew why Richard came. Richard had responded to Johnnie Rodriguez’s call. Richard had talked to Johnnie. Whatever it was that Richard learned, it brought him here to see Belle.

But if I told her what I knew, I would have to tell her everything.

If only I knew Belle better, could gauge what effect my revelations might have.

“I didn’t know Richard was coming here,” I said carefully. That was true at the time.

“He wasn’t”—her choice of words was equally careful—“in Honolulu on a story?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“I see. I thought…” she shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter. Very little matters anymore.” She put down her sherry and reached out and gently touched the cold sculpted cheek of a marble bust of a young woman.

I glanced at a face forever young, at lips forever tilted in a buoyant smile.

“My daughter, CeeCee.” Her composure almost held. Then, catching her breath, Belle leaned down, pressed her cheek for a moment against the cold marble. “Damn whoever did it. Damn them.”

“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t answer.

I had to ask. “Them?”

Her head jerked up. Her eyes blazed with a dark and fervid anger. I understood that anger, the awful anguish of unjust heartbreak. Life is not fair. Evil flourishes. But there is something in our souls that will not accept this.

“Whoever it was that took CeeCee and killed her. The police didn’t find anything. No trace. Nothing, nothing, nothing.”

Nada, nada, nada, the deputy had rasped.

And there I stood, watching this mother grieve—and I knew something. I didn’t know what Richard had discovered, but I knew more than Belle. I knew that Richard came to Ahiahi because of something he had learned from Johnnie Rodriguez, something that had to do with the kidnapping and death of CeeCee Burke.

If Richard indeed was murdered because of that knowledge, it meant—it had to mean—that CeeCee’s kidnapper, CeeCee’s murderer had been here in Belle’s secluded island home when Richard arrived.

And Belle had no idea of this.

None.

I saw it clearly then. I had to speak out. My plan, to insinuate myself into this house, to watch and observe and learn as much as I could, no longer seemed defensible. Not in the face of her grief.

I had not looked past my own grief. Now I had to think of Belle. My lips parted—

She lifted her head and her smile was so gallant I wanted to cry. “Please forgive me. I know you understand. It’s always harder this time of year. So hard.” Her voice broke. She blinked away tears. “I’m sorry. I’ll see you at dinner.” She turned and walked unevenly away, her cane clicking against the wood.

I almost called out to stop her. But this wasn’t the moment. Let Belle regain her composure. And let me regain mine.

I walked slowly from the study onto the lanai. Did I dare tell Belle the truth? Could I show her the anonymous message I’d received? And tell her how it had led me to discover Richard’s stop in Texas before he came to Ahiahi? Could I insist that Richard’s death meant someone in her family or on her staff had kidnapped and killed her daughter?

Why should she believe me?

Because Richard was dead.

That was the terrible, awful, unmistakable proof.

But Belle could insist that he’d fallen and either I had created this absurd story for who knew what deranged purpose or I had been used as a tool by someone wishing to destroy her family. And I had to remember that I was here to serve someone else’s purpose, a purpose I knew nothing about.

I wanted to do the right thing.

It’s frightening how difficult it is sometimes to know what is right and what is wrong.

I had come to Kauai to discover the truth of Richard’s death. That still was my goal. And my only hope of discovering what happened on the cliffside trail was to be here at Ahiahi.

I stood on the lanai, miserable, uncertain, but clinging to my purpose. I’d known this was going to be hard. I hadn’t known how hard it would be and how Belle, the woman I’d feared, the woman I’d been jealous of, how appealing she would be. No, I can’t say I felt a liking. But I was intrigued, fascinated, charmed as I suppose everyone had always been with her. Yet, I couldn’t let Belle’s personality prevent me from pursuing justice.

All right. I was here. And unobserved. I would take this time to explore. I wanted to talk to Lester Mackey. As soon as possible. And at this moment, there was no one about, no one to notice if I quietly surveyed Ahiahi.

The blossoms in the gold tree rustled. But that couldn’t account for my sudden uneasiness, the sense that this lovely scene hid malignity and evil. The beauty was everywhere: blossoms, bright birds, trees and ferns shockingly green; the sumptuous rooms curving along the rim of the cliff; the iridescent sheen of the huge greenish-blue Chinese pottery vases on pedestals near the steps leading down from each lanai.

And then I saw the shadows. Two of them. The huge, irregular shadow of the gold tree shifted against the smooth surface of the lanai, the blooms and leaves softly rustled by the breeze. The other shadow was thick and long and motionless, unlike the wavering, breeze-stirred image of the tree. Then the long shadow moved.

Stan Dugan walked out of his hiding place. His craggy face was somber, hostile.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, my voice sharp because I felt a thrill of fear as the big, quiet man approached. We were alone on this lanai and the cliff fell away from the railing, down, down, down.

“I’ll ask you that, too, Mrs. Collins. You didn’t tell Belle that somebody killed your husband.” His eyes once again were cold and suspicious.

“You listened to our conversation?” I knew that, of course. I was scrambling for a response that would satisfy him. I had to keep him from revealing to Belle what I’d said to him.

He didn’t bother to answer. He didn’t have to. And my uneasiness increased. Why would he skulk in the shadows, eavesdrop?

“I have no proof.” I eased away from the railing, back toward the study.

He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets, rocked back on his heels. Was this how he examined a witness? “Where’s the famous daybook?”

“I don’t have it with me.”

“Gee, that’s a hell of a surprise. I’d think you’d have it. Or a copy. Or something. But maybe that’s all fiction. Maybe you made it up.” His raspy voice was full of disdain. “Could it be because that’s all bullshit and you’re here because you write true crime books?”

Dugan had moved fast, built an excellent dossier on me just as I had all of Belle’s family. But why did he care about me? And why was he angry? Or was his outrage simulated, a cover for fear?

“I’m here because I’m going to find out what happened to Richard. Why are you here? It’s a last-minute trip, isn’t it?”

Those big owlish eyes gazed at me.

I pressed my attack. “What did you tell Belle when you arrived unexpectedly?” I’d never expected trouble from him.

His mouth twisted in brief amusement. “You’re pretty good, lady. A good offense and all that. Yeah, you’re right. I lied to Belle. But so did you.” He gave me a considering, thoughtful, cold look. “I wonder what will happen…if one of us tells Belle the truth?” He turned away, and with his long, swift stride was gone before I could answer.

Why had he come? Of course, if he cared for CeeCee, truly loved her, my accusation would bring him. But he’d been here when Richard died. I had to remember that fact.

I’d felt I was balancing on a tightrope ever since I arrived at Ahiahi. Now I felt as if I were balancing on a frayed tightrope that could easily unravel.

I looked down the lanai. Stan Dugan was long out of sight. Yet I still had a sense of an inimical presence. I looked all around the lanai. Then I glanced over my shoulder and just glimpsed a flash of white.

Someone had stood on the far side of the entryway to Belle’s study and watched me. Ahiahi with all its shrubberies and rooms that flowed into each other offered easy concealment.

Had the unknown watcher listened to Belle and me, then overheard my sharp and odd exchange with Stan Dugan?

Danger. I felt it sharply. I wanted to find another human being, talk to someone, do something to dispel the atmosphere of evil. But I had to take advantage of this moment alone, explore Ahiahi while I had the chance.

I walked along the lanai past the study and found a library. Farther on, I glimpsed individual lanais to the separate living quarters. I turned back, passed Belle’s office and reached the huge living-dining-room area. The lanai curved as the rooms followed the contour of the canyon. Succulent smells indicated the kitchen. I took a glimpse through the wide archway and saw a cheery woman bustling about with several helpers doing her bidding. This domestic scene was normal and right, and the feeling of danger and discord eased. I was in a beautiful home and walking in its public areas in broad daylight. I was all right.

I turned up the flagstone passageway between the dining area and the kitchen and reached the garden side of the house. To my left, nestled among hibiscus shrubs, were several cottages. No waterfall view here. No doubt this was where the staff lived.

I passed a gardener snipping a hedge with huge rosy blooms. “Hello.”

“Hello, ma’am.”

“Which cottage belongs to Mr. Mackey?” I smiled.

He nodded toward the first.

Again inside and out flowed together. A Mexican creeper bloomed along the wall of his lanai. I walked to the open doorway, looked into a spare and sparsely furnished living area. “Mr. Mackey?”

There was no answer.

Reluctantly, I retraced my steps. But now I knew where to find him. I took the path back between the kitchen and the dining area. This time I passed one of the huge vases and hurried down the steps at the end of the lanai to the narrow path that had been gouged out of the mountain slope. I saw a steep path down the slope, ending, I supposed, at the pool formed by the splash of the waterfalls. Belle had mentioned a similar path beneath the study.

If I followed the path to my left I would eventually fetch up beneath the lanai to my suite. I looked to my right. The cliff jutted out here. The path curved out of sight.

I picked my way carefully along the cliff face. As I came around the curve, I looked up to see yet another lanai, the last one. I was deep in shadow. A slim, imperious figure stood near the railing.

“…want you to find out everything about her. Everything. What she’s been doing these past years. What kind of person she is.” Belle’s light, clear, bell-like voice carried clearly.

It was hard to breathe. I put my hand against the rock face, felt the crumbly soil.

“Yes, Belle.” This voice was young, deferential.

“Right now.”

“Yes, Belle.”

Belle moved away from the railing. But I could still hear her voice.

“…something’s going on, Elise. She’s here for some purpose I don’t understand. Check and see when she arrived. And where she came from. And tell Keith I want to see him as soon…”

The words faded.

I turned away, walked back along the path.

I didn’t need a primer to tell me who Belle was talking about. So my story of a letter hadn’t fooled her.

My time at Ahiahi might be measured in hours. Not only was Belle suspicious of me, there was Stan Dugan to fear. It would only take a word from him and I would be ousted.

But I was here for the moment.

I’d work as fast as I could.