Torches flared along the cliff railings. The flames were reflected in the shiny glaze of huge pottery vases that sat on pedestals at the top of the steps leading up to the lanais. I stood in the shadow of one of the Chinese vases on the lanai by the living-dining area. More light came from a long, narrow reflecting pool. Beams angled up through the water, luminous as moonlight in a tidal basin.
Identical wicker furniture, lamps, and sculptures were clustered the length of the living-dining area and on the lanai, the outdoors mirroring the indoors. The interior walls were covered with hand-painted tapa bark, decorated with designs that reminded me of stylized butterflies. There was an eclectic mix of Polynesian, Japanese, and Chinese artworks, including Tahitian fertility-god carvings, silk screens of Japanese calligraphy, and a Chinese scholar’s rock on a teak base.
White wicker chairs with emerald-green cushions surrounded a huge pink marble dining room table. The odd combination of marble and wicker created a saucy air, like an elegant seaside hotel coupled with a jaunty carousel.
Voices melded in desultory conversation. I looked from face to face. Most of them I had yet to meet. But all their faces were familiar from my lost collection of clips: Belle’s athletic husband, the surviving children and stepchildren, Anders Burke’s wife. I had met Belle’s man-of-all-work Lester Mackey and her secretary Elise Ford. And, of course, Stan Dugan, CeeCee’s fiancé.
One of them was my enemy, mine and Belle’s. One of them had killed Richard and kidnapped CeeCee. One face belonged to a murderer. I knew it. Belle did not. Once again I was swept with misgiving. But for this moment, I had to play the hand I held.
Belle stood near the reflecting pool, next to a bronze alligator with heavy-lidded malachite eyes. One hand tightly gripped the head of her cane. Her pale ivory dress had a rosy sheen in the crimson light from the torch. She was speaking in a low tone to her husband.
Standing near them was Elise Ford, alert and attentive, still the perfect secretary despite the social setting. She looked like a demure kindergarten teacher in a navy blue linen shirt-waist dress. I wondered if she was as circumspect as her choice of fashion indicated. Or if she simply liked plain and simple clothing. Or if it was her instinct to avoid notice. I wondered, too, if she’d discovered anything about me yet. More than likely she had. Computers with a modem make gathering information quick and easy.
From my vantage point I could see everyone. I noted the occasional sidelong glances toward Belle, the unnatural awareness of her on the part of her family and guests.
Her husband, Keith Scanlon, had a look of professional charm: bright eyes, plump cheeks, a broad smile. He was tanned and muscular, the epitome of the sporting man in his vivid Hawaiian shirt and white tropical trousers. He, too, was attentive and alert—and tense. The hands clasped behind his back gripped each other tightly even though his face was determinedly genial. Was it the purpose of this gathering that stressed him? Or the presence of Belle’s family?
Anders Burke paced on the far side of the pool, talking rapidly and intently. He was as dark as his mother was fair. His narrow face was an exaggerated version of hers, his cheekbones too sharp, his chin too pointed. His eyes blazed with fervor. He gestured excitedly.
Watching Anders, an indulgent smile on her face, was Megan Gallagher, the middle child Belle had acquired from her short marriage to Quentin Gallagher. Megan looked like the model she was in a shirred pink-and-beige satin jacket and champagne satin trousers. One beautifully manicured hand toyed with an enameled button shaped like a recumbent lion. Her oval face was smooth, pretty, and empty. I was reminded irresistibly of a porcelain doll. Anybody home?
Peggy Burke, Anders’s wife, watched him, too, her face creased in an uncertain frown, like a mother hen whose chick is perilously near the barnyard cat. She looked prim and unfashionable, her rose silk dress too vividly flowered and ill-fitting, but her passion for her husband was nakedly clear in that watchful gaze. And I never underestimate the power of passion.
Joss Burke, Belle’s second son, sat at the grand piano near the fireplace. Strains of Cole Porter drifted on the night air. He played very well indeed. I wasn’t surprised. I’d retrieved a half dozen pictures of him involved in student musicals while he was at the University of Texas. Absorbed and withdrawn, he stared down at the keys as if he were alone in the room. He wore a candy-striped shirt and white trousers. All he lacked was a white straw hat and a cane. And a smile.
Gretchen Gallagher leaned against the piano. Her short black-and-white polka-dotted dress had a flouncy two-tiered skirt, perfect for a night of dancing. She sipped at a drink, her freckled face discontented. And mournful. Did the music—“Night and Day”—stir melancholy memories?
Wheeler Gallagher was busy at the bar, his sloe eyes intent, his sensuously handsome face remote, his red hair glistening like flame. His pale green Oxford shirt and white tropical trousers were a perfect foil for his coloring. He poured a jigger of amber whiskey into a tumbler, a commonplace act made special by the fluidity of his movements. Some men have extraordinary appeal; some men don’t. Wheeler definitely did.
The last guest—the other surprise guest besides myself—was Stan Dugan.
I’d found out a lot about him before I visited his office. Dugan came from a working class background, making it through college and law school on scholarships and by holding down jobs that ranged from driving a cab to bartending. Tonight he combined a highly fashionable collarless dress shirt with Levi’s and alligator cowboy boots, part Brooks Brothers, part rebellious outsider. He sprawled in a big easy chair sipping a drink, his owlish eyes studying his hostess and his fellow guests.
Lester Mackey stood alone in a shadowy niche next to an antique Venetian lantern, one hand loosely gripping the bright red lamppost. The eye was drawn to the ornate ironwork around the glass and the flickering glow of the candle. He was so slender and self-effacing, my glance almost passed him by. Was it deliberate that he chose one of the few areas in the room where his face could only dimly be seen?
It has been my experience that those who least seek the limelight often have the most interesting stories to tell, stories they are reluctant to yield.
Out of all this assemblage, I was abruptly the most curious about Lester Mackey, perhaps because I knew so little of him. I knew he’d been a military driver for Belle in Vietnam, had joined her household when his tour of duty ended, and had worked for her ever since. And I knew he had a soft voice and Johnnie Rodriguez’s mother disliked him.
He seemed lost and lonely standing in the shadows, not a part of the evening, yet I had the sense he was utterly absorbed in this family gathering.
Just as I stood and surveyed the collection of guests, so did he, his eyes moving slowly from face to face as mine had. But he knew them all well. They had been a part of his life for decades, everyone but Stan Dugan.
I watched these people carefully because I was suspicious of them, seeking to discover a killer among them. What caused Lester Mackey to watch with equal concentration?
Lester Mackey. I had to talk to him.
It should have been an elegant and enticing party. Soft-footed maids glided in and out of the room, bringing dishes for a magnificent buffet along one wall. There was even an ice sculpture of a humpback whale.
The dining room table wasn’t set, so I assumed the guests would sit in smaller groups at the tables scattered about the lanai. The reddish glow of the torches was supplemented by a full moon that bathed the lanai and the reflecting pool in silver. The small tables should encourage easier conversations.
I didn’t think the casual seating would accomplish its goal. Wariness permeated this gathering. It was apparent in the carefully schooled faces, the uneasy glances, the bland conversations:
“…wish they’d rebuild that hotel. Don’t you know it’s full of rats and…”
“…most of the hurricane damage is gone except…”
“…interminable flight. Each time I swear I’m going to stop over in…”
“…thinking about moving to Paris. It would be…”
I looked again from face to face, all with social masks intact. Or nearly so. Anders looked gauchely intense. But I suspected that was his customary manner. Belle’s husband was oddly ill at ease for a man who’d spent his life in a country-club setting. But there was no hint in any face of a marauding tiger. That’s what I was looking for—the quick, feral willingness to destroy.
I’d traveled thousands of miles in response to a challenge. Someone wanted me at Ahiahi for an unknown purpose. And now I was here. I’d been uneasy ever since my encounter with Stan near Belle’s office. When he left, I’d had such a strong sense of danger. When I returned to my room and discovered the briefcase was missing, I felt even more threatened. My feeling of discomfort increased as I stood watching, despite the beauty of the surroundings and the ostensible party setting. There was a dark purpose to my presence. I had to thwart that purpose. But I had no guidelines. Whom should I talk to? How could I learn the right facts quickly enough? Which might be the weakest link in this tension-filled family?
I stepped out onto the lanai.
Belle saw me at once. “Good evening, Henrie O.” She clapped her hands. “Everyone, please.” It was abruptly quiet, every eye on me. “I want to introduce Henrietta O’Dwyer Collins. You all remember Richard Collins, my old friend.”
Keith Scanlon’s eyes narrowed, his customary bonhomie was gone for an instant, supplanted by a flash of dislike. I knew instinctively the dislike was of Richard, his memory of Richard, the man Belle had turned to when CeeCee disappeared.
Belle’s secretary looked at me curiously.
Anders flicked a dismissive glance toward me.
Peggy plucked at her husband’s sleeve while flashing a bright smile.
Gretchen nodded, but her face still looked forlorn. And wary.
Joss studied me with cool blue eyes and lightly sounded introductory chords.
Wheeler lifted his glass, a cheerful gesture, but his eyes were thoughtful.
Stan Dugan watched me like a hawk spotting a mouse.
Megan glanced down at her perfectly manicured nails.
Lester Mackey’s face was still in shadows. He stood very still. Unnaturally still.
Belle’s light voice carried clearly. “I want everyone to give Henrie O a warm welcome. She’ll be with us this week.”
There was an instant of silence. Nothing was said of CeeCee’s birthday. Or of Richard’s fall.
But their images overlay the sumptuous room like the shadow of shifting leaves dappling a forest clearing, intangible but inescapable.
“Come, I want you to meet everyone.” Belle was at my side. “My husband, Keith.” Her hand lightly brushed his arm.
Keith Scanlon grinned and pumped my hand, seemingly with genuine warmth. “Do you play tennis, Mrs. Collins?”
“Yes. At a relaxed pace.” No longer did I dart around a court. But I still had fun.
“I have a tennis academy. Near Poipu Beach. A lot of retirees play and they’re always looking for a sub. You’ll have to come down one day and I’ll find you a game. Clay courts.” He was like a cocker spaniel offering a ball.
I smiled. “I’d love it.”
Belle gave him a fond glance.
As we moved away, his smile vanished. Belle was a step ahead of me and didn’t notice.
“You’ve met Elise Ford,” Belle said carelessly. “If you need any help”—Belle’s glance was suddenly searching—“Elise can find out anything about anyone.”
“Really. That’s a useful skill.”
Elise smiled pleasantly, but her gaze was avid.
Belle paused by the shadowy niche. “And you’ve met Lester. I don’t know what we would do without Lester. He keeps us all in order.”
Lester Mackey nodded at me. “Good evening, Mrs. Collins.”
I wished the light were brighter. I wished I could see his face clearly. But Belle’s hand was firm on my elbow. We stopped in front of Stan Dugan.
He came to his feet and suddenly everyone else in the room seemed small. “Hello, Mrs. Collins.” His voice was deep and agreeable enough, but it had an underlying challenge in it.
I shook his massive hand. “Hello.” So we were going to pretend we’d not met. That suited me. But I had a gut feeling I’d better not count on his silence. Could I pretend astonishment, deny having talked with him? How many lies could I tell with any hope of success?
Belle gave his muscular forearm a quick squeeze. “Stan and CeeCee were engaged.”
Dugan’s face was determinedly blank. Was the reserve there because he distrusted me? Or was it deeper, a reflection of continuing grief for CeeCee? Or did he resent Belle’s tying him to a past that had ended?
“Stan’s a trial lawyer. That’s how he and CeeCee met.” We moved toward Anders and his wife. “My son Anders.”
There was pride in Belle’s voice, but concern in her eyes.
Did she worry about what Anders might do or say at this moment? Or was her concern deeper, a mother’s recognition of a child at peril for some reason?
Anders brushed back a lock of dark hair. “Hello, Mrs. Collins. Your husband worked for the wire services.” His tone was almost contemptuous. Wasn’t that odd for the son of one of America’s most famous foreign correspondents?
“Sometimes. And so did I,” I said lightly. “And for assorted newspapers. And we freelanced. What do you do, Anders?”
He looked at me proudly. “I fight dragons, Mrs. Collins. Not a game your husband played. Or you either, I guess.” His gaze was pitying.
Dragons? What did this boy know about dragons? Richard escaped from Nazi-occupied France, but he parachuted back with American troops to cover the invasion. I could respond with a lifetime of Richard’s achievements, but that wasn’t—at this moment—the point.
“Everything’s different now,” Anders continued. “Back in the old days, the press was pretty much a toady to corporate America. But now environmental issues get the attention they deserve.”
Ignorance can be amusing. I wondered if he’d ever heard of the greening of America, if he had any inkling of how powerful the press had been in convincing at least one generation that war was wrong and people were more important than profits. Or, more profoundly, if he grasped the inconstancy of the public. And the press. This year’s darling can well be next year’s pariah, and it is also true of causes. One year the press worries about the plight of loggers, the next it trumpets the possible extinction of a rare species.
I met his gaze. “I told the world about a lot of different kinds of America, Anders. And so did my husband. Jonas Salk. Birmingham and Bull Connor. Watts. The Challenger. Habitat for Humanity. The good and the bad.” I refrained from pointing out that his mother’s private fortune was very much the fruit of corporate America. And asking whether he liked being a rich woman’s son with all the privileges that provided. I was still on my company manners. For the moment.
Anders gave me a condescending smile.
I smiled pleasantly in return though I understood exactly how much pleasure it must give a terrier to take a rat by the throat and shake it.
Belle’s gaze lingered on her son. She almost spoke to him, then, with a tiny shake of her head, she turned to his wife. Peggy’s face mirrored Belle’s uneasiness. Anders worried the women who loved him. Belle said briskly, “And this is Peggy, Anders’s wife.” She patted Peggy’s hand. “CeeCee introduced Peggy to Anders.”
“I’m so glad to meet you, Mrs. Collins.” Peggy’s voice was high and fluttery. I had a sudden picture of her at fifty, anxious and awkward. She wouldn’t be much changed.
“And what do you do, Peggy?”
She looked surprised. And pleased. “I have an antique shop, Mrs. Collins.”
So Peggy loved old and beautiful artifacts. And money, of course. Antiques require money.
I smiled and tucked another fact into my collection. Later I could sort through what I’d learned. But slowly, piece by piece, I was beginning to find out who these people were. And remembering—always remembering—that one of them was a murderer. I managed to keep on smiling.
Belle and I reached the piano. Joss still played softly.
Belle’s face was suddenly pinched and weary. “‘September Song.’ CeeCee loved it.” She reached out, touched her son’s shoulder. “My son Joss.”
He dropped his hands to his lap. “Hello, Mrs. Collins.” He started to rise.
“Please don’t get up,” I said quickly. “You play very well.”
“Thank you. I enjoy it. I’m glad you do, too.” He had all the charm his brother lacked.
“Joss is an actor,” Belle said without expression.
I glanced at her. There was a definite tightness to her mouth.
“Sometimes.” His good-humored mouth curved into a wry smile. “Resting, at the moment. But available. I do soaps, television movies, big screen, stage. Whatever. I’m for hire.”
I smiled in return. “It’s a tough life.”
Belle touched his shoulder. “Joss is also a wonderful writer. I’m trying to persuade him to come here. I can’t think of a better place for a writer to live.”
“Not this writer, Mom.” He said it nicely, but his voice was determined. The blue eyes that gazed up at her held a mixture of defiance and sadness.
“Nobody who’s alive would want to live here.” Then Gretchen clasped a hand over her mouth.
Belle drew her breath in sharply.
Wheeler came out from behind the bar. “Stuff a sock in your mouth, sis. And no more Mai Tais. How about you, Mrs. Collins? Let me fix you an island special.” He grinned at Belle. “Gretchen and I met Mrs. Collins at—” He paused for just an instant. “—near the tennis courts this afternoon.” He waved toward the bar. “One of my dad’s legacies. I can mix drinks better than a licensed bartender. Coco locos, fog cutters, scorpions. Name your poison.”
“I’ll take pineapple juice.” I stepped to the bar. “How about pineapple juice and ginger ale. With a squirt of orange juice and a squeeze of lemon.”
“Coming right up. I can even garnish it with an orchid.” He opened the refrigerator, picked out containers of juices.
“Wheeler, I have a lei for Mrs. Collins. On the top shelf of the refrigerator.” Belle smiled, but there was so little life and pleasure in that smile.
“Sure. Here we are.” He lifted out a lovely plumeria lei and handed it to his stepmother.
Belle slipped the fragrant wreath over my head. “Aloha.” Her musical voice made a lovely word even lovelier.
“Thank you.” I touched the cool petals. Welcome to paradise.
“There’s a lei for Megan, too.” Belle held out her hand.
He handed his stepmother the second lei, and Belle smiled her thanks.
Wheeler swiftly splashed juices into a tall frosted glass.
Megan sauntered gracefully toward us. “For me, too?” There was a childlike pleasure in her voice as Belle dropped the lei lightly onto her shoulders. “Thank you, Belle.”
“Of course.” Belle brushed back a strand of Megan’s lovely hair.
They stood close together, the young woman and the old, and I was once again struck by their resemblance—both fine-featured, both silver-blond, both tall and willowy.
Belle slipped an arm around her stepdaughter’s thin shoulders. “Megan is our exotic creature. She’s a model and spends her time in New York and Paris.”
“That sounds very exciting.” I smiled.
Megan’s perfect brows arched. “Oh, people think so. But it can be very tiring. And I get so hungry.”
“Then eat,” Gretchen said crisply. She was standing near the buffet. She picked up a shrimp ball and poked it into a pink sauce.
Megan sighed. “I never get to eat. Carrots. And club soda. But they pay me very well.”
There was an odd silence.
Belle looked at her in concern. “Megan, you aren’t starving yourself?”
For an instant, something dark and angry stirred in the model’s deep blue eyes. “Of course I am, Belle. All models starve.” She held up one slim arm and it was simply a bone sheathed in skin, a Picasso-like rendition of a limb.
Belle stepped back, looked Megan up and down. “I won’t have it. You certainly don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t have to. But I will.” Her vivid eyes flicked around the room, pausing just for an instant on each face in turn. “I”—and there was a marked emphasis on the pronoun—“don’t have to ask anyone for anything. Ever.”
Belle started to speak, then, her face stiff, turned away.
Wheeler looked amused. He darted a sardonic glance at his sister, then picked up a swizzle stick and twirled it in a tall frosted glass. “Here you are, Mrs. Collins.”
There was a sudden babel of conversation.
A tiny smile of satisfaction curved Megan’s perfect lips.
I looked at her with more interest. Yes, indeed, somebody was home. That would teach me—once again—never to succumb to first impressions. Or be swayed by stereotypes.
Anders gave a hoot of laughter. “Looking for a halo, Megan? They’re in short supply around here. But you have a lei. That may not please you, though. Did you know plumerias were first planted around cemeteries? So plumeria’s called the graveyard tree. And white means death, too.”
Belle was shaking her head. “It’s the Japanese who associate white with death, Anders. Not Hawaiians. Plumerias are very popular for leis.”
Megan reached up and stroked the delicate blooms. “I don’t know about you, Anders, but I’m not superstitious.”
“Don’t tease Megan,” Peggy said quickly.
“Oh, I’m not teasing,” Anders said softly.
Megan crossed to her stepbrother and swiftly dropped the lei over his head. “It’s just the thing for you, Anders. Enjoy it.”
Anders reached up. His hand closed tightly around the blossoms, crushing them, then he shrugged.
“That’s enough, you two.” Belle waved toward the buffet. “Come now, let’s have dinner.”
And what a delicious dinner it was: dainty steamed meat dumplings, egg rolls, and shrimp balls to dip in plum-brandy sauce; sea bass with pine nuts; spareribs with black bean sauce; bean sprouts and peppers; cauliflower with water chestnuts and mushrooms; and baked papaya.
I filled my plate with a sampling, not too much of any one food. I was more interested in the company. I took my time finding a seat, pausing to admire a spectacular flower arrangement with a half dozen bird-of-paradise flowers. So I ended up at a table with Joss, Anders, and Peggy.
Joss set out to charm us.
“…could have happened to somebody in a situation comedy. But this was real life!”
Peggy and I looked expectant.
“Not very real,” Anders muttered. He made a little pile of water chestnuts, then began to eat one after the other, crunch, crunch, crunch. The sweet-scented lei still hung from his shoulders.
Joss smiled at the ladies, ignored his brother. “I was on 101 and the traffic was snout to butt and we kept stopping. And stopping. I tried to make a couple of calls, but the static was busier than a porno site on the net.”
Peggy’s eyes widened.
Joss grinned at her. “Kitten, it’s a big bad world out there.” His drawl was deliberately provocative. “Anyway, there I was, stalled. I don’t like to waste time. So I decided to work on my lines for an audition the next day. Can’t get in trouble for that. Right?” He paused for dramatic effect.
Anders rolled his eyes. “Joss, don’t you ever make yourself want to puke?”
But Peggy and I watched attentively. We were a good audience.
Joss flipped up the collar of his sports shirt, mussed his hair so that a thick blond strand fell across his forehead, jutted his face forward.
It was generations ago but I wondered if Joss had ever heard of Richard Widmark, once the Hollywood king of menace. There was that same aura of horror about to happen, made doubly horrific because of Widmark’s gentlemanly appearance, as befitted a one-time English professor.
“I got you now. You won’t get away from me. Not ever,” Joss growled. “See this knife?” He raised his hand and a knife glittered. It was only a table knife, but he seemed a deadly figure of menace. It was the look in his eyes, the tautness of his muscles, the way his fingers gripped the knife, held it aloft, as if at any moment it might flash down in a violent arc.
“Ooooh,” Peggy shivered.
Joss’s face was suddenly transformed, a merry gaze, a brilliant smile. “Nice, huh?” His satisfaction was open and charming.
“Very good. But on the freeway—” I prompted.
“Never again on the freeway. Believe me. There I was. Practicing. Not bothering anybody. And there’s this gorgeous gal in a red Porsche, stopped right next to me. And you know what she did?”
“Called the cops on her mobile phone.” Anders sounded bored.
That didn’t bother Joss. “Damned if she didn’t,” Joss agreed. “Guess her model was pricier. No static. Anyway, the next exit a shitload of cop cars came on and I spent two hours at a substation asking them for Christ’s sake to look at my script! But all they wanted to talk about was the bone-handled hunting knife I’d been brandishing.” He leaned forward, his scowl pugnacious, jabbing a forefinger. “‘All right, buddy, explain this knife. What’s this knife for?’” He straightened his collar, returned the knife to his plate. “Can I help it if I like good props?”
“And good food and good whiskey and no-good women,” Anders muttered, pushing back his plate. He’d eaten very little. All the water chestnuts.
Joss scooped out a spoonful of mashed papaya. “Anders, go soak your head. It might improve your outlook on life. We’re all sorry for the little kitties and doggies who don’t have homes, but somehow we bear up.”
“At least I know what real life’s all about.” Anders’s voice was hard-edged.
Joss clapped his hand to his heart. “Oh, poor me. Lost in the canyons of Hollywood, adrift on a sea of celluloid.”
“And enjoying every minute,” I observed.
He grinned. “You bet I am.”
“Now, Joss, it’s fine for you to do what you want to do, but you have to admit that Anders’s efforts for animal rights have made a huge difference,” Peggy said earnestly. “Why, there was an article all about him in Time.”
I finished my last bite of cauliflower, savoring the faint seasoning of soy sauce. It seemed to me that Peggy’s comment didn’t need an answer. Instead, I looked at Joss. “How long have you lived in Hollywood?”
Just for an instant, fine lines creased the corners of Joss’s eyes. He looked much older. “Several years.”
The maid deftly removed our plates and offered us coffee. I shook my head.
“Several years,” Anders mimicked. He put two heaping teaspoons of sugar in his coffee. “Now you can come closer than that, bro. How about you dumped Janet and hit the road the week after CeeCee died.”
Joss’s eyes were cold and hard. “You never quite have your facts right, Anders. For the record, Janet dumped me. And it’s been a while.”
Peggy squirmed in her chair, bent close to me, and whispered, not very adroitly, “Janet was Joss’s wife.”
Anders watched the steam rise from his coffee like a diviner studying a portent. “Yeah, after CeeCee died, everybody got to do what they wanted to do, go wherever they wanted to go. Belle had a guilt trip. She’d pretty well kept us around in Dallas—working for the foundation. Of course, she meant it for the best. But after CeeCee was gone, Belle let everybody do what they wanted to do. Joss headed straight to Hollywood and Gretchen to D.C. and Megan to New York and Wheeler to Seattle.”
I had most of them pretty well assorted in my mind at this point. Joss was an actor, Gretchen a writer, Megan a model. “What does Wheeler do?”
For the first time, Anders looked genuinely amused. “Oh, he has a sailing sloop and takes out charters. Tough duty, right?”
“And you, Anders?” I asked.
“I stayed in Dallas. Somebody had to take over the foundation. I was elected.” He tried to sound casual, but he couldn’t suppress his satisfaction.
“Anders.” Peggy’s voice was anguished.
Anders ignored his wife, just as he ignored anything that wasn’t connected to the passion of his life, protection of animals and the environment.
There was no trace of the charming, ebullient Joss when he looked levelly at his brother. “You’re a fool, Anders.”
Anders looked dourly from Joss to me. “Am I?” He shoved back his chair, stood. He raised his voice a little. “I thought Mrs. Collins might like a little truth in packaging. Even if it isn’t her usual beat.”
The other diners looked toward us.
“What is your usual beat, Mrs. Collins?” Elise Ford’s voice was smooth, polite. She stood near our table, a shawl over one arm.
“I’m between projects right now.”
The silence lasted just an instant too long and I was aware of a wave of malignity. I looked searchingly at each of them in turn, but all I saw were inquiring expressions.
Elise raised an eyebrow. “Do you intend to write another true-crime book soon?” She lifted her voice. The words carried clearly across the lanai. She reached Belle, held out the fleecy white wrap.
Belle slipped the shawl around her shoulders. She, too, looked toward me, her face clear and cold in the moonlight like marble statuary in a garden.
So Elise had indeed been busy this afternoon. I supposed Belle now had my entire dossier. Had that seemingly innocent question been planned by the two of them?
I pushed back my chair and stood. “I’ve written one true-crime book. Several years ago. But at the moment I’m between projects. I’m looking forward to learning more about this lovely island. And getting to know all of you.” I smiled. “It’s been a fascinating evening. Good night.” I didn’t mind leaving the party early.
Let them wonder if there was a fox in the chicken coop.