Death in the Orchid Garden (14 page)

L
ouise was to meet her friends at ten and it was already twenty after. She'd rushed into her tour clothes, a lightweight wash-and-wear white shirt with red bandanna and cargo pants that, if necessary, could be unzipped to make into shorts. She descended the elevator and tried to hurry down the big hotel hall, though it felt as if she were walking through a very thick mass of air. That was what a sleeping pill did for her and why she rarely took one.

She was approaching the end of the hall, with the orchid garden lanai on one side, the parrot's cage on the other. As she was about to pass the cage, she was horrified to see the bird glaring at her in recognition. He ruffled his feathers, as if he were winding up for a performance. That turned out to be true. Jumping up and down on its perch, he screeched the same line as when he first met her: “Bad baby . . . bad baby . . .
bad baby!”

“Oh, just shut up!” she hissed at him. “I didn't do anything to you—I'm
not
a bad baby!”

A cluster of four passing tourists looked at her in disgust. “Can you believe anyone would talk to a dumb bird like that?” said one.

“No, only an idiot would,” said another. “She must have been rude to it in the past for it to call her names like that.”

Louise slunk her way down the steps and into the dining room. To her relief, she spied her colleagues, Marty, Steffi, and John, already seated at a table on the terrace. She made eye contact with a nearby waitress to signal the need for coffee, then sat down. “Hi,” she cryptically greeted her companions, then put on her dark glasses, took her crushable Kauai-by-the-Sea hat from her carry-all, and pulled it down onto her head. That damned bird would never recognize her again.

“Well,
hello,
Lou,” said Marty. He looked self-satisfied, easy for someone who'd already finished his princely breakfast. “Is that a disguise? What's the matter with you?”

To Louise's numbed ears it sounded like “Whassamatta-widyou?”

“Give me a moment. I've been seriously harassed on the way here.”

“No kiddin',” said Marty. His brown eyes snapped with anger. “Who harassed you? That Wyant fellow?”

As Louise shook her head, Steffi said, “Was it that police chief?”

“No and no,” said Louise. “It's that dratted parrot.”

John Batchelder, polishing off an omelet with pancakes and sausage on the side, threw back his head and laughed. “That's giving me the first laugh I've had in days. A parrot, giving Louise Eldridge a hard time!”

Louise stared at them darkly, through deep-tinted Armani lenses. “Just answer me one question: Does that bird scold any of you?”

“You mean the one across from the orchid garden?” asked Steffi. “Or do you mean the one farther down the hall?”

“The blue and yellow guy across from the orchid garden.”

One by one, they shook their heads. Marty asked, “What does he say to you that's so terrible? Does he cuss you out?” He chuckled. “Or does he make dirty cracks?”

“No and no,” she said again, annoyed at her companions. “It's just so demeaning. He yells ‘bad baby' when he sees me.”

Her colleagues laughed. John said, “You are kind of a bad baby, you know.”

Marty said, “Don't be a wuss, stand up to that bird.” He laughed again.

“You think it's funny,” she said, flipping shut her menu with its endless choices. She already knew what she wanted, an abstemious breakfast of granola and juice. “It wouldn't be so funny if it were happening to one of you.”

Steffi said, “Sweetie, you're probably still suffering post-traumatic stress from finding that dead man, Dr. Flynn. I hope you got some good sleep last night.”

“I did, Steffi.” She squeezed her friend's hand back; she needed someone like Steffi to be kind to her at this moment.

Marty dabbed his mouth with his napkin, leaned back, and said, “Well, Steff and I are off for a drive to the north shore. But you and John can have a nice relaxing day visiting the Big Island. Kilauea is all over the news this morning. A new vent has blown its stack. The crowds it's attracting are enormous.” There was growing irony in his tone and a devilish look in his eyes. “What could be more relaxing than standing on a volcano that's spewing molten rock high into the air?” He leaned over to Louise and said, “Honey, there's worse things than a hysterical parrot. You and John just try not to get burned up, you hear?”

It wasn't until the van had taken them to Lihue Airport that Louise realized Tom Schoonover had come on this field trip to the Big Island for a reason beyond viewing the new lava flow. At the airport gate, Tom cleverly drew the other twelve in the group together to talk about lava viewing. The scientist was dressed casually, as usual, in tan shirt, shorts, and ball cap. They hovered around him like a class of schoolchildren.

At that moment, Louise knew that Chief Hau had urged Schoonover and Henry Hilaeo to come with the group as an additional element of security, an undercover element. And Tom was pulling it off: The two Kauai County policemen assigned to the group stood back politely while he outlined a plan with the know-how of a professional tour guide.

“Lava viewing, folks, and I'm sure you who have experienced it before will agree, is the most fun at dusk.” An enthusiastic raising of his eyebrows created a mass of friendly forehead wrinkles. “And this is an historic moment in the current Kilauea activity event. As of the day before yesterday, not only is there an active vent directly into the sea, but a new flow has broken out of a fissure a mile from the ocean. Lava is spewing high into the air and creeping down to the water. Allegedly, these are the highest geysers seen since the Puu Oo vent broke open in 1992. This surface flow of pahoehoe makes it easy viewing for a change. We won't have to walk over acres of hardened a'a, which is often the case when you come here—it's rough and crackly and hard as heck to traverse, so thank your lucky stars you don't have to cross it. So, we'll shoot for getting there at dusk. Okay?”

There was a murmur of agreement.

Schoonover rubbed his hands, as if in anticipation. His hazel eyes crinkled with pleasure. “Let me finish quickly. Since we arrive at Volcanoes National Park around twelve thirty, that gives us three hours to see the other sights. Some may want to come with me when I hike the Kilauea Iki crater; it is adjacent to the larger crater. It takes you across an old lava field with lots of new plant growth in it and a tropical rain forest as well. I have to warn you that it's a little steep in spots.”

John Batchelder gave Louise a wall-eyed look; she guessed he wouldn't choose to take the crater hike.

Schoonover continued in a reverential voice. “These craters, folks, with their steam vents and tiny new trees, are the essential story of the volcano—destruction leading to rebirth.”

“I'll go down the crater with you,” said Charles Reuter with a grin. “You had me with ‘old crackly lava field.'” Louise was glad to see the man had a little humor in him. “Nate will come, too.”

“Great,” said Schoonover. Apparently sensing he'd digressed, he snapped back into a practical mode: “Some may prefer an easier trip—driving around the big Kilauea Crater, maybe visiting the museum, and walking the Thurston Lava Tube. If you do the tube, remember the best part is the second part, which is pitch dark and has stalactites.

“In other words,” he continued, “we can go in two directions. Sergeant Yee and Sergeant Binder”—he nodded at the two uniformed policemen—“have agreed to be our drivers. They'll pick people up at one of two places. At four o'clock, the two carfuls can regroup at Volcano House and we'll grab dinner. That gives us plenty of time to drive in tandem down Chain of Craters Road and park as close as possible to the fireworks. Once there, we employ the buddy system; it's better to be with someone than to be alone.”

Sergeant David Binder chimed in. “A reality check, folks: The plane back to Kauai leaves Hilo at ten-thirty. That means we have to depart the Volcanoes National Park area promptly at eight. That allows maybe a couple of hours to view lava. We'll have lots of company down there at the vent because people all over the world have heard about it. You'd never get a hotel room on the Big Island, so good thing we're flying back tonight, where you do have a room.”

Schoonover smiled at the policeman and turned to his little tour group. “The lava's an absolutely captivating sight and you'll feel like staying all night. But under the circumstances, we're lucky to be able to make this trip at all. Two hours of viewing ought to be fine.”

 

I
t was a windy trip and the pilot had warned there might be turbulence, but they had nearly reached the Big Island. Travel time to Hilo from Lihue was less than an hour. In that scant period, Louise, sitting in a rear seat, watched Bruce Bouting in safari hat and dashing khakis flourishing a silver-tipped cane and working the plane like a celebrity working a room. His hat shoved well back on his thatch of white hair, the plantsman was the picture of a bon vivant, she noticed. The only thing missing was a drink in his hand. And yet he was a high-strung bon vivant, talking a little too much for anyone's comfort, his blue eyes darting about as if he were concerned about a surprise attack from the rear.

He chatted about things Louise knew from reading travel books: how this hottest spot on earth with its myriad volcanic craters had attracted thousands of people over the years, including notables like Mark Twain and European royalty, who stood gaping in awe at the boiling lava in the Halemaumau crater.

“It's a truly hypnotic experience, if you haven't been here before during an eruption.” He spoke of how they would have to be careful, since the steam vents occasionally broke open and scalded a bystander or two to death. “Or, even more remotely, the earth could open up right by your feet, exposing a brand-new vent in a lava tube that has been pressured toward the sea.” On a more personal note, he told them about how he'd tumbled down the steps to the hotel dining room this morning. “A depth perception thing, you know.” He'd ended up with a sore knee. Thus the cane. He'd have to save the knee for walking down near the lava flow.

Injured knee or not, he hardly sat at all on the short trip, traveling from seat to seat. He started in back, chatting first with her and John, who had been busy talking about some future program ideas for
Gardening with Nature
.

Since Louise sat in the aisle seat, Bouting took that as an excuse to lean into her space; she could even smell his peppermint breath. Hadn't he understood her message that she was married and unavailable? It was a windy day today. She wondered what would happen if they ran into turbulence. Would the flirty old coot topple into her lap?

Then he'd moved over for a few polite words with Nate Bernstein and Charles Reuter. Reuter, for a change, didn't give him the cold shoulder. Maybe the prospect of a field trip had mellowed him. Next, Bouting had a conversation with Ralph Pinsky, the one he'd claimed had a possible reason to murder Matthew Flynn. It was short and apparently unproductive, with Pinsky seemingly more interested in adjusting and readjusting the cord on his wide-brimmed Trilby hat than talking.

Louise knew how hard it was to engage the soft-spoken Pinsky, for she'd tried to talk to him as they'd waited to board the plane. He'd looked down at her through those blank eyes and deflected every question. Then he turned the tables and inquired about her, her TV program, and even asking her what she raised in her northern Virginia garden. His pleasant midwestern twang barely masked his standoffishness.

Bouting stopped next to talk to Tom Schoonover and Henry Hilaeo, but that was also a no-go, since Tom was busily editing page proofs and Henry was his usual taciturn self.

Finally, the scientist approached the two sober-faced Kauai County policemen sent with them on the trip and tried to jolly them up a bit. Then, looking drained, he returned to his seat near his seatmate, Anne Lansing, who was togged out in a khaki-colored suit with a turquoise bandanna at the neck. He jumped up again when he spied Christopher Bailey leaving the minuscule restroom and limped up to his aide. This forced Ralph Pinsky to crowd around the horticulturalist to get into the restroom and John, next in line, to press against the bulkhead.

Bouting began whispering to his aide, appearing agitated. Christopher looked at him with his usual devoted and businesslike expression and tried to calm him down. Anne then got up and joined them, offering Bouting a pill and a plastic water bottle. Once he'd downed the pill, she and Chris quietly persuaded their boss to return to his seat.

Louise wondered about the exact state of Bruce Bouting's health. Today, his infirmities were noticeable, but fortunately, Chris and Anne were there to act as nurses. She was relieved that the man had finally come to rest; he had tired her out just watching him.

Only George Wyant, huddled in a seat behind the cockpit and frowning out the plane window, had been spared Bouting's manic chatter. Wyant was a traumatized human being, she observed, only a shadow of his cocky, youthful self. Was it because he'd killed Matthew Flynn and knew the cops were closing in, or because he didn't kill him and wondered who had? One thing was sure, everyone in this group thought Flynn had been murdered. Thanks to the young man's public outburst last night, word had spread that his machete was missing and the police were suspicious of him. They also knew that divers had gone down off Shipwreck Rock to look for a discarded weapon. It would be an uncomfortable day for George Wyant.

Louise was startled out of her thoughts when the plane took a hard bounce. The pilot immediately came on the loudspeaker and warned that they'd encountered “a little rough air.” This sent John Batchelder hurrying back to his seat.

As he secured his seat belt, he turned to Louise. “I have something to tell you.”

“What's that?”

Just then, the plane made a convulsive sweep downward, then up again. Her colleague froze in his seat and closed his eyes. John was suspicious of the least deviance in airplanes, even the sound of landing gear descending and retracting, much less this bucketing-bronco ride. “I'll tell you about it later,” he said through clenched teeth.

In the hustle and bustle of leaving the plane, she failed to ask him what he wanted to tell her, for he was still shaky from the rough landing. And she had her focus on another person, George Wyant.

She decided to take the initiative. True, the police might be checking him out as a murder suspect, but she felt sorry for the young man. It wouldn't hurt to be nice to him, especially with two uniformed police around in case she'd judged him too sympathetically.