Death in the Orchid Garden (27 page)

A
s if traveling through some secret Hawaiian grapevine, the news spread rapidly through the hotel. A crowd began to gather around the table where she sat with Tom and the police chief. George Wyant, Charles Reuter, Nate Bernstein, and Ralph Pinsky had arrived—half of the contingent of eight visiting scientists from the mainland. Of the other four, two were dead and two were jailed. On everyone's lips was talk of how Anne Lansing had now been tied to the killings.

Wyant was the first to reach their table. He was clear eyed and professional appearing, in white shirt and clean tan khaki pants, his worn leather carryall slung over his shoulder, and hardly looked to be the same man who'd arrived stoned and unshaven last night in the Lanai Room. “I've
heard
,” George cried. “You bloody did it, Louise!” The young scientist reached down to where she sat and clasped both of her hands. “I can't thank you enough. You
cared
enough when Matt and Bouting died to pay attention and do something about it. And not only that, you treated me decently when almost everyone else thought I might be enough of a shit to murder my best friend.”

She smiled up at him. “I don't know why, but I always believed you didn't do it.”

“Whatever the reasons,” he said, bending down now and enclosing her shoulders in a giant hug, “I won't forget you when I'm down in those jungles.” As Wyant strode off, Ralph Pinsky, Charles Reuter, and Nate Bernstein, who were being filled in by the police chief, sauntered over to where Louise sat, to say good-bye and compliment her on helping to find the killer. Pinsky's and Nate Bernstein's congratulations seemed unreserved. Charles Reuter still looked at her with faint misgivings, as if no TV type could be trusted. A true believer, that one. She doubted that Marty Corbin would get
this
man to sign a release to sell that tropical garden interview tape to
Inside Story,
or any other TV venue. She couldn't say she'd blame him; Reuter was the only remaining living figure on the tape—besides Louise and John Batchelder, of course.

Finally, the group dispersed and there was only her and Tom Schoonover. As they walked outside along one of the hotel's flowery trails, he told her what bothered him. “Here you are, Louise, with all those cuts and bruises. You're lucky you're here and in one piece.” He waved a hand in a general northerly direction. “And your colleague up in Wilcox Memorial Hospital—my God, Louise, he narrowly avoided being killed. Most likely he'll bear the scars of his experience for the rest of his life.”

“I know where you're going with this.”

“You do?”

“You think we're foolish.”

He stopped her on the path. “Maybe a little foolish. And John much more so than you. At least you weren't poking around near a two thousand-degree stream of hot lava; being reckless in that environment usually means death. You thought you were safe when you went out on the hotel grounds and followed Bailey, but you weren't. Knowing as much as you did—I gather you were already suspicious of Anne Lansing—you shouldn't have gone out alone.”

She exhaled a big breath. “I know. I was afraid to wait, for fear we'd never find out who killed those two people.”

Tom smiled at her with those friendly hazel eyes. “Your intentions, Louise, are only too good. And so are John's, but I think he was imitating you, trying to outdo you, perhaps, and thus taking big chances.” He shook his head. Louise felt sorry for him: Here was a logical scientist, trying to fathom the souls of two reckless amateur detectives. “Frankly, you both suffer from, oh, I don't know how to characterize it . . .”

She looked at him. “I believe you'd call it hubris.”

“But hubris connotes arrogance and I don't believe you're arrogant. Next time, think before you act. Now, on a lighter note, I expect the rest of the visitors will be heading out on the afternoon flight. But I heard you mention to the chief that you might stay on so you could accompany John home. Promise to call me if you decide to stay over. Henry Hilaeo and I will be happy to tour you around. Maybe you'd like to check out Kauai's coffee industry, since you like coffee so much. Maybe hike some of the Kalalau Trail, if you're up to it.”

“The Kalalau Trail? I will be up to it.” It was a primeval wilderness that she never thought she'd get to see on this trip.

When Louise returned to her hotel room, she lay on the bed while she phoned her husband at his office in the State Department. She did a masterful job, she thought, of downplaying her adventures and emphasizing the fact that the killer was in custody. She didn't mention her cuts and bruises; there was no need to alarm Bill, for they would be partially healed by the time she arrived home Saturday. She'd decided she would delay her departure to accompany John home when he was medically evacuated. It was the least she could do for her friend.

Again leaving out the details, Louise assured her spouse that she'd have plenty of things to do in those few days. “More sightseeing, a little more shopping, maybe.” She didn't mention that she might hike the most treacherous trail in the Hawaiian chain. But after twenty-two years of marriage, her husband could read her well, even over the long distance line.

“Look, I figure you'll be hanging out with that Schoonover guy.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Let's just say I feel it,” said Bill. “I want you to be careful not to fall off knife-edged ridges. I also want you to be careful of something else. Remember that you're married to me and I love you and I'm waiting for you to come home to me. Don't think just because I didn't come over there to be at your side that I don't think about you, oh”—his voice was airy but with an underlying serious tone—“about once every hour.”

“Bill, you're a darling.” His statement was surprising. He seldom felt it necessary to proclaim his affection. But she supposed it was given in the same spirit as when she told Bill, when some attractive woman came onto him, that the interloper had better not try anything or Louise would scratch her eyes out.

After talking to Bill, she took a moment to leave a phone message for her
Post
reporter friend, Charlie Hurd. “Aloha,
Charlie. I'm busy right now, but I promise I'll phone you later this afternoon with as much of the story of the murders as the police will allow me to tell
.”

And finally, since she had someone she wanted to talk to, she took a walk on the beach. Fortunately, she was dressed for it in her beach-worthy sandals and shorts. Since the surf was up, only a small crowd populated the swimming and snorkeling beach; she set off in the opposite direction. Soon, she was near the end of the hotel property and could see Shipwreck Rock looming a short distance ahead. Though it was a perfect sunny day in the tropics, Louise shuddered as she recalled what happened last night on the precipice.

As she passed a tall pile of rocks, a man's voice called out. “So I see you're still among the living.”

It was Bobby Rankin. She could hardly see him lying in a shady crevice between the rocks, his body propped on one elbow. Wearing only tattered tan shorts and a hat that years ago was white, he looked as if he might be an encrustation attached to the ancient rubble. She slowly approached him.

“It's all due to you, Bobby,” said Louise. “I found out that the reason I'm among the living is because you have sharp eyes. That's why I came out to find you and thank you.”

His face broke into a semblance of a smile. She felt free to come closer.

He patted the sand beside him. “Come into my den. Sit down. Make yourself at home. Now that the murders are solved, you ought to relax.”

She laughed as she eased down next to him. “I marvel, Bobby, at how fast you get the latest news.” Looking up at the twelve-foot-high monoliths on either side of them, she said, “Is this one of your favorite spots?”

“I gotta say it is.” He cocked his head toward the rough, black walls with their myriad pockmarks. “Actually, I have a few things stashed in here where folks can't find 'em.” He uncurled from his recumbent position and sat up. His face was drawn and sad. “I was here last night, Louise. That's why I saw you being dragged off.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I can never thank you enough.” She couldn't help feeling pity as she looked at him. A wreck of a man, she thought, with bloodshot eyes, brown curly hair going every which way under that disreputable hat, bare bronzed shoulders held in an attitude of dejection.

He slanted a look at her. “You were worth saving. Though I guess I'd have done it for any good-for-nothing son-of–a-bitch, because I always have believed in the ultimate goodness of people. I'm excluding, of course, the gal who killed Matt Flynn and Dr. Bouting.” He shook his head. “People like her have no regard for anyone but themselves. Selfish people kill others, one way or the other—they cause some of us to want to drop out altogether.”

Louise knew this vague remark was as close as Bobby would ever come to telling her what happened to him twenty years ago, before he came to Hawaii.

He picked up a small shell and scraped it idly through the damp sand, all his concentration on this meaningless activity. Sliding another glance at Louise, he said, “Didn't it give you pause to think someone was tryin' to kill you?”

“Yes, it did.”

“Gave me a turn, too, said Bobby. He stared out into the waves. “It got me thinking about what I was doing here. Did I tell you I've been here for twenty years and three downturns in the stock market?”

“You mentioned you once were a broker but you didn't mention the downturns in the market. Are you beginning to rethink your lifestyle?”

Frowning, as if the idea were repellent to him, he said, “Yeah, I've been thinking about it since I woke up awhile ago.” He leaned closer to her and held out the thumb and forefinger of one hand, pressing them so close together that they nearly touched. “Louise,” he said in a husky voice, “that's how close you came to dying last night.” His tortured eyes sought hers. “That's because I was stoned out of my gourd. The only reason I saw you was because I had to get up to pee. I struggled out of my little cubbyhole and there the three of you were, trotting down the path, with you draggin' your feet. I went back in here and thought about it for a while, trying to sort it all out. When the search party came by, I knew I'd seen what I just
imagined
I'd seen.”

“Oh, Bobby,” she said. She reached out and put a hand on his arm. “I'm eternally grateful to you. But let's say you hadn't figured it out and they had pitched me in the ocean—it wouldn't have been your fault.”

He groaned. “Just the same, I can't help thinking about it. It makes me want to go straight, or at least a little straighter than I'm livin' right now. Maybe do a little more for people than I've been doin'. I'm thinking I might take up my buddies' offer.”

“What did they offer you?”

“Part ownership of that surf shop on the beach where you probably rented your snorkel equipment. I've made a lot of friends since I landed here and I give my closest friends advice on investing. You know, ‘get into techs, my friends,' and then, ‘get the hell
out
of techs, my friends' . . . They got out in time: they've done real well with my advice. Now they want to show me their gratitude.”

“That sounds perfect for you. It won't involve too much change.” Louise realized she was slipping into a familiar role—the caring mother validating her child. Ironically, Bobby was older than she was, but he seemed to need validation.

He nodded. “Yeah, I know the surf shop business; it isn't that hard. And I have a business head. I didn't leave
that
behind when I came here from the mainland.” With a sigh of regret he added, “I could even move into a house, I suppose, though that's a pretty radical step.”

“Maybe one step at a time. Take over the job and then see if it suits you to, uh . . .”

“To come in from the beach, like the spy who came in from the cold? Yeah, maybe I'll do that.” An ironic, soft laugh. “Unlike Alec Leamas, I hope no one shoots me when I climb over the wall.” His gaze returned to the ocean, as if it had all the ansers for him.

Louise stole a glance at her watch. “I have to get going, Bobby.” She stood up and brushed sand off her bare legs, then came out of Bobby's cubbyhole in the rocks. He scrambled to his feet and followed her, his eyes squinting as he walked into the sunlight.

“I'd like to stay in touch,” she said. “Can I write you at the surf shop?”

He smiled down at her, a real smile this time. “Sure. Pretty soon I'll have an e-mail address, like six billion other people on the planet. I'll drop you a line.” He reached out a big, rough hand and clasped hers. “You take care, Louise, you hear? And stay out of trouble, now.”

 

On the way to see John in the hospsital, she, Marty, and Steffi stopped first in Lihue at Hamura's Saimin Stand for a bite of lunch. It was one of the restaurants that Matthew Flynn had recommended; just as Flynn had predicted, the food was delicious—and also cheap.

When they reached the hospital, John had just wakened from a nap. The three of them sat around his bed, happy to see his dark-lashed eyes wide open. “So you've heard my story,” he said, in a weak voice.

Marty said, “Just the bare bones, John. Are you strong enough to give us the whole skinny?”

“Some of it, Marty.” He turned to Louise and explained. “It was on the plane that I decided Anne Lansing had something to do with Matthew Flynn's death.”