Death in the Orchid Garden (10 page)

L
ouise's WTBA-TV colleagues met her at the door as she was leaving the conference room. She hugged each one of them in turn, Marty, Steffi, John, all the while ignoring the curious glances of others leaving the room.

“How ya doin', Lou?” said Marty. “Hey, how's your hand?”

Before she could answer, he said, “In a minute we gotta talk and you can tell us then. Let's go to that orchid garden and get a drink.”

Steffi Corbin slid her arm around Louise. Her brown eyes were full of concern. “We were worried about you, Louise. Could you sleep last night after that horrid experience?”

“Not very well,” admitted Louise. “Maybe I'll go to the lagoon and take a nap—that is, after we go to the orchid garden.”

John Batchelder had a secretive smile on his face. “Louise, people have heard how good you are at solving crimes.”

She looked up at her handsome cohost. “And just how would they know? Did you tell them?”

“You don't mind, do you?” he asked eagerly. “Heck, I was kind of priming them, dropping the word here and there. I also told the police chief, just so he'd know. I thought you and I might do a little snooping.”

Louise stared at him and tried to keep her temper.

“Well, couldn't we at least talk about it?”

She closed her eyes and swept her hand over her brow, as if in so doing she could wipe away her fatigue. “I'm sorry, John, I'm too tired to even think about that. Besides, Bill would hate it if I stuck my nose in this.”

“Well, promise to think about it,” he said, as he walked away and started talking to Christopher Bailey and Anne Lansing.

If only she could creep back to her room, put on her bathing suit, and hide on the beach in dark glasses. But Marty needed to talk. And just because they were in Hawaii, she couldn't forget that he was her producer and her boss. It wouldn't be a talk; it would be a bitch session. She supposed he had good reason to bitch—his newly taped program had been blown. Yet it seemed a petty matter to fuss about in the wake of a man's death.

“Louise, wait up.” Tom Schoonover was hurrying over to intercept her before she left. The scientist's brow was furrowed with worry. “My dear lady, Chief Hau told me the whole story of last night. If Matthew Flynn had had life in him, I'm sure you would have saved it.”

“Thanks, Tom. I guess we're all upset about this. I hope Chief Hau clears things up in a hurry.”

Dr. Schoonover shook his gray curls. Louise noted that with each passing day that the untended hair grew, the man looked more like an out-of-work poet than a world-class botanist. “That's not necessarily going to be the case, not unless he runs into some good luck. People die all the time without someone establishing the cause. But the four of us are off now. We have a special visitor arriving at the gardens this afternoon—a professor who's doing a study of a species of Hawaiian fern.”

Suddenly all was put in perspective. The visit of the Three Tenors and the other elite botanists and the
Gardening with Nature
taping were only transitory items on this man's busy calendar. The National Tropical Botanical Garden constantly hosted important visitors from all over the world; topnotch scientists must use that base as headquarters for all sorts of special research.

Tom Schoonover's hazel eyes looked straight into hers. “You take it easy, Louise. I can see you're a bit traumatized over your experience.”

“It was hard to sleep. I ran everything over in my mind a thousand times.”

“That's why I was surprised when John Batchelder told me that you and he might put your heads together and look into the matter of Matthew's death.” He smiled and bent his head. “He told me of your pursuits in crime solving.”

“John shouldn't have . . .” She looked disconsolately over at her colleague, busily conversing now with Bruce Bouting.

“I don't think you should get into this,” said Schoonover. “It's a dangerous world, even in an amiable place like Kauai.” He reached out and gently touched her bandage. “For instance, look at the way you've already been injured, in the name of trying to save another. You should be very careful.”

Marty strolled up and hooked his arm in hers. “Excuse me, Tom. I need to whisk this lady away.”

Schoonover said, “By the way, Henry Hilaeo and I are joining the group going to the Big Island tomorrow.” A smile of proud ownership. “We Hawaiians like to keep track of the latest surface flow. This is the first chance I've had since I came back from the Marquesas.”

“Then I'll see you tomorrow afternoon,” Louise said, as Marty tugged on her arm.

The scientist put an index finger up, a teacher's habit, she suspected. “And don't forget—I've told the others— you need clothes that cover you, good walking shoes, a big bandanna or handkerchief, a generous bottle of water. Walking stick, optional.”

“Thanks,” said Louise.

“Off we go, Lou,” said Marty, hardly able to mask his restlessness. “See you later, Tom, but not tomorrow. Steffi and I are traveling to the north country.”

Steffi and John fell into step with them and they walked the short distance to the orchid garden. They took what Louise had begun to think of as “their” table.

She glanced over the adjoining hall and saw her old friend, the blue-and-yellow feathered parrot. The parrot returned her gaze and she looked quickly down, afraid he'd recognize her and start to screech again.

With a gin and tonic in hand, Marty grinned evilly over at her. “You should have had a drink, too. It's eleven-thirty, not too early. Whatever you have there, we can drink a toast to the fact that we've just blown about fifty goddamned grand.” He raised his glass and she automatically raised her mineral water, although she hated specious toasts. Steffi good naturedly contributed a clink from her glass of white wine and John with his cocktail.

“Maybe Matthew Flynn could be edited out,” proposed John. Louise didn't know what he'd ordered, but it was pink and reminded her of a Shirley Temple, which she and Bill used to order for their underage daughters.

She gave her cohost a quizzical look. “Mai tai?”

“Yeah,” he said sheepishly. “A special one with raspberry juice. It's a little early for me, but I need it to put some steel in my spine.”

Marty Corbin sat back and laughed. “Steel in your spine? Johnny boy, don't you mean ‘lead in your pencil'?”

John Batchelder looked offended. “For Pete's sake, Marty, I'm talking about getting up enough nerve to do a little investigating. I'm
not
talking about getting laid—you know I'm engaged to be married.”

Marty continued to chortle until Steffi reached over and gave him a companionable poke in the arm. “Cease and desist.”

Louise looked at the Corbins, Steffi in bright hues, as usual, Marty looking more comfortable now in his Hawaiian shirt and shorts. The couple looked happy, though Louise always worried about the next dame that might come along and catch her producer's eye. Their bonhomie made her wish again that Bill was here.

“With all due respect to editors,” she said, “I think it would take a genius to edit Matthew Flynn out of that tape. Let's consider ourselves lucky that we have some good footage of Tom Schoonover and Henry Hilaeo and the National Tropical Botanical Garden.”

Marty leaned forward with his forearms resting on the glass-topped table. He nodded vigorously. “I am, I am, I am. And we now have a great connection with the formerly elusive Dr. Bruce Bouting, who in previous years wouldn't give us the time of day when we tried to get him to stand still for a program. Him and his privately held empire. . .” He looked at Louise, then at John. “You two can hustle up to Philadelphia and visit Bouting Horticulture ASAP.”

“Or as soon as the flowers are in full bloom,” amended Louise.

“Yeah, we'll get a great story there, get that Anne Lansing and that goofy-looking Christopher whatever-his-name-is in action.” He exhaled heavily, leaned back, and swigged his drink. “That'll square it with the general manager. But I hate to think what will happen if I come home with a suntan and tell him we only got one lousy program out of this expensive trip. Yep, two programs are a much better outcome.”

Louise stared at her friend the parrot again. “It seems kind of cold and heartless for us to be so worried about losing money. Haven't we talked about it enough?”

Steffi reached over and patted Louise's hand. “You're quite right. Marty's talking way too much. My dear Louise, you must be in shock. I can't imagine what it would be like, doing what you did. CPR. Why, I wouldn't even know how to do it!”

Louise said, “It didn't do him any good, unfortunately. But I did have some inkling as to how to do it—I'd just read about the recommended method in
The Times
. You locate the center of the chest and apply pressure with your palms one hundred times a minute.”

Steffi said, “No breathing in the mouth?”

“No. And you're not supposed to let up on that pressure until someone comes along with mechanical equipment.”

“That must have about killed you.” Steffi's big eyes were wide with concern. Louise would have liked to tell her the whole story, of how the rock had fallen or been thrown and hit Matthew Flynn's shoulder. For how could she fail to notice the bandage on Louise's hand?

At that moment, Steffi asked, “And, dear, so what's up with your hand?”

“I scraped it on the rocks.” It was the same slight revision of the truth that she'd told to a couple of other people who'd inquired.

“Isn't it awful to know that a man we just talked to is dead?” said Steffi. “And such an attractive man.”

John Batchelder arched one of his well-shaped eyebrows. “A little on the loose side if you ask me.”

“Oh, John,” rebuked Steffi. “Thousands of people take drugs, if that's what you mean by loose. Anyway, it was his young pal who was high the other night, not Matthew Flynn.” She sighed. “I enjoyed meeting them, because it reminded me of my carefree hippie days in the late sixties.” Her languid gaze slid over to her husband, fifty-five, a bit jowly and with a decided paunch. Louise had to keep remembering this man was the object of Steffi's desire. “Remember, honey? Nobody knew or cared back then that drugs were so”—she wiggled the first two fingers of both her hands to indicate quotation marks—“‘evil.' We just enjoyed them for what they were, a nice, mind-altering high.”

“I think Matthew Flynn and George Wyant are—I mean, were—a product of their work environment,” said Louise. “If we were down in those jungles, we might sample some drugs, too.”

Steffi leaned toward her. “But Louise, having known Matthew Flynn just a little, doesn't it bother you at all that someone probably killed him? Don't you have any desire to investigate? I know you said you don't like to talk about that sort of thing, but—”

“I don't, Steffi, especially since the authorities haven't told us whether his death was an accident, or something else. The rest of you can speculate all you want, but I'm staying out of this.”

John had finished his drink in record time; he beckoned the waiter to come and take his refill order. “Not me, Steffi. I intend to go out there”—he swept an arm wide, to include the acres of hotel grounds—“and put my ear to the ground to see just how well I can do at this detecting business.”

His feckless grin scared Louise. But she really didn't care what her colleague was up to. “Friends, I'm going now to do a little snorkeling and then have a nap.”

Marty frowned. “What about the hand?”

“I can always put a fresh bandage on. If you need me for something, you can find me in a chaise longue underneath the monkeypod tree on the east side of the lagoon.”

Before she left, her acute vision picked up the fact that Marty and Steffi were holding hands under the table. What was it, Steffi's salutary poke in the arm, or maybe recollecting the old hippie days? Whatever it was, this vacation was turning out to be a real second honeymoon for the Corbins.

S
he'd navigated her way to the elevator and was ready to press the button when a strong arm reached out and restrained her. Dr. Bruce Bouting, a smile on his face, loomed just in back of her. “Louise!” It was as if they hadn't seen each other during the police briefing just a half hour ago.

“Dr. Bouting. Is the final session of the conference over?”

He flapped his big hand. “No meeting, in fact, transpired. It was impossible for us to concentrate under the circumstances. In fact, it seemed almost disrespectful to meet. We're all going to write a summary and send it to the chairman.” He held his outspread fingers together like opposing claws. “The chairman gets to mesh everything,” he said, as the fingers interlaced, “and come out with some kind of summary statement.” His laugh boomed out. “It will thereupon be sent to various botanical journals and get lost in the annals of horticulture.”

“Are you going up on the elevator?”

“Oh, no, dear. I'm in the President's Suite on the ground floor. It's on the corner at the end of the hotel, facing the sea.” He pressed a big hand on her arm. “Lest you think me extravagant, I allow Chris Bailey to occupy the other bedroom. And it's practical, since our business discussions often run late. I stopped you because I want a word with you. Can you sit for a moment?” He indicated the stone bench close to the elevator.

“For a minute, but I'm awfully tired. Last night was exhausting.”

She sat on the end of the bench, leaving the white-haired scientist with lots of room. But he sat so close to her that one could barely squeeze a quarter between. Peering down in her face, he said, “You were a real heroine, but that's not what I want to talk about. I've heard all about your detecting skills, Miss Louise, from your friend John.”

She laughed. “I've never been called ‘Miss Louise' before. Can you drop the ‘miss'? I'm Mrs. Bill Eldridge.”

“All right, Mrs. Bill Eldridge. Since you have an analytical kind of mind—and even more importantly, because you had the misfortune to find his body—I wondered what you thought happened to our friend Flynn.”

“He either fell, or someone pushed him.”

“And if the latter, who do you think might have done such a thing? It really bothers me; I keep thinking about it.” He angled his face closer to hers. Was he trying to intimidate her? If so, she wasn't going to let him. “Did you see something last night that would give you a clue?”

“Dr. Bouting,” she said in her calmest voice, “I met Matthew Flynn only three days ago. All I knew about him was from his vitae and a couple of newspaper and magazine articles that I read. How would I possibly know, or be able to guess, who'd push him off a cliff, if it turns out someone did?”

“Fine, fine,” said the scientist, bobbing his white head up and down. “That's fine. You wouldn't be able to guess, even though you were there trying to resuscitate him. And I suppose if you'd seen something additional, the police would have told you to keep it to yourself.”

“Perhaps they would have.”

“So I guess you have no theories at this time. Well, I do. And I wanted to share them with you.” His eyes were full of excitement; she wondered what sick beast Matthew Flynn's death had awakened in him. Perhaps he was one of those voyeurs who dallied at fatal car crashes so they could see broken bodies, or who endlessly dwelled on macabre murders reported in the media.

She looked at him without speaking.

Apparently sensing she was losing patience, Dr. Bouting went on quickly, “Flynn is more than a ‘medical' plantsman. He has gone, in recent years, to several continents—oh, probably more than several—but several that I know about, at least. His celebrity as a plant explorer has put him much in demand from this one and that one. On each of those trips, one in Turkey, one here in Hawaii, and one in, of all places, China, he's beaten out some other poor bloke by discovering a new and valuable species. Now, is that not a motive to kill?”

His face was within inches of hers. She noticed he'd cut himself badly on the chin while shaving and the septic stick he'd apparently used to quench the flow of blood hadn't quite done its job. Had the man been nervous about something?

She said, “One needs a very strong motive to kill. There are always more new plants, aren't there? People are always winning and losing, aren't they? And even you—I hear that you're probably the most renowned collector, I mean in terms of quantity, if not quality. I can see you leaving your competition behind in the dust, just like Dr. Flynn may have done.”

He broke into laughter and used this as an excuse to sling an arm around her shoulder. Once there, she could feel his fingers pressing randomly into the flesh of her upper arm, as if he were fingering piano keys. “My dear, you are charmingly frank. I am tops at uncovering new varieties, especially ones I think your average backyard gardener will love. But I hasten to add that I am not among the three people that Matthew Flynn, in recent years, has beaten out with his discoveries.”

“Who are you referring to?”

“Well, Tom Schoonover and Henry Hilaeo, for one—I treat them as one, for it could be one or the other, or maybe a conspiracy between the two of them. Flynn made a huge orchid find here a few years ago right under the noses of the folks at the NTBG.
Cattleya brassavola ‘Flynnia,'
I think they call it.”

“They named it after Matthew Flynn.”

“Yes. And in Turkey, Flynn bested Ralph Pinsky. Do you know Pinsky?”

“I know who he is. He was in the room this morning, I noticed.”

“Yes, indeed,” laughed Bouting. “You can't help noticing him. He's white as a ghost—looks like a new species himself. And his chest is caved in; maybe the poor guy has consumption.”

The scientist paused in his account to give Louise a knowing smile. “Ralph's like me: very successful, but flies under the radar. He's not even as public a personality as I am, but almost as successful at finding plants. Fancies himself, of course, as a little superior to me, because he tests his imports practically to death. He can afford to; he's publicly funded. If I did that, I wouldn't make a dime.”

“What happened in Turkey?”

“Let me tell you the story. He got dealt out of the discovery of a fantastic new Turkish tulip. It was rumored to be growing in the Taurus Mountains for years. Matthew Flynn found it right in there when Pinsky also was searching. It's thought a little spy might have tipped Flynn to the location.”

“When did this happen?”

“Last fall,” said the white-haired scientist. “And when I say searching, I mean Pinsky was practically killing himself. He's not been a well man, not up to plant explorations any more, though he disguises it well. I heard it was to be his last trip.” Bouting gave himself a demonstrative tap on his cheek. “What a slap in the face to have someone deal you out of your final, great discovery!”

“Hmm,” said Louise. She had barely heard of Ralph Pinsky and now Dr. Bouting was proposing him as a murder suspect.

The arm was still around her shoulder. She said, “Dr. Bouting, I'm not running away. It isn't necessary to put your arm around my shoulder.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said, taking his arm away. “I hardly noticed.”

“Now, who's the third man?'

A little laugh. “Actually, my good employee, Christopher Bailey. This gorgeous little two-tone mum plant in the hills of southern China—Chris had heard about it and was planning on chasing it down, but along came Matthew Flynn the season before him, to take credit and promote it into production, actually, with that company, you know the name . . .” He looked blank, but then snapped his fingers and smiled. “The
Florissant
Company—there, it came back to me. I believe he has some kind of arrangement with Florissant.” Louise guessed that Florissant was one of Bouting's biggest competitors.

She turned and looked straight into Bouting's shiny blue eyes. “This is all interesting, but it has nothing to do with me. Why don't you tell the police all these things?”

He waggled his head in a manner she thought frivolous for a man his age; the waggle said,
I'm smarter than you think!

“Oh, I did, my dear,” he said. “I told that police chief about Ralph Pinsky and how he has such a reputation to uphold and of course so do these guys out here on Kauai at the National Tropical Botanical Garden. I mean, not with the public, but they have to live up to their own private expectations. I believe Tom Schoonover is in that same lofty category as Ralph.”

“Did you tell the police about Christopher Bailey's experience with Dr. Flynn?”

The scientist averted his gaze. “I meant to, but quite frankly, Louise, it slipped my mind. As I said, I told Chief Hau of the other two contretemps with Flynn. But I will do so, next time I see him. I'm telling you all this, Louise, because sometimes amateurs do the best job at solving crimes.”

“If it was a crime.”

He reached over and took her left hand. “My dear, you are so engaging. I won't trouble you further if you don't feel like putting on your investigator hat and corroborating all the beach gossip. I thoroughly enjoy talking to you, no matter what you decide to do.”

She gently took her hand back and stood up. “Excuse me. I have to go now.”

“As for myself, I think I'll go to the lagoon for a swim.” The blue eyes gleamed again. “Maybe I'll see you there?”

It took an effort to keep the disappointment off her face. If she went to the lagoon, instead of the quiet afternoon sunbathing and swimming she'd looked forward to, she'd be stuck with this amatory old man. She knew conferences were fraught with romantic couplings and she shouldn't let Bouting's flirtatious ways bother her. For all she knew, he treated all women the same way.

She came up with a solution. She would go snorkeling first, then hide out in a woodsy alcove closer to the monkeypod tree; that was where she would drag herself, her chaise longue, and her Mike Davis book,
Ecology of Fear.
She would enjoy the solitude there.

Bouting was still waiting for an answer. With a man like him, one had to feint.

“I may just rest in my room.”