Death in the Orchid Garden (12 page)

 

P
olice Chief Randy Hau had been at it for hours, interviewing hotel guests in this improvised police office that looked like a peacock's den. He'd be glad to return to his dull beige-walled office in Lihue when this was over. Not only were the surroundings overdone, but his stomach was growling. All he'd had to eat this day was that puny gourmet breakfast in the conference room. With this Matthew Flynn death, not only was he overdue for lunch, he was overdue at home to start a two-week vacation with his wife and little boys. He sighed, picked up his Coke from off the sandalwood desk, and gulped down the remaining contents.

Kauai-by-the-Sea's public relations manager Melanie Sando had turned her well-equipped office over to the chief for the interviews. Otherwise, he would have had a stream of protesting hotel clients traveling the twelve miles to police headquarters. Lieutenant Payne came to the office door, cocked his head back a fraction of an inch, and reported, “Got another one.”

“Fine,” said Hau. “Send him or her in.”

“Him,” said the lieutenant, looking dubious. “It's John Batchelder, one of the TV people.”

He'd had a few words already with Batchelder. What else did he have to offer? Maybe he was a nut-hatch, thought Hau. Suspicious deaths brought out the nutty side of characters who had their own theory of what happened.

“
Aloha
,” said the man, who wore only a bathing suit and one of the hotel's distinctive towels with green and white stripes and the hotel emblem slung around his wide shoulders. “I'm John Batchelder. We met in the police briefing this morning. I'm with WTBA-TV; I'm cohost of the gardening show.”

“I remember talking to you, Mr. Batchelder. You look excited. Sit down first and relax.” Hau could see the man was bursting to tell his story.

Batchelder sat forward in his seat and whipped off his sunglasses, revealing what Hau thought of as a sissy face. “Chief Hau, I heard something the other night, Thursday night, I guess. No, I take that back. It was Thursday afternoon when a group of us were talking about the Friday shoot at the tropical gardens. Now, I distinctly remember Dr. Flynn bragging about his assistant.”

“George Wyant, you mean?”

“Yeah.” Batchelder looked around the highly decorated office, momentarily distracted, or was he having second thoughts? “I feel a little uncomfortable about telling you about this. I mean, I have no gripe with George Wyant; I hope you understand that.”

“Just go ahead, Mr. Batchelder, with your account. What did Dr. Flynn say about his assistant?”

The young man's eyes were unusual, thought Chief Hau. He couldn't decide whether it was the shape of the eyes or the character of the man that gave them that look.

Batchelder said, “Matthew Flynn bragged about how well George Wyant could cut through the Amazonian jungles with his machete. Like a ‘knife through hot butter,' or some such metaphor.”

“That's very interesting, Mr. Batchelder. Did Dr. Flynn mention that he had a machete?”

“Yes, he said Wyant carried it with him in case he needed it when he went to the Na Pali coast, or something.”

Hau leaned back in the tall-backed leather executive chair. “Why would you think the machete was pertinent to Dr. Flynn's death?”

“Because of what Louise said when she first came back to the hotel last night. She told us Matthew Flynn had a terrible deep gash on his neck and that his head was partially crushed.”

“Of course. She told you and the Corbins that, right? I don't think she mentioned it to others, because I caught up with her and told her to keep the details to herself.”

Batchelder's remarkable eyes widened. “Oh, I'm sure she did. That was all she ever told us about it, except she did describe the way she hurt her hand.”

“How'd she say she did that?” The thrown rock had convinced Chief Hau that it was murder, for investigation showed there were few loose rocks on the top of the Shipwreck Rock cliff.

“She said she scraped it when she was moving his body back from the ledge.”

Good girl
, thought Randy Hau.
Mrs. Eldridge knows how to tell a white lie.

On the other hand, it didn't matter whether or not the Eldridge woman had gossiped to her friends. The word was already out through Bobby Rankin that this was more than an accident. In fact, when Bobby had dropped in a few minutes ago, he cheerily admitted to the chief that he was the one who'd passed the word that Flynn's head was almost “torn off.” No one but Hau and his evidence technicians knew that the pool of blood found this morning near the edge of the cliff indicated clearly that a murder was committed up there and the body then thrown over the edge.

“So, getting back to this machete, you apparently believe that it might be the murder weapon—provided that it was a murder.”

“That's what I think,” said Batchelder. “And what's more, I think you might find it if you sent some divers down off Shipwreck Rock.”

Randy Hau, a native of Kauai, knew that water and knew there was another slab of underwater lava laid down at some earlier time, all around 5 million years back. He and Bobby Rankin had just finished talking about how it might make sense to dive down and search that shelf and how Bobby could have the job if he did it discreetly.

Hau stood up behind his desk and extended his hand. “Good thinking, John Batchelder. We'll look into this.”

Batchelder smiled broadly. “I enjoy the thought of helping the police. Remember, I did tell you that Louise Eldridge has done just that on a number of occasions.”

Chief Hau nodded his head. “You mentioned that this morning. She told me that she wasn't interested in pursuing this case.”

Batchelder chuckled. “She may not want to, but I do. And when I learn something, I'm going to bring it right to you, Chief.”

“Um, Mr. Batchelder, do all the speculating you want, but please try not to get . . . involved. After all, if you think Matthew Flynn was killed, that means there's a killer out there. Right?”

“Right,” said the young man, looking uncertain.

“So you be careful. Let us do our job, okay?”

“Yes, Chief Hau, I take your point.” He bound out of the office, apparently eager to get on with things. Randy Hau rolled his eyes. It was one thing to have a local friend like Bobby Rankin helping him out, but John Batchelder was too much. Manic, Hau would say if he were to make a diagnosis. He just hoped the fellow didn't get himself in any deeper than he could handle.

The bane of the police's existence, the chief had heard, was the amateur detective butting in. He'd never had this happen before and it was dispiriting that it had to happen with his first murder case.

T
he kielbasa from the lagoon-side snack shop cost only three times what she would have paid at home, so Louise thought it a relative bargain, especially since the snack shop itself was picturesque, complete with faux thatched roof, to resemble an old Hawaiian house. Refreshed from her nap, she was at last doing the ultimate tourist thing: simultaneously eating, lounging, and reading. She could almost forget the recurring image of Matthew Flynn's eyes staring up at her.

She was well protected, shielded with a mass of shrubs and trees. She heard people chatting as they passed, but did not see them nor could they see her. Just beyond the foliage was a bench where people stopped to rest and converse in low but audible voices. One conversation was between giggling newlyweds. The bride had misplaced her birth control pills in the excess of luggage in their hotel room. The groom assured her that they probably wouldn't need them right away. Louise stared out toward the voices, knowing how wrong he was. She felt her back muscles tensing; the do-good busybody inside her said to leap up and tell this couple that they'd better find those pills if they weren't ready for a baby next November. She thought the better of it, sat back in her lounge chair, and reminisced.

She'd gotten pregnant with daughter Martha on her and Bill's honeymoon. It was something that caused her mother-in-law, Jean Eldridge, to count carefully back over the weeks once the baby was born. Martha had not cooperated and had been born ten days early. Jean's raised eyebrows had never lowered during Louise and Bill's twenty-two years of marriage.

She smiled and went back to her book and thought about her wonderful Martha. She'd never regretted the early arrival of that baby.

After a few minutes of solitude, she heard a new voice through the bushes. It was intense, though not excessively loud. “Either one of you is capable of murdering Matt,” said a man. “Chris hated it when Matt beat him out on that China trip. You disliked him on general principles, even though you pretended you were friends. What I can't figure out is why you couldn't leave the man alone, always bad-mouthing him every chance you got, trying to destroy his reputation.”

The voice belonged to George Wyant.

“Killing Flynn would have been a tempting possibility,” said another man. His voice was off-hand and cold. “Matt could be a nice guy, I'll admit that much, but he was a thief. He stole other people's ideas and ran with them. That's what he did with me in China, but he did it to others, too. Somebody just got ticked off enough to get rid of him, that's all.”

Louise could scarcely believe it, but the person talking was the seemingly shy and mild-mannered Christopher Bailey.

A woman spoke next; it took only a few words before Louise realized it was Anne Lansing. “How clever you are, George, deflecting suspicion from yourself onto Christopher and me. Ask yourself if any of those petty issues you're talking about constitute a reason for killing Matt. Conversely, you had every reason. With him out of the way, you have your magic plant discovery all to yourself. You no longer have to share credit with Matt.”

A few profanities from George Wyant, then a momentary silence. Wyant apparently walked off, while Christopher Bailey and Anne Lansing remained behind. They conversed in such low tones that she couldn't understand a word of it.

Louise had been totally relaxed in the hour between John's hurried departure and the arrival of these three bitter adversaries. Now, all was quiet beyond the green tree barrier, but she was a bundle of nerves, just the way John Batchelder would have liked it.

Though she hadn't wanted this to happen, all her detecting instincts had been activated by the conversation beyond the trees.

She closed her book. Mike Davis's account of the catastrophic ecology of California had lost its charm. It was time for a swim in the lagoon. Maybe it would get her back into the vacation mode she longed for.

She slipped her blue swimming goggles around her neck, leaving the rest of her possessions near her chaise longue, and walked out of her woodsy alcove to the edge of the water. With relief, she saw no one. She had shaken off Bruce Bouting.

Putting her goggles in place, she dove into the water, which she knew was deep in the center, and swam vigorously across it and down the waterway that led to the next pool, then across that pool and into another channel. Not wanting to run into Bouting, she returned the way she'd come. Once back in the greenery-shrouded surroundings of the first pool, she saw another swimmer preparing to come in the water. For a moment, she was dispirited, certain that Bouting had finally caught up with her. She pulled her blue goggles off her eyes to see better and was relieved to find it was someone else. Nate Bernstein.

Nate stood on the edge of the pool in a stylishly baggy swimsuit pulled dangerously low on his hips by the contents of the suit's huge cargo pockets. As he busily unloaded a water bottle, two paperback books, his cell phone, and a slim wallet, Louise thought he looked like a young, hip model out of a sports ad. But the effect was ruined when he glanced down at her and opened his mouth to speak. In a petulant voice, he said, “I don't know why you want to talk to
me
.”

“I want to talk to you?” she asked, treading water in the middle of the pool. “Who told you that?”

“That guy John. He said you're some kind of detective and you'd want to talk over the, quote, ‘murder' with me.”

“Oh, no, I wish he hadn't said that.” What could she do with her audacious colleague, John? “Uh, the talk of an alleged murder has put him in an investigative mood. I'm so sorry. It really has nothing to do with me. John's a little overeager. But he means no harm.”

Bernstein gave a wry laugh. “Then you'd better tell him to shut his big mouth. He talks a big game, all about how Dr. Reuter and I had reason to hate Flynn and did we know who might have wished him harm? He's as tactful as a stone. What gets me is that Dr. Reuter and I wasted so much time with you TV people. We gave so much and are going to get so little. I bet you won't even use the segment, will you?”

“I'm afraid that's true. Surely you can understand that. And it's a shame, because Dr. Reuter did so well in that tape.”

“Matt Flynn gets exactly what he deserves, but everyone else has to suffer.”

She swam a few idle strokes and turned to face him. He waited patiently on the steps. “That's harsh. What do you mean, exactly what he deserves?”

“Chickens always come home to roost. Live by the sword, die by the sword.”

She swam a few strokes closer to where he sat. “That is so violent.”

“It's just that Flynn ravaged the environment under the guise of saving it. Now the environment's ravaged him.”

“Another glib phrase, but not very accurate.” Here she was, drifting in the middle of this beautiful pool and getting angrier by the moment. “The environment didn't ravage him, Nate. Some person knocked him hard in the head and threw him off that cliff.”

Nate Bernstein looked triumphant. “I
knew
you knew the real truth. He didn't have an accident at all. Why, a guy I met on the beach said his head was nearly—”

“Stop,” she warned, “I don't want to hear the myth of the severed head again.” She ducked under the water and swam away, as if she could wash off all the idle statements.

When she came up for air, she was at the far edge of the pool and Nate Bernstein had entered the water and was swimming toward her. A little intimidated, she did a couple of backstrokes to put some distance between them.

“Hey,” laughed Bernstein, “what's the matter? You're not frightened of me, are you?” Actually, his large brown eyes level with hers were a scary sight. “Look, Mrs. Eldridge,” he said in a wheedling tone, “you're not a bad sort. Maybe you can understand this—did you ever think that Flynn's demise carried out a greater good? Maybe it was his bad karma that was his downfall.”

“Whose greater good are you talking about?”

He swam away, but called back before turning the corner out of sight. “I didn't say, did I?”

Louise's relaxing swim had been spoiled. She got up and sat on the big gray stone steps, deciding whether to return to her private reading spot by the tree or to the hotel. She glanced at Nate's little pile of possessions. The paperback on top had an intriguing title:
The Shape of Water
. She was tempted to examine the other title and to peek inside the slim wallet, but only briefly. Then her love of nature set her straight, as her gaze was caught by a nearby hibiscus bush. It was overburdened with magenta flowers. She strolled over and surreptitiously picked one—to relieve the weight on the branches, she told herself. Stashing the flower near her towel, she looked up guiltily and saw that someone had observed the theft. Nate Bernstein had silently plied his way back through the channels and pools. He climbed up and sat beside her, glancing at his possessions to be sure they hadn't been disturbed.

“Stealing flowers, huh?” he said, smirking.

“I'm sure no one will miss it,” she said.

“I really don't care,” he retorted, resting his head on a hand and staring morosely out into the pool. After a long pause he said, “Louise, I'm not as bad a person as you think.”

She looked at him curiously. “I'm glad to hear that.”

“The fact is, I don't know quite what's going on around here and I wish I did.”

At that moment, a person in swimming cap and goggles rounded the curve of the channel and swam into the pool. Charles Reuter, spying the two of them sitting on the steps, crossed the pool in three strokes and stood in the shallows, his dripping-wet goggles hiding his eyes. Although thin, he was muscular looking and fit. He pulled off his cap and goggles, revealing a tense, lined face. “Having trouble, Nate? Mrs. Eldridge, I bet you're asking too many questions. The fact is that neither one of us wants to talk to you.” He climbed the stairs and Nate deferentially got out of the way, while Louise sat where she was and caught the splash. “C'mon, buddy,” the professor said to his loyal assistant. “Let's get out of here.”

Talk about karma
, she thought,
meeting those two was the essence of bad karma.

In fact, her afternoon had been filled with trying encounters. She stood on the edge of the lagoon and dove vigorously and deeply into the center of the cleansing water, this time just barely touching the bottom with her outstretched hands. Then she swam off down the channel again, determined to go as far and as fast as her body would take her, Bruce Bouting and everybody else be hanged.