Twenty Blue Devils (8 page)
Nick had put all his money into a large copra plantation on Tahiti. ("The truth is, I didn't even know what the damn stuff was. I didn't know if you farmed it, or grew it on trees, or raised it on the hoof.") He'd done well with it too, but sold off most of the land a few years later and used the money to buy property on the outer islands, where he'd eventually opened a chain of four small hotels that he still owned. The remainder of the old copra plantation was now the Paradise Coffee farm, and although Nick still talked longingly about building more hotels—in particular a huge golf course resort on Bora Bora—his energies had gone increasingly into the coffee business.
Dean, more single-minded, had gone about it differently, sticking to his first project for almost fifty years now. He'd bought a decrepit old hotel on a near-worthless strip of beach between Papara and Paea, torn it down, put up a sprawling collection of ocean-front bungalows—he'd hammered nails right alongside the Tahitian carpenters—and christened the place the Shangri-La. Luck had been on his side. When the new international airport at Faaa eventually opened, turning Tahiti from a remote beachcomber's haven to a jet-set destination, there was only one decent American-style hotel on the island, and the Shangri-La was it.
According to Nick, that's the way it had remained for almost five years, and Parks had raked in the cash. More recently, the hotel chains—the giant Sofitel, the twelve-story Hyatt built into a mountainside—had siphoned off the more lucrative of the American tour groups, but the Shangri-La still had arrangements with several foreign airlines and was holding its own with a steady flow of groups from Chile and Hong Kong. And Dean was a great guy who took care of them in style. Not to worry.
"I'm going to take off now,” Nick said. He smiled at his old friend. “I really appreciate your waiting up for them, Dean."
"No problem. At what I'm charging you, I can afford to give personal service. Shoot, their keys are in the office. I'll be right back."
Nick waited for him to leave. “Um, by the way,” he said, looking just a little sheepish, Gideon thought, “tomorrow, at dinner? Could we not say anything about—well, you know.” He mimed digging with a shovel. “I haven't gotten around to telling them why you're here yet."
Gideon and John looked at each other. There was something funny in the air, all right.
"Nick,” John said, “that doesn't make any sense. They already know why we're here. They were right there when we talked about it at my house, remember? Nelson, Rudy, Maggie—"
"Yes, but they don't necessarily know that's why you're here
now
. They think you're just coming for the memorial service."
"And me?” Gideon said.
"So? John brought a friend along."
Gideon shook his head. “But I'll be gone by then. Besides, I don't like to—"
"Look, guys, could we do it my way, please? Can't we at least have a nice, friendly family get-together first, without spoiling it with...Look, I promise I'll straighten everything out the next morning. I just hate...ah, what the hell.” His face sagged with exhaustion; the exchange, along with the hour, had taken the starch out of him. For the first time he looked his years. His tired eyes appealed to them. “Just humor me, okay? Just trust me.” He smiled crookedly. “Hell, I guess you must think I'm being pretty funny about this."
Yes, Gideon thought he was being pretty funny, but Parks returned before he could say anything, and Nick made his goodbyes.
"See you next week, Dean?” He dealt imaginary cards. “Old Geezers’ Monthly?"
"Seems like a reasonable assumption,” Parks said, “seeing as how I haven't missed but one game in twenty-two years now and that was when I had my gallbladder out."
"Good, I'm planning to get some of my money back."
"Whup your ass,” Parks replied.
Nick laughed. “And keep it quiet around here in the morning, will you? See that these two get a good night's sleep. Oh, and book ‘em a rental car. On my account. A
good
Renault.” And with that he was gone.
Parks rang for a husky, sleep-puffed Tahitian porter in a lavalava to take their bags, then led them back himself through the dimly lit reception lobby, moving on lean, long, stiff-jointed legs. The Western look made it only down to his calves. No boots. He was wearing jogging shoes, the kind meant for comfort, not jogging; old men's shoes, purple and gray and stubby, with Velcro straps instead of laces.
"Kind of quiet here right now,” he told them. “You should see it when those crazy Chileans come here. You talk about party animals."
The lobby was built Polynesian-style, without outer walls or doors, more a large breezeway than a room, with rattan chairs and tables arranged in casual groupings on a dully gleaming tiled floor. They went past the empty bar and restaurant, the darkened gift shop, and the travel agent's desk, and finally out to the slate terrace in back, where Parks switched on a flashlight. Then across a lawn of close-cropped grass and onto the moonlit beach. Teacup-sized, pale gray land crabs scuttled sideways out of their path and disappeared into the scores of holes they'd bored in the sand.
Parks stopped at the first of a row of thatch-roofed, bamboo-walled cottages that lined the rear of the narrow beach and handed them keys. “This place's yours, Gideon. You're next door, John. Either of you boys stayed in a thatch-roofed place before?"
Gideon shook his head.
"Not since I was a kid,” John said.
"Well, let me show you the way you best go in at night. First you put a light on.” He climbed the three wooden steps to the door and flicked a switch. A light came on somewhere inside, but the main room stayed dark. “Now you wait,” he said “Give it a minute or so to let the mosquitoes and things go into the bathroom, where the lights at. Then you run in real quick and spray in there—there's a can right near the front door.
Then
you put on the rest of the lights, see?"
"What do you mean, mosquitoes and
things?"
John asked. “What else you got in there?"
Parks laughed. “Oh, that's about it. Actually, they shouldn't be much of a problem. Been a dry year. But nobody's used these cottages for a couple weeks, so you never know. Oh, yeah, one more thing: when you spray, always spray down. Don't never aim it at the ceiling."
John glowered suspiciously at him. “Why not?"
"Because whatever's up there living in the thatch, you'd best just leave it alone, that's for dang sure."
After a brief pause John spoke. “Say, Dean, you wouldn't have any rooms with regular walls, would you? And a regular ceiling? I mean, this is real nice and everything—"
"Hell, don't worry about it. It's nothing but lizards. The worst they do is fall off, kerplunk, once in a while, but they just pick theirselves up and scoot back up the walls. Besides, they eat the bugs."
"Oh, lizards,” John said, relieved. “We had lizards in Hilo when I was a kid. Lizards I can live with."
Gideon wasn't so sure
he
could, but there didn't seem to be much choice, and he was too tired to worry about it. There was only an hour or two left until daylight and he was aching to lie down. If he didn't sleep on his back with his mouth open, which he usually didn't, how much of a problem could falling lizards be?
"Nighty-night, then,” Parks said. “I'll see you fellas tomorrow."
They waited until he was out of earshot, John spoke first. “What's this about Nick's not getting around to telling them what we're doing here?"
"What's this about Nick's not getting around to getting the body exhumed yet?” Gideon answered. “I should have been able to get going tomorrow, John. The body could have been back in the ground long before the memorial service. You'd think he'd want that, wouldn't you?"
John nodded. “Something weird's going on, don't you think?"
Gideon slowly climbed the steps, turning around before he opened the door.
"That's for dang sure,” he said.
As Parks had promised, there was an aerosol spray can on a little shelf beside the door. Gideon read the label in the light from the bathroom.
Timor—Protection Contre Insectes Rampants
was the alarming legend, on a background depicting a particularly large and depraved-looking cockroach.
The bathroom was full of flowers and potted plants. He fancied he could hear a contented buzzing coming from it. Above his head, in the bedroom, a tiny movement caught his eye, and when he spotted a three-inch gray lizard, lit by the light from the bathroom, on one of the slanting roof struts, it seemed to run shyly from his sight, burrowing into the thatch. He felt very much the intruder, barging in on creatures that had been living there together for weeks, maybe months, symbiotically if not always peacefully.
He returned the can to the shelf, pulled back the bedcovers, and started getting out of his clothes.
The hell with it, he thought. Live and let live.
Once, in the short time he slept, he was awakened by a little
plop
on the wood-plank floor, followed by a silence during which he fancied a small, surprised animal was collecting its dignity, and then a patter of tiny, scurrying feet making for the far wall. He turned over under the sheet and was asleep again in seconds. But with the first gray smudges of daylight, the tremendous, froglike-cricket-like-crow-like racket from the mynah birds roosting in the trees behind the cottages woke him up for good after not much more than an hour's sleep. He was grumpy and tired, but at least he had established a successful
quid pro quo
with the mosquitoes. Not a bite on him
Even after he'd showered, using the ubiquitous coconut-scented soap of French Polynesia, and sleepily gotten dressed in a pair of lightweight L.L. Bean pants and a short-sleeved shirt, the sun had yet to come up. Tropical sunsets were famously sudden, but sunrises took their time, as they did anyplace else. The sky was barely streaked with mauve and purple, the land dark, the sea the color of pewter. It was 5:00. Well, he was an early riser at home too, if not quite this early. You could get a lot done getting up early.
A solitary dawn walk along the beach would be a fine way to start the day, he thought. He had some ideas about Nick's odd behavior and he wanted to think them through. With the two-hour time difference it would be 7:30 in Port Angeles by the time he got back. He could give Julie a call before she went off to her job—like John's sister, Brenda, she was a supervising park ranger—at the administrative center of the Olympic National Park, a convenient five minutes from home. After that he would have a few cups of good Tahitian coffee in the dining room and put in some prep time for the upcoming symposium on Bronze Age congenital abnormalities at the winter paleopathological meetings—for which, with commendable foresight, he'd brought his notes.
And all this, he thought with something uncharitably close to smugness, he would do while John, a notoriously late riser at the best of times, snoozed the morning away. He got a pair of beach sandals from the closet and sat down on the bed to slip them on. Still a little drowsy, he stretched and yawned, then lay back against the headboard and closed his eyes for a moment.
When he awakened the sun was streaming hotly through the windows and John was pounding at the door. “Come on, Doc, wake up already! It's nine o'clock! You gonna sleep all day, or what?"
Beneath the outrigger canoe suspended from the ceiling in the Shangri-La's dining room they breakfasted on guava juice, croissants, crullers, and fragrant slices of pineapple, papaya, and the lime green grapefruit of the South Pacific.
Afterward, over coffee, they sat in the breeze of an open French window, gazing contentedly at a reef-rimmed lagoon as blue and brilliant as a swimming pool, at fork-tailed seabirds floating above the cliffs on the warm wind, at the fantastically shaped, impossibly green mountains of Moorea twelve miles away over the water.
Aside from the soft plash of the ocean, the only sounds were the slap-slap of thong sandals from the waitress, a broad-beamed middle-aged Tahitian matron with a pair of harlequin glasses on a lanyard around her neck, a gardenia in her black hair, and her stocky body swathed in a flowered
pareu
, the all-purpose, wraparound Tahitian garment somewhere between a sarong and a muumuu.
There were only a few other people breakfasting in the big room: a crabby French couple having their morning squabble and two Japanese men who gazed about them in discouragement, as if convinced that they were in the wrong hotel.
The Shangri-La, romantic the night before, looked a bit grubby in the bright morning light, a little timeworn, the arms of the rattan furniture greasy with use, the cushions on them sunken and stained, the straw mats on the floor ground-down and shabby. Despite the benefits of exclusive arrangements with the party-loving tour groups of Chile, it seemed clear that the Shangri-La had seen better days.
"What I think,” John said, disposing of yet another croissant, “is that we ought to drop in on the local police this morning."
Gideon looked at him. “We?"
"Maybe Nick's not giving us a runaround about exhuming Brian, maybe it's just red tape like he says. Maybe we can help clear it up."
"Maybe,” Gideon said without conviction.
"Besides, wouldn't you like to have a look at the police report on Brian before you get started? I mean, we're not doing anything anyway, we're just waiting around."
"I suppose so, but what are we supposed to do, walk in and ask?"
"Sure, why not?"
"Why not? Because we're a couple of nosy foreigners who are here to do some Monday-morning quarterbacking on a case that's closed as far as they're concerned, and cops can get a little funny about that, if you haven't noticed. We're here at Nick's request, and he's the one who should be dealing with the police, John. Or Therese. But not us; we don't have any status here."
"Yeah, that's true,” John said. He went to the buffet table, came back with a sugar-encrusted cruller, tore off a third of it, shoved it into his mouth, and gestured with the remainder. “But what the hell, I'm an FBI agent, aren't I? I'm visiting a foreign country, aren't I? Why shouldn't I pay a courtesy call on my fellow law enforcement officers?"
