Authors: Jeanne Matthews
Bet Your Bones (12 page)
The coffee had left a bitter taste in Dinah’s mouth and she went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Her face in the mirror looked like death on a cracker. A seedy, brittle cracker. She should go back to bed and try to sleep until Jon arrived to chauffeur her to the airport. But she was too wound up to sleep. Maybe when the caffeine and the adrenaline wore off, she could sleep this afternoon. She’d like to sleep all the way through until the wedding. Another party had been scheduled for tonight, but with Claude Ann in a cast and all of her clothes but the wedding dress splotched with blood, Xander would be wise to scratch the affair and barricade himself and his bride behind closed doors. Double-bolted steel doors.
Dinah finished brushing her teeth, spat into the sink, and chased the bad taste down the drain with a froth of tap water. The aboriginal kings of Hawaii preserved their saliva in a vessel studded with the teeth of their ancestors and kept the spittoon under heavy guard. They believed the essence of their spirit resided in their spit. If an enemy got hold of even a single drop, he could cast a spell and zap the king through sorcery. For Dinah, it was too late for precautions. She’d swapped spit with Raif Reid and Jonathan Garst and the way her head felt, she’d been zapped already.
She rinsed and spat again. She needed a hard run to clear the cobwebs. One of the “things to do” magazines on her bedside table recommended a sort of cave or blowhole. She thumbed through the magazine and found it—Spitting Cave. Terrific. It was less than three miles from the hotel. She could do a mile in a little over eight minutes. She could do six in an hour easily and be home and hosed by the time Jon showed up. She memorized the directions, threw on her running shorts and a tee, and set out.
The route took her along mostly residential streets. There were some lovely homes and magnificent trees, but she wasn’t interested in scenery. Her thoughts revolved around Leilani’s suicide and the mysterious phone call that preceded it; Eleanor’s crusade for revenge and her baffling allusion to Pash; Jon’s insoluble problem with Xander and his careless fall on the pahoehoe; the appearance of an unwelcome bookie at the party; Raif’s gambling and his allegation that Xander gambled, too; Claude Ann’s maddening disregard for her money and her safety; and a dead archaeologist that nobody claimed to know in a land where people took their ancestral bones very seriously. The fact that a jealous ex-husband was running around loose with a handgun was almost refreshing in its simplicity.
There were too many mysteries revolving around Xander Garst. Something was hinky. Could Phoebe be right and someone other than Hank was trying to derail the wedding train? Dinah wished she didn’t have such a suspicious mind. An old boyfriend who did brain research once diagnosed her problem with trust as the result of a chemical deficiency—some peptide or other that, produced in adequate amounts, induces faith in one’s fellow man. If Dinah’s brain was lacking in the stuff, Claude Ann’s brain must manufacture it by the gallon.
At the intersection with Lumahai Road, Dinah stopped to fish a stone out of her shoe and reconsidered. Why should she distrust Xander and swallow whole what Eleanor and Raif and even Jon had to say about him? They could be full of selfish motives. Raif was a proven sleazoid, Jon’s insoluble problem with Xander could be a disagreement over the U.S. invasion of Iraq for all she knew, and Eleanor’s cryptic admonitions didn’t inspire trust. Furthermore, it was patronizing to assume that Claude Ann wasn’t capable of vetting a husband. She and Xander had spent the last six weeks together and, apparently, he had exhibited no signs of treachery or corruption or deal-breaking kinkiness. It was Claude Ann’s heart and Claude Ann’s money and Claude Ann’s choice to make. To each her own. Everyone had flaws and if there was something flawed or fishy about Xander, it wasn’t Dinah’s place to point it out.
She turned down Lumahai Road and ran until it dead-ended. There was a sign to Spitting Cave with an arrow pointing down a steep dirt trail. Hair whipping in the breeze, she followed the arrow toward the sound of crashing waves. Where the trail ended, she was standing atop a bowl-shaped cliff of craggy, layered rocks that looked like brownie batter. Far below, where the waves pounded against the rock, a torrent of white water spat out of a cave and gushed into the turbulent blue water.
“The locals used to dive from here.”
Dinah jumped back and whirled around. A few feet to her right, Lyssa Garst perched on a rock like the Little Mermaid.
“Lyssa.” She blew out a breath. “You startled me.”
“I thought you’d seen me.” She adjusted her big, square sunglasses and turned her face toward the water. “It must have been exhilarating. Sixty feet into that maelstrom. They viewed it as a rite of passage.”
“It must have been the last passage for some,” blurted Dinah and kicked herself. Was this the cliff Leilani leapt from? Couldn’t be. The family lived on the Big Island at the time.
Lyssa said, “It’s a good place for thinking.”
It seemed creepily morbid for a woman whose mother died in a suicide leap to spend her afternoon perched on a precipice musing about the thrill of it all. It seemed like a good idea to draw her away from the brink. She was wearing a blue track suit and running shoes.
“Did you jog here? We could jog back together.”
Lyssa gathered her long hair on one side of her face and clambered to her feet. “I drove. May I give you a lift back to the hotel?”
“Sure.”
“Raif said you didn’t want to leave the hospital last night. I was asleep when he finally came in.”
Dinah was immediately on her guard. “Xander went back to the hotel and I didn’t want to leave Claude Ann alone in a strange place. I didn’t mean to inconvenience Raif.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. He’s a night owl.”
They climbed back up the trail together. Two cars were parked in the cul-de-sac. Dinah hadn’t noticed them on her way down. Lyssa pulled her key out of her jacket pocket, pushed the electronic door lock, and the tail lights of a red Ferrari 458 winked on.
Dinah slid into the passenger seat with a tweak of envy. “I like your wheels.”
“Raif bought it for me last year. He’s a Ferrari devotee. I don’t know why I haven’t had it shipped back to the mainland before now. It’s silly not being able to drive it except when I come to Honolulu. I wish Jon could enjoy it, but he almost never comes to the city.” She opened the console and pulled out two bottles of Cachi Water. “Thirsty? I always carry extra.”
“Thanks.” Dinah luxuriated in the soft leather seat and rehydrated.
Lyssa started the engine and pulled into the street. The vroom of all those powerful Italian horses under the hood sent a tingle up Dinah’s spine. It must be sweet to be able to afford a toy like this, and strange that the pleasure of driving it should be limited to periodic visits to the island. She recalled Xander’s little gibe that Raif was only a regional driver. What kind of money did a regional Nascar driver earn? She said, “Raif must be doing very well for himself. Who sponsors his racing team?”
“Durante’s Auto Parts.”
Dinah had never heard of it. “I guess he does product endorsements, too.”
“Not yet.”
Coy. Studied. Defensive. Lyssa must have had to defend Raif’s reputation and accomplishments to Xander many times, and probably to Jon, as well. Perhaps she felt the need to defend her own judgment for marrying him. Maybe Raif was one of those Internet poker whizzes in his spare time and he really could afford to buy her a Ferrari, but Dinah shared Xander’s suspicion that Lyssa subsidized her husband’s high-rolling lifestyle with the money her grandfather left her and her finder’s commissions on Hollywood props.
“Raif thinks Claude Ann is marrying Daddy for his money.”
“Really?” Dinah kept her tone nonchalant. “And what do you think, Lyssa?”
“I think he’s right. I wouldn’t say she’s a total gold digger, but Daddy’s stinking rich. Has he told you about the brewery his German great grandfather founded in Munich?”
“Xander is one of the Garsts of Garst Brewery?”
“That’s right. When my grandfather died, he divided his fortune between me and a female cousin. He was old-fashioned and believed that men should make their own way in the world, but girls should be cocooned in banknotes and securities. Of course, Daddy owns tons of stock in the company. Claude Ann is probably salivating to get herself named as a beneficiary in his will.”
Dinah wasn’t about to disclose Claude Ann’s contributions to Xander to this cough drop, but there was a limit to how much snarkiness she could stomach. “After what happened to Claude Ann last night, it makes a person wonder if someone already named as a beneficiary is trying to scare her off.”
“That’s absurd.”
“So is the idea of Claude Ann as a gold digger.”
“Money’s always part of the equation.” She turned her head and her strangely notched nose twitched. “By the way, I don’t appreciate the way that you and your friend, Phoebe, were hitting on Raif last night. Consider this a warning. Lay off.”
A string of scathing put-downs ran through Dinah’s mind, but the glaze of tears in Lyssa’s eyes brought her up short. Hard as it was to believe, she loved the rotter and nothing Dinah could say would disabuse her. “I’ll keep my distance, Lyssa. You can rest assured.”
Lyssa stopped at a crosswalk and waited for a mob of pedestrians to straggle across. “Did Claude Ann tell you that Daddy was once accused of rape?”
Dinah’s jaw dropped. “By whom? When?”
“Oh, a few years ago. There were no charges. It may have been a misunderstanding. The girl was kind of a flake. She didn’t go to the police.”
“How do you know about this? Who’s the woman? What happened?”
“I’m sure Daddy’s told Claude Ann. I mean, he’d have to, wouldn’t he? To inoculate her against hearing it from somebody else.”
The last straggler made it to the other side of the street. Lyssa stepped on the gas and turned up the stereo full blast. The pulsating beat of the Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer” precluded any further inquiry.
Run, run, run, run, run, run, run away.
Dinah leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
Oh, oh, oh, ay, ay, ay, woo.
How, she asked herself, can otherwise intelligent women be so confoundingly, perversely, off-the-charts wrong about men?
“Crazy what happened last night, eh? There’s no telling anymore. Crazy world out there. Crazy, crazy. Who’d have believed her ex would blow in and go berserk? Watch your step.” Wilhite welcomed Jon and his charges aboard his corporate plane, a twin engine Gulfstream turboprop, and guided them into the club-like cabin. This morning, he was clad in an eye-popping shirt that featured lime green and cobalt blue fish swimming against a magenta background. Dinah wondered if he wore the loud shirts to draw people’s eyes away from his ungainly, bowlegged spraddle.
The aircraft’s plush leather seats were arranged for conversation like those in a train compartment with two facing forward and two aft. Xander and Claude Ann were already ensconced in the first two forward-facing seats drinking coffee from china cups. Claude Ann’s left arm was in a sling. She wore a cast on her wrist and a skittish smile. Xander looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept in days.
Claude Ann held out her free arm to Marywave. “We’re all gonna be okay, baby.”
Marywave wrapped her arms around Claude Ann’s neck and hugged her. “I prayed for you, Mama. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”
“I know you didn’t. You just did what your daddy told you to do.”
“I’m gonna wear the dress and carry your flowers, too. A froward heart shall depart from me. Psalms one-o-one, verse four.”
“That bucks me up more than anything. I knew I could count on my girl.”
Raif and Lyssa sat across from Xander and Claude Ann facing aft. Raif slouched behind his tray table shuffling a deck of cards. Lyssa browsed through a magazine.
Xander touched Jon’s arm. “Jon, I need a few minutes. Raif and Lyssa, would you change seats and let Jon and Phoebe sit here? Jon and I need to talk and Claude Ann wants to brief you on how we’re going to arrange for Marywave’s care in light of Hank’s attack.”
“No problem.” Raif closed his tray table, stood up and moved into the seat behind Xander so that they were sitting back to back.
Lyssa shot her father a resentful look before moving around to the seat next to Raif. She leaned close to Raif, but he didn’t respond. He had already pulled down the tray table and resumed his trick shuffles.
“My pilot’s ready as soon as we’re all settled,” said Wilhite, fiddling with his mobile. “Vaughn? Vaughn, can you hear me? Come back and clear these coffee cups, will you?”
A disembodied voice came over the PA system. “No problem.”
Claude Ann let go of Marywave’s hand. “Avery, will you show Marywave to her seat?”
“No problem.”
If one more person said “no problem,” Dinah was sure she would lose it.
Wilhite motioned Marywave into the seat across from Raif and Lyssa and made sure she was buckled in. Marywave nestled in and opened her Bible. The last two seats were situated in the very tail of the airplane. Dinah felt as if she’d been relegated to the back of the bus.
“Go ahead, Dinah,” said Wilhite, gesticulating. “Sit, sit. I’ll join you as soon as I’ve made sure we have all the bags and gear aboard. You gals don’t travel light. Not a problem, of course. Lots of space.”
Dinah sat down and glanced out the window. Was Hank out there somewhere watching them, plotting some fresh mayhem? Her brain was sluggish from information overload and sleep deprivation. When she and Jon were talking on the beach, had Jon mentioned that they’d be flying to Hilo on Wilhite’s plane? Hank had probably heard everything they said. Was he crazy enough to plant a bomb? No. Not with Marywave on board. Anyway, surely the police had posted guards at the airport.
Hank was no longer a faraway problem, but if the police did their jobs, he was a jailable problem. The problem of Xander was more complicated and Dinah’s determination not to meddle wavered with each new disclosure about him. An allegation of rape was pretty damned serious and, reported by his own daughter, it warranted a bit of Q and A. She wished she could have had a few words alone with Claude Ann. Hopefully, Xander wouldn’t monopolize her all afternoon.
A crisply uniformed man with “Vaughn” stamped on his name tag took away the cups and saucers. Wilhite pulled out a walkie-talkie and informed somebody named J.J. that they were ready for take-off and, as the plane was backing away from the gate, he trotted to the rear of the plane and sat down next to Dinah. He had a file folder in his hand and flipped through a bunch of papers, moistening his thumb repeatedly.
The turboprop rolled out onto the tarmac and lined up behind a large commercial jet awaiting take-off. Dinah fastened her seatbelt and tried not to think about a bomb. She thought about Pash. Maybe the flaky girl who cried rape but didn’t go to the police was named Pash.
In a few minutes, the Gulfstream accelerated down the runway and hurtled into the sky at a cookie-pitching angle. Dinah’s stomach tingled. She counted to ninety. Nothing exploded and she relaxed a hair.
Wilhite closed the folder and elbowed her in the ribs. “Nice view of Punchbowl crater.”
She looked down at the sprawling city whose name in Hawaiian meant place of shelter. Where Claude Ann was concerned, it hadn’t lived up to its name. “Mr. Wilhite, what does the name…?”
“Avery, please.”
“Avery. What does the name Hilo mean?”
“Means to hang by a thread.”
She tensed again. “Because it’s in the path of a volcano?”
He erupted into convulsive laughter. The fish on his shirt jittered and shook. “A joke, Dinah! A joke! Hilo means thread in Spanish.” His laughter tapered into a series of asthmatic wheezes. “Let’s see. Hilo was an ancient Hawaiian navigator who sailed by the stars and the moon. Some call the first night of the new moon hilo, some say it’s the first day of the month. Some of the old kam’ainas say it means twisted. You’ll have to ask Jon what it means. He’s a walking encyclopedia of Hawaiiana.”
Thus far, Avery had been a walking encyclopedia of Hawaiian gossip. She had a feeling his brief explosion of temper last night was because he thought Eleanor had attacked Claude Ann and mucked up the party and he didn’t want Mr. Jarvis, the prospective buyer of Uwahi, to see it. He had probably blamed Xander for not keeping his troublesome relative at bay. Xander had obviously put him wise this morning and Avery was animated and chipper. Jarvis would have no reason to associate an unfortunate domestic fracas with the Uwahi deal.
“Did you socialize much with Xander after Leilani died, Mr…Avery?”
“Oh, sure. Not as much. Kay was all tied up with the children. Soccer and drama class, this and that. Of course, whenever we barbecued or what have you, we included Xander and his kids. Jon and Lyssa are the same age as our two kids. They all grew up together.”
“After Leilani, did Xander date anyone for very long?”
“No. None lasted longer than a year or so. All of them dazzlers, but no point trying to remember their names. Sally, Sara. They came and went. I think he was up-front about not wanting to marry again ’til his kids were grown up.”
Dinah gave up on the girlfriends line of inquiry. Even if Xander had dated a woman named Pash, she hadn’t lasted long enough for Avery to remember her name. However, he seemed to know a lot about Jon and Lyssa.
She asked, “Has Jon changed much since his accident?” Avery frowned and she realized her gaffe. “Psychologically, I mean.”
The frown deepened and his eyes became solemn. He glanced toward the front of the plane where Jon was sitting and lowered his voice. “I’ve always felt guilty about what happened. At the time, my daughter Tess was engaged to marry Jon, but when she saw his burns, she couldn’t go through with it. Made me ashamed of her. Felt guilty for bringing her up to be so wishy-washy. Don’t be superficial, I told her. It’s what’s under the skin that counts and Jon’s solid as they come, back of the net. Brains, integrity, all the right stuff. But his scars grossed her out. Her word. Childish. Put me off. Tells you something about the seriousness of girls these days, eh? Of course, Tess was always high-strung. In therapy ever since she left school.”
Dinah caught her breath. Was being high-strung the same as being a flake? “Were, or are, Tess and Lyssa good friends?”
“The best, until Tess treated Jon so shabbily. Can’t blame Lyssa. Blood’s thicker and all that.” He skimmed a look down the aisle toward Lyssa. “My personal take? Lyssa’s changed more than Jon since his accident. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear…”
“What?” asked Dinah, anticipating the answer.
“Great Scott. I hadn’t thought of it this way before, but. Well, it’s almost as if she holds Xander responsible. Young girls. Strange as weather. Don’t get ’em, myself.”
