Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_04 (24 page)

Here was the hardest truth. “And to someone in the family. Johnnie Rodriguez must have seen someone at the cabin with CeeCee. That's what he had to tell Richard. And that's why Richard came here. Lester knew a part of it. But someone else knew it all.” I reached out, took a thin, cold hand in mine.

“Someone in the family.” Her voice was cool and remote.

“Yes.” The faces flashed in my mind, as I knew they flashed in Belle's.

“So that's why Richard came.” Belle's hand gripped mine. We stood, linked by loss.

I wanted to help her. But there was nothing I could do or say to ease her pain. Or mine. “Yes, he came.” My voice was weary. “He talked with Lester—and with someone else.”

Belle dropped my hand, stepped back to look at the house.

The rooms lay dark along the rim of the canyon.

“Someone here.” Belle's voice was cold and harsh and unforgiving. “Someone here killed CeeCee and Richard—and now Lester.”

And pushed Johnnie Rodriguez into the lake.

“That's crazy!” Keith exploded. “If anybody killed Lester, it's her,” and he pointed at me. “She's the one who's come here causing trouble.”

Belle ignored her husband. She limped across the lanai into her room and returned in a moment in an ivory robe and slippers. She walked past us.

Keith started after her. “Where are you going?”

“To Lester.” Her cane clicked on the tiles.

We all followed through the garden. Once again I stood in Lester's shining room. This time, I looked not only on death but on sorrow. Belle bowed her head, struggled for composure. Anders clasped his mother's hand.

“Someone here,” she said faintly. Slowly she lifted her head. She stepped away from Anders. She studied the position of Lester's body. She noted the wound. Her eyes moved to Lester's hand resting empty on the bare expanse of desk.

“God, this is awful,” Keith said huskily.

“No weapon,” Belle announced.

I nodded. I didn't feel any thrill of triumph. I had done what I felt I had to do, exchanged one set scene for another.

She reached out, almost touched that sandy graying hair, then let her hand fall. “Call the police, Keith.”

Only a few words, but they marked Belle's passage from heartbreak to vengeance.

Once again we followed, this time to Belle's study.

Belle sat at her desk. Her face was composed, but her eyes were dark with pain and anger.

Keith made the call. When it was done and he had placed the phone in its cradle, there was a moment of silence. I don't know what Belle or Keith or Anders envisioned in that moment, but I had a sense of inexorable progression: the unleashing of the force and majesty of the law. An investigation once begun is never ended until there is completion, whether now or years from now. A murder file once opened is ongoing until the crime is solved.

I was focused on the present moment, the tidal wave of examination that would soon wash over us. I should have realized that Lester's murder and the reason for it would sweep Belle back to the crime that began it all.

She leaned forward, clicked a button on her intercom. “Attention, please.” She pressed another button. A shrill whistle sounded. “Attention, please.” Her voice was cold and commanding. “Everyone is to gather in the living room. Immediately.” She clicked off the intercom and stood.

That grim announcement sounded in every room in this luxurious house. It was a shocking end to sleep for those in innocent slumber. But one listener was not innocent. To that person, the summons had to engender a moment of terror.

“Belle, what are you doing?” Keith asked. His eyes were bewildered. And worried.

There was a burning determination in her eyes. “I have to hurry.” She moved quickly across the room, her cane flicking against the wooden floor.

“Mother, wait. You're upset—”

She shrugged away from Anders's outstretched hand.

We followed, of course.

Belle reached the huge living area first. She went to the panel of light switches, punched them all, until every light in the room glowed. She took her place at the edge of the lanai, facing the room.

I watched faces.

I don't usually second-guess an intuitive flash.

But as the roused household gathered in the immense living room, I wondered if I'd properly gauged Keith's look of surprise when Anders announced that Lester had been murdered.

Why should Lester Mackey protect Keith Scanlon?

He wouldn't have done so when CeeCee was kidnapped.

But what if his suspicion of Keith was late-blooming? And uncertain at best. What if Lester became suspicious only after Belle's accident?

That timing made sense. What if Lester put pieces together over the years and suspected Keith but had no proof? What if Lester's goal was to protect Belle and he felt the best way was to warn Keith and urge him to leave?

That was possible. Foolish, but possible.

And I knew Lester was foolish, a man who tried in every way to ignore the reality of murder within this family he loved.

Good motives. Ignoble motives. Lester lied to keep Belle from learning of his unwitting complicity in CeeCee's kidnapping. Had Lester decided that Belle, just now coming back to some sense of joy in life, was too fragile to learn that the man she'd married, the man she'd trusted, the man who knew her as only a lover could, was the man who had killed her daughter?

Lester tried for years to evade thought about the kidnapping. Lester had protected the children of this family from many consequences. He wouldn't connive to protect
CeeCee's killer, but-he might well be willing to give the person he suspected a chance to explain, to convince Lester of innocence.

Lester wanted them all to be innocent.

But one of them was guilty.

So I looked carefully at faces as they hurried into the room in response to Belle's call.

Peggy, her eyes wide and frantic, gave a scream of relief when she saw Anders. She darted to him and burrowed her face in his shoulder. She wore white cotton shorty pajamas with pink bows on each shoulder.

Joss thudded to a stop, his eyes moving swiftly around the room. He'd pulled on a faded pair of jeans but no shirt. “What the hell's going on?” His uncombed hair and stubbled face were at such a variance from his usual well-groomed appearance.

Wheeler came into the room like a prowling animal, his gaze alert and suspicious. He wore a T-shirt and boxer shorts.

Gretchen blinked sleepily. “What's wrong?” Her voice was high and scared. “Something's happened! What's wrong?” One hand clutched at the neck of her pink night-gown.

For once Megan's hair was ruffled. Without makeup, she looked like a ghostly replica of her daytime self.

Stan Dugan, too, was shirtless and in jeans. He saw me and his eyes glowed with interest.

Elise Ford had taken long enough to slip into a tailored navy robe. She stared uneasily at Belle, carefully did not look toward Keith.

The housekeeper wore a muumuu. She stopped in the entryway, looking questioningly toward Belle.

There was a babel of voices.

“Quiet.” Belle stared at them. This was her family, her staff. And she looked at them icily.

One by one, they fell silent, staring at Belle, at her bleak
and stony face, her burning eyes. She stood straight and still and looked at each one in turn. “The police are on their way. One of you shot Lester tonight.”

I scanned their faces. I saw shock and horror and dismay. But one face was well schooled, one face was accustomed to feigning emotion.

“I have only a few minutes before the police will arrive. But that is long enough.” Belle's voice was fierce.

Joss took a step toward her. “Mother, what—”

Belle held up her hand. “I want to know,” and every word dropped like a pellet of ice, “where each of you was the night CeeCee was kidnapped.”

Once again, a low murmur rose. Once again Belle's hand moved, and there was a painful quiet. They stood unmoving, staring at her. Presumably only CeeCee and Lester were at the lake on Friday night.

Belle pointed at her husband. Keith looked at her in hurt surprise. She waited.

His face slowly hardened. “I went to a rodeo. In Mesquite. You didn't want to go.”

“I didn't hear you come in.” She looked at him as though he were a stranger.

Keith didn't say a word, but the muscles in his neck bunched.

Peggy blundered forward. “Anders and I were together. We'd gone to dinner at Casa Rosa and then he came over to my apartment. He spent the night.”

Anders reached out and grabbed her arm. “Goddamn it, Peggy, I don't need an alibi. I didn't kill my sister.”

“Where were you, Anders?” His mother looked at him intently.

He threw back his head. He opened his mouth, then took a deep breath. “No place, Mom. I just drove around.”

“Why?” I asked.

He looked at me blankly.

“Why? Were you driving off a quarrel, Anders?” I looked deep into his dark eyes.

His glance slid away from me. “It doesn't matter now.” His voice was very tired. “It doesn't matter.”

Far away, a siren sounded.

“Quickly,” Belle instructed. “Quickly. Joss?”

“Slow night in Dallas. Went to a movie. By myself.” His voice was relaxed but his eyes kept turning toward Anders.

Gretchen shrugged. “I was bar-hopping.” She held up both hands. “I know. Nice girls shouldn't. But sometimes I do.”

“I worked late.” Stan's voice was grim. Was he thinking that if he hadn't asked CeeCee to return his ring that he would have been with her at the lake and she would be alive now?

The siren rose and fell, nearer and nearer.

“Wheeler?”

“I was in my room, Belle. Reading a book.” And thinking about the girl he loved who was perhaps still planning to marry another man?

“A night class,” Megan said quietly. “But they didn't take roll.”

“I was in my room, too,” Elise said dully.

The siren shrilled, then stopped abruptly. The police had arrived.

A
thirtyish patrolman with shiny black hair and a flat, calm face watched us. He stood at ease, hands behind his back, his dark eyes moving constantly around the room.

The garden blazed with lights. We could hear the occasional slam of a car door, the murmur of voices. Right now the homicide unit was performing its duties, but eventually the detective in charge would be ready to talk to us.

We sat in tired, tense silence. The patrolman had instructed us not to talk. “Lieutenant Kanoa will speak with each of you soon.”

Keith Scanlon stared somberly at the floor. Occasionally he glanced at Belle, then looked away from her icy face.

Elise huddled in an overstuffed chair, her arms wrapped around her knees.

Joss, his curly hair tousled, slumped back in his chair, his face bereft, a study in grief. If it was acting, it was superb.

Wheeler paced back and forth, back and forth, across the lanai, his sensuous face twisted in a scowl.

Gretchen stood by the wet bar, looking up at Lester's gallery of photographs, her eyes shiny with tears. All of her kinetic energy seemed to have drained away.

Megan reached out to smooth her sister's tumbling red hair. Megan's lovely face drooped in sorrow.

Anders stared balefully toward the brightly lit garden. He looked resentful as well as anguished. Occasionally he shot a puzzled, worried look at his mother.

Peggy sat close to her husband, one hand clutching his arm. Peggy's glance caught mine. Outright hostility flashed in her eyes. It is always tempting to blame the stranger.

Stan Dugan straddled a chair, his massive arms folded on the top. He looked curiously from Peggy to me. “Watch your back, Mrs. Collins.” Although he spoke in—for him—a normal tone, his booming voice jerked every face toward him.

“Thanks,” I said coolly.

The patrolman held up a warning hand, as if stopping traffic. “Quiet, please.”

Anders pulled away from Peggy, jumped to his feet. “What the hell does that mean, Stan?”

Our guard swung toward Anders.

There was a melee of sound:

“…looking for trouble, that's…”

“…what's she doing here?”

“…who's in charge…”

“Enough.” Belle's crisp voice cut through. Again the silence was sudden and absolute. Everyone looked toward her.

I don't know if it was the anger in her eyes or the merciless line of her lips, but the silence took on an uncomfortable, threatened quality.

Slowly, Belle rose to her feet. She stood very straight, both
hands clasping the knob of her cane. “I will know the truth. Before this night is out.” She looked at each one in turn.

“Ma'am.” A young policeman stood in the archway. He inclined his head politely to Belle. “Lieutenant Kanoa will see you now.”

Five minutes passed. Ten. The policeman returned. “Anders Burke.”

Peggy popped to her feet.

“One at a time, ma'am,” the officer instructed.

“Anders.” It was a frightened wail. And I didn't think Peggy was afraid for herself.

“It's all right,” Anders said impatiently. “I found Lester, Peggy. They need to talk to me. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

But Peggy simply stood there, staring after him.

Stan Dugan's big mouth curved in a malicious grin. “He's a big boy, Peggy. I'll bet he can even zip his own trousers.”

Her face flamed. “You think you're so important.” Her voice trembled. “Well, I know CeeCee dumped you. She told you that last Friday, didn't she?” She looked wildly around the room. “CeeCee dumped him. Did you know that? It's true. So why is he here? What right does he have?”

“Ma'am, ma'am.” The patrolman moved close enough that Peggy backed away, sank down on the couch. But she glowered at Stan.

The big lawyer sprawled back in the overstuffed chair, his hands behind his head, his face expressionless.

The patrolman returned every few minutes, ushering out in order Peggy, Keith, Elise, Joss, Wheeler, Gretchen, Megan, Amelia, and, finally, Stan.

No one returned. I assumed they were told to go to their rooms when the interviews ended.

It didn't take me long to wonder why I wasn't being called early on. All the possible reasons came up hard and sour like pinball lemons:

I was the intruder.

My jeep was hidden in a side lane near the road to Ahiahi.

I'd quarreled publicly with Lester at Spouting Horn. The police would trace his last day, learn about that encounter.

Amelia would report that she'd told me this afternoon that Lester had been near the cliff trail late the night Richard died.

When Stan and I had been the only ones left, I read the same judgment in his craggy face.

“If you're looking for a lawyer—”

“Quiet, please,” the patrolman had said.

Then Stan was gone.

I stood and walked across the room.

“Ma'am,” the patrolman said quickly.

“The ladies' room,” I said firmly.

He hesitated, then nodded.

He took up his post right next to the door.

I shut the door. Quickly I pulled the crumpled note from my pocket and tore it into tiny pieces. I flushed the toilet and some of the tension eased out of my shoulders. I splashed water on my face, washed my hands.

When I opened the door, two of them waited. The younger man said, “Lieutenant Kanoa will see you now.”

I'd gotten rid of the note just in time.

As I followed my escort, I moved slowly. I was so tired that every step was an effort. But I needed to be alert. I needed to remember so much in this upcoming interview. I must be careful, but I must answer easily, without hesitation. I must appear confident and unworried. And I must do these things while groggy from exhaustion. It was a quarter past three in the morning. My mind felt clogged, like a silt-laden pond. My body ached with fatigue.

The patrolman stood aside for me to enter Belle's office. “Mrs. Collins, sir.”

I blinked my eyes, took a deep breath. One more time, I had to perform, think, grapple, combat, respond, defend, attack. I reached deep inside for a surge of alertness.

My first glimpse of Lieutenant Kanoa roused me, like a shock of cold water, like the crash of a thunderous wave. He dwarfed Belle's desk. He had to weigh at least two hundred and fifty pounds. A moon face and a neck like a concrete piling rested on a tree-trunk thick torso. His aloha shirt pulled across his massive chest. His arms bulged with muscles. Hamhock-sized hands made the notebook and pencil in front of him look like a child's toys.

“Come in, please.” His voice was so deep it sounded as if he spoke from a cavern.

He was so immense, it took a moment to look beyond his size at sleepy eyes in a bland face.

A danger signal flashed in my mind. I knew an affectation when I saw one. Sleepy eyes, yes, but I had glimpsed, just for an instant, a quick, keen intelligence.

Lieutenant Kanoa had now talked to everyone but me. He had a great deal of information—and misinformation—about the stranger within the gates, the suspect stranger.

I walked up to Belle's desk.

“Sit down.” A command.

For an instant, I almost opted to stand. What the hell could he do about it? But I was tired, tired to the bone. I couldn't afford to waste any energy, not an atom of it. I sat down in the straight chair. And shaded my eyes. The gooseneck lamp on the desk was twisted to spotlight the chair. Old hat, I felt like saying. But I saved that tendril of energy and squinted against the glare and waited.

He reached out a meaty hand and flicked the switch on a small black tape recorder. “With your permission, Mrs. Collins?”

“Of course.” The bright light hurt my eyes. I leaned for
ward and pushed the lamp, moving away the harsh glare. “With your permission, Lieutenant Kanoa.”

“Of course.” There might have been a faint lilt of amusement in that deep voice. He leaned back in his chair, placed cigar-thick fingers in a steeple. He studied me, a man in no hurry. But there was nothing tranquil about the silence.

I'd spent a lifetime searching for truth in people's faces. Had my gaze been quite so cold and skeptical?

“I understand you came here to avenge your husband's death.” Blunt, sharp, unequivocal.

My answer was swift. “I came here to find out what happened to Richard.”

He leaned forward, folded his massive arms on the desk. “What did you find out?”

I felt as if the earth had split in front of me and I teetered on the edge of a chasm.

“Someone in this house killed Richard.” Anger flooded through me. I wanted to shout it. I wanted to grab his huge shoulders, shake them, demand that he listen.

I would have as much effect pounding my fists on the trunk of a redwood.

“Mr. Collins died several years ago. Why have you waited until now to come to Kauai—if indeed he was murdered?” His huge head tilted forward attentively.

I was afraid the deck was stacked. But I had to play the hand.

I began with the poster. Once again, I told it all, but this time I repeated my angry conversation with Lester at Spouting Horn, my effort to inform Belle, and Lester's subsequent lies.

Kanoa said lazily, as if it didn't matter, but his eyes were alert and intelligent, “Johnnie Rodriguez. Let's start there.” His deep voice had the lilting Hawaiian cadence. For once I
wasn't charmed. “You believe Rodriguez knew what happened to CeeCee Burke.”

“That's correct.” I massaged the tight tendons in the back of my neck.

“But you don't know what Rodriguez said to your husband.” His dark brown eyes were bright and interested.

“Richard came here…” My voice was weary. “And was pushed off the cliff.”

“That's what
you
believe.”

I didn't like the emphasis on “you.”

“That's what happened.”

“You learned of this from a poster. That's very dramatic.” And, his tone said, as likely as a personal visit from a menehune.

Yes, it had been dramatic. Life-changing. For me. For, ultimately, everyone at Ahiahi.

“Lester sent me the poster. He was doing his best to protect Belle. Lester for years had refused to believe the kidnapper was one of them. He'd resisted the idea when Richard came. And he'd made himself accept Richard's fall as an accident. Lester didn't face his doubts and fears until Belle's car crashed down the mountain. Even then he waited, wondering and worrying. He waited until it was time for everyone to gather again at Ahiahi. Lester was frantic. Was Belle in danger? What could he do? I know what he did, Lieutenant. He posed me a challenge I could not refuse. He sent me a poster telling me my husband was murdered.”

“Mrs. Collins.” Those sleepy eyes watched me so closely.

“Yes.”

“Where is this poster?”

“I told you.” I was so tired. My head pounded. “It was stolen from my room the day I arrived.”

“You are very creative, Mrs. Collins.” Once again his hands formed a steeple.

“I am telling the truth, Lieutenant.”

“You are telling some of the truth. You believe Johnnie Rodriguez and Lester Mackey kidnapped CeeCee Burke and that your husband came here to confront Lester Mackey.”

“I know that Richard came here because of what he learned from Johnnie Rodriguez. I know Richard came here to see someone—”

“Obviously Mr. Collins came to see Mr. Mackey.” Kanoa was impatient.

“Perhaps. But we know that Johnnie Rodriguez took a walk the night CeeCee Burke was kidnapped. What if he went to the cabin where he and Lester had left her? What if he saw someone in the family there with CeeCee?”

“And Rodriguez kept that a secret from everyone after her body was found?” Kanoa's disbelief was apparent.

“Johnnie was afraid no one would believe him. And he followed Lester's lead when Lester told him to keep quiet. But”—I leaned forward—“it had to be something like that. Why else would Rodriguez call Richard, tell him he had to tell someone the truth about the kidnapping?”

“Because he and Mackey kidnapped her.” Kanoa spoke with quiet finality.

“But someone engineered it!” I was angry now. Kanoa wasn't listening to me. He was shaking that huge head, throwing a great pumpkin of a shadow against the wall behind him.

“That's what you claim now, Mrs. Collins.” His dark eyes accused me.

I felt a sudden emptiness in my chest, the visceral response to shock.

Because now I understood exactly what Kanoa believed. He had figured it out to his satisfaction. He believed that I had come to Kauai seeking retribution. I found the man who committed the kidnapping, ergo I found the man who had to silence Richard.

“You talked with Lester Mackey the night you arrived.”
He ticked off the points on his fingers. “This afternoon you learned that Mackey was seen near the cliff trail the night your husband died. You accused him to Mrs. Scanlon—”

How odd. He meant Belle. I wondered if anyone else had ever addressed her that way.

“—but Mackey convinced her you'd invented the story. So what were you going to do, Mrs. Collins? You had no proof.”

“Lester lied because he was trying to protect himself—”

“Exactly.” Kanoa looked at me curiously, wondering that I didn't see that I had blurted out a damning truth.

It was frustrating, infuriating. “No. Not that way. Lester didn't intend to kidnap CeeCee. He thought it was a joke, a prank, one of the silly games the children played. When I say he was trying to protect himself, I mean that he didn't want Belle to know he had any knowledge of the kidnapping because he had lied about it for so many years and he was terrified that Belle would turn against him.”

“He and Rodriguez took the girl,” Kanoa said stubbornly.

“A joke.” My desperate, driven litany.

“That's what you claim now.”

We'd come full circle. I damned his persistence, his twisted interpretation, though I understood how he had reached his conclusion.