Dearly Departed (15 page)

CHAPTER 24

H
awaii should have been the simplest location to arrange, but had turned out to be the hardest. Paisley MacGregor had stipulated the four other hotels by name, sometimes by room numbers. But for Hawaii, the Big Island, to be specific, she had left only instructions to find someplace exclusive and private—with at least one helicopter pad.

The helipad wouldn't be a problem, they'd discovered. Combining the exclusive and private aspects of their stay would be. Hawaii was part of the United States, almost home, and literally home to the Steinbergs, who lived just one island up the road. For all the previous stops, they had been this clique of Americans, united by a dead maid and separated from the local world by language and culture. But now, to be on the last leg, with fatigue setting in, with Americans on all sides, and with the atmosphere of everyday life seeping through the cracks . . . How would Amy and Peter keep their eight rich mourners united for two more nights?

Peter's knee-jerk solution had been the Four Seasons, having them occupy six suites in an ocean-side wing. Peter's solution to everything seemed to be the Four Seasons. But Amy had worked a little harder and had come up with a private home, one of several over-the-top residences for sale in the current real estate market. It had been vacant for a year, and the corporate manager was becoming flexible about short-term rentals. The buying price was set at forty million, but Amy was sure she could pick it up for thirty-eight, cash, if she wanted to buy a nice winter home.

The estate was spread out over several acres on the Kona coast, with eight Polynesian-themed guest cottages, in addition to the main house. The owner's identity was kept secret by the corporation, but the home went by the name No Mistakes, which Amy found a bit disconcerting. Shouldn't dream homes have carefree names, like No Worries or No Problems? No Mistakes sounded like way too much responsibility.

The Kona coast wasn't known for its sandy beaches but for its craggy, lava-laden shorelines. It was on just such a craggy promontory, under the shade of some architect's version of a native
hale
, that Paisley MacGregor's last will and testament was finally about to be read.

Amy was alone in the shade of the
hale
, except for the caretaker, who was helping arrange the chairs and the podium and was telling her what could and could not be done. For example, the landscaping lights could not be turned on; they were on a timer controlled from a computer in a warehouse in San Francisco. And if they weren't through by 6:15 p.m., the sprinkler system, controlled from the same warehouse, would make the act of leaving the
hale
a bit of a challenge.

When Amy looked around, she saw that the first three guests were arriving. Peter was in the middle, caught between David and Herb, the meat in a Pepper-Sands sandwich. The bickering couple had finally agreed in favor of their “fortieth” anniversary extravaganza. Now it was just a matter of the venue argument.

“I've done a bike tour through Provence,” Peter said cheerily, siding with David for the moment. “Not all that strenuous. Maybe forty miles a day. Less.”

“But there are hills,” Herb protested.

“Yes, there are hills,” Peter allowed. “It's Provence. But I can find you some great châteaus, and there will be a courtesy van following you, just in case of emergency. Flat tires, that sort of thing.”

“You can ride in the van,” David said with unrepressed glee. “Or better, we can put a little motor on your bike. I can just see it, the rest of us cycling away, working up a sweat, and you putt-putting like a motorized Queen of England, waving to the throngs.”

“What's wrong with a private river cruise?” Herb countered. “A boat and a crew and a great chef. And we spend a few weeks on the Rhine or the Danube. Much more civilized.”

“Yes, if all your friends are over sixty. Oh, I forgot. You're over sixty.”

“Don't forget who's paying for this.”

Amy couldn't decide if their bickering was real or a game, a way for them to pass the time and flirt with Peter. Of course, the proposed trip was real. Probably. But even more real was an attractive man's approval. Would Peter approve more of youth and adventure or money and ease?

“A river cruise is nice,” Peter said, his high school stammer returning just at the edge of his voice. “And you can take bikes with you. That way, the younger people . . . I mean the more athletic. . . I didn't mean that, either. I mean the people who want to can take bike trips during the day, and the more sedentary . . . I mean the people who don't want to cycle . . .”

Peter seemed to have nailed it, the perfect lose-lose. David was incensed at the idea that Herb's river cruise might win the game, and Herb was incensed at being called sedentary.

By now, the Steinbergs were also maneuvering their way out to the
hale
. Maury was on his phone, dealing with someone or something back in Maui and ignoring Laila, who stumbled a few yards behind, trying to keep her footing on the shelves of black volcanic rock. Her leather-soled Manolos weren't helping.

Peter saw her on the rocks and grabbed at the excuse, any excuse, to leave the Pepper-Sands with a murmured “Excuse me.” When Maury finally noticed his wife, her arm now securely around the waist of their tall, sure-footed guide, he reacted with an impatient sigh, then returned to his call. He seemed rather bipolar in regards to his wife, Amy concluded. Sometimes loving and protective, sometimes disdainful, with very little in between.

Nicole Marconi, in a much more sensible pair of white Top-Siders, was also making her way across the lava rock. Her demeanor was determined, almost solemn. Evan and Barbara were the last of the party to arrive, treading gingerly down a path of carved-out steps from one of the estate's manicured lawns. They, like Nicole, appeared solemn and nervous—eyes darting, mouths thin and straight.

For this particular ceremony, Peter joined the seven others on the bamboo folding chairs, facing Amy and the podium and the blue-green sea beyond. Amy had never read a will before, had never even heard one read. It felt like an outdated tradition, best left to the world of fiction. But Paisley MacGregor had requested it here, at their last stop.

Amy picked up the copy of a handwritten, notarized letter, the one Fanny and Marcus had examined that night over a week ago in her New York home office. She cleared her throat.

This wouldn't be Amy's first time reading Paisley MacGregor's notarized letter or Paisley's will, for that matter. After the murder in India, she had, very guiltily, sat in various hotel rooms, poring over both documents, hoping to find a connection, some little hint of a connection, between one of her tourists and the man who had called himself Billy Strunk. And although the letter and the will were in no way dull, they failed to shed any light—on anything. Amy cleared her throat again and began.

“My loved ones, thank you for coming. I know you're all here, in this beautiful Hawaiian setting, preparing to scatter the last of me into the sky. What a comfort to know that all my loving families cared enough to take time out of your busy lives and say farewell. You are very special to me. And I'd like to think that I had an influence over you, to make your worlds a little easier, to help guide you in my own small way.”

This was vintage MacGregor, Amy thought as she paused between the first and second paragraphs.
Now here comes the good part
.

“Even you, Peter, although I did have to lure you with a nice piece of business and a commission. Just teasing. I love you, too. Just don't skim more money than you should. The executors won't like it.” It was meant as a joke, but . . .

“I never skimmed money,” Peter mumbled, aware that he was arguing with a dead woman. Everyone avoided looking his way, and the temperature in the
hale
probably went up a degree. They could literally feel him steaming.

“You people were my life. It was a privilege to be a small part of yours and all your special moments. Nicole, I remember like yesterday you and your parents coming back from Europe, only to find all your records burned in that dreadful fire. I'm so glad I was able to be there to comfort you. The police can be so awfully rude to you. And for no reason.

“And sweet Herb. Was it really so long ago when you brought young, handsome David into our home? There were a lot of delicate moments in those first few years. At times it was almost like a French sex farce, the two of you and your secret friends, with doors slamming and naked strangers tiptoeing around and hiding in closets. But we were all discreet, and it all worked out for the best.

“And, of course, dear Evan and Barbara. I never knew how you could afford a full-time maid. Half the time it seemed you were just taking money from one account and throwing it into another. But I'm so glad you were able to afford me. Such fun-loving people. I don't think I ever laughed so much in my life.

“Last but not least, Laila and Maury. You found me right after you found each other. Second marriages are hard, so I've heard. It must have been especially hard for Maury, giving up his own gallery and joining Laila's business. A lot of men would have felt emasculated by it. But not you, Maury. I don't want to keep rambling, but the memories are golden. I wish I could be there to share a glass of champagne, which I'm afraid I'm no longer allowed to have in my situation.

“And now, if you'll indulge me, whoever is reading this is going to also read my will. All my love, my dears. It's been grand.”

Amy paused and peered up over the rims of her glasses. Her audience sat frozen in place, too self-conscious to even glance at their own partners, like eight stone-faced mannequins displaying a line of expensive resort wear. She took a sip from her bottle of Evian and flipped to the next document. “The Last Will and Testament of Paisley Louise MacGregor,” Amy read aloud to the mannequins. This document was longer and much less dramatic.

It began by asserting Miss MacGregor's sound mind and selecting the law firm of Corns and Associates to be her executor. At this news, Evan and Barbara came back to life, looking relieved, almost jubilant, then turning stone-faced again, embarrassed by their momentary enthusiasm.

There were a few small gifts mentioned first, for a children's charity in New York, for Joy Archer, her “loyal maid and friend,” and for a few others. Amy kept reading, although momentarily distracted by the fact that MacGregor's humorless maid was named Joy.

The will went on. “I request that all my remaining personal papers be destroyed without being read or cataloged, and that the remainder of my possessions be publicly auctioned and the proceeds added to my estate. I hereby stipulate that this estate, including but not limited to all investments and accounts, be liquidated and divided evenly among the following individuals, provided that they are present, as requested, for the reading of this will.” And here she went on to name her eight ex-bosses.

Amy had barely put down the will when Nicole spoke up, shouting into the whirl of motors and the wind, which had come out of nowhere and was starting to attack the
hale
. “Divided evenly?” she demanded over the din. “That's my money. And now you're saying the Steinbergs get twice as much as me because they're two people? And the Corns?” She probably also added the Pepper-Sands. But by this time the whirlwind of propeller blades was rendering her shouts inaudible.

Two waiters from the catering company approached the bamboo chairs, one on each side. They began to lead the guests to a pair of silver helicopters warming up at the twin helipads situated fifty yards inland, on either side of the black lava promontory. Above a row of coconut palms a third helicopter was just hovering into view.

CHAPTER 25

A
my knew better than to flirt on the job, especially with vendors.

Desmond Mansfield happened to be an Australian who had moved to the Big Island a few years back to buy a trio of Hughes 500s and start his own business. Aloha Jack, he'd named it. “Because,” as he explained from between a set of perfectly dimpled cheeks, “no one wants to hire from a company called Aloha Desmond.” His logo, emblazoned on each side of each of his helicopters, was a cartoon kangaroo in a bush hat.

In all their correspondence, Desmond had assured her that it would be no problem. The Volcanoes National Park allowed private helicopters to fly over the Kilauea volcano, and the rim of Halemaumau Crater was safe enough to permit the simultaneous landing of his choppers, which would be carrying three pilots, including him, and nine passengers, including her.

She had checked with him again in person hours after they arrived, and had found him just as cute as he was in the photo on his Web site. “This is more complicated than the usual tourist flyover, no doubt.” He put on his work face, and his dimples disappeared, allowing Amy to pay more attention to the rest of him. Muscularly thin, a square jaw, with a sandy brown crew cut and an unlined face.
Why do small-craft pilots always look sixteen and adorable?
Amy had wondered, not for the first time.

“Have you tested the crater edge?” she'd had to ask. “Is it safe for three helicopters?”

“No worries,” he drawled. “The park service wouldn't let us go if it weren't safe. My boys and me did a test run this morning. And conditions tomorrow will be even better. Of course, we won't be exactly on the rim. Sorry to disappoint.”

“You're not disappointing me,” Amy said. “The less danger, the better.”

His dimples returned. “Good. I hate to disappoint.”

“You probably don't get many requests for ashes to be dumped into a volcano.”

“Seems a little redundant, eh? But rich blokes do all sorts of things, and no one calls it crazy.”

“You're right.” She decided not to mention that the ashes in the urn would be chicken and charcoal.

From the will reading, the mourners walked directly to the helicopters. Like a good guide, she made sure the first two were safely filled with clients. Then she and Peter and a simmeringly silent Nicole waited for the third. Amy found herself riding shotgun beside Desmond, although the one-way headphones made conversation impossible.

All three choppers landed on the upwind side of Halemaumau Crater, the only option, since the gas vents from the active volcano rendered the downwind side nearly invisible in the white mist. This was vog, the pilots explained through the headphones, volcanic fog. The helicopters wound up fifty yards away from each other, lined up along the rim, rotors locked down. The guests slowly emerged, following their pilots, like aliens from their shiny spaceships.

As promised, they weren't all that close to the edge. But they could easily see down inside, down the perilous, rock-strewn slope and out to the red-orange glow of lava and the gas vents beyond. It was a breathtaking setting, just a shade windy, with bright blue skies above, an active volcano below, and white plumes shooting up and away into the vog.

Desmond led them to a two-ton basalt boulder that had been coughed out in some angry, unrecorded moment during the past million years. This became their podium. And this time no one insisted on telling any self-serving stories about long-lost vacations. The moment was simple, dramatic, and relatively short. Amy, for the first time, took part in the scattering and was glad to see the last of the chicken, several spoonfuls apiece, fly into the wind and down toward the lava.

No one had to encourage anyone to hurry back down the crater's side to the helicopters.

“This deceased one,” Desmond said, looking back over his shoulder. “She had quite the sense of drama.”

Amy had found herself walking beside Desmond again. “The woman led a quiet life. What's wrong with a little adventure after you're gone?”

“The ultimate example of living vicariously.”

The air had turned surprisingly still, with their words echoing off the slope of the crater. Amy sighed and could feel the relief. It was a nice moment. A handsome man, an amazing setting. Her odyssey was nearing its end, with only one more night before their long flight back home. She probably wasn't paying quite as much attention as she should have.

On reaching their chopper, she turned to watch the stragglers. Out of habit she began counting.
The Steinbergs, walking together, one, two. Herb Sands, three. Nicole, four. Now to the left. David Pepper, five.
No, that was one of the pilots. And the woman she thought was Nicole was actually one of the pilots, too, the female pilot. By the time, Amy got to six, she had to start over.

And then came the echo of a shout. Or was it a scream? Whatever it was, it was followed by the grumbling, tumbling sound of a rock slide. Everyone heard it and stopped in their tracks. Amy paused, as well, then grabbed Desmond by the arm and began racing—gingerly—back up the slope.

When they reached the crater's edge, the real edge this time, a mini-avalanche of rocks was still pouring down the insides of the crater, on its way to being reheated by the red-orange lava swirling lazily at the mouth. Amy tried to get a better view, but Desmond held her back.

Everyone was coming now. The two other pilots, plus . . . She started counting again.
One, two, three . . .
She saw Barbara walking by herself at a nervous trot, coming faster than the others. Amy scanned the slope, not counting this time, but looking for one person in particular.

Evan Corns. Where the hell was Evan Corns?

 

Landing choppers on the crater rim had been totally illegal, despite Desmond's assurance to the contrary. That was the smallest of their newfound problems, although Desmond would probably argue otherwise.

Within two minutes of the rock slide, the Aussie pilot was in the air, diving inside the crater as far as he could, given the unpredictable air currents and the heat and the vog. Aloha Jack's other pilots, a best friend from Sydney and Desmond's wife, also took to the air and flew in increasingly wider circles around the crater.

Ten minutes later the park service responded with their own battered helicopter. But there wasn't much they could add to the situation, besides yelling at Desmond and promising to start an investigation. The crater's interior was too dangerous for climbers, not unless some trace of Evan Corns could be found to justify their efforts. Then a few volunteers might try the descent.

The best friend and the pilot wife ferried the other guests back to the estate, where the Hawaii County police were waiting to question them, then flew back out to join Desmond, Amy, Peter, and Barbara, who had refused to leave with the others.

An hour after sunset, when it was no longer safe for anyone to be hovering over an active volcano, they called off the search, with the promise of starting again tomorrow at sunrise.

 

The night was breezy and moist, with only a few clouds flitting across the moon. Amy stood on her veranda with a much-needed Campari and soda. She watched the police cars pull out of the estate around 9:00 p.m., then gave Barbara a few minutes to settle in or pour herself a drink. At 9:05 p.m., Amy wandered over to the Corns cottage, prepared to knock. The door was open. Barbara was sitting on a brightly flowered bamboo sofa, hands clasped in her lap, head down, no drink. Amy left hers on a side table on the porch.

Evan's wife looked up and moaned. “Why did we even go there? An active volcano, for God's sake.”

“Herb and David did this trip years ago. They had this volcano photo on MacGregor's piano.” Amy stepped inside the cottage and settled into a bamboo chair facing the sofa. Barbara seemed to welcome the company.

“The police kept asking if Evan was depressed. That's ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous,” Amy agreed. “Seemed like he was in a wonderful mood.”

The black basalt boulder had been perhaps ten yards from the actual rim, all uphill. The only reason for Evan to walk up to the rim might have been to get a slightly better view of the crater. But they had been warned not to, and no one had been seen attempting it. Also, Evan had been one of the few not to bring a camera, not even a phone camera.

Shortly after getting there, the park service had found the spot where the mini-avalanche had started. They had taken pictures of scuff marks that seemed to go over the rim and had placed a water bottle beside what might have been shoe prints in order to give scale to the photos.

“When did you last see Evan?” Amy asked, knowing this question had been asked a dozen times.

“Right after you threw the last of the ashes. After that, I was too busy watching out for my own footing. I think we all were. Those rocks are sharp.”

“Can you think of any reason why he might have gone back up to the rim?”

“Maybe he had to pee,” suggested Barbara.

Pee into the crater of an active volcano? Who would do such a thing? Go out of his way to walk up to the rim . . . ? “Actually, that kind of sounds like Evan,” Amy had to admit.

Evan's tiny bladder had become something of a running joke with the group. He had been sighted by Nicole relieving himself in the river by the Taj Mahal, right before the ceremony began. She had been suitably disgusted and had told everyone. A similar incident occurred on the Great Wall of China just as Maury was concluding some endless Paisley story they'd all heard before. David and Peter had both seen Evan wander off to urinate over a crumbling edge of the wall, and both had gotten the giggles. The others noticed, too, even Maury. But far from being embarrassed, Evan seemed to enjoy the attention.

“I know,” Barbara said, with the closest she'd come to a chuckle in the past five hours. “Evan could be like a big kid. He would totally pee into a volcano.”

“Except he would want people to see,” Amy added. “I mean, what's the point of doing something funny if no one sees it?”

“Maybe he did call out, ‘Hey, everybody, look!' and no one heard him. Then he fell.”

Amy tried to envision it, the burly, fun-loving man with his pants unzipped trying to get someone's attention, shouting, perhaps waving his arms, then falling backward, pants still unzipped, down the side of a crater. The whole scenario sounded comical, which was exactly why it struck her as so enormously tragic. “I think we would have heard him,” she said softly.

“Well, it's more believable than what they're saying. My husband did not commit suicide.”

“I'm sure it was an accident.”

“He may not even be dead.” Barbara's face brightened in a desperate, jittery smile. “He could have tripped and fallen the other direction. Away from the crater.”

“It's possible.” Amy had never been in this position, trading theories with a possible widow. She wasn't good at it, with too logical a mind to be of much comfort. “But wouldn't he have rolled past us?”

“It depends on the angle he fell.”

“What about the helicopters? They circled around for hours. They would have seen him.”

“Helicopters don't see everything. He could have been hiding. Under a ledge or behind a rock.”

“Hiding?” Amy was taken aback. “Why would Evan be hiding?”

“I didn't mean hiding,” Barbara said quickly. “Hidden.”

“You think he started the avalanche, then ran away while the rest of us were looking over the edge?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Do you think it's a possibility? But that would mean . . .”
Wow
, thought Amy. “Did Evan have any reason to fake his death?” She hadn't intended to say that out loud.

“Fake his death?” Barbara stood up, her ruddy face turning even ruddier. “How can you suggest such a thing?”

“Actually, you suggested it.”

“I meant he could have fallen unconscious under a rock or a ledge. Hidden, not hiding.”

“Right. Sorry.” But there was something about Barbara's demeanor that left her troubled. Amy glanced through the open door and regretted having left her drink on the porch. She got up to leave. “I guess we'll take it day by day.”

“Take what day by day?”

“The search. Not that it'll take more than a day to find him. Alive. Find him alive,” she added. “But we'll have to book you into a hotel for the duration. Not that it'll be a duration. There's a lodge in the park with a nice view of the volcano. Not a nice view, but you can see the spot . . .” She was just digging herself in deeper.

“I understand,” Barbara said. “We'll take it day by day.”

When Amy stepped out the door, she veered slightly left and scooped up the Campari without missing a beat.