Death in the Orchid Garden (6 page)

Marty Corbin stared in the direction of the Reuter table, his eyes narrowing ominously. “So there's another Man Friday lurking around here. Lou, do you think Dr. Reuter will want
his
Man Friday on the program tomorrow, too?”

Dr. Flynn laughed and shook his head. “No way. Nate Bernstein's a behind-the-scenes type guy. He does a lot of research for Reuter, as well as some of his boss's best writing, it's said. But neither Charles Reuter nor Nate Bernstein craves publicity. You'll have enough of a challenge giving Charles face time tomorrow morning. He's what you'd call ‘diffident.'”

“Shy?” cried Marty. “You've gotta be kidding, Dr. Flynn. I didn't think there was a shy person among you. I just thought Reuter was an unpleasant SOB
.
”

Steffi and Louise exchanged alarmed glances. Marty was crabby and tired. It was time to change the subject. She looked up at Matthew Flynn and smiled. “So, Aroma is a good place to eat; we'll remember that. I bet you two know lots of good places.”

John Batchelder piped up, “Louise will wangle it out of you—she always does. She's solved a few crimes, you know.” He smiled smugly, as if he'd announced a secret that was only his. “She's a real snoop.”

Matthew Flynn looked down at Louise with mock amazement. She felt her face coloring. “My God, an amateur gumshoe in our midst! I knew there was some reason I liked you from the moment I first met you.”

“John's just kidding,” Louise demurred.

“I bet he isn't,” said Flynn. “I'll have to remember that and seek out your help if I need it. But seriously, dear Louise, we know lots of good places. I'll jot down a list of them for you.”

“Thanks,” she said. She was grateful when she saw a waiter heading their way with a huge tray bearing four large plates with covered lids. As he turned to leave, Flynn cast a haughty glance around the terrace with its torches and palms, while the waiter looked relieved that the two interlopers were getting out of his way so he could serve the food.

Whether they were a little weird or not, Louise envied the two ethnobotanists. At least they had the good sense to strike out from this luxury hotel. She wouldn't mind getting away from it one of these nights.

S
oon after dinner, the four of them seemed ready to retire to their rooms for a good night's sleep before the busy Friday. But first, Louise went to the hotel's sundries store to buy a few items. The shop was called Island Rest, possibly because it had a large stock of medicines, including over-the-counter sleeping pills. Surprisingly, it was crowded with other guests doing the same thing.

Quickly snatching up her intended purchases, a hat emblazoned with “Kauai-by-the-Sea,” a tube of 45 SPF sunblock, and a couple of pricey rolls of film, she got in line behind three others. A quibble was taking place at the front of the line, something about the fact that the shop didn't carry the man's favorite headache pain relief. Since she was tired, Louise wished he'd get on with it, grab a bottle of Advil, and let her have a turn at the counter.

The dark-haired young man standing in front of her finally swung around in disgust. It was as if he had to find something in the rear of the shop to interest him and help relieve his impatience. This gave him the opportunity to stare at a whole wall full of hats of various styles, all of which carried the logo, “Kauai-by-the-Sea.”

That was how she got acquainted with Nate Bernstein.

“Kind of late, isn't it,” she said, “to get in a tizzy over pain pills.”

“Insane,” muttered the young man, without even looking at Louise. “He should have brought his OxyContin from home.” He had an intelligent face. Any mother would love those liquid brown eyes.

“You're Nate Bernstein, aren't you? I'm Louise Eldridge. I'm the, uh . . .”

“I know who you are,” said Bernstein, finally deigning to look at her. They were the same height. “You're part of that TV shoot tomorrow at the National Tropical Botanical Garden. I had to sit and wait while you all met this afternoon to talk over things.”

“Yes,” she said. “I host the program. Are you coming to the shoot?”

His lip curled, as if this were a foolish question. “Of course. Dr. Reuter will want me there.” He gave her a suspicious look. “Quite frankly, he thinks he's being set up.”

“Oh, no, I mean . . . why would he think that?”

Bernstein's glance slid over to another part of the store, where scores of postcards were on sale. A pause, during which Louise wasn't even sure the young man would resume talking. “Well, at heart, Ms. Eldridge . . .”

“Mrs. Eldridge,” she corrected.

“At heart, there's no difference between those two characters.”

“You mean Dr. Bouting and Dr. Flynn.”

“Yes. Bouting Horticulture constantly needs new products to market.” He waved his strong-looking arms in a surprising gesture. “How else would they continue to make their millions and keep a throttle-hold on the wholesale plant market of North America? You got to have your bright new orange-with-yellow-tipped echinacea from New Mexico, or your hot new purple-with-green-spots species tulip from the mountain slopes of Turkey.” Those brown eyes widened. “That Bouting fellow is a sleight-of-hand artist; he goes to those places, swaps a few nonimportant Bouting brands that he doesn't care about for priceless finds.”

“Is there something inherently wrong with doing that?”

A shrug. “It's what he does and doesn't do next. Doesn't test 'em long enough to determine whether they're invasives. Doesn't remunerate some poor, benighted country that he's filched them from after he makes a ton of money off them.” Nate Bernstein smiled, but cynically. “Otherwise, there's nothing wrong with that.”

She said, “But Matthew Flynn has a different slant. He's only interested in plants with medicinal value.”

The young man pointed an accusing finger at Louise. “That's not the whole story. He's got two games going. He also goes out and plunders the wilds for ornamentals for fun and profit, don't think he doesn't. As for the ‘valuable' medicinal plants he's always touting, you have to ask, plants with value to whom? To Matthew Flynn first and foremost.” He shook his head. “No, if you knew the whole story, you'd see he's a phony. Nothing, or almost nothing, has panned out—no medical miracles or breakthroughs—despite all the money he's taken up front from the NSF and from pharmaceutical companies.”

“Huh,” said Louise. “Then why does he have such a great reputation in the scientific community?”

Bernstein, after his animated disclosures, seemed to have wound down. There was a long pause before he continued. “I predict he'll be passé before the year's over and that golden boy image will begin to fade. Pretty soon, the funding won't be renewed.” Another dry and humorless laugh. “Without NSF and pharmaceutical company money behind them, who'll pay for Flynn and Wyant's druggy little trips to the middle of nowhere?” He caught Louise's eye again. “Those trips cost big money, you know, the boats, the special equipment, the professional crews from Manaus . . .”

“I heard Dr. Flynn and Wyant discovered a promising new species. Something in the
uncaria
genus
.”

Bernstein nodded. “A subspecies of
Uncaria quianensis;
I've read all about it. Maybe it's a breakthrough, but I don't think so, despite all the hoopla in the scientific press about it. If it did become a bona fide cancer cure the way they've been touting it, it will be an all-out steal from those poor Peruvian Indians who live where they found the plant. But watch and see. I bet their promises come to nothing. Time will tell if I'm right.”

Louise thought for a moment, but a moment was all she had, for Nate Bernstein had reached the front of the line. She noticed he was purchasing a pocket knife with an attractive palm tree motif. Her newly aroused shopping “self” decided she'd buy one for her husband as a fitting gift from Kauai. She touched his arm. “Nate, we'll give Dr. Reuter plenty of opportunity to state his positions tomorrow on endangered and invasive plants.”

Bernstein turned and threw the words over his shoulder. “I trust you on that, Mrs. Eldridge.”

Then, not caring that he was holding up a line of people, he turned all the way around and fixed Louise with his intense gaze. In a quiet voice that couldn't be overheard, he said, “I don't trust the others not to skewer the deal and dominate your whole program.”

“Oh, no, they—” she started to say, but he raised a warning hand that was as good as if he'd told her to be quiet and listen.

“Let's look at the facts as they exist, Mrs. Eldridge. When it comes to botanists, Matthew Flynn is the young, womanizing glamour-puss with the compelling scientific spiel. And that old goat Bouting doesn't do so bad for himself . . . either with the ladies or at conning the scientific community into thinking that he's their great white hope. Charles Reuter and I consider those two are formidable opponents—and don't think they're not opponents. We're on two different sides in the struggle to save this planet of ours.”

 

O
n the downside, it was an extraordinarily warm day in Kauai, with no prevailing breezes blowing for a change. Louise could feel the sweat forming in her armpits, probably because she was costumed specially for the shoot in a Calvin Klein blue denim dress with a big red kerchief at the neck for accent.

On the upside, the shoot was working like a charm. Marty Corbin, acting as producer-director, stayed just out of range, mopping his brow and waving instructions to their young associate producer, Joel, and to the audio engineer, a film major like Joel from University of Hawaii. The grip guided the perspiring cameraman as he walked backward down the road, the big videocam on his shoulder aimed at the Three Tenors. He was on the staff of KHET-TV in Honolulu.

On the scientists' left flank was John Batchelder and on their right, Louise. The cohosts took turns questioning the three.

Louise was exhilarated, for Bruce Bouting, Matthew Flynn, and Charles Reuter were quibbling at every step. However, the sight of the camera must have cooled some passions within them, for it was not an angry exchange such as the one they'd had the previous afternoon. Intelligent, animated, but not angry. With a little editing, it was going to make an exciting program for
Gardening with Nature
.

What was a little unusual at this production was the cluster of spectators just outside camera range. They had congregated promptly at 8:30 to take in the action. Louise darted occasional glances at them as they walked quietly along, as instructed by Associate Producer Joel Greene, straining to hear every word the visiting scientists had to say to the camera. Some were visitors who'd arrived early and were lucky enough to get in on a video shoot. There was the Rubenesque Steffi Corbin, looking handsome today in a light blue flowing dress, laughing merrily at every break with the scientists from the Garden. Tom Schoonover strode along rather like the lord of the manor, with solid, swarthy Henry Hilaeo at his side and Tim Raddant and Sam Folsom following along.

Tim and Sam, like Schoonover, were lean, deeply tanned men, and Louise surmised it was because their jobs took them out of doors so much. Then, they most likely surfed or swam in their leisure time.
Escapees from the mainland
, thought Louise with a smile. Though they'd surely come to Kauai in the name of scholarship, they were living and working in paradise. There must be no more pleasant scientific job than one here in this island garden.

The other spectators included Bouting's people, Christopher Bailey and Anne Lansing, who'd soon be before the camera themselves. Anne guarded against the sun with both a wide-brimmed straw hat and a cream-colored umbrella that matched her cream-colored sleeveless lawn blouse and pleated linen skirt. Matthew Flynn's assistant, George Wyant, was looking as dazed as ever, and then there was Dr. Reuter's aide, Nate Bernstein. Bernstein, who was becoming browner and more handsome the longer he was exposed to the Hawaiian sun, nevertheless seemed as tormented today as when Louise ran into him last night in the hotel store.

With a commanding air only enhanced by his good-looking safari outfit, Dr. Bouting was booming out his closing argument: “Of course we must preserve our endangered plants, but that doesn't mean tropicals aren't going to be the star plant of the future in the horticultural world, tropicals that are being bred to grow even in zone five! Tropicals that will flourish in pots in northern gardens. . . tropicals that will awaken conservation feelings in home gardeners and are an avenue through which we can educate the public to . . .”

Matthew Flynn threw in with Bouting for the most part, but said Bouting's view of tropicals was too commercial and “exploitative.”

Louise had a quixotic mental picture of Bouting and Flynn in some jungle environment, fighting to the death over a new plant discovery: “
For home gardeners
,” Bouting would cry. “
For the future of medicine
,” Flynn would argue. Today, Flynn's clothes represented a slight upgrade: the shirt not quite as wrinkled as the day before, though just as worn. On the back of his head he wore a jaunty cream-colored explorer's hat that looked brand new, as if bought expressly for the taping. Yet he was more subdued today than he was yesterday, seeming to search for the right words and vigilantly observing the responses of others.

“Man will always be in search of new plants in exotic places,” he said, “but caution must be taken when we pluck these species from the wilds. All plants need analysis so we can tell whether or not they will have value to mankind beyond commercial values. We need to keep searching, because in the face of population pressures, many species are disappearing, along with the indigenous people who know how to use them . . .”

The audio engineer had to move up quickly with his microphone boom to catch the quiet, ascerbic remarks of Charles Reuter. “Of course man will always search out new plants on this earth. But we know things now that we didn't know even fifty years ago . . . that the introduction of exotics into helpless, foreign environments”—he dramatically waved his thin arms—“Kauai and the other beautiful islands of the Hawaiian chain could not be a more perfect example of this phenomenon—these introductions can create environmental nightmares, with native plants literally smothered, as they have been here by these intruders. Testing. Trials. These are the responsible things to do before moving any plants into a new environment.”

Reuter stopped momentarily on his muscular legs, bringing the entire on-camera group to a halt. He looked dramatically up at Matthew Flynn and Bruce Bouting for another parting shot. “Needless to say, we're one world enough to know that we no longer can steal plants away from guileless countries, even under the guise of saving humanity with a new wonder drug, not unless we in the United States wish to bear the stamp of horticultural conquerors who have no consciences.”

Louise was amazed to learn that this slight man had such emotion in him and could express it so well. Now they had turned into one of the botanical garden's “rooms,” the finish line for the shoot. Around them were walls of pandanus trees. Above them was the garden room's roof, a huge monkeypod tree that spread its large arms across the sky. In the center of this space, a serene fountain burbled, as it had for almost seventy years since being created by Allerton.

“We thank our guests for this lively discussion,” she said. “I know it will provoke us all to think . . .” A few more closing words, with John chiming in to say, “And this has been a perfect place to have such a wonderful exchange of ideas.”

“That's a wrap, then,” called Marty. “Take ten, no, fifteen, so you can get up to the john. Next up are Bouting, Bailey, and Lansing, for a brief interview. Louise is doin' the interviewing.” He turned to confer with Joel Greene for a minute; Louise knew her producer hadn't decided where he was going to tape this segment.

She went over to Tom Schoonover. “Sorry for the delay, Dr. Schoonover.”

“For heaven's sake, call me Tom,” he said, with a smile that elevated his eyebrows and put those forehead wrinkles into play.

“We'll be shooting your and Henry Hilaeo's trek through the native plants soon. The segment that Marty's doing next shouldn't take more than a few minutes.” She could feel her face coloring. “It's something Dr. Bouting kind of insisted on doing, a little summary of what Bouting Horticulture is all about.”

Schoonover shoved his cap back on his head and a couple of gray curls fell onto his forehead. “Seems as if it would make more sense to do a program on Bouting Horticulture back in Philadelphia, where they have all those vast research gardens.”

“I know,” said Louise, as her shoulders slumped a little. Her producer had given in to pressure. They probably wouldn't be able to use the little piece. “Where do you think they should go to tape this? There are so many wonderful spots to choose from.”

Schoonover casually pointed down the road. “How about the next garden room beyond this one? It has a long, serpentine pool and there's a bench where the four of you could sit. It would make a nice background.”

“Thanks, Tom. And sorry you and Henry have to wait.”

His hazel eyes looked down on her perspiring face. “No problem for me,” said Schoonover. “But Louise, maybe you better powder your nose before they begin taping. Nobody cares here on Kauai whether you have a shiny nose, but that producer of yours might when he sees the tape.”

She grinned. “Thanks for the beauty tip.”

With a big smile, he said, “If you're going to keep thanking people, you'd better use the Hawaiian ‘
mahalo.
'”

“Oh, yes, of course.
Mahalo
, Tom.” She pulled her compact and lipstick from her SportSac. As she quickly dabbed makeup on her face, she said, “So what did you think of our three visiting botanists?”

Schoonover shoved out his bottom lip in an expression of bafflement. “Y'know, all of us in this business tend to know each other pretty well. Other botanists from that conference have visited the gardens in the past two days. Nice lot of people—Ralph Pinsky, people of his stature. I could see that you and your producer were pleased with the combination of Reuter, Bouting, and Flynn—one zealous ecologist and two combative jungle cowboys.”

“You think of Dr. Bouting as a jungle cowboy?”

“Sure do,” said Schoonover. “He's just older than Flynn, but cut from the same cloth. One, he's got that hyperbole thing going—always exaggerating his claims. And two, he's not always interested in the consequences of his actions. Putting the three of them together is truly an explosive mixture.”

She snapped her compact closed, put the top back on her lipstick and returned them to her bag. “That's why we were so happy. They didn't explode, they just politely collided.”

“So that's how you saw it.”

“How did you see it?”

“For professional scientists, those three have a thin veneer of civilization about them. Let's put it this way—I wouldn't want to leave them in a room together without proper supervision.”