Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_04 (23 page)

I had a sudden picture of Richard lifting Emily high in the air. She was two and we were picnicking by a placid pond and as he whirled around with her, I could see their moving reflection in the water.

That was all. The moment was gone. I don't remember now where that picnic was or what we ate that day or why Richard swung his daughter so high.

As long as I have memory, I can live.

Memories. Perhaps that's how I would approach Lester Mackey. I had to reach him, to touch his heart. What happened the night he and Belle met? That was a special memory for her. I knew it would be a special memory for him.

Somehow, tonight, I would reach—

It was only a whisper of sound, but it wasn't the falls, wasn't the rustle of the ever bending foliage.

I slipped to my feet, moved quietly to the railing.

My lanai was dark. But, as always, the rim of lights along the cliff path lighted the way. The moving figure was still dark, indistinguishable. But I knew who was passing. Only Stan Dugan was that tall, walked with that long a stride.

He rounded the bluff.

This path reached a fork. One way led to the tennis courts and the pool, the other to CeeCee's grave.

I thought I knew his destination.

It was almost an hour later that I heard him returning, an hour I'd spent thinking and planning, though I knew there wasn't much I could plan now.

At midnight, I went to the bottom of the steps, put on my jogging shoes. I had a flashlight in my pocket. I didn't think I would need it. I walked quietly along the cliff path, pausing occasionally to listen, but there were only the sounds of the night, the rumble of the falls and the sighing of the trees. I was utterly attuned to this moment, moving with care and caution, looking into every shadow, listening with the intensity of a fugitive.

I breathed more easily when I was past the public rooms of the house and reached the steps to the narrow passageway by the kitchen.

I stopped once again, took off my shoes, tied the laces together and hung them around my neck. I moved up the steps in my stocking feet.

Dim lights burned. Ahiahi was not a house that would ever drowse in total darkness. But there was no movement, no sound of voices, no hint that anyone else was awake.

Still, I was careful. Anyone else abroad would also treat this as a sleeping house, refrain from making any noise.

But I felt quite easy when I reached the garden. I was almost there. Almost there, almost there, the phrase danced in my mind. Once again, I slipped into my shoes.

A lamp burned dimly at the edge of Lester's lanai. A golden swath of light flared through his open archway. So Lester was still awake.

I damn well hoped he was having trouble sleeping, that he was wrestling with the enormity of his lie, that he was beginning to worry and wonder how he could protect Belle.

He had to have a plan, of course. He loved Belle. He'd used his sensitive artist's skill to create the dark message that brought me here. I knew he cared. Surely he would realize
that Belle's life was more important—if it came to that—than his cherished place in the family.

Of course, he knew Belle much better than I. Perhaps he was certain she would never forgive him.

I didn't know if she was a forgiving woman.

But I would do my best to persuade Lester that she was.

I reached the open doorway. I took off my shoes, carried them in one hand.

The high-backed chair almost obscured him where he sat at the desk. It was so quiet. I wondered if he had fallen asleep.

My stocking feet made very little sound on the bare wooden floor. Certainly not enough to wake a sleeper. But I knew before I circled around the desk that Lester Mackey was not asleep.

Lester Mackey was dead.

T
his was a room designed for tranquillity: the wide expanse of honey-bright wooden floor, the gleaming oak walls, the geometrically shaped furniture in matte soft blues and grays. A room where space served an equal function with decor.

Not a room for violent death.

Never a room for self-inflicted death.

I stood across the desk and looked at Lester's body, at the scorched small hole in his right temple, at the bright red blood that had oozed down his cheek, at the .22-caliber pistol cupped in his lax fingers.

And at the note in the center of the shining, otherwise bare, oak desk. I came around the desk, leaned forward to read.

 

D
EAR
B
ELLE
,

P
LEASE FORGIVE ME
.

 

That was all. There was no signature. I am not an expert in handwriting analysis, but the writing appeared smooth and uniform. I had no doubt it had been written by Lester. Otherwise it wouldn't be here.

Suicide.

Lester Mackey, the man who'd spent his life loving Belle and her children, the man who'd been an unwitting accomplice in the kidnapping of CeeCee Burke. Lester Mackey, accomplished photographer, trusted servitor, reclusive aesthete.

Lester Mackey, suicide.

In a pig's eye.

“You damn fool.” Yes, I said it aloud as I stared at the lifeless husk of a gallant, irresolute, caring man, said it with a catch in my voice.

I'd been wrong about Lester Mackey. I thought he lied to Belle because he was afraid of losing her love. It was worse than that. He lied because he would not—could not—accept the reality that someone in the family had engineered CeeCee's death. And yet, flickering within him was a terrible knowledge. He had an idea who might be guilty. Once he realized that Richard had been murdered, the pieces came together. He saw someone that night, glimpsed a familiar figure on the cliff path. He would not reveal it, yet he was afraid enough for Belle that he made an effort to talk to that person.

Tonight. Here. Tonight the circle finally closed. Yes, it was one of them:

Strident Anders who cared more for animals than people.

Obsessive Peggy who would do anything for Anders.

Clever Joss who could so perfectly mimic a killer's glower.

Sensual Wheeler who had never forgotten the girl he loved.

Moody Gretchen who remembered Georgetown when her family was whole.

Clear-eyed and coldly beautiful Megan who valued freedom above all.

Tough Stan Dugan who would always have his way.

Charming Keith Scanlon who married money but hadn't lost his roving eye.

Pretty Elise Ford who turned out not to be the perfect secretary.

One of them.

Belle?

The name whispered in my mind. Surely it was not Belle whom Lester protected. But Belle, too, was on this mountaintop tonight.

No. Some proofs you don't need. I didn't need proof of her innocence. Her grief for CeeCee was genuine. And whether her injury came from an accident or a dark design, I knew she sought the truth from Lester Mackey.

Not Belle. The circle was complete without her.

I felt an emptiness in the pit of my stomach. Some of it was sorrow. Lester Mackey deserved better. He was a damn fool, but he deserved better. And part of it was dismay.

Would the police accept this as suicide?

I paced slowly around the desk. Such a clever killer. There was nothing out of place or untoward anywhere, nothing to suggest this was staged, nothing to indicate anyone else had been in this room except Lester.

The gun was positioned correctly. He could have held it. I felt an instant of hope, then shook my head. There must have been a second shot, when the killer held the gun in Lester's hand. I was sure Lester's skin would show traces of gunshot residue. But what had absorbed that second bullet? A cushion, a pillow?

I took a moment, walked into Lester's bedroom. It was as spare and cell-like as the living area, its emptiness a cel
ebration of simplicity. One bed, one pillow, a smooth, white bedspread.

But this killer would have come prepared, bringing a spare pillow from a bedroom. And, of course, carrying it away afterward. That pillow could be anywhere, stuffed in a dark plastic bag, weighted and flung far, far down into the overgrown, densely vegetated valley.

If I told the police everything that had happened, would they listen, would they look at this scene with more questioning eyes?

And how would I be described to the police by Belle Ericcson, the rich and famous and renowned Belle Ericcson?

I would have no credibility.

If I could convince the police to look in the valley, hunt for the pillow or cushion—But the chance of finding anything flung over the edge of the cliff was so remote.

I walked back into the living room. The killer had staged it perfectly.

The idea came to me suddenly, brilliant in its simplicity, staggering in its implications.

I am a law-abiding person. I do not run red lights, not even at midnight when the streets are empty. I've never knowingly defrauded or cheated anyone. I follow the rules because there are reasons for rules, and we flout them at our peril.

But now I stood and looked at the gun in Lester's hand and had the same breathless feeling as a skier poised to jump.

It was up to me.

I hurried into Lester's bedroom, stepped into his bath, used a tissue to open a cupboard. I tucked the tissue in my pocket and grabbed a washcloth, shoving the cupboard shut with my elbow.

Back in the living room, I spread the washcloth over the “suicide” note and crumpled it into a tight ball, then poked the wad of paper into my pocket.

I looked down at the shiny gun. I hesitated. And then I thought of Richard, my handsome, wonderful, loving Richard, plummeting through beauty to nothingness. If I walked away, refused to gamble, my hope of discovering what happened to Richard would be ended. I was barred from this house. I was a pariah to this family. If ever I was to find the truth, I had to be willing to break taboos, discard a lifetime of obeisance to established authority.

My husband's murderer was within a stone's throw of me.

I walked to the open archway, looked out into the garden. No movement. Only the sounds of Ahiahi, the crackle of palm fronds, the rustle of the shrubs, and always, always the steady drone of the falls.

I hurried to the desk. I wanted to be out of there, my task done as quickly as possible. I placed the cloth over the barrel of the gun, picked it up. As I did, the edge of my palm touched Lester's wrist, warm flesh against cool. The minute I felt the barrel hard and solid within the cloth, I bent low and darted across the room to the lighted doorway. Swiftly, I slipped into my running shoes, then plunged into the garden.

My heart thudded. If anyone found me now…The sound of my shoes on the oyster shells shocked me. I slowed to a tiptoe. I sought a familiar way. I reached the ti shrubs and poked the gun deep within the branches.

Now I could breathe again. I swung toward the house, my goal the exterior lanai and the steps down to the cliff path. I moved cautiously through the huge living area. I reached the lanai.

So close now, so close.

I ran to the railing and threw the washcloth into the valley. I took two steps toward the stairs and the overhead lights blazed. I whirled to face the house.

Anders Burke carried a book in his hand. He stared at me in disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Sometimes a strong offense is the only recourse that remains.

I hurried toward him, my hands outstretched. “Anders, I have to talk to Lester Mackey.”

Anders was focused on my unexpected arrival. “Where'd you come from?” He looked past me toward the valley.

“The cliff path,” I said quickly. “I walked up the road and came through the tennis enclosure, then down to the cliff path.” I hoped this careful listing of my purported route would fix clearly in his mind that I had just arrived on the lanai. “All I want is a chance to talk to Lester.”

His narrow face hardened. “Mother threw you out. She said you were making things up, that you lied about Lester—”

“It's Lester who lied.” I didn't try to keep my voice down. I didn't care if we woke the world. “Anders, listen to me. Last year the brakes in your mother's car went out. She could have died. Somebody drained out the brake fluid. It all goes back to CeeCee's kidnapping.”

“What are you talking about?” But there was worry as well as anger in his voice.

I told him. And it was a story I'd better tell well and smoothly, for soon I would have to face questioners who would wonder indeed when and why I had arrived tonight at Ahiahi.

“Anders, if you want to protect your mother, you'll let me talk to Lester. Come with me. Give me a chance to save your mother.”

“Mother—” He looked at me with fear in his eyes.

I met his gaze. “Who drained the brake fluid out of your mother's car? Think about it, Anders.”

“It was an accident.” But his voice was uncertain.

“Megan drove the car the day before. The brakes were
fine. If there's another accident, Belle may not survive. Come with me. Let's make Lester tell the truth. You know how he's lied for all of you. Like the time Wheeler was drunk and had a wreck and Lester said he'd smashed the car into a tree himself. Lester's covered up for all of you, not letting Belle know things that might upset her. And he doesn't want to believe that one of you actually tried to kill her. But he knows, Anders, he knows.”

Anders gripped the book tightly in his hands. “Lester's always known everything.” His eyes bored into mine. “I don't like you. I don't trust you. Why should you want to help Mother?”

“I want to catch a killer.”

He didn't want to believe me. Who would? But his sister was dead. Belle almost died. Richard had died. He tossed the book on the counter of the wet bar. “Come on.” He turned and headed toward the garden.

I caught up with him.

The sweet scent of plumeria graced the night.

As before, light flared out from Lester's living room.

“He's still up.” Anders walked faster. “He'll tell me the truth.”

We reached the archway.

I called out. “Lester? Lester, we want to talk to you.” I hurried across the shining floor, came even with the desk, turned to face it. “Oh, God.” I pressed the back of my hand against my lips.

But it didn't matter whether I was as adept at playing roles as Joss. Anders had no eyes for me.

He stopped. His face went slack. He reached out a shaking hand. “Lester. Lester!” Anders turned toward me, his face flaccid with shock. “He's been shot.”

I spoke gently. “We're too late, Anders. I'm sorry. But not surprised. We've got to call the police.” I walked toward the desk, my hand outstretched.

He grabbed my arm. “No. We have to get Mother. We have to tell her first.”

“But the police—”

His grip tightened. “A few minutes won't make any difference.” Fighting tears, he looked again at Lester. “I have to get Mother.”

I didn't resist. I had no standing. But, as I followed Anders, plunging through the garden toward his mother's quarters, I realized anew Belle's power.

I broke into a run, trying to keep up with Anders. We reached the lanai and curved around a rim of the canyon to Belle's rooms. Kyoto dragons stood sentinel at either end of her veranda, their shadows monstrous in the moonlight.

Anders shouted. “Mother, Mother.”

He didn't have to say something was wrong.

No mother could hear the timbre of that call without knowing there was trouble.

Lights flashed on in two rooms. Belle appeared in the first doorway, her silver hair streaming onto her shoulders, her pale blue negligee soft against her body. Keith bounded out of an archway ten feet away. He wore boxer shorts, nothing else. His arms and chest were muscular, his legs powerful.

So Belle and Keith didn't share a bedroom.

That was important. Now I knew how Keith could slip to a rendezvous in the garden with Elise. And to Lester Mackey's room?

“Mother.” Anders's voice broke. “Somebody's killed Lester. Somebody shot him.”

I was watching Keith Scanlon, had eyes for no one but him. It was important that he had his own bedroom, but the expression on his face as Anders blurted out his news was much more important. It was fleeting, but for an instant there was a look of sheer surprise. “Somebody shot him?” Keith's voice rose.

I made up my mind. I'd found the killer. I didn't know
yet the ins and outs of everything Keith had done, but now I felt certain it was Keith who planned CeeCee's kidnapping. It was Keith who pushed Richard to his death, got rid of Johnnie Rodriguez, tampered with Belle's brakes. It was Keith who shot Lester Mackey.

Why else that look of utter surprise? He'd expected news of Lester's suicide, not his murder.

“Lester…” Belle's voice was stricken. She stood for a moment in her son's embrace. They clung to each other, the dark head bent protectively over the light.

Then Belle stepped back. Her face was gaunt and harsh in the moonlight. As always, she was in command. And, as always, she was cognizant of her surroundings, no matter the force of emotion within her. She looked at me.

I stepped forward. “I came back. I had to talk to Lester. I was too late.”

She limped past me to the railing and stared out over the dark valley, toward the tinsel ribbons of the falls glittering in the moonlight. “Lester lied.” Her words fell into the silence of the night.

I came up beside her. Far below, the silvery kukui trees glistened. “Yes. He lied. He was so afraid you would hate him. He thought the kidnapping was a prank, one of the jokes the children loved to play. Later, he was afraid to tell anyone what had happened.”

Belle faced me. “Did Richard come here to talk to Lester?”