Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_04 (25 page)

“Mr. Mackey didn't confirm your story.” Kanoa's eyes bored into mine. “You were upset, Mrs. Collins.”

“I was very frustrated, Lieutenant Kanoa.”

“You were asked to leave the premises.”

“Yes.”

“When did you decide to return here to see Mr. Mackey?”

Nice. He was setting the groundwork for premeditation.

“I had to come back, make another effort. I decided to come back after dark so that I could talk to him. I was afraid for Belle.”

“So it was your intention to return from the moment you were ejected. Is that correct?”

He was certainly a persistent devil.

“I was determined to persuade Lester to tell the truth.”

Kanoa's expression was especially sleepy as he asked, “Now what did Mr. Mackey say when you talked with him?”

I shook my head. “I had no chance to talk to him tonight, Lieutenant. I was on my way to see him when I met Anders.”

“But you left the hotel around eight o'clock, Mrs. Collins.” He regarded me steadily.

“Yes. I came directly here. It took me about an hour to climb the hill—”

Something flickered in his eyes and I knew they'd found the jeep.

“—I went around the wall and came in an entrance by the tennis courts. I went straight to my room—the room where I'd stayed—and waited on the lanai until it was—” I almost said past midnight. Careful, careful, careful, Henrie O. “—very late. Obviously, I didn't want to run into anyone. But I did.” And I made my tone rueful.

“You went to Mr. Mackey's quarters.” Kanoa's deep voice was compelling. “You quarreled. You shot him. You were escaping when you encountered Mr. Burke.”

It was eerily close to the truth.

“No, Lieutenant. I came along the cliff path, climbed the steps to the living room and was heading toward Lester's quarters when Anders turned on the light. We went together to see Lester and we found him. Dead.”

“Did you touch anything in that visit?”

“I did not. Anders insisted we go to Belle first. I wanted to call the police immediately.” Such a good citizen am I.

He looked at me skeptically and I knew we were back where we'd started. I was the intruder. I was the suspect.

“Lieutenant, I did not shoot Lester Mackey.”

He inclined his head gravely. “Thank you, Mrs. Collins.”
He reached forward, clicked off the recorder, then scooped up his notebook and pen. He heaved himself to his feet. “Our investigation into Mr. Mackey's death will continue. Do not leave the island, Mrs. Collins.”

I stood and looked after him.

 

Do not leave the island, Mrs. Collins
.

I took a deep breath. Damn, damn, damn. And yes, I could appreciate the irony. Wasn't I the clever one to rig up a murder scene?

What was I going to do now? I'd counted on Lester Mackey. I'd been sure I could wrest the truth from him, one way or the other.

Think, Henrie O, think!

I was exhausted, confused, threatened. What was—

The soft whisper buzzed like a faraway bee, a sound, yes, but not clear. Then, more loudly, “Henrie O!”

I stepped closer to Belle's desk.

“Henrie O, can you hear me?” It was a faint whisper again.

I looked at the white intercom, bent near it. “Yes.”

“Pretend you are searching my desk.” My desk…It was Belle. “Don't appear to be listening.”

Through my fatigue, I understood. Or understood in part. Belle had left on her intercom system so that she could listen to Lieutenant Kanoa's interviews.

Clever.

But Belle Ericcson had always been clever. It gave me a solid spurt of satisfaction to know that she was a jump ahead of Lieutenant Kanoa. And that she knew exactly what had happened to this point in his investigation. She knew, and she wanted to talk to me.

“Search the desk, then go to your suite.” A click.

I opened the center drawer of the desk, checked its contents. Did Belle think I was being watched? Or was she
merely being cautious? In any event, Belle had accepted the obvious. Tonight someone here committed murder. The murderer had to be afraid, watchful, wary, and was certainly keeping a close track of the investigation.

And of me. Because I was the catalyst.

I opened the side drawers, glanced through folders, then closed the drawers. I sighed and walked slowly toward the garden walkway. Belle wanted to talk to me without being observed. As soon as I was out of sight of her office, I began to walk swiftly.

I flicked on the lights in my suite. I was sharply disappointed to find it empty. I walked into the bedroom, stood there at a loss.

Once again I heard that faint sibilant whisper.

The intercom.

I was savvy now. Just in case I was being observed, I walked to the bed and sat on it, bent my head as if in deep weariness—and listened.

“He's going to arrest you.” Belle spoke calmly.

Once again that feeling of emptiness struck me. “Yes, I'm afraid so. I tried to tell him—”

“He won't listen,” she said crisply.

“No.”

“Then it's up to us, Henrie O. All right, we'll handle it.” She didn't wait for an answer. “Here's what we'll do.” Yes, Belle had a plan, a gallant, reckless, dangerous plan. Her crisp emphatic words burned in my mind.

“Belle, I can't let you—”

“Meet me on the lanai outside my office.” Click.

No ifs, ands, or buts. Belle at her imperious, brave best.

All right. I'd signed on and the ride wasn't over. But if I hurried and if Belle and I were right that the night held watchful eyes and listening ears, I could—with luck—buy a little insurance.

This was a chance I felt I had to take. If a watch had been
mounted on Belle's office, the watcher was very likely on the cliff path. That would provide a vantage point to overhear exchanges in Belle's office. Moreover, it would be difficult to remain unobserved by the police in the garden or the nearby rooms.

So I was going to assume that the killer, if nearby, was on the cliff path and therefore could not observe my actions on the garden side of the house.

I ran up the garden walkway, my goal the third suite from mine, the suite where Stan Dugan was staying.

I reached his open doorway and darted into the dark living room. I tiptoed to the bedroom, using my pocket flash for just an instant.

He lunged up from his bed.

“Shh. Shh. Stan, I need your help—”

A powerful hand gripped my arm.

I whispered fast and prayed he would listen and understand and help us.

“I got it.” His voice was low. He released me.

I heard a rustle as he pulled on clothes, then I felt a quick squeeze on my arm. We hurried out into the night. He turned toward the tennis courts.

I headed for Belle's office.

Belle was standing on the lanai outside her office.

And we gave our performance.

“Belle, you have to help me. The police think I shot Lester.”

She faced me. “Why should I help you?” Her voice was bitter. “If you hadn't come here, Lester would be alive.”

I came up beside her. We stood by the railing. In the heavy stillness of late night, the roar of the falls pulsed loudly.

“Lester protected CeeCee's kidnapper. Will you protect the person who killed Lester—and CeeCee?”

“Never.”

I whirled away, faced out toward the valley. And the listening figure on the cliff walk? “Oh, what difference does it make what you do or say. The police won't listen. There's no way to convince them—”

“I can.” Belle spoke with finality.

I jerked toward her. “What are you saying?”

“I talked to Lester. Later. After you left.” Her voice ached with sadness. “He didn't realize he'd given himself away. But I knew him so well. And after I talked to the police tonight, I thought about everything. And something he said. The pieces fell into place.”

“Are you going to let me be arrested for someone else's crime?” My voice rose.

“No. No, I won't let that happen.”

I grabbed her arm. “Let's call them now. We can catch Lieutenant Kanoa.”

“Not tonight.” She shook free. “I want some time alone with CeeCee. Then I'll do what I have to do. But I want you to give me this time.”

I didn't answer for a long moment, then, finally, grudgingly, I replied. “All right, Belle. I understand. But in the morning you'll call the police?”

“In the morning.” She turned, walked toward the garden, her cane clicking on the tiles. On her way—alone, unprotected, vulnerable—to CeeCee's grave on that isolated, dark, and silent point.

I
wanted to run after her, but I forced myself to wait. If Belle and I were right, the murderer had listened from the cliff path. If we were right, that person—with murder in his or her heart—would give Belle time to reach CeeCee's grave, then slip quietly along the cliff path to the point—and to Belle.

“Damn.” I swore aloud for that hidden listener, venting my unhappiness at Belle's refusal to call back the police immediately. I heaved a quick sigh of anger, then walked, head down, toward the garden.

Once out of sight from the cliffside steps to the lanai, I broke into a light, swift jog.

I passed Belle.

We didn't speak.

There was nothing now to say. Both of us carried with us a lifetime of memories and a determination to put a face to a deadly figure. And to stop the killing.

When I reached the fork in the path, I moved on tiptoe. I edged around the point. The falls thundered. Moonlight silvered the silent ledge, glistening on the granite gravestone. The gnarled branches of the ohia tree made an intricate design against the velvet black sky. Beyond the grave enclosure was the inky darkness of the overhang. I slipped into that black shadow and joined Stan Dugan. He squeezed my arm.

The roar of the falls, so close here, thrummed in my ears, loud, never-ending, forever. Their roar dominated the night, obscuring the creak of the wind-tossed branches.

So there was no sound to signal Belle's arrival. She came around the point, walking slowly, leaning on her cane. She stopped beside the grave and looked out at the falls, the wind molding her gown against her. Then she came to the enclosure, sank down onto the low wall. The moonlight was stark on her face, a face heavy with sorrow.

We waited, the three of us, separate, alone with thoughts we could not share, alone with the burning anger that flames out of injustice, Belle sitting by the grave, Stan and I hidden in the deep shadow of the overhang.

Soon we would know.

I wished I had been able to warn Belle.

Would that have been a kindness?

Or was it better for her not to know until her husband came into view? Perhaps that was kinder. How hard it would have been for me to tell her about Keith and Elise and how hard it would have been for Belle to learn it from me.

It was going to be a devastating blow for her to realize that a man she'd trusted had betrayed her in every way, but at least she would be free of the agonizing fear that one of her children hid death behind a lifetime of laughter.

I was so certain of Keith's guilt that for an instant my eyes denied the reality of the figure that appeared on the path.

Not Keith, that was my first stunned thought.

But I should have realized. The last piece slipped into place. That last Friday morning, CeeCee indeed wanted to warn her mother that her husband was unfaithful. But I should have remembered that it takes two to cheat. That's what I should have remembered. Keith was a womanizer. Elise had not been the first. He'd ruined two earlier marriages with his infidelities. Yes, Keith was being unfaithful, but his lover then was not Elise.

As Gretchen came around the point with a grim and terrible determination, I understood.

Gretchen hated Belle. She had delighted in seducing Belle's husband, the ultimate theft. Gretchen must have enjoyed her conquest immensely, feeling a surge of triumph whenever she saw Belle.

Then CeeCee found out. CeeCee told Peggy it was “rotten” the way Belle was being treated. CeeCee was determined to tell her mother. She almost told Belle early that Friday morning. Instead, CeeCee confronted Keith, quarreled with him.

And Keith must have told Gretchen.

How quickly Gretchen moved, how cleverly she put together her plan. None of it revealed her, none of it could be traced to her. She could back off at any time, let it go.

In the end, it was so easy. Johnnie and Lester did the work. CeeCee played along with the game.

When Gretchen came to the cabin that night, did she slip the crushed powder of the tranquilizer into CeeCee's glass? Or was the wine already poisoned?

So easy.

And so profitable.

Gretchen's hatred was fueled by a lust for money. Maybe in the end, that's what it came down to. Money. There would be no more money if CeeCee told Belle.

Gretchen had to weigh the pleasure she would take in
Belle's knowing about Gretchen and Keith against the grim reality of losing her place in that world.

Gretchen stopped a few feet from Belle.

Belle stood. “Why?” It was a cry of anguish.

“You killed Dad.” Gretchen's voice was hard and bitter. “You came and took him away from us. And you made love with him in my mother's room. My mother's room.” The words trembled with fury. “I hated you. I always hated you. I should have killed you. But I wanted you to know what it was like to lose somebody. And CeeCee was such a bitch. She was going to tell you about me and Keith.”

Belle's head lifted.

“Oh, yes, Keith likes to have fun. I got him. But I was already tired of him. Then CeeCee found out. I had to kill her—or you. I decided to get rid of CeeCee. I even got the money out of the graveyard. You didn't call the police. That was stupid, Belle. But I had fun, driving to Gainesville and sneaking into the cemetery. I spent every penny of it. I took it to places like Mexico where nobody cares about serial numbers. I spent every penny.”

“Gretchen—” There was a sob in Belle's voice.

“It was all very clever, wasn't it? Nobody ever thought it was one of us. I knew Lester would keep his mouth shut. He didn't want to think it could be one of us. So he lied and lied. I was safe until Johnnie Rodriguez called that friend of yours. Johnnie was watching the cabin when I came. CeeCee had drunk most of the wine by then. We sat there and kidded around and she got sleepier and sleepier. While she was still able to walk, I led her out to the car. We went to the rowboat and I just got her in before she passed out. I went way out into the lake and pushed her over the side.”

Belle buried her face in her hands. Stan grabbed my arm, held it in a viselike grip.

“Your friend came over here. I told him Johnnie was wrong, that it was all a mistake. But I could tell he didn't
believe me.” Gretchen sounded faintly regretful. “I took the cliff path to his room that night and called up to him and said you wanted to see him. He came down the steps. I let him go ahead of me. Then I pushed him. I had no choice.”

Stan curved an arm around my shoulders, held me tight.

I pressed my hands against my lips.

“Oh, Gretchen,” Belle said wearily. “Richard. Then you tried to kill me. And now Lester. Gretchen, it must end. It must end now.”

Gretchen stepped toward Belle. Her face wasn't quite human, drained of all emotion, hard and bleak as CeeCee's granite tombstone. “It's going to end, Belle. For you.” She lifted her arm and an alabaster figurine glittered in the moonlight.

Stan lunged out of the shadow and in two steps stood beside Belle. He held out his hand. “Give it to me, Gretchen. It's all over now. It's finished.”

Gretchen stood frozen for an instant, her arm held high. Then she looked toward the path. “Wheeler, is that you?”

We looked past her.

In that instant, no more than an instant, she was running, moving with a wild, crazed swiftness, and she was around the end of the bluff.

Stan pounded after her.

I ran, too.

Gretchen swarmed along the ever-narrowing path, the path that ended alongside the stream flowing to the falls. She passed the warning sign.

I screamed at Stan. “Stop! Stop!”

He skidded to a halt, looked back at me.

I caught up with him, grabbed his arm, held tight. “The rocks are too slippery. We can't go on.”

Gretchen reached the edge of the stream. Her feet flailed out from beneath her on the slick rocks. With a long, shuddering, desperate scream, she tumbled into the swift, inexorable water, and, still screaming, plunged over the falls.