A Walk Through the Fire

by Marcia Muller

  He was silent for a moment, contemplating the embers in his pipe. “The reason I’m here is twofold: now that I’ve sold my company, I need a new challenge; and I want to do something to improve Kauai’s economy. It’s service-based, highly dependent on tourism, and very sensitive to events like the crises in the Asian markets. We need to diversify, to be brought into the information age, and I plan to join the handful of high-tech entrepreneurs who’re trying to bring that about all over the state.”

  “By starting another software company.”

  “Right. My strategy is to bring in some of the best minds from the mainland and to train locals as well. There’s been a brain drain to places like Silicon Valley in the past couple of decades, but a lot of those people will jump at the chance to come home, and others will be eager to live in paradise.”

  “Sounds like a good plan. But why keep it from your family?”

  “Two problems.” He got up, moved to the rail again, knocked the embers from his pipe into one of the candles. Leaned there facing me and used the pipe stem to tick off points.

  “First, Matthew. He lacks expertise, ambition, and vision, and his personal problems consume most of his energy. He’ll expect to be included in the enterprise, but that’s just not the way it’s going to be. Next, Ben. I don’t like or trust him, and I wish to hell Stephanie hadn’t married him. She’d’ve been better off with Russ.”

  “Was that an option?” I asked, surprised.

  “Once, but then Russ all of a sudden married somebody else, and Stephanie grabbed Ben on the rebound. Anyway, the problem with him has to do with the cane lands we own down near Waimea.”

  The cane lands where I’d witnessed a probable murder last night. Should I tell Peter about that?

  Before I could decide, he went on, “The kind of operation I’m talking about will require a substantial physical plant and employee housing of a better quality than what’s currently available. That tract is perfectly suited to both purposes, but I’m going to meet with opposition from Ben. He’s got his heart set on building an exclusive resort area like Poipu Beach there, has already had surveys done and plans drawn up. That project is stalled right now because Matt’s against it, but if he hears I want the land, he’ll quickly come around to Ben’s way of thinking. Until I’ve figured out how to deal with the two of them, I’m putting off telling them anything.”

  “That’s reasonable.”

  A wave smacked hard onto the reef, and Peter flinched. Probably thinking of the waves that had claimed his mother—just as I was thinking of those that had claimed the man at the cane lands. Tragedy permeated the darkness tonight. Tragedy and strangeness.…

  “Peter,” I said, “there’s something I have to ask you. After the sniping yesterday morning, you saw something or someone in the grove of trees across the road from the cave.”

  He looked surprised, shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I told you—”

  “I know what you told me, but if I’m to work for you, I need the truth.”

  “I…” He sighed. “All right, but this is going to sound crazy. I saw… I thought I saw my father standing under the ironwoods, smoking a cigarette. Now do you understand why I didn’t want to tell you?”

  After Peter and I had signed a contract and he had left, I went to the bedroom door and looked inside. Hy was asleep, breathing deeply. Just as well, I thought as I turned away. I wasn’t at all optimistic about how he’d react to my continuing the investigation.

  I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of wine, and took it to the lanai on the inland side, away from the crash of surf. Lighted some candles and sat on a lounge chair and sipped. And thought about what Peter had told me.

  I didn’t believe he’d actually seen his father under the ironwoods. He’d only glimpsed the figure briefly as I was pulling him to the ground, and impressions received under sudden stress are notoriously unreliable. His thoughts had been focused on Elson Wellbright lately; that alone was enough to trigger a visual memory. In contrast, his plans to redirect Kauai’s flagging economy and his anticipated problems with Matthew and Ben sounded well thought out and authentic. But because he’d told no one about them, they could have no bearing on the film company’s troubles.

  The candles guttered and flickered. I watched them die, then raised my eyes to the towering palis—craggy humps against the starshot sky. Thought about flying over them with Tanner.

  And that was a subject I was avoiding: Tanner. Fascinating man, suspended as he was between the past and the present. The blood of the ancients flowed through his veins. The legends and stories of thousands of years lived on in his consciousness. How did a person connect like that? I had one-eighth Shoshone blood, from my great-grandmother. I even looked like Mary McCone, but I felt no pull from her culture, only a mild curiosity as to why she had left her own people to become the deeply religious Catholic wife of a much older white man. How did one tap into one’s genetic roots to the degree that Tanner had?

  More to the point, why had Russ and I connected to such a dangerously high degree?

  I’d been fighting the feelings for hours, ever since I’d felt the distance grow between Hy and me as we stood on the cliff top, but now I let them steal over me. I pictured Russ at the controls of the chopper, working them with such precision. Throwing his head back and laughing exultantly as we soared over the peaks. Putting his strong hand on my knee and saying, “It’s just the aloha spirit, pretty lady.”

  It was more than that, and we both knew it.

  God, I couldn’t give in to this! Hy was all the things Tanner was, and more—a man whose life had molded him into something fine and valuable. He’d spent his childhood shuttling between his crop duster father, who taught him to fly as soon as he could reach the controls, and his mother and her second husband, who had taught him to mediate fights. An ugly nine-year period flying charters in strife-torn Southeast Asia, the untimely death of his wife, his often heartbreaking work on behalf of the environment and human rights—all of that had served to make him strong and compassionate. True, he hadn’t tapped into his Russian heritage the way Tanner had into his roots, although he did speak the language. Instead, he’d tapped into my mind and heart.

  I finished my wine and suddenly felt sleepy. Something rustled in the shrubbery at the far side of the lawn. Moved slowly and stealthily in the darkness. Had I heard such a sound at home in San Francisco or on the property Hy and I called Touchstone, I’d have immediately gone on the alert. But here it had no power to alarm me.

  Not here, in this land where the past lived on in the present. Where spirits walked at will through the warm, scented night.

  APRIL 5

  Kauai

  10:28 A.M.

  Elson Wellbright steps out of the breadfruit grove and moves into sunlight. He walks toward the heiau.…

  And a figure that was not in the shooting script came running into the frame from the left. A tall, slender woman in a loose sky-blue dress, her long silver hair falling from its pins and streaming out behind her. Her face was contorted by shock, fear, rage. Hands outstretched, she careened off Eli Hathaway, who tried to grab her, but she was already gone—crashing off the RKI guard, pitching toward the cliff’s edge.

  As Celia Wellbright went over, the blue of her dress bled away into the sky.

  “Are we not seeing something?” I asked Hy after we’d viewed the videotape and gone over the script for the third time.

  “I don’t think there’s anything to see. Celia snapped, went berserk, and fell to her death.”

  “But why?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Wish I’d been there. I’d’ve kept an eye on her. Maybe somebody said or did something to set her off.”

  “McCone, you wouldn’t’ve kept an eye on her because you wouldn’t’ve known what was about to happen.” Hy’s voice crackled with impatience. “And I don’t think anybody said or did anything. They were all concentrating on filming the scene.”

  I did
n’t reply, just got up and shut off the TV and VCR. Hy was badly out of sorts this morning, had been since I told him I’d signed a contract to work for Peter.

  He seemed to have heard the echo of his tone because he said in a conciliatory manner, “So what’s on your plate for today?”

  “Any number of things, starting with dropping this tape off at the police substation and scheduling an appointment with Sue Kamuela. And you?”

  “My job here’s finished. I’m off to the skies.”

  “With Tanner?”

  “Uh-huh. He says he can sign off on my currency in choppers in a couple more hours.”

  A rating that he probably wouldn’t use again for years, but why shouldn’t he go ahead if he wanted it? I felt a stirring of envy, wished I were flying too.

  He was watching me with that still, thoughtful expression again. “What?” I asked crossly.

  “Nothing. At least nothing that won’t keep till later.”

  On my way to Sue Kamuela’s shop I took a closer look at the town of Waipuna. Most of the buildings, including the church, were shabby, but that was part of their charm. The establishments that lined the highway were eclectic, with a distinct countercultural cast—New Age throwbacks, with a bit of the sixties for flavoring.

  In addition to stores selling life’s necessities there were vendors of crystals and scented oils, beads and hand-dipped candles, self-help literature and tapes, baskets and wind chimes, natural foods and vitamins. A large organic nursery occupied an entire corner. The roster of a weathered green shopping arcade, with a playground and picnic area in its center, listed enough therapists—aroma, hydro, holistic, massage—to cater to every malady. Something called Ergomania caught my eye, but I decided life was too short to delve into it.

  Sue Kamuela’s shop, KauaiStyle, was on the second floor of the arcade, off a gallery that overlooked the central area. Three skylights allowed natural light to enhance the brilliant colors of sample garments on headless mannequins that stood among padded wicker furniture in the showroom. No one was there when I entered. I called out to Sue, and she answered me from behind a curtained doorway at the rear.

  “I’ll be right out, Sharon. Have a seat.”

  I chose a chair next to a mannequin dressed in layers of teal, purple, and gold. Half a minute later Sue joined me. Her cheek was bandaged and there were minor abrasions on her forehead and chin.

  “How’re you feeling?” I asked.

  “Not too bad. I look terrible, but these little cuts”—she motioned at her forehead—“won’t even leave scars. The deep cut’ll require plastic surgery, but that gives me an excuse to get my eyes done, since our insurance will pay for the hospital stay. I was lucky it wasn’t worse.”

  “And it could’ve been, which is why I’m here. I have something I’d like to show you.” From a tote bag I took the blouse that I’d found at the mill and handed it to her. “Did you make this?”

  She turned it over in her hands, feeling the cloth and examining the stitching. “It resembles one of mine, but it’s not. Probably whoever it belongs to bought it at the open-air market in Kapaa; they sell a lot of cheap knockoffs. Does it have something to do with the shooting?”

  “Possibly.” I replaced the blouse in the bag. “I think it may have belonged to a woman named Amy Laurentz. Have you heard of her?”

  “Amy, the crazy haole? Sure. She’s a modern-day nomad. Moves to a place that interests her, stays till she’s sucked everything she can from it, then moves on. You know the type: one year it’s Montana, the next Taos, then Big Sur, the north shore of Oahu, and finally here. At least, that was Amy’s progression.”

  “You sound as though you know her well.”

  “As well as I want to. Back when she was still reasonably sane, she was living here in Waipuna with my husband’s cousin, selling drugs for a local distributor. She got interested in Hawaiian culture, read a few books, and all of a sudden she was an expert on our people. Then she started writing letters to the editors of the Garden Island and the free shopper.”

  “Letters about what?”

  “Protecting the environment. Self-rule for the Hawaiians. At first the letters made sense in a way, but then they got less coherent. Probably she was using a lot of what she was selling. The Garden Island quit publishing her ramblings, and even the shopper ignored most of them. Amy got frustrated and started running around to meetings and rallies.”

  “What kind of meetings and rallies?”

  “Of the people who want to see Hawaii leave the Union. That’s where she met Buzzy Malakaua. He’s a low-life half-wit. Claims to be a lobbyist for Hawaiian rights, but that’s just his excuse to make trouble. God help us all if we do secede and the Buzzys of the world get control—or lack thereof.”

  I took the “Out of Union Now!” button from the bag and showed it to her. “Would this be something they’d pass out at the rallies?”

  She nodded. “I’ve seen a few people wearing them.”

  “So Amy met this Buzzy…?”

  “And took off with him. My husband’s cousin was relieved to see her go. Letters have started coming to the shopper again, supposedly from Buzzy, but I suspect Amy’s writing them and having him sign his name.”

  “Does Buzzy have family on the island?”

  “A sister, Donna. She owns the bead shop across the street. Buzzy came here from Maui a couple of years ago, after his parents kicked him out, and started living off Donna. Every now and then she’d force him to take a job as a dishwasher or a busboy, but mostly he surfed, did drugs, and sat around the house watching TV.”

  “Okay to use your name if I go see Donna?”

  “Sure. If he and Amy had anything to do with this”—she touched her bandaged cheek—“I want them stopped before anybody else gets hurt.”

  I would have liked to visit Donna Malakaua immediately, but I had scheduled another appointment for one o’clock, and it would take some time to get there. Regretfully I set off on the road to Princeville, where I’d arranged to meet with Celia and Elson Wellbright’s close friend, Mona Davenport.

  The planned community was light-years removed from the towns I’d passed through on my drive there. Spacious homes and condominium complexes sat on well-barbered lawns where a corps of gardeners ministered to exotic plantings. A sense of everything’s-in-its-place-and-don’t-you-dare-touch-it pervaded the place. I followed the signs to Hanalei Bay Resort, past a golf club whose parking lot was full of cars. Even though the development was too tidy for my taste, I could appreciate the planning and attention that had gone into creating it.

  When I stepped into the resort I realized that it was one of two I’d seen from the road far across the bay, spilling down the cliffs toward the water. The Bali H’ai was an open-air restaurant with a splendid view of the island’s mist-shrouded peaks; a muumuu clad hostess showed me to Mrs. Davenport’s table by the railing.

  I recognized her from the party at Pali House: a reed-thin woman with crisply styled white hair, whose fingers now toyed with the stem of an empty martini glass. When I came up to the table her blue eyes were focused blankly on the distant palis, and it took her a moment to reorient herself. Then she let go of the glass and clasped my hand with icy fingers; I treated them gently, afraid the slightest touch would hurt them.

  After I was seated and had ordered wine and she’d asked for another martini, I said, “Thank you for agreeing to see me today. Peter told me how close you were to his parents, and I’m sure his mother’s death must’ve upset you greatly.”

  She nodded distractedly, watching a small redheaded bird that hopped onto the table and cocked its head at us. When no crumbs were in the offing, it flew to the railing and stared at another pair of diners. “It was so sudden,” she said. “I could scarcely believe it when Peter called me. Celia and I… I guess you’d call us best friends. We go back a lot of years.”

  “When did you meet?”

  “As teenagers, at boarding school outside of Boston. I was from Co
nnecticut, the lonely and depressed product of a newly broken home. She was away from Hawaii and her family for the first time, and delighting in independence. She brought me out of my depression, showed me that life could be an adventure. We shared many of those, and then, on a visit to her home on the Big Island, she introduced me to my future husband, a college friend of her fiancé. The four of us—Celia, Elson, Harold, and I—remained close friends all our lives.”

  “Did you move to the north shore to be near the Wellbrights?”

  “Not at first. Harold was in resort development, and we lived all over the Pacific, but we visited and kept in touch. On one of those visits we bought our property, and when Harold took an early retirement we built our house. He’s been gone four years, and now so is Celia.” She blinked back tears, ran the tip of her tongue over dry lips.

  “And Elson, of course, has been gone longer than either of them.”

  “From the island, yes.”

  “Do you have any idea why he disappeared?”

  “I do not. When Peter called and asked if I’d speak with you, he said you’re attempting to trace Elson. May I ask why?”

  “It’s a formality, prior to probating the estate.”

  Mrs. Davenport flushed angrily. “They’re already putting it into probate? Celia’s not in the ground yet!”

  “It struck Peter as premature too, but Ben Mori wants to get moving on it.”

  “Yes, of course he would. The man’s a dreadful opportunist. Stephanie only married him on the rebound, you know.”

  “Peter told me that. She doesn’t seem very happy.”

  The waitress brought us our drinks and we paused to study the menu and order. After she’d gone I said, “I gather that Elson and Celia’s marriage wasn’t a happy one, either.”

  Mona Davenport looked down into her glass. For a moment I thought she’d refuse to answer. Then she raised curiously conflicted eyes to mine and said, “I suppose you expect that as Celia’s best friend I’ll take her side and say all manner of dreadful things about Elson. But the fact remains that it takes two to make a miserable marriage, and they both contributed their full fifty percent.”