Death in the Orchid Garden

by Ann Ripley

  “You’re probably right,” said Marty. “Then his insisting on us taping that interview with Anne and Christopher was just an exercise in will power; me against that big prick who thinks he can con everybody.” His face was red with anger.

  Steffi reached out her hand and grabbed Marty’s. “Honey, blood pressure. Don’t ruin our trip tomorrow by getting all upset.”

  Louise looked inquiringly at Steffi. “To the Big Island, as we’d planned?”

  “No,” said Steffi, shifting a little in her chair. “Louise, we decided to go off by ourselves to Princeville Resort. It’s supposed to have a great beach, where we can just cuddle, and if we feel really ambitious, go into the surf at Hanalei. I’m sorry if I didn’t warn you we were changing our plans.”

  “That’s no problem, Steffi. I think it’s great you’re going off by yourselves.” And great, thought Louise, that Steffi was looking lovelier each day she was in Kauai.

  She pushed back in her chair. “Speaking of swimming, I need to take a dip in the lagoon before sunset.” She grinned at the pair—Marty had calmed down as soon as Steffi took his hand and they were still holding hands. “Will I see you there on the edge of the terrace, when the big orb meets the horizon in a blaze of bright green?”

  Marty gave his wife a meaningful look. “At six-thirty or so? Maybe not. Give us another half-hour. We’ll be down by seven and then we can skip out for a change and have dinner away from this hotel.”

  Louise sauntered off, happy that things were working out for the couple on this trip. The shoot today with the three prima donnas had been almost everything they wanted. And the Corbins’ marriage, it seemed, might be getting back on an even keel.

  Amidst a cluster of other guests, she strode down the hall and made a quick calculation as she went. It was five here and ten o’clock in Washington, D.C. She should have called her husband before this, but she’d been too preoccupied. Bill would be happy to hear that all was well on the visit to Kauai, especially since she’d expressed misgivings about having to spend five days with John Batchelder. She pulled out her cell phone and speed dialed her home number.

  Bill didn’t answer; a cavernous voice gave her her options. Louise was disappointed not to be able to talk to him, but he’d warned her he would be busy at work. She sat down on a large stone bench near the elevators and listened for the beep. She said, “Bill, I’m sorry I missed you. I just wanted you to know everything is great here. The shoot went better than we ever thought it would. Oh, granted that there were a couple of glitches that raised Marty’s blood pressure a few points, but nothing serious. John and I are getting along just fine. After all, how can you wrangle with your colleague when you’re in a place like this? As for Marty and Steffi, they’re having a great time, if you know what I mean . . .”

  She looked up and her face reddened as she saw a couple smiling down on her. They were waiting for the elevator and drinking in every word, though she wasn’t talking in a loud voice. She gave them a frosty look and raised her chin a little. Into the phone she whispered, “Talk to you soon, dear,” then snapped it shut.

  13

  Friday evening

  Louise dressed casually for dinner in a light blue cotton blouse and tan skirt and her waterproof sandals. They were suitable for a predinner walk she intended to take on the beach. If she followed the path toward Shipwreck Rock, she’d get a better view of the setting sun. In fact, she would’ve liked to climb the rock, as John had done, but not today. The light was fading fast and though not particularly afraid of heights, she’d prefer not to be up there after sunset.

  As she approached the rock, she saw a small sign attached to a bush. It read, SHIPWRECK ROCKPATH TEMPORARILY CLOSED. She changed directions and walked straight out onto the beach and waited with a few others for the fiery planet’s moment of glory.

  A few minutes later, the golden globe had disappeared. Like spectators at the conclusion of an Oberammergau passion play, people stood in a group and respectfully critiqued the performance: “Couldn’t see the green streak,” said one. “I was hoping there’d be a green streak.”

  “It’s because of that mist on the horizon,” said the same bronzed surfer who had been there two nights ago. To Louise, the man seemed like an oracle, a rather chatty oracle at that, who made predictions on weather and anything else that might be going on in Kauai. “Mist and clouds ruin the effect. I’m sure we’ll have better luck tomorrow night—I’ve scoped out the weather pattern and it’s good. So, same time, same place.” He cheerfully bade them good-bye and disappeared down the beach. Before the others walked off into the gloom, they said good night to Louise, who was beginning to feel a camaraderie with them.

  To kill a few minutes before meeting the Corbins and John, Louise found a small rock outcropping and sat on it. She stared aimlessly out to sea and watched the light fade. Her gaze was drawn upward to the top of Shipwreck Rock. If she had binoculars, she might have been able to figure out why the path was closed.

  Her interest piqued, she walked closer to the base of the rock. Erosion had cut into the bottom portion, but the base shelf still extended out a short distance beyond the top of the rock. This meant that the young swimmers who used the precipice like a high diving board must have to leap out in an arc to avoid this shelf and land safely in deep sea water. Dangerous, she thought.

  Following the curve of the beach, Louise walked toward the rock face, not bothered when an occasional wave washed over her feet, but vigilant lest a bigger wave come in and knock her down. Distracted in this way, she didn’t realize how close she was to the big rock until she looked up and there it was, immediately in front of her.

  Through the dimness, she could see what looked like a form on the stone shelf at the base of the cliff. Her heartbeat sped up until she realized that she must have come upon another monk seal. Sighing with relief, she realized she’d have to report its presence to hotel security so they could set up a privacy area for the animal while it took its nap.

  But something wasn’t quite as it seemed. A few steps more and she realized her mistake. This was not a monk seal, for the silhouette was irregular, not smooth and hump-like. Though her heart was speeding again, she tried to stay calm as she plodded onward across the sand. Soon she could see that it was a person crumpled on the shelf.

  She pulled in a terrified gasp as she recognized Matthew Flynn’s distinctive new explorer’s hat lying a few feet from the prostrate form. Her mind began to race. All she could think of was that Flynn had tumbled off the top of the cliff and needed CPR. She made a shortcut through the shallow water and nearly fell down in the strong surf. Regaining her balance, she determinedly slogged through the waves until she reached the shelf and clambered up it.

  She ran to where the scientist lay faceup on the protruding rim of the stone ledge, his eyes open. Some blood appeared to be trickling from the back of his head. Kneeling down, she gently pressed his wrist and felt no pulse. Hurriedly, she pulled her cell phone from her purse and dialed 911.

  “Hurry,” she muttered, until seconds later a voice came on the line and she reported the incident. “I’m going to try to help him,” she told the operator.

  “Do you know CPR?”

  “I know the basics. I’ll do what I can.”

  Louise looked down and realized how close he lay to the edge of the rock. Beyond the edge was deep ocean water. A sense of vertigo overcame her, but she steeled herself. There was no time for panic: she had work to do.

  Grabbing at Flynn’s shirt and arm, she pulled him a little farther from the dangerous edge, then straddled him. His blank eyes stared up at her. The man is gone, said a voice in her head. Stifling this thought, she began her work, using a method she’d recently heard about that called for pressing the center of the chest one hundred times per minute. “Help me,” she whispered, as she rocked back and forth and counted. It didn’t take long for fatigue to overcome her; there was nothing she would have liked to do better than to lie down beside the prostrate
man and rest. But she could hear people in the distance. They would have machinery to bring back a pulse. She didn’t dare stop.

  “. . . fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen . . .” She avoided looking at Flynn or the roiling ocean below her and concentrated on her counting, hoping her timing was correct so that she could save the man’s life.

  So intent was she on her task that when the rock dropped from above, it took her a moment to comprehend its meaning. It struck the scientist’s shoulder and ricocheted onto her right hand. “Ow!” she cried, holding her stinging hand with the left one. “What’s happening?”

  The slab of rock, a foot long and only a few inches thick, would have struck her head, she realized, had she not at that moment been squatting back before leaning forward to apply pressure to the victim’s chest. She carefully lifted it off the prostrate scientist and set it aside.

  With an arm out to shield her face, Louise looked up, but could see nothing but navy blue sky. Had the rock just tumbled down, or had someone thrown it?

  Now rescuers were near and lights began to play around her on the rock. A whining siren sounded close, so an ambulance would soon be at hand. Though her hand was badly scraped, she continued her CPR efforts. But in her heart she knew that Flynn was dead.

  She continued pumping Matthew Flynn’s chest until one of the EMTs said, “It’s all right now, ma’am—you can stop,” and gently helped her stand up. She watched as two men lifted Flynn off the ground to put him onto a stretcher. To her horror, his unsupported head lolled unnaturally to one side. She could see the deep, gouged-out wound at the base of his skull.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, and put a hand over her mouth. She didn’t believe a fall from a cliff could nearly tear a man’s head off. After reaching this certainty, her mind went numb. An emergency worker quietly led her off the rock and to safety.

  14

  Early Saturday morning

  The acting coroner, Dr. Henry Bartky, looked soberly over the dead body at Kauai County Police Chief Randy Hau. Hau was dark haired and muscular, with a broad, impassive face that showed no fatigue. This was a good thing, since it was two in the morning and the young chief, only forty to Bartky’s sixty-five, had spent hours that evening questioning witnesses.

  “Look, friend,” said the coroner, “as you might already have guessed, your Dr. Flynn’s injuries are not consistent with a fall from that cliff. Sure, you’d think his skull fracture could be due to the fall, but no, I say it was from a deliberate blow.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m pretty sure,” said Dr. Bartky. “Someone may have wanted it to look like an accident, but made a couple of errors. I surmise that after the victim was knocked unconscious, the killer bent his head forward, which gave the person access to the foramen magnum . . . right there.” Bartky pointed to the base of the corpse’s skull.

  “And the foramen magnum is what?” asked the police chief.

  “It’s the large opening at the base of the skull through which the spinal cord passes to the cranial cavity.” He shot a canny look at the policeman. “Actually, our opening is farther underneath the head than in the great apes”—he cupped his hand near the very base of the corpse’s skull—“which means to hold our heads up we don’t need the huge neck muscles that they do.”

  “So, what about this opening?”

  “The murderer was not ignorant of anatomy—he reached in with some sharp tool and gouged out the brain stem. It probably caused a quick death if the blow hadn’t already killed him.”

  “So the perp wanted to be darned sure he didn’t survive.”

  “No question of it,” said Dr. Bartky. “Probably the killer intended for the body to land in the deep water with all those sharp, submerged rocks, thus providing an explanation for the neck wound. But instead it landed on the very edge of that shelf. In a sense, I’d say what you have here is a murder three times over. When it’s daylight, I’ll venture you find the man’s blood at the top of the cliff. He was bashed, gouged, then shoved off into space.”

  Hau silently mouthed a word, which the coroner thought was probably “darn,” for the police chief was a mild-mannered man. Bartky knew Hau must be frustrated—he was scheduled to go on a vacation during his children’s spring break from school. A murder was not on his schedule.

  “This might turn out to be simple to solve,” said the policeman.

  “How so?”

  “Flynn’s sidekick, a Mr. George Wyant, could have done it. We couldn’t locate him last night; he’s temporarily disappeared. That’s a little suspicious, you have to admit.” He heaved a big sigh. “Then there’s always my erstwhile buddy, Bobby Rankin—maybe you know him. He teaches surfing and lives on the beach or in his car. He showed up right after we got out there last night. Bobby’s expert at gutting fish, turtles, frogs—ever seen him do it? Destroying a human being’s brain stem would pose no problem for him. But I’ve grilled him. He didn’t know the man and has no motive, even if he does have the know-how.”

  The chief shot a gloomy look at Bartky. “So if it’s not one of those two, that leaves all the people at Kauai-by-the-Sea. Do you realize how many are holed up at that hotel?”

  “Whatever number it is, consider yourself lucky that the crowd’s been off a little this week. Still, your crime squad’s gonna have a lot of work. I hear the dead man was a scientist.”

  “A botanist, to be exact. Dr. Matthew P. Flynn. There was this elite conference for twelve of ’em this past Wednesday through today. Or rather, eight out-of-town scientists and four of their assistants, plus some of our local scientists. I’m told Dr. Flynn is well known for his work in the Amazon jungle.”

  “Is that so?” said Bartky, who was taking off his latex gloves and washing his hands.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “That might account for why the man appeared to be high on something.”

  “Drugs. Are you sure he didn’t just get dizzy and fall off and hit some crazy-shaped rocks when he landed?”

  The doctor peered over his half-glasses at the young police chief, who was fairly new in Kauai. Although he was said to be bright, he was not experienced in murder, which didn’t happen much on the island. “I’d be inclined to think that except for these extraordinary injuries. Also, you can’t discount the woman’s story. What’s her name?”

  “Mrs. Louise Eldridge.”

  “Yeah. She told you how that rock tumbled off, right on top of the prostrate Dr. Flynn’s shoulder. What happened is that it smashed his rotator cuff, so the thing could have killed her if she hadn’t been in the sitting-up position at that moment.”

  “So, bashed, gouged, and shoved into space, huh?” said the chief. “Pretty disgusting. Then the perp tried to kill Mrs. Eldridge because she might have seen them together. Also, the murderer rightly figured she saw the ‘closed’ sign on the path up to the cliff. The sign was nowhere in sight less than an hour later when we came on the scene. Nor was there a sign on the other path up the rock. That indicates that someone got Flynn up there and closed the entries to other visitors. This Eldridge woman would have figured that out, so she had to be taken out.”

  Dr. Bartky said, “News of the murder of a visitor isn’t going to go over well with the locals.”

  Randy Hau slowly nodded. “Especially not with the folks who run this hotel. How about if we keep a lid on the fact that it’s murder for a day or two, until hopefully we find the perp?”

  “Fine with me,” said the coroner. He thoughtfully scratched his beard. “One other thing before you go. I take it that Mrs. Eldridge knew this Dr. Flynn.”

  “She wasn’t well acquainted,” said Randy Hau. “I guess you’d say she was barely acquainted with the deceased. She met him two days ago.”

  Dr. Bartky pointed to Matthew Flynn’s effects. “Check out that note.” It was a small, white sealed envelope that had been placed in a plastic bag. “It’s got Louise Eldridge’s name on the front of it.”

  “Tha
t’s a good one. One of the last things Matthew Flynn does before he dies is write a stranger a note.” He carefully lifted it off the pile of effects, which also included Flynn’s wallet, threadbare red bandanna, pocket knife, nearly empty jar of Carmex, waterproof container with a small amount of marijuana, roller papers, change, and a small magnifying glass. “We’ll just keep this for a while, fingerprint it, and tell her later.”

  15

  Saturday morning

  “Bill, it’s me.” She sat on the edge of the bed and pressed the cell phone to her left ear with her left hand. Her right hand, with its modest square bandage, lay unused in her lap.

  “Hi, honey,” said her husband in a matter-of-fact tone. She could tell instantly that she’d interrupted something. A soft tapping noise came through the phone. He said, “Great to hear from you. Uh, how’s it going?”

  “Bill, I wish you were here.”

  “So do I,” said Bill. “I’ve really missed you. But I’ll see you Tuesday morning, won’t I? I’m gonna be at Dulles promptly at five-twenty. That’s why I’m sitting home hurrying to get some work out of the way.”

  Louise could hear the continued click of computer keys. Her husband had the phone supported by his shoulder and must still be finishing an idea. She had interrupted something serious.

  “The thing is, Bill, I don’t think I’ll be there Tuesday morning. Something’s happened.” She looked down at her rather insignificant bandage, as if to verify this truth. Something had happened and her husband wasn’t going to welcome the news.

  “Huh,” said Bill. “What is it? Are you staying longer on the Big Island?” Click, click, click went the keys.

  “Can’t you stop what you’re doing? Something terrible has happened. I have to make it fast; I’m already late for a meeting with the police downstairs.”