Death in the Orchid Garden

by Ann Ripley

  At that moment, Steffi asked, “And, dear, so what’s up with your hand?”

  “I scraped it on the rocks.” It was the same slight revision of the truth that she’d told to a couple of other people who’d inquired.

  “Isn’t it awful to know that a man we just talked to is dead?” said Steffi. “And such an attractive man.”

  John Batchelder arched one of his well-shaped eyebrows. “A little on the loose side if you ask me.”

  “Oh, John,” rebuked Steffi. “Thousands of people take drugs, if that’s what you mean by loose. Anyway, it was his young pal who was high the other night, not Matthew Flynn.” She sighed. “I enjoyed meeting them, because it reminded me of my carefree hippie days in the late sixties.” Her languid gaze slid over to her husband, fifty-five, a bit jowly and with a decided paunch. Louise had to keep remembering this man was the object of Steffi’s desire. “Remember, honey? Nobody knew or cared back then that drugs were so”—she wiggled the first two fingers of both her hands to indicate quotation marks—“‘evil.’ We just enjoyed them for what they were, a nice, mind-altering high.”

  “I think Matthew Flynn and George Wyant are—I mean, were—a product of their work environment,” said Louise. “If we were down in those jungles, we might sample some drugs, too.”

  Steffi leaned toward her. “But Louise, having known Matthew Flynn just a little, doesn’t it bother you at all that someone probably killed him? Don’t you have any desire to investigate? I know you said you don’t like to talk about that sort of thing, but—”

  “I don’t, Steffi, especially since the authorities haven’t told us whether his death was an accident, or something else. The rest of you can speculate all you want, but I’m staying out of this.”

  John had finished his drink in record time; he beckoned the waiter to come and take his refill order. “Not me, Steffi. I intend to go out there”—he swept an arm wide, to include the acres of hotel grounds—“and put my ear to the ground to see just how well I can do at this detecting business.”

  His feckless grin scared Louise. But she really didn’t care what her colleague was up to. “Friends, I’m going now to do a little snorkeling and then have a nap.”

  Marty frowned. “What about the hand?”

  “I can always put a fresh bandage on. If you need me for something, you can find me in a chaise longue underneath the monkeypod tree on the east side of the lagoon.”

  Before she left, her acute vision picked up the fact that Marty and Steffi were holding hands under the table. What was it, Steffi’s salutary poke in the arm, or maybe recollecting the old hippie days? Whatever it was, this vacation was turning out to be a real second honeymoon for the Corbins.

  19

  She’d navigated her way to the elevator and was ready to press the button when a strong arm reached out and restrained her. Dr. Bruce Bouting, a smile on his face, loomed just in back of her. “Louise!” It was as if they hadn’t seen each other during the police briefing just a half hour ago.

  “Dr. Bouting. Is the final session of the conference over?”

  He flapped his big hand. “No meeting, in fact, transpired. It was impossible for us to concentrate under the circumstances. In fact, it seemed almost disrespectful to meet. We’re all going to write a summary and send it to the chairman.” He held his outspread fingers together like opposing claws. “The chairman gets to mesh everything,” he said, as the fingers interlaced, “and come out with some kind of summary statement.” His laugh boomed out. “It will thereupon be sent to various botanical journals and get lost in the annals of horticulture.”

  “Are you going up on the elevator?”

  “Oh, no, dear. I’m in the President’s Suite on the ground floor. It’s on the corner at the end of the hotel, facing the sea.” He pressed a big hand on her arm. “Lest you think me extravagant, I allow Chris Bailey to occupy the other bedroom. And it’s practical, since our business discussions often run late. I stopped you because I want a word with you. Can you sit for a moment?” He indicated the stone bench close to the elevator.

  “For a minute, but I’m awfully tired. Last night was exhausting.”

  She sat on the end of the bench, leaving the white-haired scientist with lots of room. But he sat so close to her that one could barely squeeze a quarter between. Peering down in her face, he said, “You were a real heroine, but that’s not what I want to talk about. I’ve heard all about your detecting skills, Miss Louise, from your friend John.”

  She laughed. “I’ve never been called ‘Miss Louise’ before. Can you drop the ‘miss’? I’m Mrs. Bill Eldridge.”

  “All right, Mrs. Bill Eldridge. Since you have an analytical kind of mind—and even more importantly, because you had the misfortune to find his body—I wondered what you thought happened to our friend Flynn.”

  “He either fell, or someone pushed him.”

  “And if the latter, who do you think might have done such a thing? It really bothers me; I keep thinking about it.” He angled his face closer to hers. Was he trying to intimidate her? If so, she wasn’t going to let him. “Did you see something last night that would give you a clue?”

  “Dr. Bouting,” she said in her calmest voice, “I met Matthew Flynn only three days ago. All I knew about him was from his vitae and a couple of newspaper and magazine articles that I read. How would I possibly know, or be able to guess, who’d push him off a cliff, if it turns out someone did?”

  “Fine, fine,” said the scientist, bobbing his white head up and down. “That’s fine. You wouldn’t be able to guess, even though you were there trying to resuscitate him. And I suppose if you’d seen something additional, the police would have told you to keep it to yourself.”

  “Perhaps they would have.”

  “So I guess you have no theories at this time. Well, I do. And I wanted to share them with you.” His eyes were full of excitement; she wondered what sick beast Matthew Flynn’s death had awakened in him. Perhaps he was one of those voyeurs who dallied at fatal car crashes so they could see broken bodies, or who endlessly dwelled on macabre murders reported in the media.

  She looked at him without speaking.

  Apparently sensing she was losing patience, Dr. Bouting went on quickly, “Flynn is more than a ‘medical’ plantsman. He has gone, in recent years, to several continents—oh, probably more than several—but several that I know about, at least. His celebrity as a plant explorer has put him much in demand from this one and that one. On each of those trips, one in Turkey, one here in Hawaii, and one in, of all places, China, he’s beaten out some other poor bloke by discovering a new and valuable species. Now, is that not a motive to kill?”

  His face was within inches of hers. She noticed he’d cut himself badly on the chin while shaving and the septic stick he’d apparently used to quench the flow of blood hadn’t quite done its job. Had the man been nervous about something?

  She said, “One needs a very strong motive to kill. There are always more new plants, aren’t there? People are always winning and losing, aren’t they? And even you—I hear that you’re probably the most renowned collector, I mean in terms of quantity, if not quality. I can see you leaving your competition behind in the dust, just like Dr. Flynn may have done.”

  He broke into laughter and used this as an excuse to sling an arm around her shoulder. Once there, she could feel his fingers pressing randomly into the flesh of her upper arm, as if he were fingering piano keys. “My dear, you are charmingly frank. I am tops at uncovering new varieties, especially ones I think your average backyard gardener will love. But I hasten to add that I am not among the three people that Matthew Flynn, in recent years, has beaten out with his discoveries.”

  “Who are you referring to?”

  “Well, Tom Schoonover and Henry Hilaeo, for one—I treat them as one, for it could be one or the other, or maybe a conspiracy between the two of them. Flynn made a huge orchid find here a few years ago right under the noses of the folks at the NTBG. Ca
ttleya brassavola ‘Flynnia,’ I think they call it.”

  “They named it after Matthew Flynn.”

  “Yes. And in Turkey, Flynn bested Ralph Pinsky. Do you know Pinsky?”

  “I know who he is. He was in the room this morning, I noticed.”

  “Yes, indeed,” laughed Bouting. “You can’t help noticing him. He’s white as a ghost—looks like a new species himself. And his chest is caved in; maybe the poor guy has consumption.”

  The scientist paused in his account to give Louise a knowing smile. “Ralph’s like me: very successful, but flies under the radar. He’s not even as public a personality as I am, but almost as successful at finding plants. Fancies himself, of course, as a little superior to me, because he tests his imports practically to death. He can afford to; he’s publicly funded. If I did that, I wouldn’t make a dime.”

  “What happened in Turkey?”

  “Let me tell you the story. He got dealt out of the discovery of a fantastic new Turkish tulip. It was rumored to be growing in the Taurus Mountains for years. Matthew Flynn found it right in there when Pinsky also was searching. It’s thought a little spy might have tipped Flynn to the location.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Last fall,” said the white-haired scientist. “And when I say searching, I mean Pinsky was practically killing himself. He’s not been a well man, not up to plant explorations any more, though he disguises it well. I heard it was to be his last trip.” Bouting gave himself a demonstrative tap on his cheek. “What a slap in the face to have someone deal you out of your final, great discovery!”

  “Hmm,” said Louise. She had barely heard of Ralph Pinsky and now Dr. Bouting was proposing him as a murder suspect.

  The arm was still around her shoulder. She said, “Dr. Bouting, I’m not running away. It isn’t necessary to put your arm around my shoulder.”

  “Oh, sorry,” he said, taking his arm away. “I hardly noticed.”

  “Now, who’s the third man?’

  A little laugh. “Actually, my good employee, Christopher Bailey. This gorgeous little two-tone mum plant in the hills of southern China—Chris had heard about it and was planning on chasing it down, but along came Matthew Flynn the season before him, to take credit and promote it into production, actually, with that company, you know the name . . .” He looked blank, but then snapped his fingers and smiled. “The Florissant Company—there, it came back to me. I believe he has some kind of arrangement with Florissant.” Louise guessed that Florissant was one of Bouting’s biggest competitors.

  She turned and looked straight into Bouting’s shiny blue eyes. “This is all interesting, but it has nothing to do with me. Why don’t you tell the police all these things?”

  He waggled his head in a manner she thought frivolous for a man his age; the waggle said, I’m smarter than you think!

  “Oh, I did, my dear,” he said. “I told that police chief about Ralph Pinsky and how he has such a reputation to uphold and of course so do these guys out here on Kauai at the National Tropical Botanical Garden. I mean, not with the public, but they have to live up to their own private expectations. I believe Tom Schoonover is in that same lofty category as Ralph.”

  “Did you tell the police about Christopher Bailey’s experience with Dr. Flynn?”

  The scientist averted his gaze. “I meant to, but quite frankly, Louise, it slipped my mind. As I said, I told Chief Hau of the other two contretemps with Flynn. But I will do so, next time I see him. I’m telling you all this, Louise, because sometimes amateurs do the best job at solving crimes.”

  “If it was a crime.”

  He reached over and took her left hand. “My dear, you are so engaging. I won’t trouble you further if you don’t feel like putting on your investigator hat and corroborating all the beach gossip. I thoroughly enjoy talking to you, no matter what you decide to do.”

  She gently took her hand back and stood up. “Excuse me. I have to go now.”

  “As for myself, I think I’ll go to the lagoon for a swim.” The blue eyes gleamed again. “Maybe I’ll see you there?”

  It took an effort to keep the disappointment off her face. If she went to the lagoon, instead of the quiet afternoon sunbathing and swimming she’d looked forward to, she’d be stuck with this amatory old man. She knew conferences were fraught with romantic couplings and she shouldn’t let Bouting’s flirtatious ways bother her. For all she knew, he treated all women the same way.

  She came up with a solution. She would go snorkeling first, then hide out in a woodsy alcove closer to the monkeypod tree; that was where she would drag herself, her chaise longue, and her Mike Davis book, Ecology of Fear. She would enjoy the solitude there.

  Bouting was still waiting for an answer. With a man like him, one had to feint.

  “I may just rest in my room.”

  20

  Late Saturday morning

  For the past half hour, Louise had been obsessed with Kauai’s beautiful assortment of multicolored fishes slowly swimming among the half-submerged rock outcroppings. But the pull of the water caused a warning bell to go off in her mind. Her fears were confirmed when she put her webbed feet down and stood in the surf. It had the strength of a giant and was attempting to shove her into the deep, or else cause her to collide with one of the volcanic rocks that peppered the ocean floor.

  Hurriedly removing her snorkeling mask, she glanced ashore in alarm. She saw that rough sea warnings had been posted. A lifeguard holding a rescue raft stood on the edge of the sand and yelled a message through a bullhorn at a swimmer who’d ventured out too far.

  It took her minutes to struggle the twenty-five feet to shore. Once there, she readjusted the top of her flowered bikini top, then warily examined the beach. She’d been safe from Bruce Bouting as she’d paddled about, head-down, admiring the fish. Now there was no sign of the scientist, but she still had to get to her lagoon-side hiding place without being seen.

  She hadn’t recognized the man standing directly in front of her on the sand. “Aloha,” he called. “We meet again.”

  It was the beach oracle. His brown body, clad only in swimsuit, was canted jauntily at an opposite angle to his worn surfboard, his hair a disheveled mop of brown curls, his eyes crinkled almost shut in a cheery smile.

  “Well, hello,” said Louise. “It seems you’re always somewhere on these beaches. Maybe it’s time we introduced ourselves. I’m Louise Eldridge.”

  He bowed his head. “Bobby Rankin at your service. The beach is my home. I make my living here and I sleep here.”

  She glanced over at the sumptuous luxury of Kauai-by-the-Sea. “You live right here?” she blurted out.

  He gave her his sleepy grin. “I sure do. And I eat here—lots of breadfruit, mangos, papayas, bananas . . .” He raised a brown arm and pointed like Poseidon toward the rough Pacific. “I catch lots of fish right off those rocks. That’s why I was close enough to heed the call of the sirens last night. I saw you trying to revive Matt Flynn—I don’t think you noticed me.”

  “I must admit I was pretty out of it last night.”

  “There was no saving him, was there? What a mess his head was.”

  “It sure was,” she said and knelt down to store her snorkeling equipment in her beach bag, apply a dry bandage to her hand, and put on her “Kauai-by-the-Sea” hat.

  As she completed these tasks, Bobby Rankin said, “The saltwater must have stung that wound like the devil.”

  “It did at first,” said Louise, “but it doesn’t take long to get used to.” Getting back to her feet, she looked at him and said, “Have you ever seen anyone take a dive like that off the rock?”

  “Sure. Lots of kids dive off Shipwreck. I’ve done it plenty of times myself.” He loomed above her, a dark silhouette with an aura of light about him because of the sun at his back.

  “You teach surfing, I guess.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. And deep-sea diving on occasion. Work by day, party hard by night. All the time,
for the past twenty years.”

  Observing as closely as she could without seeming rude, Louise saw that the man’s skin was leathery and lined and realized he was probably fifty or more, older than she had first thought. “What did you do before that? Did you live in Hawaii?”

  “No. Twenty years ago I dropped out of real life on the mainland—Chicago, to be exact. I was with Smith-Barney. Traded options on the CBOT.”

  “CBOT. Uh . . .”

  He translated for her. “Chicago Board of Trade.” Bobby gave long, low laugh. “It was making me plain crazy.”

  She chuckled companionably. “You must see a lot, living on the beach.”

  “I do. I meet a lot of the people who come to Kauai, one time or another. I see plenty of people doing foolish things in the ocean. Once in a while, I aid in their rescue, sometimes I’m there when they drown. We have fifty to sixty drownings every year.”

  “On Kauai?”

  A big shrug. “On all the islands. You know, people who unlike you don’t pay any attention when they see swim warnings posted. Locals don’t like to talk about the stats. I guess they figure it will hurt tourism. But back to Matt Flynn; I’ve got to say, I’ve never seen a body in worse shape than that one. Usually, they’re bloated and blue.”

  She stood up and smoothed her bare stomach with her hand, restraining a desire to gag. “I don’t need to know more.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to gross you out.” He fell into stride with her as she walked back toward the hotel.

  “You knew Flynn, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, a little bit.” He flicked a guarded glance her way. “Flynn was a great surfer, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.” A stab of sadness made her heart ache for the dead man, who’d been a surfer, a jungle cowboy, an Eastern University professor, and a lover of life.

  Bobby said, “I guess the police haven’t said whether it was an accident, or something else. You and I know, though, that was no accident. Somebody really spilt the back of his head. I’ll give you money they’ll be searching for a weapon off the rock by end of the weekend.”