by Ann Ripley
His bloodshot gaze flicked onto Marty, Steffi, then Louise. “It could have been anyone. And now they think it might be the murder weapon and that I killed my friend.” He poked John in the chest sending him stumbling backward. “And you, you creep, you’re responsible for the whole thing. For all I know, it could have been you who stole it.” Another sharp poke with a strong finger: “How do you like it when the tables are turned, huh? Did you do it? Did you steal the machete? Did you kill Matt?” His voice had risen and people in the lobby turned and looked.
Wyant finally noticed the ruckus he was causing. He stepped back from John Batchelder and turned to Louise. “You’re a nice lady, Louise. I don’t know why you’re hanging around with such bad company.” He spun around and resumed his way to the hotel nightclub.
Louise noticed one thing: George Wyant may have been on his way to getting drunk, but he wasn’t high. It wasn’t drugs doing the talking, it was right from the heart.
25
Sunday morning
The phone rang, breaking the soft peace of morning sleep.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” said Louise’s husband. “It’s report time.”
“Hi, darling.”
“I have a lot of information for you, Louise,” said Bill. “But first, how are you? Did you sleep all right?”
“I slept in, with the aid of a little pink pill. And no dreams of poor Matthew Flynn. But it’s hard to wake up.”
“Have the police figured out what happened to that poor guy? Maybe you don’t need all the petty gossip I’ve collected.”
She sat up on the edge of the bed, pulled her white lawn nightie straight underneath her, and tried to concentrate. “The authorities haven’t made much progress, or at least they haven’t told us. They’re diving for a weapon they think might have been thrown in the ocean.”
“My God,” said her husband, “talk about a needle in a haystack.”
“A weapon might have landed on an underwater shelf just beyond where I found Matt’s body.”
“Well, that’s better. So you call him ‘Matt,’ huh?”
“I’m getting to know him better since he’s dead than when he was alive. Bill, let me get my pad and pencil. I want to take notes.” She returned in a moment. “Ready.”
“Louise, none of this is going to blow you away. On the other hand, it’s interesting. Who knows what small fact may turn out to be of value?”
“Who knows? What do you have?”
“First, I’ll tell you I don’t have a take on those people at the National Tropical Botanical Garden or the people from the Honolulu PBS station.”
“We can forget those young PBS freelancers; they didn’t even know Matthew Flynn. But I need to know about the four from the tropical gardens. And now there’s another dark horse—except he’s very light-complexioned—Dr. Ralph Pinsky, p,i,n,s,k,y, director of the Greater Missouri Botanic Garden.”
“I’ll see what I can get on him and on Schoonover et al. tomorrow. The rest of them have been checked out pretty thoroughly. Let’s talk first about Anne Lansing and Christopher Bailey, Bruce Bouting’s people. Anne Lansing has an impeccable reputation. She’s the daughter of the prestigious Dr. Richard Lansing, head of the biology department at Northern. She got her BA degree there, then went on to Eastern for a master’s degree. She’s a ‘hands-on horticulturalist of note,’ that’s what one source told me. Along with writing she heads Bouting’s new plant research. Maybe you know all of that.”
“As a matter of fact, I do. What about Christopher Bailey?”
“He and Anne are both candidates to succeed Bouting. Bouting apparently doesn’t care that Bailey left academia. That happened after he was charged with falsifying the research on his dissertation at Washington University, where he also earned his undergraduate degrees. This incident drove him into commercial horticulture, where he’s said to have a golden touch, plus a good business head.”
“Bouting claims that he’s a genius at crossing plants and producing gorgeous new ones.”
“Yeah, if you say so. I don’t know anything about crossing plants. I only know you don’t cross wives.”
“Very funny, Bill. Speaking of wives, what about their personal lives? Married? Divorced?”
“Bailey was married back a ways to someone he met at the university, but it didn’t last long. Anne Lansing’s never been married and if she gets interested in someone, it’s known that the paternalistic Dr. Bouting will have to pass on the guy. He’s very proprietary about her. According to one source, Anne and Christopher are both married to their careers.”
Louise nodded. “That seems right.”
“Anne Lansing has a penchant for publicity. If she isn’t writing the article, someone else is writing about her, in Garden Design or Architectural Digest, since she designs the occasional garden for the rich and famous—that sort of thing.”
“A go-getter.”
“Very ambitious, it’s said. However, Christopher Bailey is seen more with Bruce Bouting in the administrative offices. This is one of the largest horticultural firms in north America, did you realize that? Apparently, it’s enormously profitable, privately held, and Bailey is being coached on how to keep it that way. From what I heard, Anne Lansing might be slated to take over the research and development end.”
“That wouldn’t represent much of a change from what she does now,” said Louise.
“I guess not. Now, to move along to Nate Bernstein. Dr. Bernstein, rather, who did his graduate work at Berkeley in record time, with Dr. Reuter as his mentor. He’s a brilliant young man, is thought to collaborate in—and I think that might mean ghost write—some of the best articles for his boss. Bernstein landed in jail once for environmental picketing in Sacramento, but not a big deal, I wouldn’t think. All in all, he’s respected and considered a comer in his field of environmental science.”
“That takes care of three of the four assistants. I need to know everything I can about the fourth, George Wyant. Apparently the police are zeroing in on him.” She told her husband about the missing machete.
Bill said, “The word I get on Wyant is that he’s reasonably scholarly and promising, but that the life he and the deceased Matthew Flynn were leading was on the wild side. Though, as I intimated to you before, I think that’s part of the game for your average, everyday ethnobotanist. Also, there’s lots of trumpeting from Dr. Flynn and George Wyant about ‘medicinally valuable plants’ that don’t turn out to be medicinally valuable. However, Flynn’s and Wyant’s university, Eastern, doesn’t seem to mind as long as they keep trying. Neither do their other money sources, such as the National Scientific Foundation, because once in a while they strike pay dirt. They think they’re going to again with some other discovery now being analyzed for its alkaloids, or something . . .”
“It’s a subspecies of Uncaria quianensis.”
“Hmm,” said Bill, “are you sure you don’t know more than I do about these guys?”
“What else about George?”
“George, huh? Is Wyant a likeable fellow?”
“Yes, but he might have killed his mentor.”
“Well he’s sensitive, it turns out. He was hospitalized for a month with a mental breakdown three years ago after a trip with your Dr. Matthew Flynn to the Amazon. Both caught a vicious little virus and it’s thought George’s addictive personality caught up with him that time, too.”
“Well. Anne Lansing must have met both Flynn and Wyant at Eastern. Or did she?”
“I didn’t find that out,” said Bill. “But I got the impression that those people in the Massachusetts–New York– Pennsylvania corridor all know each other. That means Flynn, Wyant, Bouting, and Bouting’s two assistants, Bailey and Lansing, were pretty well acquainted. In fact, they’re all up-and-coming scientists, so I’m sure they crossed paths at national and international conferences.”
“Great research, Bill.”
“I’ve friends who helped with this. Next, let’s go to the scientists, starti
ng with the deceased. Matthew Flynn, a full professor at Eastern, made a huge splash when one of the first plants he brought back from South America turned out to have value for treating Parkinson’s and other nerve diseases. He was kind of a showman, so lots of people think he was a phony. Quite the bachelor-about-town, too, in both Boston and New York. You didn’t fall for his good looks, did you, Louise?”
“No, darling. So if he was a man-about-town, that must mean he was unattached. No family?”
“Just a divorced wife somewhere in his past and a mother and younger siblings he helped support. And though he had that Don Juan image, it was rumored that he had been smitten lately with one true love. Name of the woman, unknown. This could be important, according to that source, because it would mean an end to his adventuresome life.”
“Something George Wyant might not have liked?”
“Exactly.”
“Besides, Bill, I got a few other vibes from Wyant,” said Louise. “I had the feeling he was attached to Matthew Flynn as more than just a friend and assistant.”
“That thickens the plot a bit,” said her husband.
“Now who’s next? Bouting?”
“No, Charles Reuter. Dr. Reuter has a strange past. He was charged by his wife with mental cruelty during a bitter divorce action a couple of years ago. But then they reconciled and now live together again, but ‘uneasily.’ Hah,” barked her husband, “doesn’t that describe most marriages?”
“Not ours, honey,” said Louise.
“I’m glad you think that. This Dr. Reuter’s considered a troublemaker and excessive critic in the scientific community. He brooks no opposition, his opponents say; in other words, he slaughters ’em.”
“Interesting, considering the way Matthew Flynn was killed.”
“But on the plus side, Reuter is the ultimate do-gooder, a great advocate of third world countries. He believes in giving back to them for snitching their plants.”
“He’s talked about that a lot at this conference and during our shoot.”
“You’re going to have trouble using that program, with one of the on-camera people dead and gone.”
“It’s awkward. Marty’s pretty upset about it. Fortunately we have a great interview with Tom Schoonover from the gardens. Bill, the only one left to talk about is Bruce Bouting.”
“I left the best for last. He’s our multimillionaire headquartered there on a huge acreage in Bucks County not far from Philadelphia. You know all about how he’s one of the busiest plant collectors in the country, spending lots of time abroad searching out new ones. You must know all about his research gardens and all that. After his wife of forty years died five years ago, he married another woman, but they were divorced last year. Even at that, he’s rumored to be quite the womanizer. I have to salute him for that, Louise, for they say he’s sixty-six.”
“Since when do you salute womanizers?”
“Actually, I’m just havin’ a little fun with you. To be sure you stay alert during my report, I enliven it now and again with some racy stuff. Now, here comes the most interesting thing about Dr. Bouting: He’s evidencing early signs of dementia, probably Alzheimer’s disease.”
“That’s pretty private. How did you weasel that information out?”
“The person who did probably got it from someone at the company who might be worried about its future and wants to see a change at the top. I don’t believe I am unduly Machiavellian when I guess that the source is an ally of one of those two assistants out there in Kauai, Anne Lansing or Christopher Bailey. Maybe one or the other wants to hasten Dr. Bouting’s leave taking.”
“Bill, this is great. How can I thank you?”
“When you come home, give me a lei.”
“My dear, you’re funny. I’ll do just that. So we agree we’ll wait this out?”
“As long as you feel safe there. Do you?”
“Yes. No one’s after me. Though John Batchelder has been acting a little odd . . .”
“Is that something new?”
She laughed. “He’s going around playing detective.”
“Good, let him, as long as you don’t. The only danger I see there for you is from Bruce Bouting. He’s horny as a goat, they say. You already mentioned something about him being annoying, a polite way of saying the same thing. Watch your step; you aren’t in danger of being murdered, just preyed on by a man old enough to be your father.”
26
Louise was to meet her friends at ten and it was already twenty after. She’d rushed into her tour clothes, a lightweight wash-and-wear white shirt with red bandanna and cargo pants that, if necessary, could be unzipped to make into shorts. She descended the elevator and tried to hurry down the big hotel hall, though it felt as if she were walking through a very thick mass of air. That was what a sleeping pill did for her and why she rarely took one.
She was approaching the end of the hall, with the orchid garden lanai on one side, the parrot’s cage on the other. As she was about to pass the cage, she was horrified to see the bird glaring at her in recognition. He ruffled his feathers, as if he were winding up for a performance. That turned out to be true. Jumping up and down on its perch, he screeched the same line as when he first met her: “Bad baby . . . bad baby . . . bad baby!”
“Oh, just shut up!” she hissed at him. “I didn’t do anything to you—I’m not a bad baby!”
A cluster of four passing tourists looked at her in disgust. “Can you believe anyone would talk to a dumb bird like that?” said one.
“No, only an idiot would,” said another. “She must have been rude to it in the past for it to call her names like that.”
Louise slunk her way down the steps and into the dining room. To her relief, she spied her colleagues, Marty, Steffi, and John, already seated at a table on the terrace. She made eye contact with a nearby waitress to signal the need for coffee, then sat down. “Hi,” she cryptically greeted her companions, then put on her dark glasses, took her crushable Kauai-by-the-Sea hat from her carry-all, and pulled it down onto her head. That damned bird would never recognize her again.
“Well, hello, Lou,” said Marty. He looked self-satisfied, easy for someone who’d already finished his princely breakfast. “Is that a disguise? What’s the matter with you?”
To Louise’s numbed ears it sounded like “Whassamatta-widyou?”
“Give me a moment. I’ve been seriously harassed on the way here.”
“No kiddin’,” said Marty. His brown eyes snapped with anger. “Who harassed you? That Wyant fellow?”
As Louise shook her head, Steffi said, “Was it that police chief?”
“No and no,” said Louise. “It’s that dratted parrot.”
John Batchelder, polishing off an omelet with pancakes and sausage on the side, threw back his head and laughed. “That’s giving me the first laugh I’ve had in days. A parrot, giving Louise Eldridge a hard time!”
Louise stared at them darkly, through deep-tinted Armani lenses. “Just answer me one question: Does that bird scold any of you?”
“You mean the one across from the orchid garden?” asked Steffi. “Or do you mean the one farther down the hall?”
“The blue and yellow guy across from the orchid garden.”
One by one, they shook their heads. Marty asked, “What does he say to you that’s so terrible? Does he cuss you out?” He chuckled. “Or does he make dirty cracks?”
“No and no,” she said again, annoyed at her companions. “It’s just so demeaning. He yells ‘bad baby’ when he sees me.”
Her colleagues laughed. John said, “You are kind of a bad baby, you know.”
Marty said, “Don’t be a wuss, stand up to that bird.” He laughed again.
“You think it’s funny,” she said, flipping shut her menu with its endless choices. She already knew what she wanted, an abstemious breakfast of granola and juice. “It wouldn’t be so funny if it were happening to one of you.”
Steffi said, “Sweetie, you’re
probably still suffering post-traumatic stress from finding that dead man, Dr. Flynn. I hope you got some good sleep last night.”
“I did, Steffi.” She squeezed her friend’s hand back; she needed someone like Steffi to be kind to her at this moment.
Marty dabbed his mouth with his napkin, leaned back, and said, “Well, Steff and I are off for a drive to the north shore. But you and John can have a nice relaxing day visiting the Big Island. Kilauea is all over the news this morning. A new vent has blown its stack. The crowds it’s attracting are enormous.” There was growing irony in his tone and a devilish look in his eyes. “What could be more relaxing than standing on a volcano that’s spewing molten rock high into the air?” He leaned over to Louise and said, “Honey, there’s worse things than a hysterical parrot. You and John just try not to get burned up, you hear?”
It wasn’t until the van had taken them to Lihue Airport that Louise realized Tom Schoonover had come on this field trip to the Big Island for a reason beyond viewing the new lava flow. At the airport gate, Tom cleverly drew the other twelve in the group together to talk about lava viewing. The scientist was dressed casually, as usual, in tan shirt, shorts, and ball cap. They hovered around him like a class of schoolchildren.
At that moment, Louise knew that Chief Hau had urged Schoonover and Henry Hilaeo to come with the group as an additional element of security, an undercover element. And Tom was pulling it off: The two Kauai County policemen assigned to the group stood back politely while he outlined a plan with the know-how of a professional tour guide.
“Lava viewing, folks, and I’m sure you who have experienced it before will agree, is the most fun at dusk.” An enthusiastic raising of his eyebrows created a mass of friendly forehead wrinkles. “And this is an historic moment in the current Kilauea activity event. As of the day before yesterday, not only is there an active vent directly into the sea, but a new flow has broken out of a fissure a mile from the ocean. Lava is spewing high into the air and creeping down to the water. Allegedly, these are the highest geysers seen since the Puu Oo vent broke open in 1992. This surface flow of pahoehoe makes it easy viewing for a change. We won’t have to walk over acres of hardened a’a, which is often the case when you come here—it’s rough and crackly and hard as heck to traverse, so thank your lucky stars you don’t have to cross it. So, we’ll shoot for getting there at dusk. Okay?”
