"No,” said Nelson, “as a matter of fact—"
"Now, wait.” Nick was on his feet and leaning over the table, his long arms propped on sandy-haired knuckles (in a strikingly simian manner, Gideon couldn't help observing).
"This is a family dinner, not a corporate business meeting. And we have company—"
"John's not company,” a tipsy Maggie said, raising her glass to her cousin.
"Well, Gideon is. There's no reason this can't keep till tomorrow morning."
"I won't be here tomorrow morning,” Nelson said. “There's a chamber of commerce meeting in Papeete."
"All right, Wednesday."
"Sorry, I'll be in Hawaii Wednesday,” Rudy contributed. “Pacific Growers meeting."
"All right, Th—"
"No can do,” said Maggie. “Training sessions morning and afternoon."
"They've asked for an answer by the end of the week,” Nelson said.
Nick was starting to show his frustration. “Well, that's too damn bad,” he snapped, “they just might have to wait. For Christ's sake, we're having dinner! You think John and Gideon came all the way out here to listen to us hash over company business?"
Good question, Gideon thought; he wouldn't mind the answer to that himself. What had they come for?
"Hey, don't worry about us,” John said with another sidewise glance at Gideon. “Go ahead and talk about it. It'll probably take less time than arguing about whether you should or shouldn't talk about it."
At that Nick capitulated, taking his seat and throwing up his hands with a sigh. “Go ahead and talk, what do I know?"
Now Nelson stood up. “As I see it, it's a relatively straightforward proposition."
It was. Superstar Resorts International, of Omaha, Nebraska, had upped its offer for the property by a generous ten percent, said amount to be—
"What about the training center?” Maggie interrupted.
"The earlier stipulation still stands. Two acres to be set aside as a training and placement institute for young Tahitians interested in entering the hotel and tourist industry. Adequate funding to be provided."
Maggie jerked her fist with boozy satisfaction. “All right!"
"And that's it, really,” Nelson said. “Other than the money, the earlier offer holds in its entirety. What's your reaction, Nick?"
Nick inclined his head thoughtfully. “It's a lot of money...” Maggie, Rudy, and Nelson started speaking at once, with Nelson carrying the day through sheer tenacity. “Not only is it a lot of money, Nick, but it's the right time to get out of the coffee business. Are you aware—"
"Out of the coffee business and into what?” Nick asked.
"What about Bora Bora?” Maggie said. “What about that destination resort you're always talking about building on the Bora Bora property? With this kind of money, couldn't you just up and do it?"
Nick gave it some thought. “Maybe I could at that,” he said quietly, and the look in his eyes made it clear that the idea had its attractions. Nick Druett was an entrepreneur at heart, Gideon realized, not a coffee baron, or a land baron, or any other kind of baron. For men like Nick, the possibility of something new, of something big, of making something from nothing, was what got them out of bed every morning.
"Not me,” said Celine flatly. “I'm not going to Bora Bora. No art supplies on Bora Bora. No nothing on Bora Bora. Tahiti is plenty bad enough."
"But you wouldn't have to live on Bora Bora, Momma,” Maggie said. “You could live anywhere. You could—"
"May I just finish my point?" Nelson cut in. He was still standing at his chair and he spoke directly to Nick. “I think it's time for us to take a good look at market trends. Has anyone besides me given any thought to the fact that coffee consumption, worldwide, has been going down, not up? That despite all the talk about a coffee boom, people consume less than half of what they did thirty years ago? That the world market has been stagnant for decades? That with Japanese demand driving up prices and higher wages driving up costs, the profit window for growers shrinks every year? I grant you, Paradise is doing fine for the time being, but all the same—"
"All the same,” a mocking drone interrupted, “the reports of coffee's demise are greatly exaggerated."
The comment had come from Rudy, on Gideon's right. One of the three Caucasians at the table—the others were Nick and Gideon—he was the only one there who was from the “other” side of the family, being the son of Nick's dead brother, and the only one who had spent most of his life in the continental United States as opposed to Tahiti or Hawaii. As a result he had contributed little beyond droll, oblique footnotes to the family reminiscences.
He was far from oblique now, however. The only stagnant part of the market was the robusta sector, the others were crisply informed; the big industrial roasters, the Folgerses, the Maxwell Houses. The arabica sector, the specialty growers and roasters, were doing better than fine, and not just for the time being either. They now had twelve percent of the market, up from less than one percent only a few years ago, and were still climbing, with Paradise near the front of the pack. As for coffee prices, when had they not been going up and down and up again? Back in the eighteenth century it had been $4.68 a pound for ordinary green beans, four times what it was now— had they known that?
They hadn't. “Even so—” said Nelson.
But Rudy wasn't easy to cut off when he chose not to be. Did they know that the coffee industry employed almost thirty million people in one capacity or another? Would they care to guess what the earth's most-traded commodity just happened to be?
"Coffee?” asked John, being helpful.
"Wrong,” said Rudy, “petroleum. Now: Would anyone care to guess the world's second-most-traded commodity?"
"Coffee?” asked John.
"Excellent guess,” said Rudy. “Somebody give that man a coconut. Last year, eleven billion pounds were traded at the wholesale level alone."
For all his waspishness, Rudy was amusing in a dry, puckery kind of way. With his balding dome, his pruney, disapproving mouth, and his baggy-eyed sad sack of a face, his sharp, funny thrusts rarely failed to surprise.
"I take it,” Nick said, on the dry side himself for the moment, “that you're suggesting that we don't accept their offer?"
Rudy nodded. “As before, padrone."
The others started talking again. Nick held up his hand. “Let's save some time. Maggie, Nelson—you think it's time to sell."
More nods. “A training center would be a fantastic legacy, Poppa,” said Maggie, her eyes shining. “A way to pay back all we've plundered from the island."
"Right, plundered. And Celine? You'd still like to sell the farm, of course?"
"You bet, Nicky! Buy a nice villa in Antibes, get out of this dump."
"So everyone feels the same as they did before,” Nick said reflectively. “The only thing that's changed is the money.” He turned to his right. His voice, his entire manner, became gentler. “Therese, do you want to say anything, honey?"
Therese looked startled. She too hadn't said much until now, and what little she'd said had left Gideon with the impression that she was very sweet, very solicitous of others— of John, of her parents, of her children—and not very bright. Not very self-assured either. Most of her remarks faded away in mid-sentence, in a soft, not unattractive flurry of confusion and discomposure: oh gosh, she seemed to be saying, there I've gone and put my foot in my mouth again, haven't I?
That said, she was certainly a knockout, with clear, fresh skin somewhere between copper and bronze, features that combined the best of her Chinese and American heritage, and as classically beautiful, heart-shaped, and perfectly symmetrical a face as Gideon had ever seen.
"What a skull she must have under there,” Gideon had said to John in quiet admiration shortly after they arrived.
"You be sure and tell her that, Doc,” John had said. “I mean, what female wouldn't love to hear that? No wonder you swept Julie off her feet."
Therese's reply to Nick's question was, as usual, self-effacing. As far as she was concerned, she would be happy with whatever he decided—but in her heart of hearts she hoped they wouldn't sell, that was all.
Nick prompted her to continue.
Therese chewed her lip and went hesitantly forward. Since she had been a little girl, not a day had passed, not a single meal, when coffee hadn't been discussed, and pondered over, and argued about. For as long as she could remember, the growing of coffee had been the focal point of the family. More than that, much more, it was the coffee farm into which Brian had poured so much of his energy and thought and devotion. He had left his stamp on it, and to her—she knew how silly this sounded—it was a kind of monument to him. The idea of abandoning coffee simply because someone offered them money—did they really need more money?—of letting all that work and achievement be bulldozed away for just another tourist hotel...
As usual, she trailed off into mumbled fragments. “I'm sorry...I just...I can't really...you know...” She hunched her shoulders and looked down at her hands.
Treacly as it was, Therese delivered it with such patient, awkward sincerity that Gideon found himself moved. Nick was moved too. Moist-eyed, he put his hand over his daughter's.
Nelson, who was not moved, rapped peevishly on the table. “Pardon me, but may I suggest that this has nothing whatever to do with Brian, for God's sake? We grow beans here, not holy relics, and the reason we grow them is so people can make something called coffee out of them. And what is coffee? Coffee is no more than a mixture of burnt hydrocarbons, alkaloids, and mineral salts suspended in an aqueous solution..."
That was one way to look at it, Gideon thought.
Next to him, Rudy raised his glass of Medoc in a salute to Nelson. “Here's to a true romantic,” he said.
Nelson glared briefly at him. “My point is—"
"Enough,” Nick said, his hand still on Therese's. “Tell Superstar we're still not interested. We're doing fine right here."
Therese, still looking down, said something so softly that Gideon couldn't hear it but read it on her lips. “Thank you, Poppa."
"Anybody have any more comments they just have to make?” Nick asked.
They knew better than to bother. Nelson sulked. Maggie pouted. The others went back to eating.
"That's that, then,” Nick said, his spirits visibly lifting. “Dessert time."
He turned in his chair to call over his shoulder.
"Hey, Poema...you suppose we could get a cup of coffee around here?"
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 19
* * * *
"You have reached Julie and Gideon Oliver,” Gideon was informed by his own voice, sounding very much like a robot, and a pretty listless robot at that. “We aren't available to take your call, but if you'll leave a message at the tone we'll get back to you."
This was disconcerting. Why wasn't Julie home? It was after 10:00 in Tahiti—past midnight in Port Angeles—and she hadn't said anything about going anywhere for the night. He chewed his lip for a few moments before it occurred to him to press the pound button to see if she had left him a message. When he did he was immediately relieved to hear her voice.
"Hi, love,” she said, sounding very much like Julie; bright, and sparkling, and pretty. “I hope you remember to listen for this message, because it's the sort of thing you always forget you can do, and if you call me and I'm not home and you don't know where I am you'll worry, right? But then if you did forget, then you're not listening now anyway, and you can't hear this, and if you didn't forget, then obviously you are listening, so what's the point of my babbling on about it?'
Gideon smiled as she caught her breath.
"Anyway, since you weren't going to be home for a while, I thought I might as well get out in the field for a couple of days and join the winter elk count in the Hoh quadrant; it's better than sitting behind a desk at the admin center, although you probably don't think so."
She was right about that. Two days of moldering in the rainiest river valley in the United States during the wettest, coldest, gloomiest month of the year, never getting quite dry, never getting quite warm, was not his idea of a good time. He liked the Northwestern winters all right, but he preferred to look out at them through a double-paned window with a log fire crackling in the fireplace behind him. And he preferred dry beds to wet sleeping bags. For an anthropologist, as she sometimes reminded him and as he readily admitted, he had an unseemly fondness for the soft life.
"So that's where I am,” she went on. “I hope everything's all right in Tahiti and I hope your corpse isn't too terribly messy. I'll talk to you when I get back. Hi to John. Tell him I'm meeting Marti for lunch on Wednesday. And that's about it. I miss you, Gideon. I wish you were already back.” She paused. Her voice softened and dropped a notch. “I do love you."
"I love you too,” he said to the recording, then left a message on the machine to that effect.
He leaned back, warmed by the call but feeling oddly vexed too. It didn't take him long to figure out why: he was always a little grumpy when Julie was away from home. The fact that he wasn't there either had nothing to do with the matter. When somebody traveled, he liked it to be him. Julie he preferred safe at home where she belonged—not that he would ever admit it to her. It was an attitude he didn't seem to have much control over, probably a genetic residue dating back to Australopithecus afarensis and before: man come back to cave from hunt, man want find woman waiting, cooking, loving...not out chasing stupid elk.
Well, what the hell, it was dangerous, wasn't it? What if they stampeded or something?
But of course he had to laugh at himself, remembering how extraordinarily capable Julie was; whom did he know that could take care of herself better in the out-of-doors? In fact, hadn't she once found and rescued him after he'd gotten himself hopelessly lost, confused, and miserable in the deep woods?
He was still thinking about that when he fell asleep with a smile on his face.
* * * *
The following morning at 9 A.M. Gideon and John again appeared at the gendarmerie on the avenue Bruat. They were treated in the same supercilious manner by the same supercilious clerk, but this time made to wait half an hour before being admitted to Colonel Bertaud's presence. By the time they were seated in the commandant's office John was already steaming, not a good sign.
Bertaud was not in a good mood either. “And what have we this morning, gentlemen?” was his soft, steely greeting. “A new murder to report?” The folder in front of him remained open, the fountain pen remained between his fingers, poised to write.
"No, the same old one,” John said bluntly.
All things considered, Gideon thought, not an auspicious beginning.
"Colonel,” he said, “we're sorry to bother you again, but we've come up with something that I think will interest you. I looked at the photographs of Brian Scott's body yesterday, and in my opinion there's pretty good reason to think he was stabbed to death."
Bertaud screwed the cap on his pen. “The photographs?"
"These,” John said, and handed him the clasp-envelope across the desk.
Bertaud opened it and slid the contents out. “The top two,” Gideon said. “If you look at—"
"You made photocopies without asking for permission?” Bertaud said to John. “No doubt that is the way the FBI conducts itself in America, but—"
"If I asked for permission, would I have gotten it?” John shot back.
"Certainly not,” said Bertaud.
Gideon repressed a sigh. It was looking like a long morning. “Colonel,” he said, “with your permission I'd like to show you what I found."
"What you found,” Bertaud said, focusing his attention on him as if he hadn't really been aware of him before. “Forgive me, but you are...?"
"I'm a forensic anthropologist."
"Ah, you're the gentleman who was going to examine the body?"
"Yes,” Gideon said,
surprised. He'd thought that Bertaud had understood as much.
"He's famous in America,” John pointed out as Gideon winced. “They call him the Skeleton Detective. The Bureau uses him all the time for its biggest cases."
This had the effect on Bertaud that Gideon might have predicted. One corner of a sleek gray eyebrow went up a few millimeters, the sharp, knowing eyes narrowed, the mobile lips pursed. “I see. Well, then, I am flattered that the great Skeleton Detective would concern himself in our small affairs. You were saying...?"
Gideon was starting to feel the way John did about Bertaud but where would it have gotten them to show it? The colonel held the cards, all fifty-two of them, and there was no point in antagonizing him any more than he already was. Gideon nodded politely and began to explain his findings. Impatient and preoccupied at first, Bertaud soon seemed to grow genuinely interested. After a few minutes he had the original file brought in, in hopes that the photographs might be sharper, but they were equally blurry. At one point Gideon had the impression that he was on the edge of swaying him, but in the end Bertaud remained unconvinced.
"No, Dr. Oliver,” he said with a sigh, “it's all extremely interesting but in the end simply not persuasive. What do we have after all is said and done?” He treated them to a full Gallic shrug—shoulders, mouth, chin, eyebrows, and hands. “A group of maggots that might or might not be—"
"A line of maggots,” John pointed out.
"A line, then. In any case it's simply not enough. I'm sorry, gentlemen. There will be no police interference. I cannot justify it."
The interview was over but John wouldn't say die. “Not enough for what?” he demanded. “We're not asking you to bring charges, we don't want you to arrest anybody, we just want the body dug up so that Dr. Oliver here can have a look at it. Then you take it from there. Or don't take, depending on what turns up. We'll be long gone. What do you say?"
Bertaud shook his head. “I'm sorry.” He fixed them each in turn with a long, unmistakably cautionary gaze. “And that, I trust,” he purred, “is the end of it."
Aaron Elkins - Gideon Oliver 09 - Twenty Blue Devils Page 13
