The House at Sandalwood

by Virginia Coffman

  “Miss—ah—Cameron! If you like I will drive you around to Sandalwood.”

  I thanked him and accepted his offer before I had time to think. But when we found his jeep behind the store, parked on a grassy little patch of ground rapidly going to sand, I finally remembered to ask, “How do we get there? I haven’t seen any roads.”

  “There’s a dirt road around the coast north of the mountain and then along the east coast. Not much of a road, but it serves the purpose, I expect. There are taro patches and a few other fields along there, and about all that can get through are jeeps and Japanese trucks of various kinds.” His granite face seemed to have flesh and blood behind that immobile facade.

  He seemed to be trying to make small talk as well. Why was he being so nice to me? “Are you comfortable?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I looked at him, surprised by this consideration. He was smiling as though we had parted the best of friends, and I thought it exceedingly generous of him under the circumstances. His pale eyes with their unblinking gaze fixed on me for several seconds, troubled and not really flattering, and I looked away, not quite sure why I wanted to avoid him.

  We rattled over the ground to the road that wound along eastward below the papaya grove. No other cars were on the road. Everyone else was on the path I had taken, which cut diagonally across the island. I began to get more and more nervous about the condition of the accident victim.

  “Do you think the man was very badly hurt?”

  “Probably.”

  I looked at him. He shrugged.

  “They say the fellow was impaled through the breast. Not a very happy way to go. Your friend Giles will have some explaining to do.”

  “My friend Giles,” I said icily, “is in Honolulu at this minute attending to the serious business of seeing that the Islands continue to receive food from the mainland. It is very easy to starve out an island state, and we are facing a strike that may do just that.”

  He wasn’t moved in the least. “According to my new friends in the village back there, Giles has been repeatedly warned not to build in that sacred grove, or whatever they call the place.”

  I was sorry for the workman and for Stephen Giles if he got into difficulties over it, but my first concern had to be for my niece. I had no idea how she would react, or if she would have the faintest notion of what to do.

  “Now, I wonder what you are thinking, Miss Cameron. May I hope you have at last come around to my view?”

  I looked at him, letting him see my indignation.

  “Just what is your purpose?”

  “My purpose?”

  “I can hardly think of anything less likely than your being found in that village. It prides itself on having as little as possible to do with the haoles—the whites with their high-rises and their fast cars and their freeways. Yet here you are—you and a jeep. I can picture you in a Cadillac or a Mercedes-Benz, but a jeep!”

  “It is merely for my use while I remain on the island.”

  I could hardly believe it. “You mean, those people are permitting you to remain in their village? The whole object of their private society here is to keep out haoles and modern inventions; to keep the bloodline pure.”

  “They need have no concern. I will not foul their bloodline.” He said it with the faintest edge of contempt, although it was with more indifference than anything else.

  “But why did they accept you? Why are you permitted here at all?”

  “They have their reasons.”

  “They must know you are Stephen Giles’s enemy.” Suddenly, as he remained silent, I understood. “Of course! You played on that. You know they are against Mr. Giles’s building of the Sandalwood heiau. If you were sincere about your weird suspicions, you would have gone to the police in Honolulu.”

  “I have.”

  That shook me. “You told the police this cock-and-bull story?” Good God! Would they come trooping over to Ili-Ahi putting all of us—and Deirdre—through some kind of interrogation that would not cease until somebody said ... something?

  I grew more uneasy when we rattled over fallen debris from the lush mountainside and he agreed, “I have told them. Made myself something of a nuisance, with Will trying to back me, though he’s a feeble reed to lean on.” He reached into his coat pocket, and took out an envelope. “They couldn’t see the point of this.”

  I didn’t want to take it, which was ridiculous, because I knew what it was, and if the police had found it unimportant, why should I read anything more into the letter and the postcard sent by his daughter Ingrid?

  “Read them.”

  I looked at the address on the envelope with its flourishes and large circles for dots, then I studied the postmark, which was blurred. There was an airmail stamp and the word AIR was printed half across the envelope and underlined with a thick, black ballpoint. Inside the envelope, with a single page apparently taken from Ingrid’s earlier stay at the Surfrider Hotel in Honolulu, was the postcard—a brightly colored photograph of an outrigger canoe full of gorgeous bronzed males bounding over mountainous waves off Waikiki.

  “The postmarks. Consider them first.”

  I did so. I could see how anyone receiving a postcard three or four weeks after a letter had arrived would assume that the postcard carried the later information. Few people examine the postmark closely, especially on a casual postcard. Actually, it would take a very close scrutiny to read the postcard’s date. There were wavy black cancel marks over it, but after squinting a bit and studying it, I believed Berringer was right in saying the postcard had been sent earlier than the letter. In a slap-dash way, neither the postcard nor the letter had a written date on it. Both started out unceremoniously with Ingrid Berringer’s message.

  “Read the postcard first,” he told me.

  I took in the card’s breezy message:

  Like your rivals, Willie? Deirdre the Klutz is divinely happy. I don’t know how she does it with her bird brain. But if it continues, I’m off for Tokyo.

  Sayonara, Ingrid

  I read the whole thing again. It certainly didn’t say much, but I could understand how he and William Pelhitt might think this card was her farewell to Hawaii, especially since they had received it after the letter. I took up the single-page letter next:

  Daddy Doll—

  Thanks for the check. Yes, I was able to cash it. Ah! Those magic credit cards! I had a murderous fight with that idiot Deirdre. I’ve decided that when morons grab something, they hold on harder than us super-brains, but I give her about three days before the truth creeps out. Today’s the third day. And I’m going to be there at Sandalwood to pick up the pieces in a sweet, understanding way. So help me, the moron will probably massacre me if I lay hands on her property. I’ve discovered she can be Dangerous When Roused, but just call me ...

  Foolhardy Ingrid

  I looked up, furious because the last line was so obviously a joke, and this man had taken it at face value. His absurd suspicion was based on Ingrid Berringer’s insulting and nasty remarks about a girl who had been her friend.

  “You actually believe that your daughter was murdered, and by my niece? Surely, you have read other letters from your daughter. Hasn’t she made remarks like this before? Do you always jump to the conclusion that someone is going to murder her?”

  The thin, inflexible mouth creased to a slit for a moment before he said, “On the contrary. Neither Will nor I suspected anything of the sort. We waited. We sent cables. We wrote. Finally, we decided she might have had some—misadventure in Tokyo, so we flew there. We are satisfied now that my girl never reached Japan. In fact, she could not have left Hawaii.”

  “What about boats? Schooners, fishing boats—anything of that sort. Mr. Giles says ships could possibly land people on Pacific islands without passports, and no one would be the wiser.”

  “Mr. Giles, if I may say so, is in a better position than anyone to know about ships that indulge in illicit traffic.”

  Now what was he imp
lying? “Do you think Mrs. Giles murdered your daughter, and Mr. Giles took her body and threw it off one of his ships?”

  “No, although I am not sure of anything at this point. But I think there is a great deal of explaining that your niece might be responsible for, if she weren’t so infernally protected. I’d like to get her alone for a little while. I’d have the truth out of her soon enough.”

  “By physical violence?” I asked ironically, trying not to act as thoroughly angry as I was. This was a matter that required careful handling. I could not antagonize him too much. I dared not.

  “Not physical violence, no. I am not a physical man. But Ingrid was my only child and blood relation. She is a Berringer. And I mean to find out what really happened here.”

  “Shall I tell you?”

  The narrow cliff road running southward along the east flank of Mt. Liholiho was strewn with muddy ruts and palm and fern fronds blown along this windward coast. We bounced over them. I don’t know what his feelings were, but I found my knuckles white, and I was careful not to look over at the sparkling Pacific, which I knew must lie deep and dark under the rainclouds overhead. Berringer did not look at me, for which I was grateful. The road had no wall, no fence—nothing. This was just a way to reach the fields on the easterly sector of the island.

  “Since you are one of those know-it-all young women, you may as well.”

  “You will find that your daughter—if she didn’t leave the island—is somewhere in Honolulu enjoying herself with new friends, new interests. One thing did seem clear in this letter and this postcard. Your daughter’s interest in marrying Mr. Pelhitt is certainly not very strong.”

  “There we agree. But he has his uses.”

  Beyond Mt. Liholiho we finally saw some men in the flooded taro fields. A battered old truck and an ancient wood-frame station wagon were parked in fern clumps. I was relieved when the road turned inward, away from the sea, although we were walled in by enormously tall vegetation. Ever since my first prison experiences with no privacy, I had yearned for the claustrophobic protection of walls between myself and others. But this scene, like Deirdre’s favorite room, proved too much even for my love of privacy. Suddenly, the skies opened and we finally got the downpour I had been barely missing all morning. It was over as quickly as it started, but in the meantime we were soaked.

  Berringer parked the jeep by running it into a tiny spot, fairly dry, under a huge banyan tree, the only one I had identified on this island. Its roots sprawled out in all directions and reminded me of an ancient but friendly animal in an animated cartoon. I supposed Berringer would investigate the scene of the accident, then leave. I would see if I could do anything in the grove and if not, would go to Sandalwood House and see how Deirdre had handled the situation. She certainly would know about it, since the call to the Hawaiian village and undoubtedly to Kaiana’s tiny town had been made from Sandalwood. Kaiana, so close across the channel, would have at least one doctor in the town beyond the Kaiana Hilton Hotel. But Victor Berringer followed me, asking if he might borrow a dry shirt or jacket from Stephen Giles’s wardrobe. Since he was soaking wet, I couldn’t refuse.

  We found practically the entire population of the Hawaiian village strung out along the main island trail, watching the proceedings inside the Sandalwood heiau, but not one of the men I had seen in the village would enter the grove. Several of the grove’s workmen were discussing the accident, pointing out where the unfortunate man had fallen. He slipped on the palm fronds carelessly lashed to the roof of a cottage. I noted that some of Stephen’s employees were of Hawaiian blood, but they were also Japanese or Chinese, Filipino, or Caucasian. Hawaii is famous, of course, for being a multinational state. Apparently the haoles did not share the strong feeling of the local Hawaiians that this grove was kapu—forbidden—sacred to the old gods.

  The injured man had been removed from the scene of the accident. I hurried on to Sandalwood House. Moku came out on the veranda and walked into the house with me, remarking on my soaked condition. I must have looked like a drowned, red-haired rat.

  “Never mind about me. Could you tell me what happened? Where is the man who was hurt? How serious is it? Can we get a doctor here soon?”

  He shook his head.

  “Too late, ma’am. He was dying by the time I got to the heiau.”

  “He shouldn’t have been moved. Where did you have him taken?”

  “I did not enter the heiau, ma’am. Some of his friends who were working with him. They are Japanese, you know. They took him to a boat and—”

  I was sickened by this hasty action. It might have brought about the man’s death.

  “No! No. It would kill him.”

  “He is dead. He was dead before he was placed in the boat. His brother who works at the airport on Kaiana has been notified. He will meet the boat.”

  It was an appalling thing, even more so because I suddenly remembered the dead man’s brother. I had met Ito Nagata’s young Japanese friend when we landed from the interisland plane at Kaiana after our short flight from Honolulu. It made the death seem more immediate, even more terrible than if the victim had been unknown.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I asked Moku. “What about the other men who work in the grove? I had better see about something—coffee for them?”

  He looked into the dining room. It was empty but I could hear the august Mr. Yee laying down the law to Kekua Moku. The girl kept insisting, “I can’t go near it. Pops wouldn’t let me.

  “Into the grove,” the girl’s father explained to me. “That is the difficulty about your suggestion, Miss Cameron. You will not get anyone to take coffee to them. But it is a good idea. Coffee and a little of Mister Steve’s Okolehau.” He must have guessed from my expression that I was mystified and added, “Something Mr. Steve’s father kept. Slightly illegal these days. When they can get it, some prefer it to gin or whiskey.”

  “Yes. Well, you may be right.” From the way his expression lightened suddenly, I assumed he was one of those who preferred it. “But I don’t feel I can give it to them without Mr. Stephen’s permission. Maybe a little whiskey—I don’t know. I’ll take the coffee myself after I see Deirdre.”

  He thought this an excellent idea, so I went to the kitchen and found that Mr. Yee had two percolators ready and an old enamel coffee pot.

  “Some prefer it stronger,” he said. “Although this person—Moku’s daughter—refuses to take the coffee to the grove, madam.”

  “My father wouldn’t possibly let me,” Kekua announced, with the air of someone who has received the royal command. And in a sense, she had, but she giggled as she said this, which I found odd.

  “Never mind. I’ll go. I’ll get Mrs. Giles and we will both go.”

  I hurried out past Kekua’s father who looked a little uncertain for the first time since I had met him. His ancient beliefs and superstitions had clashed head-on with his natural desire to supervise any large domestic concern. Upstairs I found Deirdre had left her fish-bowl room and for a minute or two I didn’t know what to do or where to look. I was sure she had run away again in that cowardly, childish manner of hers. I was about to leave the room when I saw her sketching pad on the floor in the middle of the room. She must have dropped it when she left the room in a hurry. I picked up the pad and turned it over.

  I found myself staring into the face of the well-known fictional devil complete with horns. It was frighteningly well done in charcoals and I was amazed at Deirdre’s talent. The thing looked at me fixedly in an uncanny way. It must have been several seconds before I realized this was not a fictional devil at all but the face of a man I knew—Victor Berringer.

  Here were the coldly intellectual planes of the face and forehead, the pale eyes. Deirdre had used her lightest gray for the pupils. Here were the thin lips with their contemptuous, light curve. In my excitement when I reached Sandalwood I had forgotten entirely about Berringer who was rain-soaked as I and wanted to borrow a jacket or shirt from Stephen Gil
es’s wardrobe. Had he gone upstairs while I was talking to Sandalwood’s majordomo? If Deirdre were surprised by him suddenly when she was alone I had no idea what she would do, considering the implication of her feelings shown in this drawing. It would leave Berringer also in no doubt. She had even caught the high, pale eyebrows that gave his eyes their chilling look.

  I slipped the drawing pad face down under a cushion on the window seat and went out into the hall again. This time I could hear the murmur of voices downstairs. I hurried down the stairs recognizing a chill, clipped voice I was beginning to know and to dislike heartily. Was Victor Berringer pestering Deirdre again? It was Berringer, as I had suspected, talking to a young woman in the hall. I started to interrupt them but discovered that the girl was Kekua Moku. Caught by Berringer’s words, I said nothing and listened.

  “You are quite certain then that you have never seen the woman before? Say—a year ago?”

  “Miss Cameron has never been to Hawaii before. Then, of course, she’s been in prison for just ages. Murdered her sister-in-law. That was the charge. Murdered Mrs. Steve’s mother.”

  “I have some vague recollection of the business. You are young Mrs. Steve’s friend, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe the only one she’s got on Ili-Ahi. She is—simple. You know.”

  I could imagine the girl touching her forefinger to her head. I was enraged by Berringer’s reply:

  “I suspected as much. But have you ever seen her really angry? Has she ever shown signs of violence?”