The House at Sandalwood

by Virginia Coffman

  “I’ll bet he is! I’ll get home as soon as possible. We can’t leave you with everything in your hands.”

  “No, no! It isn’t necessary. We were getting on perfectly well, until Kekua’s accident.” I said a hasty good-bye and left him on the line. I was not precisely lying when I said I was needed in the house. I heard loud voices in the kitchen. Obviously, Mr. Yee and Nelia Perez were not going to work as a team without a middleman. I intervened as calmly as I could.

  “Mr. Yee, I have just received a call from Mr. Stephen, and I believe he may not be here until late tonight or tomorrow; so we had better clear up the work now and not make too many plans about tomorrow until we find out just what Mr. Stephen has in mind.”

  “But, Miss,” Nelia Perez began, “even if he isn’t coming, we’d better see about some more help.”

  Mr. Yee and I looked at her. “Why, for heaven’s sake?” I asked. “None of the family is in Sandalwood. There are no guests.”

  “Sorry, but Mrs. Mitsushima has taken off. Says she is not going to hang around where they’ve put a curse on the place. And as for guests, I’m afraid there are guests. Two of them. Mr. Berringer and Mr.—the other one.”

  What were they doing prowling around here? They knew they were not welcome. From the very first, Berringer had made it clear he suspected Deirdre of doing away with his daughter. And William Pelhitt felt much the same about Stephen.

  Feeling like a complete hypocrite, I went out on the veranda and welcomed both men with smiles. William Pelhitt seemed glad to see me but Berringer was obviously here on his own business. I hadn’t eaten lunch and it was too late now, so I suggested we have cocktails. I arranged in the kitchen to have some crackers and cheese and macadamia nuts brought out to us.

  “Where is Mrs. Mitsushima going?” I asked Nelia as we put together the plate of hors d’oeuvre.

  Mr. Yee heard us. He said disdainfully, “The female will be taken across the bay by someone from the Hawaiian group. I believe she leaves us upon the advice of Ilima Moku.”

  Nelia and I glanced at each other uneasily. “Has Mrs. Moku been by Sandalwood since her daughter was taken away?” As I spoke I remembered painfully how much Ilima Moku cared about her daughter, how she influenced and dominated her that first night when I arrived here.

  Mr. Yee said, “She would not come here again, miss. The kapu is in effect. I believe the message came from a farmer named Ling in the papaya grove.”

  When the two guests and I were seated on the veranda over our drinks, Berringer came to the point as bluntly as usual: “I won’t mince words. Miss Cameron—Judith—” Bill Pelhitt frowned at his use of my first name but rubbed his head immediately afterward, and I wondered if he was afraid his companion would disapprove of even this small sign of private opinion.

  “I imagine you came here with some definite matter in mind,” I interrupted. “Or did you come because of the grief in the village? You would not want to intrude, I imagine.” I must have said this ironically, though I hadn’t intended to do so when I started, but he gave me a complacent little smile.

  “Quite true on both counts. You are a rare woman, Judith.”

  I did not ask what he meant by “rare.” I wondered why he was buttering me up. It sounded like something he had pulled out of his collection of soothing sayings for effect. Bill Pelhitt explained hurriedly, “We’ve been discussing the visit you and I made to the Asami house. Vic would like to know your version of her story about the fellow who visited Ingrid.”

  I laughed, though I wasn’t feeling amused. “How like you, Mr. Berringer! You are just like a bulldog. Is it the description you want? I’m sure I remember it word for word.”

  “I have every confidence that you do.” His icy voice was clipped and distinct. “What was your impression of the words my daughter spoke to her visitor?”

  “You remember,” Bill prompted me. “She called him an idiot. A moron.”

  “Idiot and moron. Yes, I think that was what Mrs. Asami said,” I agreed.

  Victor Berringer put his glass on the table.

  “Really rather odd the way my mind works. You might even call it devious.” He took a sip of his drink while I waited with a quickened heartbeat. “What I keep asking myself is why my daughter would call this fellow an idiot, or insane.”

  Bill opened his mouth. I think he was genuinely astonished. “Look here, Vic, I told you. I mean—Ingrid talks that way.”

  “What are you getting at, Mr. Berringer?” I asked, trying to sound calm.

  “There is one person in Hawaii with whom my daughter was closely involved and whom she referred to in letters—rudely, but that is Ingrid!—as an idiot and a moron. I am speaking of your niece, Mrs. Stephen Giles.”

  “Are you picturing Deirdre disguised as a six-foot male leaving your daughter’s bungalow as she was called ‘idiot’ and ‘moron’?” I asked, smiling sweetly.

  “This was a man, Vic!” Bill spelled it out. “A man. Mrs. Asami described him. Some kind of half-Hawaiian or half Oriental. She called him the idiot.”

  “Did she say that ... precisely?” Berringer asked me, the silver pupils of his eyes focused on mine as if he were trying to read my mind, my suspicions, my thoughts and fears. “Or did she speak of an idiot? Did she say ‘you are an idiot’? Or was she speaking to this fellow about someone with whom he was closely acquainted. Someone for whom he cared a great deal. And did she really say ‘that idiot’? Which so angered him that he threatened her and warned her never to approach his wife again?”

  Fifteen

  From the beginning of his little inquisition, I had been dreading his arrival at this point. If Berringer proceeded to investigate the Asamis’ story on his own, he would know that Mrs. Asami had seen a Caucasian, and one remarkably like Stephen, who had left Ingrid while in a fury. If Ingrid Berringer actually was dead, Stephen had his own motive, disposition, and opportunity to kill this woman, especially after that threat to her overheard by Mrs. Asami.

  But William Pelhitt—bless him—interrupted the dangerous silence which followed Berringer’s accusation by pointing out a trifle drunkenly, “That doesn’t quite fit, Vic, because Mrs. Asami said it was a fellow with Hawaiian blood. Half a ... What was it, Judith? Half a-what?”

  “Hapa-haole,” I lied, ashamed of the lie, yet still anxious to keep Berringer from pursuing this idea. I didn’t believe Stephen murdered Ingrid Berringer. I was almost certain ... ninety-nine percent certain, at any rate, that he hadn’t done such a thing. But the suspicion would bring him more grief and I wanted him to be happy. No! I wanted him and Deirdre to be happy.

  Mr. Berringer seemed to understand the meaning of the pidgin-English expression, like so many others used daily by Hawaii’s citizens, irrespective of their many races and nationalities. But I thought I had better add, “half Caucasian, I think it means.”

  While Bill Pelhitt downed his next martini rapidly and took a third from Nelia, Berringer took another cracker. I wondered at Bill’s condition so soon after two drinks, but decided he must have been drinking before he came here. I wondered why he felt it necessary to remain in Berringer’s difficult company so long when he would be much better off back in his home, thousands of miles from this formidable future father-in-law.

  “So I am given to understand,” Berringer said. “Meanwhile —” He swung around in his chair. “I seem to be the only human being left on this planet who cares what has become of my daughter.”

  “We care,” I assured him, “only if harm has come to her.”

  “Vic, of course we care! I loved Ingrid,” William tried to cover my chilly answer. But I felt that I had carried hypocrisy as far as my pride would let it go. The more I heard about Ingrid Berringer, the less I liked her. And at the moment my only feeling toward her was a resentment that she had caused so much pain and trouble to Deirdre and Stephen.

  I stirred, started to get up, hoping they would take the hint and leave. When Berringer simply crossed his legs and took another long
swallow of his Scotch, I challenged him directly.

  “I meant to ask you, but somehow I forgot. Mr. Berringer, are you a man who loves the sea?”

  That surprised him. “Tolerably. I don’t think I understand.”

  There was a certain bitterness in my voice I couldn’t quite subdue.

  “I was thinking about your journeys across Kaiana Bay last night.”

  I know he suspected I was leading up to something unpleasant, but he couldn’t quite decide what it was.

  “Quite true. No one should know better than you and William here. I nearly ran you down. That damned motor! And the lights—totally inadequate. Practically no power whatever. I hope you’ve let your niece know how much I regret the affair. How is she doing now? Well, I hope.” I nodded. “But you are getting at something else, aren’t you?”

  “That was not your only trip last night, was it, Mr. Berringer?”

  “Certainly not, I returned with you. Escorted you to this door behind me here, as a matter of fact.”

  “I am talking about the third trip you made across the bay last night. Quite late.” I thought he was going to deny that trip. I waited, holding my breath. Bill Pelhitt, drinking nervously, was as anxious as I. especially under the cold eye of Berringer, who shrugged and agreed calmly.

  “That’s true. I won’t ask you where you found out—it’s obvious. William, you will do us all a favor, one of these days, if you hustle yourself home. Home to New York, that is.”

  Bill Pelhitt reddened and started to say something but changed his mind. To our surprise he set his glass down sharply, got up and stalked off the veranda. Once he left the veranda he stumbled but kept on his feet. It was obvious that the drinks had hit him badly. I called to him, but he did not look back. I got up to try and make him understand I hadn’t intended to get him in trouble, but Berringer stopped me by a remark that completely confused me.

  “I can’t imagine why it is important to you, Judith, but I am not hiding the fact that I went back to Kaiana last night. I went to meet someone. An employee. And in doing so, by the way, I saw an acquaintance of yours looking very furtive. She certainly didn’t want me to see her.”

  “She?” I could think only of the servants at Sandalwood. It must have been one of them.

  “Yes. The doctor’s wife. What’s-his-name—the Japanese fellow. It was his wife I saw at Kaiana City.” He got up, finished his drink and stretched rather elaborately. “You will admit it is hard to miss anyone in a town with a population of about one hundred. A very pleasant drink. You make an excellent hostess.”

  I merely stared at him. I was trying to sort out this preposterous story he had told me. I finally thanked him with such indifference he obviously got the hint that I wanted him to leave. Unlike Bill Pelhitt and the entire population of the Hawaiian village, Mr. Berringer cut straight through the forbidden grove and met Bill far down the village path. They appeared to be arguing. Berringer seemed to be trying to get Bill to take the easterly cliff road. Perhaps he had a jeep parked there. But Bill was holding back with anger or drunken stubbornness. I didn’t go in until the long, gaunt shadows of late afternoon melted around the two men.

  I didn’t want to go back into the house so soon. Because of our present problems, the ancient walls of Sandalwood gave me claustrophobia. I knew I wouldn’t be able to think in there at the moment, and I had a great deal to figure out. I wanted to avoid both Bill and Mr. Berringer, so I avoided the direction they had followed. I had not yet seen the gulch at close quarters and decided I would try to find out just why Deirdre preferred that part of the house parallel to the river and the falls. It was very damp, very loud and, as I had seen from the window of Deirdre’s little “studio,” it was always dark, because of the heavy foliage. What did she find so fascinating out there?

  I had enough common sense not to do anything dangerous or to venture down to the place where Kekua Moku’s body had been found, but as it was not yet dark, I took this hour of dusk to follow the Ili-Ahi river. It divided into a dozen little streams, one bordering each unfinished cottage, and then it joined to pour over the sharp cliff’s edge into the gulch below. The so-called sacred grove was extraordinarily still at this hour. I followed one particular stream, found the miniature Japanese bridge that had been broken by a falling boulder, and was forced to retrace my steps to find a way around the bridge.

  It wasn’t difficult. I simply stepped over this stream with its floating debris from the rains high on the mountain above the Hawaiian village. Some day it would be exciting to follow the river to its mountain source. Some day ... But of course, I wasn’t going to be at Sandalwood in the future. How beautiful it was here in the grove with exquisite, pale green foliage lacing overhead, and the wild grass and ferns soft underfoot!

  One of those fern fronds was lumpy. I took another step, then looked back. I had stepped on a gilt leather-sandal lace. It seemed an odd lace for one of the men who worked on the Sandalwood heiau. I was sure it belonged to a woman. That would eliminate every woman on the island except those employed at Sandalwood. It belonged to Nelia Perez. I couldn’t recall that Mrs. Mitsushima wore sandals. No. I distinctly recalled those Japanese getas that she wore. And none of the women from the Hawaiian village would dare to enter the grove that was sacred to their people. It must belong to Nelia.

  I picked up the gilt leather lace, ran the flat surface through my fingers and was about to throw it away when I saw distinct footprints in the earth around the humped miniature Japanese bridge about a yard long that had crumpled, apparently under the fallen boulder. I set my own foot in that first print. It was smaller than mine. Possibly a boy’s print, but considering the lace in my hand, I decided it was more probably a woman who had been here. There were more marks around the boulder. But so many men from other islands had worked in the grove that the blurred prints could belong to any of them. What I had found meant nothing, but I kept the lace anyway, without quite knowing why. I found myself lashing the little lace against my other palm as I walked on.

  I then followed one of the little channels to the main course of the river. It was growing dark when I reached the corner of Sandalwood House where the river poured past the east side of the building. It was noisy and foaming here. I glanced up at the window of Deirdre’s study. The room looked blind and it depressed me to think of Deirdre, who should be here in my place, managing her husband’s household. If it hadn’t been for Victor Berringer’s asinine and dangerous behavior in Kaiana Bay, Deirdre would not be so seriously ill.

  Someone in the house had turned on the lights in the kitchen. They helped to illuminate the narrow path here. The river-bank had been built up with a heavy stone wall and I stayed close to the house. I had no intention of falling into the river and being swept over the falls into the gulch below. These thoughts sparked other fears. I began to imagine I heard sticks and other debris crackling underfoot behind me. This was impossible, as the falls roared only a few yards beyond, but the notion of being pushed over into this foaming torrent was enough to make me change my course. I turned back, carefully making my way to the corner of the veranda, with the grass, the emu for roasting pig, and the sacred grove beyond.

  The grove was dark now, so I went up onto the veranda and snapped on the ground lights in order to better see the remnants of our cocktail party, which I began to pile up and carry into the kitchen. I had made my first trip, set the dusty sandal lace on the tray beside the dirty glasses, and come back for the dishes, when one of the ground lights went out. It was one of those lights strung among the trees that surrounded the luau area. The wedge-shaped area of the grove was now darker than its surroundings and it took on all the sinister aspects of a primeval nightmare. The lights nearby that sifted through the treetops cast everything in a green mist, and just as I put my foot out to hold open the door, I looked back once more. Someone was in that grove, in the area darkened by the failure of that electric light.

  One of the Hawaiians, I thought. Someone who might want t
o cause trouble at Sandalwood in revenge for the tragedy that had struck the Mokus. I made a pretense of glancing around in all directions without focusing on whatever or whoever might be hidden there. Then I closed the door and locked it. The lock was far from satisfactory and I didn’t like the idea that the creature out there in the forbidden grove was so near the house. I snapped off the outside lights and hurried to a north window in the darkened living room. Nothing moved out there beyond the open luau area. Maybe there had never been anything hidden in among those kapu cottages.

  All the same, as I left the living room I was relieved to remember that Mr. Yee would be around. He seemed a remarkably efficient man. I thought again of the thing I had seen in the grove, and was no longer surprised at the gullibility of those who imagined they saw the goddess Pele floating through those glades between the cottages. I went into the kitchen and had my first shock of the night.

  Mr. Yee had left a note on the long kitchen table. The note was written in a thick-pointed pen, like a Japanese brush:

  Miss Cameron,

  This being my free night, I have departed for Maui and the home of my cousin. We are proceeding with a chess game that is in a highly anomalous position which I hope to normalize with tonight’s careful thought. You will find your dinner at slow heat in the oven.

  Y.

  Remembering the scare I had just gone through, triggered by that whatever-it-was out in the grove, I found my stomach was not in the least receptive to the idea of food, even Mr. Yee’s. I had not heard any sounds in the house since I entered. I listened, concentrating now upon the house itself. Even the creaking and crackling sounds of the old wood seemed to have stopped. I was enclosed by the eerie silence. At this moment I would have given a good deal to hear the voice of anyone who normally belonged at Sandalwood.