The House at Sandalwood (11 page)

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?”

I think this startled Kekua, but then she hesitated. The seed planted, I feared it would grow. “No! Not at all,” she said. “That is—she was terrified of you. But it’s understandable that she would be, because she hated your daughter so much. Even after her marriage she was afraid Miss Berringer would try and get Mr. Steve away.”

Suddenly, something stopped these two insidious gossipers. Berringer said sharply, “That will do. She is coming in from the
lanai
.”

Kekua murmured something and sounded anxious. In spite of her gossip and suspicions, it was clear she didn’t want an open break with her friend Deirdre.

Berringer said, “Thank you, Miss Moku. You have been a great help.”

The girl responded breathlessly. “Thank
you
,” and they went toward the front door. From her tone I suspected she was being well rewarded for her lies. Or was she merely twisting the truth?

I saw Deirdre a minute later. She was watching Kekua usher the unwanted visitor out across the veranda. Deirdre’s eyes looked enormous as she turned and glanced at me.

“Ingrid wasn’t nasty enough. Now she’s trying to get at me through her father.”

Eight

With an effort I said casually, “Pay no attention. They were trying to involve me a minute ago. Now, as Stephen
’
s wife, you must go out and help the men in the
heiau.
They
’
ve had a bad accident. The men will need coffee and maybe liquor.” She looked helpless, obviously wanting to avoid any more people she couldn
’
t cope with.

I added, “You want Stephen to be proud of you, don’t you?”

She seemed stupefied or else deep in thought for a few seconds, then shook off this mood and agreed, “I do want him proud of me. More than anything.”

I hurried Deirdre into the pantry between kitchen and dining room and although a considerable amount of time had passed, no one had taken out the percolators or the enamel coffee pot. Mr. Yee also armed us with plastic cups. This was not very fancy, and I was reflecting that we wouldn’t be especially welcome, even if the workers were still there, when Mr. Yee topped my tray with a bottle of saki.

I smiled at the sight. “Coffee Tokyo? You are sure they prefer this to Jim Beam?”

He was not amused. “Madam, I know these men.”

I took this as good advice and we went out to the grove. Somewhat to my surprise the workers were still there. They were gathering up tools and discussing the tragedy. Mr. Yee had known what he was talking about. The men did not mix the drinks, but certainly welcomed them.

Deirdre and I poured coffee, but the men, taking two cups, drank the hot coffee first, with a saki chaser. Presumably, the coffee steaming in their mouths heated the saki. I had been pouring for several minutes before Deirdre whispered, “Do you think that awful man will go and lie to the police about me?”

“You’ve done nothing wrong. Just remember that.”

“Ingrid really was horrible. Honest! We’d known each other all through that boarding school, but when we traveled, she was different. Especially after we met Stephen. She was cutting and sarcastic and said the meanest things.”

I moved away from the men momentarily. I had set the tray on a huge tree stump in front of what was intended to be the
lanai
of a larger bungalow, and I reminded Deirdre, “You mustn’t speak of your friend in the past tense. She has undoubtedly gone off somewhere on her own. The South Pacific, perhaps.”

“Don’t call her my friend. She was anything but that. I thought she was my friend and she wasn’t. So it serves her right—whatever happened to her.”

“Deirdre! Stop talking like that. Stop thinking of her as—as—”

“Dead?” she completed the frightening thought. “Well, I’ve suspected that for a long time. I don’t see why people can’t be honest about things and say what they think.”

One of the men came over to us. I wondered if he had overheard our conversation. It was hard to tell. “Pardon, Miss. Some of the Hawaiians would like coffee and the saki. Can I bring it to them?”

“Why not ask them to come into the grove and we will serve them here?”

But they were not about to be bribed. We ended by going out into the trail and did what my grandfather would have called “a land-office business.” In no time the little saki remaining in the jug was gone and the coffee pots were empty. Deirdre and I returned to the house.

Minutes later, I heard voices on the way down to the boat landing. I looked out of one of the rooms facing onto the steep descending trail and saw the entire work force from the grove, leaving with all their tools and equipment. Obviously, this was the end of work on Stephen’s attempt to fulfill his father’s dream.

Nelia Perez came in while I watched the men leaving. She was a little nervous and apologetic, which puzzled me until she explained, “I know I was to keep an eye on Mrs. Steve, ma’am. I tried, really. But the gentleman came to see Kekua and I couldn’t keep him out.”

I pretended a casualness I certainly didn’t feel.

“That was clever of him. I suppose you mean Mr. Berringer. Did he speak to you?”

Now she avoided my eyes and made a great play of dusting off the nearest objects of furniture with the palm of her hand.

“A little. Just—you know—nothing questions.”

“About me.”

She nodded, still avoiding me. “I’ll go now, if it’s all right, ma’am.”

“Were they questions about my past?”

“About ... how Mrs. Steve’s mother died.” The girl looked up at me suddenly. “I said you didn’t do it, because it was suicide. I heard Mr. Stephen and Dr. Nagata one night. They said no one else was there. Only you and Mrs. Steve’s mother, so it had to be suicide.” She hadn’t finished speaking before she sidled out into the hall. I let her go. Nine years ago I had prayed desperately to be believed. These testaments of belief now had no particular effect, except to rouse a great many bitter memories in me.

I was shaken out of this wasteful, useless depression by the ringing of a little china hand bell. Before I could figure out what this nineteenth-century sound indicated, Mrs. Mitsushima, the Japanese house woman, stuck her delicate, carefully coiffed head in through the open door.

“Luncheon, miss.”

I thanked her and went across to the dining room, but after all that had happened during the morning, I was not hungry. And the time itself seemed wrong. It should be four in the afternoon, at least. I found no one in the long dining room and felt ridiculous. Surely, all this elegance, bright, glittering crystal, the old-fashioned, clean beauty of Wedgwood china, and the soft, worn napery, was not necessary for Deirdre and me. She came rushing in, breathless, and slid into her chair at the foot of the table. My table setting was on her right and she gave me a mischievous grin.

“I’m not late. I’m not! It isn’t five minutes since the bell rang.”

“You are Mrs. Stephen Giles. And this is your house, and the luncheon bell is yours, too. Remember that. It is you and Stephen who make the rules here.”

“So I can be as late as I like.”

“Well, not exactly.” I heard myself lecturing her and broke off. I was embarrassed, so I laughed. “I sound exactly like a school teacher, and I don’t intend to. Please don’t think I want to tell you what to do.”

“Oh, I don’t mind that. You see, I don’t pay any attention to what you say, any more than I paid to my creaky old teachers.” At my expression, she grinned. “Now, let’s eat. I’m starved.”

In her usual winning way she managed to get the subject changed and rushed breathlessly into a plan to visit Honolulu.

“I swear, Judy, it’s easier for mainlanders—mere
malahinis
—to get to that town than it is for me, an old
kamaaina.
Stephen just won’t take me. Ito Nagata’s wife, Michiko, and I had a great plan to go shopping together and then meet Ito and Stephen and go to lunch in Stephen’s business suite on Waikiki. They have
luaus
here at home every time I turn around, but really, I can’t eat roast pig forever. They’re not our kind of
haole luaus
either. You have to eat lots of squid—well, octopus, and spinach—that stuff that’s like spinach, and poi, one-finger poi sometimes. I haven’t gotten beyond three-finger ... Anyway, they called it all off, after all. I was never so disappointed. I—” She smiled abruptly and lifted out a chunk of papaya on her fork. She ate with gusto, following this with a piece of pineapple.

I didn’t want her to think I was watching her and pretended to enjoy my own fruit salad. Her sudden changes of mood, her conversational switches, all troubled me. However, I was so surprised at the many subtle and delicious new tastes in this tropical salad that my spirits were raised and I very soon began to forget all my depressing fears. I had never dreamed that bananas, the fruit I had found commonplace in southern California, the bland papaya, the sharp, ubiquitous canned pineapple, could taste so different when eaten fresh on their native ground.

“Maybe you can make that trip yet, dear. I haven’t seen Michiko since she and Ito last visited—in two years. Suppose we see if your Stephen thinks it’s all right.”

“He’d better! And why shouldn’t he?”

“Maybe he thinks Honolulu—especially Waikiki—is too noisy and crowded nowadays. Dr. Nagata told me he can scarcely get Michiko into town.”

Deirdre clapped her hands, one of which still held a fork. “Then she’ll want to go, to do some shopping.”

“Between us, maybe we can get her to go. That might persuade your husband.”

She looked uncertain. “He does let me have my way when I tease, usually. When he is pleased with me, he says I’m his little girl. When we were first married, he didn’t talk like that. He said—well, it wasn’t that way then. I didn’t like being married then. Having to behave like you keep telling me. Giving tiresome orders and seeing about whether things are done or not. But he changed after a while and he became different. That’s when he called me his little girl. He’s been my whole life, ever since.” The essential sweetness of her disposition emerged, and her face seemed to shine. “Sometimes, it’s heavenly.”

I was moved by the absolute and childish frankness with which she described her one year of married life. I was appalled, too. After an awkward silence, I asked her, “Isn’t it always heavenly? I mean,” I stumbled on as she stopped eating again and looked at me, “does he mistreat you in any way? I hope he is never cruel to you.”

Disconcertingly, she did not answer me. We went on with our lunch, she with the gusto that argued an easy conscience and no problems, I trying to make it look as though I shared her innocence and her easy way of dismissing all matters she preferred not to think about. We were ending the meal when I heard the muffled ringing of a telephone. The sound persisted. I glanced at Deirdre. I could have sworn she was waiting tensely to be called, but she did not look up. The ringing continued. When I was getting ready to ask where the nearest telephone extension might be, the nerve-wracking jangle stopped. Deirdre set her cup down, bunched up her napkin, and threw it on the table. I was glad for her. There might be troubles swirling around her all too uncomprehending head, but it must be wonderful to live in that childish world of hers, I told myself.

The dining room opened. Mrs. Mitsushima entered gracefully, almost cloyingly bashful.

“Excuse me, please, Mrs. Stephen. The telephone from the Kaiana Airport.”

Deirdre got up so fast she knocked her chair over. “It’s Stephen. On his way back home because of what happened to that poor man.” She started for the door while I finished my coffee. We were both shaken when Mrs. Mitsushima protested anxiously, “No, Mrs. Stephen. Mr. Steve asks to speak with Miss—with this lady.”

My first thought was that the woman had mistaken his message. Deirdre stiffened so quickly I knew her husband’s thoughtless request had hurt and disappointed her.

“Dear, he probably thinks you are in the grove, helping out. He may not know things are ... settled.”

“Yes!” she brightened, but then, as I thought the atmosphere was going to be more cheerful, she slumped again, dejected. “No, he doesn’t want to talk to me. I can’t interest him. I don’t say interesting things.”

“Of course, you do. Go along.”

“No. I’m a klutz. I do dumb things. And I’m not—I guess you’d call it intellectual. I’m not, really.”

I smiled, but carefully, to let her know I was smiling with and not at her. “Don’t you know men are not searching for intellectual wives? That’s the last thing they want.”

“Maybe.” But she seemed to doubt what she must surely have discovered long ago. “At first, I know they like people ... well, girls like me. I’m not hard to take. Then, something always happens. They think I’m stupid. But I’m the same person I was at first. I thought it would be different with Stephen.” She said these things often. She must have understood a great deal more of her acquaintances’ contempt than they suspected. Her complaint made me swallow suddenly, with a dull, aching pain in my throat.

In the most cheerful voice I could manage, I suggested, “You weren’t supposed to know until tonight. Stephen said he was looking for a little surprise for you. I’ll bet he wants to ask my advice.”

Her long dark lashes quivered. A second or two later she smiled. “You go and find out, wise old auntie.”