Twenty Blue Devils (14 page)
What it all amounted to in practical terms was that instead of being paid salaries for their work, they all received a percentage of the profits. Nick's share was fifty percent, with the remaining fifty percent going to the others in ten or fifteen percent portions, depending on their positions in the organization. John wasn't positive what the amounts came to, but he believed that Nick had been getting over $300,000 a year recently, and the others from $70,000 to $100,000.
"A fair amount of money,” Gideon observed.
"Sure, but that isn't what the real hassling's about."
The real hassling had begun about a year earlier, when something called Superstar Resorts International had set its sights on the plantation as the ideal property for its planned South Seas megaresort. They had made Nick a huge offer for the land; in the neighborhood of $5 million, John understood. And that was when the fly had landed in the ointment.
"You see, the way Nick drew up these so-called shares, whatever profit-percentage people have, they're entitled to the same percentage from any sale of the company. You following me?"
Gideon nodded. “So if they'd sold it, even a ten percent share would net half a million dollars. And Nick would come away with two and a half."
"You got it. And Superstar has upped the offer at least twice since then. Nick was right on the verge of selling a couple of times."
"But obviously he didn't"
"Nope. When it came down to it, Brian always talked him out of it."
There was only one boss of the Paradise Coffee plantation, John went on, and that was Nick Druett, founder and president; when big decisions were to be made, Nick made them But he was open-minded, as autocrats went, and he liked to get the advice of his management team and his immediate family before committing to a major course of action. In this case, as John understood it, most of them had been eager to accept the offer and walk away with the money—but not Brian, who had made a strong, emotional appeal to Nick on the grounds that the plantation was the glue that held the family together; once it was sold, they would scatter to the four winds. And in the end it was this that had carried the day with Nick the Patriarch. Twice.
"And you think,” Gideon said, “that Brian might have been killed by one of the others so they'd have a better chance of convincing Nick to sell?"
"Who knows? I think that's what
Nick
thinks. If you ask me, it's pretty far-fetched, but all I want right now is for you to have a look at Brian and tell me what
you
think.
"It's funny when you think about it,” he mused after they'd gone a little farther. “I mean, here's Brian, the one guy who's not related to everybody else—he's not even an in-law, officially speaking—and he's the one who's always getting all choked up about family."
They stopped walking, and for a few moments John stared without speaking toward the white, curling ribbon of surf that marked the coral reef half a mile out, dividing the sea into a bright green foreground and a deep blue background. “Well, Brian didn't have any family of his own left, you know, and Nick was like a father to him. It went both ways—Brian was practically like a son to Nick too."
"But if that's so,” Gideon said, “why would he call us off? Wouldn't he want to see the killer caught?"
"Would he? How would he feel if it turned out to be—just say—Therese? Or Celine? Or—"
"Or Maggie."
"Yeah, or—wait, what do you mean, Maggie? What'd you say it like that for?"
"A couple of things, John.” He started them walking again. “Did you know that the day Brian had the accident with the jeep he wouldn't have been in it except for a change of schedule that Maggie arranged? Did you know she'd been in the drying shed for a couple of hours—all by herself—the night before it gave way and nearly killed Brian?"
"So?” John demanded aggressively. “What's that supposed to mean?"
"Probably nothing. But it's also pretty clear she wasn't particularly fond of Brian—"
"Sure, she was. She loved Brian. He was like a, like a—” Brother to her, Gideon said to himself.
"—like a
brother
to her. Only once in my life did I ever see Maggie break down and bawl, and that was when she heard he was dead.” His arms were flailing now, the way they did when he got stirred up. “Where do you come up with these ideas?"
"From talking to her,” Gideon said, moving off a step or two to get safely out of range. “For someone who loved him she sure found a lot to criticize about him."
"Oh hell, Doc, that's just Maggie. You should hear her take after me sometimes; or poor old Nelson."
"John, relax. I'm sure you're right. I just thought I ought to mention it, that's all."
"Yeah, well, sure, of course.” After a moment he smiled. “Sorry, Doc, I didn't realize I was so touchy. I apologize. Obviously, it's all right for
me
to say one of my family could be a killer—but not
you
. That's not right."
"Human nature, John. Don't worry about it."
"Well, but I do worry about it. We're a team, Doc. The last thing I want is for you to hold back what you're thinking because you think it might hurt my feelings."
"Not a chance, you know that."
All the same, if a few vague uncertainties about his maternal cousin could bring him to the arm-waving stage, how was John going to feel if the finger of suspicion were to begin to point toward his own brother, Nelson? Gideon pondered that for a few steps, and then brought himself up short. Suspicion of
what?
Was he starting to wonder, against his own considered judgment and in the absence of anything close to plausible evidence, whether murder had been done after all?
The end of Nick's private beach was marked by a falling-down Cyclone fence laid out across it, with a sign alongside in three languages.
"Propriete Privee,"
it said. Underneath was “Keep Off, Private Beach, This Means You,” and underneath that,
"Tabu."
In the lower corner was a picture of a snarling dog.
"Gee, I wonder what they're trying to tell us,” John remarked as they started back.
There was no one snorkeling along the hotel's beach, no one scuba-diving, no one sunning, and only one lumpy body in the long row of hammocks. A mile farther along the shore, in opulent contrast, the grounds of the modernistic Hotel Captain Cook were crammed with sunbathers and snorkelers. If this was a typical day at the Shangri-La, Gideon thought, Dean Parks wasn't doing as well as he claimed in his battle with the big players.
"John, what do you suggest we do now?"
"What do you want to do?"
"Well, you might want to stay on, but I think I ought to pack up and go home,” said Gideon. “Regardless of what did or didn't happen to Brian, there's nothing here for me to do. I don't like living on Nick's money for nothing, and he's made it clear that he doesn't want us poking around after all. Neither do the police, so that would seem to be that. There's nothing we can do about it."
John stared at him, open-mouthed. “You just want to go home and forget anybody's been murdered?"
Gideon sighed. “John...the thing is, I don't really think anybody
has
been murdered. I've felt that way from the beginning, you know that.” Well, more or less.
"You honestly think all those things were accidents?"
He hesitated. “Let's just say I think Therese's alternative hypothesis makes as much sense as anything else."
John frowned at him. “What's Therese's alternative hypothesis?"
"Pele's Revenge,” Gideon said.
"Ah, you're probably right,” John said with a smile, “but I just can't let go of it. Look, would you at least take a look at the death report? There are pictures."
"Brian's death report? Sure, I'd love to see it, but I don't think there's much chance of that."
John looked highly pleased with himself. “I've got it in my cottage."
"You—how did you manage that?"
"Easy. I stopped in at Bertaud's office on my way back and got on his case again."
"I bet he loved that."
"That's his problem. Anyway, I bugged him until he finally broke down and let me see it. I made copies of it all."
"He let you make copies? I'm amazed."
"He didn't exactly
let
me make them, he just left me in the records room with the folder, and there was this copier right there...” John spread his palms. “...and he didn't say I
couldn't—"
Gideon held up his hand. “Don't tell me any more, John. I don't want to know these things. I'm a law-abiding man."
"Oh, I get it. But as long as I'm the one who does the dirty work and sticks his neck out, you don't mind looking at what I come up with, right? You just don't want to hear about it."
Gideon laughed. “I'd say that about sums it up. Let's see what you have. If there's anything there, I'll go back to Bertaud and wave it under his nose myself, how's that?"
"Spoken like a true skeleton detective."
The clasp-envelope that John brought from his cottage contained two typed sheets and six eight-by-ten-inch, black-and-white photographs of a body on a morgue slab. There were full-length shots from various angles and distances and two gruesome close-ups of the head, all a bit blurry, probably as a result of the photocopying. The corpse was in a relatively late stage of decomposition, beyond what forensic specialists referred to—with good reason—as the “bloated” stage, but not yet to the final or “dry” stage. In other words, while the process of decay was clearly and disagreeably under way, it wasn't far enough along to allow a useful examination of the bones. Add to that the blurriness and it was quickly clear that the pictures weren't going to be of much use.
John watched him expectantly as he leafed through the pictures, but Gideon shook his head. “I'm not going to be able to make anything out of these, John."
"Sure, you will, Doc,” John said with simple confidence. “You always do.” And then after a moment's reflection: “Almost always."
"Thanks, I think.” Gideon dropped into one of the lawn chairs beside the hammock and turned to the printed material.
John wandered restlessly back and forth for a while, his hands in his pockets. “I'm gonna go over to the bar and bring back a beer,” he said. “If it's open. God, this place is dead. You want one too?"
"Just something cold. Some juice, maybe."
John nodded. “Be back in a minute.” But he paused before leaving. “Doc? Try and stay out of that hammock for a change, will you?"
The printed sheets had nothing helpful to offer either. On top was the
acte de deces,
the certificate of death, filled out by the examining physician. The body of Brian Scott, a white male (American) age thirty-eight, had been found by two hikers from New Zealand on October 28, in rugged terrain near the Maoroa River, one kilometer east of Tehiupa on the island of Raiatea. The decedent, dressed in a sleeveless shirt, walking shorts, and socks, had been judged by Dr. Claude Masson to have been dead for seven to ten days. The manner of death was listed as
par hasard
—accidental; the cause as multiple internal injuries. These injuries had presumably been the result of a fall of some thirty meters from the path along the edge of the bluff immediately above. The remains had been shipped to Therese Druett of Papara, Tahiti, on October 30.
The other sheet was a brief case summary that took less than half the page. The body had been identified from a wallet in the hip pocket of the shorts and from a wristwatch identified by Therese Druett, common-law wife of the decedent. Decedent had been hiking and camping in the area since October 17. No autopsy had been deemed necessary. The decedent's remains and possessions, including a pair of walking sandals found near the body, had been crated and shipped to Therese Druett at her request. The report was signed by Alphonse Didier,
brigadier-chef.
Nothing. Nothing unexpected, nothing unusual, nothing suspicious.
Gideon put the papers aside and returned with reluctance to the photographs for a more thorough examination. For a forensic anthropologist, he was downright squeamish, and a dead human body that had been lying outdoors for seven to ten days in warm, humid conditions is not a sight to appeal even to the strong-stomached.
Still he felt that he owed it to John to do what he could. He went back to his cottage to get a magnifying glass from his equipment case, sat down again to the photos, steeled himself, and began.
Corpses left outside in the summertime often lost ninety percent of their weight in a week or less, and Brian was no exception. Withered, much dwindled from what he had been as a living man, he lay on his back in a blood-caked T-shirt and shorts. There was no indication that carnivores had been at work, but that wasn't surprising in Polynesia, where the only native animals aside from birds were bats and rats, and not very many of those, and anyway, the rats had become rather delicate in their appetites, preferring young coconuts to everything else.
But even Polynesia had plenty of insects, and as usual they had concentrated heavily on Brian's face, assuming this was Brian. Maggots swarmed in frothy mounds, spilling from mouth, nasal aperture, and ruined eye sockets. The beetles had made their arrival too—scarabs, dermestids, carrion beetles—to feed and rear their young on what remained of the soft tissue and on the maggot masses. They were all there and hard at work, all the merry members of what is called, in the neighborly graveyard language of forensics, the host corpse community.
He shivered suddenly and raised his eyes to take in the healthy green guava leaves and the deep, clean blue of the sky beyond, then returned to the photo. The left arm appeared to be dislocated at the shoulder, and perhaps broken, but that was hardly remarkable in a fall of any distance. No picnic to go through, not that Brian was likely to have noticed, but once again nothing to excite suspicion.
He set the close-ups of the head on the flat arm of the chair and peered at them for some minutes, again learning little more. The hair was light, the teeth that were visible were unbroken and seemingly well-cared-for, and that was all he had to say. He leaned back in the deep chair and shook his head. That was it, then. The file gave them no grounds to press a murder investigation and no grounds to question the handling of the case. Unless John could get his uncle to change his mind about the exhumation, of which there appeared to be no chance whatever, he was simply going to have to accept the situation as it was.