The Web (7 page)

Chapter

10

“He wasn’t Mr. Charm,” said Robin, “but to go like
that   .   .   .”

We were up in the sitting room of our suite. No sounds
came through the wall bordering Jo Picker’s room.

“How’s Jo?” I said.

“Wiped out. She decided to call his family. I left her trying to
get a phone connection. .   .   . I know it’s trite, but
one moment you’re talking to someone, the next they’re gone.”

She put her head on my chest and I traced her jawline.

“How’re you doing?” I said.

“With what?”

“Vacation.”

She laughed. “Is that what it is? No, I’m fine.
Assuming we’ve used up all the bad vibes,
nothing but sunshine and sweetness ahead.”

“Ben assures me we’ve exhausted the island’s supply of
miscreants.”

I told her about Creedman’s snooping, his hitting on
Jacqui and Claire Romero.

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “When we were sitting
there he put his hand on my knee.”

“What!”

“It’s okay, honey, I handled it.”

“I didn’t see a thing!”

“It happened right at the beginning, when Jacqui came out to take our
order. You looked up for a second and he made his move. No
big deal—I ended it.”

“How?”

“Pinched the top of his hand.” She grinned. “Hard.
With my nails.”

“He didn’t react,” I said.

“Nope, just kept on talking and cooled the hand on his
beer bottle.”

I remembered that. “Bastard.”

“Forget it, Alex. I know the type. He won’t try it
again.”

“Someone else noticed you,” I said. “At the airfield.
Skip Amalfi’s buddy, that wild-haired guy.
Now that I think about it, both he and Skip were
probably ogling you the minute we stepped off the boat.”

“Probably a woman shortage.
Don’t worry, I’ll stick close to
home. Work on my pinching.”

“Don’t you think Creedman’s behavior is pretty risky
for a small place like this? You should have seen Ben’s face
when he talked about Creedman coming on to his wife.”

“Maybe that’s his kick,” she said. “That stupid
thrill-of-the-hunt thing. Or maybe Aruk’s such a
peaceful place that the locals are able to laugh
him off as a fool.”

“It certainly doesn’t seem to be
high-crime. The police chief’s unarmed.”

“I noticed that. Probably why everyone was so sure the
murderer was a sailor.”

“Does the murder bother you?”

“I didn’t love hearing about it, but one homicide a
year is heaven compared to L.A., right?”

“According to Ben, it wasn’t the
reason for the blockade.”

“What was?”

I thought back. “He didn’t say.”

“He’s an interesting fellow,” she said.

“In what way?”

“Nice, but a bit .   .   . hard, don’t you think?
Like the way
he reacted to the crash. Angry at Picker, no sympathy.”

“Picker gave him a hard time,” I said. “But you’re
right, it was cold. Maybe it’s his training as a nurse.
Struggling to save people and then watching someone take what
he thought was a stupid risk. Or maybe he’s just one of
those perfectionists incapable of suffering fools. He seems
awfully meticulous. Proprietary about Moreland and Aruk,
too. Now Moreland’s getting old and Aruk’s having problems,
so he could be under stress.”

“Could be,” she said. “Aruk’s definitely having
problems. All those businesses boarded up, and did you see the
gas ration sign in town? How do you think people make a
living?”

“In his letters, Moreland said fishing and some crafts.
But I haven’t seen much sign of either. Ben’s educated, could
live anywhere, so perhaps he stays here because of some
special commitment.”

“Yes, it must be hard for him.” She
snuggled closer. “It
is
lovely, though. Look at
those mountains.”

“Want to try diving tomorrow?”

“Maybe.” She closed her eyes.

“I’d like everything to go smoothly for you,” I said.

“Don’t worry. I’ll have a great time.”

“How’s your wrist?”

She laughed. “Much better. And I pledge to go to bed
on time and drink my milk.”

“I know, I know.”

“It’s okay, honey. You like to take care of me.”

“It’s not just that. For some reason, after all these
years, I still feel I need to court you.”

“I know that, too,” she said softly, and slipped her hand
under my shirt.

The phone woke us up.

Moreland said, “Oh .   .   . were you sleeping?
I’m terribly sorry.”

“No problem,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Picker’s accident—I just wanted to make sure you were
all right.”

“It was a shock but we’re fine.”

“I tried to warn him. .   .   . I want to
reassure you that it was a freak event. The last crash we
had was in sixty-three, when a military transport went down over
the water.
Nothing
since. I just feel terrible that your
welcome has been interrupted by something like this.”

“Don’t worry about it, Bill.”

“I dropped in on Mrs. Picker, gave her some brandy.
She’s resting peacefully.”

“Good.”

“All right then, Alex. Sorry again for disturbing your rest.”
He paused. “We can start working whenever you’re ready. Just
give me a call downstairs.”

Robin sat up and yawned.
“Who is it?”

I covered the phone. “Bill. Do you mind if I work a
bit?”

She shook her head. “I’m going to get up, too.”

“I’ve got some time right now,” I told Moreland.

“Well then,” he said, “I could show you your office.
Come down when you’re ready.
I’ll be waiting.”

We found him sitting in an overstuffed chair near a picture
window, drinking orange juice. His legs looked so thin
they seemed to fold rather than cross. He wore the same type
of plain white shirt. This time the baggy pants were gray. The
chained glasses rested low on his nose. He stood,
closed his book and put it down. Leather-bound copy of
Flaubert’s
L’éducation sentimentale.

“Have you read him, son?”

“Just
Madame Bovary,
years ago.”

“A great realistic novel,” he said.
“Flaubert was excoriated for
being
realistic.” Bending
slowly, he petted Spike. “I’ve set up a little run for this
fellow, in a shaded area behind the rose garden. That is, if
you feel comfortable leaving him alone.”

“Is there a problem with his coming along?”

“Not at all. No zoo this morning. Come, let me show you
the smaller library.”

He led us through the dining room, pale blue with Chippendale
furniture.

“We rarely dine here,” he said. “We go outside whenever
we can.”

The former silver room was on the other side of a
mahogany door. He opened it halfway. Salmon moiré walls,
two dark bookcases, carved moldings, crystal lamps. Dried
flowers on the verge of disintegration sprouted from a huge
famille verte
vase.

He closed the door. “As I said, you’ll probably have
little use for it.”

We continued through a waxed-pine breakfast room, yellow
pantry, industrial kitchen, past wall-freezers and out the
rear door, ending on one of the rock paths. The closest
bungalow was the same light brown as the main house, the
roof tiles replaced with asphalt shingles.

Inside the bungalow was a small, cool room paneled beautifully
with red-gold koa and set up with an old but flawless walnut desk
topped by a leather blotter, a sterling silver inkwell, and an
electric typewriter.

Another ceiling fan, desultory rotations. On the
opposite wall was a brown couch and matching armchair, some
tables and lamps. A
carved Japanese motif ran along the top of the paneling.
Seashells and corals rested on high shelves. Below hung more
of Mrs. Moreland’s watercolors.

Two small, open windows let in the breeze and offered a
long view of the entry to the estate. The spray from the
fountain sparkled like Tivoli lights. Between Spike’s heavy
breathing, more of that same narcotic silence.

“Very nice,” I said.

Behind the desk was a door that Moreland opened, revealing a
much larger room with four walls of ceiling-high bookcases.
The floor was crowded with high stacks of cardboard
cartons—brown columns rising nearly to the ceiling.

Hundreds
of boxes, nearly filling the space, randomly
separated by narrow aisles.

Moreland shrugged apologetically. “As you can see, I’ve
been waiting for you.”

I laughed, as much at his flamingo awkwardness as at the
enormity of the task.

“It’s shameful, Alex. I won’t insult you by making
excuses. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat down to
figure out some system of classification only to get
overwhelmed and give up before I began.”

“Is it alphabetized?”

He rubbed one sandal against his shin, a curiously
boyish gesture. “After my first few years in practice, I
tried to alphabetize. Repeated the process every few years. But
somewhat .   .   . haphazardly. All in all, there are
probably a dozen or so independently alphabetized series.” He
threw up his hands. “Why pretend—it’s virtually random.
But at least my handwriting’s not bad for a doctor.”

Robin grinned and I knew she was thinking of my scrawl.

“I don’t expect miracles,” said Moreland. “Skim,
peruse, whatever, tell me if anything jumps
out at you. I’ve always tried to include psychological and
social data. .   .   . Now permit me to show you your
atelier, dear.”

The adjoining bungalow was identical, but the interior
walls were painted white. More old but well-maintained
furniture, a drafting table and stool, easels, a flat file.
Disposable pallets still wrapped in plastic sat atop the
file, along with trays of oil-paint tubes, acrylics, and
watercolors. Ink bottles, pens, charcoal sticks, brushes in
every shape and size. Everything brand-new. The price tag
on a brush was from an artists’ supply store in Honolulu.

Off to one side was a table full of shiny things.

“Shell,” said Moreland. “Cowry, abalone, mother-of-pearl.
Some hardwood remnants as well. And carving tools.
I bought them from an old man whose specialties were USMC
insignia and leaping dolphins. Back when there was a trinket
business.”

Robin picked up a small handsaw. “Good quality.”

“This was Barbara—my wife’s special place. I know
you’re not carving right now, but Alex told me how gifted you
were, so I thought you might like to   .   .   .”

He trailed off and rubbed his hands together.

“I’d love to,” said Robin.

“Only when your hand permits, of course. It’s too bad
you didn’t get a chance to swim.”

“We’ll try again.”

“Good, good. .   .   . Would you like to stay here
and look around, dear? Or do you prefer to be there as Alex
discovers how truly disordered I am?”

It was as gracious a way as any to ask for privacy.

“There’s plenty here to keep me busy, Bill,” Robin said.
“Pick me up
when you’re done, Alex.”

“And you?” Moreland said to Spike.

“Watch,” I said. Walking to
the door, I said, “Come, Spike.” The dog ran immediately to
Robin and flopped down at her feet.

Moreland laughed. “Impeccable taste.”

When we were outside, he said, “What a lovely girl.
You’re lucky—but I suppose you hear that all the time. It’s
nice to have someone in Barbara’s studio after all these
years.”

We began walking. “How long has it been?”

“Thirty years this spring.”

A few steps later: “She drowned. Not here. Hawaii.
She’d gone there for a vacation. I was busy with patients.
She went out for an early-morning dip on Waikiki Beach. She
was a strong swimmer, but got caught up in a riptide.”

He stopped, fished in his pocket, drew out a battered
eelskin wallet and extricated a small photo.

The black-haired woman from the mantel portrait,
standing alone on a beach, wearing a black one-piece bathing
suit. Hair shorter than in the painting, pinned back
severely. She looked no older than thirty.
Moreland would have been at least forty.

The snapshot was faded: gray sand, the sky an insipid
aqua, the woman’s flesh nearly dead-white. The ocean that
had claimed her was a thin line of foam.

She had a beautiful figure and smiled prettily but her
pose—legs together, arms at her side—had a tired,
almost resigned quality.

Moreland blinked several times.

I gave him back the snapshot.

“Why don’t we work our way downward,” he said, lifting a
box from the top of an outer column, carrying it into the
office, and placing it on the floor between the couch and the
armchair.

The carton was taped shut. He cut the tape with a Swiss
Army knife and pulled out several blue folders. Putting on
his glasses, he read one.

“Of all things.   .   .   .”

Handing me the folder, he said, “This one isn’t from
Aruk, but it was a case of mine.”

Inside were stiff, yellowed papers filled with elegant,
indigo, fountain-penned writing that I recognized from the
card he’d left on the bed. Forty-year-old medical records of
a man named “Samuel H.”

“You don’t use full names?” I said.

“Generally, I do but this
was .   .   . different.”

I read. Samuel H. had presented him with gastric complaints
and thyroid problems that Moreland had treated with synthetic
hormones and words of reassurance for eleven months. A month
later, several small benign nerve tumors were discovered and
Moreland raised the possibility of travel to Guam for
evaluation and surgery. Samuel H. was unsure, but before he
could decide, his health deteriorated further: fatigue,
bruising, hair loss, bleeding lips and gums. Blood tests
showed a precipitous drop in red blood cells accompanied by a
sharp rise in white cells. Leukemia. The patient “expired”
seven months later, Moreland signing the certificate and
directing the remains to a mortuary in a place called
Rongelap. I asked where that was.