Pale Orchid

To her right, the less attractive aspects of the island’s economy gave way to the waving masts of the yacht marina. Dozens of sailing craft, from modest dinghies to ocean-going schooners, were moored in the basin, and Laura couldn’t help but wonder if Jason still owned his schooner. Not that it had any relevance, she assured herself impatiently, determinedly turning her attention to the exotic elegance of a floating restaurant moored at the quay. How Jason Montefiore might or might not be conducting his private affairs was no concern of hers.

The cab was approaching Kalakaua Avenue, and Laura gazed out at the towering hotel blocks. There seemed more than she remembered, even the ‘Pink Palace’, as the Royal Hawaiian Hotel used to be called, was overshadowed now by the looming curve of the Sheraton. But the market place was still there, where Jason had once bought her a string of real pearls and the engraved gold medallion, she still carried in her handbag.

Just beyond the imposing towers of the Hyatt Regency, the cab turned into a side street and a hundred yards down, past an intersection, came to a halt outside the modest façade of the Kapulani Reef Hotel. Laura climbed out, dragging her suitcase after her, and handed over the necessary dollars. Thank goodness she had remembered the name of this place, she thought, looking up at its faded exterior. The paint was chipping on the balconies, and the sun had yellowed its colour-washed walls. But so far as she knew, its reputation was still intact, and one of the girls at the agency used to recommend it. Of course, that was more than three years ago now, but it could not be helped. Hotels in Waikiki were expensive, and those Jason had taken her to were quite beyond her means. The Kapulani used to be both clean and reasonable, and she did not have a lot of choice in the matter. Besides, with luck, it might only be for a couple of nights.

She had ‘phoned ahead from San Francisco, and she was expected. A polite receptionist had her sign in, and then a Chinese porter was summoned to take her to her room. The lift transported them three floors up to room number 409, and Laura felt obliged to tip the man, even though his manner was anything but friendly. Still, he had carried her suitcase, she reflected, as she took a proper look at her surroundings.

It was clean and neat, she had to admit, the bed one of the wide divans she had become used to during the time she had worked in Honolulu. There was a chest of drawers and a fitted closet, a round glass-topped table and a chair, and the ubiquitous colour television, standing by the open balcony doors. There was also a telephone, the one object Laura most wanted to see, but she put her immediate impulses aside and walked into the adjoining bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later she emerged, considerably cooler and fresher after a shower. Wrapped in a towel, she threw her soiled clothes on to the chair, and then rescued the key to her suitcase from her handbag and deposited the case on the bed.

There was a definite disorganisation to the contents of the suitcase, but it couldn’t be helped. For the past three days, she had thought little about her appearance, and the garments she had packed with reasonable care in London, were now muddled beyond belief. That they were not more creased was due to the resiliency of modern fabrics, and she drew out the short-sleeved shirt and pants that were first to hand.

Running a brush through the fine silky hair, that she generally plaited and wore in a single braid for working purposes, Laura contained her impatience and walked out on to the balcony. It was getting dark, but the air was as soft and velvety as a moth’s wing. The temperature stayed balmy most of the time, only becoming hot and sticky in the summer when the wind called the kona blew. Usually, the climate was perfect, a delicious blend of sun and trade winds, that made the islands a garden paradise.

Away to the right, Laura could hear the sound of the surf, as it creamed along the shoreline, and she was tempted to leave what she had to do until the morning and go for a walk along the beach. It would be so nice to forget her troubles for a while, and enjoy the exotic beauty of her surroundings. But then, the memory of Pamela, lying in the hospital in San Francisco, returned to haunt her, and putting the brush aside, she quickly threaded her hair into its neat queue.

Crossing the room to where the ‘phone sat, on the low bureau beside the bed, Laura reflected that even that image was not as disturbing as the scene which had met her eyes on her arrival in San Francisco. If she hadn’t responded to Pamela’s ‘phone call so promptly, if she hadn’t ignored Pierce’s complaints about her ingratitude, and taken the first available flight from London, she might never have found her sister alive. As it was, Pamela had been unconscious, the terrible meaning of the empty bottle of sleeping tablets on the table beside her, telling their own tale. Laura shivered, even now. Without her unexpected intervention, Pamela would be dead—and all because of Mike Kazantis.

Before picking up the ‘phone, she reached for her bag, and drew out the handful of letters she had found scattered about her sister’s body. Without them, she might never have learned the name of the man who had caused her sister so much heartbreak. Pamela could have refused to tell her. Indeed, at first, she had denied any connection between the letters and her attempted suicide. But when the doctors at the Mount Rushmore Hospital had informed Laura that her sister was pregnant, she had immediately understood the situation.

Of course, Mike Kazantis’s name would have meant nothing to Pamela. It was less than two years since she had applied for a nursing post in Sausalito, and her work with the elderly, and very rich, Mrs Amy Goldstein, had seemed far removed from the commercial success of Jason Montefiore.

Naturally, after her own experiences in the United States, Laura had tried to persuade her younger sister not to leave England. But short of explaining exactly why she had returned to London, there was little she could say; and besides, it had seemed unlikely that Pamela would make the same mistakes.

Laura shook her head now, and reached for the ‘phone. It was not a situation she had ever expected to have to deal with. When she was making her arrangements to accompany Pierce to the Camargue at the beginning of March, Pamela had been writing, saying how happy she was, and there had been no mention of her relationship with Jason’s brother-in-law. Had she known he was married? Was that why she had not mentioned his name to her sister? The little Laura had read of his letters, gave no evidence one way or the other. All that was clear was that the letters had ceased, approximately six weeks ago. The most recent postmark was March 14th, and Laura had had no difficulty in making the association.

She rang the club first, guessing that as it was after six o’clock Jason was most likely to be there. If he was in Honolulu, of course, she reflected, crossing her fingers. There was no absolute guarantee. Just her own recollection of his movements, and the fervent hope that this trip to Hawaii had not been a fool’s errand.

A man answered, a man whose voice she didn’t recognise, and adopting her most confident tone, she asked to speak to Mr Montefiore. ‘It’s a personal matter of some urgency,’ she explained, hoping that by mentioning the personal nature of her call, the man would at least be curious.

‘Just a minute,’ he said, and the line went dead, indicating she assumed that she had been dealt with by a switchboard, and that her call was receiving more serious attention. Come on, come on, she urged impatiently, running first one, and then a second, moist palm over the knees of her trousers. Jason wasn’t the Pope, after all. What on earth could be taking so long?

‘Yes?’

Another male voice had taken the place of the switchboard attendant, and Laura tried to identify the brusque address. It wasn’t Jason, that much was certain, but there was something vaguely familiar about that clipped inquiry.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said again, swallowing her uncertainty. ‘I—er—I’d like to speak to Mr Montefiore, please. This—this is Laura Huyton.’

‘Laura!’ The voice definitely exhibited surprise now, and the warmer vowels gave her her first clue.

‘Phil?’ she ventured, and hearing his swift intake of breath: ‘Phil Logan? Yes, it’s me; Laura.’ She took a gulp of air. ‘Is Jason there?’

‘Where are you, Laura?’ Without answering, he turned the question against her. ‘You sound pretty close. Are you here, in Oahu?’

Laura hesitated, and then she replied resignedly, ‘Yes. I arrived a couple of hours ago. Phil, I need to speak to Jason urgently. If he’s there, I’d appreciate it if you’d get him to the ‘phone.’

There was silence for a few seconds, and then Logan spoke again. ‘Does Jason know you’re coming?’ he inquired, his tone almost imperceptibly cooler now. And at her swift denial, ‘What are you doing in Honolulu, Laura? I have to tell you—I don’t think Jason will agree to see you.’

Laura’s lips compressed. ‘What I’m doing here I’ll tell Jason, and no one else,’ she retorted. ‘Don’t you think you should at least give him a chance to refuse? It is important. You can tell him that.’

Again the silence stretched between them, and Laura could feel the nerves in her stomach tightening unpleasantly. She had eaten little since that morning, and the hollow feeling she was experiencing was partly due to her emptiness. But, she couldn’t deny a certain irritation at the attitude Phil Logan was adopting, and although she knew she had no right to expect anything of Jason, she resented being thwarted by one of his employees.

‘I can’t ask Jason to speak to you, because he isn’t here,’ Logan announced at length, and Laura expelled her breath on a sigh.

‘You mean—he’s at the apartment?’

‘Mr Montefiore doesn’t live in Honolulu any more, Laura,’ he responded reluctantly, his deliberate use of Jason’s surname creating a barrier even a fool could not overlook; and Laura was no fool. ‘He … er … if you’d like to give me the address of the hotel where you’re staying, and your ‘phone number, I’ll pass your message on. That’s the best I can do.’

Laura’s jaw quivered, and she clamped her teeth together to arrest the weakness. But it was anger, not emotion, that caused her breathing to quicken and the blood to run more thinly through her veins. How dare Phil Logan behave as if she was some pitiful hanger-on, desperate for a hand-out? she thought furiously. When had she ever treated him with anything less than courtesy, even when she had been living in Jason’s luxurious penthouse and Logan had been pulling beers in the nightclub bar?

‘Thanks,’ she said now, deciding there was no point in pursuing her frustration with him. ‘I’m staying at the Kapulani Reef Hotel. It’s on Haleiwa Avenue—’

‘I know where it is,’ responded Logan swiftly, evidently taking it down, and Laura contained her resentment at his tone.

‘Room 409,’ she added, just for good measure, and then rang off before he could make some comment about her choice of accommodation.

But with the receiver replaced on its cradle, Laura found that she was shaking. Somehow, she had never expected Jason’s employees to treat her like a pariah. Phil Logan had acted as if Jason had thrown her out, instead of the way it really was. Was that what Jason had told his men? That he had thrown her over?

Getting up from the bed, she walked nervously across to the open windows, rubbing her palms against the unexpectedly chilled flesh of her upper arms. So much for speaking to Jason tonight, she thought bitterly. He might not even get the message. If she didn’t hear from him within the next twenty-four hours, she would have to think of some other method of finding him. But how? Logan hadn’t even told her where he was living. He could be on the mainland for all she knew. Over two thousand miles away, and as remote as he had ever been.

She supposed she ought to go downstairs and find the coffee shop. Maybe, with something to eat and several cups of coffee inside her she would feel more capable of handling the situation. Right now, she had the horrible suspicion that her journey had been a waste of time, and she couldn’t help remembering that Pierce had threatened to fire her if she didn’t return within the week.

Stepping out on to the verandah, she rested her hands on the iron rail and looked down at the street below. There were few people walking, but there were plenty of cars using the connection between Kalakaua Avenue and Kapiolani Boulevard; long expensive limousines, driven by the more affluent members of the community, through to topless beach buggies, rattling along at a reckless pace.

But Laura hardly saw them. She was thinking about Pierce and his objections to her trip. Of course, he had not known before she left exactly what she would find in San Francisco, any more than she had. Even so, when she had ‘phoned him from Pamela’s apartment after her sister had been taken to the hospital, he had not shown a lot of sympathy. Pierce Carver was used to getting his own way, and that did not include losing his secretary at a significant point in his latest book.

Laura sighed. As the author of some fifteen novels, and popularly regarded as the doyen of psychological thrillers, Pierce would survive, whatever happened. Pamela might not. For the next few days, he would have to persevere with the dictaphone he had acquired some years ago, and if that was not satisfactory, he would no doubt make other arrangements. Whether those ‘arrangements’ would involve her dismissal, Laura could not be absolutely sure. Pierce was artistic and temperamental, and he tended to say things in anger he did not actually mean. Not that she considered herself indispensable, of course. No one was that. But she had worked for him for almost three years, and she knew his idiosyncrasies so well.

She remembered his dismay when she had told him about Pamela’s ‘phone call. ‘But you can’t just walk out on me, Laura,’ he had wailed. ‘We’re at the most crucial stage of the book. Whatever slough of despond your sister has got herself into cannot—simply cannot—be allowed to interfere with your obligations to me. Heavens, the girl’s not a child, is she? She’s over twenty-one. You’re her sister, not her mother!’

There had been more of the same, but Laura had had no time to listen. She had been too busy making ‘phone calls of her own, to the airport, to the mini cab service, and packing her belongings, to give him her undivided attention. She was sorry she had to leave him in the lurch. She knew how he depended upon her. But Pamela depended on her, too, and the apprehension she felt about her sister over-ruled her remorse.

She was so relieved they had been in England when the call came through. For the past four weeks, she had been staying in Aix, at the villa in Provence, which Pierce had rented to write his latest novel. Had he not grown bored with his surroundings, had he not felt the need for a change of scenery, he would not have suggested flying back to London, and there was no doubt now he regretted his decision to return home.

‘You know how much I enjoy our sessions,’ he had protested, when the issue of the dictaphone had been raised. ‘Without your reactions, how will I know if I’m on the right track?’

‘You managed perfectly well before I came on the scene,’ Laura had pointed out swiftly, but in so doing, she had given Pierce the opening he was looking for.

‘So I did,’ he had remarked acidly, folding his arms as he was prone to do in moments of stress. ‘So I did. Beware I don’t decide I can manage without you. There are plenty of out-of-work secretaries simply panting to take your place!’

He was right. Laura knew that; and it had been with a certain amount of trepidation that she had told him she was taking a week’s leave of absence with or without his consent. Pierce could be vindictive at times, and he might just decide to be awkward. She could only hope he would find it less easy to choose a replacement than he imagined, and that absence would achieve what reasoned argument could not.

With a feeling of anxious frustration, Laura abandoned this particular line of thought, and walked back into the bedroom. The hospital, she thought suddenly. She ought to ring the hospital and find out how Pamela was progressing. It had been eight o’clock, San Francisco time, when she last made an inquiry, and despite the doctor’s assurance that her sister would pull through, her mental state was so precarious, Laura couldn’t quite believe them.

The night staff at Mount Rushmore were reassuring. Pamela had had a reasonably good day and she was sleeping. The toxic level of her blood was falling, and if her psychological report proved satisfactory, she might be allowed to go home in a couple of days.

‘There’s no physical danger then?’ Laura persisted, remembering articles she had read about toxic hepatitis and stomach bleeding.