Free Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_04 by Death in Paradise Page B

fecundity, my hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my fingers ached.
    Could I go through with my plan? Did I have the courage to plunge ahead to an uncertain and surely dangerous future?
    It was an odd and singular moment. I’d spent a lifetime as a reporter, seeing much I would have preferred not to see, but always attempting to look with clear and non-judgmental eyes, speaking and writing as honorably as I knew how.
    Now I’d left honor behind. I was prepared to lie, dissemble, employ every wile at my command. What would Richard have thought of me if he could see me now? My Richard, who was always straightforward and honorable.
    Was it because of honor that he had never discussed Belle Ericcson with me?
    Richard and I spent decades together. We knew passion and pain, joy and despair. I closed my eyes and for a moment he was in my mind as clearly as the last time I saw him, his face seamed with lines earned by a lifetime of effort and caring and loss.
    That last view was such a familiar one, one of us departing or arriving. We’d done so much of that in our lives. I’d turned at the last moment before boarding the plane, looked back to see his steady, loving, generous gaze, his chiseled features, his ruddy skin with its age-won creases, his lopsided smile, ironic yet warm. His brown corduroy sports coat hung open. His shirt was a red-and-white houndstooth check. His chino slacks were crisp. We’d stopped on our leisurely walk through the airport at the shoeshine stand and his tasseled loafers glistened a cherry tan. His hand lifted in farewell, that broad, capable, strong hand.
    I’d had no reason to suspect it would be our final farewell. Such an ordinary moment, but even then it was extraordinary because it was Richard and because he, standing there, meant so much to me, the center and heart and joy of my life.
    Now Richard’s face was always and ever in my memory, a talisman against despair and cynicism and hopelessness.
    Faces tell everything you need to know. Do you see laughter or sourness, compassion or disdain, vigor or lassitude? And if the face lacks expression? That speaks, too.
    Just for an instant, I felt Richard was so near, his broad, open face serious and intent, his quick eyes watchful, his generous mouth opening to speak.
    To warn me? To admonish me? To salute me?
    I opened my eyes and the illusion fled and with it all sense of comfort. Would Richard understand the course I’d set?
    But I had to find out the truth. Dig it out, gouge it out, scratch it out, if need be. I couldn’t leave unanswered any question about Richard’s death. Even though I knew my arrival on Kauai served some purpose—dark or benign?—other than discovering what happened when Richard plummeted to his death.
    Who wanted me here? And why?
    Behind this pastoral scene there was a pattern I could not see. Perhaps I should turn back. I felt such a sweep of foreboding that I was shaken. I looked up. Once I reached the mountaintop, I would set forces into motion that I could not control. But control is always illusory. I knew that, could cling to that, but I couldn’t ignore the fact that my actions would have consequences.
    Take what you want, the old adage encourages, but pay for it. That philosophy requires arrogance. I’m not certain we ever know ourselves, but I think I can fairly insist I am not arrogant. No, I won’t confess to arrogance. But I will admit to a passion for truth. And a bone-deep stubbornness. And a wild, unreasoning hatred for injustice.
    Was Richard murdered? I had to know. I was impelled to follow this dark red, empty road because on that mountaintop I would find answers. I was determined, no matter the cost, to have those answers.
    My hand shook as I twisted the key. Yes, dammit, I was scared, scared of what I might find, what I might learn, what might happen to me. The engine snarled to life. I jerked the wheel and gunned the jeep up that steep