woman.”
“You knew Sara Ridgely-Parke?”
“Oh, no–that is, not before this trip. We just got to chatting and she had these marvelous ideas about ‘ecotourism’–you know, packages that stimulate nature lovers to travel, which of course would boost our business.”
“Ecotourism was apparently a favorite theme of hers.”
“She seemed to be a brilliant woman. Brilliant. That makes her passing all the more tragic.”
“During the mule ride when Sara fell, where were you riding in relation to her?”
“I rode behind her by about ten feet. The mule stumbled, I heard her scream, and the poor woman hurtled over the cliff.”
“Just like that?”
“Everyone was shocked. There seemed no reason for it to happen. Least of all to her, the only one of us who had experience riding, except of course for the guide.”
“Before the mule collapsed, did it do anything out of the ordinary?”
“Well, let me think.” Archibald rocked back in his chair. “It passed some gas.”
“Farted?”
Archibald cracked a smile.
“Ah, did anyone feed it anything or behave suspiciously around it?”
Archibald shook his head. “We were with the animals all the time, except during the bus tour of Kalaupapa. Then the mules were tethered together under some trees.”
“Did all five riders take the bus tour?”
He nodded. “Only the skinner stayed behind with his animals.”
I pulled out the photo of Parke and set it on his desk. “Recognize this man?”
Archibald puzzled over the image. “Should I recognize him?”
“Not necessarily.”
“I’m drawing a blank.” He returned it, his expression suggesting he was telling the truth.
As I put the photo away, a muscular adolescent ambled in wearing a canary yellow tank top that said, “Gold’s Gym.” His biceps bulged, as if he had just pumped them up. On one muscular arm a bloody dagger was tattooed. A rebellious son?
“Stephan here is my assistant.” Archibald handed his boyish helper some airline tickets. The two exchanged glances. A current of energy seemed to flow between them. I couldn’t imagine what it might mean.
After Stephan departed I gave Archibald my card and asked him to call if he remembered anything more about the accident. Except for his fussy appearance and odd interchange with the boy, I found little reason to suspect the travel agent of anything. Nor had he provided me with much new information.
Had I flown all the way to Los Angeles to learn only that the victim’s mount had passed gas? A five-hour flight for a mule fart?
By ten that morning I had checked out of the Red Lion and was heading back toward the L.A. airport. My flight to Honolulu didn’t depart until two, so I had plenty of time to visit Niki.
A few mile’s drive north of the airport on Pacific Coast Highway brought Marina Del Rey, a pleasure-boat harbor where sun-loving pilots and flight attendants reside. Niki lived in a condo called La Casa Nova, a pink stucco complex surrounded by a wrought iron fence. Since I wanted to surprise her, I didn’t use the intercom to clear the security gate, but waited for someone to come along with a key.
The lushly landscaped Casa Nova consisted of several wings built around a heart-shaped swimming pool. Niki’s apartment was 309-F. I hoofed up to the third floor of the F wing, then flew past a dozen apartments. My breathing was fast by the time I reached 309.
I knocked and listened with growing anticipation as I heard oddly heavy, lumbering footsteps inside. My smile tightened on my face as the door swung open.
My smile fell.
Standing before me was not Niki, but a middle-aged airline pilot who looked as if he had just crash-landed. His pilot’s uniform was wrinkled, his ruddy face shadowed by mostly grey whiskers, and his eyes bloodshot.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Captain Jacoby,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Who the hell are you?”
I glanced inside the dark and disordered apartment, feeling suddenly short of breath.
“You knew Sara Ridgely-Parke?”
“Oh, no–that is, not before this trip. We just got to chatting and she had these marvelous ideas about ‘ecotourism’–you know, packages that stimulate nature lovers to travel, which of course would boost our business.”
“Ecotourism was apparently a favorite theme of hers.”
“She seemed to be a brilliant woman. Brilliant. That makes her passing all the more tragic.”
“During the mule ride when Sara fell, where were you riding in relation to her?”
“I rode behind her by about ten feet. The mule stumbled, I heard her scream, and the poor woman hurtled over the cliff.”
“Just like that?”
“Everyone was shocked. There seemed no reason for it to happen. Least of all to her, the only one of us who had experience riding, except of course for the guide.”
“Before the mule collapsed, did it do anything out of the ordinary?”
“Well, let me think.” Archibald rocked back in his chair. “It passed some gas.”
“Farted?”
Archibald cracked a smile.
“Ah, did anyone feed it anything or behave suspiciously around it?”
Archibald shook his head. “We were with the animals all the time, except during the bus tour of Kalaupapa. Then the mules were tethered together under some trees.”
“Did all five riders take the bus tour?”
He nodded. “Only the skinner stayed behind with his animals.”
I pulled out the photo of Parke and set it on his desk. “Recognize this man?”
Archibald puzzled over the image. “Should I recognize him?”
“Not necessarily.”
“I’m drawing a blank.” He returned it, his expression suggesting he was telling the truth.
As I put the photo away, a muscular adolescent ambled in wearing a canary yellow tank top that said, “Gold’s Gym.” His biceps bulged, as if he had just pumped them up. On one muscular arm a bloody dagger was tattooed. A rebellious son?
“Stephan here is my assistant.” Archibald handed his boyish helper some airline tickets. The two exchanged glances. A current of energy seemed to flow between them. I couldn’t imagine what it might mean.
After Stephan departed I gave Archibald my card and asked him to call if he remembered anything more about the accident. Except for his fussy appearance and odd interchange with the boy, I found little reason to suspect the travel agent of anything. Nor had he provided me with much new information.
Had I flown all the way to Los Angeles to learn only that the victim’s mount had passed gas? A five-hour flight for a mule fart?
By ten that morning I had checked out of the Red Lion and was heading back toward the L.A. airport. My flight to Honolulu didn’t depart until two, so I had plenty of time to visit Niki.
A few mile’s drive north of the airport on Pacific Coast Highway brought Marina Del Rey, a pleasure-boat harbor where sun-loving pilots and flight attendants reside. Niki lived in a condo called La Casa Nova, a pink stucco complex surrounded by a wrought iron fence. Since I wanted to surprise her, I didn’t use the intercom to clear the security gate, but waited for someone to come along with a key.
The lushly landscaped Casa Nova consisted of several wings built around a heart-shaped swimming pool. Niki’s apartment was 309-F. I hoofed up to the third floor of the F wing, then flew past a dozen apartments. My breathing was fast by the time I reached 309.
I knocked and listened with growing anticipation as I heard oddly heavy, lumbering footsteps inside. My smile tightened on my face as the door swung open.
My smile fell.
Standing before me was not Niki, but a middle-aged airline pilot who looked as if he had just crash-landed. His pilot’s uniform was wrinkled, his ruddy face shadowed by mostly grey whiskers, and his eyes bloodshot.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Captain Jacoby,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Who the hell are you?”
I glanced inside the dark and disordered apartment, feeling suddenly short of breath.
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