It’s not like I’m carryin’ it around in my garters.”
Xander walked through the open door. “I just got your message. What’s wrong?”
“Somebody stole my gun.”
He looked as taken aback as Dinah had been. “You have a gun?”
“I had a gun. Somebody stole it.”
“Jesus Christ, Claude Ann.”
Dinah said, “The first thing you have to do is report the theft, Claudy. If somebody commits a crime with it, they can trace it back to you.”
“No.” Xander raked his hair out of his face and kneaded his forehead. “Not right away. Let’s sleep on it. Maybe it’s just been misplaced and will turn up in the morning.” He produced a weak laugh. “There’s no need to go off half-cocked.”
If this was an example of Xander’s fabulous sense of humor, thought Dinah, it was time for an intervention.
Chapter Twelve
The Polynesians invented kapu, a system intended to suppress objectionable desires by imbuing the desired object with peril. Kapu prohibits what is dangerous, stigmatizes what is unclean, and wields a profound psychological power upon those who believe. The Hawaiian religion designated an oppressive number of things as kapu, forbidden upon pain of death. To cross the king’s shadow was kapu. To wear yellow was kapu. To eat turtle or squid was kapu. Women were banned from eating bananas or pork, and it was kapu for women to eat anything at all in the company of men. In the circumstances, Dinah wouldn’t have objected if that particular kapu still applied.
She was thoroughly disgusted with Xander. She didn’t know if Hawaii or Georgia had a law requiring gun owners to report a stolen gun, but it was certainly the reasonable thing to do. It astounded her that he was so publicity shy he would risk putting his bride crosswise of the law when it would be a simple matter to file a police report. She had a bad feeling about that Beretta. A gun was an inauspicious accessory to pack for a holiday in Paradise. It was downright ominous as part of a bride’s trousseau. Claude Ann claimed that she’d transported it to Hawaii legally, in a locked box in her checked luggage. How it got here and why she’d felt the need for it were moot questions. Where it had got to and for what purpose was the mindboggler. It crossed Dinah’s mind that Xander might have discovered the gun in Claude Ann’s suite and boosted it to keep Claude Ann from doing anything rash. But why would he pretend he didn’t know about it?
She tossed her book aside and picked up today’s newspaper. Diplomatic setback in the Mideast, stalemate in the U.S. Senate, bomb blast in Baghdad. Why did they call it news? Her eye fell on an article on page ten.
“The badly burned body discovered in a steam vent on June 22nd has been identified as that of Patrick Varian, 29, an archaeology professor at the University of Hawaii, Manoa. He was on personal leave from the university and believed to be engaged in evaluating a burial site on private property. No one has reported having contact with Mr. Varian while he was on Hawaii and there is no information regarding the location of the property he was evaluating or the individual who hired him.”
An archaeologist. Archaeology was one of the four main branches of anthropology. Dinah felt as if one of her own kind had been killed. And in such a gruesome way.
“The women who found the body said they had recently seen a stranger in the forest illegally harvesting ‘ohelo berries, which are sacred to Pele. They believe the deceased must be the same man and when he left the forest and walked out onto the lava, the goddess lured him into the steam vent and destroyed him.”
The phone rang and Dinah flinched. She tried to muster a cordial greeting, but she was too much on edge. “Yes?”
“Jonathan Garst. I believe you’re expecting me.”
“Give me ten minutes and come up.”
“Fine.”
Show time. She squared her shoulders and went to put on her all-purpose little black dress. Could Patrick
Xander walked through the open door. “I just got your message. What’s wrong?”
“Somebody stole my gun.”
He looked as taken aback as Dinah had been. “You have a gun?”
“I had a gun. Somebody stole it.”
“Jesus Christ, Claude Ann.”
Dinah said, “The first thing you have to do is report the theft, Claudy. If somebody commits a crime with it, they can trace it back to you.”
“No.” Xander raked his hair out of his face and kneaded his forehead. “Not right away. Let’s sleep on it. Maybe it’s just been misplaced and will turn up in the morning.” He produced a weak laugh. “There’s no need to go off half-cocked.”
If this was an example of Xander’s fabulous sense of humor, thought Dinah, it was time for an intervention.
Chapter Twelve
The Polynesians invented kapu, a system intended to suppress objectionable desires by imbuing the desired object with peril. Kapu prohibits what is dangerous, stigmatizes what is unclean, and wields a profound psychological power upon those who believe. The Hawaiian religion designated an oppressive number of things as kapu, forbidden upon pain of death. To cross the king’s shadow was kapu. To wear yellow was kapu. To eat turtle or squid was kapu. Women were banned from eating bananas or pork, and it was kapu for women to eat anything at all in the company of men. In the circumstances, Dinah wouldn’t have objected if that particular kapu still applied.
She was thoroughly disgusted with Xander. She didn’t know if Hawaii or Georgia had a law requiring gun owners to report a stolen gun, but it was certainly the reasonable thing to do. It astounded her that he was so publicity shy he would risk putting his bride crosswise of the law when it would be a simple matter to file a police report. She had a bad feeling about that Beretta. A gun was an inauspicious accessory to pack for a holiday in Paradise. It was downright ominous as part of a bride’s trousseau. Claude Ann claimed that she’d transported it to Hawaii legally, in a locked box in her checked luggage. How it got here and why she’d felt the need for it were moot questions. Where it had got to and for what purpose was the mindboggler. It crossed Dinah’s mind that Xander might have discovered the gun in Claude Ann’s suite and boosted it to keep Claude Ann from doing anything rash. But why would he pretend he didn’t know about it?
She tossed her book aside and picked up today’s newspaper. Diplomatic setback in the Mideast, stalemate in the U.S. Senate, bomb blast in Baghdad. Why did they call it news? Her eye fell on an article on page ten.
“The badly burned body discovered in a steam vent on June 22nd has been identified as that of Patrick Varian, 29, an archaeology professor at the University of Hawaii, Manoa. He was on personal leave from the university and believed to be engaged in evaluating a burial site on private property. No one has reported having contact with Mr. Varian while he was on Hawaii and there is no information regarding the location of the property he was evaluating or the individual who hired him.”
An archaeologist. Archaeology was one of the four main branches of anthropology. Dinah felt as if one of her own kind had been killed. And in such a gruesome way.
“The women who found the body said they had recently seen a stranger in the forest illegally harvesting ‘ohelo berries, which are sacred to Pele. They believe the deceased must be the same man and when he left the forest and walked out onto the lava, the goddess lured him into the steam vent and destroyed him.”
The phone rang and Dinah flinched. She tried to muster a cordial greeting, but she was too much on edge. “Yes?”
“Jonathan Garst. I believe you’re expecting me.”
“Give me ten minutes and come up.”
“Fine.”
Show time. She squared her shoulders and went to put on her all-purpose little black dress. Could Patrick
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