Death in the Orchid Garden by Ann Ripley

as soon as Steffi took his hand and they were still holding hands. “Will I see you there on the edge of the terrace, when the big orb meets the horizon in a blaze of bright green?”
    Marty gave his wife a meaningful look. “At six-thirty or so? Maybe not. Give us another half-hour. We’ll be down by seven and then we can skip out for a change and have dinner away from this hotel.”
    Louise sauntered off, happy that things were working out for the couple on this trip. The shoot today with the three prima donnas had been almost everything they wanted. And the Corbins’ marriage, it seemed, might be getting back on an even keel.
    Amidst a cluster of other guests, she strode down the hall and made a quick calculation as she went. It was five here and ten o’clock in Washington, D.C. She should have called her husband before this, but she’d been too preoccupied. Bill would be happy to hear that all was well on the visit to Kauai, especially since she’d expressed misgivings about having to spend five days with John Batchelder. She pulled out her cell phone and speed dialed her home number.
    Bill didn’t answer; a cavernous voice gave her her options. Louise was disappointed not to be able to talk to him, but he’d warned her he would be busy at work. She sat down on a large stone bench near the elevators and listened for the beep. She said, “Bill, I’m sorry I missed you. I just wanted you to know everything is great here. The shoot went better than we ever thought it would. Oh, granted that there were a couple of glitches that raised Marty’s blood pressure a few points, but nothing serious. John and I are getting along just fine. After all, how can you wrangle with your colleague when you’re in a place like this? As for Marty and Steffi, they’re having a great time, if you know what I mean . . .”
    She looked up and her face reddened as she saw a couple smiling down on her. They were waiting for the elevator and drinking in every word, though she wasn’t talking in a loud voice. She gave them a frosty look and raised her chin a little. Into the phone she whispered, “Talk to you soon, dear,” then snapped it shut.

13
    Friday evening
    Â 
    L ouise dressed casually for dinner in a light blue cotton blouse and tan skirt and her waterproof sandals. They were suitable for a predinner walk she intended to take on the beach. If she followed the path toward Shipwreck Rock, she’d get a better view of the setting sun. In fact, she would’ve liked to climb the rock, as John had done, but not today. The light was fading fast and though not particularly afraid of heights, she’d prefer not to be up there after sunset.
    As she approached the rock, she saw a small sign attached to a bush. It read, S HIPWRECK R OCK PATH TEMPORARILY CLOSED . She changed directions and walked straight out onto the beach and waited with a few others for the fiery planet’s moment of glory.
    A few minutes later, the golden globe had disappeared. Like spectators at the conclusion of an Oberammergau passion play, people stood in a group and respectfully critiqued the performance: “Couldn’t see the green streak,” said one. “I was hoping there’d be a green streak.”
    â€œIt’s because of that mist on the horizon,” said the same bronzed surfer who had been there two nights ago. To Louise, the man seemed like an oracle, a rather chatty oracle at that, who made predictions on weather and anything else that might be going on in Kauai. “Mist and clouds ruin the effect. I’m sure we’ll have better luck tomorrow night—I’ve scoped out the weather pattern and it’s good. So, same time, same place.” He cheerfully bade them good-bye and disappeared down the beach. Before the others walked off into the gloom, they said good night to Louise, who was beginning to feel a camaraderie with them.
    To kill a few