The House at Sandalwood by Virginia Coffman

and his mother all left here after his father’s funeral, they say. His mother died several years ago.” She lowered her voice and informed me in a heavy whisper, “Mr. Steve’s secretary said he helps to support them all. She makes out the checks every month.”
    “They probably have a financial interest in Sandalwood.”
    “Maybe.”
    “Have any of them met Deirdre—I mean, Mrs. Stephen?”
    “No, but they all sent nice letters and wedding presents.”
    So much for that! No wonder Deirdre had been lonesome occasionally. It was only surprising that she still seemed to enjoy being alone now. She must have found her own amusements—at least, I hoped so. I wanted her to be a resourceful person, not entirely dependent upon her husband or me or anyone else. Life would not be so hard on her if she could rely on herself now and then.
    I asked, “Do the women at Sandalwood talk to Mrs. Steve frequently?”
    “Talk? We all talk to her. I mean, well—if she talks to us, we talk to her. She’s a very nice person. A bit shy, maybe, sometimes, but not highballing it along or anything. Very—I guess you’d call it democratic. Of course, she almost has to be, with her—” Nelia’s voice trailed off. She was excessively busy polishing a desk lamp on the stand beside a big leather chair that looked old and used but comfortable.
    “With her little-girl ways, you mean?” I threw the remark out casually, and added for insurance, “Rather clever of Deirdre. You see, she always gets her way.”
    “So she does! I never thought of that. You know, Dave Shigemitsu, my boyfriend, might ... it’s really clever. Everybody always gives Mrs. Steve her way, so she won’t cry or get sick or make a fuss. I must try that.”
    Poor David Shigemitsu! I could see that in building up a protective cover for Deirdre, I had given Nelia’s boyfriend a lot of future trouble.
    “I wonder if you are going to be working upstairs very soon.”
    “I could take a coffee break upstairs,” she suggested.
    “Good. And just keep an eye on Mrs. Steve’s sitting room in case she needs anything.”
    She nodded. “I know. Follow her if she leaves the house, and get her out of a jam if she falls into something.”
    “Falls into something!”
    “Just putting you on, ma’am. Mrs. Steve knows this island better than I do. But there are a lot of tricky places. Nothing dangerous. I don’t mean that. Only if she should run away and hide out again, there are a million places for that.”
    That wasn’t a happy prospect. I thanked her, and when we had set back all the framed family portraits she collected the dust cloths and we left the room.
    As I went away from the house, taking the path which crossed the island diagonally, I glanced at the cabins in the grove on my right and remembered the last picture I had dusted in Stephen Giles’s study. A black-and-white, eight-by ten-inch portrait of his father, which bore the strange inscription: “Stevie, be generous. Be tolerant. This is everything.” It had been signed in a dashing hand, “Dad.” A good-looking light-haired man with warm eyes; his features, though, made me suspect he was easily influenced and not very strong on principles. The picture had been in a position so that Stephen could see it from that comfortable leather chair. Deirdre’s color portrait had been on the desk, between portraits of his mother and his sisters—all good-looking, forceful faces, clearly of Celtic descent. I wondered if that portrait of his father had special significance. Something about the inscription suggested to me that Stephen had found himself very early in life rebelling against his father’s weaknesses. This grove, where I could see a half dozen men working now among the trees was a symbol of those weaknesses. Several of the men there were carpenters. Others were working on the many branches of the stream. It seemed to be Stephen’s idea that each cabin of the Sandalwood heiau should have its own