The House at Sandalwood by Virginia Coffman Page B

if he were caught, he would bluff it out, as arrogant as ever. This man was William Pelhitt. What on earth was he up to?
    If he was hiding from me, he was going to a great deal of trouble. I had no interest in Berringer’s stooge. If I knew him better, I might actually feel sorry for the poor man, but in the present circumstances, his chief curiosity value was in his relationship to a man who did worry me. I went on down the slightly descending road to the outskirts of the village. It didn’t remind me in any way of postcards I had seen representing Polynesian culture. These were bungalows exactly like those of plantation workers on many of the pineapple and sugar plantations in the Islands. Some were apparently on stilts and rock above soggy ground—the runoff from the mountain whose green slopes formed the eastern border of the village. Others, with their narrow wooden porches—were they lanais ?—were more like pleasant little summer cottages on some southern California beach. There were numerous people around, especially the men sitting on the porch of the local store—the only store on the island, as far as I could tell. It struck me as funny to see the men sitting in very modern fold-up canvas chairs and wearing singlets or swimming trunks of brightly decorated cloth.
    I wondered again what William Pelhitt was doing in this area. Certainly, the wide, dark Polynesian eyes of the men on the porch of the village store looked me over without enthusiasm. I tried not to hurry past but I could feel their dislike and I wasn’t sure whether it was because I was a newcomer, a malahini , or because I was a haole , or even because I seemed to be a female without an occupation. There were no females lazily sprawled out on the porch. As I recalled from occasional visits to country stores on the mainland, there weren’t any women lazing there either.
    I reached the narrow strand of beach beyond the village, where children were digging in the sand and teen-age youths in loin cloths of Hawaiian craft design were tossing a very modern-looking rubber beachball. Several Hawaiian girls in bikinis stood by, giggling and encouraging their boyfriends. I didn’t want to get in their way and had just turned around, realizing I had spent longer than I intended on this exploratory walk when great excitement suddenly swept through the main, unpaved street of the village. Even the workers in the fields moved out to the street, buzzing among themselves in low voices. Several of the men from the store rushed out and started up the little slope on the path I had taken from Sandalwood.
    When a youngster from the store whispered something to the ball players, I asked one of the girls near me, “What is it? What has happened?”
    Her big eyes studied me—not unfriendly, but very sombre. “You are from Sandalwood House.”
    “I am Mrs. Giles’s aunt. It is something serious, isn’t it?”
    “They were warned. They all knew. The place is cursed. First, there was the father of Mr. Steve. Now there is more blood on that sacred ground.”
    This was even worse than I feared.
    “Something happened at the heiau grove?”
    She nodded. She was watching her boyfriend rush past us. “They called from Sandalwood. Sammy Tiji fell off the roof of one of the houses.”
    “Badly hurt?”
    “He fell onto the teeth of a rake. Bad luck. Just like they said if anybody worked in the heiau . It is evil, that ground. The blood will be upon them.”
    I fought the contagion of that fear. “Upon them ?”
    “Those who live at Sandalwood. They cannot escape. You will see, haole .”

 
    Seven
     
    I forced myself to show no fear or apprehension at this clear warning, but when I had left the girl, I hurried up past the village store, heard a man call me and whirled around, confused. I really should have expected Victor Berringer. After all, I’d seen his stooge nearby. He came striding out of the store with his superior air, his total contempt for all who