Chapter 1
The Big Island, Hawaii
Saturday, 8:00 A.M.
It was strangely hot. No breeze stirred the palm fronds. Even the surf seemed listless as it drifted over the dark volcanic sand of the Hawaiian island.
Sonya Iverson glanced at Perry Dalton, her cameraman. They were shooting on a wide stone terrace that overlooked the sweep of the bay. Perry's eye was pressed to the viewfinder; she could see sweat forming beads on his forehead. The bushy, prickly mustache that dominated his face was beginning to drip.
Sonya turned her attention again to the small TV monitor placed on one of the bamboo chairs. Like many TV producers, she used the monitor to direct Perry's camera movements, though after five years of working together, Perry often instinctively knew what Sonya wanted.
She watched him shoot Lara Swanson as Lara bent her blond head, picked up a golden hibiscus blossom from the table, and breathed in its delicate fragrance. The camera followed as she placed it among the other flowers in the low glass bowl.
Lara was cool, Sonya thought. Each movement was deliberate. Lara Swanson knew what she wanted.
Perry finished his shot by zooming in to the open heart of the flower.
"Perfect," he said, lifting his head and smiling. Sonya saw that the beautiful, long-haired Lara had won him over. That was unusual. Perry was tough, a veteran of 15 years covering news for network TV.
Lara smiled right back at him.
"Thank you," she said. "What do you want to do next? I only have about 30 minutes. I must check on … well, everything." She gave a slight, embarrassed laugh. "And I have to get Errol up and ready for the guests."
Sonya glanced at her watch. It was barely eight o'clock. The party to celebrate the opening of the Swanson spa was to start at noon. Surely Lara, with her large, well-trained staff, had no need to rush.
The newspaper and magazine press had arrived the day before and been installed in luxuriously appointed bungalows. Built of Hawaiian woods and surrounded by native trees, the small buildings all but disappeared into the landscape. For most of the reporters, this morning was a time to sleep in, their only chance in a hectic weekend to recover from the 10-hour flight from New York.
Sonya and Perry had arrived three days earlier, on Wednesday, to do a feature for the Donna Fuller Show.
Donna's TV magazine program, one of the top-rated in the country, covered both hard news and light features. It ran twice a week—Tuesday and Thursday nights at 10:00. It was an hour long or, as Sonya reminded herself, about 44 minutes, depending on the number of commercials.
Donna Fuller was a highly respected journalist, at times a tough one, who fought for what she wanted. She demanded that her staff look for unexpected twists in stories that aired. She'd flown in on Friday in the network's private plane, along with makeup artist Sabrina and Sonya's boss, executive producer Matt Richards.
The reason for the spa coverage, Sonya knew, was that Errol Swanson, Lara's husband, was a former chairman of the media conglomerate that owned the network. Sonya was fascinated by the unlikely relationship between Errol and Lara, a 30-year-old former nutritionist. Lara was Errol's third wife. She strongly believed that love could cure all. Her philosophy began with love of self and extended into all aspects of life. A pure heart was essential. Love must be unconditional; nothing could be expected in return.
While Sonya felt the appeal of these beliefs, she wondered what Errol, a hard-nosed, cold-blooded executive, thought of them. That led her to question Lara's sincerity.
In addition to the press, Lara had invited Errol's two ex-wives and his two grown children to the spa. Errol's aunt had arrived from Mexico, a male attendant in tow. And finally, there was Lara's alcoholic mother, who was divorced from her accountant husband.
From what Sonya had seen, it was a dysfunctional family. However strong Lara's belief in the power of love, it wasn't working.
Sonya came to herself with a start. Perry and Lara were waiting for directions.
"Sorry," she said, recovering, "I was just thinking about the next shot. We need to get some wide views of the party setup, but I don't want to hold you up, Lara. We'll do the spa, follow you to the kitchen, get some shots of you with the chef, then come back and finish shooting here."
"The table does look beautiful, doesn't it?" Lara made it more of a statement than a question.
"It sure does," Perry came back quickly. "You and the view and the flowers."
The tables were spread throughout the dining room and the outside terrace. Lara had used soft warm colors for the table settings. The centerpieces were clear bowls of golden flowers. Each seemed to capture a ray of sunlight.
"It's serene and beautiful," Sonya said, echoing Perry's comment. She suddenly realized that Lara had used the colors that best set off her pale beauty, both for the decor and when she'd chosen the soft cream shift she wore. It was high-waisted, with a flowing skirt designed to conceal her pregnancy.
"Once we turn on the air conditioning, it will be cool," Lara said, turning to Perry. "I'm so sorry you're hot. The flowers like the natural heat, they will open spectacularly in a few hours. Right in time for the party.
"We can cool down with an iced papaya juice. You'll find it the most refreshing drink you've ever had."
"I'm fine," said Perry. "I'd say this is paradise, compared with some of the jobs I've done."
Sonya interrupted, "Let's get on with it. And, Lara, I need you for a reverse shot. It will just take a moment."
Perry picked up the camera and tripod and carried them to the other side of the table so the beach would be in the background. Lara stepped into position and picked up another hibiscus. Perry put his eye to the viewfinder. But instead of focusing on the flower, he lifted his head in irritation.
"Errol's daughter is wading in the water," he said. "There, in the shallows."
Lara turned toward the beach. "Yes, that's Christy. She loves the water. Errol says she was a brilliant swimmer as a child. She's sweet."
Perry shifted his weight. "Well, she looks goofy in that white dress. I don't want her in the shot. She's too distracting. I'll have to wait until she goes."
Sonya looked toward Christy. Her hands were trailing, her head shaking from side to side. Something must have set her off. Doing research for the story, Sonya had learned Christy was a schizophrenic, and she knew schizophrenics were unpredictable.
"I'll get her out of the way," Lara said. She turned and waved to Christy, motioning her to move along the beach. Christy saw her and ran out of the water, toward the steps that led to the terrace.
Perry looked at Sonya with a raised eyebrow. She nodded. As usual, she wanted him to keep shooting. It was often the unexpected shot that could make a story exciting.
Together they watched Christy, holding her wet dress in her hands, clamber up the rough, stone steps in her bare feet. Her hair had escaped its combs and hung in wet strands around the square, angular face she had inherited from her father. She was talking to herself in a low voice, repeating the same words over and over again.
"What is that? Is she singing?" Lara was confused. "I can't make out a word she's saying." Lara's face showed none of the frustration she must be feeling at this interruption.
"She's trying to tell us something," Sonya said.
They watched silently as Christy came near, her wet dress clinging to her thin, bony body. At the top of the steps she ran to Lara, grasping both her hands.
"We know he's dead, really, really dead," she said in a singsong quaver, swinging her arms and Lara's back and forth. Her eyes were wide, almost unseeing. Her breath came in gasps.
Lara tried to calm her, to stop Christy's frantic movements.
"Christy, be still. You must stop imagining things. Stop listening to the voices in your head. You know it is not good for you. No one is dead. You are safe here. This is not a place of death, but one of love and harmony."
"He's really dead." Christy pulled on Lara's hand. "Come and see."
For the first time Lara's voice rose. "Come and see what?"
"Come and see the body." Christy was insistent.
There was something ominous about the scene. Sonya realized that whatever Christy had witnessed had deeply disturbed her.
"All right, I'll come," Lara reluctantly agreed.
Had Lara caught the urgency in Christy's voice? Or was she just embarrassed and eager to get rid of Christy? Whatever the reason, she let Christy guide her toward the path that led to the Swansons' private quarters.
Perry looked at Sonya. She nodded. He took the camera off the tripod, swung it onto his shoulder, and set off after them. Wordlessly they followed the path, then stepped into a shaded courtyard at the center of the complex that Lara had designed for Errol, herself, and the child they were expecting in a few months.
Lara looked back and saw Perry and his camera. She flushed. Her pale, almost transparent skin became a rough, angry red. Her blue eyes narrowed. Her face twisted. She let go of Christy's hand and turned toward them.
"Please, Sonya," she said. "No photography here. This is a sacred place. The place where our family lives and meditates together.
"Of course," Sonya said. "Perry, we're out of here."
Before they could go, Christy sprang forward and pushed open a door.
She screamed, "It's not my voices. I'm not crazy. There he is. And he is really dead."
Lara moved quickly to close the door, but Christy threw her weight against it.
"Come see, come see, come see." She waved them in.
Sonya hesitated. She caught a glimpse of Errol Swanson on a blood-spattered bed.
Should she go in and get a shot? If she didn't, she could miss the best one of the story. If she did, she could lay herself open to criticism for invading the Swansons' privacy.
What would Donna Fuller want her to do?
"Get the story," she told herself. "Always get the story."
She took a deep breath, put her hand on Perry's shoulder, and pressed him into the room.
Errol Swanson lay on his back on the four-poster bed, his body covered by a crumpled sheet. His head had rolled toward the door, and Sonya could see the bullet hole in the center of his forehead. Blood had poured from it over the embroidered pillowcase.
There was so much blood. The smell hung in the air, thick and heavy. She felt bile rise. She closed her eyes and breathed hard, fighting to control it.
"My God, Sonya, look." Perry's voice was rough.
Sonya opened her eyes. Errol Swanson's hands and feet had been tied to the bedposts with the fine sarongs Lara had placed in each of the spa's rooms. There was no sign of a struggle.
He had been helpless, with no way to defend himself. How ironic, Sonya thought, that the sarongs were printed with words that Lara so often used: Love, Serenity, Peace, Tranquility.
Lara stepped quickly into the room, pushing Perry and his camera out of the way.
"Christy," she said, "untie these scarves immediately. He can't be found this way. I will call Jackie and the police. And you two, get out. Surely you've had enough for one morning."
Sonya looked at Lara. Her angry flush had faded. Suddenly she was as calm as she had been on the terrace.
Why no shock, grief, or even surprise at finding his body?
Sonya followed Perry into the courtyard. A cool breeze suddenly blew Sonya's red curls across her face. She put her hand up and thoughtfully brushed it away. Yes, she told herself, Lara's calm was strange. It was almost as though she had arranged the scene.
Copyright © 2005 by Elsa Klensch
