Aaron Elkins - Twenty blue devils

The result? A compound fracture for Brian, two dislodged teeth for Tari, and a brush with death for both.

And Maggie? mused Gideon. Maggie had gotten off scot-free. Almost on its own, the thought tucked itself away for future retrieval.

Gideon's single-minded intention, when Tari delivered him to the Shangri-La, had been to go to his room and buckle down to work on those symposium notes. But at the meeting of lawn and sand in front of his cottage-in front of each of the cottages along the strand-a net hammock was slung invitingly between two sturdy guava trees. As he passed it his resolution wavered, just a little. It was John's fault, really, for bringing up the idea of a hammock in the first place. But the thing was, it looked so comfortable swaying there in the cool, dappled shade, and it had been such a long time-years?- since he'd been in one, that he climbed in to get the feel of it, pushing off with his foot against a nearby lawn chair to start himself swinging. Overhead, the thick green leaves swayed soothingly back and forth against a cobalt sky.

He woke up an hour later, at a little after four, with his foot still hanging over the side, a warm breeze off the lagoon stirring the hair on his arms. He felt rested and loose. The temperature was about 70 degrees, the air like satin on his skin. Stretching away on either side of him, along the curving fringe of the beach, coconut palms nodded on slender, arching trunks. The air was perfumed with wildflowers and the crisp tang of the sea. He remembered the last weather report he'd heard before leaving home a day earlier: snow showers mixed with sleet and changing to freezing rain, but with a slight possibility of late-afternoon “sunbreaks,” those rare, brief phenomena offered up almost daily throughout the gray winter by the sadistic weather forecasters of the Pacific Northwest.

Like Julie, he preferred coolness to warmth, fir trees to palms, and misty, pearl-gray skies to flat, hot, sunny ones, but, by God, he had to admit that there was something to be said for the tropics, particularly at this time of year. Assuming that the confusion over the exhumation order was some kind of mix-up that could be straightened out, he had three, maybe four, more days of summer ahead, three days to bake the winter hunch out of his shoulders, three days of tropical flowers, and lush fruits, and no sleet-changing-to-freezing-rain weather forecasts.

One long sunbreak.

"Hey, Doc, what is it with you, sleeping sickness? Come on, wake up, it's almost five o'clock."

"John,” Gideon said with his eyes still closed, “I really wish you'd stop doing that. It's extremely annoying."

"What do you want me to do? Every time I need to talk to you, you're flat on your back. It's amazing. We haven't even been here one day and you're already going to seed."

Gideon smiled placidly. “It does seem that way, doesn't it?"

Well, why not? Going to seed was what you were supposed to do in Tahiti. Anyway, what was the hurry? Unless John had accomplished the unexpected with Nick, they still didn't have an exhumation order.

He yawned, stretched enjoyably, and pulled himself to a sitting position in the hammock. “How'd it go with your uncle?"

"Interesting. Come on, let's take a walk on the beach; I'll tell you about it. I mean, if you think you can stand the exertion."

"There's something I don't understand,” Gideon said ten minutes later. “Why is it up to Nick anyway? Why isn't it your cousin Therese who's involved in it? It's her husband's body we're talking about, isn't it?"

"Not exactly. Brian and Therese never got married, you see-"

"They weren't married? I thought-"

"Well, as far as everybody's concerned, they are married- only they're really not. I never heard all the details, but the upshot is that Brian had an ex-wife somewhere, except she isn't exactly ‘ex.’ Didn't want him, but had some way of blocking him from getting a divorce."

"And Nick knew about that? It didn't bother him?"

John shrugged. “This is the South Seas. Just about everybody who washes up here and stays has something back home he'd just as soon not talk about. Anyway, the point I'm getting at is that Therese doesn't have any more say about what happens to Brian's body than anybody else does. And the main thing is, Brian's buried in this little cemetery up in a corner of the coffee plantation; it's private property and guess who it belongs to."

"Nick,” Gideon said.

"Nick,” John confirmed. “And Nick says no dice."

"Because he doesn't want to upset his daughter."

John didn't answer right away. They continued walking northward along the edge of the lagoon, their soles squeaking against the sand. On the landward side of the narrow beach were groves of coconut palms, and beyond them the land rose toward the hypnotically, impossibly green flanks of the jagged mountains that formed the island's core.

"So he says,” John said at last.

Gideon glanced at him. “You don't believe him?"

"No,” John said shortly, and then after another brief hesitation: “I'll tell you what I think. I think he got back here and thought things over, and pulled the plug on us because he's afraid somebody in the family killed Brian."

"Not the Mob?” Gideon stopped walking and stared at John. “Somebody in his own family-in your own family? Who?"

"I don't think he had any idea who, Doc. I think he's just worried that it might turn out that way. He never did think too much of the Mob idea. Neither did I, to tell you the truth."

"Neither did I, to tell you the truth. But what does he think, then? Why would he assume it's one of your relatives?"

"Well, he didn't tell me this, you understand, but there's been some pretty heavy-duty fighting going on between them for a few years now."

This came as a surprise. “So how come you're always telling me how great everybody gets along?"

"They do get along,” John said defensively. “What the hell, we're a family like any other family. We can always find things to argue about."

"Like what?"

John shrugged and started them walking again. “Business,” he said testily, his hands thrust into his pockets. “It gets pretty complicated; I never did get everything straight."

The family coffee business, he explained, was very much that: a family business. Nick was the sole owner, but his management team, consisting of Maggie, Nelson, and Rudy, also held shares in it. So had Brian, although in his case, the shares were actually held, and were still held, by Therese. This had been at Brian's suggestion; he had felt that the plantation had always been a family affair and was better off continuing that way. The suggestion, needless to say, had been willingly taken up by Nick.

What it all amounted to in practical terms was that instead of being paid salaries for their work, they all received a percentage of the profits. Nick's share was fifty percent, with the remaining fifty percent going to the others in ten or fifteen percent portions, depending on their positions in the organization. John wasn't positive what the amounts came to, but he believed that Nick had been getting over $300,000 a year recently, and the others from $70,000 to $100,000.

"A fair amount of money,” Gideon observed.

"Sure, but that isn't what the real hassling's about."

The real hassling had begun about a year earlier, when something called Superstar Resorts International had set its sights on the plantation as the ideal property for its planned South Seas megaresort. They had made Nick a huge offer for the land; in the neighborhood of $5 million, John understood. And that was when the fly had landed in the ointment.

"You see, the way Nick drew up these so-called shares, whatever profit-percentage people have, they're entitled to the same percentage from any sale of the company. You following me?"