The Moai Murders

1

TE-PITO-TE-HENUA—If there is a list kept somewhere of the most common motives for murder, I very much doubt that a disagreement over a potato features very highly on it. Not that this was just any potato, mind you. It was ipomoea batatas, the sweet potato, and its existence on a tiny island in the middle of nowhere—a mere mote in the planet's watery eye—has plagued those who care about such things for a very long time. Still, you wouldn't expect anyone to kill over it, no matter what the police said.

For me, the tawdry tale of man and potato, one in which I rather reluctantly played a part, was an object lesson in perspective—both keeping it and losing it. In a way, it ended as it began, with a conscious decision about what is most important, in one case life affirming, in the other, bringing life to an end. More than anything else, I think, the events that unfolded at the center of the world demonstrated the fierce grip that the past holds on us all.

The story began happily enough, with news I'd hardly dared hope for lest in doing so I would jinx the outcome. It came in an unexpected visit to my antique shop by my best friend, Moira Meller. She waited while I rang up a sale and saw another satisfied McClintoch and Swain customer to the door. I was a little apprehensive as I wrapped up the merchandise and chatted away to the customer. Moira had not been well in the past few weeks. She was paler and thinner, and I noticed she sat down while she waited. She looked terrific despite that—her dark brown hair in a very sleek "do," without so much as a gray strand visible, and her makeup was, as usual, perfect. She has to look that way, of course. She owns a spa just down the street, and there are certain expectations about the appearance of a spa owner. Fortunately, these do not apply to an antique dealer, although certain standards must be met. By and large people do not buy antiques from someone who looks as if they acquired their merchandise by backing a van up to the door of a house while the owners are vacationing at their condo in Palm Beach.

"Guess what?" she said when we were alone at last. "Everything's okay. The tests have all come back clear."

"Oh, Moira," I said, giving her a hug. "I am so happy to hear that!" She sounded remarkably calm about it. I was over the moon.

"Me too," she said. "Another one of those character-building experiences life throws our way from time to time."

"I suppose it does help put things in perspective," I said.

"Funny you should say that," she said. "When I came out of the anesthetic, the first thought I had, other than 'ouch,' that is, was that if I survived this, I was going to make a list of the things I'd put off and another list of those things that I didn't want to do anymore, and I was going to do the former and stop doing the latter."

"I've been feeling the same ever since I heard you had to have the operation," I said. "I'll tell you now what I wouldn't say before: It was a shock that someone so close was so ill."

"I know," she said. "But now that the doctors have told me I'm fine, I'm not going to forget this. I'm not going back to putting off what I want to do for some indefinite time in the future. You don't know how much time you've got."

"True," I said. "But where to start?"

"Clive isn't here, is he?" she said, looking around.

"No," I replied. "He's off to pick up some stuff for our booth at the antique show at the end of the month."

"I thought I saw his car go by," she said. "There's something I want to discuss with just you."

"There's nobody here," I said. "Not a single customer, either, I regret to say. Discuss whatever you want."

"Easter Island," she said.

"Easter Island?" I said. Somehow this didn't seem to be a topic that required the utmost secrecy.

"Easter Island," she repeated. "It's right at the top of my new life To Do list. I'm going to hug a statue."

"Okay," I said. "That's… well, far."

"I don't care how far it is. Ever since I was a kid, I've wanted to go there," she said. "I read all Thor Heyerdahl's books, the one about sailing a raft from South America to Polynesia when everyone said it couldn't be done—Kon Tiki, it was called—and then Aku-Aku, about his archaeological studies on Easter Island. It was incredibly romantic. I thought he was brave and handsome—a hero, in my eyes. I wanted to be an archaeologist, just like him. It's a far cry, I'll grant you, from the spa owner I actually became."

"A very successful spa owner," I said. "Don't forget that. You get written up in business journals all the time."

"I suppose," she said. "I am proud of what I've done, but I'm not just a spa owner. I have lots of other interests, even if it would be difficult to guess that judging by what I've done in the last ten years. Now I'm going to pursue those other interests for a while, starting with Easter Island. It's on my life list. You know—the pyramids in Egypt, the Parthenon in Athens, the Forum in Rome. But somehow, I didn't get to Easter Island to see those stone statues. I don't know why. Maybe life just got in the way. Now I'm going, so there. Admit it, you've always wanted to go."

"Yes, I have," I said. "It's on my life list, too, but I've never been able to think of a single reason for an antique dealer from Toronto to go there. All my travel is for the shop. I haven't had a trip with no work involved for years."

"I guess they wouldn't let you take one of those giant stone heads home with you," she laughed. "There are probably rules about that."

"Even if there weren't, they're at least fifteen or twenty feet high and weigh several tons," I said. "Rather exorbitant excess baggage charges."

"And a little too large for carry-on," she said. "Isn't there something there that could justify the trip?"

"I expect there are all kinds of treasures," I said. "But nothing I'd be allowed to sell at McClintoch and Swain."

"I guess not," she said. She paused a second or two. "The thing is, Clive is not dealing well with the fact I might have been seriously ill, that I haven't been my usual perky self."

I was tempted to say that Clive Swain wouldn't deal well with a hangnail. I should know. I was married to him for twelve long years, and we were still in business together. On the personal side, however, he was Moira's problem now.

"I'm sure he's just been worried about you, Moira," I said, silently congratulating myself on my tact and diplomacy. "You've had a close call. You can't blame him."

"I suppose not," she said. "So will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Come with me, you dope. I know I could go by myself, but it would be so much more fun if you'd come, too. Think about it: a fun-only excursion. No work. No men."

"Now there's a subversive thought. When were you thinking of going?"

"Next week."

"Next week!" I thought of the upcoming Antique Fair where Clive and I had booked a large booth. I thought of the shipment arriving any day from Italy. I thought of the backlog of paperwork sitting on my desk. I thought of what was becoming an unending kitchen renovation at home, one that required constant pestering of workmen.

"I'll pay your way," Moira said. "If that's an impediment."

"You will not!" I replied.

"So you'll come?" she said.

"It's a very long trip. Are you sure you're up for it?"

A significant pause greeted my question. Quite right, too. It was a silly thing to ask. If I had had surgery less than three weeks before, I'd still be horizontal, back of hand to forehead, whimpering. Not Moira. She is the most determined person I know. Nothing stops her when she puts her mind to it. I thought of the last several months, of the unpleasant tests, the painful surgery, then the interminable wait for results. I could only imagine what she'd been going through, because through it all she'd never discussed how she felt. This was the first conversation we'd had on the subject. It was too bad, really, because at one time we talked about everything.

"Why not?" I said, decision made. "I've always wanted to hug one of those statues, too." If Clive couldn't deal well with Moira's illness, we would see how well he could deal with the Antique Fair all by himself. It would serve him right for not being more supportive of Moira.

"Thank you," she said. "It means a lot to me."

"We'll have a great time," I said. "We haven't traveled together in years."

"Decades," she agreed. "I wonder what happens to us, all the things we wanted to do, like my being an archaeologist. Instead we sort of fall into some kind of work, the same way we just fall into one relationship or another. It sort of seems right at the time, I guess, but the excitement, the zest for life and its endless possibilities, is lost. Did you always want to be an antique dealer? I suppose you did. You were pretty focused on it when we first met."

"I don't think anybody plans to be an antique dealer when they grow up, Moira," I said. "I was always interested in history, ancient history, really. Anything after 1500 was a bore as far as I was concerned. I didn't want to be a teacher, so I guess I just found something that appealed to an innate interest, and yes, I'm glad I did it. No, I didn't plan it that way. After university I traveled, as did about two-thirds of my graduating class. The difference was they drank their way around the world. I shopped. In fact, I shopped so much I had to sell a lot of the stuff to make room for more."

"A slight exaggeration, I'm sure," she said. "Seriously, though, wasn't there something you wanted to be when you were a little kid?"

"A train conductor," I said. "I thought it would be cool to sit in the back of the train and wave at everybody at the railway crossings. But do I regret not doing it? No."

"You're lucky. I got my MBA because it seemed kind of cool, to use your word, and I opened a spa partly because I did the research and saw an opportunity, but also, in part, because it bugged my parents to no end. They hated the idea of a shopkeeper in the family. Still do, in fact. Not a good reason, I know."

"But you're so good at it," I said. "Don't you get some enjoyment out of it?"

"Sure I do," she said. "And you're right, I've done well by it. I just wonder where I'd be if I'd followed my dream, followed my bliss, as Joseph Campbell used to say. Would I be here, running my spa and in a relationship with Clive, for example? I don't know."

I said nothing. Having been married to the guy, divorced, and then a hardly disinterested spectator as Clive and my best friend took up with each other, I'd long ago promised myself never to discuss my feelings on that subject. In fact, I'd buried my feelings so deep, I wasn't sure I knew what they were anymore. I had always felt my friendship with Moira hinged on our mutual silence and that, close friends though we were, if we ever got into a discussion about it, one of us was bound to say something that would bring our relationship to an end. I was happy with my partner, Rob Luczka, and even with him, I had made a point of discussing neither my past life with Clive, nor the often conflicting emotions I had felt about Clive and Moira together.

"What do you want me to do about the arrangements for Easter Island?" I said. "Shall I get the tickets? Given I have enough points to get me to Mars and back, why don't I see what I can do?"

"I am going on, aren't I?" Moira said. "You're quite right to change the subject. Blame it on the anesthetic. The surgeon told me it would be months before it worked its way out of my system. I will try not to be so maudlin from now on. But if I learned one thing from the experience, it was that it's a mistake to wait to do something, because you may find you missed your chance. Carpe diem—seize the day. That's my motto from now on. I'm going to Easter Island, and if I have to sneak out in the middle of the night when no one is looking, I'm hugging one of those things."

"You aren't having a mid-life crisis right here in my store, are you?" I said.

"Maybe," she said.

"Okay," I said. "Just so I know."

"I'll get over it," she said.

"I'm not sure how Clive is going to feel about this," I said with a very slight, almost imperceptible twinge of guilt.

"Leave Clive to me," she said.

Easter Island has to be one of the remotest places on earth. While my European ancestors were busy thinking that if they sailed out too far they'd fall off the edge of the world, other ancient mariners crossed thousands of miles of empty ocean, apparently routinely. And, some of them, by chance or by design, found the island, risked being crushed to death in the wicked surf that pounds the shore incessantly, and stayed. The kind of journey they must have had, I cannot imagine. It was nerve-wracking enough on an airplane—more than five hours and about 2,400 miles straight out into the Pacific from Santiago, Chile, looking for a small triangle of land only twenty-five miles long from tip to tip. If you missed it, there were almost 1,200 miles of water before you came to the next dot on the ocean's surface—Easter Island's nearest inhabited neighbor, the infamous Pitcairn Island. They named this part of the Pacific the Desolate Zone for a reason, one it's best not to think too much about while you're sitting on Lan Chile flight 841.

Easter Island is, in fact, very far away from everywhere, especially home. I'd spent way too many hours in the air, Toronto to Sao Paulo, Sao Paulo to Santiago, then on across thousands of miles of water. Moira, through it all, was perky as anything. She'd spent the air time sleeping, which would have been a sensible thing for me to do, if I were capable of such a thing. "There has to be some advantage to having had surgery three and a half weeks ago," she said, somewhere over the Caribbean. "I believe I could sleep sitting up on a camel."

"I almost envy you that," I said. "Except for the stitches."

"I don't know about you, but I am really out of date," she said, tapping the guidebook she'd been reading on and off between naps. "Did you know they now call Easter Island, Rapa Nui?"

"I think I heard that somewhere," I said. "Really, though, my knowledge of the place is limited to the odd documentary on TV."

"Rapa Nui," she repeated. "Two words and it's the place. Run together as one word, it's the language they speak. It can also refer to the people. Did you know the people on the island came from Polynesia somewhere around sixteen hundred years ago and lived there in isolation for almost fourteen hundred years? That's amazing, isn't it? I guess that's why those statues aren't found anywhere else but there. What are you reading by the way?"

"A camera manual," I said. "Rob gave me a lovely little digital camera before we left. I'm supposed to bring back lots of pictures. He said it was all automatic, I just have to point the thing and push the button, but the manual is about an inch thick. I've been through it twice, and so far all I've managed to figure out is how to put the strap on it. Third time lucky, I'm thinking."

"That was nice of Rob," she said. "Keep reading, because I want a picture of myself with those statutes."

"Don't make me nervous," I said. "Actually this camera was a peace-offering of sorts. I asked Rob if he would mind keeping an eye on my kitchen renovation while I was away, and he said, in something of a huff, that if I insisted on having my own place I would have to deal with my own kitchen renovation. But then he felt bad and went out and bought me this camera for what he has taken to calling the only vacation I've had in my life. Not true. I'm sure I had one once before. I just can't recall when or where."

She laughed. "You could move in together."

"Don't you start," I said.

"We're going to have fun," she said, somewhere over Brazil. "Look at this. There's something called the Rapa Nui Moai Congress on while we're there." She pointed to the inflight magazine.

"What or who is a moe-eye?" I said. "Or is it what or who are moe-eye?"

"I think that's the name of those giant stone carvings. We're going to hug moai," she said, spelling the word for me. "And, if I have read this correctly, nouns are the same in both the singular and plural. You have to grasp which is intended from the context."

"I see," I said.

"The congress is being held at our hotel," she said. "According to this, experts from around the world are coming to Rapa Nui for the meeting. There will be lectures and field trips and everything. Maybe we could crash some of the sessions. It's the first three days we're there, so we could learn about everything and then go see it for ourselves."

"I hope they're not noisy," I said.

"You really are a poop. Admit it," she said. "It sounds exciting."

"I think most of those academic conferences are really boring," I said. "So-called experts droning on about some tiny theory they have."

She patted my arm. "Thank you for coming with me," she said. "I know the timing wasn't ideal, and I want you to know I really appreciate it."

"This camera manual is making me crabby," I said. "Or maybe it's more that just before I left Rob told me he's thinking of retiring. He just kind of sprang it on me as I was packing."

"He's a bit young for that, isn't he?" she said.

"Not really. He went into the RCMP right out of school. They have a new early retirement package, so he's thinking about it."

"That's okay, isn't it?" she said.

"What's he going to do for the rest of his life? Follow me around?"

"Ah ha," she said. "Now we're getting down to it."

"He did threaten, I mean suggest, that he could come with me on my buying trips, but really, they're work. I told him he'd be bored if he came with me."

"What did he say to that?"

"Something along the lines of Bored in Paris? Bored in Tuscany? Mexico? I don't think so."

"He has a point. Maybe he just wants to do something else now, just like me. Carpe diem and all that."

I thought that was enough Latin for now. "You told me what was on your To Do list, but not what you won't do anymore," I said.

"I'll never eat beets again," she said.

If anybody thought that heading that far into the South Pacific got you palm trees, thatched huts, and sandy beaches— and I may have been one of those people—they'd soon be disabused of that notion. There are trees, but they are sparse, and lush is a word that would never enter your mind as you looked around. Instead, the island is all grassy meadows and jagged coastline, volcanic outcrops and little walled gardens, soaring cliffs where the sea has pounded away forever, a lonely place in many ways, where the wind roars all the time, birds swirl and shriek overhead, and dust settles like a second skin on everything, insinuating its way into your nose, your mouth, your pockets, your hair. And everywhere you look there is the empty horizon and endless sea, disorienting in its vastness. Looking around from the parking lot of the tiny airport, I felt as if Moira and I were clinging to a piece of driftwood, a large one to be sure, and could only go where the current would take us. In a way, I wasn't wrong.

Our hotel was just outside Hanga Roa, the main town. Perhaps I should say it was just outside the only town. The hotel was a pleasant enough spot, a sprawling low-rise whitewashed structure with red roof, a drive lined with hibiscus and large cactus, and a view of the ocean from its vantage point atop a cliff that took my breath away. A large hand-lettered banner was strung across the main entrance: lorana, it said, whatever that meant. Welcome Delegates to the First Annual Rapa Nut Moai Congress.

The hotel lobby was open on three sides to the breeze, with wood columns beautifully carved with birds and animals supporting a thatched roof. It was also something of an obstacle course. There were cables crisscrossing the floor that required careful attention if one preferred not to end up nose to red carpet. People were milling about everywhere, and given the day's only flight had come in, piles of luggage dotted the area and there was something of a line at the check-in counter.

A rather sturdy-looking man with reddish hair and beard, a pronounced paunch, and denim jeans and shirt adorned with a red bandana around his neck was standing just inside the door. "Hey, girls," he said, "lorana. Hello. I don't suppose one of you would be Hottie Matu'a would you?"

"What?" we said in unison.

"Oops. I guess not. Sorry. You girls here for the Moai Congress?"

I braced myself. Nobody calls Moira a girl.

"I'm afraid not," Moira said. "We certainly wish we were, though. Is there any way of signing up at the door?" My jaw dropped.

"I dunno," he said. "It was kind of by invitation only. But for two girls as pretty as you, there should be a way. Maybe I could speak to the organizers."

This guy is dead meat, I thought.

"Would you mind asking for us?" Moira said, extending her hand. "I'm Moira, and this is my friend, Lara."

"It would be a pleasure," he said after holding Moira's hand just a trifle too long. "Hey, Lynda," he added. I still had not recovered the power of speech, so I just smiled as best I could and shook hands.

"She's the quiet one, I see," the man said, inclining his head in my direction. "Cat got your tongue? I'm Dave, Dave Maddox."

"And what's your specialty, Dave?" Moira said.

"I'm in construction," Dave replied. "Condos, mainly. But I've developed an interesting theory on how the moai were moved down from the quarry and then stood upright on the ahu. I'm going to be presenting a paper here at the congress. I'm trying to get my hands on the agenda so I'll know exactly when. Hey, Jeff!" he said suddenly, waving at a tall, thin, graying man in a baseball cap, lugging an enormous bag. "Come and meet Moira and Lynda."

"Lara," I muttered. "And what's an ahu?" The man in the baseball cap looked over his shoulder for a second, as if he wondered to whom Dave was shouting, but then, seeing no one else, came over to our little group.

"Jeff's a history teacher from Albuquerque," Dave said. "Knows everything there is to know about rongorongo."

Rongorongo? I thought.

"Fascinating," Moira said.

"Nice to meet you both," Jeff said. "And it's Seth, by the way. Seth Connelly."

"Right. Sorry, Seth. Care for a drink, girls?" Dave said.

"We haven't checked in yet," I said, finding my voice at last. "We'd better do that first. But thanks."

"Back at ya," he said, turning to Moira. "When I've had a chance to talk to the organizers."

"Thanks, Dave," Moira said, giving him her nicest smile. "I hope we can get in, at least to your session. Your work sounds fascinating." I swear she batted her eyelashes.

"Hey, Bob," I heard Dave say as we made our way to the desk.

"So how do you like the new me?" Moira said, as we completed the formalities. "Even if I've used the word fascinating way too often since I got off the plane."

"I'm thinking you'll be asked to turn in your Feminists-R-Us membership card," I said.

"It's only a cunning subterfuge," she laughed. "I'm going to get us into this congress. Just you wait and see. Are you hungry? I'm not sure whether I am or not. Jet lag, I guess."

"You didn't eat much on the plane, or planes, that is."

"Could that be because the food was dreadful? Let's get unpacked and cleaned up quickly and then go see if we can persuade somebody to feed us," she said.

The hotel had only about forty rooms, all of them in two annex buildings, designed motel-style with doors that opened to the outside, but with rather pleasant sliding doors at the back, which opened, in our case, onto a stretch of lawn and a view of the coast.

The dining room was what I would call basic, as was the food. The walls were painted utilitarian white, with blue plastic tablecloths over which had been placed white mats, also plastic. To one side was a wall of windows, though, that exhibited the extraordinarily vast blue sea.

A portion of the dining room had been marked off with bamboo screens, and a few minutes after we sat down and ordered, our newfound pal Dave appeared from the other side.

"Here's the drill, girls," Dave said, coming over to our table. "I'm still working on getting you into the sessions, but there's a field trip first thing tomorrow morning—the quarry—and there's two empty seats on our bus. The field trips are extra, and I've said you'll each pay ten bucks. That okay?"

"Okay," we both said.

"Front door, eight AM," he said. I stifled a groan. After two days of flying, I had thought a little sleep-in might be in order.

"I'll get you into my session no matter what," Dave said. "I got a good time on the agenda. Not too early, not too late, not over the cocktail hour. I'm a happy guy. You two girls just wear something pretty, and I'll give you some charts to hand out to everybody at the session. You'll be my little helpers, like. You can do that, right?"

"We'll do our very best, Dave," Moira said.

"My teeth are hurting from clenching them so hard," I said when he was out of earshot.

"Maybe a Dramamine would help," she said. "I took one before we came down."

"Is there a plan?" I said. "Wait! Just a minute! Of course there is. We suck it up until he gets us registered, and then we kill him, right?"

"Right," Moira said.

"I suppose you noticed we're getting up early to go to a quarry," I said.

"I think we should just go with the flow here, Lara," she said. "Savor whatever comes along. It's bound to be fascinating… oops, that word again. Let's say compelling. Obviously I should have brought a thesaurus."

"You should have if you're going to chat up every guy on the island," I said. "They can't all be fascinating."

We were just finishing our meal when Dave showed up at our table again, this time with a very slight woman with tightly curled gray hair and a tightly clenched jaw to match, in tow.

"This is Babs, the registrar for the conference. Be nice to her, and she'll get you into the conference. Babs, this is Marilyn and Lynda."

"Really, I don't know if I can," Babs said. "I've got it all organized just so, and the count for the meals has been given to the hotel. I mean, if I tried to change it, they might not be happy. And rooms? What will you do for a room?"

"We're staying here," Moira said. "So rooms are not a problem."

"Come on, Babs," Dave said. "You told me earlier there were a couple of cancellations, and I'm sure Maddie and Lesley won't mind if they have to go out for the odd meal. Gotta go, though. I'll leave you girls to work this out. Bye, girls."

"It's Lara," I said, as Dave rushed off to punch someone else's shoulder. "Not Lesley, not Lynda, not Girl. Lara! And this," I said, pointing to my friend, "is Moira."

Babs, who'd up until this moment been looking rather flustered, if not stern, actually cracked a smile. "And I'm Brenda, not Babs. Brenda Butters. Are you sure you really want to come to this conference?"

"No," I said.

"Absolutely," Moira replied.

"A slight difference of opinion, I see."

"I'll do whatever Moira wants to do," I said. "But maybe you should tell us something about the congress first."

"Not much to tell," she said, handing us a registration form and pens. "Everybody here is interested in Rapa Nui. We have some great speakers lined up, real experts, you know, as well as some presentations by what I'd refer to as talented amateurs. Like Dave, for example, even if he can't remember anybody's name to save his life."

"So who is putting this on? Is it a heritage organization of some sort? The Easter Island Foundation or something?"

"No," she replied. "I'm afraid I can't offer you a tax receipt or anything. It's just a group of interested individuals. Some of us are volunteer organizers, and we got some financial support from a film company. They put in some money to help with the advertising and such. Kent Clarke Films, it's called."

"Cute," Moira said. "A reference to Superman, is it?"

"Not exactly, no," Brenda said. "Kent Clarke's the name of the owner. They are filming a documentary about the conference and featuring our keynote speaker, Jasper Robinson."

"Who's he?" I said.

"Jasper Robinson?" Brenda looked aghast. "I'm surprised you haven't heard of him if you're interested in archaeology. He's the fellow who found a very ancient fortress in the Atacama Desert of northern Chile a year or so ago. They did a special on it for television. He confounded all the experts, too, who had already looked where he did, but completely missed the fortress. He does all kinds of things—diving under the polar ice cap, traveling the Silk Road all alone. He's made some amazing discoveries."

"I know the fellow you mean," Moira said. "Didn't he swim across the Straits of Magellan or something?"

"That's him," Brenda said. "Crazy idea if you ask me. Around here he's considered a modern day Thor Heyerdahl, though. Everybody is looking forward to whatever it is he's going to spring on us in his keynote address on the last evening. His presentation is going to be filmed by the Kent Clarke people."

"Hence all those electrical cables in the lobby," I said.

"Yes. It's a bit of a mess, I know. But if you still want to attend, I'm sure you can. A couple of people canceled at the last minute. You probably got their room if you booked recently. We've already guaranteed the numbers for the meals and everything, so you could just take their places."

"Sure, we want to come," Moira said, starting to fill in the registration form and gesturing to me to do the same. When we'd finished and handed over some cash, Brenda rose to go as a rather attractive man in khaki pants and shirt rose from his table across the room and passed near ours.

"Hello, Brenda," he said.

Brenda merely nodded in his direction and turned back to us rather more quickly than normal politeness would permit. "I'll be back in a minute with your name badges and tickets for the cocktail party, which is just getting underway," she said. "Your first pisco sour is on the house."

"What sour?" Moira said after Brenda has bustled off.

"Pisco. Distilled from grapes. Very popular South American cocktail."

"Hmm," she said. "Does it have a little umbrella in it?"

"I don't think so," I said.

"Well, that's something. One of the things on my 'never again' list is drinks with umbrellas in them. Do you think they'd make me a very dry, very cold martini instead?"

"What was that about savoring the experience?" I said.

"You have a point. Sour, I'm thinking, is not just the pisco, but also Brenda when it comes to that rather attractive man who just walked by."

"She was a little abrupt, wasn't she?"

"Maybe we will see him at the cocktail party, and we can make nice," she said. "He looked interesting."

"Not fascinating?" I said. She reached across the table and pinched my arm.

Dinner finished, we headed out to the patio and the welcome cocktail party for this little conference to which we seemed to have managed to attach ourselves. The pisco sours arrived quickly, milky white and frothy in tall slim champagne glasses. Moira sipped hers carefully. "Yum," she pronounced at last. "I may have to have more than one."

My first impression of the congress was that it was a little unusual. It may have been a matter of interpretation, but when I hear the word congress, with a capital C, attached to an event like this, I expect a rather large crowd, maybe hundreds of people, with several tracks of programming, and huge banquets and all. There couldn't have been more than forty or fifty people at the opening reception for the First Annual Moai Congress, including the mayor of Rapa Nui, who gave a very nice speech welcoming us all, and his modest entourage.

Even so, for a few minutes we stood like wallflowers on the fringe of the event, but soon Dave Maddox came over with a "Hey girls," and we were drawn into the crowd. Jasper whatever his name was who swam with icebergs came over to shake hands and welcome us to the conference. He was attractive in a rather contrived way—perfect haircut, nicely pressed trousers, and I think he was wearing makeup, although maybe that was for filming. In any event, he didn't linger long. His target was quite obviously a woman in a saffron-colored sarong outfit that showed lots of skin. I swear she wasn't wearing a stitch under it. "That has to be Hottie Matu'a," I said to Moira.

We were introduced to a young man in his late twenties whose name was Brian Murphy, not Bob as Dave had insisted. At first I thought Brian was rather rude, peering as he did at the breasts of every woman in the place, but I soon figured out it was our name tags, hung on little strings around our necks, that he was interested in. Brian, it seems, was an archaeology graduate who'd been supporting himself as a computer programmer but was there to find himself a job in his chosen field. "I'm Birdman," he whispered conspiratorially.

"What?" I said.

"Sorry," he said. "Not one of the maniacs, I guess." I was tempted to say that if I stayed with this group for more than a day or two I most certainly would be.

I then made conversation with a Chilean by the name of Enrique Gonzales who had brought an English grammar book to the party. Enrique's family, loyal to Salvador Allende, had fled Chile for Russia when General Augusto Pinochet brutally took power and established a military dictatorship that was to last almost twenty-five years. Enrique had left as a child and returned as an adult. "We will speak English, please," he said. "For practice. I came home to make study as tourist guide. I am fluent in Russian, and so I wait for Russian tourists. How many Russians do you think have come here in the last three years?"

"I have no idea?" I said.

"Guess, please," he said.

"A thousand," I said.

"There are no Russian tourists coming to Chile, maybe only three in two years," he said. "So now I learn English and make specialty of Rapa Nui for tourists. Most Chileans do not come to Easter Island. It is too far. So this will be for me a specialization."

"Good for you," I said. "Do you know all about Rapa Nui?"

"No. That is why I come here," he said. "To learn." I thought this was refreshing, someone who knew as little as I did, but this moment of camaraderie was not to last long. "I wanted very much to be Enrique-Mau," he said. "You know, like ariki man, the rapanui term for king, and my name together. But someone else had it already. So I am Tongenrique. Is also good, no?"

"Fascinating," I said.

Seth, the history teacher from Albuquerque and expert in rongorongo, came over, and he and Moira were soon engaged in deep conversation. From it I decided that rongorongo was some kind of script that had recently been deciphered, at least in part, and that it was usually carved on wooden tablets. I may have been wrong. Tired of pretending to know what I didn't, I wandered off to admire the view beyond the patio. It was now dark, but I could still see a line of surf where the sea met the coast, and the shadow of steep hills beyond the lights of the hotel. Away from the lights, the southern sky was filled with stars.

"Lost?" a voice behind me said. I turned to see the attractive man who had been snubbed by Brenda. "I see they let you in. Dave Maddox has been lobbying hard on your behalf."

"My friend Moira's behalf really," I said.

"So you didn't get an invitation?"

"We didn't," I said. "And you?"

"I got an invitation, as did a number of my colleagues. Most of them declined, but I wouldn't miss this for anything." He laughed as he said it. "I'm Rory Carlyle. I'm currently teaching in Australia, but working here for a few months. I and some students of mine are doing an archaeological survey of Poike. I'm giving a talk about it tomorrow, relating local myths to actual archaeological data."

I introduced myself and told him how interesting I thought his work would be, not mentioning, of course, that I didn't know what a Poike was.

"Oh, it is," he said. "But I just had to tear myself away to hear the latest theories." There was a hint of something in his voice, I'm not sure what. Laughter at best, but more likely sarcasm. "So you have an interest in Rapa Nui?" he probed. "Some particular aspect of it?"

Many possible answers to that question flitted through my brain. I knew Moira would not be pleased, but I couldn't stop myself. "You know what?" I said. "I know nothing about this place you couldn't get from a documentary on television or in a guidebook except that I haven't read the guidebook because I didn't have the time to buy one, and Moira won't share hers yet. But I've wanted to see Rapa Nui and those wonderful stone carvings my whole life, and the opportunity presented itself. I have no idea what I'm doing at an academic congress. I could be standing on this Poike thing you mentioned right this minute, and I wouldn't know it. Furthermore, I have only the haziest idea that I may have seen Jasper what's his name on television once. I think he was riding a camel somewhere. There, I've said it."

Rory threw back his head and roared with laughter. "You know something?" he said, wiping a tear from his eye. "I'd be willing to bet you know as much as at least half the people here."

"What's so funny?" Moira said, coming over to join us. "I'm Moira, by the way."

"This is Rory," I said. "He's doing an archaeological survey of Poike."

"Fascinating," she said.

"I take it your friend knows more about Rapa Nui than you do," Rory said.

"I've confessed my utter and complete ignorance about this place," I told Moira. "Just my own personal lack of knowledge," I added, just in case she doubted my loyalty.

"Do you have a specific area of interest, Moira?" Rory asked.

"You are such a brat, Lara," Moira said. "My specific area of interest at the moment is aromatherapy, Rory. It's very big in my world, right now. Ditto whatever she said, only more so. Lara owns an antique store, and she knows about old stuff. I have a spa."

"At least she's read the guidebook," I said.

"I am delighted to make both your acquaintances," Rory said. "And lest you feel embarrassed, let me tell you something." He paused for a moment and sipped some wine. "You must have seen the banner outside the hotel, the one that says welcome to the first annual Rapa Nui Moai Congress."

"Hard to miss it," I said.

"Indeed. Let's just say that maybe what it should have said is welcome to the lunatic fringe."

"Perfect," Moira laughed. "As Lara is probably too nice to tell you, I'm feeling just a little mentally unhinged myself."

"Perfect," he agreed.

We spent a pleasant half hour or so with Rory. He was funny, intelligent, and reasonably good looking. I could tell Moira thought so, too. He obviously loved Rapa Nui, the island, the people, the work he was doing. At the end of our conversation, I knew that Poike was a peninsula at one end of the island, the location of one of three volcanoes that had formed the island a very, very long time ago, and a place where legend had it that a great battle between the tribes of Rapa Nui had been fought. I also knew Rory was single.

The party was just breaking up when the most extraordinary thing happened. We'd spread out by this time, past the pool area and onto a grassy area between the hotel and the sea. Several delegates were out on the grass chatting.

There was a pile of earth near the edge of the cliff, by a wood post and wire gated fence whose role, presumably, was to keep people and animals from going over the side. One moment there was no one there. The next, an older man, dark of complexion and attire, stood staring intently at the dirt. Rory went over to talk to him, and we followed. The man said something to Rory in a language I did not recognize, and then as quickly as he had appeared, he walked away. Rory looked bemused.

"What was that about?" Moira said, watching the man's retreating back.

"That was Felipe Tepano," Rory said. "He's something of a legend in the archaeological community. He's been working on projects here for almost forty years. He helps me out sometimes with my excavation work. I stay at his wife's guest house on the other side of Hanga Roa when I'm here.

Felipe does some work on the hotel grounds from time to time as well, I believe."

"And?" Moira said.

"And," Rory said. "He just told me that someone will die here, right where we're standing. He says that someone will die here very soon.