The Moai Murders

2

RANO RARAKU—In retrospect, I'd come to view my first full day on Rapa Nui, during which an amorphous blob called the Moai Congress slowly became a group of mere names, then gradually, distinct individuals with all the foibles, passions, and temperaments that went with them, with my first glimpse of the quarry. From a distance, Rano Raraku looks like any other hillside on the island, a grassy, windswept surface dotted with large rocks, spewed in some ancient cataclysm from one of the volcanoes that formed the island hundreds of thousands of years ago. As one moves closer, however, the rocks begin to take form. Huge stone faces and torsos come into focus. Some stand erect, perhaps fifteen or twenty feet tall. Others, held in place by the dust of centuries, lean poised as if forever caught on the cusp of toppling.

Closer still, features begin to appear. The moai are similar, all with thin lips and sharp chins, large and upswept noses, elongated earlobes, and, where the torso can be seen, arms flexed, thin fingers pressed against stone bellies. All are sightless, staring vacantly across the landscape toward the sea. Still, they are not identical; each is individually carved, and with some study, the small differences that make them each unique become apparent. There are hundreds of them, a sight so amazing that Moira and I stood motionless for several minutes, transfixed by what we saw.

Then Moira, with a whoop of pleasure, ran down a dusty path and wrapped her arms around one of them. Praying to whatever gods looked after technopeasants like me, I raised the camera and snapped my first photo. The light was so bright I couldn't see the image on the screen and could only hope I had captured the moment. It was not that I thought I would forget Rano Raraku. That place, and the awe it inspired, would be with me forever. But I wanted to be able to share it with Rob, as he'd suggested, and to give Moira a keepsake of what was such a special moment for her.

The quarry will remain burned in my memory for another reason, an episode that, while mildly unpleasant at the time, was to have ramifications far beyond anything I could have imagined. For several minutes, though, Moira and I just wandered companionably among the moai, enjoying the hot sun and the fact that we were there. The first photo under my belt, I began snapping away with abandon.

"Shall we try to climb up to the rim of the volcano and see what's on the other side?" Moira asked.

"Sure," I said, and we took a rocky, dusty path that headed upward. It was an easy enough climb, although the sun by now was hot, tempered only by the wind.

Moira, who had taken the lead, stopped abruptly at the summit. "You will not believe this," she said, turning back to me, as I took the last couple of steps to the top. At first I didn't know what she was talking about, my attention caught by a startlingly blue lake, partially filled with reeds, that lay at the bottom of the crater below us and the inner slopes of the volcano peppered with even more moai, that I immediately began to photograph. I looked at Moira who pointed to our left, where a man stood, feet firmly planted on the summit, in front of a video camera.

"I'm standing on the slopes of the volcano, Rano Raraku, on the island some of us know as Easter Island, or Isla de Pascua, others as Rapa Nui, but one the native peoples used to call Te-Pito-te-Henua, or the navel of the world," Jasper Robinson said, gesturing toward the sea, as the camera panned across the landscape. "You can see why the inhabitants might think so because this is possibly the most isolated inhabited island on the planet. It is here, on the slopes of Rano Raraku, that the magnificent moai, the huge stone statues that have made Rapa Nui famous, were born," Robinson said, now staring straight at the camera, as he opened his arms wide in an encompassing gesture and the wind whipped his carefully coifed hair. A very young woman who had pierced rings almost every place you could think of putting them and a small lizard tattooed on her upper arm watched with a bored expression on her face.

"Call me crazy," Moira murmured. "But I was not expecting a film crew here."

"Doesn't do much for the ambiance, does it?" I said.

"This is a magnificent setting," the man went on, "still charged, I think, with the energy that those who carved the moai brought to the task. These monolithic stone sculptures are absolutely unique. You do not find anything quite like them anywhere else in the world. There are almost three hundred moai here in the quarry, each weighing several tons, and all at different stages of development. About a hundred and sixty of them are unfinished. Some, as you can see, were completed, and now stand upright, buried to their necks in the soil. Others lie partially carved, still attached to the volcanic rock from which they were created. Beyond that, about a hundred more of them line one of two ancient roads that lead from this quarry down toward the sea."

I heard footsteps crunching on stones behind me and turned to see Dave, who wore the same outfit as yesterday, with the exception of a green bandana, obviously a trademark of his, followed by six or seven delegates to the Moai Congress who had come on the bus with us that morning.

"Are these people going to follow us wherever we go?" Moira said.

"I guess so. They're filming a documentary on Jasper's work and theories," Dave said. "It's called Rapa Nui: The Mystery Solved."

"Which mystery would that be?" Moira said. She'd given up, as I had, pretending she knew anything. A tall blonde woman with large sunglasses and a straw hat glared in our general direction.

"The moai were carved using these," Robinson said, stooping to pick up what looked to be a lump of stone. "These are called toki, stone tools made of basalt. Thousands of them were found all over the site. Imagine carving these stone giants using only these toki. It is an amazing feat. The burning question is who carved these statues and not only carved them but moved them down the slopes—remember they each weigh several tons—and then raised them on ceremonial platforms called ahu," Robinson went on, taking a few paces toward the camera.

"I'll tell you what the Rapa Nui themselves say," he said, gesturing to a group of workmen who were leaning on shovels and laughing as they watched the action. The camera panned in their direction, and the men, embarrassed, dropped their tools and ran away, giggling as they went. The camera followed their retreating backs. "They say their ancestors carved them, but then the statues walked to the platforms all by themselves." He shrugged at the camera. "I guess we know that didn't happen." He laughed, gesturing once again toward the retreating workmen. The camera followed his hand.

"Do we believe them? Or do we believe that some other race, descendants of the builders of the great stone cities of South America, landed here and both built and transported these great monuments? That's the question we are going to explore over the next two hours."

"Horse manure!" a loud voice exclaimed, and we turned to see a giant of a man coming toward us. He had the bluest eyes I have ever seen, and his gray hair was parted in the middle and worn in long braids. He strode across the rocky terrain as if he owned the place. He was, it was clear, someone to be reckoned with, and he looked really peeved.

"Cut," a rather scruffy-looking man in horn-rimmed glasses and long hair that fell in his eyes yelled. "Could we have silence here, please?" he said, looking right at us as the giant among men joined our little group. "We are shooting a documentary."

"Stand clear!" Dave whispered. "Trouble coming."

"You call this a documentary?" the tall man said. "I call it science fiction, pure and simple."

"Do you mind?" the scruffy guy said.

"That's okay, Mike," Jasper Robinson said. "There are skeptics everywhere. We can take a break for a few minutes. I need to review my notes anyway. Were you able to stay with me through all that, Danny Boy?"

"Take a break," the director said, rather reluctantly. "Nice improvisation there, Jasper. And yes, Danny Boy kept up with you. Great footage." The cameraman, presumably Danny, waved. The bored young woman bestirred herself and applied a powder puff to Jasper Robinson's face before straightening the collar on his cream-colored golf shirt— which set his biceps off nicely—and brushing some dust from his khaki pants. She had not changed expression once that I noticed, not even when the blue-eyed giant had arrived on the scene.

"That was unconscionable," the tall man said, making his way over to where Robinson and the crew stood. "You panned the camera over those poor workmen to imply that they were incapable of much of anything. You took advantage of them to make your own point, and you are a bigot. You made them look like idiots."

"People can judge for themselves, Fairweather," Jasper said.

"That would be Doctor Fairweather," the other man said. "You know, it's several years of university study and after that years and years of field work before one begins to venture opinions on archaeology. I graduated with honors from USC. Where did you say you got your degree?"

"That is just the kind oiadhominem response I have come to expect from the academic establishment, of which you are surely one of the most reactionary representatives," Jasper said. "I believe my research speaks for itself. You'll have the chance to present your point of view at the conference, or at least you would have been able to do so if you hadn't declined to participate."

"What does ad hominem mean?" the woman we'd guessed might be Hottie Matu'a the previous evening and who had identified herself to us as Yvonne from Kansas asked.

"He means that Fairweather attacked the man rather than the argument," I said.

"He's made it personal, that's for sure," Yvonne replied, trying to kick some little stones out of her sandals, which were entirely inappropriate for the terrain, and tugging at her shorts, which were riding up on her in what looked to be a most uncomfortable way. She waved rather coyly at Jasper, and he rewarded her with a big wink. The relationship, apparently, was progressing nicely.

"And will I be filmed here, too?" Fairweather asked, loudly. "No, I won't, because you will only have your own ridiculous ideas on film."

"I am going to present a paper the day after tomorrow that will show you just how wrong you are, Fairweather. About me and about Rapa Nui. I'll give you a second chance. Do come. You have my personal invitation. I hope you accept it, because I look forward to seeing the expression on your face when I reveal my little surprise," Jasper said.

By this time, the two men were almost nose to nose, both red-faced and obviously angry. "I vote we just leave them to it and continue to look around," I said to Moira.

"Right behind you," she said. As we turned back, I noticed the tall, slim woman in the sun hat who had grimaced at us exchanging a glance with the cameraman, who nodded. I was pretty sure I knew what that nonverbal communication was about. Danny Boy was telling her that yes, he had let the camera roll through the entire encounter between Robinson and Fairweather. I wasn't sure what I thought of the heated discussion, but I didn't think filming it was the sporting thing to do.

Determined not to let the incident spoil our visit, Moira and I wandered a little longer on the grassy slopes, stopping to look, to touch, to admire the distant sea. Way off in the distance, close to the water, we could see a long line of moai, their backs to the sea. "Ahu Tongariki," Dave said, joining us for a moment. "It's been restored, as have several others, so you get to see what they would have looked like at the height of the moai carving period. There are fifteen of them on that ahu. It's an incredible sight from here, but wait until you see them up close. We'll go down there later."

"Are they still fighting up there?" Moira asked.

"Fairweather's gone," Dave said. "He was pretty upset. At least he left before they came to blows."

"Who was the glamorous woman, the tall blonde in the big hat?" I asked.

"Kent Clarke, the film producer," Dave replied.

"But what is her name?" I said.

"Kent Clarke. That's her name."

"What do you bet her father wanted a boy?" Moira said.

"Either that or she made it up," I replied. "Show biz and all."

Dave laughed. "I'm afraid it's time to go back, girls. Sorry."

The van was abuzz, as could be expected, with talk of the little contretemps between Robinson and Fairweather.

"I don't know what to think," a woman by the name of Susie Scace said. "I came to hear Robinson. I'd be the first to admit it. He doesn't have the academic credentials, it's true. But you can't fault the work he's done in Chile, and he's done amazing things in Bolivia and Peru, too. I do believe there is such a thing as a talented amateur—somebody who just has a feel for the subject. Maybe he couldn't afford to go to university like Fairweather."

"He sure gets his hands on the big bucks," an impish little man with a white goatee and big ears interjected. He made me think of hobbits and was sitting near the back of the bus with a woman I assumed to be his wife. "I am deeply envious, having worn holes in the knees of my pants begging for money for my own work over the years. If it were not for my wife Judith here and her hugely successful medical practice, I would not have been able to come."

"You're a kept man are you, Lewis?" Dave said good-naturedly.

"I am," he said. "Retired last year."

"He's an expensive little muffin," his wife said.

"I'm Lewis Hood, also known as Poikeman," he said, waving in our general direction. Moira and I introduced ourselves.

"They're not maniacs," Dave said. "Poikeman won't mean anything."

"I have no idea what they're talking about either," Judith said, smiling at us.

"I wish I'd been there when Fairweather showed up," Brian Murphy, the young man from the University of Texas looking for a job, said. "Fairweather was trained by Bill Mulloy. Mulloy!"

"Who's Bill Mulloy?" Moira said.

"Wow, you don't know?" Brian said. "He's a legend. Mulloy came out with Thor Heyerdahl in the mid-fifties. Long after Heyerdahl left, Mulloy worked on. He was responsible for some of the best archaeological work done on the island. He and his team restored Ahu Akivi and the ceremonial village at Orongo. We'll be seeing them later. He's dead now."

"He's buried here," an older man offered. "That's how much the place meant to him. He worked here for years and years. I'm Albert Morris, by the way. To modify a phrase, please don't call me Al. I'm Albert, currently from Montana. I'm retired, too. I was a PR consultant in Washington until a couple of years ago, a spin doctor, to use the vernacular. I'm fascinated by archaeology, so I volunteer at dig sites all over the world. Anybody who'll have me."

"Do you notice how we're always giving ourselves away?" Moira murmured. "Laying bare our complete ignorance of people like Bill Mulloy for everyone to see?"

"All I'm saying is that people can teach themselves about a subject. Learning does not all happen in the formal education system," Susie said.

"I couldn't agree more, Sandy," Dave said. "Take me, for example. I'm a builder, a developer. But I have a theory as to how the moai got from the quarry to the ahu. Just figured it out one day. I hope you'll all come to my presentation. It's the day after tomorrow, at eleven in the morning. You'll have lots of time to get over your hangovers from the night before, so you will have no excuse not to come."

"What I would like to know," said a woman who looked to me as if she'd been blown off course on her way to an audition for a remake of a 1940s' movie set in Budapest and ended up on Rapa Nui by mistake. She was dressed in a style I would describe as pseudo-gypsy, a brightly colored dress with a gathered skirt, a scarf over her head, and far too much in the way of both makeup and bracelets. "Was anyone here present when that man made his prediction about an imminent death at our hotel?"

"Did that really happen?" Lewis Hood said. "Everybody was talking about it at breakfast, but nobody actually heard the guy say it."

"We did," Moira said. "The man's name is Tepano, and he spoke in Rapanui, but Rory Carlyle understood and told us what he said." There had only been a handful of people present when Tepano had made his pronouncement, but news obviously traveled fast in this pack.

"I think that's really spooky," Yvonne said. "I keep looking at that pile of dirt. I can't stop. You can see it from the dining room. Sometimes I think it looks bigger than it did the last time I looked at it, and I'm afraid someone is buried there."

"Nonsense," Albert said.

"It is far from nonsense," the gypsy, who had introduced herself that morning as Cassandra, said. "I believe the people here know things most of the rest of us don't, that they are in touch with powers the rest of us have lost the ability to contact. Here people are in touch with their aku-aku, the spirits, who are very much with us. Rapa Nui may be all that's left of the lost continent of Lemuria, and we know what that means."

"We do?" Yvonne said.

"You mean Atlantis, don't you?" Moira said.

"Atlantis is in the Atlantic Ocean," the woman said in a condescending tone. "Lemuria, or the Land of Mu, is the continent that once joined India and Australia."

"I'm thinking you are maybe not glad you asked this question," Enrique Gonzales said.

"There I go again," Moira said. "Looking like a complete ignoramus."

"And this has what to do with the dire prediction of last night?" Albert said.

"The people of Lemuria were very artistic and spiritual," the woman said. She had a compelling voice, deep and throaty, and I found myself hanging on every word, even if I thought everything she said was hogwash. "Unlike the people of Atlantis, I might add, who were much more scientific. It's possible that both Atlantis and Lemuria were destroyed by a scientific experiment on Atlantis gone wrong."

"Could this possibly be the lunatic fringe Rory was telling us about?" Moira whispered. "I don't feel so bad now."

"The people of Lemuria had extraordinary powers," the woman said. "Powers way beyond anything we know today. I believe, as many do, that they came from another planet."

I heard a quiet snort from Seth Connelly, the rongorongo expert, who had heretofore kept his mouth shut. "Somebody here is from another planet," he muttered.

"Rapa Nui people may have retained some of the powers of the Lemurians," the woman said. "The people here know about the spirit world. They know the aku-aku are very much with us. I believe their ability to sense the aku-aku comes from some vestigial power transferred to them by the Lemurians."

"Vestigial?" Yvonne said.

"My theory," Susie, practical woman that she obviously was, said, "is that intuition or dreams about the future are nothing more than our subconscious trying to tell us something. You know, you dream about the wheels falling off your car because there really is something wrong, some vibrations or something, that your subconscious detected even if you didn't consciously notice, and the dreams are trying to warn you. Am I making sense?"

"Spooky," Yvonne repeated. I resisted pointing out that even if one accepted the argument about dreams and the state of your car, which I probably did, it did not establish what it was about the pile of dirt that could have indicated to Tepano's subconscious that somebody was going to end up dead there. One thing I had in common with Yvonne, though, was that every time the pile of dirt was within eyesight, I couldn't keep my eyes off it.

"If anybody is going to die there," Lewis said. "It's going to be Jasper Robinson. And my money will be on that fellow Fairweather as the culprit. They should just pick him up immediately." We all laughed, all except the gypsy, that is.

"I think Jasper was unkind to those workmen," Susie said. "I'd agree with Robinson that the idea that the moai walked to the ahu is pretty preposterous, but still, he shouldn't have made fun of them like that."

"Who is to say they didn't walk?" the gypsy said. "Power is concentrated here."

"That walking moai story, however preposterous, does rather speak to the moai being moved in a vertical position," Albert said. He was having no truck with the gypsy.

"Just come to my presentation," Dave repeated.

"I'll come," Lewis said. "That final session will be quite something, though. I don't expect there'll be an empty seat in the place when Robinson speaks once this episode is reported to the rest of the group when we get back."

"There's lots going on between now and then," Dave said. "There are papers being presented from noon today on. I'll hope to see you all at mine." Moira rolled her eyes.

"Evil forces may be gathering," the gypsy said. "Remember what Cassandra de Santiago has told you."

"Look," Moira exclaimed, and we all turned in the direction she was pointing as the van slowed to a halt. We were down by the sea, and between us and the surf was the most extraordinary sight. Fifteen towering moai stood in a line on a long platform, backs to the sea, sightless eyes staring across the landscape toward the quarry.

"Ahu Tongariki," Dave said. "Impressive, isn't it? What did I tell ya?"

It was: the moai framed by the crashing sea behind and headlands beyond. I have traveled so much in my life that, sad to say, it takes a fair amount to truly impress me, but even for me, Ahu Tongariki was a jaw-dropping place. I could hardly believe my eyes.

"Tongenrique," Enrique said, tapping me on the shoulder to get my attention. "My name, like I told you."

"Right," I said. What was he going on about?

"I like this place," I said to Moira. "I believe it is actually going to live up to expectations."

"Me, too," she said. "Even with that Cassandra de Santiago person around. Do we think she made up that name?"

"Count on it," I said.

"An abnormally large proportion of people with made-up names at the congress," she said. "Poikeman, indeed!"

We spent the afternoon at the hotel, in a large building just off the main road, taking in the lectures—lectures, I might add, with titles such as Lapita cultural complex and ancestral Polynesia or The myth of Hotu Matu'a: The reliability of oral tradition in the study of the Rapa Nui prehistory.

It did not take me very long to realize that for all the backslapping, shoulder-punching bonhomie, and the hey-great-to-see-yous, several of the people attending the Moai Congress didn't like each other very much. Indeed, if the congress could be said to have a personality, it was one of thinly veiled, but genteel, hostility. There was the very public spat between Robinson and Fairweather to be sure, but beyond that I began to notice that certain people went out of their way to avoid each other or looked for opportunities to argue over some esoteric point. These were academic disagreements, but it seemed to me the feelings went way beyond the professional and were charged, in some cases, with a level of animosity that surprised me.

That first afternoon alone, a delegate by the name of Edwina Rasmussen, a short, intense woman of rather unpleasant disposition, publicly called into question Brian Murphy's credentials and then talked loudly throughout his presentation; Brenda Butters walked out of Rory Carlyle's speech in a rather obvious fashion; and Jasper Robinson smirked and squirmed through any of the papers that did not support his theories.

There was clearly a very fundamental disagreement between those who believed that Rapa Nui had been settled by Polynesian mariners and the other group which was convinced that Rapa Nui had been inhabited originally by people from South America, Peru, and Bolivia primarily, who had brought their great stonemaking skills to carve and erect the moai. Some went even further, postulating, as Moira's hero Thor Heyerdahl had, that the New World was civilized a very long time ago by people from as far away as Egypt and that these people in turn had discovered Rapa Nui.

It seemed to me that science was on the side of those who supported the Polynesian theory, but science did not in and of itself stop the arguments from the other side.

Then there was the disagreement as to whether local legends and myths were just that or if they represented real events and people—history, in other words. For example, was there really a Hotu Matu'a, who in legend was the leader who brought the first people to Rapa Nui and became their first ariki mau, or king, or was this simply an interesting tale?

By the end of the afternoon, my "never again" life list had a new entry: I will never attend any event with the word congress in it again. I was convinced all this suppressed tension was giving me a headache. Moira must have felt it, too. "I don't think we actually need to attend the mixer this evening, do you?" she said. "I vote we get away from here. I think we should go into Hanga Roa for a look at the town— it's not on the archaeology tours—and stay for dinner and a drink or three. It's on me."

We went out to the main road and hailed a taxi, leaving Dave telling a group of delegates about the terrific time slot he had and how they must come to hear his presentation, and in a few minutes found ourselves on the main street of Hanga Roa, a sprawling town of low-rise buildings, never more than two stories, where apparently most of the 3,500 inhabitants of the island live.

We had no specific plans, which was very pleasant after what had been a rather structured day at the congress, so we just wandered along, looking at the various restaurants and souvenir shops, trying to get our bearings. I found an Internet cafe and picked up my email—three from Clive asking me where I'd put things. I'd left him a list of everything he needed for the antique show, but obviously it was easier to send an email asking for the answer than it was to open the file. I resolved not to mention this to Moira. There was also an email from Rob. My heart soared when I read the first sentence in which he told me my kitchen counter had finally arrived, but it sank at the second in which he broke the news that the hole for the sink was cut in the wrong place and we were back at square one.

Next, we found the town's church at the top of a slight incline, and the doors being open, we went in. While much like any other church on the outside, inside it was a surprise. The church enjoyed a rather unusual melding of Christianity with an ancient local religion, that syncretism most obviously expressed by wood statues, all carved by hand. There were saints, recognizably Christian, but carved wearing Rapa Nui attire. One saint had the face of a bird. I was enchanted, and Moira had trouble pulling me away.

Across the street from the church was a craft market— several rooms of little booths selling crafts and souvenirs. Almost everyone was selling wood carvings. There were thousands of carvings, many of the moai. I went immediately into my shopkeeper mode, looking for something special I could ship home to the shop. Then it struck me. I was on vacation. There was nothing I had to do, no purchase I had to make for the shop, no appointments with agents, no new suppliers to track down.

Still, I couldn't stop myself from looking. The carvings varied considerably in quality, and they were not inexpensive. Having said that, some were really lovely. Although my home will soon collapse under the weight of all the treasures I have brought back from my trips over the years, I couldn't resist buying one. Then, in keeping with my holiday mood, dampened only slightly by the news about the kitchen, I bought a flowered shirt for Rob. It was relatively subdued—lovely taupe and cream flowers on a black background—but still, as soon as I'd handed over the cash, I realized I couldn't see him wearing it. That's what happens to you when you go on vacation, I decided. Your reason, to say nothing of your innate good taste, deserts you. It's all that sun on your head. "I think you are going to have to keep me away from the stores and markets," I told Moira. "Let's go see some sights instead."

"We'll head for that little cove," she said. "The caleta, it's called, according to my map. Watch your step. No doubt you have noticed that there are many things that distinguish this street from the one on which you and I own businesses, the most obvious being horse poop. Did you notice how many people have horses in their backyard?"

"Hard to miss," I said. "Obviously these horses have the run of the town. I thought when that fellow Fairweather shouted 'horse manure' out at the quarry this morning, that it was just a rather quaint expression. Here it is entirely appropriate. The other feature that distinguishes this place from home is cell phones or rather the lack thereof."

"That, too," Moira agreed. "Horse poop and no cell phones. I'm sure they'll get cell phones soon enough, but I'm not sure what they're going to do about the horse poop. Look! What's this?" We had come upon a building where several people, obviously residents, crowded around an open door. "Come on. Let's see what's going on."

"I hope we aren't crashing a funeral," I said.

"You are such a drag, Lara," she sighed.

What was going on was some extraordinary singing, a group of young men and women who were singing in quite wonderful harmony and with great enthusiasm. The beat was infectious, and soon my toes were tapping. Nobody seemed to mind that we were there, and indeed several people made some room so we could see better.

A tall, attractive woman with beautiful tawny skin and lark hair and eyes smiled at us, and Moira asked what was ping on. "Preparation for Tapati Rapa Nui," the woman said. "You would call it a folklore festival, I think. At the end of January, or early February, of every year, we celebrate our heritage. We recreate some of the rituals of our past— for example, those associated with the cult of the bird man at Orongo. The island is packed with tourists for a couple of weeks. Young men have to swim out to a little islet called Motu Nui and wait for the first bird's egg. Have you been to the ceremonial center of Orongo yet?"

"Tomorrow morning," Moira said.

"That's where the cult of the bird man ceremonies took place for about two hundred years, until the missionaries arrived in the late eighteen hundreds, and the island was converted to Christianity. At the festival, we try to recreate those ceremonies. There is lots of dancing and singing, and there are all kinds of competitions. There is also a festival queen. Two young women are in the running this year, and their friends and families participate in the festival activities in an effort to help them. Everyone does what they can to help the candidate of their choice. One of the two girls, Gabriela, is a member of my family, so I will be supporting her.

"The stakes are very high," she said. "This year's winner gets a university education in Chile, completely paid for. Last year there was a very nice car as a prize. Stay as long as you like," she said. We did listen for a while longer, but I think we both felt like interlopers, so after a few minutes we moved on.

The caleta was very pleasant—a group of pretty buildings facing tiny boats in brilliant yellow, blue, and red bobbing in the wake. A moai stood there, back to the sea, gazing over the town. We continued along, the sea on our left, wandering farther afield. We seemed to be on the outskirts of the town when we came upon a small cemetery overlooking the Pacific. It was not large, and while the gate was shut, it was held only by a loosely twisted rope, so we went in and wandered among the simple graves, most with just a white wooden cross, the graves themselves planted with bright flowers. On the crosses were unfamiliar names like Pakarati, Tepano, Nahoe, Hotus, and Rapu, interspersed with many Spanish and even some English names.

It was getting late in the day, but Moira spotted another group of moai on their ahu on the headlands past the cemetery, so we walked on. A gate blocked the road, but it was easy enough, as it had been at the cemetery, to pry it open enough to get by. A few people watched us, but no one made any attempt to stop us.

As we stood gazing at five moai on an ahu positioned once again with their backs to the sea, we heard some shouts and turned back to the road to see several horses coming our way, accompanied by two men on horseback. The horses were lovely, a striking reddish color, with dark manes and pale faces, but somewhere not far away someone honked a car horn, and the horses bolted straight for us. There were at least fifteen of them, and their hooves on the rocky soil sounded like thunder. Moira and I clutched at each other and stood facing them, poised to run, although I, for one, had no idea which way to turn. When they were close enough that we could hear and almost feel their breath, and it seemed certain we were going to be trampled, the pack parted and swerved to either side of us, and in a moment or two they were gone. It took only a few seconds, but it was terrifying.

"That was exciting," Moira observed dryly when we'd found our voices again. "Let's go back to the harbor. I saw some restaurants there. It would be nice to have dinner by the sea. I like looking at it, even if the moai don't. I'm sure there is an explanation of why they all have their backs to the water, but I haven't heard it yet. Dave probably knows, but I'm afraid to ask him, lest he hold me hostage until I come to hear his paper."

We chose a charming little restaurant with windows on three sides wide open to the street and the harbor, decorated with cheerful blue linens and large and bright posters. The restaurant was deserted with the exception of us, the proprietor, and the chef. Moira ordered a bottle of Chilean sauvignon blanc on the proprietor's recommendation, and we were soon feeling relaxed and grateful to be alone.

A rain shower swept through, and soon we were listening to rain on metal rooftops and a pleasant trickle of water from the eaves. "Didn't you just love the quarry?" Moira said, taking a sip of wine. "I can't believe what we saw today. For some reason, I thought that every picture of a moai I saw over the thirty years since I read Heyerdahl was the same one over and over. At most I thought there might be twenty of them. I had no idea there were almost a thousand all over the island!"

"It is magic," I agreed. "I'm thinking, though, that maybe we should rent a four-wheel-drive vehicle and explore at least part of the island ourselves."

Moira smiled. "That sounds like a very good idea. Will you ever forgive me for making you sign up for this conference?"

I thought about that for a moment. "No," I said, and we both cracked up.

"It's a snake pit," Moira said. "All those arguments! Can you believe these people could have a heated discussion for a whole hour over a potato? What were they going on about? Do you have any idea?"

"It's key to the argument that the carvers of the moai came from South America. The sweet potato is indigenous to South America, but not to Polynesia, so if it's found on Rapa Nui, which it is, then it must have been brought here by people from South America. At least that's the theory. The side that argues for Polynesian carvers says that pollen analysis places the potato here long before anybody arrived, and it's therefore not relevant."

"I'm tempted to say, 'Who cares?' Moira said. "The moai are extraordinary no matter who carved them. I was enraptured by Heyerdahl in my school days and rather taken by his idea of a race of tall, red-headed stonemasons who had journeyed to Rapa Nui, but I'm just as happy to have the moai carved by Polynesians. It's very impressive that they could sail so far across the Pacific and navigate by star maps so long ago. If they could do that, why couldn't they carve moai? But obviously there are some here who do care."

"I'd say they care way too much. I have always believed, perhaps naively, that all who worked in the field were interested in sharing ideas, in advancing the world's knowledge through civilized discussion and study."

"Silly you," Moira said. "Weren't they just dreadful to that nice young man, Brian Murphy? I don't pretend to understand what he was talking about, but surely he didn't deserve the treatment he got at the hands of that awful Edwina Rasmussen, nor did Susie Scace, who seems to be a lovely person."

"You were right to suggest we go up and talk to Brian at the break," I said. "Everyone crowded around Jasper and just left the kid standing there."

"He was so pathetically grateful to us, wasn't he?" Moira said. "He must have known we were the last people on the planet to judge his work, but he sure was glad to talk to us. You know who Edwina reminds me of? Rosa Klebb, the villain with the killer shoes in the James Bond movie, From Russia with Love."

"Ouch," I said. "You're right, though."

"And Brenda Butters hates Rory because… ?"

"Because he doesn't support Jasper's theories and has no trouble saying so, loudly and often."

"I thought Jasper Robinson was particularly disagreeable," she said. "All those lengthy speeches when it came time for questions, intended to display his erudition and provide good footage for the camera, rather than actually asking a real question. If I had been moderating those sessions, I'd have cut Jasper off in about ten seconds. He is a very attractive man, though. Insecure, I'll bet you—one of those men who are always trying to prove themselves. Guess how many wives he's had."

"I have no idea. Three?"

"Four," she said. "Susie Scace told me. He appears to be after number five in Yvonne, who is absolutely starstruck. She hangs on his every utterance. He, of course, is just lapping up all that adoration. It's enough to make me gag. What did you think of the presentation on Lemuria, the lost continent, by that peculiar woman Cassandra de Santiago? Did she invent Lemuria all by herself?"

"Apparently not," I said. "I asked Susie Scace. There are people who think there was a very ancient civilization in the Pacific, one that disappeared just like Atlantis."

"I still think it's odd to have that kind of paper at an academic congress."

"It is that," I agreed. "Dave said the congress was by invitation. I wonder why these strange people got invited?"

"Beats me," Moira said.

"The schedule is a little odd, too," I said. "Most of the conferences I attend have the keynote speaker at the start, not the end."

"Big leadup to the big man," Moira said. "It has the advantage for Jasper of not giving anyone time to argue with him afterward, unless that fellow Fairweather shows up and starts yelling again."

"I think they filmed that disagreement at the quarry this morning," I said. "I can't be sure, but I think so."

"That's not very nice. I vote we go to Orongo with the group tomorrow then just skip the afternoon sessions. We can either rent a car, or book another tour, or something. We don't have to go to everything."

"We have to go to Dave's," I said, and we both laughed.

"That's not until the next day," she said. "I'm going to settle up the bill here, and we should return to the hotel. We haven't had a vicious gossip session like this in years. I'm so glad you came with me."

"You haven't finished your dinner, Moira," I said.

"I've had enough," she said. "I think I have to have another of those pisco sour things. If Rory's there, we'll ask him why the moai all have their backs to the sea."

We walked back to the main street in search of a cab. Now that we knew about the Tapati Rapa Nui, it was clear the whole town was involved. Many stores had posted photos of the two young women competing to be queen: Gabriela, the one we'd been told about, and another named Lidia. They were both very pretty, and one of them looked familiar. The street was fairly deserted now, except for teenagers on motorbikes and a few patrons on the patios of restaurants. Mike and the cameraman, Danny Boy, they'd called him, waved from one of them. I guess we'd been forgiven for talking during filming at the quarry.

By now it was getting a bit dark, so we hailed a cab and went back. Rory came over the minute he saw us, saying "Pisco sours all 'round?"

The young woman who came to take our orders was wearing a name badge that proclaimed her to be Gabriela. We told her we'd heard about her and about her nomination. She was a very sweet young woman and even prettier in person than in her photographs, with a gorgeous smile. We couldn't talk long, of course, given she was at work, but it was fun to meet her, and we wished her luck.

Moira asked Rory right away about the moai, and he told us they were images of clan ancestors and that they were placed to look over the village, as a guardian of sorts, rather than out to sea.

"What toppled all the moai?" I asked. "We saw so many along the shore that are face down, and there are only a few ahu that were destroyed. Was it an earthquake or something?"

"And why did they stop carving them?" Moira asked.

"Clan wars," Rory said. "We think that during a time when society here was under a great deal of stress, wars broke out between the clans. There are stories about wars between the Hanau eepe and the Hanau momoko. Heyerdahl translated this as a battle between the long ears and the short ears, but that's not accurate. It is more like fat and thin, or upper class and lower class. The clans toppled each other's moai."

"Sort of like Jasper Robinson and Gordon Fairweather," Lewis Hood said, pulling up a chair. "Or the people who argue over sweet potatoes."

"Sweet potatoes?" Yvonne said, also joining in. "I missed that session."

"Don't ask," Seth Connelly said, also joining us. "The explanation will take hours."

At this point, several of the other people who had been with us at the quarry came over to chat, and so we left it at that. Dave, of course, reminded us of his presentation, the one at the perfect time. Yvonne made a joke about the pile of dirt: She said they'd named it Tepano's Tomb. Brian came over to chat up Rory in the hopes of getting a summer job.

The show stopper, however, was the arrival of Enrique with a glass of red wine, a can of cola, and a glass. As we watched, he poured the wine into the glass and then topped it off with cola.

"Did you see that?" Albert said. "What are you doing to that perfectly decent wine, young man?"

"This is how we drink wine in Chile," Enrique said, adding a bit more cola. "It's good. Very refreshing. You should try it."

"I may have to take something to calm my nerves," Albert said.

"I have diazepam if you want it," Moira said.

"Last call," the bartender said.

"I should think so, after that," Albert said.

"One more round of pisco sours?" Rory said. He and Moira were getting on like a house on fire, and I was beginning to feel as interesting as wallpaper, so I decided to leave them to it and go back to the room by myself.

There were two possible ways to get there, one of which involved going outside onto the terrace and thence across the grass to the annex where our room was located. The second was to cut through the lounge. Given all the talk about fate, Lemurians, aku-aku, and so on that day, I've often since thought about my choice.

I chose the outside route. If I had taken the other route or had left five minutes earlier or later, I would not have seen what I did. As it was, two perplexing and disturbing events occurred.

It was a pleasant evening. I walked along the terrace, and as I was about to turn the corner I heard a sound, a jangling, that I rather believed I'd recognize if I thought about it. The source of the noise became evident the minute I poked my head around the corner: Cassandra de Santiago's bracelets. She had a tight grip on Gabriela, the waitress, and was actually shaking her. I was about to protest, when Cassandra raised one arm and hit the young woman right across the face. I was thunderstruck, but before I could find my voice, Gabriela slipped out of the older woman's grasp and ran away.

I knew the woman had been too busy intimidating Gabriela, and the younger woman too terrified, to notice me, and so rather than confront Cassandra, I turned on my heel and went back along the terrace and thence into the lounge very upset by what I'd seen and not entirely sure what I should do about it. This time, it was the sound of loud snoring that signaled that I was not alone. I tiptoed carefully past a large armchair on which Dave Maddox dozed. I was almost safely past when the book he had been reading slid off his lap to the floor right at my feet. Maddox started slightly, but did not wake up.

The book, a hardcover, had fallen tent-like, spine up. The pages were rather badly crushed. I was going to walk right by, but I love books, and the sight of this one being squashed like that was too much for me. I carefully leaned over to pick it up, intending to simply straighten the pages and put it on the table at Dave's side, all without waking him.

The book was interesting for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that while its dust cover proclaimed it to be the latest John Grisham thriller, the book inside was actually written by Eric Hebborn. Hebborn may not exactly be a household name, but in some circles he is extremely well-known. Hebborn, you see, was a master forger. He claimed to have fallen into that particular line of work when he was ripped off by an art dealer and decided to take his revenge. He was good at it, if one can use that adjective under the circumstances. He fooled a lot of people for a considerable period of time. His final gesture, adding insult to injury, was to write a book called The Art Forger's Handbook, in which he documented all the techniques that he had used to deceive everyone. It was this book I now held in my hand, and it was a very rarefied edition, worth at least two or three hundred dollars.

As I stood contemplating this, Maddox gave a snort and woke up. He was obviously startled to see me, so close to his chair. "Sorry if I woke you," I said. "I didn't realize you were here. You dropped your book." I smiled and handed it back to him.

"I guess I must be tired if I can't stay awake reading Grisham," he said. I had the feeling he was watching my reaction closely.

"It's been a busy day," I replied. "I don't think I'm going to attempt to read tonight, not even something as exciting as Grisham. See you tomorrow." I headed for the door.

"Good night, Lynda," he said. "Don't forget to come to my presentation."

"I'll be there," I said.

My brief but eventful trip to the room had left me with a number of questions, not the least of which was what was Cassandra de Santiago doing terrifying a hotel waitress, one who just happened to be one of two contenders for Queen of Tapati Rapa Nui. And what was a builder whose hobby was figuring out how the moai of Rapa Nui were transported to the ahu doing with a copy of The Art Forger's Handbook disguised as a Grisham thriller? Rapa Nui seemed to attract a rather strange group of people, indeed.