Twenty blue devils

Chapter 7

Nick took it hard, all right. One of his aching disappointments in life had been his failure to father a son. There were Maggie and Therese, of course, and indeed he loved them fiercely-especially Therese-but girls weren't boys, and Nick was simply the kind of man who needed a son. When Therese was a little girl Celine had delivered two stillborn babies, both boys, about a year apart, and after that they hadn't had the heart to try again.

And then, a little more than twenty years later, along had come Brian Galen Scott, MBA, operations whiz, and all-around wholesome young man. Therese had brought him to dinner one night, explaining that she had met him during two otherwise ill-fated years as a business major at Bennington College in Vermont, where Nick had sent her mainly because both his sister and Maggie had gone there too. Brian had been a thirty-year-old teaching assistant, and they had gone out once or twice, but it had never come to anything at the time. But two years later, now the business manager of a computer firm in Michigan, Brian had come to the South Seas on a three-week vacation package, had looked up Therese, and well, there he was.

And there he stayed. During that first dinner, Nick had naturally enough talked about the problems of coffee-growing, and Brian, nervous and anxious to please, had prattled on, man-to-man, about the principles of work flow and systems engineering; maybe a little too man-to-man from Nick's point of view, especially coming from a silver-spoon-in-the-mouth kid who made no bones about not knowing a coffee bean from a garbanzo bean.

But Nick, a fair-minded man on most subjects, mulled over Brian's ideas for a day or two and then invited him to spend an afternoon seeing the farm and discussing the specifics of coffee-processing. This time he liked what he heard, and before Brian's three weeks were up he had offered him a job, at fifty percent over his current salary, as the operations manager-a position that hadn't even been in existence before. Brian had taken him up on it on the spot.

From Nick's point of view it had worked out wonderfully. Brian had caught on with astonishing speed. And he had fallen in love not only with Therese but with Tahiti and the coffee business as well. His ideas on automation, computerization, and “organizational reengineering,” although they got some opposition-in particular from Maggie-had put the plantation firmly on its feet. It was Brian who had come up with the ideas that had made the Seattle-area mastery a viable operation. From there, as Nick enjoyed saying, it was history.

There was another angle too. Nick got to keep Therese, on whom he doted, nearby. He had seen the handwriting on the wall that first night and had known it wasn't going to be long before he lost her. This way, his baby girl stayed within reach-his “wedding” present would he a house in Papara, two miles from his own-and he got himself a fire-breathing production genius to boot. That Brian turned out to be a loving, protective husband to Therese and a responsible parent to the twins who came along later was frosting on the cake.

Almost like having a son.

And now it was all ended, done. "No!" he whispered when John broke the news. Then his face went grayish yellow, his big body seemed to fall in on itself, and he sat, staring at nothing, like a witless hulk, while John gave them what details he had.

"And that's it,” John said. “That's all I know."

It was Marti who broke the queasy silence by pushing back her chair. “I'll put up some coffee,” she said quietly and went to the kitchen.

"Tea for me,” Rudy called automatically after her, then looked embarrassed.

"We'll have to arrange the funeral,” Nick said thickly after another long interval. He cleared his throat and visibly gathered himself together. “Nelson, will you see about getting us on a plane in the morning?"

"He's already been buried,” John told them. “In the plantation cemetery."

Maggie-tough, brassy Maggie-suddenly turned brick-red and sobbed like a man, an explosive, gasping, painful yawp that caught everyone by surprise; Maggie too, from the looks of it.

Now everybody was embarrassed. “Oh, hell,” she said roughly, scrubbing at her eyes with a napkin while she got herself under control again. “It's only…he was so keen on being buried in that stupid old cemetery. I mean, we used to joke about it, didn't we? And now…now… Oh, God, Therese must be…” She trailed off as the tears welled up again, and dabbed at her nose with a tissue she'd found somewhere.

Marti came back with the coffee and tea and handed them around. In silence they sipped mechanically or simply stared at their cups.

After a while John spoke, looking down at his hands. “I want to be frank. After everything else that's been happening out there, I think we have to consider, well, that it may not have been an accident."

Nick looked up dully, angrily, as if he didn't comprehend.

Rudy, more nonplussed than John had ever seen him before, opened his mouth so suddenly that his lips popped. “Not an- you don't mean…they wouldn't really-they wouldn't-"

"Rudy, don't be dumb,” Nick said with uncharacteristic harshness. “What the hell would the Mob have against Brian? He wasn't even around back then."

"Yes, but didn't John just say-"

"I don't care what John said. If they have a beef with anybody, it's me-not Brian."

"Now let's wait just a minute here,” Nelson said. “Rudy may very well have a valid point."

"How the hell-” Nick began.

"Who prepared the new affidavit?” Nelson asked. “Would someone care to tell me that? Who did all the work?"

"Ah, that's ridiculous,” Nick said.

"What do you mean, new affidavit?” John asked. “Now what are you talking about?"

But Nelson backed off. “Well, I'm not really suggesting that it had anything to do with-"

"What new affidavit?” John repeated.

It was Maggie who explained. When the gangsters’ retrial had come up four years before, Nick had been asked by the U.S. attorney's office to make a new deposition to include some elements that hadn't been in the first one. Nick was eager to comply (over Nelson's objections), but was having a hard time finding the data he needed. People had died, firms had gone out of business, old records were impossible to locate. After three frustrating weeks of letters and telephone calls, he still didn't have the vital pieces. That was when Brian, who had been trying to introduce things like computers, modems, and e-mail to his still-reluctant father-in-law, had put together the needed information as a demonstration of what the new online technology could do. It had taken him two and a half hours.

Nick had been bowled over, converted on the spot. The Paradise plantation's changeover to the new technology had begun the next week. And the preparation of the affidavit had been turned over to Brian, lock, stock, and barrel. Nick hadn't done much more than sign it when it was finished. And it had been that affidavit more than anything else, so they understood, that had sunk the notorious three G-men all over again.

"Yeah, but if Nick was the one who signed it,” John pointed out, “how would they even know Brian had anything to do with it?"

"I'm not arguing the point, John,” Nelson said. “I just thought it ought to be mentioned. You're the one who said you think there's something fishy."

Another leaden silence dropped onto them. Cups clicked in saucers. Chairs creaked.

"I'll tell you what I think,” John said at last. “I think we ought to have his body exhumed and then get it examined by somebody who knows what he's doing. Then let's see where we are."

"Oh, my Lord, that's horrible!” said Maggie. “It'd just about kill Therese."

"It wouldn't kill her,” John said patiently. “If somebody murdered Brian, she'd want to know."

"So would we all,” Nick said; his first words in a long time.

"But if he was out there in the heat for a week, there's not going to be much left, John. Some bones, maybe."

"I know. It'd take a forensic anthropologist."

Nelson snorted. “Of which there are dozens in Papeete."

"I was thinking of bringing somebody in from the States."

"You know somebody?” Nick asked.

"Yeah, I do. The best there is."

Nick took a while to reply. He sat rotating his cup in its saucer and staring down at its untouched contents: Tahitian Blue Devil, the highest-priced coffee in the world, bar none. At last he looked up and spoke.

"Do it,” he said softly.