The workers came running. One helped Nancy to her feet.
Ashen faced, Ruau tottered upright. Brushing off the sand, he yelled, "Imbeciles! You almost killed me! Who was running that crane?"
A confused babble of voices broke out as the workers pointed accusatory fingers at one another. Ruau waded into the crowd and began berating them all. Nancy glanced quickly at the crane itself. The cab was empty. Farther down the beach, a cabin cruiser lolled in its berth.
Nancy cautiously climbed the crane's caterpillar treads. A quick check of the cab confirmed her hunch. The scoop hadn't been opened accidentally. Its jaws were locked with a hydraulic valve that had to be turned by hand.
After jumping down from the cab, Nancy carefully checked the ground on the opposite side. Two deep footprints marked the turf. Kneeling, she examined the treads' pattern more closely.
Diamond-shaped indentations filled each print. Nancy frowned in recognition. Boat shoes! That tread gave sailors better traction on a wet deck.
Hmmm, she thought. Someone climbed into that cab, swung the boom toward us, and opened the scoop. Then he jumped to the ground, leaving those two deep prints, and hightailed it out of here.
"Mademoiselle, what are you doing?" Ruau appeared at the crane, flanked by excited workmen.
Nancy's eyes quickly scanned everyone's feet.
No boat shoes. They were all wearing construction boots.
"You saved my life." Ruau squeezed Nancy's hand thankfully. "If not for you, these idiots—"
"Don't blame your men. They're not responsible," Nancy interrupted. She hurriedly explained her deduction.
Concern tightened Ruau's features. "Maybe we'd better call the police."
"First let's check out that boat," Nancy suggested, pointing at the nearby cabin cruiser. "Maybe someone on it saw something."
As they strode toward the dock, the boat's engines roared to life. White water burbled around the stern. The cruiser pulled away casually, heading for the open sea. Shading her eyes against the sun's glare, Nancy caught a glimpse of its gilt-edged name: Sous le Vent.
Nancy smiled ruefully. "So much for that idea."
She watched the cruiser fade into the distance. Of course, it could merely be a coincidence that the boat's skipper had chosen that moment to depart. Her smile faded. Then again, whoever had tried to kill them could be on board, making an escape.
After saying goodbye to Ruau and his men, Nancy walked to the dockmaster's shed. The dockmaster was a sharp-nosed elderly Frenchman in a tattered tan beret and a flowered shirt. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips.
Sudden inspiration caused Nancy to take a less direct tack with the older man. She wondered if being too open in her quest for information could be dangerous.
"Excuse me," Nancy said, flashing her sweetest smile. "The boat that just pulled out of here—is it for sale?"
The dockmaster squinted out to sea. "Eh? The Sous le Vent? No, no, not for sale."
"Do you know who owns it?" asked Nancy. "Maybe I'll make him an offer, anyway."
"That's Chaumette's boat." Somehow he managed to talk around his cigarette. "Henri Chaumette."
Nancy thought. Chaumette. That name didn't ring any bells, but she filed it away for future reference.
After thanking the dockmaster, Nancy headed back to the gendarmerie. As she strolled along, she mulled over her first eventful day.
Were the two murder attempts connected? Whoever had planted that snake in Bree's bed could have seen Nancy with Bree. If that person had overheard their conversation about the anonymous letters, then he or she knew Nancy was a private investigator.
Suppose the would-be killer then followed Nancy to the gendarmerie and the scrap yard. Ruau's idling crane had offered the perfect opportunity to set up a phony accident.
Nancy's frown deepened as her thoughts returned to the Sous le Vent Was it used to make an escape? Could Henri Chaumette be after her?
And, if so, what was his connection to Bree Gordon, or to Tayo Kapali?
Nancy began to wonder about the former chief mate. How did Tayo lose his boat two years ago? Most important, why had he dropped completely out of sight?
A cool sea breeze raised gooseflesh on Nancy's bare arms. The mystery, it seemed, went far deeper than a handful of hate-mail letters!
The next morning Nancy and Bree drove south to find the fisherman who'd sold Tayo's boat. Nancy steered the Renault down the Taapuna Highway, past the elegant mansions and lush ironwood groves of Tahiti's western shore. Beyond the sprawling estates the blue Pacific exploded into spray on the narrow rampart of a coral reef.
"What did you find out from the concierge yesterday?" Nancy asked her companion.
Bree frowned. "Nothing much. He said he didn't see anyone unusual go near our elevator yesterday. Just Dad, Krissy, and Manda—all family, more or less. But he wasn't watching the entire time. I got him to admit that he was back in his office, arguing with a crazy customer for about half an hour. So anyone could have gotten hold of a key and gone up during that time."
Right—or it could have been one of the "family," Nancy added mentally. But there was no point in voicing that possibility to Bree. It would only upset her.
"Did your friend Tayo ever mention an Henri Chaumette?" Nancy asked.
Shaking her head, Bree replied, "Not to me."
"What about your mother? Did she ever mention that name?"
"She might have. I honestly don't remember." Bree made a rueful face. "Mother knew just about everybody on the island. I think she wanted to be queen of Tahiti." She sighed nostalgically. "Mother was from Peru. She got her start in Rio, as a showgirl in one of the big nightclubs. By the time she was twenty-one, she was doing TV and movies. She hit it big in a low-budget comedy called Coralita. It established Mother as the biggest star in South America."
Nancy wasn't much of a Hollywood fan. But because Bess was, she did know a little about Lucinda Prado's career.
"Then she came to Hollywood and did Shiva-ree and The Tall Timber, right?" Nancy remarked.
"Yeah. Dad directed Tall Timber. That's how they met." Bree smiled impishly. "They got married the minute the film wrapped."
"How did you all wind up in Tahiti?"
"When I was a kid, Dad and Mother formed their own production company and did Typhoon down here," Bree explained. "That made tons of money, so they did a couple of sequels. Mother just fell in love with the island. Tahiti became our permanent vacation home."
Coconut palms flashed by on either side of the road. Nancy could understand just how Bree's mother felt. She glanced at her companion. "Sounds like an exciting life."
"Well—up to a point, yes." Bree turned serious. "Toward the end, though, Mother was fed up with the film industry. She was forty, and they were still casting her in Coralita parts. She wanted to prove that she was a serious actress. And I think maybe she was a little jealous of Dad's success."
Nancy caught an undertone of sadness in the girl's voice. "It got a little tense at home, huh?"
"A bit!" Bree said candidly. "When you've got two creative, opinionated people married to each other, you're bound to have friction. And Mother had a temper!" She exhaled deeply. "I got pretty good at disappearing at the first sign of tension."
Nancy thought it was time to change the subject. "We're heading inland again. How do we get back to the shore?"
"Oh!" Bree sat up attentively. "There's a dirt road just ahead. It goes right along the bay. The village is down there."
They found what they were looking for within five minutes. Temeharo's fish market was right on the beach, a long corrugated tin shed with a thatched roof. Fresh tuna and halibut rested on smoking blocks of dry ice.
Temeharo was a fiftyish man in a khaki shirt and oil-stained trousers. He flashed a gleaming smile of welcome, and Nancy was instantly taken by his open, friendly manner. "Come in! How may I help you?"
"My name's Nancy Drew." Nancy shook hands with him. "And this is Bree Gordon. We're lookin
g for a friend and thought you might be able to help. I understand you sold a boat two years ago—the Rapanui."
"Yes, I sold her in Papeete."
"Did you buy it from Tayo Kapali?" asked Nancy.
His eyes gleamed in recognition. "No, not from Tayo himself."
"But you know of Tayo," Nancy added quickly.
The fisherman brightened. "Of course. He came from this village."
Mystified, Nancy asked, "Who did you buy the boat from?"
"The bank." Temeharo saw Nancy's confused look. "Tayo still owed money on her," the fisherman explained. "The bank foreclosed after his death."
Nancy blinked in amazement at this unexpected development.
"After his—"
"Yes, mademoiselle. Tayo is dead. He was killed four years ago."
Chapter Four
"No!" Bree cried, rushing forward. "That's not true. I talked to Tayo four years ago. He was alive."
Temeharo offered her a look of sympathy. "I'm sorry, but I saw his body with my own eyes. Tayo was killed in a shark attack." Nancy grimaced but pushed the gruesome thought from her mind.
"When did it happen?" she asked, placing a comforting arm around Bree's shoulder.
"October, I think," the fisherman replied.
Turning to Bree, Nancy added softly, "When did you last see Tayo?"
"A-August." Bree began to sob. "I—I had no idea . . . he . . . Tayo's dead!"
Nancy walked Bree back to the car. She opened a fresh package of tissues from the glove compartment and offered one to Bree. Temeharo came over to see if she was all right.
Nancy led him away from the car. Bree deserved a little privacy for her grief. And she still had a few questions for Temeharo.
"What's this about a shark attack?" Nancy asked.
Temeharo's smile was one of admiration. "Tayo was the best diver on the island. That was why everyone was so shocked when it happened to him." He glanced out to sea. "Tayo went diving off the Rapanui one afternoon. A few people claim they saw another boat out there too. Who knows? Suddenly, the people tell me, the water started to foam. Shark fins were everywhere. A couple of men in a canoe drove off the sharks with rifle fire. They brought Tayo in." He made a sudden sickish face. "Or rather what was left of him. Tayo must have cut himself on the coral down there. Sharks go crazy at the smell of blood, you know."
Nancy thought immediately of the two recent murder attempts. "Did the police consider foul play?"
Temeharo shook his head. "There was no way to tell. Those sharks didn't leave much for the coroner."
Nancy stared in dismay. The trail seemed to have come to an end. Without Tayo, unraveling the mystery of the anonymous letters would be much harder.
Nancy brightened a little at her next thought. If I can't talk to Tayo, I'll talk to someone who knew Tayo very well.
"Did Tayo have any relatives?" Nancy asked.
"Just one," Temeharo replied. "His sister, Opane. She lives up there on Orohena." The sweep of his hand took in most of a lofty mountain rising behind the village. "Just ask around. People will tell you how to find her."
"Thanks." Giving him a grateful smile, Nancy headed back to the car.
Bree's sobbing had subsided to sniffles. Dabbing at her eyes, she stared out the windshield as they drove back to Papeete.
Nancy tried to draw the girl out. She wanted to know more about Bree's friendship with Tayo. She was beginning to wonder if Tayo's death could be linked in any way to the recent close calls in the porthouse and at the scrap yard.
"What brought you back to Tahiti four years ago?" Nancy asked.
"Dad had a few legal matters to tie up." Bree crumpled the tissue in her fist. "I didn't really want to come—Mother's death was still fresh in my mind. I spent most of the time with Tayo. It was a rotten trip all around. Even Tayo seemed sort of—well, distant."
Nancy cast her a quick glance. "Distant? What do you mean?"
"Tayo had something on his mind," Bree recalled. "He didn't want to talk about it. He said he had to check something out first. He made me promise to look him up the next time I was in Tahiti."
"And then he died," Nancy concluded for her. "Bree, did Tayo ever mention his sister?"
Bree's brown eyes widened in surprise. "Tayo had a sister? I didn't know that."
"Mr. Temeharo says Tayo has a sister living up on Mount Orohena." Nancy steered the car around a long shoreside bend. "Shall we go tomorrow?"
"Sure!" Bree's smile reappeared.
Two hours later as the girls sauntered through the hotel lobby, the desk clerk lifted a white envelope and called out, "Message for you, Mademoiselle Gordon."
Bree ripped the envelope open and withdrew a folded note. She scanned it quickly, then smiled wryly.
"We're both invited to dinner at Krissy's place tonight. And we're not to come in jeans. What do you say, Nancy?"
Grinning, Nancy brushed her reddish blond hair back over her shoulder. Her blue eyes sparkled. "Sounds good to me. I've got an outfit for a special occasion."
Kristin's estate, Faretaha, dominated a small plateau overlooking the windswept sands of a private beach. The house was enormous, with the high windows and lacy woodwork of the French colonial period. Tall, graceful coconut palms shaded a tropical garden ablaze with white gardenias and orange hibiscus.
As Nancy paused before the door, turning to admire the purple streaks the sunset had painted in the sky, the romantic setting made her feel wistful for a moment. Into her mind flashed an image of Ned Nickerson, and she suddenly missed her boyfriend. If only he could have come with her!
Her reverie was short-lived however. Just then the door opened and a Tahitian servant conducted Nancy and Bree into the drawing room. Two men sat in comfortable wicker chairs. One was tall and tanned, his thinning brown hair flecked with gray. Horn-rimmed glasses and an aquiline nose gave him a professorial look. The other man was shorter, pasty faced, beady eyed, about fifty pounds heavier, and was wearing a wrinkled summerweight suit.
Bree hugged the man with the glasses. "Hi, Dad!"
"All through gallivanting, eh?" Brian Gordon stood up and took Nancy's hand. "You must be Ms. Drew."
"It's a pleasure, Mr. Gordon." Nancy was surprised to find his handshake frail and tentative. Although he put on an amiable front, Nancy sensed that he was intensely private, perhaps a bit frightened of other people. "I saw Canaveral back home. I liked it very much," she offered.
The director looked pleased. "Thank you. Personally, I think it's my best."
The man in the wrinkled suit uttered a morose grunt. "It lost money."
Bree gestured toward him. "Nancy, this is Rupert Holmberg, a producer."
Standing, Rupert made a frame of his pudgy hands. "Bree, you're breaking my heart. Look at you. Lucinda all over again. Let me get you a film. Come and talk to me."
"Thanks, but no thanks, Rupert." Bree waved him aside, smiling indulgently. "I want to be a marine biologist, not an actress."
Brian flashed Nancy a look of paternal approval. "A girl with sense."
Then Nancy heard the tapping of high heels behind her. Turning, she saw Kristin Stromm glide through the doorway. The actress was wearing a shirred jade-colored cocktail dress—an original straight from Paris, Nancy guessed.
Smiling coldly at Bree, Kristin drawled, "I'm so glad you could come, dear. You and your friend—ah—"
"Nancy Drew," Bree added sweetly.
Nancy felt the air of tension between Bree and her future stepmother. She wondered why Kristin had bothered with such a petty routine. From the look in the actress's pale blue eyes, it was obvious that Kristin remembered Nancy's name. It was also clear that she wasn't exactly pleased with Nancy's appearance. A long-skirted, peach-colored evening dress highlighted Nancy's shining hair and hugged her trim figure.
A servant approached to announce dinner. Nancy enjoyed the French Polynesian delicacies— fresh fish marinated in coconut milk with smoked breadfruit and fafa, cooked Tahitian spinach, on the side.
While they ate, Nancy studied Bree's father. She had a few questions for the taciturn director. Nancy was determined to explore the connection between the letters Bree had received and what Tayo might have known about Lucinda's death.
She worked into it gradually, questioning Brian about his three Typhoon movies first. Then she mentioned the boat. "I guess you had the Southmnd for quite a while, Mr. Gordon."
"Seven years." Brian sipped his coffee.
"Did you enjoy sailing?"
"Once in a while. Lucinda was crazy about it, though."
"I gather your wife was a very experienced sailor," Nancy commented.
"Oh, yes." Brian aimed a conspiratorial smile at his daughter. "Bree and I logged a lot of nautical miles under Captain Prado."
"It seems a bit strange—" Nancy began.
"What seems strange?" Brian adjusted his glasses.
"With your wife so experienced, I'm surprised that freighter was able to run the Southwind down."
Brian's good mood vanished abruptly. Fixing Nancy with a frosty stare, he snapped, "I'd rather not talk about that, if you don't mind. My wife's death was a very great tragedy in my life. It's not something I discuss with strangers."
"I'm sorry," Nancy replied apologetically.
"No need to be sorry." Nancy noticed the sudden angry set of his lips. "Just drop it, okay?"
Taken aback by his snappish response, Nancy did not reply. But his overreaction intrigued her. Even if he was still sensitive about the mishap after five years, his reaction should have been sadness, not anger.
An awkward silence hung over the dinner table. Kristin smiled weakly, toying with an earring, and attempted to fill it.
"Darling," she said pleasantly, "I'm wondering if you've gotten those script rewrites yet for our new film."
Plucking an olive off the tray, Rupert popped it in his mouth. "Hey! Now we're talking. South of the Equator's a potential gold mine. Brian, let me line up a few banks and a big-name cast."