Her Last Flight(9)

“Nice puss,” I say. “What’s its name?”

“Her name is Sandy.” Lindquist straightens and makes for the kitchen, which is open to the seating area, this being a shabby, two-bit cafeteria, you understand, in keeping with the general tone of the town. She flips on the lights and proceeds to a large electric coffee percolator, made of chrome and remarkably modern for a dump like this.

“Coffee?” she says.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

I follow her to the lunch counter, which runs along the width of the kitchen space, six or seven stools lined up, all covered in worn leather. Along the way, I pause at the cat, who has the air of a local landmark, and reach down to pat her head. She swats at me with a set of razor claws that draw blood from the back of my hand.

Lindquist smiles a little. “Careful. She sometimes decides she doesn’t like a person.”

I suck away the blood on my hand and settle on one of the stools. “Evidently.”

“I find she’s an excellent judge of character,” Lindquist tells me, as she measures the coffee grains.

“Aren’t you clever.”

“You know, I’d have thought you might trouble yourself to be a little more charming, under the circumstances. I’m not likely to open myself up to some chronic bitch.”

“You’re not likely to open yourself up to anybody, I expect. I’m here on a bribe, that’s all, and I perfectly understand the nature of our arrangement. I’d be wasting my time trying to charm you.”

She raises her eyebrows and fills the percolator with water from the tap.

“Although I suppose you could just bludgeon me,” I continue. “A simple, elegant solution, and there’s no lack of convenient places to dispose of an unwanted body around here.”

“Oh, I could kill you, I guess. But then I wouldn’t learn much, would I? How you found Sam, how you found me. Not that I’m admitting to anything. There we are.” She plugs in the percolator and wipes her hands on a dishtowel. She’s changed out of her bathing costume to a white shirt and a pair of tan slacks, which suit her tall, angular body perfectly. Under the kitchen light, you can better see the scar that bubbles up from her neck to cover her jaw and ear.

“That looks like it hurt,” I say. “Burn?”

“Yes. Anything else? Eggs? Toast? I always make myself a nice breakfast when I’ve been out on the water. And I imagine you must be hungry.”

“Oh? Why?”

“No reason.” She bustles to the icebox. “Except I might have heard you left the bar of the Hanalei Tavern at eleven o’clock last night, in the company of the owner.”

“He was walking me back to the inn, like a gentleman.”

“The inn says you never slept in your bed.”

“I made it up before I left.”

She cracks open an egg and laughs. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Leo’s the catch of the town, and very particular. I’ll bet you had a lovely time.”

I snap my fingers. “Leo! Of course. Now I remember.”

“He’ll be heartbroken. I suppose he told you where to find me?”

“Not quite. He said you liked to surf early in the morning, that’s all. I figured out which beach on my own.” I tap my temple. “No flies on me.”

“Maybe not, but the town’s buzzing, all the same.”

“A town, is it? I’ve seen duck crossings with more metropolitan flavor.”

“And just look what it’s done for you. Buttered or dry?”

“What do you think?”

She takes the butter from the icebox.

When we’re settled in with coffee and eggs, side by side on the leather stools before the lunch counter, Lindquist loses the banter and falls silent. The cat comes wandering up and rubs its cheek against her ankle. She reaches down and lifts it into her lap, where it curls into a snug, neat ball and closes its eyes. Lindquist closes her eyes too. Thinking or remembering, who knows. Trying to decide what to make of me.

I lean one elbow on the counter, next to my plate. “I’ll bet you’re wondering how I got here.”

“Oh, I know how you got here, all right. You came in on Leo’s afternoon boat from Waialua, causing quite a stir.” She opens her eyes. “I just don’t understand why anybody cares about so much ancient history.”

“It’s not so ancient. It just seems that way, because of the war. It’s hard to believe anyone ever cared about daring pilots and their daring flights to nowhere.”

“Well, why do you care? You’re a photographer. There’s no photograph here. God knows I’m no picture portrait.”

“I’m not here for photographs. As a matter of fact, I’m writing a book. A biography of Samuel Mallory.”

“Of Sam?”

“You thought I wanted to write about you, did you?” I wag a finger. “Everybody knows your story, Foster, right up until the moment you disappeared. But Mallory’s been forgotten.”

“That’s not true,” she says swiftly. Then she catches herself and drinks the coffee. “Anyway, you forget I haven’t said I’m this Foster woman at all.”

I wipe my mouth. “Look. If you’re afraid I’m going to expose you, don’t trouble yourself. If I wanted the scoop of the century, I’d have wired New York already, and every reporter and photographer in the Western Hemisphere would be bearing down on this airfield of yours like a locust army. You can keep your privacy, since you want it so badly. I won’t quote you. All I want is the inside story on Mallory. I think it’s time history resurrected him, don’t you?”