Beachboy Murder Page 10

  She looked first at Detective Ray then at me and finally at Mele.

  We all shook our heads.

  Mele's voice was small and meek. "What did Val tell you, Mama?"

  Her voice so brittle it sounded as if it might shatter, Ona said, "My sweet girl. He just looked at me and said the day he walked away from you was the luckiest day of your life." She dropped her head as if she couldn't believe what she'd just said.

  Detective Ray had to prompt her. "And then what happened?"

  "I hit him," she said simply. "With this." She held up her cane.

  Detective Ray peered at the heavy cane, specifically at the round knob forming its head.

  He sighed heavily. He reached into one of his pants pockets and pulled out a clear plastic evidence bag. "Both of you women are coming with me. Ona?" He held out his hand, and she placed the cane horizontally across his palm.

  Detective Ray took a minute to cover the head of the cane with the evidence bag.

  Ona looked confused. "Both of us have to go? But if I confessed, why do you have to take Mele too?"

  "I just do," Detective Ray said.

  "No." Ona was adamant. "It was me. You don't need to talk to my daughter anymore."

  "We'll see how it shakes out," Detective Ray said. "Let's go."

  The three of them moved slowly back toward the lobby where I assumed Detective Ray would load them into his car and take them to the precinct. Their progress was slow with Detective Ray on one side of Ona and Mele on the other holding her up, as she no longer had her cane to lean on.

  I watched them go, suddenly tired, drained, and quite sad.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I pulled myself up straight and went to my office. Lana needed to know that Detective Ray had taken her aunt and cousin to the police station. Her pretty face reflected her distress as she picked up her cell to call Bobby. "Dad will know what to do."

  I chewed on a cuticle while I waited to hear what Bobby said.

  "Hey, girlfriend." It was a voice I knew well, and I turned to see Janet and Chelsea coming toward me.

  Janet looked a tad washed out and exhausted—probably hung over after her liquid adventures the night before.

  Chelsea looked perfect as usual, at least from the neck down.

  "We're going to eat," Janet said. "Join us."

  Lana hung up. "Dad's going down to the station. He said he's got this, not to worry."

  "Sure." Easier said than done, but I did feel better knowing Bobby Pukui was on the job.

  I was feeling bad about the episode with Ona and Mele and thought about begging off. The office would have been a good excuse, but it was covered. I'd been foolish enough to have bragged to Janet that Lana was so good she could handle things just about as well as I could. So I didn't have that to fall back on.

  "You want to go down to the P.D. too?" I asked Lana.

  "No way," she said. "I'm no good at handling things like that. I'd probably just make it worse. Better to let my dad handle it. You go with your friends. Working will keep my mind off this thing."

  "You sure?"

  "I am." She made a shooing motion for me to leave.

  Okay." I turned back to Janet and Chelsea. "Let's go somewhere local, somewhere sort of special—the Blue Ginger Café."

  Koma had the Brute out with a group, so Chelsea summoned an Uber. Our ride to Lihue turned out to be a roomy Honda minivan driven by a jovial woman in her sixties named Virginia—"Call me Ginny." She regaled us with joke after corny joke as she drove.

  Ginny recited, "Lihue's our hub on this island, if that's what you want to call it. Heck, we got Macy's and a Walmart here."

  To validate the sophistication of her hometown, Ginny drove us past the impressive courthouse building.

  Chelsea looked bored but did politely ask about the best pizza place in town, then about a candy store, and lastly about the most decadent bakery in town.

  When Janet and I looked at her, she shrugged and inspected her fingernails. "Not that I'm interested in going to those places. Just making conversation."

  The Blue Ginger Café was located near Lihue between the airport and the government complex on a quiet, shady street. We liked Ginny so much that Janet and I invited her in to have breakfast with us, and she said, "Don't mind if I do, but don't tell the Uber people."

  The eatery was housed in a relatively small stand-alone building that looked like a leftover from World War II. It was run by a lovely Hawaiian couple who had a knack for remembering the names, favorite meals, and coffee preferences of their repeat customers.

  Rick and Ace had introduced me to it months ago, and I thought it would be a nice change of pace. Unimpressive from both the outside and inside, it was a simple place with an old-fashioned linoleum floor, Formica tables, and a counter with stools, a throwback to what Rick called simpler times. But it was where all the locals stopped for breakfast, and I'd never been there when it wasn't busy.

  Uber Ginny raised quite a stir when we walked in to the buzz of conversation and clatter of dishes and silverware. Patrons looked up and, on seeing her, waved and called out. It was like she was Norm from Cheers. The owner, a heavy-set island woman in her fifties, greeted her from across the café, "Miss Ginny, you and your friends find a table. I'll come right over."

  We did, and she did, and when she saw me close-up, she smiled and said, "Miss Gabby, where's your flyboy Rick today?"

  Like I said, she had a knack.

  Conversation was light and pleasant until I brought up the subject of Chelsea's fabricated alibi for the night Val Markson was murdered. Just call me Killjoy Gabby.

  But I couldn't help it. This was only two days after the discovery of Val Markson's corpse in my backyard. Maybe the heat was off Janet but Detective Ray hadn't wasted any time hauling in two other suspects, both of whom were my friends. Despite the physical evidence condemning Ona and Mele, I refused to believe either of them was guilty.

  I couldn't have really said why I believed in their innocence except that it was a gut feeling, what Rick would have called flying by the seat of my pants. But no matter what you called it, I still knew at least three other people with an agenda against Val Markson who'd lied about where they were that night. So to help my friends, I figured I'd better get busy and find out who the real killer was before Detective Ray actually charged one of the Hale women.

  Toward that end, over coffee and eggs, I pressed Chelsea Westport for more information, not quite loosening her up with wining and dining but darn close.

  "Do I remember you telling me that you stayed in your room the night before last?" I tried to be as off-handed as possible and figured I could pull it off. After all I had taken Drama 101 in college.

  Chelsea's head came up. She laid down her fork and folded her hands. Her voice was careful, controlled. She thrust out her bottom lip and blew air upward, fluttering her long bangs. Her radar was up. "Yes. I did say that. I take it from your demeanor you don't believe me."

  So much for being sneaky. Guess it hadn't worked. After all, I'd received a C minus in that class.

  Janet, chicken-hearted to the core, excused herself to the ladies' room, leaving me alone to answer, "Well, it's just that someone mentioned they saw you in the lobby that night and that it looked like you'd been out. I was just…"

  Chelsea folded her arms across her chest and glared at me. "…playing Nancy Drew and digging around to find out who killed Val Markson?"

  I didn't have to answer. My flaming hot face was probably a glowing admission.

  Uber Ginny dove into the conversation pool. "Val Markson? I heard he bit the dust a couple of days ago." She shook her head sadly. "What a terrible thing. A total waste of such fine male flesh. Used to see him over on Poipu back in the day. Man knew how to fill out a pair of board shorts." Then she just went back to her breakfast.

  I turned back to Chelsea, determined she wouldn't out-sneak me. "Why would I think you'd have murdered him? You told me you didn't even really know him, had nev
er gone out with him, and had never even wanted to."

  Janet walked up just in time to sputter, "What? Why would you tell her that, Chelsea? You not only knew him, you had him escort you to at least a couple of places. So you did go out with him, and according to Val himself, you paid for him to come here to be with you."

  At first Chelsea looked as if Janet's remarks might make her angry, which made me regret bringing up the subject with Janet there. Had she forgotten she worked for these people? But the moment passed, and Chelsea only seemed resigned as she finally admitted, "Yes. All right. That's true. I did know Val Markson. I did pay to go out with him a few times. He was sexy and charming and all, and yes, I even paid for a ticket for him to come here. I figured, what could it hurt to have a handsome man literally at my beck and call?" She looked down at her plate. "Whoever would've thought it would turn out as it has."

  When she finished, Janet and I just sat there. I didn't know about Janet, but I was trying to figure out what to say next. As it turned out, my further input wasn't necessary.

  Ginny blurted out, "Whoa. Really? Val was your boy toy?"

  That offended Chelsea. She drew herself up and put on a stern expression that gave her even more of a schoolmarm look. "Certainly not! Why I never—"

  Ginny laughed. "Heck, Chelsea, sure sounds like you did and like you were going to again."

  Chelsea sniffed. "All right. I did. But I didn't kill him. I had no earthly reason to kill him. Look, I don't want to talk about it anymore. It's embarrassing as hell to admit I have to pay for dates."

  That ended the conversation. I couldn't get her to engage again. So all I had was her admission that, yes, she had lied about leaving the resort the night of the murder—which I already knew from the video—and yes, back in Chicago she had called up Val for an evening out a couple of times. And, yes, she'd been the reason he'd made the trip to the island. But that was it. We didn't learn what she'd actually been doing that night.

  The ride back to Aloha Lagoon was uncomfortable to say the least, but I told Ginny I'd be sure to ask for her again. After all, she was the one who got Chelsea to admit she'd lied. Also, I wanted to hear a few more of her corny jokes.

  Rick would love them!

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Chelsea complained of a headache and went up to her room. Janet excused herself to handle an important work-related phone call from Chicago. I'd gone to the office, was just hanging up from confirming a group of Eagle Scouts on an overnight camping trip to the canyon and Waipoo Falls, and was about to send Lana off for a lunch break when Bobby Pukui walked into Gabby's Island Adventures with his sister, Ona, and his niece, Mele.

  Lana gave a little cry and ran to them. She'd obviously been more stressed than she'd let on.

  Bobby stood back by the open door, essentially in the lobby corridor, arms crossed, brows knit in a frown.

  "Auntie Ona. Mele," I said. "It's good to see you. We were, uh, concerned."

  Bobby said, "We all were—are."

  "They're not in the clear?" I asked.

  "Not me." Ona released Lana from the kind of hug only a Hawaiian auntie could give. "Not yet," she added. "But at least they know I didn't kill him when I hit him." She gave her brother a fierce look. "But they might still think I killed him some other way, even though I told them that lowlife beachboy was alive when I left him. Pfft. He was trying to get up. But they won't listen to me."

  "Some other way?" Lana asked.

  Bobby said, "The ME's report came back. Ona's right. She may have conked that beachboy in the head, but she didn't kill him. Val Markson died from a puncture wound at the base of his neck. Dr. Tan didn't notice the wound until she had the body on her table."

  "Puncture wound?" I said. "That's weird."

  "So far they haven't identified or found the weapon," Bobby said.

  Mele and Ona were late for their work shifts and had to run. Bobby left for his office at the House of Faith Chapel to prepare his next sermon. Lana and I went back to the business of making sure visitors to Aloha Lagoon got the full Monty island experience (as Rick would say).

  Koma brought the shuttle back right on time at half past twelve, cleaned her up and gassed her, and got her all ready to turn around again for the snorkeling group we'd scheduled for that afternoon consisting of the members of the consortium.

  I'd packed my new swimsuit in my beach bag that morning before I left the house.

  When Rick had seen me wrap the suit in the towel and drop it in, he'd made googly eyes at me, wolf-whistled, and made me promise I'd model it for him later. It was a high-waisted, halter-top two-piece—French blue—I'd recently bought for occasions when I went on the snorkeling excursions with clients. Somewhat modest, it had a retro Rita Hayworth kind of feel to it. I'd known my old-fashioned flyboy would love it the minute I saw it.

  When Koma went out to bring Brute up under the portico at the front entrance of the resort, I went into the bathroom at the travel agency and changed into the suit, a short Hawaiian-print romper over it, and a pair of flip-flops.

  As the oldest couple from the group had opted not to go along, there were twelve of us on the shuttle including myself and Koma who went along as both driver and snorkeling instructor so I could spend time with my guests.

  The boat I'd chartered from an island tour operator was captained by a middle-aged guy with a sandpaper voice and skin like tanned leather under his trim beard. He was waiting when we pulled up.

  We piled into the fourteen-passenger boat and headed north along the shoreline. The Na Pali cruise part of the afternoon was stunning as always. The razor-ridged emerald cliffs, for which the coastline earned its name, rose majestically above the smooth sandy beaches and azure waters.

  Our grizzled captain circled us back around to the reef area, killed the motor, set the anchor, and settled back under the boat's canopy with a tattered paperback copy of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. The rest of us stripped off our beach cover-ups and shirts, while Koma handed out the masks and snorkel tubes and flippers. He stood at the bow of the boat demonstrating, for novices, the use of the equipment.

  After a few minutes of observing the onboard test run of the equipment and a second delivery of safety precautions, all of us, with the exception of Captain Nemo, tumbled into the cool water, blew the air from our tubes, and set off paddling along like we belonged under the water with all those amazing creatures.

  The water and reefs along the Na Pali Coast offer an incredible diversity of marine life—butterfly fish, angelfish, green sea turtles, and, farther out, dolphins.

  One of my people wasted no time in going rogue. It was Dolly Lancaster, and she was swimming away from the rest of the group in obvious pursuit of a green sea turtle.

  I swam in Dolly's direction and put my head back under the water so I could see where she was in relationship to the turtle that was cruising nearby. The closer I drew to them, the better look I had of the turtle, and there was no question about it. It was probably the biggest old thing I'd ever come across on any occasion in the waters off the island.

  Dolly fluttered and kicked, probably excited to be so close to such a fine creature. And the turtle had taken notice of her too. The thing looked like it was big enough for her to ride, and its interest in Dolly didn't look to be purely platonic. It wouldn't be the first time a sexually confused male turtle tried to mate with a human.

  But, oh lord, please don't let it happen on my watch.

  Dolly apparently had no idea what the amorous seafaring reptile had in mind. She was clearly delighted and was trying to position herself even closer.

  I swam faster, trying to figure out how I'd ever explain that kind of encounter to Freddy Lancaster and the other members of the group.

  It turned out to be a non-event. Thank God. As I approached, the sea turtle lost interest and swam away. Dolly gave me a somewhat disappointed underwater shrug. But I, for one, was completely grateful the guy hadn't been into a threesome. I must not have been his type. Whew. />
  Once we were all back onboard, our pilot headed us to the golden sands of Nualolo Kai Beach at the base of the cliffs where beach chairs were set up and snacks and cold beverages were being dispensed.

  Janet came and handed me an aerosol of sunscreen. "I was going to ask Koma or the boat captain, but they're both busy handing out goodies and drinks."

  She laid out a towel in the sand and sat on it, while I shook the can. It was the first time we'd had a chance to talk since our outing to the Blue Ginger Café.

  Janet kept her voice low. "I found out where Chelsea really was last night."

  When she didn't say anything else right away, I gave her a blast of the sunscreen, knowing it would seem freezing cold on her hot skin. She jumped and slapped a hand in my direction. "Don't be mean. I'll tell you. When we returned from our brunch date this morning, I decided to hop into the shower before setting off on our snorkeling adventure. But I forgot to take my travel kit in with me, popped back out into the room to get it, and there she was. Say, did you get that spot between my shoulder blades?"

  I aimed the sunscreen on her back. She shrieked. "So cold."

  I just laughed. "So you came out of the bathroom unexpectedly and she was…what?"

  "She was sitting on the bed. There were three empty grocery bags with at least a half dozen candy bars nearby on the bed—Snickers, if I remember right—a box of Whoppers, three packages of Hostess Ding Dongs, a package of Chips Ahoy cookies, a box of donut holes, and the piece de resistance, a box of Trix cereal. On the nightstand? A can of Mountain Dew."

  "Really? Are we talking about religiously vegan I-never-eat-sugar-or-grease Chelsea Westport?"

  "We are. She nearly died when she saw me, but I just went back into the bathroom, turned off the shower, and joined her in her mad rush to diabetes. When I told her, 'Silly rabbit, Trix aren't for kids,' she and I bonded. And in that moment of mutual sugar high, Chelsea admitted that was where she'd really been the night poor Val was killed."