Beachboy Murder Page 3

  The conversation at the table was brisk and light, covering everything from the beauty of the resort grounds that Nick Woodfield's staff maintained so meticulously to how Ona Hale came to be the Talk Story Lady. Although Chelsea Westport might as well not even have come. She sat listening, but not participating. She looked very nice in sunny yellow capris, a geometric print tunic of turquoise, yellow, and white. Her sandals were the kind I shunned but women of a certain age and income loved—flat-soled with "gemstones" all over the straps. I'd even noticed her toenails were the exact color-match to the turquoise in her tunic. All dressed up island style—but no makeup and that sullen look on her face ruined the effect.

  It was interesting how Ona's Talk Story Lady persona had sort of gone MIA along with the slight pidgin accent. "The women in my family have been the keepers of island legends for many, many generations." She went all soft and dewy-eyed as she said, "My blessed mother gave me that most beautiful work when she left this place to go to Heaven."

  "That's fascinating." Sarah Goldberg leaned forward, hanging on Ona's every word, surprising me at the intense interest she had in Ona and her tales of the islands. She turned to Mele. "So that must mean you'll be the next guardian of the myths, eh?"

  Mele cast a look at her mother that I could only interpret as guilt. She shook her head.

  "No? Such a shame." Sarah turned back to Ona. "So what you said about this work being handed down through the generations…"

  Ona sighed as if a great and heavy load pressed down on her. She didn't look at Sarah when she spoke but at her daughter instead. "Mele has chosen not to continue with our family tradition, to cast it aside, to abandon it." The harsh words hung in the air.

  Abandon it? Gosh, Ona. As Rick would say, "not pulling your punches, are you?"

  Mele's face went into her open palms.

  I wanted to reach over and lay my hand on her shoulder, but I didn't know either Mele or her mother well enough to insert myself into what had suddenly become a very personal conversation.

  Sarah looked from Ona to Mele and back, her eyes full of confused interest. "Oh."

  Even Hershel sat up and took notice, the first time he'd even looked remotely involved in what was going on at the table.

  Mele pushed back her chair, stood, and without a word, she awkwardly stepped away from the table and headed across the terrace back into the lobby.

  Ona quickly muttered, "So nice to meet you all," and followed swiftly, her cane and stiff gait seeming not to hinder her much at all.

  The rest of us sat there a moment in somewhat stunned silence until Janet clasped her hands together and said, "Well, I guess that means the party's over."

  I stood. "I need to be going too. I have an engagement tonight that's been on my calendar for months. It's a charity event, and I wouldn't want to miss it."

  When I started to walk away, the rest of the group also got up, following behind me, and we all walked into the lobby together.

  Ona and Mele were there, standing together by the wall near the reception desk, their heads together. Ona seemed to be in consolation mode, her arm around her daughter's shoulders.

  Mele's sudden cry was audible all the way across the lobby. "Oh my gosh. It's him!" She gawked.

  Ona turned to see, and her mouth dropped open, which caused the rest of us to follow her stare.

  Striding through the front entrance was a tall, well-built man. He moved with swagger, the sexy confidence of a man who knew that everyone in the room had turned to watch him. And we all had.

  He was gloriously tanned. The short, curly style of his dark hair looked like one of those haircuts he'd have spent some serious bucks on. My ex, Steve, used to frequent those man-salons—hairstyling, massage, skin, nails, the whole works—the kind of place where the cost of services wasn't even listed. If a guy asked how much, he probably wasn't the sort vain enough to spend that kind of money on his appearance. This guy's pale blue board shorts exposed strong, tanned legs, and he carried off the leather sandals in a macho way that few men could in my opinion.

  As Mele blurred past the great-looking man, he stopped dead in his tracks, dropping the handle of his carry-on. He looked as if he'd just seen a ghost.

  Ona moved then, rushing out after Mele, stopping in front of the new arrival for a few brief seconds to give him a look of complete and utter hatred.

  Sarah Goldberg gasped. I looked around at her. She'd gone pale. Beside her Hershel's face had twisted into an ugly mask.

  The words that fell from his lips would have made the leader of a biker gang blush in shock.

  Janet, on the other hand, seemed delighted. She laughed. "Oh, great. I was beginning to think he'd changed his mind."

  But even she shut up and took a step back as Hershel said, "That filthy parasite. What the hell's he doing here? I'm gonna freakin' kill him."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The House of Faith Chapel wasn't far from the resort, a little outside of town. The first time I'd gone to it, I'd driven right past. It wasn't like churches on the mainland, at least not like any I was familiar with. It sat back off the road in a big grassy clearing—a pitched-roof one-story building that had been added onto a few times. The whitewash exterior matched the two-story structure behind it that could easily have been mistaken for low-rent cinderblock apartments. The orphanage building bore no signage at all, and the only way a person could distinguish the chapel from an old-fashioned farmhouse was the marquee sign out front. Tonight the magnetic letters spelled out: Sure wish Noah had swatted those two mosquitos. Sunday service at 9:30.

  Rick had picked me up at my place, and we rode over in his Jeep Wrangler. He parked on the grass near the sign along with dozens of other vehicles. He didn't move to get out of the car right away, and I'd already noticed he'd been pretty quiet on the way over. The quiet wasn't all that unusual. Rick Dawson wasn't the kind of guy who ran his mouth all the time, not like my ex-husband, Steve. If Steve wasn't spouting out some meddling advice or talking about himself, he was either asleep or had his mouth full of food. The man knew tens of thousands of bits of useless information and wanted everyone within earshot to know it. Rick was comfortable not talking, so that when he did, a person knew to listen because what he had to say was relevant.

  But that night on the ride over, there hadn't even been the usual humming along to one of his playlists. No winks across the car. No hand-holding on the console.

  "Everything okay with you?" I asked. "Did the group flight go all right?"

  He half-smiled. Even a half smile from Rick Dawson was a gift, but I was spoiled and wanted the full treatment.

  "The flight? I gave 'em a real nice ride. Your big wheels had a heckuva good time. Especially the cute little geeky couple, the Lancasters."

  As we walked around back to the garden where the event was being held, he reached for my hand, swinging our joined hands between us. It made me think of walking into prom with that special boy, or hamburger and fries at the burger place with adolescent fingers laced across the table or maybe on the armrest of a movie theater seat on a summer night. Cherished. That's the way I felt when Rick wrapped his fingers around mine—cherished—every single time he did it.

  "The Lancasters?" I tried to remember which ones they were. "Oh, right. The Bobbsey Twins?" I remembered the couple who'd dressed alike and sort of even looked alike, who'd stopped on the airport tarmac to admire a rare bird on the building's roof. "So they had a good time?"

  "I'm gonna say yes. About halfway through the circle island flight, Mr. Lancaster, good old Freddy, took over narrating. I swear the man knows everything there is to know about this island from how much rain falls annually on Mount Wai‘ale‘ale—452 inches by the way, in case somebody asks you—to the scientific names for just about every plant and animal around. Not only that. Freddy's a licensed helo pilot with a couple hundred hours under his belt."

  "Really?"

  "Heck, if I thought he'd take it, I would've offered the guy a job. And the best par
t was that while he was spouting off all those facts and fifty-dollar words, his wife was looking at him like he was Zeus come down from Olympus."

  I laughed. "That's pretty cute."

  He cleared his throat, suddenly serious. "All the rest of those people could talk about—when Freddy and I weren't holding them spellbound with our scintillating narration, that is—was how excited they were to be adding Gabby's Island Adventures to their growing chain of travel agencies."

  Something a little insecure was in his tone—an element I had to admit I seldom noticed in his voice—telegraphed the message that I should be mindful of what I said and how I said it. "I think they're jumping the gun."

  "They didn't seem to think so." He'd tried to make it sound as nonchalant as the shrug he'd used to punctuate it.

  I glanced over at him. He looked exceptionally fine tonight in a creamy silk sport shirt and navy Dockers. "It's what I think that counts."

  "That's true." But instead of smiling like I would've expected from this easy-going, good-natured dude, his mouth drew into a tight line, his resistance unmistakable.

  "What's bothering you?" I asked again.

  "Sorry," he said. "I'm kind of a poop tonight, I guess. Let's forget it and have ourselves a good time."

  I lifted our conjoined hands, turning them, and placed a light kiss on the back of his. "Rick, those people have barely just arrived, and no overtures have been made. So…"

  He sighed, and the grin he'd turned on me testified to his letting it go—whatever it was. "Hope they've laid out a good spread. I could eat a ton."

  "A whole ton? How about half a ton and save the other half for me. I'm pretty hungry too. But that won't leave much for everyone else."

  "Their problem, toots."

  The event was already in full swing when we arrived. Red and gold Chinese paper lanterns were strung across the yard. Lit from within by tiny LED lights, they glowed magically. A buffet table laden with food donated from the Loco Moco featured finger foods, fruits, and veggie salads. Two enormous coolers offered iced tea or fruit punch.

  Rick was a popular guy on the island. It seemed like everyone knew him, and he knew everyone. Calls of "Hey, Dawson," rang out from all sides.

  Bobby Pukui's was the first familiar face I saw.

  "Hey, Bobby." I greeted him. "This is so lovely. You did a beautiful job."

  "The kids from the home, they did it all." He looked around happily, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "Red and gold. Prosperity, wealth, happiness, good luck. That's what we're hoping. We can really use the help. And thank you both for the generous donations. It's a sure thing they're gonna bring in some good bids."

  In addition to serving as pastor for the chapel, Bobby worked for the Kauai P.D. chaplaincy corps. The Pukuis were one of the few full-blooded Hawaiian dynasties on the island. He looked so different in his brightly colored island shirt than he did in his P.D. uniform. He took off one of the three leis from around his neck, draped it over my head and onto my shoulders. A fatherly peck on the cheek preceded, "You're good people, Gabby." He gave Rick a light punch on the arm. "You too, bruddah. Now go have fun."

  So we did.

  * * *

  We had a nice time at the fund drive for the orphanage and an even nicer time at his place afterwards. Rick dropped me back at my place around twelve thirty.

  I wasn't trying to make a lot of racket, but the crack of the lanai screen door banging shut behind me and the thump of my discarded shoes hitting the floor would have awakened someone in a coma. But not Janet, who was sound asleep on the futon.

  Janet had still been at Aloha Lagoon when I'd come home earlier to feed the cat, change, and get ready for the event at House of Faith, said she was going to have a drink at The Lava Pot with an old friend. She'd asked me if it was okay if she came to the house afterward and slept over. She hadn't relished the idea of rooming with Chelsea Westport. She'd rolled her eyes and put it all in Janet-speak. "I'm telling you true here. That girl's a real drag. And I bet she snores."

  "You don't even have to ask," I'd told her. "It is your house after all."

  She'd just waved me off and thanked me.

  The all-cash purchase of my travel agency had me so strapped that when I'd first moved to the island, I'd figured I might have to sleep in the back room of the travel agency. But Janet had come to the rescue. The best kind of friend, she'd offered me the sweet A-frame cottage where I currently lived (one of her three abodes—a Chicago uptown condo, a tiny little place in West London she called a bed-sit, and the house on Kauai—all courtesy of the inheritance she'd received on the death of her spinster aunt who'd despised the rest of Janet's family and left Janet every nickel of her considerable estate). I only paid for upkeep and utilities. And I'd grown to love the two-story, one-bedroom house which was set inland north of Aloha Lagoon in a residential area just southeast of the mountain they called the Sleeping Giant.

  Since it was Janet's place, she already had her own key but had still taken the time to razz me about locking the door. I was one of very few people on the island who bothered—remnants of the city girl I still couldn't shake altogether. Before Rick had picked me up, I'd left a note on the table that if she arrived before me to please take the bed upstairs.

  But one of several things was obvious, either she'd indulged in too many Shark Bites or Lava Flows and not made it upstairs, had found the sweet night air afforded by the lanai too hard to resist, or she'd just fallen asleep while waiting for me to come home. Either way, there she was, fully dressed and sprawled on the comfy rattan futon sofa, one arm hanging off, one arm thrown across her eyes, and one ankle propped on the sofa arm.

  Hercules, my grey tiger-striped cat, lay between her ankles. He lifted his head and gave me a baleful stare before jumping down onto the floor and stretching.

  I hesitated before doing it but knew Janet would sleep better upstairs, so I laid a hand on her shoulder and shook it. "Janet?"

  Louder. "Janet?"

  A third time, even louder. "Janet?"

  Nothing, not even a twitch. I put my hand beneath her nose to make sure she was still breathing, even going so far as to check her pulse. "Whew." I breathed out. "You had me worried there for a second, woman."

  In the dim flickering light cast by the fake battery-operated candles I kept there, my gaze caught a prescription bottle on the table. Oh, sure. I'd forgotten that a good night's sleep was a luxury that had eluded Janet for as long as I'd known her. Sans medication anyway. She swore by the sleeping pills her doctor prescribed. In her own words, "I'd be a raging harpy without them. They put me out like a blow to the back of the head. And I love every minute of it."

  I went inside and took the fringed throw off the main sofa, went back to the lanai and covered her with it. She still hadn't moved.

  I started up the stairs. Hercules preceded me, in an obvious hurry to get down to some real snoozing in his usual spot, curled up on my feet.

  The sun came streaming in through the blinds I'd forgotten to close when the pounding on my front door stirred me. I hadn't set my alarm, and I rolled over to see it was already half past seven. Sleeping in for me. I'd asked Koma and Lana to open the agency so I could hang around and have breakfast with Janet. I'd even packed in some Portuguese sausage and eggs so I could make her one of the special omelets Rick had taught me to cook. The omelet, grilled cheese sandwiches, and heating up hot dogs were the extent of my cooking expertise, the result of having been a hard-working career girl my entire life. I always figured that was why God invented takeout.

  The pounding stopped suddenly. I scooted out of bed, pulled on a lightweight wrap, and padded downstairs. I met Janet at the bottom of the stairs.

  "Little early for company, isn't it?" she asked.

  She went with me to the front door, and I pulled it open. On the other side of the screen door stood Detective Ray Kahoalani.

  What the heck did he want?

  Detective Ray wasn't on my list of top guys on the islan
d. I'd had a drawn-out encounter with him the summer before. He was brusque and all business when he was working. I'd never interacted with him socially, so as far as I knew that was the way he was all the time.

  He touched the brim of his straw skimmer. If it had been any other man, I would've thought the gesture charming, but on just-the-facts-ma'am Detective Ray, it seemed a little rote.

  "Good morning, Miss LeClair."

  "Detective." I waited.

  Her curiosity nearly a tangible entity, Janet stood so close behind me that if I'd moved I would have bumped into her.

  "Detective?" Her voice rose in surprise, but for once there was no inflection of flirtation in it.

  "What can I do for you this early, Detective Ray?" I asked.

  His cop's point of view took in both of us, and he touched his hat again. "I was just wondering, Miss LeClair,"—he paused, lifted his chin, and scratched under it—"if you"—he cast a speculative glance in Janet's direction—"have anything to do with the dead body in your back yard."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I just stared through the screen at Detective Ray. What the heck is he talking about?

  But from my past dealings with the police detective and the serious look on his face, I could tell he wasn't kidding around.

  Behind me, Janet snorted and laughed a little. "Dead body? Right. That's a good one."

  I shot her a warning look, and after a double take, she said, "Really? No."