Beachboy Murder Page 8

  Rick drove me back to Aloha Lagoon just in time for me to meet the consortium members at The Lava Pot for karaoke night.

  "Come in with me, Rick. I'm not crazy about these intense types. If you're there, it'll ease my suffering." I was trying to be funny.

  Suddenly serious, he didn't seem to see any humor in things at all. "Gabrielle, I want to have as little as possible to do with those people. In case you haven't figured it out yet, I don't want you to sell the travel agency."

  He leaned across the Wrangler and kissed me perfunctorily. I was somewhat stunned at what he'd said, so I just got out of the car. He shifted into gear and drove away without another word.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Karaoke night at The Lava Pot—it was an event I tried to avoid as much as possible, and never thought it warranted further explanation. But the Lancasters had specifically asked me to arrange one evening for the entire group to attend.

  I did, and this was the night. Woe is me. I could only hope they didn't insist I participate. I'm not a singer, couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. Pretty sad.

  Back at the resort and all by myself at the agency, since Lana and Koma had closed and gone home for the day, I used the back room to freshen up and change into my favorite teal and sea-mist halter top gown with the high-low hem. It showed off my legs, which, because I'm pretty slim, are two of my best assets. My Christian Louboutin nude ankle-strap sandals, leftover from those dress-up days in Chicago, were my chosen footwear.

  Since moving to the islands there weren't as many opportunities for evening wear as in the more formal environs of Chicago. The made-up, dressed up woman who looked back at me from the travel agency's bathroom mirror was someone I didn't see very often lately. And while she was fairly pretty, certainly sophisticated, I had to wonder if she was really me anymore.

  I arrived early and waited at the entrance for my guests, who were mostly in pairs with the exception of Chelsea Westport. She was somewhat of a conundrum to me—a very plain woman with Buddy Holly glasses and unstyled hair who wore no makeup but was dressed to the nines every single time I saw her. Tonight, it was a classic long-sleeved off-the-shoulder sheath of shimmery jade that looked like it might have set her back the price of a good used car.

  "You look very nice tonight, Mrs. Westport."

  "Call me Chelsea," she said. "Ever since becoming a widow, I don't feel like missus is who I am anymore."

  I couldn't help but recall that Chelsea's widow status was supposedly the sole reason Val Markson had made his fateful trip to the island. I decided to breach the subject but still be sneaky about it.

  "Janet's still not up?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "And from the looks of it, she may not wake up by this time tomorrow. She was snoring and drooling on the pillowcase."

  "She was pretty upset over her friend's death."

  "Oh," she said, an odd catch in her voice. "Val."

  "Mm-hmm. Everyone seemed to know that man, people here on the island and people in your group as well. Did you ever use his, uh, services?"

  She lowered her gaze quickly, guiltily. "No," she said softly.

  What? Either Janet was wrong, or Val lied, or Chelsea herself was a grade-A fibber. "Not even after your husband passed? I mean, you know, for social functions. Business parties?"

  She looked up, emotions under control, an unreadable mask in place. She cleared her throat and began. "Miss LeClair." A deep breath. Uh-oh, sounded like a lecture was on the way. "I'm an independent woman. I already know most of the people who attend both social and business functions well enough to at least engage in conversation. There's a well-muscled doorman in front of my condominium building to keep unsavory characters from my domicile. My grocer delivers. My dry cleaner picks up and delivers. The beauty salon on the lower level of my building trims my bangs. I have a stationary recumbent bike in my bedroom, so I don't go out to a gym. My personal shopper haunts all the best stores on a daily basis. And there's always Amazon. Oh, and I have Uber and UberEATS on my smartphone. Why on God's green Earth would I need a man?"

  "Well, when you put it that way…" Unless, like me, you happened to be a sucker for gorgeous blue eyes that twinkled with humor and caring, a pair of lips that quirked into an easy smile one minute and the next bruised my lips in a kiss so passionate it made me weak in the knees. And then there was a certain husky voice that vibrated me all the way to my toes when he called me Princess. Not to mention the below the neck features. But maybe that was just me.

  But I had to go after it. "I'm glad you could join us tonight. Everyone was on their own last night. Were you able to find something to keep you busy?"

  "Last night?" She frowned.

  I nodded.

  "I didn't need entertaining. I'm perfectly capable of entertaining myself. But I was quite tired from the flight. I'm on a strict vegan diet, you know. I ordered room service—steamed edamame and lo mein. I checked my emails and texts, streamed Anderson Cooper 360, took a hot shower, and went to sleep early. It was a perfectly satisfying evening. Now, if you'll excuse me."

  She swept past me into The Lava Pot. I pretty much had to agree with her. If room service and CNN were how the woman partied on vacation, she was right. She didn't need a man.

  The rest of the group trickled in, Hershel and Sarah Goldberg and Dolly and Freddy Lancaster among them.

  As it turned out, the night belonged to Dolly and Freddy. Those two were so adorable I could hardly stand it. I spent some time talking to them, and them was a completely accurate description of the conversation. They were so into each other, they literally finished each other's sentences.

  "Freddy's family is big into real estate—" Dolly said.

  "Oh, and construction too," Freddy finished. "And Dolly's daddy's money comes from stocks—"

  "And bonds." She took hold of Freddy's hand and leaned over to kiss his cheek.

  Right on time, Alexander Cho, the resort's yummy Leisure Groups Coordinator, whom I had the pleasure of working closely with, stepped up onto the small stage. The table I'd reserved for the night for my group was right up front.

  "Aloha, friends, welcome to karaoke night at The Lava Pot. We're gonna have some fun tonight?"

  From around the bar, a chorus of affirmation went up.

  "Who's brave enough to be first?" Alex scanned the crowd.

  It proved unnecessary for him to make a selection. Dolly and Freddy stood straight up and walked right onto the stage.

  A moment of back and forth with Alex was followed by their taking the mics and locking their legs in a hip-cocked stance at the edge of the stage. Alex keyed up their song, and the two proceeded to rock—well sort of rock—more like stomp through an out-of-tune version of Weird Al Yankovich's "White and Nerdy." The geeky lyrics fit them perfectly, and their rendition was enthusiastic if unmelodic as they clumped back and forth across the small stage in what had to be a pre-choreographed routine of stiff hand gestures and head twists.

  I didn't realize I was shrinking away from the din until the song ended and I let out the breath I'd been holding. The lack of noise was blessed, but alas, the assault wasn't over.

  With a pained look on his face, Alex, keyed up the next song, and Freddy and Dolly launched into the Lego theme song "Everything is Awesome," shaking the computer and DJ set-up as they jumped up and down to the beat, pretty much shouting out the lyrics like they were cheering on the Bears. They finished that one with a rather stunning attempt at the Dirty Dancing lift that ended up with both of them on the floor and the mics ringing with ear-splitting feedback. Alex moved to help them to their feet.

  "Let's have a big round of applause for our enthusiastic friends." Alex reached for the mics, but it was instantly obvious that Lancasters weren't ready to give them up just yet. It became an embarrassing tug of war, and Alex took the higher ground and gave in. Shoulders and head drooping, he trudged back to the computer, and the first strains of The Ramones' "Spiderman" sent Freddy and Dolly off on yet the butchering of
another fine tune.

  Alex had to take a break after that. Who can blame the guy?

  The Lancasters, cute as could be, returned to the table, all giddy and breathless, looking for what we all seemed to assume were compliments. We, as a group, obliged. Just wonderful, quite peppy, interesting, and lusty were just a few of the remarks offered in reference to their performance. They seemed pleased and sat down to dig into the pitchers of rum punch and the platters of hors d'oeuvres on the table.

  I was seated beside Hershel Goldberg. From the half-mast of his eyelids and drooping mouth, I guessed he'd had a few drinks before he came to The Lava Pot and had continued to indulge since arriving.

  The more rum punch he drank, the more belligerent he was to Sarah, who softly suggested he slow down on the liquor. The only reason I heard what she said was because she was just on the other side of him. I was pretty sure no one else had overheard. If they had, there wasn't any indication, not even a glance, but then even I kept my head turned away and my eyes on the table.

  Hershel wasn't having any of it. "Who do you think you are, Sarah, embarrassing me in front of my friends like this? I'll drink as much as I want and not listen to the likes of you. With all the skeletons in your closet, Missy, you'd best keep your mouth shut, or everyone here will get a whiff of your dirty laundry."

  Her voice still soft, she pleaded, "Hershel, please—"

  "Please my ass," he said loudly, and I was pretty sure not only our table but half the patrons of the bar had heard that one. Sarah began to cry, and Hershel jumped on it. "Oh, boo-hoo. What're we crying about now? That loser Markson? Your old boyfriend? Son of a bitch was nothing but a lowlife scum. Don't be crying over his sorry carcass."

  Whew. Fairly harsh words about someone Sarah had insisted her husband didn't even know.

  I was still mulling over what his bitter hatred of Val Markson might indicate when Alex stepped back up onto the stage with a reed-thin Asian woman who took the mic while Alex keyed up a song for her.

  Hershel kicked back his chair. "Had just about enough of this for one night." And he stumbled out, bumping into a couple of tables on the way.

  I stood and looked around the table at my group. "Would you all excuse me for just a little while?"

  No one even looked at me as the woman on stage had begun wiggling and squirming to Britney's "Oops, I Did It Again."

  I walked out. Hershel was only a short distance in front of me, heading toward the bungalows area. I followed him. Not cool, Gabby. Not cool at all. He was one of the prospective buyers, one who I had the impression held quite a bit of influence over the others. Had I now moved on to a full-blown effort to sabotage any offers I might get? There wasn't time to stop and consider the possibility. Whatever—I followed him anyway.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  My sneaky sleuth routine came to a decisive halt when I turned a corner to see Hershel Goldberg semi-prone on the sidewalk. The way he was sprawled, it looked like he'd decided a nap might be in order—right then, right there. He leaned against the retaining wall of one of the resort's planters lush with the rich yellows, reds, and oranges of blooming plumeria, bromeliads, and birds of paradise.

  I walked up beside him and leaned down. "Are you okay, Hershel?"

  He looked up at me, his eyes barely open. "Is that you, Ms. LeClair?"

  "Yes." I looked around. "Somebody should've warned you. There's a good reason they call it rum punch. It pretty much knocks you off your feet."

  He seemed to find that amusing, and started snickering, which turned into a wheeze.

  "Okay." I reached for his arm. "Let's get you on your feet."

  He pulled with the arm I held and nearly dragged me on down on top of him. I hauled myself backwards while he pushed on the ground with the other hand, got his feet under him, and rose unsteadily. It was a bit of a job getting him upright, and I was breathing heavily and taking deep breaths by the time he was up.

  "Let's get you to your room, Hershel."

  He nodded sleepily, handed me his key card, and slurred, "Fifsh-teen B."

  I herded him in that direction, deciding to use his diminished capacity to my advantage. "Hershel?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Why did you hate Val Markson so much?"

  "Slimy weasel," he said and harrumphed.

  "Were you jealous because your wife went out with him a few times?"

  He shook his head. "Not that. I mean I wasn't crazy 'bout the idea, of course. But it didn't make any difference, did it? I mean she's my old lady, not his."

  "Well, that's true," I said. "He's dead."

  "Yeah." He barked out a laugh. "Served him right."

  I tried again. "Why?"

  We'd arrived at Bungalow 15-B.

  He knocked and when no one came, lifted his arms in a shrug.

  "Were you expecting someone to be here?" I asked him. "Sarah's still at The Lava Pot."

  "Oh." He looked dumbfounded. "Right."

  He turned the knob, which of course didn't open. I waved the key in front of him, but he was so far in his cups I didn't think he could actually focus on it.

  I resisted the urged to take hold of his face and force him to look at me. "Hershel, tell me. Why did Val Markson deserve to die?"

  His head slowly turned toward me, but he didn't answer.

  "Hershel?"

  A slow smile spread over his face, and he wagged his index finger at me—"Uh-uh-uh."—before pinching his thumb and index finger together and running them across his closed lips. "We all have at least one secret."

  He blinked slowly, swallowed hard, and snatched the key card out of my hand. After a couple of tries, he inserted the card the right way and stumbled inside, slamming the door in my face.

  I stood there looking at the plaque on the bungalow wall that read Ka Lani 15-B.

  Even inebriated, Hershel wouldn't spill the beans, yet he'd told me a lot more than he probably intended. "We all have at least one secret." Hershel's secret had to do with why he hated Val Markson. A secret that wasn't jealousy. A secret that turned his eyes cold with hatred whenever Markson's name was mentioned. A secret that put venom in his voice when he spoke of the man. Could a secret that strong drive a man to murder?

  Heaven. Ka lani meant heaven in the Hawaiian language. I had a feeling Hershel didn't belong in heaven.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was still early, only about eight thirty. I stopped back by The Lava Pot to check up on the rest of the consortium. Freddy and Dolly Lancaster were back up on stage doing a hokey yet somehow adorable routine of "Muskrat Love."

  Things were going so smoothly I decided it would be all right to leave them to their own devices. There was something else I'd decided to do relating to some of the people connected to Val Markson. I went around the table, stopping to chat with each member then walked out of The Lava Pot, heading across the property to the main building and the lobby.

  I stopped at the front desk and spoke to the desk clerk on duty. "Hey, Sandy. Have you seen Jimmy Toki around? "

  "Jimmy? In there." He turned and lifted his chin toward a door behind and to the side of reception. The sign above the door read Hotel Security, Employees Only Beyond This Point. "Right where the head of security belongs." He winked.

  I took a step in that direction. "Can I?"

  Sandy nodded. "Sure, Gabby. Come on." He walked down to the far end of the counter and lifted the hinged piece that constituted a gate.

  I walked through, and he let it back down behind me. Sandy led me to the door, and used the barcode on his resort ID against the reader. It flashed green, and a lock clanked. Sandy turned the knob on the door and stood aside so I could walk in.

  I'd never been in the security room before. It wasn't all that much to get excited about—a square, windowless room with a desk-height counter that ran all the way around the perimeter breaking for door openings in both the front and rear walls. Along the counter on one wall were several workstations with computer keyboards and monitors. On the
opposite side of the room the huge form of the resort's head of security, Jimmy Toki, dominated the space in front of a bank of monitors and other techy-looking equipment.

  When I walked in Jimmy swiveled his chair, grinned, and hauled his muscled six-foot plus frame out of the chair. "Miss Gabby, how goes the tour biz?"

  "It's good, Jimmy."

  "Nice." He glanced back over his shoulder at the monitors, and I could see a laptop screen where he'd apparently been working on a report. "Something I can do for you?"

  "Maybe," I said. I wasn't quite sure how to begin. "I don't suppose…is there any way I could…how about if…"

  Jimmy laughed. "Relax, Gabby. Just tell me what you need."

  It whooshed out all in one breath. "Can I review some of the security camera footage from last night?"

  He gave me a stern look and scratched his jaw. "Gee, Gabby, I don't know. I mean what's your intent?"

  I opened my mouth to answer, but he interrupted. "Say, you aren't turning into some kind of stalker, are you?"

  My face went hot. "Oh, no. Of course not. I just…geez, Jimmy."

  "Relax." He grinned, sat back down, and spun around to face the monitors. "I'm just giving you a hard time. Tell me what footage you want to look at."

  I told him what I needed and why.

  Jimmy keyed up the main entrance footage. Before he pressed play, he reminded me that as someone connected to the resort, I was required to maintain privacy and confidentiality and not use the content of the video to the detriment of the resort.

  Privacy. Confidentiality. I agreed—well, for the most part. Things, as they say, were in flux, but I nodded my confirmation, and we were in business.

  "If you have what you need, maybe I'll take a walk around the property, make sure all's quiet."

  "Oh," I said. "Okay.

  "If I'm not back by the time you've finished, just make sure the door shuts when you leave. It self locks." He crossed the room.

  Before he reached the door, I said, "Thanks, Jimmy. I owe you one."