Can You Hula Like Hilo Hattie? E-Book

Tyler Colins

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The novice sleuths accept their first official detecting assignment: uncovering the “secret" of an elderly millionaire’s pretty young wife.

If they succeed, their newly founded business, The Triple Threat Investigation Agency, will prove a viable venture. The problem? The wife is found murdered along the sapphire shores of Oahu.And there’s a secret all right, one of many, but the deceased woman is not the only one keeping them. 

As Jill, Rey and Linda try to fit the puzzle pieces together, they stumble across several more bodies. But who is the killer?

Leseprobe

Can You Hula Like Hilo Hattie?

A Triple Threat Mystery Book 2

Tyler Colins

Copyright (C) 2015 Tyler Colins

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter

Published 2020 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

This novel is dedicated to fellow mystery lovers and aspiring writers.

Thank you also to formatter and cover designer Katrina Joyner; she's a pleasure to work with. She's lessened my stress levels more than I'd care to admit and given life to my “gals”. ☺

Prologue

“Oopsy.”

“That would be an understatement.”

The three of us peered down at the slim, twisted, bloodied body of a previously pretty woman. A once painstakingly maintained and expensively sculpted face was now a mass of broken skin and bones. Long chipped salmon-pink nails on the right hand appeared to be gripping a jagged rock while those on the left were twined in tendrils of seaweed. Perfect, plump lips that many women would give their eye teeth for were retracted in a macabre smile while formerly merry eyes, the color of the ocean, stared unseeingly upward. A grim gruesome death mask had replaced a vibrant visage.

The gentle breeze that had been blowing all day was quickly evolving into offshore winds and cracking surf while the September sky was growing dark with giant cumulonimbus clouds. Thunder and lightning weren't far off.

It had started out like any Hawaiian Wednesday morning: sun-drenched and dazzling. A vivid rainbow had curved over Ala Moana Beach Park as The Bus transported people to work and school, and tourists to Pearl Harbor and the Aloha Stadium Swap Meet. As they did every day, trolleys and shuttles traveled to various hotel pick-up points and Hilo Hattie's while cabs and cars were navigated to planned destinations.

Who'd have expected our first official paying private investigation case to take such a drastic detour—to the brutal murder of the young wife of our wealthy philanthropist-client? We were at the “Peering Place”, a rocky cove situated near the Halona Blowhole that was as beautiful as it was dangerous. The small sandy beach within the cove was well known as the beach in the 1953 movie From Here to Eternity. At the moment, though, it didn't exude the romance it had when Burt and Deborah had graced the sands.

We'd only had to demonstrate she was a cheating spouse who possessed a secret that could prove of value to her husband and help dissolve a four-year marriage. All that had been required: surveying the woman, taking photos as necessary, and delivering nightly reports. Easy-peasy. Not.

What we'd unearthed in the preceding days extended to the sordid world of drugs and gambling, two ugly and dangerous addictions that could drag you under and far like the Molaka'i Express, which was the crossing of the Kaiwi Channel from volcano-formed Molaka'i, Hawaii's fifth largest island, and possessed exceptionally strong currents. If the vice didn't batter you, the enabler—the human component—was there to ensure you remained dependent, paid up and/or stayed high, and never screwed him or her.

“Man, she must have really pissed someone off.”

“Big time.” I peered across the darkening Pacific and reflected on that which had brought us to Hawaii: a desire to open our own P.I. agency. But the body sprawled across rough wave-soaked rocks begged one crucial question: what did a meteorologist, actress, and scriptwriting assistant know about detecting? So what if they'd played amateur sleuths several months ago during a murder-filled week at an eerie Connecticut mansion? That didn't grant them the expertise or street smarts to manage a bona-fide case.

…But maybe the more imperative question at the moment was: how were they going to explain a simple undercover-case gone terribly wrong?

Chapter 1

Four p.m. and the sky was the color of black Sambuca. Winds were collecting momentum, sounding like wailing pirate ghosts flitting amid Louisiana bayous, while rain had started to descend like July Fourth fireworks over San Diego Bay. The sidewalks several floors below the high-rise condo building were empty save for two lanky kids, a scooter-bound lady, and a big burly man hurrying and scurrying to drier, safer places.

Exterior lighting, obscured by the downpour, was providing minimal illumination; as a result, it was barely possible to see across the boulevard into the park and marina. Boats would be bobbing like little yellow plastic duckies in a child's bath and waves surging like crowds of pubescent girls at a Justin Bieber autograph signing.

I'd only been living in the tenth-floor two-bedroom condo for six weeks and in Hawaii ten. I'd taken a chance and came to Oahu without a pre-visit. I hadn't regretted it, not yet anyway and, somehow, I didn't think I would, but the torrential downpour outside was making me nervous. What did I know about Oceania weather, besides the fact that I had provided worldwide climate details to faithful viewers during my North Carolina days as a weather forecaster, also known as meteorologist? Tsunamis swung by this way, that was a given, but I'd never experienced one. A large tidal wave didn't scare me nearly as much as the thought of an earthquake, though. Oh well. I'd endured some crazy weather in my three-plus decades (okay, I was thirty-two for the curious). Besides, what could possibly faze me after spending a wacky week in a haunted antebellum Connecticut mansion, where five murders had occurred?

The lights in the cozy Ala Moana Boulevard condo flickered several times, suggesting a power outage was imminent. In anticipation, I grabbed matches and two big fat aromatherapy candles from a storage closet at the far left of a galley kitchen recently painted seashell pink and sea blue, my favorite colors. There was nothing like the pleasing and calming scent of lavender to help soothe the soul. A shot of rye wouldn't hurt either, if you were into rye. I wasn't. But my melodramatic crazy cousin Reynalda Fonne-Werde was. I was more of a red wine drinker.

Grrrrccchhhhhhh-kaboooooom-grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrch. Button, frightened by the lightning that flayed the sky like a vaquero's whip, had just displayed her anxiety—whomp—and pain. Upon scurrying into my bedroom, she'd hit the wall under a double-size bed when she'd hurled that furry tan-mocha-and-cream body beneath it in a desperate search for refuge. It would probably take an hour to coax her out from under there, and only once the storm dispersed.

Lovely little Button was an eight-month old rescue mutt I'd adopted the day after I took possession of the condo. The purchase of the cozy living quarters had been negotiated while I was still living in Brentwood for a total of seven quick months. I was allergic to cats, but when I'd gotten the idea to adopt a dog—still not sure where that came from—I'd spent a couple (heartbreaking) hours at a local facility, picking a soulmate pet. Button and I had bonded instantly. An itchy nose was as bad as it got, and the young woman helping me make the decision explained that Button was a mix of Havanese, Schnoodle and Chacy Ranoir, all breeds considered hypoallergenic. How lucky could you get? Home came hypoallergenic, funny-looking Button.

The original move from Wilmington North Carolina to Brentwood California had been done partly under duress. My cousin Reynalda, better known as Rey, was an overdramatic woman of thirty-four and a cheesy B-movie actress who'd started her career as a dancing drupe in a fruit-juice commercial. Rey wanted her best friend, Linda Royale, and her cousin, Jill Jocasta Fonne, me, to open a private investigation firm in California, seeing as we'd done so well “solving” murders back in Connecticut.

I'd been game to try something new—in addition to remaining in media, if only local—but the move to the land of sunshine and cosmetic surgery had never been at the top of the list when she'd made the suggestion. To put a stop to Rey's incessant pleading, nagging, coaxing, whining, yadda yadda yadda, I'd caved in. Or maybe the thought of living in the land of sunshine and cosmetic surgery did ultimately win me over. Whatever the case, I'd ended up in the Golden State, living in a lovely little apartment overlooking a lush courtyard where cherubs danced through burbling fountains.

It seemed to take Rey a short forever to realize that being a P.I. in California wouldn't be easy. Among other things, you needed a combination of education in police science, criminal law or justice, experience equaling three years or six-thousand hours, and to pass a criminal history check. I'd discovered that on the fourth day in California, but had not shared the findings. Best she learned for herself.

Not one of us was willing to put in the required years of experience and training, but did my cousin give up? Of course not. That would not be the Reynalda Fonne-Werde way. Instead, she obsessed on Hawaii. I wasn't sure why she'd determined the Pacific Islands were the place to start up the new business, nor was I sure why I had decided it was okay to move to a place I'd never been, but I'd felt oddly fine with the choice. Sometimes you get a gut reaction, a sense that all will be okay, so with the flow you go. And there you are.

I lit the candles and placed them on an oval glass coffee table, then opted for a glass of Australian Shiraz. It was Thursday and I wasn't due at the station until ten a.m. to prep for the noonday weather report. There was no reason I couldn't kick back and relax. There was plenty of time to work on local-interest stories for the upcoming week and The Triple Threat Private Investigation Agency team (the company name was a Rey Fonne-Werde must) didn't have anything on its plate.

Actually, that wasn't entirely true. Linda was attempting to locate a missing teen. It was more of a favor than an actual case, though gas expenses and lunches would be compensated. A distant cousin of her boyfriend Makaio Johnson Mele, Makjo for short, who worked as an HPD Supervising Legal Clerk, had informed him that her seventeen-year-old son Xavier had run away from home—for the fifth time. When Linda said she was checking the teen's usual haunts, Rey decided to accompany her to Wahiawa, located between two volcanic mountains on the scenic Hawaiian island. With any luck, the quest would prove successful, though if he'd run away five times to date, what would prevent him from doing so a sixth? Hopefully, the gals would be okay on the drive there. I'd not want to be out on the road right now. Linda had enough sense to come in out of the rain; Rey was another kettle of fish.

Drriiinnnggg. I glanced at the mobile phone sitting on a kitchen counter. After one lone shrill annoying ring, it remained mute. Mother Nature didn't. Thunder rumbled like a caravan of army trucks hammering across rocky terrain. I filled my glass to the brim and took it and the phone to the sofa. My mother had always been adamant about not turning on a TV during a storm: anything could happen. Look at Aunt Sue Lou she'd remind me every time brilliant white streaks darted across the heavens. Hers had exploded during one and made a mess of Aunt Sue Lou's highly shellacked hair, pricey-but-ugly ensemble, and half of a large living room furnished a lá 1960s Bewitched.

Watching the weather was as entertaining as any prime-time show I'd recently watched, so I settled in. Drriiinnnggg. Drriiinnnggg.

“It's Rey!” My cousin's tone suggested she was in one of her excited (excitable) moods.

My voice, on the other hand, was deadpan. “Yes, Missy Reynalda?”

“We're stuck in a pub outside Mililani, thanks to the weather, but it's okay in here actually, except for a big biker guy who's leering at Linda and licking the rim of his beer mug as he's doing so. Looks like Brad Pitt when he was going through that grizzled mountain-man phase back when, but even hairier.”

“Fascinating.”

Rey's raspberry rumbled across the island. “We found Xav.”

“Good work.”

“Not really. He's handcuffed to Linda. He was getting antsy too, but we got him gnawing on chicken wings and fries, and he seems to be okay right now. Anyway, I wanted to let you know we're stuck and may not be back for a while.”

“You're both big girls. You don't need to check in.” I glanced at a long oval mirror alongside a handsome bedboard cabinet with wicker trim, the central design theme of the new place. For the first time in several years my hair was chocolate brown with honey highlights, not black with burgundy highlights. It was also four inches below my shoulders, the longest I'd worn it since grade school. It warmed loon-black eyes and accentuated a heart-shaped face that had known stress too long. Life on the Mainland could do that: make you dart and dash, hustle and bustle, and never allow you to take time to smell the Frangipani or Moonflowers. Funny how you didn't realize that until you'd spent time on Hawaiian soil.

“No, but I need you to check in with Honey Konani, Xav's mother. She's not at home and she doesn't have an answering machine, and it looks like the power may go out around here. The lights are going all wonky. My cell phone's dead. So, just to be on the safe side, could you keep calling until you get her and let her know we're on our way?”

“You may get there before I reach her,” I pointed out.

“We may,” she agreed, hesitating. “The kid, I'm worried. He's got a problem.”

“Most teens do. If it's not peer pressure or bullying, it's keeping up good grades or—”

“Those aren't problems, Jilly,” she interrupted impatiently. “Those are passages of rites. …He's into drugs. Big time.”

“He told you?”

“Didn't have to. He—”

A loud kurplunk was followed by two thumpa-thumps. These were trailed by a couple of curses and another kurplunk, then an eye-squinching, eardrum-hurting, splat-thud-clang.

“Damn! Gotta run!”

I stared at the phone. Was the storm damaging property? Were pub patrons engaging in fisticuffs? Or was Xavier making a great escape?

Thunder rumbled and grumbled like a heavy rock drummer performing a steady stream of bass and hi-hat foot work. Grrrrccchhhhhhh-kaboooooom-grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrch. Button leaped onto my lap and buried her multi-colored nose into the folds of my oversize sweatshirt espousing the virtues of Sonoma Valley wines. It made for quite the grand finale. I lifted my glass and toasted the skies.

Chapter 3

My cousin returned to the armchair. With a rye buzz, she recounted the rest of the teen's daring flight.

Spouting cusses like geysers discharged water, the construction guys, Longboard and Vermeer—so nicknamed because of dusty, sun-bleached T-shirt logos—thrust the grappling duo to the linoleum floor. This annoyed mountain-man “Brad Pitt”, who had developed an obvious thing for Linda. Chivalrously, the 200-pound man scudded across the long barroom and pulled Linda to her size six feet, asking if all was well as he passed a container of napkins so she could wipe away globs of grease and condiments.

Meanwhile, Xavier chomped Longboard on a fuzzy forearm and kicked Vermeer in the cajones, and zipped through the rear fire exit like a surfer striving for a much-desired tube ride, setting off a raucous alarm in the process.

With a groan, Mel, the burly bartender, hurdled over the counter like a professional runner and endeavored to turn off the shrill clamor while Longboard scrambled outside. Linda thanked her gallant Sir Galahad and sprinted after Xavier and Longboard. Rey wasn't far behind, but slipped on a fat sauce-enrobed wing and ended up covering Vermeer like ash from a volcanic eruption.

Once she managed to pick herself off the cursing man, she hastened outside, banging the metallic door into Mel. He sailed into Vermeer, who'd managed to stand and walk a few steps. They hit the floor like toppled ten pins.

Not having expected her to be five feet from the exit, Rey crashed into Linda, who'd been standing in the gray drizzle alongside Longboard scanning the area for Xavier. The stocky construction worker yanked her upright and all three surveyed the terrain.

The only beings in sight, however, were an elderly gent and an equally old dachshund, an extraordinarily tall woman of undetermined years holding a golf umbrella while checking the engine of a 2001 Tercel, and three thirty-year-old guys in a rear grocery store window watching to see if she knew what she was doing.

Longboard swore, rubbed a big hand over his moist, stubbly baby face and ambled back inside. Linda grumbled and followed. Rey remained two minutes longer to see if the teen would pop out of a shrub or shadow.

Sir Galahad jotted his number on a pub take-out menu and passed it to Linda, which she accepted with a gracious smile. Vermeer eyed her, possibly determining if he wanted to pursue the incident, noticed her muscular arms as she rubbed blood from a big scratch, and moved to the bar.

Mel, holding an ice-filled tea towel to his nose as he wiped down the bar, eyeballed the two women suspiciously if not worriedly when they stepped up to pay the tab. A ten-dollar tip triggered a toothy smile and a tenuous patron-bartender relationship was born.

“You never got to Xavier's mom's place, did you?” I watched Linda get up to stretch and refill wine glasses while Rey ambled into the second bedroom, which also served as office and guestroom, to shift clothes from the washer to the dryer.

She shook her head. “We couldn't reach Honey by phone. Makjo was in an afternoon meeting and then had an after-work anniversary function, so he wasn't answering either.” She emptied the wine bottle and took her seat as Rey re-entered. “He still isn't. I didn't know twenty-year work anniversaries were such big celebratory affairs.”

“Then no one actually knows that you caught Xavier and lost him again?”

Rey grimaced and crossed one long leg over the other; a long rectangular bruise was forming on one shin. “Except for you, Longboard and Vermeer, Mel and Keats, no one knows.”

“Keats?”

“Linda's admirer and hope-to-be boyfriend,” Rey chuckled.

“His mother was a poet and English lit prof,” Linda smiled. “So he explained when I eyed the name on the menu and my expression clearly declared: you don't look like a Keats.”

“What happens now?” I extended my legs onto the coffee table and regarded the duo curiously.

“We go after him again,” Rey shrugged. “There aren't a lot of places the kid can hide on this rock.”

“It's not a huge island, but I'm sure if he doesn't want to be found, he won't be.”

My cousin shook her head. “He's a druggie. He'll have to come into the open—”

“Crystal meth's everywhere, Rey. He can easily stay underground and have someone bring it to him.”

“Anyone who's on the stuff would sell their brother if they could get a few bucks to buy more. If he hangs with fellow druggies, someone'll rat him out for the love of the drug. We'll just have to put out a few dollars when we ask around.”

“Do you know dealers and scumbags?” I asked sardonically.

“We're budding detectives. What do budding detectives do?” Rey leaned forward, her expression set. “Detect!”

“And get into trouble if they're not careful,” I pointed out. “We don't even carry guns.”

“Not yet,” Rey was quick to say. “But we did sign up for karate next month.”

“That's next month. And it will take weeks to pick up practical moves.”

“We can ask questions, Jill. We can Google and Bing, check out dives and dumps,” Linda stated, “and we could get Tasers. We'll do fine. Where's the faith?”

I had to laugh. “Okay, okay. You win.”

“And who says we'll only be checking dives and dumps?” Rey added. “Down the road, we'll get highbrow assignments, ones that'll take us to upscale homes and restaurants, and nice places.”

You had to admire my cousin's resolve and enthusiasm. The woman had an obstinate doggedness seen in few people. I sipped slowly and eyed both drawn but determined faces. Rey's had changed since childhood. In the last ten years or so she'd acquired a Hollywood nose and lost twenty pounds from a body that hadn't been overweight to begin with. Eyes that were once pigeon-gray were now grass-green. Linda's latte-colored eyes were almond-shaped, slightly Asian, and provided a slightly exotic cast. With those unusual button-shaped lips, her look was unique. Back in Connecticut I'd thought her mousey, but pretty in a majorly understated way. These days, normally cream-colored skin was sun-kissed and lipstick and eye make-up existed where little had before. A couple of strides away from Rey's overwhelming shadow had changed her and the newfound confidence looked great on her.

“The world of druggies and dealers tends to be seedy and sordid. It unsettles me,” I confessed.

“Doesn't do much for me, either,” Rey admitted. “From the documentaries and movies I've seen, it can get pretty creepy.”

“My knowledge is limited to TV dramas and news reports,” Linda said. “We need to research it more.”

I nodded. “If you don't find Xavier—”

“We'll find him,” Rey interrupted. “That includes you, Cousin Jilly.”

“Okay, but if we don't find him, we're not going to inspire people to seek our services,” I said with a rueful smile. “This bring-a-wayward-kid-home case can't end up a dud.”

“It won't,” Rey determined. “We'll succeed. He has a friend, Zeus, who lives with two other teenaged boys on the first floor of a two-story house. Apparently, Xavier been known to spend time there. We'll head out tomorrow and—”

“You'll head out,” I broke in. “I'm working.”

“Fair enough.” Rey leaned forward excitedly and looked from me to Linda and back again, then grinned. “As Sherlock once said, the game is—officially—afoot. The three of us can head out later, after you finish work.”

I asked, “Remember that old but clever expression: the early bird catches the worm?”

“Remember this one? Wise women with established plans of attack succeed at tasks, careers, and life.” She toasted us and smiled, and slipped into Reynalda Fonne-Werde “contemplation” mode.

Speaking of “foot”, it seemed a good time for another walk.

Chapter 4

Four o'clock Friday afternoon found Rey, Linda and I driving along the H2 toward Wahiawa. No, we weren't naïve or dense enough to believe we'd find Xavier Konani at the house with Zeus, Dale and Joel; he was a druggie (as Rey kept calling him), not stupid. Still, it was worth checking.

The drive was slow. People were finishing work and eager to get home. We didn't mind. It was cloudy and cool (cool in Hawaiian terms, meaning 76 degrees instead of 84). Open windows allowed a refreshing, fragrant breeze to flow through an orchid-white Nissan Cube SL. All was well with the world. Or so you could convince yourself with the right attitude and outlook.

Honey hadn't yet heard from her son, but she'd grown used to his “flights of freedom”, as she called them. She fretted as a mother would, but no longer experienced hysterics or despair as she had the first couple of times. Her belief in God kept her sane and calm, and hopeful that her son would one day see the light. And stop doing drugs. Yes, she'd known for a while, but hadn't voiced it. To do so would have meant acknowledging a bleak truth.

“Hang a left,” Rey directed, looking up from a map.

“Thank you, Miss GPS.” I put on the turn signal.

“My directions are reliable, Jilly. The last GPS we used, courtesy of a subcompact rental, would have driven us into the dolphin pool at the Aquarium,” she attested. “Should be about ten houses up.”

“This is a brand new vehicle,” I pointed out. “The GPS works fine.”

Rey made a funny face while Linda pointed. “There!”

Pulling the Nissan to the side of a narrow side road, we eyed a tiny, two-story wooden-frame dwelling with a large mossy driveway. At one time it had been Cattle Egret white; now it was more Java Sparrow gray. “It looks empty.”

“The boys could be watching TV,” Linda suggested.

“Or getting high,” Rey murmured.

“Or surfing,” I offered, preferring to think of a more positive or healthy activity. Turning off the engine, I climbed out. “It's time to find out.”

Clad in jeans, lightweight cotton hoodies, and baseball-type caps—US Air Force for me, Texas Rangers for Rey, and Brooklyn Dodgers for Linda—the detectives from the Triple Threat Private Investigation Agency strolled casually to the rear door. (Rey and I really needed to chat about the business name.)

Squaring knobby shoulders, my cousin knocked boldly. “Place needs work.”

Fern-green paint was peeling on a heavy pine door and its frame, as well as on a small square window to the right. A thick unwashed lace curtain obscured an interior view. I turned to the rear. It didn't look much nicer. A rickety picket-style fence ran from the back of the house around a long, narrow backyard that hadn't seen a recent mowing. Four cheap plastic lawn chairs were parked behind a matching rectangular picnic table on which lay empty bottles of soda and water; chocolate wrappers and chip bags were tucked underneath.

“Munchie time?” Rey knocked determinedly again.

“Teen boys nutrition time,” Linda responded.

We jumped when the door swung inwards and a lean blond fellow weighing no more than 140 pounds and sporting a badly maintained chin curtain eyed us curiously. He might have been attractive if he hadn't possessed an acne-ravaged face and three-inch scar across a low brow.

“Howzit, sistas?” squeaked past chapped lips.

“I'm Jill. This is Rey and this is Linda,” I gestured with a cheery smile. “We're looking for Xavier.”

“Isn't everybody?” The quiet voice held a touch of scorn. Small ash-gray eyes regarded us. “He hasn't been here in a coupla days, yeah.”

“His mom's worried,” Linda offered, looking appropriately concerned.

“Most moms worry, don't they?” he responded with a shrug. “It seems that's all they do.”

“Know where he is?” Rey scanned his threadbare jeans and long, dirty feet before meeting his searching gaze.

“Who wants to know … besides his mom?”

“His family misses him,” Linda said. “They're concerned he may be in trouble. We'd like to help.” She gestured his T. “Fan?”

He nodded and rubbed a long thin hand across the Kings of Leon logo.

She gave a thumb's up. “Me, too. I've seen them like fifteen times … Even met Caleb Followhill.”

“No way!” His gaze widened and a huge smile displayed pearly dentist-perfect teeth. Who'd have thought? “For real?”

“Maybe you two can exchange band tales later. We need to locate Xavier,” Rey interjected, not concealing impatience very well. “He could be in trouble. Lots of it.”

“You wouldn't happen to be Zeus?” I asked casually, wishing Rey would learn to keep annoyance in check.

“Dale.” His eyes remained on Linda as if she were a life-line to his idols.

Her smile was cheerful and her attitude laid-back as she gave his forearm a teasing punch. “I'd really enjoy sharing stories, but at the moment we're desperate to find him. Is there anything you can tell us, like where he is, or something he said that could lead us to him?”

“I'd prefer to hear your stories.” His smile was almost shy.

She bah-hah-hahed, something I'd not heard her do since Connecticut. The loud frat-boy laugh had always seemed incongruous with the woman's bookish personality. It did affect Dale, though: it made him laugh and loosen.

“I have an extra signed photo of the band. It's yours if you tell us about Xavier. I'll be happy to swing by Sunday and drop it off.”

A sparse eyebrow arched and he eyed her inquisitively. “For real?”

She punched his forearm again. “Absolutely, brah, absolutely.”

Rey was about to butt in again, but a sharp pinch to the backside kept her in line.

He motioned the lawn chairs and we moved over to take seats.

“Xav's been having issues.”

“Drugs,” I said quietly as we sat.

He nodded solemnly. “Zeus, Joel and me, we don't do nothing heavy, just grass now and again. Xav got into ice more than a year ago. Maybe more like two. I can't really recall. Anyway, he said he had it under control, but it got control of him.” Dale looked into the neighbors' well-maintained yard, thick with palapalai ferns and plumeria, and appeared to consider how much he wanted to reveal.

“No one seemed to mind or care?” my cousin demanded with a deep frown.

“Course we minded and cared. He and Zeus been tight since grade school.” Anger crossed his face. “I'm not sure how he manages it, but Xav's been paying for groceries and a small percentage of the rent, coz he stays here a lot, yeah.”

“Like whenever he runs away from home?”

“And when he feels like hanging out.”

“Who owns the house?”

“Zeus' cousin, Jules. He's a salesman, so he's not around much. As long as we don't do any damage and give him seven-hundred a month, he's cool.”

“None of you is over eighteen,” Rey commented with a skeptical gaze.

“Zeus and me's eighteen. Joel's sixteen.” His smile was scorching dry. “Are you looking to adopt?”

Before Rey could offer a scornful retort, Linda jumped in. “Do you have any idea where Xavier is?”

Dale shrugged. “He could be in Kalihi, Palama, or Chinatown. He knows some dealers, and he's met some guys who have the same issues.”

“Do you know any names?”

“Duke. Benny. Tietjen.” He shrugged again. “Those are ones he'd mentioned a coupla times when he was tweaking or desperate.” He leaned back and sighed. “Zeus tried to get him to see someone. He's got an uncle who's a social worker and a cousin who works at a clinic.”

“But no go?” I asked.

He looked sad. “We talked about maybe having the dude stay elsewhere, coz we were getting worried. We even considered telling him he couldn't hang here anymore so it would help straighten him out, but then Zeus thought maybe it'd be better to have him around—to keep an eye on him, you know?”

“If you were Xavier, where would you go?” Linda asked. “Especially if you didn't want to be found?”

“With them issues, sistas, I'd lose myself in and around the streets makai of Farrington Highway.”

Rey looked at me quizzically.

“Toward the ocean. Mauka's toward the mountains.”

She smiled with recognition.

Chapter 5

It was after 9:00 p.m. when Button and I returned from a long walk to the condo. Two homemade banana biscuits for Button and three peanut-butter cookies for me, and we'd been good to go. As had become routine, she'd lay on a well-padded (extremely comfortable) wicker three-seater in the lanai and survey the marina and stars, and I'd check the Triple Threat Private Investigation Agency website that I maintained and regularly updated with new crime-doesn't-pay stories. Lastly, I'd check email. We'd get the odd one from the parent of a lost cat or some jokester, but nothing of serious this-will-pay-the-bills prominence had yet arrived in the agency's inbox—until this evening.

I left a voice message earlier. I'm certain my wife is cheating on me, but I need proof. Millions rest on this. Will you help? WP Howell

I checked the agency's voice mail. Sure enough, there was a message.

“This is WP Howell. I'm looking for an agency that understands and practices discretion. My wife is having an affair, I'm fairly certain. Call me at your earliest convenience. I'm sure we can come to a mutually satisfactory financial agreement. I never go to bed before midnight. You can reach me at…”

The man's voice was deep and distinguished. It sounded as if he'd had a Harvard education once upon a time. He also sounded old. There was a slight rasp and tremble in the voice; neither was overly perceptible upon first listen, but after three they were detectable.

I jotted down the number and reflected on what I knew about William Pierponce Howell. He was a multi-millionaire and philanthropist who appeared in the media now and again, usually because of a charity event or function. That was it. I stared at the number. No doubt he resided in Kahala. Or maybe Na Pali Haweo. Interesting. Why call us? Not that I minded, of course, but I'd have expected someone of his stature to contact an established private investigation firm.

I dialed and WP Howell picked up on the second ring.

“Sir, this is—”

“Thank you for returning my call, Ms. Fonne.” He sounded poised and pleased.

“You know my name?”

“It's on your website, but I've also done my homework.”

Of course it would have been on the website. Silly me. I chuckled. He possessed a little cheek and a lot of confidence, an agreeable combination.

“Are you up for a wayward spouse case?” he asked. There was a smile in the cultured voice.

“We're up for anything, save locating raging, runaway Rottweilers,” I joked. “I shouldn't ask, but I'm curious: why come to us? I'd expect someone like you—”

“You know who I am?”

“You're a well-respected philanthropist who makes the news fairly regularly.”

“But you don't know more about me than what you've read or heard?”

“I probably know as much about you as you do me,” I replied casually.

“Touché. Listen, my dear, I need absolute discretion. I require an agency like yours—one that's not yet established, but is eager to make a mark. I believe you're precisely what I am looking for: three committed women willing to perform good, honest work. You would serve me better than any of the established detectives I have used. They lean toward the arrogant and trip over each other in an enthusiastic endeavor to keep the 'rich guy' happy. I don't intend for that to sound ego-driven. It's simply fact.”

The candidness was appreciated. “Would you like to meet tomorrow?”

“Tonight.”

“My associates aren't available.” Linda was having dinner with her beau at his sister's place in Pearl City while Rey was meeting a man she'd literally stumbled into on an escalator in Nordstrum's the other day. Rey and Seymour were going to enjoy drinks at Duke's Waikiki this lovely evening. Hopefully, he wouldn't prove a dud like the other men in her life.

“I don't bite, Ms. Fonne.”

I considered it—for two seconds. “Where would you like to meet?”

“My house. I can send my chauffeur, Juneau, to pick you up.”

“I'll drive over. Where are you located?”

He told me and I told him I'd be there in an hour, give or take.

* * *

Dusty, a jolly and jovial security guard, allowed access through a tall thick iron gate, and I drove up a lush plant-lined driveway to a two-story house with a four-car-garage. Solar lamps shaped like Chinese-style lanterns illuminated the immediate area, displaying a lovely five-foot-high, two-tier marble water fountain and hexagonal bronze sundial. Both possessed dolphin themes. During the day, flora and fauna had to be vibrant and luxuriant. I turned off the engine and scanned the custom-built Kahala dwelling that easily boasted an interior of 8500 square feet. I'd bet dollars to donuts the rear held tennis courts and a massive pool.

Before driving to the Howell estate, I'd taken a quick shower and dressed in a lightweight cream-colored pant suit with a rose-pink silk shirt and textured Valentino leather flats (on sale at a price hard to refuse). I wanted to appear professional yet fashionable in an understated way. My hair was loose and my jewelry, like my make-up, was minimal.

I was about to press a large brass koi doorbell when one of two glass-paneled doors swung inward. A woman of approximately fifty, short and avocado-shaped, nodded and flourished a meaty arm.

I stepped inside. “I'm—”

“Ms. Fonne.” If I'd blinked, I'd have missed the smile, and if I'd been paying less attention, I'd have failed to catch the slight German accent. “I'm Sonie. Please follow me.”

She led the way down a gilt-accented, marble-floored hallway to a large L-shaped room accented in pomegranate red and forest green. The furnishings in the room that appeared to be both an office and den had a British barrister feel: old-world and academic. Tasteful for a man of Howell's age and credentials; stuffy for a woman born to a working, lower middle-class mother.

Standing by tall multi-paned terrace doors was a man of 6' with bushy, snow-white hair; it was full and real, of this there was little doubt. Dressed in ash-gray cotton pants and a navy satin smoking jacket, Mr. Howell was broad-shouldered and well-built. Burgundy velvet slippers covered size twelve feet. Slowly he turned, his welcoming smile as rich as he. A cross between Mr. Playboy Mansion and the Man from Glad, he inclined his head in greeting, turned to Sonie, and requested pastries and a large pot of Fujian white rose tea.

“Ms. Fonne—”

“Jill.”

Inclining his head again, he motioned two pecan-colored spoon-backed leather chairs with handcrafted maple situated before a large, elegant rosewood desk. I took one. He surprised me by taking the other instead of sitting at the desk.

“I'm glad you made it.” Sand-brown eyes, almost as round and small as dimes, studied me intently. “You're prettier in person than on television.”

“Thank you … I think.”

He chuckled. “Are you as good a private investigator as you are a weathergirl?”

“Meteorologist,” I said automatically.

“I stand corrected.”

It was my turn to study him. The man was in his early seventies, but could easily pass for early sixties. His face was moon-shaped, the chin pointy, and the nose flat like a boxer's. He wasn't handsome or even attractive, yet there was something in the eyes and full, firm lips that lent a likeable, endearing look. He seemed the sort to tell it like it was, whether you appreciated it or not.

Sonie entered. Hands the size of baseball mitts held a silver tray supporting a Royal Doulton tea set and a silver oval serving plate filled with tiny delicious-looking tea cakes, shortbread cookies, and chocolate éclairs. Homemade, no doubt. My ex-beau Adwin, a pastry chef, baked elegant tortes and pies and tarts, but he loved simple homemade desserts the best. I was sure these would receive the pâtissier nod of approval.

“Thank you.”

She nodded and departed, and my host poured a light pink infusion into delicate silver-trimmed cups. “Tea is such civilized refreshment no matter what the time, isn't it?”

I took an éclair when he gestured the desserts, and hoped nothing would adhere to my teeth or chin, or that filling would not fall on the expensive Persian rug.

We discussed the weather for three minutes, life on the Mainland for five, and favorite foods for another three. It appeared we both enjoyed crab and lobster, all things chocolate, and Kobe beef; I had it maybe once a year, but I was pretty positive it was a regular staple in this household. Four cups of tea and five pastries later, we got down to business.

“Carmelita's thirty-five to my seventy-three. We've been married four years. There's a prenup, of course,” he began, leaning back and looking pained.

“Then why worry about multi millions? If she's cheating, Mr. Howell—”

“William!”

I blinked, surprised.

He turned on a 100-watt smile. “Call me William. Please.”

“Uh, if she's cheating on you and you have a prenup—”

“Prenups can always be contested. And ensuing legal battles can take weeks if not months. We don't have to mention how ugly and sordid court proceedings can become. You've seen enough cases in the media, I'm certain.”

I nodded. “Please don't think me naïve or crass, but if you want a divorce, you could pay her off. Most people tend to have a price.”

He smiled silkily and scanned my face. “Do you?”

I smiled gaily in return. “You'd never afford it.”

His laughter was rich, like a Puccini aria. “It's very complicated. I need to prove she is having an affair. I would hate to accuse her of something and not have anything other than feelings to back it up. That would be quite embarrassing. I'll require corroborating photos and documentation regarding tryst dates and so forth.”

“That's understandable, but—”

“But there's more, my dear. It's not that I simply want to prove she's an adulteress … but … it's possible she may actually have something on me. As such, I'd like to ensure we keep each other's dirty little secrets.”

“What is it she may have on you?”

There was a hint of annoyance in the smirk. “Let's see what you and your associates uncover.”

“If anything” hung at the end of the flat comment. Fair enough. Time—and detecting ability—would tell. “If all we discover is that she's having an affair with the pool boy, it will help your divorce outcome. If there's nothing else to be discovered, then…”

“You're suggesting you're not up for the task?” Another smirk.

“You yourself said 'may'. It's quite conceivable there's nothing to find,” I declared, refusing to be intimidated.

“Let's say it is more than 'may'.”

He was testing me. Fine. “Then, we will uncover it.” I sounded and appeared ten times more confident than I felt. But I was good at researching and ad-libbing, so why not apply on-camera skills to something that went beyond weather reports and community events? I leaned back and mirrored his smug smile. “You do realize that your wife could get very p'o'd if and when something comes to light? The phrase 'payback time' comes to mind.”

With an expression devoid of emotion, he tilted his head to one side and then the other. “That's entirely possible. If you find out the 'may' concerning me, so be it. I'll laud your talents to everyone I know. If and when you find something on my wife, yes, it will definitely get her 'p'o'd' as you eloquently worded it. But it will also be enough to maintain her silence.”

I regarded him closely. “Why do I have the impression you know what it is and the last few minutes of conversation have merely been … an evaluation of some sort?”

“All right Jill, yes, I do have an idea, but I don't know for a fact.” The smile was droll. “Let's call this little one-on-one a getting-to-know-each-other moment.”

I bowed and brandished an arm like a page might before his king.

William laughed heartily while I merely watched and waited to see what else, if anything, would be revealed. “You'll start Monday. I'll pay six-hundred dollars a day, plus expenses. You have ten days. Take photos, as you see necessary. Send a findings report at the end of each day. If all proves acceptable, I'll pay a two-thousand-dollar bonus at the end of the assignment. Should you discover the 'may', I'll pay an extra ten-thousand each and you'll forget about whatever you've unearthed once you've delivered.”

“That seems satisfactory,” I managed to say without having my eyeballs pop out of their sockets. “And all the éclairs and tea cakes we can eat?” I added in jest, feeling a need for lightheartedness.

“I'll have Sonie pack a box.” He rose.

The meeting had officially ended.

Chapter 6

Saturday 8:00 a.m. found me at McDonald's, enjoying SPAM and rice and eggs, and a large coffee. As I was forking up ketchup-slathered eggs, Linda jogged toward the restaurant in papaya-orange nylon shorts and matching tank top, and stopped fifteen feet from the window to do a few quick stretches. I rapped on the window, but she didn't hear thanks to iPod tunes blasting her ears. A frantic wave garnered no results either in terms of my friend, but it did net me a crooked grin and kiss from a wall-eyed fellow in industrial green polyester shorts and a corn-yellow T-shirt displaying waltzing polar bears. That resulted in a smack to the head with a plastic rose-print bag from a portly muumuu-encased woman ambling alongside. One of his eyes looked at her in disbelief, the other at me with regret.

After breakfast, grocery shopping was on the agenda, as was getting little Button a raincoat and bows. She liked wearing dresses when there was sunshine, not when it rained. I'd seen a lovely little pink-and-taupe number she'd love. Funny, I'd never much thought of owning a dog, much less dressing up poochy in pricey designer-wear. There you go: never say never (a favorite expression of mine).

Figuring they'd had late nights and wouldn't want to be awakened too early, I'd not yet phoned or texted my fellow detectives. Rey wasn't the most sociable being first thing in the morning, unless there was a mission to pursue, like catching a crazed killer in Connecticut. Linda didn't sleep past seven but, unlike this morning, she was usually out running early, so I'd decided to wait until 9:30 before informing them of the agency's first official assignment.

Before I'd left William, I'd given him my cell number and pledge to give the assignment everything we had; he'd given me the promised pastries in a decorative tin box and a couple of recent photos of Carmelita Sangita Howell along with a list of her favorite haunts and doings. She was a pretty woman, but not naturally so. She had a perfect ski-slope nose, very similar to Linda's actually, plumped lips somewhat like mine (but mine were natural, I swear), stunningly blue eyes the color of the Pacific, and wonderfully smooth, glossy skin, courtesy of regular micro-abrasion scrubs. Shiny hair, thick and wavy, hung two inches below the shoulders and held a brassiness that seemed cheap in comparison to the rest of the costly enhancements and upkeep.

At 5'4”, William's wife was a slim 105 pounds. But she was a fitness freak and went to the gym regularly, played tennis, and was big on hiking, walking and swimming. Her taste in clothes leaned toward the odd: expensive, flamboyant, and tarty. The two photos showed her wearing sleeveless linen dresses—one neon raspberry red, the other a vibrant floral print—that were cut dangerously low, no doubt to show off 38C boobs. She also had two rings that brought one word to mind: wow. A three-stone diamond engagement ring with pear-shaped side and a band ring with a full circle of round, brilliant diamonds were set in platinum , and cost more than I would likely earn over the next two decades.

A lover of music—jazz, blues, salsa, and lounge—Carmelita Howell supported local musicians and artists by sitting on three charity boards and belonging to a couple of associations. Carmelita (Carmie for short) was also co-owner of La Tortou, an upscale French bistro on Kalakaua Avenue. Friday evenings saw her serving as hostess, while Tuesdays through Thursdays found her co-managing with Benoit F. Paillasson.

I'd made a note to reserve a table for the coming Friday evening, a perfect occasion for observing Mrs. Howell in professional action. After jotting down addresses, I'd scheduled visits to the associations and charities she supported. We'd have to check out her nightclub haunts, but more importantly, we'd have to start tailing her. Linda and I were fairly good photographers while Rey tended to snap her thumbs and fingers, and blurry bodies, even with a digital camera or cellphone. We all had weak spots or disadvantages. Rey could sing up a storm; I sounded like a possum that had barely missed being flattened by a speeding pick-up truck.

Next came the plan of attack. Would tailing and investigating be done as a trio, or would tasks be divided? Maybe the first couple of days the priority should be to cover as much ground as possible by going our separate ways. We could compare notes and then determine which course(s) of action would be most logical and beneficial.

Finishing the coffee, I stepped into a sunny morning. Strolling down Ala Moana, I bumped into Sam, one of several homeless folks in the area I'd gotten to know. A few lived amidst the banyans in the park across from the condo building or along nearby sidewalks. He didn't, but most days you could find him perched on a concrete step or border along the busy boulevard with a pet mongoose on a baby-blue leash, sitting in an unzipped fabric-covered pet carrier. The forty-year-old was almost always sober, though on the odd day, an obviously bad one, he imbibed to the point bright almond-shaped, copper-brown eyes were red-rimmed slits.

I gave the docile herpestes javanicus a pat on the head. He smiled in return. (Regardless of what anyone claimed, I believed all God's creatures had emotions and moods.) “How are you and Messer?”

“Hey, Jay. We're good.” He always called me that. He couldn't seem to remember Jill. Or maybe he preferred the name Jay.

I dug out ten dollars and pressed the bills into a sinewy hand missing an index finger. He'd lost it during his early twenties, when he'd hung with a bad crowd in Miami, and they'd burgled the wrong people's warehouse. As he told it, the mob guys portrayed on television weren't far off the mark; you didn't screw them and walk away whole. Those years also officially earned Sam the title “undesirable” and the street became his home. He managed to clean up his act for a while when a cousin got him to Hawaii and found him a job as a clerk maintaining freight schedules. A decent room and good food were his, and all went well for three years until the cousin was killed in a car accident on the North Shore. Depression sank in and so did alcohol and drugs. The latter he'd managed to pull free of completely, the former had proven a little more difficult. The rest, as Sam tells it with a rueful nicotine-stained smile, is history.

Tucking the money into his khakis, he grinned. “You're the best.”

“Tell your friends,” I joked with a light slap to his forearm.

“I do, all the time.” He winked. “Like the new duds?” He spun slowly.

“Very nice. The powder-blue shirt looks good on you. It accentuates the tan.”

He winked again and leaned close. “That's dirt.”

“Really? Then, why do you smell like Irish Spring?”

His laughter was reminiscent of a bleating goat. “Ya got me. Actually, they did.” He removed an off-white bucket hat. “Even got me a nice haircut.”