by Tyler Colins
“Either are we,” I said regretfully.
“To hell with that.” With Reynalda Fonne-Werde melodramatic (reckless) flair, my cousin sprang from the Jeep and strode purposefully to the Jag.
Three minutes later, she returned with an expression wavering between triumph and self-satisfaction. “James-Henri'll meet us at two at a coffee house on Bishop just off Queen. Cholla, his 'sister', will not.” My cousin smiled haughtily. “That gal's a stunner and f'g snooty. That Borgia ring you mentioned looks like the real deal. And those diamond studs have to be four carats. Besides a slight but obvious French accent, she likes to throw around French phrases like bien sûr and c'est pareil.”
“Is her accent as real as Ekeka's British one?” I asked drolly.
“It sounds legit.” She swung into the passenger's seat. “Let's see what James-Henri has to say when we grill him.”
“So, Cous, do tell: what are they doing here?”
“Deciding if they should enter Carlos' place to grab something.”
“Such as?”
“A little noir book.”
Chapter Seven
Dumbfounded, I asked, “Little noir, uh, black book?”
“It's full of business buddies.”
“They share one?”
“Yup. Off-line and old-school. No one can access it, except the two of them.”
“Or anyone that finds it,” I pointed out solemnly. “Does it contain felonious contacts?”
“Felonious as in sketchy?” she smirked.
I smirked in return. “Ones that should not be revealed to anyone outside that particular sphere, especially the folks in blue.”
“I kinda got that impression.”
“Why won't he go in and get it?”
“Because the blinds aren't drawn. They were this morning, as they usually are—uh, were, uh—when he drove by in a cab, but forgot the key.” A long slender arm pointed forward. “The fact the curtains are open suggests someone's in there.” With a scoffing smile, she gazed at the Jaguar XK. “James-Henri's waiting to see who leaves the place.”
“It's probably the police.”
“Probably. Should we, like them, hang around?”
The chinwagging “siblings” seemed in no hurry to do much of anything but jabber. I shook my head. “Even if he manages to retrieve the book, he's not likely to show it to us. Let's hear what he has to say later this aft.”
“What should we do now? Head back to the agency or home?” Removing suede flats, she drew freshly pedicured feet onto the seat. “Linda has me curious, to be honest. What do you suppose she's up to?” Apparently, her best friend's secrecy didn't sit well, because her expression vacillated between curious and annoyed.
“Your guess is—”
“Yeah, yeah, as good as mine.” Playfully, she swatted the side of my head. “Which sucks.”
* * *
The only one at the condo to greet us was Bonzo, and he was more interested in a limp stalk of celery.
“Aren't we the popular ones today?” Rey chuckled and grabbed two small cartons of coconut water from the fridge. “We got two-and-a-half hours to kill until coffee time. What's on the agenda before then?”
Absently, I stared at a cuckoo clock on a far squash-colored living-room wall that had a very Black Forest look with its moving waitress and coachman and Bavarian Biergarten. Rey had brought it back from Aunt Mat's haunted Connecticut manse to serve as a reminder of a defining moment. It was that bizarre murder-packed week that had motivated us to become bona-fide, full-time private eyes. You had to wonder about the “cuckoo” component, though.
Pressing a carton into my hand, Rey dropped onto the plush sofa and Bonzo quickly flopped onto her lap.
Taiko drums announced a call and I passed her bag. While she chatted, I moved into the small foyer to check my own cell and found a text from Faith Suren, a waitress I'd befriended during The Gruesome Twosome case. She wanted to do movies and dinner next week, so I responded that we had a date. There were also four emails: three how's-it-going from Mainland associates and one from my nephew about a swimming competition he'd won.
There was only one voicemail message. Sitting on an entryway bench, I replayed it with a mix of disbelief and trepidation.
“Miss me? I had a dream the other night about you in that dyke-tart outfit. Hope you're keeping well, Fonne. Luv ya.”
Luv ya. The ever-smug Richie J aka Cash Layton Jones had used that phrase loosely in past—with me as well as his wife and daughter. Luv ya. Uh-huh. That's why he'd not communicated in months. A sour smile tugged at my lips as I tried the number and found the line busy.
“James-Henri's rescheduled,” Rey announced, leaning into a long kitchen counter. “He's invited us to his place for wine and 'nibbles' at six. We have a few hours, so why don't we check out that Cameron Wilkie kid's best friends?”
Why not? The Askey-Prescotts hadn't yet provided a full list of names and numbers, but we did know where to find George and Oliver. “Isn't it odd that his parents don't seem overly frantic?”
“He may be a runner, but he stays out of trouble and drags his butt home when he's ready,” she replied casually. “Given our success with Xav—which they heard about through a friend of a friend of a friend—they think we can set him straight. Let's give it our best.”
Cameron Wilkie didn't have Xav's former drug issues, nor did he hang out with a bad crowd. He simply had a notion to take [constant] flight. Maybe the teen did indeed need a “talking to” from an alternative, non-parental source.
“Let me grab the camera. You never know.”
As I waited, I re-listened to the brief voicemail message from the Florida-bound agent, enjoying the sound of that slight southern accent and recalling how that voice that could boom like a drill sergeant. Cash had an attractive face—a bit like Jeffrey Donovan of Burn Notice fame and a little like Timothy Olyphant of Justified. He also had an awesome smile that was real easy on the eyes and one, given the swagger and attitude, you often wanted to slap away.
A shrill shriek resulted in Bonzo and me leaping into the air like jackrabbits sighting a wolf.
“There's an f'g pig in here!”
I raced into a small office that doubled as a den and froze. Damn, if there wasn't pot-bellied pig sporting a plaid bow tie perched in a small, plush flannel bed.
The little condo guest clicked its jaw and squealed; Rey cursed and fainted.
* * *
Gliding into the condo, Linda clapped her hands and happily announced, “Awesome! You've met Piggaletto!”
Long-lashed eyes fluttered open and Rey regarded her approaching best friend as if she were a two-headed alien.
Swallowing laughter, I pulled my cousin to her feet. “I'm guessing Piggaletto is what's been keeping your secretive self so occupied lately.”
“You two have such great relationships with your pets, I felt left out.” Those unusual button lips pulled into a grin. “It's not like you to faint.”
“Lack of food.” Rey glowered and held out a hand. “I haven't eaten since … frig … yesterday morning.”
I grabbed a slender hand. “I thought you had pizza last night.”
“I got caught up Skyping with Cali friends.” She hopped to her feet.
“So-o, what do you think? Adorable, isn't he?” Linda asked gaily.
The short-legged, stubby-nosed 13”-high pot-bellied pig scampered up to Linda. Damn, if he didn't appear to be smiling.
“Adorable,” Rey muttered. “I hope he and Bonzo get along.”
“They do, they do,” she affirmed cheerily with Rhino the Hamster innocence. “I made sure. Trust me.”
Standing akimbo, Rey looked suspiciously from Piggaletto to Linda and back again, observing the little porker with the same skepticism he did her. “I ain't walkin' him.”
“But you two would look so cute together—”
“I'll walk him when pigs fly.”
“Let me to show you a great old Doritos ad …”
<
br /> * * *
George Platt the Third and Oliver Nyles Johnson were hanging out by the former's parents' kidney-shaped pool in the not-too-shabby, rather private neighborhood of Makiki Heights.
George was a young Leonard Big-Bang-Theory Hofstetter from the short boxy build down to the nerdy glasses and self-effacing expression. Oliver was a teenaged human version of Johnny Test, with big round blue eyes, toothy smile, and spiky hair the color of fire. Reclining on fancy woven chaise lounges, sodas in hand, both wore colorful Tribong board shorts and coordinating tanks.
Both were enamored of Rey. George shyly admitted admiring her acting talents in two Halloween favorites: Demented Demons go Delinquent and Lying Lovers Die, Die, Die (as opposed to Lying Lovers Die, which was about two deceitful lovers serving as fish fodder off the coast of California one foggy fall day).
“You really don't know where he is?” Rey's casual question was posed with a seductive, coaxing smile.
Oliver shrugged a bony, sunburned shoulder. “He doesn't share much these days.”
George nodded a thick head of bouncy curls. “Ever since his folks had that break-up two years ago.”
“Break up?” I interrupted.
The two buddies looked at each other awkwardly. “There was a big to-do, something about Mr. Askey-Prescott having a girlfriend. Then there was a major downsize at work. The guy was über stressed and way edgy.”
“That's when Cameron Wilkie started running away,” Rey urged.
“I wouldn't call it running away,” George replied, watching a Japanese White-Eye flit amid a vast stretch of moss rose.
“More like Cam taking breathers.” Oliver's thin-lipped frown was accompanied by a brooding gaze. “His folks are a major handful.”
Rey and I exchanged stunned glances. We'd found the couple a trifle stern and somber, which we'd attributed to the situation, but hadn't sensed anything odd or out of the norm.
George glowered. “They're all about him becoming a lawyer like Uncle Thornton or a doctor like Grandfather Abnard. They won't look at his art, much less acknowledge he has serious talent.”
“An artist's life can be very humble.” I forced a cheery smile. “Parents want their kids to have bright and prosperous futures.”
“They wouldn't let the dude breathe for the longest time,” Oliver muttered. “They used to watch his every move and monitor his calls … until the guy had a meltdown.”
I frowned. “Meltdown?”
Oliver's nod was as brisk as his smile. “He ended up in the hospital for a week. That got the folks to loosen the rules some.”
“Does he have places he likes to go when he's hurting? People he hangs with outside your group?” Rey asked.
Oliver's response was a quiet “no”, but a flicker of hesitation said “yes”.
Rey crooked an index finger. “Spit it out, Ollie.”
The young Hofstetter lookalike seemed mesmerized by the long, sparkly pink nail.
“Oliver?” I urged softly.
He glanced at George, who exhaled softly and answered. “He has a couple artist friends in Kailua. They hang at a café called Picasso's Pundit.”
My cousin and I eyed each other. Thanking the teens, we ambled to the Jeep, parked in the shade of a fishtail palm.
She looked at a pretty, no-name watch—kind of like a textured bracelet—she'd found on the beach a few weeks ago. It's only flaw: it ticked incredibly loudly and in the Jeep it sounded like a serious engine malfunction or old-fashioned TV bomb readying to blow. “Are we gonna head there?”
“We have James-Henri in three-some hours. That's not enough time. Let's send Linda.”
* * *
While waiting for six to arrive, I researched Carlos Kawena's Mainland house and was ecstatic to state that [eventually] I lucked in. The two-story, four-bedroom Van Nuys house was valued just under a million.
The current owner, Drewson Slag, was Carlos' former, un-happy partner. Oddly enough, he'd been a homicide detective for several years before becoming a potter, primarily of glazed earthenware. As a [seriously narcissistic] admirer of self, he was easy to locate via his website, blog, and social media sites.
Coffee-brown, beady eyes possessed a perpetual glare; combined with a long, angular, fully bearded face, Slag reminded me of a pirate or gunslinger.
He answered on the first ring with a “yo?”.
Like really? “Yo, Mr. Slag. I'm a friend—was a friend of Carlos.”
“Call me Drew. Everybody does.” The voice, high-pitched like Shaggy of Scooby-Doo cartoon fame, contrasted the look.
I introduced myself. “I was wondering if you knew whether Carlos had any enemies.”
“Besides myself?” He sniggered.
“You weren't always,” I said blithely.
“No.” He sighed. “We had a good relationship once upon a time.”
“What happened?”
“Ossature happened.” He snorted like a corral-bound bull. “That prick thinks he can waltz into Carlos' life any time he wants and into the sunset they ride, like happy-go-lucky cowboys. Unfortunately for me, they can … and they did.”
Chapter Eight
Seated in dainty nymph-bedecked wing chairs that could have graced the salon of Louis XVI, Rey and I accepted intricately etched wine glasses of chilled Riesling. James-Henri, our gallant host, looked like the owner of a medieval castle or old-world chateau; he was dark and swarthy with a brooding visage, and hazel eyes that appeared green courtesy of a sweeping teal silk shirt. A chrome dome didn't suit him as well as other men, because it tended to pull the eyes to a blobby nose and goatee that leaned toward sloppy.
Having arrived five minutes ago, a portly middle-aged maid named Beata had led the way into a large living room decorated in an odd combination—or clash as Rey had muttered—of neo-classical meets retro.
Grabbing an iPhone from the top of a beveled-face walnut sideboard, James-Henri put on Housey in the background. Stunned, Rey and I looked at each other: air pop was not a genre of music we'd have attributed to the forty-year-old gallery owner.
Like many items in the expensively furnished six-bedroom house, the four-piece solid-wood entertainment unit (sci-fi meets high-tech) was state-of-the-art. Wine glass in hand, James-Henri sat on a sumptuous champagne-colored velvet sofa across from us. Behind, courtesy of a floor-to-ceiling window leading to an expansive terrace, was an amazing vista of the glistening, rolling Pacific.
“You both seem to have taken Carlos' death in stride,” Rey remarked nonchalantly, sniffing the aromatic white wine before tasting it.
“Death is part of the cycle of life,” he said simply. Like Cholla, he bore just a hint of a French accent. “But if it makes you feel better, we are grieving. In fact, in desperate need of … a diverting environment and mindset, Cholla flew to L.A. an hour ago. She took his death harder than it might have appeared.”
Rey eyed him skeptically.
He smiled fleetingly and, leaning back, draped a sturdy arm along the headrest.
“What are your thoughts about the fire?” I asked nonchalantly.
“You mean fires, considering both galleries are history.”
“Were they accidents?” Rey asked with a salty smile.
“Shouldn't A be the one to determine that?” he asked smugly. “Or maybe it should be you two. You are private investigators.”
“We thought you might offer some inner knowledge,” Rey answered with equal smugness. “Firstly, it's been said you and Carlos had an ugly break-up. Secondly, he had financial issues. Maybe they were yours, too. Maybe the break-up was a result.”
Wide-set eyes narrowed as they gazed from her to me and then across the room. “Are you suggesting I was involved?”
“Were you?”
The eyes returned to Rey and narrowed even more. “I resent the implication.”
“If we don't do the asking,” I advised flatly, “others will.”
James-Henri drained his glass and rose, and stepped before a larg
e marble hearth that had never seen a fire. “Yes, I imagine they will. All right, Ms. P.I. and Ms. Detective, I had no involvement. I am merely an innocent bystander who just lost someone very, very dear.”
“Do you want to tell us about Clifton Myers Woods?” I asked nonchalantly, referring to the deceased Kahala gallery owner by name, and got up to refill glasses.
James-Henri's expression bordered on glum as he sipped and regarded a small portrait of a stone-faced middle-aged gent suspended over a fancy leather-upholstered credenza on the other side of the room. Who was he? His “short-term” father? An equally small portrait of a woman—perhaps his mother (she and James-Henri had the same round face and wide-set eyes)—hung near the entertainment unit.
There were actually several portraits in the large room, but these two small ones leaned toward realism while the others ranged from avant-garde to abstract expressionism. Having done a small handful of art-related productions for a local TV station back in North Carolina, I'd learned enough that I could recognize one from Juan Villafuerte, one from Anibel Villacis, and another from Alexander Porfiryevich Archipenko. The collection was quite fine, but eclectic and obscure, much like the gallery owner himself.
“Clifton was a partner once upon a time,” he replied, following my gaze.
Harry Belafonte started singing “daylight come and me wan' go home”. I grabbed my bag from a handcrafted twisted end table. “May I?”
James-Henri gestured a decorative paneled door with beveled privacy glass that likely cost more than my condo.
The area code was no more familiar than the number. I stepped into a small glass-heavy area that seemed to satisfy multiple functions: den, salon, office, conservatory, and sunroom. A laptop and printer were perched on a small three-drawer desk by the door. Nearby stood two modern bookshelves reminiscent of oversized building blocks. Beyond a plethora of roses (so intensely red they were almost black) was a slender eggplant-colored leather recliner and tall climate-controlled cigar cabinet. Idly, I wondered if Xavier had indulged in a stogie or two here.
“Yes?”
Jazzy music, shouting and laughing, clanging and banging (billiard balls being hit by cue sticks maybe) served as background noise. A deep, scratchy male voice, bearing a timorous tone and ever so slight Midwest accent, said, “You don't know me, but I'm an associate of someone you had a deadly dealing with.”
