Forever Poi

by Tyler Colins

  “Really?” I asked dryly. “Were you partners in crime, too?”

  A short hee-haw erupted.

  “Hey, jackass, you're in my space,” a low-pitched voice boomed.

  Something akin to a shot rang out, followed by a shout and cursing, then silence.

  “Hello? Are you there?” I demanded, envisioning a horrific violent scene.

  I tried re-dial, but no one answered. Hastily, I called Gail, who answered on the second ring. “I know you have a phone-number tracking specialist cousin.”

  “How'd you remember that?” she laughed. “I told you that after the third round of tequila shooters.”

  “My head—regardless of the level of sobriety—is capable of remembering and holding a whack-load of trivia and secrets,” I advised with a tense chuckle. “I just got a weird call. Someone may have been shot.” I provided details and the number.

  “You do know they have apps for tracking?”

  I rolled my eyes and snickered. “I should but, sadly, no.”

  “I'll send info. Let me check in with Tad and call you when I know something.”

  “Gail?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “I have another number that needs checking. No rush on this one.” After providing the number associated with Cash's VM, I re-entered the living room. James-Henri was back on the sofa with Rey now alongside. Holding wine glasses, they seemed to be sharing something amusing. While her laughter was crystal-like and sing-songy, his was off-putting if not downright scary; he sounded like anime character Lelouch Lamperouge.

  “Ah, good, you're back. Can we please cease playing 'Inquisitors and Inquisitoree', and enjoy this lovely wine? Beata's bringing another bottle, as well as cheese and antipasto from Martino's. Carlos would not appreciate good wine being wasted on solemn or sour moods.”

  “To Carlos.” Rey raised her glass. “May he rest in fuzzy velvet-art heaven.”

  * * *

  “One call came from a burner. The area code was from the San Francisco Bay area, but who knows if that's the actual case. The other with the shot, if that's what it was, came from a Chicago lounge called The Soul Cole Train Express Lounge.”

  Chicago? “I'm sure it was a shot.”

  “I called, sweetie, and the owner said there'd been no shootings in his bar for several years.”

  Damn. Who'd call from there? Had it been a wrong number—no, it couldn't have been, because he'd mentioned “a deadly dealing” I'd had with someone he knew. The Soul Cole Train Express Lounge… Cole Train… As in Coltrane? He'd had to have been referring to the deceased Mr. Coltrane Hodgson Coltrane. Interesting that it was Chicago, once home to Xavier and Carlos and James-Henri. Was there a relation? Or was this sheer coincidence?

  And what was Cash doing in San Fran—oh, bloody hell. What did it matter? The guy was an agent; he could be anywhere at any given time. But so much for Florida.

  Sinking into a funky, zero-gravity leather massage recliner, a new condo addition (a Reynalda Fonne-Werde must have), Gail grabbed an icy bottle of Longboard from a fat metal bucket on a new, sleek and shiny coffee table.

  “You had another call in addition to the one from the 'associate'?” Rey slipped into the corner of a 60s-styled sectional sofa.

  I was seated on the floor before the coffee table, Piggaletto at my side and Bonzo at his. Button and Bonzo were BFFs. Hopefully, my little princess wouldn't be jealous with the new friendship. “I had a voice-mail from someone and I asked Gail to check it out. I was curious.”

  Rey gazed suspiciously from me to Gail, but instead of commenting, as was custom when she was curious or skeptical, nibbled a nacho.

  It was two hours since we'd left James-Henri and five minutes since Gail's arrival. Linda was at Crabby Crabs. Hopefully, she'd have better luck there than in Kailua. The only thing gleaned from the afternoon visit to the Windward beach community was from Cam's friends, Paula and Paulo: they'd confirmed that he frequented the café when in town, but they'd not seen him recently. Of course, it was entirely conceivable the young sister and brother were lying to protect a friend.

  “Tad said he'd try to find where the burner was purchased and if he lucks in, he'll keep digging.” Gail dipped a blue-corn nacho chip into a huge bowl of guacamole and eyed it hungrily. “He's like a dog with a bone.”

  A stomach stitch stole my breath. Cash had claimed the same of me.

  Rey watched the pig with a critical eye. “What was Linda thinking?”

  “He's cute,” I said in his defense, tugging a fuzzy ear playfully. He pressed his snout into my thigh.

  “Very,” Gail agreed. “Where is Linda, anyway?”

  “Working on one of two cases.” Rey gave a quick rundown.

  And I offered one re Cam. Then I relayed what little we'd learned about the gallery fires.

  “I can fill in a few small holes,” Gail said, leaning forward. “Did you know Ossature had a gallery in Kahala and that it burned down five years ago?”

  Rey confirmed that we did. “According to the police, the fire was an accident.”

  With a nod, she munched another nacho. “I have some family facts. His mother, Paris-born Josephine Ossature Illege, moved to live with Casper “Money Bags” Reede in Switzerland, near the French border, two years after James-Henri was born. They traveled a lot. He owned a house here on Oahu, a condo in Spain, and one in Florida.

  “His biological father, however, was William Wilford Vaunt, a British eccentric, who also fathered a girl named Cholla. James-Henri and Cholla met later in life, at an art showing in Paris, not long after she graduated from London Business School.”

  “We met Cholla recently,” Rey said, wrinkling her nose. “An Audry Hepburn 'Gigi' wannabe.”

  “I hear she's a stunner.”

  “And then some,” my cousin said flatly.

  “We also met Richard Vaunt recently,” I said. “I wonder if he's a relation.”

  “Ekeka's the name he goes by,” Rey added.

  “William Wilford Vaunt was quite a playboy and not one to settle down with the same woman for too long,” Gail grinned. “Vaunt—or Wil-Wil as he was later called in his circle—ended up permanently on Oahu in the late 80s.”

  I smiled wryly and Rey snickered.

  “Vaunt ended up marrying Richard's, uh, Ekeka's mother, Elizabeth Mary Oha, who hailed from California originally. Unfortunately, she was shish-kabobed by a tree branch during an intense thunderstorm. Vaunt married once more—to Leslie-Annabelle Scanlon—and was killed not long after.”

  “And how was he killed?” Rey asked, curious.

  “He hit his head on the upper deck of his classic sailboat, a '34 ketch, and fell into the ocean. They never found his body.”

  Rey and I gazed at each other, lips drawn. Interesting.

  Chapter Nine

  At nine sharp the next morning, the three of us were at the agency, chugging super-sized coffees (nothing sweet or fancy this time), and devising a plan of attack for the day. Yes, it was Saturday, but private eyes didn't necessarily have five-day work weeks.

  Linda looked beat with bags under the eyes the size of brassbound trunks. The seven-hour shift at the seafood restaurant had finished around one and Piggaletto's desire to be fed, petted, and walked at four had contributed to a very short night of sleep.

  Rey finished the last of a Kona-K'au blend. Crushing the cardboard cup, she performed an impressive free throw into a braided-rush waste basket. “You don't think it's worth pursuing Cholla in L.A.?”

  “Do we think she was involved with the fires? Or is into something illegal?” Linda asked irritably.

  “She's fly-to-honey close to James-Henri and his doings are questionable,” Rey snapped.

  “That doesn't mean she's questionable.”

  “I don't like her.”

  “You don't like a lot of people,” Linda groused, setting her chin on the edge of the desk.

  “Keep up the attitude, sistah, and I won't be liking you—”

  “L
adies, please!” Who needed to watch one of their hair-pulling free-for-alls? Not me. “Let's focus on the case.”

  Linda yawned loudly. “In terms of Crabby Crabs, my P.I. gut tells me the host and sous-chef, Charlie and Flaco, have something going. It might be a romance or it might be something criminal, but there's definitely a liaison. I'll keep a close eye tonight. In terms of our runaway, we should head out to Kailua again. I think he's there, somewhere. As for the arson case, I feel like we're stuck.”

  “That's because we are,” I agreed. “Let's get un-stuck. Why don't talk to Doris, for starters, and get her account of the evening the galleries were torched? She can't be hard to find.”

  Rey's expression changed from discouraged to optimistic. “Franklin Smithers might have an idea where we can find her.”

  * * *

  We lucked in with Smithers, who was also at work. He suggested looking for Doris in Dr. Sun Yat-sen Memorial Park or along River Street. She sometimes pushed or pulled a silver metal bundle buggy, but always carried a bright yellow hibiscus knapsack on her back.

  After asking 30+ have-you-seen questions around Chinatown, we located Doris sitting with a young, ragged-looking man on a concrete border across from a boarded-up pawn shop. They were drinking large sodas and eating fries, courtesy of Mr. Good Samaritan.

  After a quick chat, she'd agreed to meet at Kurt's at 5:30 for dinner. We gave Xavier a quick call and he insisted upon joining us.

  The five of us were seated at a sizeable corner booth. Wearing worn clothes—a checkered shirt and pink jeans, and discount-store sneakers—Doris held a thick grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich between small gnarled hands and nibbled demurely. Given her life on the streets, it was hard to determine age. Deep lines on an angular, sun-burnished face could have placed the woman anywhere between forty and sixty. Close-set, ash-gray eyes sparkled with life, but also displayed wariness. Slightly stooped shoulders suggested they carried the weight of the world, or at least Oahu. Still, the smiles were warm and the cheer genuine; she didn't appear regretful of, or angry for, her circumstances.

  “This is very tasty. You should have ordered it, girls. You obviously don't like your burgers.” Doris' smile revealed teeth yellowed by time and cigarettes, but not neglect; there was an obvious hygiene regime.

  “I'm sure it's delicious, but I gobbled a late, sugar-loaded lunch.” Linda smiled in return and glanced at her watch. She'd have to leave by 6:15 to make the evening shift at Crabby Crabs.

  “If you're not going to eat it—”

  “We'll have them pack it up for you,” Linda finished with an easygoing smile.

  “It's not for me, but Orchid. The poor girl doesn't eat well… But we're not here to watch me eat and talk about my friends. You want to know about the fire.”

  Rey nodded and stared; she seemed mesmerized.

  “There's no reason we can't enjoy a pleasant meal first,” Xavier declared, biting into a pulled-pork sandwich that could have fed a family of three.

  “It's not as if we're talking about scorched bodies or anything gross like in them graphic TV crime shows.” Doris waved a dry, scarred hand. “Ask away.”

  Rey appeared surprised. “You watch those?”

  “When I stay with my best friends, Marta and Terry, sometimes, sure. They have a small one-room flat a couple of blocks over with a teeny TV.”

  Xavier requested a passing server to bring more coffee. Stella, as the tomato-red name tag read, was a beanstalk of a woman and in her early forties. While her smile was full and genuine, she looked tired, as if she had seen it all and no longer cared to see more. “My friend Jester Risco—”

  “Isn't he the weird one with the gold tooth, mucked up fingers, and switchblade scar on his neck? He goes by the name Crispy, doesn't he?”

  “You know him … and that the scar was made by a switchblade?” The adjuster looked flummoxed.

  “I live on the streets, Mr. Shillingford.” She smiled dryly. “Crispy hangs around them a lot. And people talk a lot.”

  “Call me Xavier. Or A.”

  “Xavier.” Doris beamed as bright as the sun. “I like that. An old-world name of definite class. I got stuck with Doris—Doris De Mer. Is that a stripper's name or what?”

  Linda chuckled and, removing a tablet from a bright Hawaii Spirit backpack, pulled up a Word document. “You called 911 around 8:30, right?”

  “I did. I remember glancing at the clock over that collection of hula dollies when I made the call.” She gestured a double shelf on a far wall supporting 200 dolls of various sizes. “I'd only had water to drink all day, so I can swear to that.” She smiled over the brim of her coffee cup. “Just for the record, everyone, I don't drink alcohol. I haven't in five years. The wine I bought before we came here is for my friends. Thanks for the money, by the way.”

  I scanned a face that had been very pretty in its day. “What's your tale, Doris?”

  “I had an ex-army sergeant for a father. If you didn't join the army when you turned eighteen, you moved out and earned your own way. Four of us kids did just that: left at eighteen. I moved to California, got a job at Nordstrum's, and eventually became a manager. I did real well.”

  “What happened?” Linda coaxed gently.

  She shrugged bony shoulders. “I got married, then had a kid. Vannie was beautiful and really smart and talented.” As she stared across the partially filled diner, sadness pulled at pouty lips and close-set eyes grew misty. “Her father, Donny, died when she was five. He was an excellent surfer and instructor, but the irony was that he drowned in waist-high water.

  “I started drinking and partying to forget. Then, I lost Vannie to leukemia. That made me drink and party all the harder. Finally, I decided that life on the streets was less complicated. No rules or compromises, or familiarity.” With a shrug and a quick smile, she popped an onion ring into her mouth and pushed the nearly empty plate away.

  Xavier reached over and squeezed her hand. “Let's backtrack. The night of the fire, you were walking along the street …”

  “I was sitting on a stoop not far away from the galleries. I'd been collecting change from passersby and people attending the party since about 5:30 or so.”

  “Did you know Carlos or James-Henri?” I asked.

  “Not very well. Carlos always gave me money when we crossed paths on the street. Sometimes, if he passed me near a restaurant or diner, he'd go in and buy me a sandwich and juice. He was a nice man and never treated me like I was a bag lady getting in his way.” Her eyes misted again and she eyed a trio of homeless people sitting in the vestibule of a vacant shop.

  Rey prodded gently, “And that night, you sat on a stoop and … ?”

  “I didn't feel much like keeping Marta and Terry company. It was such a nice night, I stayed put.”

  Stella stopped by to see if we wanted dessert. Xavier appeared as if he might turn a shade of blue, but Doris shyly requested haupia cheesecake. Rey asked that it be a double slice.

  Doris thanked her. “I was watching people walk by and enter and leave the gallery. Some were drunk. People can be quite funny when they get that way.” Her laugher was reminiscent of a young cartoon character finding joy with a friend or pet. “It was about eight and I'd probably collected thirty dollars. Being relaxed and comfy, and with the lights still on at Carlos', I thought I'd stay a bit longer.”

  “What about James-Henri Ossature's gallery?” I asked.

  Her gaze narrowed. “It was dark.”

  “You don't like him,” Linda commented quietly, glancing at her watch again and frowning.

  “I don't not like people, but they sometimes don't like me. I scare them and I scare him. He always looks at me with absolute dread and fear, like he can't deal with seeing, never mind talking to, a street or poor person. I feel kind of sorry for him. Obviously, he has a phobia or something.”

  Rey, Linda and I exchanged surprised glances. Xavier appeared to be on another realm as he gazed across the partially-filled diner.

&
nbsp; “I decided to walk around the block a couple of times to stretch, then get a hot cocoa. I love hot cocoa, don't you?”

  “With lots of marshmallows,” Rey agreed.

  “Yeah.” Doris grinned and then sobered. “After the second walk around, I noticed lights in Carlos' gallery were now off but, strangely, the ones in the next-door gallery were on. There was someone in there, because I saw a shadow. I guess I got curious, so I hung around and about two or three minutes later, I saw someone enter the laneway on the side of Mr. Ossature's gallery. He didn't come back out and that laneway's a dead end.”

  “Did you see a face? Was it a woman or a man?” I asked.

  “It could have been either.” She smiled at the server as an enormous slice of cheesecake—with whipped cream—was placed before her.

  “What can you tell us about this person?” Xavier urged.

  “He—or she—was dressed in black pants and jacket and shoes and hat.” Like a little girl, she stuck a finger into the whipping cream and tested it. Apparently, it was tasty because she smiled and sighed appreciatively. “A fedora-like hat was pulled low and the jacket, which was hip-length, black and boxy, was really loose. The shoes were flat and high—like army boots. I notice things because I got a lot of time on my hands and people-watching is something I do real well. And I may be getting up there, folks, but I have great eyesight.”

  Linda bid a hasty farewell and the three of us drank coffee while Doris dug into dessert. The fedora? Was it the one I'd seen on the woman by the barriers that night? She'd not been wearing a jacket and I'd not noticed the shoes.

  Three mouthfuls later, she continued. “I remember the person walked with purpose, like they were on a mission. Just before entering the laneway, they stopped for a second or two not far from the streetlight and pulled at the hat a certain way—you know, like a woman might to check if her hair was still in place. Anyway, after they moved down the laneway, not too long after the shadow inside the gallery went by. A half minute later, a shadow went by yet again—in the same direction.”