Forever Poi

by Tyler Colins

  So could I. “Weird” was an understatement. “What do you mean by 'eerie, kind of creepy way'?”

  “They seemed inseparable whenever they were together. They were always whispering and laughing, and I got the impression they enjoyed criticizing and making fun of people. You know, like some sassy teens do.”

  “But Clifton—I mean, Cliff—liked him?” Linda asked.

  “Cliff was looking for a viable business, something to supplement—for lack of a better word—a small North Shore art-supply store he owned. He'd always loved the art world and had wanted to either own a gallery or become a well-known artist.” Randy smiled sadly. “Unfortunately, while he could paint a decent watercolor, he wasn't out-of-the-box great or anything.”

  “Do you have access to lists or records from the Kahala gallery days?” I asked. “It wouldn't hurt to follow up with regular patrons or collectors.”

  Randy tilted his head one way and then the other. “Let me check. It might take a couple of days, though.”

  “That'd be awesome,” Rey said with a blithe smile. “Now, how'd Cliff and James-Henri meet?”

  “At an exhibition. They were admiring the same artist. One thing led to another.”

  “Did they get along? Were they close business partners?”

  Randy eyed Rey at length. “They got along well in the beginning, but later it seemed like there was tension. Cliff never wanted to talk about it, maybe because he didn't want to admit he'd made a mistake.”

  “Was he making money at the gallery?” Linda.

  “He should have been, given they were selling pieces quite regularly and holding frequent exhibitions and live events, but …”

  “But?” I prodded.

  “The income was minimal. Overhead and catering were a couple excuses.” He placed the empty cup on the table. “Two weeks before the fire, Cliff mentioned that he was thinking of trying a new business venture. He tended to keep things to himself until they became more tangent, but did say he'd possibly found someone to buy his share of the gallery.”

  Linda murmured intelligibly and got up to pour more coffee. “Did he tell James-Henri?”

  “I'm pretty sure he hinted at it … you know, to get a feeling for how it might go down.”

  Rey beat me to the punch by asking, “How can you be sure?”

  “One Sunday afternoon, Ossature called Cliff. I'd taken the call, because we were both at my cousin's in Haleiwa and Cliff, playing barbecue chef, couldn't come to the phone. The guy was very brusque and snapped, 'Tell your friend, we need to talk pronto. I'll call again tomorrow morning and he'd better be available.' When I told Cliff, he looked worried for a beat and then shrugged it off, saying the two of them would work it out.”

  “It doesn't seem like they had much of a chance to 'work it out',” I commented dryly.

  “I'd have to agree. For days and days after that call, he seemed unhappy and tense. But if they had met and talked, he never said.” He sighed softly and appeared pensive, reflective. “Two days before the fire, though, he was in pretty good spirits. He was happy about a Paris 'research' trip he'd planned.”

  * * *

  Two o'clock found the three of us at Bizz Waxx's Halawa studio near the Aloha Stadium. Large and airy and bright thanks to three immense skylights, the place was in keeping with an artist's lifestyle and mindset. Art consisted of doors and windows in various shapes and sizes bearing paint-spray graffiti, logos, and vibrantly-colored misshapen vermin and reptiles. Unusual puppets—distorted sea creatures—hung from rafters via galvanized aircraft cable. Not my cup of tea, but far from bad.

  We sat on multi-hued wooden chairs with serpents slithering along the legs while Bizz seated himself at the base of a narrow spiral staircase that likely led to living quarters. We'd declined an offer of beer, so he drank alone as he waited for us to begin the conversation.

  In his late 20s, the man was reed-thin and short. He bore the appearance of a suffering artist; the face sporting a ducktail beard was gaunt and sad. Carrot-colored hair was sparse, suggesting baldness was around the corner. He smelled vaguely of sweat and greatly of paint and chemicals, and lack of bathing. A black tank top showed off two full sleeves of neo-traditional tattoos. I half-expected to see rook or industrial piercing and was surprised there was none, at least to the visible eye.

  According to Gail, Bizz Waxx—or Theodore Grubb, as his parents had known him—had spent time for second-degree robbery at the age of eighteen. Once released, he'd followed a passion for art, which he'd discovered while doing three to five.

  “What can you tell us about the 6-tu-8?” Linda asked with a quick smile.

  He shrugged. “It was like any other art-slash-exhibit do. Lots of drink and food, folks with serious bread, lots of mingling and aren't-we-so-cool jibber-jabber.”

  “Did anyone seem hostile toward Carlos Kawena?”

  Another shrug. “Everyone seemed happy, but then they'd all had a few glasses of champagne.”

  “Did you stay for the entire function?”

  Absently, Bizz Waxx scanned Linda's face; he appeared bored. “I had to. I was the featured artist, so to speak.”

  “Really?” the three of us asked simultaneously, surprised.

  Brow knotted, he peered from one face to the next.

  “What do you know about Mary-Louise Crabtree?” Rey asked.

  Small Junco-black eyes looked blank. “Who?”

  “You might have known her as Lila or Peppa, or maybe Metro,” I offered.

  He looked bemused.

  “The woman that was killed the night of the fire at the back of the Chinatown gallery,” Linda clarified.

  “Lolita.”

  Rey smiled jubilantly. “What can you tell us about Lolita?”

  He arched a scrawny shoulder. “She was like my manager.”

  “Had she been it for long?”

  “A year and a bit… She really believed in my work and was trying to get me exhibitions across the big pond. Both ponds, actually.” He stared at his beer can and chuckled softly, as if recalling a private joke. “There's one lined up for end of February in Venice Beach and another in L.A. in March. And she'd been talking to a gallery or two in France.” He smiled self-consciously. “One place is a pretty sure deal: Galerie Couteau.”

  “Sounds impressive,” Linda said with a casual smile. “She had a lot of connections in the art world?”

  Another arch. “Of course. That was her business.”

  “How did you get to know her?”

  “We met at Schmaltz' gallery a year and a bit ago.” Both shoulders arched. “Lolita liked my stuff as soon as she saw it and started selling me as well as my work. In fact, she got me my first magazine feature late last year in Honolulu magazine.” A sad smile tugged at slim lips and he gazed around the studio. “She hung out here sometimes.” He motioned an array of rainbow-colored plastic bags arranged in a phallic-like shape. “She did that.”

  “Very cool.” Rey's tone and smile conveyed utmost sincerity.

  “I had no idea she was an artist,” I said.

  “She was trying to find her niche,” was the simple explanation.

  “As an artist or a manager”

  Bizz Waxx's response was to slurp beer and burp.

  “Did you know her well?”

  “We were close enough.”

  I decided not to pursue how close for the moment. “What can you tell us about her death?”

  “No more than you can tell me,” he replied, tensing. “Lolita was murdered. That's the ugly story.”

  “Do you know anyone that would have wanted her dead?”

  He shook his head and looked Eeyore sad.

  “Did she have enemies?”

  “She could rub people the wrong way.”

  “How so?” Linda asked.

  “She said what was on her mind and never beat around the bush. Sometimes it wasn't nice, but it was always truthful.”

  “She was a drug dealer once upon a time. Did you know?�
� Rey asked, eyeing him closely.

  “She'd mentioned it, but she'd also said she'd left that life behind. She found art two, maybe three years ago. It became her new—and successful—thing.” More Eeyore sadness. “Lolita was doing well and had made some really decent connections.”

  “You don't have any theories as to who murdered her or why?” Rey pressed.

  “Nope.” The beady eyes shifted slightly, suggesting he wasn't telling the truth.

  Rey asked casually if he had an address.

  The response was a quick shake of the head.

  “Really?”

  “She liked privacy,” he said curtly.

  I got to my feet and my colleagues did the same. “What was Lolita's full name?”

  He appeared to debate whether he wanted to provide it. With a slow exhalation and look of irritation, he crushed the empty beer can under a sneakered foot. “Lolita Frida Renoir.”

  Removing a card from my bag, I brought it over. “If you remember anything out of the ordinary about the night of the fires or the attendees, would you please call?”

  “Sure”.

  He might as well have said “in a pig's eye” for all the sincerity.

  “Are you holding any exhibitions around here in the near future?” Linda asked with an innocuous smile.

  “One starts week after next at Sandro's.”

  “Could we come?”

  He gazed at the card and then looked from Linda to me to Rey. “I'll see you get an invite.”

  Yeah. In a pig's eye.

  Chapter Twelve

  As Rey slipped into the rear of the Jeep and Linda hopped into the front, I stood outside and texted Gail. Need an address for Lolita Frida Renoir. Can you help? Urgent. Thanks. Owe you another dinner. XOX

  “What's next?” Rey asked eagerly.

  “We have Cholla's address and I have my surveillance hat handy, so there's no reason we can't cruise by.” Pulling an Aloha pineapple baseball cap from her knapsack, Linda plonked it on her head.

  “I got mine.” Removing a Hawaiian Volcanoes National Park cap from a Proenza Schouler bucket bag, a current “fav” from [at last count] four dozen, Rey waved it above her head. “Whadya say, Cousin Jilly?”

  Tugging a Hawaii Warriors black-knit beanie from the glove compartment, I playfully tossed it at my cousin; she tossed it back.

  Earlier, Gail had sent a Maunalani Heights address for a house leased to a holding company, Cœur à Cœur. She'd wanted to join us, but had to attend the 75th birthday of dear, crusty-as-old-toast Aunt Alice.

  “James-Henri did say Cholla's in L.A.,” I said. “Why not swing by and take a look?”

  “And do a little B&E?”

  Lina and I turned to Rey, who smiled like a Valentine's Day cherub. “Joking!”

  “Like hell you are.” Linda smiled drolly. “You're out of luck, sweetie. Cousin Willy's B&E kit is back at the condo.”

  Rey's grass-green eyes gleamed. “Like hell it is.”

  Laughing, I started the Jeep and swung into traffic. Due to its higher elevation, Maunalani Heights experienced cooler temps. It was a pleasant hillside community where streets shared names with William Matson's ships—once upon a time, Swedish-born Matson, founder of Matson Navigation Company, had owned most of the hill. According to a real-estate description, the single-family house contained five bedrooms and four bathrooms, and a wrap-around lanai on both levels. Amazing vistas included the city, coastline, and Diamond Head.

  “Do we know what Cholla actually does?” Linda asked, settling back.

  “She'd have to be into art, like James-Henri,” Rey responded.

  “Why don't we know this for a fact?” I thumped the steering wheel. “Are we slipping, ladies?”

  “It didn't seem relevant before,” Rey replied, shrugging it off.

  “Google her. Her last name is Poniard,” Linda reminded us.

  “Pwa—?”

  “P-o-n-i-a-r-d. It's a type of dagger with a slender blade.”

  Impressed, I gave Linda a thumb's up, but had to wonder if that was foreshadowing of some sort.

  A few minutes later, as we were pulling onto Cholla's street, Rey revealed her findings. “I lucked in with a landing page, but no business address. She's a fine-arts consultant, representing a small handful of artists. The agency's name is Le Cœur Noir.”

  “Interesting,” Linda and I said simultaneously.

  “Do you suppose she has a black heart?” Linda asked with a grim smile. “Or is she into hearts of all types and sizes, given the name of the holding company?”

  “We'll certainly remember to use 'cœur' for any future Cholla-related searches,” I smirked.

  “That's the place!” Rey tilted forward so far she was halfway between the two of us. “Ver-ry nice.”

  “And far from cheap,” Linda murmured, gesturing the landscaped, wood-frame dwelling sitting on a small knoll and partially obscured by shrubs and trees.

  “Dare we?” my cousin asked after a moment of intense house-staring.

  “It's broad daylight,” Linda stated flatly, pointing to a gardener across the street. “With people around.”

  “We could return later.”

  “As Petey May once pointed out, trespassing is illegal,” I said dryly.

  Petey was a fifty-some detective who sometimes lent an experienced hand. Reminiscent of a 50s hardcore TV gumshoe, the Big Island inhabitant was crusty but lovable, and very dependable. I smiled, recalling the spicy man soap and Cuban cigars that enrobed that strong frame, and the raspy voice that belonged to someone with a three-pack-a-day habit.

  “So's B&E, but that's never stopped us before,” Rey stated with equal dryness.

  Harry Belafonte announced a call.

  “The same ringtone three days in a row? What's wrong with you?” my cousin razzed.

  Thrusting forth my tongue, a typical Rey Fonne-Werde response, I answered.

  “JJ Fonne?” an unusually husky, jarring voice asked.

  The slight accent was one I couldn't quite put my finger on. Putting the caller on car speaker, I confirmed he had the right person. “Who is this?”

  “A concerned, helpful friend.”

  Rey, Linda and I eyed one another.

  “What's up, 'concerned, helpful friend'?” I asked casually, sensing he was anything but, particularly given he was using some sort of device to disguise the voice.

  “I have tip about the huge Chinatown bonfire.”

  “I'm listening.”

  “The barbecued woman started it. She had it in for the owner.”

  “Which owner? And who had it in for her?”

  “The same one who'll have it in for you if you three don't back off.”

  “Why the 'tip' if you don't want us pursuing this case? Besides, we're not the only ones. Surely you know the police and insurance folks aren't going to let this go?”

  “Pity.” Disguised Husky Voice disconnected.

  * * *

  I returned to my condo while the bosom buddies went back to the agency. Gail's recommended call-tracing app hadn't helped pinpoint the “friend”, so we'd agreed to spend the late afternoon checking Carlos' and James-Henri's regular patrons, collectors and buyers, and reconvene at seven at Dave & Buster's.

  Common to Carlos' and James-Henri's art world the last decade and a half were six names, and two of those were on Oahu: Peter Finklesteen and Jessica Monica Lindstrom III. I called them while Rey said she'd pursue the three on the Mainland, and Linda the one in France (she had a decent smattering of French). Having no luck in connecting, I left messages and Googled them.

  Finklesteen was a stock broker, Lindstrom the owner of a hospitality firm. Both were benefactors of local charities, as well as sponsors and angels. “Largesse” seemed to be their middle names (they gave regularly). In their fifties, both had last resided in California, Santa Monica, and Palm Springs respectively.

  The Chicago call kept flitting through my head; it nagged like a crumb lodged on the back of the
tongue. The clock read 5:30, which meant 10:30 in Chicago. The Soul Cole Train Express Lounge, if popular, should be hopping.

  A loud, gruff voice, hailstones on windshield, answered with a terse, “What can I do you for?”

  It was tempting to mention the pros of good customer service, but they'd likely fall on deaf ears and a chance to learn something might be lost. Given the music and chatter in the background, I instinctively raised my voice. “Hi there. Could you put me through to the owner or bartender, please?”

  “You got 'im.”

  Who? The bartender or the owner? Did it matter? “I'm looking for Colt.” Yeah, he was dead, but maybe Gruff Guy would offer something of note.

  “Haven't seen him in weeks. Who's this?”

  Bingo. “How about his pal, the one with the clodhopper feet?” I took a stab. “His sometimes shadow.”

  “You mean Morton Smith?”

  “Yeah… He ducked out on a deal.”

  “Who's this?” he asked patiently. It sounded like he was handling paper and listening with half-hearted intent.

  “The spiky thorn in his side.”

  Paper stopped rustling as Gruff Guy hooted.

  “Is he around tonight?”

  “The rumor mill has it he'll be in Monday night.”

  So would I.

  “I'll see you soon.”

  “You as pretty as you sound, doll?”

  “Prettier.” I disconnected.

  Hell, I wouldn't mind seeing Chicago. And a few days in North Carolina with my mother and nephew wouldn't hurt. The gals would be fine with one less colleague. Besides, I could do some private-eyeing in Chicago. James-Henri and Carlos had once lived there. Come to that, so had Xavier. Why not meet previous associates face-to-face?

  * * *

  Lindstrom, or Jess as she requested I call her, phoned two minutes after the conversation with Gruff Guy ended. She was in Waikiki, wrapping up a meeting with a client who was returning to Australia the following day, and suggested we meet for drinks at seven at the Lipstick Lounge. Leaving a message for Rey that I'd see her and Linda at Dave & Busters around nine, I took Button for a quick walk, checked on Bonzo and Piggaletto, and changed into a lightweight black-and-white striped stretch-knit dress with elbow sleeves (there weren't many opportunities to dress up these days).