by Tyler Colins
“He's lucky he did awaken.”
“Very. Anyway, remember how we'd asked if there was a client-patron list for the Kahala gallery?”
“Uh-huh.”
“He'd found ledgers and journals, papers, and other stuff in a banker's box belonging to Cliff.”
I exhaled loudly. “And it was charbroiled in the fire, right?”
“Wrong-o! He'd put it in his car trunk, so he wouldn't forget to drop it off. And, given he had to go to the shop for unexpected brake work …”
“Awesome!”
“We should have it mid-week. Catch ya later.” Rey disconnected and I found myself staring at the cell phone, wishing I were back home.
* * *
“Your mom wants to leave for church in half an hour. She's going to speak with the pastor.”
I hopped to socked feet and stood akimbo. “This crazy joke has gone far enough.”
An arm snaked around my waist like an inquisitive boa. “I thought we had a thing.”
“You left for Miami. You never called.” I tried to step away. To no avail. “You plus me equals done deal.”
“I was too deep undercover. Look, I managed to swing this little vacation. Even drug-dealing Richie J gets to take a few days off.” He looked both weary and annoyed. “As I was saying last night and you only half heard, thanks to you being tanked, Richie J spends a lot of time in clubs. A few favor Enrique Iglesias' “Sólo me importas tú” and “I Just Wanna Be With You”. Whenever I heard those songs, my thoughts seemed to drift to you.”
The snappy dance song played in my head.
An easy-on-the-eyes smiles pulled at those sensual lips and he allowed me to step away. “Iglesias made me realize that I missed you enough to want you in my life.”
“What about your undercover work?”
“I'm like you, Fonne: a dog with a bone. Neither of us is a quitter. I have to—want to—ensure certain individuals are brought to justice and I know it's within me to accomplish.”
Of this there was no doubt.
“Are we on?”
I closed one eye and regarded him from head to toe. Grabbing my purse, I walked to the door. Before heading downstairs, I offered a quick, “We're on.”
* * *
Sunday was a montage of faces, chatter, and activities. Mom nabbed Pastor Martin after service and Quincy, Cash and I returned to the B&B to prepare dinner for everyone, including the Duggans. The meal was a fairly quiet affair; everyone seemed tired and/or wrapped up in thoughts.
Quincy walked me to my room at nine. “I really like him, Aunt Sis.”
I turned on the overhead light and studied his animated face. “You hardly know him.”
“Why don't you want to marry him?” He dropped into the recliner.
I pulled out the nightgown that would have met with Grandma Ethel-May's approval. “I'm not the marrying kind.”
“I think he's crazy about you,” he stated confidently. “I better let you get some sleep. You and MawMaw are going dress shopping in the morning, and I gotta get up at five to bake a cake.”
* * *
Five o'clock Monday morning found my enthusiastic nephew in the kitchen with cake pans, bowls, and ingredients neatly arranged.
At ten, Mom and I invaded Nordstrum's with Cash and Quincy. She pushed the two in the direction of the men's wear department and instructed Cash to help find Quincy a nice shirt and tie. We'd meet at a smoothie place around the corner in an hour. Thirty dresses and fifty minutes later, my mother and I made a frazzled saleslady happy by settling on a short-sleeved, sequin-lace sheath dress.
One o'clock: make-up and hair were arranged by Cynthia-Marie, Mom's stylist and gossip partner.
Three o'clock saw me arm-in-arm beside Wilton, who was standing in for a father I'd never known. Quincy, dressed in a charcoal suit with a carnation boutonniere, gave a thumb's up when Beverley-Ann began playing Wagner's “Bridal Chorus” on the old Heintzman piano.
If nothing else, Cash was a stickler for tradition. At ten o'clock, he carried me into the dimly lit bedroom. Two dozen red roses stood in a tall crystal vase on one nightstand while a bottle of bubbles was chilling in a silver bucket on the other. Anchored beside the bed were six clear latex balloons with doves flying around the words “Just Married” while a box of truffles lay at the foot of the bed … as did a very pretty and super sheer negligee.
* * *
I pried open one sleep-heavy, bleary eye and peered at the clock. It was 7:00 a.m. The eye managed to gaze around the room and finally settled on Quincy.
He cocked his head, a combination of amusement and delight etched on a freshly scrubbed face. “MawMaw says breakfast's a half-hour away. She made banana pancakes and scrambled eggs, and she's even serving bacon.”
The other eye decided to join its mate; it, too, stared.
My nephew smiled gaily. “MawMaw said you might have had too much to drink last night.”
Swallowing the cotton in my mouth met with little success. With a moan and a groan, I propped myself up on both elbows.
“Are you coming to church with us?”
I did a few lip and tongue calisthenics; fortunately, they were up to the challenge. “Did I … did I get married yesterday?”
Quincy burst into laughter. “No, but you did dance with Mr. Duggan—the one with the 1960s' do—to some old song by, uh … oh yeah … Enrickay Eeglaysius.”
“There was no one by the name of Richie J here, was there?”
“Who?”
A loud sigh of relief floated across the room. It had all been a dream. A crazy, absurd, all too real dream.
* * *
The details in the dream conversation with Rey had turned out to be true. During our dialog at the Wilmington airport, she reminded me of that, as well as the fact that she'd done most of the talking while I'd listened with giggles, uh-huhs, and half an [inebriated] ear. Evidently, the data transfer had, in Borg vernacular, been assimilated.
“Cholla's back in town,” she continued. “We were driving by James-Henri's place last night—a few times, yeah—and saw her arrive in the Jag. We're going to check in with her later.”
“Why would you want to see her?” I asked, keeping an eye on the departure sign. The flight to Denver, where I'd catch a connecting flight to Honolulu, was leaving shortly.
“To chit-chat. I think I may have forgotten to share a juicy tidbit of information the other night.” Rey laughed gleefully. “She shares the same father as James-Henri. And he also happens to be the stepfather of—drum roll—Richard 'Ekeka' Vaunt.”
“How could you forget to share that?”
She laughed again. “Because I had to keep repeating myself—on account of the fact you were blotto'd.”
“I was not blotto'd.” (Well, not that much.) “They're calling my flight. I have to go. Let me call you back in six hours, give or take. Try to stay out of trouble, Cousin Reynalda.”
“Of course, Cousin Jilly.”
“Sure. And pigs fly.”
Chapter Eighteen
The check-in with Rey a few hours later was filled with more surprises—she and Linda were at Xavier's place in Makiki. And I, annoyingly enough, was stuck due to a mega delay at Denver Airport, because a plane part that had to be flown in from San Fran.
“It's so cool here. There's a real live shark!”
“On the sofa or on the floor?” I quipped.
“In a huge tank, silly. It's like forty feet long and ten feet tall.”
“The shark?” I asked blandly.
One of Rey's buffalo snorts erupted. “The tank, you nit. The shark's name is Bogard and he's three feet long. He's got a friend, too. A remoulade.”
“Isn't that a sauce?”
Xavier said something.
Rey giggled. “Oh, it's a remora.”
“Awesome. Did you see Cholla?”
“We didn't. She wasn't answering calls and she didn't come to the door—”
“You went to her house?”
> “Of course.”
Despite Rey's tendency to take action with locomotive speed and determination, which didn't always work in her/our favor, I had to chuckle. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Not yet, anyway. But we did talk to Trucker Track Ching.”
“Great! He called back?”
“Finally. He'd been vacationing in Tahiti with no phones, TV, or anything remotely technical.”
“And?” I prompted when she was distracted by chatter in the background.
“It seems Ms. Poniard tried her damn hardest to get him to propose, but he wasn't biting.”
“Good for him.”
“It almost wasn't. She started getting all weird and dark on him, threatening to tell clients he was into leather and porn, dark alleys and kinky stuff.”
“Dan Spades did say she was a control freak,” I reminded her. “That woman does not like to lose.”
“At any cost,” Rey said grimly. “Even her mother suggested she had issues.”
“Her mother!”
“Linda connected with Monique-Marie Poniard. Thankfully, my BFF speaks a little French and Madam Poniard speaks a little English. In a nutshell: the woman's not overly fond of her daughter. It sounded like they had a big falling out.”
“According to Race, they never got along much.”
“It sounded like they never got along at all. She said her daughter was selfish and would throw major tantrums when she didn't get her way.”
“What's up next?”
“We're probably gonna sneak into her place again,” Rey announced glibly. “Check for accelerants, evidence of illegal doings, those sorts of things.”
“Ald will love that. This time, he'll throw the book at you.”
“We'll be careful. Xavier' s gonna keep watch.”
“What? Is he—”
“Gotta run, Cousin Jilly,” she laughed. “Toodles!”
* * *
The plane arrived in Honolulu Tuesday morning a little after six. Sleep on the flight had been purposely nominal; who needed to experience another too real, absurdly ridiculous, dream?
A sundrenched morning promised a hot and humid day. While waiting for baggage, a silent but fervent debate between grabbing a cab and taking The Bus resulted in the toss of a coin. The cab won and I settled into a smooth, quiet ride back to the condo.
Regrettably, there was no fuzzy face at the door; Button was still with Rey and Linda. Stepping into the foyer, I kicked off flats and deposited bags and coat by a seagrass stool near the kitchen entrance. There was no need to be at the agency today, because the three of us would connect around dinnertime, so the next big debate: prepare a pot of coffee or climb into bed?
Mail on the kitchen counter remained untouched as I strolled into a sunshine-infused living-room—and dropped my jaw on the rug.
Cash sat on the dusty-pink two-seater rattan sofa, a venti Starbuck's coffee in one hand and a copy of Bloomberg Businessweek in the other. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”
“What are you doing here?” I squeezed past a score of fuzzy pom-poms suddenly bouncing along my tongue.
Unlike in the dream, his thick wavy hair was as it had always been: hanging well below the ears. Dressed in skinny biker jeans and—what else?—a designer Aloha shirt, the guy was [annoyingly] easy on the eyes.
“I told you the other night I'd be visiting Oahu.” He cocked his head. “Where you that tanked?”
“I was worn out and strained from all the running around. I was not tanked,” I clarified. (Well, not that much.)
“Could have fooled me,” he grinned, placing the coffee and mag aside. “You look beat.”
“When did you get here?”
He offered one of those maddening, smug smiles. “On Oahu? Or your condo?”
“Condo,” I replied coolly.
He glanced at a Rolex. “About an hour ago.”
“And you, of course, entered without waiting for yours truly.” I dropped into an armchair and extended a hand. “I want any and all keys back.”
With another smug smile, he stretched muscular arms along the headrest.
A resigned sigh spiraled through the air. “When we spoke, you didn't happen to speak about, uh, like uh, getting hitched?”
He looked flummoxed. “As in marriage?”
Feeling like an idiot, I could only manage a nod.
“I mentioned the break-up of one. Rayna and I just finalized a divorce.” His eyes narrowed. “You ask … why?”
I waved dismissively. “I thought you'd made some small talk about it, but couldn't really recall …”
“Just how much did you drink?” The fine lines on his forehead furrowed. “Or did you in that semi-coherent state imagine I'd asked you about 'getting hitched'?”
I glowered and tossed my head. “Don't be absurd.”
He released a long, noisy exhalation. “Maybe we should move on to something else.”
“Maybe we should.” Feigning nonchalance, I asked, “So, all is good? You're well?”
“Never been better. Rayna and I are still friends. Always will be. The kids are growing fast and looking great. Madison's so into math and science while Nathan's loving art and literature. He won a spelling bee tournament last month.”
I suppressed the smile, but not the comment, “Spoken like a proud papa.”
“Guilty.” He smiled breezily. “Are you up for breakfast? I thought we could stroll over to that place with the great eggs on Piikoi if you're up for it.”
“I'm not hungry.”
“How about coffee?”
“No… Maybe… No.” Great. Nothing like being decisive.
Rich, temple-like laughter erupted and he rose. “How about I make a pot and some scrambled eggs? We can stay in and catch up.”
“On what? Miami clubs and hot spots? Your life as Richie J or as an undercover agent? The reason you didn't call?” Sarcasm leaped from my lips like I did from the armchair. Yeah, it had bothered me that he'd simply strolled out of my life that night I'd inadvertently killed Colt. I'd thought—hoped [I grudgingly confess]—I'd been more than an “on call” lover but that, evidently, was exactly what I was. Well, Mr. Aloha Shirt, or Aloha-Shirt Man as I also sometimes called him, was wrong.
He exhaled at length and leaned forward—to kiss me perhaps—but I instinctively retreated two steps.
Perturbation lined his face. “What's the matter?”
“Let's just be pals, okay?”
“Pals? Like a boy and his dog pal? Or drinking pals? … Or split-up couple pals?”
“Yes, yes, and yes… Like you and ex-wifey.” I smirked. “This pal needs to shower and freshen up—”
“This pal can help,” he stated with a smile that wavered between cocky and cynical.
“We'll try to do lunch before you return to the Mainland.” I motioned the door. “Please close it on the way out, Mr. Jones.” Before he could respond, I strode into the bedroom and shut the door firmly behind. I waited to hear the front one close and it did a full moment later—with a bang.
Arrogance, smugness and self-assurance aside, I did like Cash. A lot, in truth. But I couldn't have the ass rolling into my life like a seismic sea wave whenever the mood chose. Ald was right: Richie J was plain no good. And Cash Layton Jones wasn't much better.
* * *
Five hours later, I dragged myself out of bed and into the kitchen for a much-required caffeine boost. At just before one, the sky was a lovely pale azure-blue and the sun brilliant lemon-yellow. As wonderful as it was to spend time with family, it was awesome to be home (and, yes, Hawaii was home).
Dressed in vintage high-waisted cut-offs and a crochet-trim top, I pawed through mail as I sipped. A couple of bills, several requests for donations, and a bunch of useless flyers. Funny, weren't we supposed to be saving trees?
As I started nibbling an orange-cranberry breakfast bar, I sighted another display of Cash's all too familiar self-assuredness: a note written in bold, heavy marker. “After some
sleep, I'm sure you'll be less crotchety and up for dinner. Pick you up at five. Remember: I can always find you, no matter where you are. Ha, ha.”
“Ha, ha, my ass. Not this time, pal.”
When Dean Martin crooned, “Hey hey mambo mambo Italiano,” I grabbed the cell.
“Hey-ho. What's up, buttercup?” Rey sing-songed.
“I am,” I chuckled.
“Are we still getting together later?”
I glanced at the note. “I'll pick you both up outside the agency at 4:30 and we'll do dinner.”
“Perfect. By the way, the kids are here today and Button's eagerly waiting for her mom's return.”
“I'm sure she's having too much fun with Bonzo and Piggaletto to care about 'mom',” I laughed. “Speaking of, how are you and the bow-tied one getting on?”
“We're getting, we're getting.”
“Admit it, you like the little porker.”
She grunted, sounding much like Piggaletto. “After dinner, how about we get into full detecting mode?”
“You have leads?”
“Bizz Waxx hasn't been answering, so we thought we'd swing by. Remember he told us Lolita was promoting his work on the Mainland and in France? We're gonna try to get more details and actual names, and see what else he'll share about her. Maybe an offer of dinner and drinks will loosen those stiff lips.”
“It's worth a shot, I suppose.
“Maybe there's a connection to James-Henri or Cholla with those France galleries. We should do up a new check list.”
“We could use one—our facts and assumptions are pretty shambolic.”
“Pretty what?”
“Disorganized. Chaotic. Messy.”
“Yeah. Kinda like confetti after a wedding.”
“More like assets after a divorce,” I muttered.
Rey laughed. “Should we drive the kids home before heading out for dinner?”
“Is Eddy around?”
“He will be. He's out getting office supplies—hold on. I got a text.” A few seconds later she trilled like a pea whistle. “Randy's at his cousin's place in Kaimuki. He's got the banker's box.”
“Awesome. Text him back. We'll pick it up after dinner and check it out while Eddy takes the kids for the evening.”
