Forever Poi

by Tyler Colins

  “How's Angus doing?”

  Cognac-brown eyes stared solemnly past a large gleaming-clean window onto a street filled with businesspeople bustling to work this hot and humid Wednesday afternoon. “He's hanging in. So is Loretta-Lee, but barely.”

  “She's still in a coma?”

  He nodded, his expression grim.

  “She can't corroborate his story then.”

  With a quick shake of the head and deflated sigh, he tested the coffee temperature and found it drinkable.

  “What's up on your end?”

  “Besides my blood pressure?” he asked listlessly. “Three new cases. I have a couple of people overseas checking on James-Henri, but I haven't heard anything. He may be a lot of things, but he may also be innocent of any wrongdoings. There's nothing tangible linking him to any crimes.”

  “Yet.” I smiled over my cup.

  “Persistence does pay off.” The smile was breezy. “What's on the agenda for today, besides meeting with our detective friend?”

  “Linda's flying to California and Rey's hooking up with that police pal of ours, Gail Murdock. I'm going to pour through Cliff's box again—we didn't get much of a chance after finding Bizz Waxx—and then I'm visiting Randy. I'd like to link up with Crispy, too. Has he returned from Big Island yet?”

  “He'll be back on the radar tomorrow. His auntie's improved a lot.”

  “He seems like a good kid.”

  “Now, yeah.” He smiled darkly. “Any idea who wasted the guerilla artist?”

  “Most likely the same person who killed Lolita Renoir.”

  “What's your take?”

  “Either Lolita was in the wrong place at the wrong time or, given her past, she was into something illicit again. I got the impression Bizz Waxx was too much into his art to be into anything else, but he may have stumbled across something he shouldn't have.” I leaned back and scanned the adjuster's attractive face. “I believe the killer is either James-Henri or Cholla.”

  “I get why you'd vote for James-Henri, but why Cholla, besides her being a bitch?”

  “If James-Henri is innocent of any wrongdoings, Cholla could be crazy enough to want to ensure he remains innocent. She wouldn't want his reputation besmirched.”

  Xavier's small forehead crinkled.

  “They're very tight, possibly to the point they'd overly protect each other. If Cholla suspects someone is out to get him, she might choose to get them.” I arched a shoulder, unable to describe the gut feeling. “There's something about those two.”

  His smile was as dry as camping granola. “That may well be, JJ, but you'll have to prove that 'something'.”

  “Okay, how's this for something I don't have to prove?” I leaned close and peered intently. “Her father is also your junior adjuster's step-father.”

  A photo of Xavier's face beside “dumbfounded” in the dictionary would have described the word to a T.

  * * *

  Dressed to the nines in a flashy, silky metallic-gray suit, Richard “Ekeka” Vaunt waltzed in several minutes later. After ordering a frothy drink with a Kilimanjaro-sized mountain of whipped cream on top, he sat across from Xavier.

  “Snazzy outfit,” I commented.

  “You like?”

  “Very,” I had to admit.

  “I just got it.” A slap-happy grin disappeared when he saw his colleague's solemn expression. “What's up?”

  “Why didn't you tell us you were related to Cholla Poniard?”

  As if collecting thoughts or bolstering courage, the young man took a long sip of a coffee drink that had to have a multi-hundred calorie count.

  “We're waiting.” The adjuster offered a don't-try-my-patience smile.

  “We're not real blood relations.” He shrugged with indifference. “I only talked to her maybe four, maybe five times in the last couple years and saw her once at a wine auction last November.”

  “You know she's part of the investigation.”

  Ekeka's GQ face expressed rue. “I just didn't …”

  “Think?”

  “I just didn't think it important.” With a sniff, he spooned whipped cream into a lipless mouth before continuing. “The woman tried a couple of times to hook up for dinner, but I said I wasn't up for getting to know a long-lost sibling … half sibling … whatever she is.”

  I regarded the haughty young man closely. “Cholla told you Vaunt was her father?”

  He sneered, then snickered. “About two years ago, she called out of the blue and said—I paraphrase—your step-daddy's my daddy.” A hint of irritation flickered in narrowed coppery eyes. “Talk about a sky rocket exploding in your face.”

  “Why did she want to get together after all these years?” Xavier asked, bemused. “Did she only learn of this in the last couple?”

  “She'd known for a long time, but explained that in the last while she'd wanted to develop some family ties. There's no one besides Ossature. She and her mom were estranged and she'd been feeling alone.”

  “I understood she'd been estranged from her mother for a long, long time.” Nonplussed, I looked at Xavier. “She doesn't seem the sort who'd care about 'family ties'.”

  Xavier's brow furrowed as he sipped and studied the junior adjuster.

  “Did James-Henri ever reach out?” I asked.

  Ekeka frowned. “He did not … and I'd never have known about him either if Cholla hadn't told me.”

  Xavier eyed him closely. “You have no desire to get to know him either, I take it?”

  “For whatever reason, my stepfather never told me about the two. I accept that. And I repeat: it's not like the three of us are true blood.” Fidgeting with the straw and cup, he appeared restless, if not bored. “Nearly three decades after the fact, Ms. Poniard dances into my life—or tries to—and determines we should play catch-up. No thanks.” Noisily, he slurped back the last of the drink. “To be honest, as gorgeous and sexy as she is … she creeps me out.”

  * * *

  “So, we're clear now?” Ald demanded, gazing from one face to the next.

  During the last twenty minutes in his office, we'd reiterated details and actions re the previous evening and he'd provided another follow-the-law lecture. My eyes had glazed over, Linda had floated to another plateau, and my cousin had simply sighed often and theatrically, as only the B-actress in her could.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  The detective sat on the edge of the uncluttered L-shaped desk and rolled those amazing Maya-blue eyes. “I don't want you in here again, unless it's to drop off good coffee and upscale treats.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  “Ladies, get the hell out of here.” The tone was as frosty as the gaze.

  Rey offered a crisp salute and jumped to high-heeled feet. Linda and I rose, and eyed him expectantly.

  “That's it. Over and out. See ya. Sayonara.” With a brisk smile, he waved.

  “Awesome. I'll grab a cab and see you two in a couple of days.” Linda adjusted her large travel tote, gripped the handle of an upright wheeled duffel bag, and was in the hallway before Rey or I could say good-bye.

  As we started to depart, the detective called. “Fonne?”

  I exhaled and turned slowly.

  “I meant what I said. Make sure that iron-willed cousin of yours gets it.”

  Rey sniffed. “Listen here, Hives—”

  “Come on.” I grabbed Rey's arm before the two got into another verbal sparring match. “Forget him. We've got work to do.”

  She shot a few optical daggers in Ald's direction and hooked an arm through mine. “Where to first?”

  “Aren't you meeting Gail?” I asked as we ambled down a busy corridor.

  “At two. We have time.”

  I glanced at my Michael Kors watch. “But not a lot.”

  “We have a few options. Go through Cliff's box. Dig around and see if Ekeka was te
lling the truth about staying the distance from Cholla. Have lunch. Shop.”

  “I opt for going to the office and looking through that box,” I stated as we stepped into a gray day. “Looks like rain.”

  “Looks like trouble.” She nodded to the left.

  Dressed in designer jeans, a mustard crewneck jersey T-shirt, and black Converse runners, Cash Layton Jones leaned against a post with brawny arms crossed. Good grief, we were dressed nearly the same; the only difference was that my T was salmon-pink and not of the designer quality his was.

  I stopped at the base of the station steps. The word “trouble” would likely be an understatement. “I'd ask how he found me, but that's a pointless question.”

  “Yeah.” She smirked. “The guy really does have eyes everywhere.”

  “Unlike us.”

  “We need more contacts,” she frowned.

  “Informants, you mean.”

  “Those, too.” She looked from him to me and back again. “You gonna ignore him?”

  “He'd only find me again.”

  Leaning close, she hooked an arm around my shoulders. “Blow him off. Or do you want him to keep thinking you're his—what did you call it? Right. His wham-bam-thank-you ma'am.”

  I stared at Cash, who was staring back.

  With a hug, she whispered, “Get it over with, girl. We don't have time for serious relationships, or whatever you want to call this thing you two got.” With a quick kiss to my temple, she started along the sidewalk. “We'll catch up later.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sucking in a deep breath like an asthmatic an inhaler, I strolled over to Cash Jones and stopped one foot away. My arched brow asked what my mouth didn't: what's up?

  A smug smirk preceded a smug response. “If the mountain won't come to Muhammad, then Muhammad will go to the mountain.”

  “Funny … not.”

  Cash laughed and pulled me close. “Howzit? Less bitchy now that you've slept? I know how you get when you're sleep-deprived.”

  “Funny … not.”

  He laughed again and brushed lips across my cheek. “Lunch?”

  “Do I have a choice?” I asked dryly.

  “None whatsoever.”

  “I thought as much.” I salaamed. “Lead the way, oh not-so-great one.”

  “I don't have wheels at the moment. How about we walk?”

  I salaamed again and motioned westward toward Chinatown, a few blocks away. Sensing someone watching, I glanced sideward and sighted Ald standing in the station entrance. Looking like he'd spotted something repellent, the detective mouthed something surprisingly crude and tramped from view.

  Gingerly, I took Cash's extended arm and we started strolling along S Beretania.

  “What's so important that you had to keep calling and leaving messages?” I eventually asked.

  “Honey-bunny, I thought we had a thing?” he asked with feigned woe.

  “You have a thing … for stalking.”

  An arm slipped around my waist. “What's got you in such a tetchy mood, besides finding a body and not wanting to appear on late-night news?”

  I glanced sideward. “You saw?”

  “I did. You three ladies, Ives and that other detective—the flabby one—looked fit to be tied when you were filmed leaving the studio.”

  I was about to respond when I sighted Doris sitting on a bench under a banyan tree, looking sad if not discouraged. Dressed in a sky-blue button-up blouse and clean navy cotton pants that leaned toward timeworn, she hugged her bright knapsack like a teddy bear. I shook free and ran over.

  A smile warmed her face and she brushed salt-and-pepper curls from her eyes. “JJ!”

  “What's up?” Dropping beside her, I draped an arm around her shoulder. “Or should I say down?”

  She waved off my concern and watched Cash stroll up. “Ooh, he's a keeper, isn't he? I hope he's yours.”

  Her enthralled expression made me laugh.

  “Hello,” she beamed.

  “Aren't you going to acquaint me with your lovely friend?” he asked with a cordial smile.

  I introduced Doris and before I could continue, Cash requested she call him Richie J and bowed regally.

  “We were headed for lunch. Why don't you join us?” he continued with an amiable smile and extended a hand, which she shyly accepted. “JJ'll shovel down anything, and I'm open-minded, but how about we do Benito B's?”

  Standing alongside Cash, Doris's pouty lips drew into a tight line as she glanced at her attire.

  “You look very fetching,” he assured her.

  She scanned his face and all doubt and apprehension disappeared.

  Just when I was ready to tell Cash Layton Jones a.k.a. Richie J to “F off”, he did something thoughtful and kind that totally threw me for a loop.

  Men.

  * * *

  Not far from the Chinatown office, Benito B's Bistro was bright and airy, with a predominantly raspberry red and fern green décor. Brightly painted wooden shutters and flower boxes lined a dozen windows of the sizable French brasserie,. Forty tables with thickly padded chairs could accommodate four persons at each and a long, wide curved bar with bright miniature Tiffany-like lamps could accommodate another twenty. We lucked in and got a corner table alongside a wall of vibrant European cityscapes and countryscapes.

  After ordering Perrier with lime, we perused leather-bound menus with a Moulin-Rouge theme. Limited offerings—with daunting prices—sounded delicious.

  “The Moules Frites and Burger Malbec are excellent,” Cash recommended.

  Doris' sloped forehead crinkled, her smile and expression tentative.

  Before she could decline, I merrily said, “Let's go for the burgers, sides and all. Richie J loves playing Richie Rich, among other interesting characters.”

  “But this is—”

  “A pleasant way to spend a pleasant afternoon.” Reassuringly, I squeezed her hand.

  “And birthday,” she said with a self-conscious smile. “I'm so glad we met, even if the circumstances leading to our initial meeting were unpleasant and sad.”

  Seeing Cash's questioning gaze, I provided an abridged account of the gallery fires. And then I recalled the tablet tucked in my tote with reports and photographs compiled to date. “Doris, do you think you could look at photos later and advise whether anyone seems familiar? Maybe you'd noticed them enter or leave the gallery that evening?”

  “Sure. Anything to help.”

  * * *

  Mid-afternoon found us on a Waikiki beachside patio, delighting in creamy cappuccinos and decadent three-layer buttercream cake. I was enjoying the afternoon, but not as much as Doris: she and Cash were getting along famously. He knew what to say to make her feel at ease and bring out a little giggly girl.

  When she admired an Aloha shirt that a passing woman wore, Cash excused himself and returned five minutes later with a colorful bag. The b-day gift was an almost identical Aloha shirt. How he managed that so quickly and effortlessly I'd likely never know, but one thing I did know: it was becoming increasingly difficult to [want to] give Cash the send-off.

  Men.

  * * *

  Taking a cab back to Chinatown, we dropped Doris off near Union. I'd decided to stop at the office. So did Cash. Whether I liked it or not, he was mine for the day.

  Rey wasn't there, nor were there any VMs or texts. She and Gail were probably on the prowl.

  “I finally get to see the place.”

  I flourished an arm as we stopped in the middle of a large Persian-green rug in the reception area. “Welcoming room.” I strolled to the door of the adjoining room and motioned inside. “Meeting and business room.”

  “Nice.” He dropped onto one of two rattan sofas.

  “So was the afternoon, I'll admit.” I sat in a coordinating armchair. “I believe Doris is smitten.”

  He stretched arms across the headrest and watched me intently.

  “What?”

  “Speaking of 'nice',
it's nice to be talking civilly again.”

  I shrugged. “Rey thinks I should tell you to F off.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I should.” I crossed my arms. “You're a pain in the ass.”

  “I've been called worse.” He smirked. “So, what are you going to do about the fact that Doris recognized that exceptionally attractive woman the night of the fire?”

  “File it up here, for now.” I tapped my head. “Cholla was a friend of Carlos and is the half-sister, uh step-sister, of James-Henri, so she had reason to be there.”

  “Do you think she's involved with the fires?”

  “I think she's involved with the murders.”

  “You'll have to tell me about it over dinner.”

  “We just shoveled back cake the size of Honey Globes,” I reminded him.

  “We could work it off.”

  Sneering, I tugged the wolf pendant necklace he always wore. “Not in your ever-lovin' dreams, Jones.”

  He laughed. “Do you want to tell me about that guy in Chicago?”

  I cocked my head, not recalling mention of the Windy City.

  Noticing my bemusement, he explained, “You told me about him when you were at your mom's … when you were snookered.”

  “I was not snookered,” I responded frostily.

  “The hell you weren't. You opa'd four times.”

  I sniffed and repeated, “I wasn't snookered.” What I was apparently, was blasted.

  His smile was one of indulgence. “You said you'd located a guy of note in Chicago, a big brute who reminded you of the Abominable Snowman. His name was Montebello or Mortino, or something like that. It was hard to understand, because your lips were tripping over each other.”

  I glowered. “It was something like that.”

  “Something like what?”

  Fortunately, Cash didn't have the name. I didn't want him trying to locate Morton Smith. I suspected “the big brute” would stay out of trouble going forward, based on the exchange in the laneway. Besides, who knew what crimes, if any, he'd committed in past. (Ignorance, sometimes, truly was bliss.)

  Given the Cholla Poniard “tidbits” Morton Smith had offered, maybe he'd be willing to offer more, if the price were right. Note to self: contact Morty.