Forever Poi

by Tyler Colins

  “Feline.” She spelled the name: P-h-e-e L-y-n-e.

  I couldn't help the Reynalda Fonne-Werde snort. “Surely you jest?”

  “Surely I don't.” Linda provided a rundown of the twenty-eight-year old woman's history. “After Phee Lyne died—”

  “Her art sold quickly and expensively.”

  “You're psychic,” she jested.

  “That may well happen to Bizz Waxx's work, now that he's dead.”

  “It will, not 'may well'. A couple of his pieces are on display here at the gallery and buyers are already in queue.”

  I scanned the empty street below. Everyone in the neighborhood appeared to want to stay in on this darksome, steamy night. Who could blame them?

  “Would you like more fascinating information?”

  “I'm all ears, Lindy-Loo.”

  “I checked into the history of the Kahala gallery.”

  “Did we miss something?”

  “We didn't check artists and exhibits to any great degree.”

  “We focused more on employees and patrons.” I sighed softly. “We should have been more thorough.”

  “There were two emerging artists who had unfortunate accidents. Mark Heisswasser was killed in a car accident two years before Cliff came on board. A year after, Ted 'Tanks” Daystar passed when he slipped off a pier early one morning. Apparently, he was sketching the shoreline while walking and not watching where he was actually going. Accidents do happen, but it sounds a little too coincidental, don't you think … particularly given that once they were working on great big canvases in the sky, their art sold for eye-popping prices?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Those celestial bowling balls continued to topple pins with increasing vengeance. Rain had grown so intense, it was impossible to see more than five feet ahead.

  I debated calling Gail for all of a blink. It was quarter of seven, too early to be on a date, too late to still be at the station, given her workday started at 7:30 a.m.

  “Hold on a minute,” she said merrily and returned exactly sixty seconds later (yes, I was counting, but only because I was curious). “Berk and I are having beers at a little bar on Kilauea.”

  “Ooh, so the 'hunky' Operations Officer asked you out, did he?” I teased.

  The fifty-year-old giggled like a teenaged girl. She'd had her eye on him off and on for a couple of months, but had never believed the lawn-bowls lover would look her way, much less ask her on a date.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “When you have a chance—not during your date with Mr. Hunky—would you check to see what accounts, safety deposit boxes, that sort of thing, Lolita Frida Renoir had?” I provided the names of the banks on the business cards. “You'll have a lot more luck doing that than tracking down that phantom key found at Carlos' place.”

  “What if she doesn't have anything?”

  “Then see who bore a remarkable resemblance to the former queenpin and check what she had.”

  * * *

  After a tense two-minute squabble, a compact laptop located in a solitary drawer of a stunning contemporary walnut desk that said “I cost more than you earn in three months”, accompanied us home.

  As Rey tetchily advised Xavier, “What the cops don't know, won't hurt 'em.”

  * * *

  Once green salads and three large pizzas arrived—mushroom, veggie, and Greek—the three of us convened in the living room. On the coffee table sat dinner, Perrier, and the piles previously assembled from Cliff's box.

  I had journals, Rey contracts and letters, and Xavier invoices and receipts and agendas. The laptop would wait until Linda's return tomorrow, given she was more adept at accessing technical gadgets than us.

  I offered a firm “no” when Button nudged my leg with please-feed-starving-me eyes. Bonzo and Piggaletto, however, received scraps from Rey, prompting an absolutely forlorn expression to cross her adorable doggy face.

  Xavier laughed, bit into a hefty slice, and immersed himself in the task at hand.

  With a sigh, I passed the little angel some pizza and began pouring through journals.

  “The names Linda provided were Mark Heisswasser and Ted Daystar, right?” Xavier asked.

  “Uh-huh.” I continued scanning Cliff's notes on patrons and buyers, and accounts of exhibits and sales. In addition to three references to Galerie Couteau I'd found sitting in the Jeep the other evening, there were a couple more. And, not surprisingly, Phee Lyne's name as well. Again, a question mark. Had Cliff thought her death suspicious? Or had there been something “off” about her and/or the L.A. gallery?

  “There are green asterisks besides their names on several invoices.”

  “Just those two?” Rey asked nonchalantly, engrossed in the page before her.

  “Just those two.”

  The sharp response prompted both of us to look up.

  Xavier held up several pages. “I'm thinking Cliff suspected something wasn't on the up-and-up.”

  “I'd bet dollars to donuts he did.” My cousin waved a faded copy of a policy. “Artwork and life insurance for Phee Lyne. Guess who got the payout if—when—she died?”

  “James-Henri Ossature,” I put forward dryly.

  “Try fine-arts consultant Cholla Le Cœur Noir Poniard.”

  * * *

  Xavier mouthed one word: crap.

  I had to pick up my jaw. “How could that be? How did they meet? When? And why would Phee Lyne designate her as beneficiary?”

  “Cholla Poniard may have befriended her during the course of their professional alliance, whatever that was. Given she was a fine-arts consultant, perhaps she'd loaned Phee, uh, Lyne, uh, money for art and supplies, studio and exhibits, and the artist felt she owed her. Maybe the mysterious Ms. Poniard was the closest thing she had to family,” Xavier offered. “Was there a double indemnity clause?”

  Rey smirked. “You betcha: an accidental death benefit. If she died in an accident … need I say more?”

  “I wonder how Cliff got hold of this.” Xavier took the policies.

  “Guessing from the quality, through surreptitious means,” I stated.

  “If that means 'dodgy', then that suggests Cliff had to know something was off,” Rey added.

  With a thoughtful nod, the adjuster perused a couple of pages. “This one lists her as Heisswasser's manager slash fine-art agent.”

  “Interesting,” I murmured. “I didn't know Cholla actually managed artists or served as an agent.”

  “Ya learn something new every day,” Rey said cynically.

  With a furrowed brow, Xavier said, “I'd be curious to see who else she's taken under her wing.”

  With a melancholy sigh, I poked mushroom slices. “We should have discovered this much sooner.”

  “We discovered it now, which translates into better late than never.” Rey playfully slapped my hand. “Let's continue. We may find more useful stuff.”

  * * *

  Having highlighted references to the L.A. gallery as well as the three deceased artists, I slid aside the journals. Maybe something else would jump out when I reviewed them again in the morning. At the moment, however, my eyes were weary and my head ached. Rey and Xavier looked equally beat.

  “Call it a night?” I asked.

  “I'd like to, but I want to see what I can find on insurance policies for the two Kahala artists.” Xavier stretched his arms and rose. “I'm thinking of stopping at the office before home.”

  “I'm thinking I'd like to know what you find.” With a weak smile, Rey stood.

  “I'll let you know.” He looked from her to me. “What's on the agenda? Sleep?”

  I shrugged. “It might be a good idea. Linda's back tomorrow, so we'll see how she does with the laptop—”

  “Why don't we have Gail look at it tonight?” Rey interrupted, suddenly perky.

  “She's on a date with Mr. Hunky.”

  Rey looked surprised. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She ch
uckled. “Good for her.”

  “Let me know what fascinating facts you discover, ladies.” He winked. “Thanks for dinner.”

  After we saw him to the door, my cousin and I stared at each other.

  “Up for an industrial-size coffee?” I asked.

  “You betcha.” She looked eager and hopeful. “And?”

  “Let's check in with Gail. If she's available, she can take a crack at the laptop. While she's doing that, we can nose around the gallery ruins in Chinatown.”

  “You think we'll find something the police haven't?” she asked dubiously.

  Before I could answer, Sammy Davis announced a call.

  “I hope it's okay to call,” Doris said uncertainly. “I know it's late.”

  “Not to worry. Call anytime.” I leaned into the kitchen counter and ever-curious Rey leaned into me. “What can I do for you?”

  “Can you meet someone tonight … who was at the galleries at the time of the fire?”

  “Of course! Is it someone from the party?” I asked excitedly, pushing Rey's pizza-scented face away and putting the phone on speaker.

  “Timmy-Tom's kind of new to the streets, but he used to sleep in a gallery alcove. He moved to the beach for a bit when he couldn't return on account of the fire. But we crossed paths this afternoon and got to talking, and he said he was hanging around that night, watching people come and go like I was. I thought he should talk to you and he's willing, for a few dollars. He needs new sneakers.”

  “Rey and I can meet him, sure. Is he on the up and up? Did he tell you something of note?”

  Doris chuckled. “I thought it best he talk directly to you. And, yes, I'd say he's on the up and up. He said he'd be at the rear of the galleries around 11:30. You can't miss him. He wears discount jeans, flip-flops, and he'll probably have a Nevada or California T-shirt on.”

  “I'm guessing there won't be a lot of guys hanging around there at that time, but what does he look like, just in case?”

  “The poor guy's not very good looking. With those fat cheeks, long funny nose, and that fuzzy beard, he kind of looks like, well, a donkey's behind.”

  “Poor guy is right,” I said, trying not to chuckle. “Let's do lunch tomorrow. We'll tell you what we learned.”

  “I hope it's something worthwhile. Good luck.” She disconnected.

  “Okay, let's drop by Gail's, then head over to Chinatown. Maybe we can even check out Cholla's place later.”

  She grinned and slipped an arm around my shoulders. “You want to do some B&E?”

  “I want to do something, anything, to help break this case.”

  * * *

  Gail was home and awake. Regardless of the fact she had to be up at 5:00 a.m. to get ready for work, she wanted to accompany us to Chinatown. The laptop would wait.

  As we parked on a quiet, misty street a half-block from the burned-out galleries, Rey finally commented on Gail's non-stop gushing about Berk. “You gotta serious crush on this dude, doncha?”

  Gail's ever-glossy lips pulled into a pout. “Is it obvious?”

  “You talked about your 'date' all the way here.” Rey opened the rear door for our friend.

  “It's just that, well, he's awfully cute and really nice,” she said with an apologetic smile, peering along the sidewalks. “Even if he's into lawn bowls in a major way.”

  “Who'd have guessed there was lawn-bowling on Oahu?” my cousin asked, surveying the dim block skeptically. “Didn't you say something about him playing two evenings a week and Saturdays? Shouldn't he have been doing so tonight?”

  “He had a bit of an accident, so walking and standing is limited, never mind a bruised shoulder.”

  “Accident?” I asked, tucking keys and cell into a small Hawaiian Spirit knapsack.

  “The last time he was on the bowling green, a couple of frisky mongooses inadvertently got in the way of his throw—one flipped backwards like a flapjack and the other rolled over like a tanker trailer on an icy freeway. Needless to say, the duo wasn't pleased and Berk ended up being chased. When he turned to check on his indomitable pursuers, he crashed into a wall.”

  Rey and I looked at each other and burst into laughter.

  Gail chuckled and pulled out two industrial-strength flashlights from a gym bag, passing one to Rey and taking one for herself. “Let's do some quick sleuthing before meeting Timmy-Tom.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The three of us snuck past a battered barrier like dogged fans past a teen idol's security. We picked our cautious ways down the narrow debris-laden laneway running between both galleries—or rather the fragmented, crumbled walls that had once served as them.

  “Gross.” Gail cursed. “I'm glad I wore old runners.”

  “Wish I had,” Rey muttered. “At least I was smart enough to bring a rain jacket.”

  “Wish I had,” I murmured.

  We continued along the soggy, mucky ground with flashlights in spotlight mode.

  “It doesn't look like any fire damage restoration has started,” Gail commented, picking her grimacing way forward.

  “You know, someone might see the lights and come checking. Maybe we should be more careful,” Rey suggested, lowering her flashlight.

  “Then we won't see a thing,” I stressed.

  “Point taken.” Rey sighed softly.

  “The powers that be have surely gone over this place with a fine-tooth comb,” Gail commented. “Do we really think we're going to find something in the little time we have before meeting this Timmy-Tom guy?”

  “The powers that be may have checked every nook and cranny, but that doesn't mean there's nothing to be found,” I said encouragingly.

  “Never say never, right?” my cousin jested with a slap to my back.

  “We should have brought a shovel or rake, or something to weed through the gunk.” Gail surveyed the ground with a scowl.

  Rey reached into a nylon backpack and pulled out a garden trowel. “We have this.”

  “Smart thinking, girl.”

  “We don't earn the big bucks 'cause of looks,” she grinned. “Okay, Cousin Jilly, let's start serious P.I.'ing.”

  “Why don't you two take the left and I'll take the right as we move along,” Gail proposed.

  Several minutes later, the three of us where in the area where Lolita's body had been found. Flame-licked, dented bins lay like washed-up tsunami debris.

  Rey scrunched up her nose. “You can still smell the fire.”

  “Kind of smells like … lingering death.”

  “Ya think, Cousin Jilly?” Rey's raspberry was louder than usual.

  After a playful punch to her shoulder, I requested she aim the light in and around the bins. Pushing the nearest one aside, I searched inside the rusted, broken container. Nada. Together, we checked the next three. Nothing.

  Crouched, Gail ordered us over. Her beam illuminated the side corner of a broken step. Poking from sooty dirt was a diamond-encrusted two-tone heart charm of rose and black gold.

  “Pretty,” I murmured.

  “Expensive,” Rey added.

  “Could it have belonged to Lolita? She did have a bracelet.”

  “I thought it was a brass cuff?”

  “You're right.” Shifting the knapsack, I removed two small plastic bags, one to pick up the heart, the other to contain it.

  “If it wasn't Lolita's, then it may belong to her killer,” Rey stated excitedly.

  “May is the key word, but if this pricey little piece does belong to the killer, then it confirms we're looking for a woman,” I announced.

  “Quite likely, but not necessarily,” Gail said with a fixed gaze.

  “You're absolutely right. Never assume.”

  She clicked her tongue and rose. “I'm surprised it wasn't discovered, which makes me wonder if it might have been lost more recently.”

  “Given it was semi-buried, I'd have to disagree that,” Rey said.

  “Me, too. The rain's been pretty intense. It may have washed the c
harm into the open and that's why it wasn't previously found.”

  Gail shrugged and twirled slowly. “Do we want to check anywhere else? Or stay around here and wait?”

  Rey gestured. “Let's take a quick peek in the area where Carlos' body was found, just so we have—what do they call it? Context?”

  “It can't hurt.” I removed my cell and took photos.

  “Are you still checking out Cholla Poniard's place tonight?” Gail fell into step beside us. “Or should I say this morning?”

  “Why not? We can search for a bracelet missing a charm,” Rey said.

  “That would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack,” I pointed out.

  “Not to mention dangerous and illegal,” Gail stated.

  My cousin dismissed the comment with a snort and wave.

  “I don't believe Rey wants to be reminded,” I chuckled, stepping over a mound of charred wood.

  “Hey, where you all headed?” a gruff voice boomed.

  * * *

  Rey and Gail directed lights to a corner, where a thickset man of medium height stood, stubby feline-furry arms crossed. He was much as Doris had described, except for the fact he had skin as pasty-pale as death. Odd for someone living on a Hawaiian Island.

  “You must be Timmy-Tom.” Gail's smile was easy and gracious.

  Tiny dark eyes peered from one face to the next. “You're the lady detectives Doris talked about?”

  Rey confirmed that we were and peered closely. “These your usual digs?”

  He gazed around wistfully. “What's left.”

  “Have you lived here long?” I asked nonchalantly.

  “Seems like a short forever.” He tucked ruddy hands into fraying pockets of baggy jeans. “So, what can I do for you? Or you for me?

  “We can chat over drinks.” I strode closer. What he may not have had in readily available washing facilities, he made up for with cheap aftershave; mechanically, I stepped back.

  “We'd be happy to buy a couple of rounds—even a bite—if you'd be willing to share your tales of life in and around the galleries,” Gail stated with an easy smile.

  “And I've got a change purse that needs some serious clearing,” I added. “Enough to buy some new sneakers … and accessories.”