by Tyler Colins
“I'd decided to keep the last name of my ex-husband, Jason-Patrice. He died when his Honda Accord was flattened by an auto hauler speeding along the Hāna Highway during a downpour. I was married at thirty and widowed at thirty-one.”
I offered another heartfelt “I'm sorry”.
“Jason-Patrice landed a managerial job at a trucking dispatch firm on Maui just before we'd married, but had been tending bar at a scuzzy haunt, The Hunted Heart, when we'd first met while I was at Vassar. My friends and I had gone there fairly regularly. They'd flirt and I'd dance or eye a dreamy bartender with creamy taut skin, ice-blue eyes and chiseled features. He looked like an underwear model. H-o-t.”
“Sounds yummy.”
“Jason-Patrice and I dated five times, but he'd always had this thing for a biker chick, Chiquita, who frequented the bar. One night, the cute brunette finally noticed him, maybe because the two guys she'd been hanging with had stopped noticing her. That was the end of Jason-Patrice until we bumped into each other at a rep screening of The Wild Bunch a few years later when I'd returned to New England for a lengthy visit. We decided to go for drinks and the rest, as yet another saying goes, is history.” She elbowed my arm.
I elbowed in return. “You've certainly led quite a life.”
“There's enough history in my life to write a book, JJ. Memoirs of Buddy Feuer: Vassar Grad Turned Hand. At least, now, I finally see the humor in it. Two years ago, I'd still have cried.”
Chapter Two
“Riches to rags. The poor kid,” Rey murmured over a Hawaiian Hilton Mai-Tai. “What a story.”
I'd invited my cousin, Reynalda Fonne-Werde and her best friend, Linda Royale, for drinks on this sensational Friday so that we could catch the weekly Hilton fireworks and I could advise them of our new key case.
We'd had a few easy, quickly solved ones in the last few weeks since the Howell assignment had wrapped up. There was a restauranteur who'd believed staff was eating through sales and profits; it turned out that a rambunctious, wily mongoose family, courtesy of a stylishly excavated tunnel, was to blame. We'd located a lost sister in New York; she'd run off to fulfill a lifelong dream of becoming a Rockette. A woman had repeatedly sighted a luminescent sprite in plum-colored tulle flitting in and around the house; it turned out that hubby had a night-time gig (and alternative lifestyle) at the Rainbow Bar.
After partaking of a three-day spa junket on Maui, Rey and Linda had returned early afternoon. I'd been invited, but had opted for “me” time, which translated into lots of dog walking, jogging and shopping, and Thursday evening dinner with Petey May, a Big Island private investigator. A crusty gent of fifty-some years, Petey had assisted with our Big Island pursuits while working the Howell case.
“Shit happens,” Linda sighed, popping a crispy French fry between glossy button-shaped lips as she watched a stream of excited tourists amble along the boardwalk.
My cousin did the same, but enrobed hers with a triple layer of catsup.
The two had met while working in film and television in California and had been best friends for years. Although their personalities were pretty much polar opposites, they complemented each other like Perry and Mason, and Nancy and Drew.
Rey was tall and lanky while Linda was average and athletic. The former had shoulder-length wheat-colored hair with sunshine-yellow streaks, the latter raspberry-red layered waves that curled around a long, slender neck. One liked trendy, designer fashions (faux and genuine); the other leaned toward classic, good-quality clothes.
In addition to being private investigators, Linda had recently started writing food and wine articles for a couple food websites, in addition to completing part-time law and journalism courses. My cousin, an on-again-off-again actress (or as mood dictated), was about to play a plump impassioned tuna in a poke (raw fish salad) commercial. I myself served as a meteorologist at a local television station. Last week, I'd switched from the early morning Monday-Friday broadcast to the Saturday-Sunday morning shift to accommodate station nepotism and a couple of young, eager interns. Come January, we'd revisit the schedule.
It never hurt to have alternative careers in the event the agency didn't take off. We were, after all, still novices to the profession, though we had acquired some insight and skills over the last few months in operation. And next month, there'd be an actual office to work from instead of condos. How exciting was that?
“Where do we start?” Rey asked eagerly.
“We learn everything possible about the Picolos, starting with the big guy himself,” Linda advised, nodding at the waitperson as he set down a heaping plate of veggie-and-cheese cloaked nachos and another round of Mai-Tais.
Rey agreed. “Then we look at Picolo's business partners and friends. That bad ass had a few enemies, most probably dating back to those racketeering cases that got swept under the judicial rug. Let's see who hated him enough to see him dead.”
I bit into a nacho and gazed past the shadowed beach onto the silvery, sparkling ocean. The night was picture-perfect, idyllic for those romantically inclined. Spectators had dispersed thirty minutes ago, but several people were still strolling along the strand under a new moon and starry sky. When I'd been three or four, I'd believed stars were fairies – Tinker Bells – waving magical, protecting wands as they hovered nigh.
“Earth to JJ.”
I turned back to my cousin.
“You all right?” She scanned the beach.
“Why wouldn't I be?” I asked more abruptly than intended. I grabbed my drink and tapped it against hers and then Linda's. “Here's to a new exciting case and lots of adventure.”
“Let's hope we're not dealing with another mass killer,” Linda grinned, chomping the last fry.
“You mean wacky serial killer,” Rey snorted, sounding like a water buffalo expelling H2O.
She was referring to our first unofficial case back in Connecticut, when we'd gathered at Aunt Mat's multi-winged neo-Gothic mansion for a seven-day collect-your-inheritance-if-you-stay-the-course extravaganza. Two wacky serial killers had felled five folks in less than a week and nearly taken out the three of us during the investigative process. Aunt Mat had never actually died, as an FYI. She'd merely organized the get-together to trap the person who had been stealing from her coffers. The events [shenanigans] had whetted Rey's appetite to move from [very] amateur sleuthing to professional private investigating.
Similarly, our first professional case had involved five bodies. While tracing clues and pinpointing suspects, we'd also tracked a teen druggie and frequent runaway, Xavier, or Xav for short. The seventeen-year-old son of Honey Konani was a fairly decent kid with a semblance of intelligence – when he was clean. Our endeavors had resulted in Xav being located, brought home, and shipped to rehab on Maui. Sadly, he'd escaped and returned to the seedier streets of Honolulu, where several days later, he'd been found in an alley, nearly dead from an overdose. The frightening ordeal had impelled the teen to retry rehab, this time with successful results. In addition to receiving tutoring for missed classes, he'd embraced a lost love: surfing. Honey and the three of us were keeping the faith that he'd continue on the straight and narrow.
“When can we meet her?” Linda asked, interrupting my reverie.
“Invite her over to your condo tomorrow – say, she's out on bail, right?” Rey asked before cramming a nacho between Clara Bow lips.
“She's not been officially arrested,” I replied. “Merely questioned at length.”
“Interrogated, you mean,” she said with a wry smile. “Invite her for lunch at one. We can get to know her and collect names and background.”
I nodded and drew on the rum-infused cocktail as I fixed my gaze on a crowded boardwalk. Under a lamppost several yards away, stood a familiar man sporting a designer Aloha shirt of hibiscus yellow and bourgenvilla pink. He was talking to an equally attractive fellow I'd met briefly once. A third gent in his late forties, built like a linebacker, was nodding emphatically as he listened. Could it be t
hat Cash Layton Jones, his colleague Coltrane Hodgson Coltrane, and Mr. Football were having a guys' night out?
Cash, a former FBI and Interpol agent, was currently working for a local elite drug force. He was the deceitful lover who'd used me to learn what he could about the Howells and their relation to an investigation he'd been involved with. His colleague, Colt, as he was more commonly known, had entertained Rey one night at this very venue. She'd walked away with stars in those pretty grass-green eyes and hope in her heart. Colt had never called her; he'd merely been part of the ploy.
“What's the matter?” my cousin demanded. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”
“Two of them,” I responded flatly. I turned back, but the men were gone.
“Anyone we know?”
I smiled dryly and changed the subject. “Who's doing the cooking?”
Rey frowned. Eating and fine dining, and watching cooking shows was as close to culinary endeavors as she got. Linda, on the other hand, had discovered the world of wines when we'd moved to Oahu courtesy of her beau, Makaio Johnson Mele, or Makjo for short, and was also currently exploring Polynesian cuisine.
Makjo, an attractive and personable young man of Hawaiian origin, had been in Linda's life almost to the day we'd moved to the Islands. The former scriptwriting assistant had been fortunate to find both a sweetheart and a soulmate. After three fleeting marriages and a sundry casual dates, Rey had yet to find someone, and I could probably do with having my head examined for my last choice of “lover”.
Linda volunteered to prepare shoyu chicken, pineapple rice, and steamed veggies. I offered to bake a three-layer coconut cake (I enjoyed challenges) and Rey said she'd be happy to pick up soda and iced tea, and a floral arrangement to decorate the table.
“Seeing as Linda and I are serving as chefs tomorrow, why don't you be researcher and start checking out Jimmy Picolo?” I suggested.
“Here's to solving another case.” Rey raised her glass and grinned. “With no psychos.”
* * *
It was 1:45 a.m. and sleep wasn't coming. I shifted. Button rolled onto her side. I groaned. She snorted. On the walk back from the Hilton, Cash had invaded my thoughts like termites an old wooden cottage.
I'd not known the man long, but he'd obviously gotten under my skin as easily as he had my bed. I didn't normally leap under the covers on a whim; Mom had instilled principles back when. But he'd been brash, arrogant, and hunky (as my gal pals liked describing him), as well as intriguing and dangerous (he'd claimed he'd been a drug dealer). Strapping muscles and a handsome face, a cross between Timothy Olyphant and Jeffrey Donovan, had apparently quashed all logic. Or maybe I'd developed a late-life thing for “bad boys”.
I returned to counting sheep: fat ones, small ones, pink ones, kebabed ones. My stomach growled. Leaping out of bed, Button padded immediately behind. I fought the urge to suck back leftover pork saimin as I scanned the contents of the fridge. Instead, I got a small bottle of Evian and a homemade pumpkin ball for Button from a ceramic porker sporting a polka-dot tie.
A foolish thought popped in my head like a cherry bomb. “No-o. I won't do it.”
Button and I looked at each other and trundled back to the bedroom, but instead of attempting sleep, we watched TV. There was less than an hour before I had to get ready for work.
With a sigh, we settled in and watched the merits of sardine-scale rejuvenating facial cream. It was tempting to invest in some because come weather forecasting time, I'd surely resemble a masked bandit with sleepy, dark eyes.
* * *
It was one hour to Buddy-lunch time and I was frosting a three-layer cake that sagged like an old, well-used mattress when the phone rang. It was Faith, a waitress I'd met at a Kalihi diner when I'd been tracking Xav.
“What's up?” I asked my new friend, spooning on extra frosting (homemade, I was proud to say) to give the top a level plane.
“I'm calling to invite you to a movie Sunday evening. I have two free passes for the 9:15 showing.”
“Count me in,” I said merrily, watching Button flop at my feet. The young tan-mocha-cream dog was a mix of Havanese, Schnoodle and Chacy Ranoir, and made for a very funny looking – albeit very cute – canine. Nearly ten months old, the rescue dog and I had bonded the second our eyes met at the shelter. I didn't know what had possessed me to go there that rainy day, but I was very grateful I had.
“Benny's mom was in Kmart the other day. She looks and sounds okay now.”
Benny was a young mole and drug dealer who'd played both sides of the fence. Oddly enough, it wasn't the duplicity that got him murdered, but a cocky attitude. He'd annoyed the wrong moke (local tough guy), a harsh-looking fellow with the street name of Jabar. Vengeance had undoubtedly proven sweet, and would continue to do so for the rest of Jabar's incarcerated life.
“It's never easy losing a child, no matter what they've done or become.” I sprinkled toasted coconut and almond slivers on a mini mountain of thick, sweet creaminess.
We chatted for a few moments about inconsequential doings and when she asked what I was up to, I casually mentioned the team was keeping an eye on the Picolo situation. Faith was a trustworthy woman, of this I had no doubt, but at this early juncture, it was best to maintain a level of discretion.
“Jimmy Picolo, huh?” She chuckled, but not with humor. “No great loss there.”
“He must have made a whack-load of enemies over the years.”
“That would be an understatement,” she laughed. “Dragan did some work for him.”
“Dragan?”
“He was the ex-boyfriend I once mentioned, the one who had a bad temper when he got drunk and was knifed to death.”
I recalled the long jagged scars I'd viewed on her arms upon my first visit to the diner. “What kind of work?”
“He did fix-it stuff for the construction company, and some chauffeuring. He was a primo driver, when he wasn't tanked, of course.”
“Did you ever meet Picolo? Can you tell me anything about him that might be of interest?”
“I met him twice at his ten-bedroom house in Kahala, once for a huge and lavish birthday party he'd thrown for himself and once for a humble dinner party. By humble I mean eighty people. I'd also met him on a site when Dragan was finishing off a project. Let me think.” She drew on a cigarette as she pondered. “His drink of preference, get this, was arrack. You'd think a man of his background and heritage would be into vino or grappa, but no, he had a real thing for that powerful Middle Eastern alcohol. Never drank anything else – no, I take that back. He was known to imbibe in the odd shot of absinthe, the real European deal, not the fake stuff currently available.”
“Was he as charming as he was rumored to be?”
“And then some,” she replied earnestly. “It's been said he has – er, had – a photographic memory and I can attest to that. You know, the really weird thing was, when he was recalling something, his eyes would flicker like a 100-sec flash synchronization in one of those old Pentax cameras.”
I couldn't imagine how either fact would prove useful, but I stored both in my mental files.
“He loved precious gems. And shelled peanuts, yeah. I remember watching him crack a few and seeing these huge diamond rings on both middle fingers and catching the sparkle of a diamond-heavy Rolex. There was also a thick gold chain that sported a diamond-encrusted crucifix that always seemed to peek from a monogrammed silk shirt.” Her laughter was delicate and musical, like wind chimes. “Dragan yearned to dress like that, but wouldn't shell out for a thirty-dollar shirt, much less a two-hundred-dollar one. Jimmy and his brother, Ric, shared the same tailor: Domenic Valuta. He also happens to be a cousin by the way, and he's very skilled. Armani and Boss have nothing on Valuta.” More laughter. “The only other thing I can think of is that quasi Australian accent, yeah.”
“Quasi?”
“He'd acquired it while living Down Under with Uncle Guido and Cousins Mario and Francesco … from the age of eighteen to
twenty-seven, I believe. He'd lived in Honolulu five times longer than he had in the land of sheilas, joeys, and roos. Dragan told me Jimmy used it because he thought it made him sound tougher and harsher, and smarter or classier like a world-smart don. In all honesty, it sounded as silly as it did fake.”
Interesting, but of little value.
“Oh, here's one little fact not known to many: Jimmy's mother was Japanese. She was beautiful, delicate like a Swarovski figurine, and only thirty-two when she died, no thanks to a hit-and-run.”
“Did they ever find the driver?”
“The police didn't.”
“But the Picolos did” was implied in the tone. With a promise to call back if she thought of any other interesting Jimmy Silone Picolo the Third tidbits, Faith disconnected.
I eyed the cake, realizing there was one more call I had to make … fool that I was.
Chapter Three
Before lunch was served in the lanai, Buddy, Rey, Linda and I had chatted a little about ourselves, a lot about local news and weather, and plans for the remainder of the weekend.
Buddy described her Maui house in historic Lahaina as a “humble but lovely little two-bedroom number” that would take a few years to pay off. She was fine with that; there was self-satisfaction to be had in doing it all on one's own. While on Oahu, she was staying in a spacious three-bedroom Kahala condo with best friend from Vassar days, Eda Kona. The two planned to attend a luau this evening and brunch on the Leeward side tomorrow.
Rey, never one to beat around the bush, started the Picolo session with a blunt, “Do you own a gun?”
Buddy studied my cousin's attractive face and then laughed. “I like you – you've got what my father would have called grit. I do in fact: a Glock 29. I left it with my best friend on Maui before I came here. There's been a rash of break-ins in my neighborhood and I didn't want to take chances … just in case, you know?”
“Smart thinking,” Linda said. “Would you like to start sharing Jimmy Picolo memories?”
