by Tyler Colins
I slipped off the raincoat and strolled through a small dining area into a stunning kitchen with a bayed breakfast nook that folks at Better Homes & Gardens and The Food Network would surely weep over and aspiring cooks give their eye teeth for. The prime colors in this spectacular space: cacti green and beach-sand brown. Copper designer pots and pans, and utensils were neatly arranged on three walls. A long, gleaming marble island in the center of a gorgeous wood floor inlayed with slate tiles beckoned visitors to partake in the preparation of culinary delights.
Located to the far right of a tall glass-lined hutch was a sizeable pantry in which multiple shelving units supported an array of staples, spices, and canned goods. Situated in the center like a whale in a small marine-park tank was a huge stainless-steel freezer.
To allow in brightness, I opened blinds suspended before large glass patio doors. Beyond sat a canopied deck with lovely Brown Jordan patio furniture. With a soft sigh, I ignored the fatigue that was starting to envelop like mist did the Ko'olau Mountain range and focused on the task at hand: locating something that might exonerate Buddy Feuer. If bits of Coco were found in the process, so be it.
A trio of large, carved cupboards near the breakfast nook seemed as good as any place to begin. The first one was stocked with health-store cookies, crackers and cereals, the next with spices and exotic condiments like fig-and-cinnamon chutney, watermelon-rind jelly, and port-glazed pickerel. The third held various salts and peppers, sugars and honeys. My nephew Quincy, an aspiring young culinary artist (among other things), would have claimed he'd entered a chef's paradise.
Stocked in the door of a behemoth fridge: orange juice, Perrier, four types of milk, five different jams, and six varieties of mustards. Packaged bread and taro buns rested on the topmost shelf, eggs and butter sat on the second, and romaine lay dead like washed-up seaweed on the third.
“How's it going?” Kent leaned into the kitchen wall. He'd discarded his jacket and a body-hugging T-shirt displayed tight abs and muscular arms.
“It's going.” I returned to the fridge.
“Find anything of interest?” he whispered into my ear as he pressed up against me.
Resisting an urge to shoot an elbow into his ribs, I spoke with the same sultry voice. “Not yet, Mr. Winche.”
He grinned. “What are we looking for? Body parts?”
If only he knew. “Kent, darling?”
“Yes, JJ, sweetie-pie?”
“Move it or lose it.”
“You're a loveable tease, you know that?” Pitching eyebrows several times, he strolled into the living room.
I wished Rey and/or Linda could have come along. My cousin might have found Kent Winche more entertaining than me – speaking of, it was time to check in.
* * *
“Yeah?”
I chuckled. “What's got your knickers in a knot, Cousin Reynalda?”
“Linda didn't wait for me when she finished with Mrs. Kelmore and went to meet with Jimmy Junior,” she groused.
“He may have requested she be there pronto, so off she scooted.”
“Maybe,” she sighed. “I'm still at the agency … and waiting for a call-back from the intriguing Annia Picolo-Adverterre.”
I opened the fridge freezer to find neatly aligned plastic food containers of various sizes and colors. Oh my. Time for some tedious detective work.
“Listen, Colt may call.”
“Drop-dead gorgeous from-the-Hilton Colt?” Her tone instantly brightened.
“Yes. Why don't you and Linda drop by at eight with pizza and beers? Should he call in the meantime, agree to whatever he suggests: coffee, drinks, a walk. I'll provide full details when I see you.”
“What's going on, Cous?” she demanded, suspicious.
“Later.”
Chapter Fourteen
A sandcastle of symmetrical precision, twenty-two plastic containers sat neatly stacked on a granite counter alongside a double sink. Each one had been opened and immersed in hot water so contents could be easily removed and keenly inspected, and then tossed into a large silver garbage pail located in a broom closet the size of the average person's bedroom.
“Doesn't my battered baby wook cute pwaying with her widdle block toys?” Kent sounded idiotic rather than playful as he dragged a gas-lift bar stool behind.
“You're so not funny.” I wasn't pleased at having the [frustrating] search interrupted.
“Did you find anything of note?” He straddled the bisque-colored chair that looked like it could cause damage to personal private parts if owner of said parts wasn't careful.
“Only if you're into unusual stews and soups.” I frowned, eyeing the last container. Something carroty-orange, lumpy and bumpy, and quite unappetizing had been in that one. “You can't be done already?”
“No, ma'am, but I've finished with the living room, dining room, laundry room, powder room, bathroom, and walk-in closet that could stable five ponies,” he delivered in tedious tone, then sniggered. “There's a decent selection of opera and old jazz, and some interesting coffee table books, primarily nude art. I found a humungous stash of chocolate and peanuts. And there's some real interesting photos of a built, good-looking blonde wearing nothing but a grin.”
“Lula?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” He folded arms along the chrome backrest and watched intently.
I grabbed a tea towel from a fancy silver rack to the side of the fridge and started drying empty containers.
“What were you hoping to find in the freezer?”
“A key to a safety deposit box. A note from the killer and/or his gun,” I offered lightly. “Cheap drugs.”
“Jimmy wouldn't do drugs and if he did, they wouldn't be cheap.”
I smirked and peered past his brawny shoulder through the nearest window to find a sky as dark as steel. Rain, still teeming with a vengeance, battered the house like an adrenalin-infused boxer his opponent. I turned on track lighting and it warmed the kitchen with a buttery radiance, detracting from the somberness outside.
“I'm hungry.”
It was 1:49 p.m. according to the clock on a custom-made stove.
“Let's continue searching a wee while longer,” I proposed. “In the meanwhile, if you're about to pass out from hunger, there are boxes of crackers and cans of snow crab in the pantry. Knock yourself out.”
“I could use a drink. How about you?”
I watched long, strong legs carry their owner to a small but extravagant bar with pendant lights. Sliding open a barely visible panel, Kent grabbed a bottle of Irish whiskey. A hefty jigger found its way into a clunky rocks glass and he held it forth like a TV reporter a mike.
I declined and returned to the containers. Seconds after I'd put them away, my cohort called from somewhere deep in the house.
“Hey, JJ! The guy's got a mirror on the ceiling, a mural of butt-naked dancing ladies on a wall, and black satin bed sheets.”
Somehow, that wasn't surprising. With a chuckle, I stepped into the pantry and rescanned shelves. Interestingly enough, nothing seemed very exotic or decadent, but most were unopened, so Picolo must have done a recent re-stock.
The pantry freezer beckoned. Two-thirds of the interior was filled with frozen food, the other third with more plastic containers. I could barely contain a wail as I considered inspecting more. Well, at least I had it down to an assembly-line art form. With a deep and determined sigh, I dove in.
Fifteen minutes later, just when I thought I'd scream at viewing another slab of frozen chunky brown stuff or pureed green glop, I noticed plastic peeking up from clumps of corn in a large container. Within the plastic was a slim pocket of felt. Setting it aside, I continued digging through and another piece of thick folded plastic revealed itself. What secrets, if any, were about to be bared? I unwrapped the plastic-covered felt first and found Coco's tattoo. Neatly sliced from the man's arm, it had been preserved by shrink wrap.
Too stunned to be appalled or nauseous, I unfurled the se
cond item. Inside was jewelry Coco wore, er, had worn: a 24-karat ring with tiny rubies and diamonds forming the initials CP, and a 22” square link chain necklace with an odd little dog tag that also sported CP. Had Jimmy Picolo brought them here? Or had Ric?
Locating a box of sealable plastic bags, I quickly packed Coco's “remnants” and slipped them into my bag. Movement at a window prompted me to peer out – as a sphere-shaped face peered in. A soaked black hood covered the young man's head, but a shock of wet radish-red hair clung to a forehead as narrow and flat as a sweatband.
Surprised, our eyes rounded like bagels and loon-black ones stared into ash-gray ones. Our faces moved forward simultaneously and our heads tilted to the left, and then to the right. Frowns pulled at both sets of lips as their owners gaped. It was reminiscent of an iconic I Love Lucy scene, where Lucille Ball and Harpo Marx mirrored each other's moves in a Hollywood hotel room. Our mimed actions might have proven funny … if the episode hadn't been so bizarre.
Abruptly, the mutual fascination ended. Fear crossed Red-Head's spherical face and he raced into the downpour – while I sprinted behind and slipped as I scudded across a slippery deck and over it in an absurd pratfall.
I bussed sodden grass, but at least my chin hadn't struck anything this time. My thigh smarted, however, and an already sore knee hurt like the dickens. Disappointed, I pulled myself up and looked around. Red-Head was nowhere to be seen, so I returned to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of tea towels. As I dried myself off, I wondered who to call first about the finds: Ric, Ald, or Buddy.
Strong arms encircled my waist and an elbow instinctively cannonballed back. “You shit! You scared me.”
Wincing, Kent rubbed his ribcage. “Man, you've got a mean jab.” He looked me up and down. “Why are you wet?”
“I decided to follow Fred Astaire's advice and go singin' in the rain,” I replied bluntly, choosing to keep the weird encounter to myself.
He pointed. “You've got a Romell Regulacion, Razed in Black, eye thing going.”
I stepped before a tall mirror that filled a wall dividing the kitchen from the adjacent room. Yikes. I may have left the days of goth behind, but they hadn't left me. Using the tea towel, I wiped away mascara that had me resembling a ghastly creature of the early dawn.
“What's up?” I asked when I was done and then saw he had books tucked under his arm. “What are those?”
He glanced down, shrugged, and displayed two worn leather-bound journals. “I found these tucked between a drawer and a panel in a fancy wardrobe in the main bedroom. They're full of dollar figures and initials.”
Blackmail came immediately to mind.
As obviously it did to Kent's. “Blackmail, do you think?”
“Or payouts. Or money paid to above-board entities. The amounts could be anything. Let's take them with us.”
“I also found this.” He pulled a Bersa Thunder .380 ACP from the back of his jeans. “It's kind of girly, huh?”
“Maybe it's Lula's.” I took the matte-black semi-auto. At twenty ounces and 6.6”, it was a handy little number.
“Do we need it?” he smirked. “Considering you already have one?”
“We'll leave it here.” I tucked the handgun in the hutch.
“What now? Please don't tell me to keep looking.”
I felt as weary as he sounded. “Let's put things back in place and stop somewhere for a bite. The least I can do is buy you lunch.”
“Sweet!”
As we rearranged things, a host of suppositions related to the three murders and Buddy's frame-up whirled through my mind like a tornadic waterspout across the Adriatic Sea. None, however, proved useful or brought me closer to establishing valid reasons or solutions.
Kent slipped into the flannel jacket and passed my raincoat. “I know a quaint little place off the H-2, before Pearl. The food's got an old American twist.”
I smiled happily, ready to leave Jimmy Picolo's not-so-humble retreat far behind.
* * *
Kent's “quaint little place” was a small, clean restaurant with a colonial feel. Three dozen tables with Windsor chairs and mustard linen tablecloths sat on hooked rugs over a bare floor. Striped silk taffeta drapery adorned tall, arced windows. Despite numerous pewter utensils and vessels lining brick walls and pine shelves, the place felt clutter-free. It reminded me of colonial America … and home.
Kent read my thoughts. “I thought you might like it. Buddy told me you're from North Carolina.”
“It's lovely,” I responded with a quick smile. “Thanks.”
Dee, an effusive waitperson, returned with glasses of merlot – our preferred drink – and took orders.
I eyed Kent curiously. “Why do you work in a pickling plant?”
“When I could be so much more?” he asked with a dry smile, clinking his glass against mine. “I like my job. I'm good at it. I got to be GM in record time.”
“What is it, precisely, that you do as GM?”
“Promote the company's strategic direction –”
“Don't start quoting business and corporate scripture and lingo,” I interrupted, holding up a hand. “Tell me in layman's terms.”
He smiled. “I'm accountable to the CFO –”
“Formerly Sal Marlowe, right?”
He nodded once. “Basically, I manage the company's profit and loss – I oversee marketing and sales functions, and day-to-day operations.”
“Do you fire and hire people?”
“I do.”
“That's a lot of power.”
He smiled proudly. “I earned it.”
I studied the attractive face. “Now that I know about your professional life, enlighten me about your personal one. Tell me something I don't know about Kent Winche.”
He took a long sip and appeared to contemplate how much he wanted to reveal. Then he shrugged and smiled ruefully. “Dad died the day I turned four … shot at a neighborhood bar when a drunken brawl went horribly wrong and he got caught in the crosshairs.”
I gave his long, slim hand a quick squeeze.
His eyes narrowed as he gazed past the nearest wall. “We did all right for a few years. Mom got a reception job in an advertising firm, and married a guy she'd met at a school meeting when I was seven. He'd lost his wife to cancer a year before. DP, as he liked to be called, was a good fifteen years older, and kind of old-fashioned, but they seemed to click. Everyone was happy. I liked him okay and Frank was fine with him. Chris didn't really care one way or another; even at nine, he was too caught up in art and film.
“When he was sixteen, Chris raced off to Europe with a friend to check out the world of cinema. Frank had always been great in sports, particularly baseball and softball, but talk about bad karma. The guy got into a bad accident when he was fifteen that killed the dream of playing sports professionally. Some Joe heading back from the North Shore was too eager to get home too fast.”
Dee returned with a heaping appetizer platter of deep-fried oysters.
Kent munched one slowly. “DP had a heart attack at lunch seven years to the day he and Mom got married. She was okay for a while, but then depression kicked in and, eventually, so did pills and booze. By the time I was sixteen, she wasn't in great shape.”
He sipped slowly. “I got a job at the local pool hall. There was help from my stepfather's relatives: a bit of money, a little advice, and brotherly type encouragement. That was fine, but someone had to carry Mom and Frank 24/7, and not just financially. She couldn't work anymore. She needed support.
“I managed to go to night school and got a business diploma to make her happy. I took some finance and marketing courses, too. …Even in her deepest, darkest moments Mom really wanted me to become something.” He drained his glass and nodded when Dee, who was passing by, asked if he'd like another. “Mom cried when I showed her the diploma. Then…”
“Then?”
“She died.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that.”
“I'm sorry.”
Chapter Fifteen
“You've certainly had quite the exciting twenty-four hours,” Linda said blithely as she removed another veggie-dense pizza slice from the carton. She gave Button a you-should-know-better look when the little princess' paw stroked her thigh, but then popped goat cheese between those furry lips.
Rey continued nibbling a mushroom-heavy slice like Bonzo did a carrot. She'd not said much the last thirty minutes since we'd made ourselves comfortable on a now rug-less living-room floor, but her expression shifted between curious, fascinated, and annoyed (because she'd not been there when Colt and Cash had “visited”).
“ 'Exciting' may not be the right word,” I stated dryly, sipping flat beer from a bottle I'd been nursing.
“Do you really think that was your boyfriend's – uh, ex-boyfriend's message? That this Colt guy is a traitor?” the former scriptwriter asked, intrigued.
“That's what it appears to be and that's what I'm going to roll with.” I gazed at my cousin, who hadn't stopped nibbling. “If he calls, you'll have an opportunity to suss it out.”
She arched a bony shoulder and leaned back against the base of the two-seater. “What if you're wrong?”
“Then I'm wrong.”
“Fair enough. But if he does call, then it's pretty sure he is one. Why else would he call, except to see if he can luck into getting info?” She made a face. “He won't luck in, just for the record.”
I was inclined to agree re the reason he might call, which saddened me. Rey deserved to have someone in her life who would be happy to be “the whole enchilada”.
“What would he want to find out?” Linda stretched her legs so Button could lie across them. “Given he's on an anti-drugs squad, our current case can't be related to anything he's working on.”
