by Tyler Colins
“Did he lose his business to Picolo?” Linda pressed.
He shook his head. “Kostov made a whack of bad deals and went bankrupt. His wife got involved with someone around that time and later moved to Maui.”
“Do you remember anything about her?” Linda asked as we rose.
“She was a looker back then, and still is, I understand. Her name was Lulabella-Lynn – she hailed from the deep South – but she goes by the name Lula.”
Jackpot. Sometimes, relentless pulling of the silver bandit arm did pay off.
* * *
We arrived at Jimmy Picolo's house at half past six with Rey's brow furrowed like a freshly plowed field, Linda wishing she'd not declined attending a family barbecue with her beau, and me gnashing my lip.
Thanks to two brilliant strobe lights, which seemed too Hollywood and inappropriate for the occasion, the vast property was well lit. The lawn before the long white ten-bedroom dwelling was immaculate, trees and shrubs pruned, and the winding driveway recently repaved.
Dressed in a white uniform, a somber butler with a handsome face the color of buckwheat honey, led us past a marble foyer lined with family portraits and down a stark alabaster corridor. We walked onto an immense patio where an array of tiki torches, copper patio lamps, and white globe string lights illumed a large backyard.
To the right of a tall yellow-brick barbecue, which rested to the left of an oval pool with spouting cherubs at the head, stood a canopied bar. Ric and three men, all holding bowl-sized crystal snifters, were deep in conversation. I'd have expected Picolo's brother to be sucking on a tall wheatgrass smoothie, but maybe the solemn occasion warranted the breaking of health and diet rules.
“Wow,” was all I could say as I gazed across an outdoor space that was proportionately balanced, right down to twelve mature Manila palms – six on the north side, six on the south – and two rows of rose bushes lining 8' high sculptural fences that kept inquisitive neighbors inquisitive.
A grand oblong gazebo with decorative weather vane was situated in the east corner while in the west one stood a miniature bronze and marble replica of the Fountain of Neptune in the Piazza Maggiore in Bologna, Italy.
“Wow is right,” Rey murmured, eyeing the ostentatious fountain with barely concealed repugnance.
A spike-haired server, dressed like the butler, stepped before us with a silver salver supporting glasses of white and red wine. “Soave and Chianti,” he explained, noticing Rey's assessing gaze.
My cousin passed Linda and me whites, grabbed a red, and piloted a path to a small poolside table. We observed guests as they stepped through the patio doors like a procession of well-wishers at a wedding reception.
Annia arrived with Roch Chandrake. Photos didn't do him justice. He looked like Rock Hudson in his late forties: handsome, chiseled, tall, strong, and overly confident. His hair was jet-black and full, his eyes tar-black and intense. His last high-profile case had seen him defending a Maui socialite of a double-homicide where one of the deceased had been an up-and-coming film star.
I found my gaze returning to Ric and his associates, all who bore striking resemblances. Brothers or first cousins perhaps? Ric caught me looking. It appeared as if he was about to come over, but his elbow was grasped by a man who had scurried over from the bar. The boxy fellow looked like an extra in a mob movie; he had a fleshy face and double chin, shifty bug-brown eyes, no forehead, one huge wooly eyebrow, and a nose that had been broken a few times.
Rey took three fresh glasses of wine from a server (early-morning hangovers were now a hazy memory). As she passed mine, she gestured. “Do we know him?”
“I'd rather not know him, I'm sure.”
“That's Petunia Pescatore.”
Kent stood immediately behind, mixed drink in hand.
“Petunia? Why doesn't that surprise me?” Rey watched the men move to the far side of the barbecue. “Is he as delicate as a flower?”
“His father was a landscaper, his mother a horticulturalist,” Kent explained with a chuckle.
Linda smiled drolly. “You mean gardener?”
“He prefers horticulturalist.”
“Don't tell me Jimmy Picolo called him Petunia?” I asked.
“No, the kids in school did, because he liked flowers as much as his mother did. It grew to be a hobby, if not an obsession. The man wins awards. I understand he's the king of gardenias and prince of orchids.”
“As opposed to lord of breaking bones?” Rey smirked.
Kent's expression was mockingly stern. “You're making an assumption based on looks.”
“That face doesn't look like that because it got repeatedly beaten by a wayward geranium.”
He grinned and raised his glass. “To observant – and pretty – private eyes.”
“Excuse me for a minute.” I hastened over to Fugger, who was sipping tea by a patio door. “How's my favorite chauffeur?”
“Good, considering.” He wore a black linen suit and silk black shirt, and spit-shiny black leather shoes, more appropriate for a funeral instead of a farewell fête.
“Have you heard anything more about that guy who'd experienced engine trouble outside the restaurant the night your boss was murdered?”
“I have, in fact. The police found him in Kapiolani Park at two a.m. this morning. The poor slob had slipped by the pond and cracked his head wide open. He died almost instantly.”
“Would any of your boss's colleagues have contributed to the 'accident'?”
He tilted his head one way and then the other, as if pondering. “Whoever murdered the boss silenced this guy so he wouldn't tell anyone who hired him to serve as a diversion.”
“Are the police investigating?”
He frowned. “It was an 'accident'.”
“Another loose end eliminated,” I sighed. “Who was he?”
“Otto Trott. I found out he worked at the construction company for three years, up until last Christmas.” He noticed Ric and nodded. “I have to talk to him. Please excuse me.”
I waved him off and strolled over to Jimmy Junior, who was drinking beer at the bar. His fleshy face glowed, as if he'd applied bronzer. Fine hair had been moussed and tucked behind low-set, tilted ears that sported tiny platinum studs. A gold chain with a small gold pendant that resembled the Liberty Bell hung from a thick neck.
Across the patio, Rey, Linda and Kent were conversing with a moon-faced man wearing a Greek fisherman hat; flaming-red curls peered from beneath – the guy at Picolo's Haleiwa house. It was tempting to head over, but why alert him? He could wait. Besides, Jimmy Junior might have something of note to offer.
I gave the young man's droopy shoulder a light squeeze. “Care to chat?”
* * *
Picolo's son merely continued to suck back beer, his rheumy eyes on people milling around. Where his father had been handsome and athletic, and well-dressed, he was not. Lines that had lent character to Jimmy Silone Picolo III's face were threatening to make Jimmy Junior's look haggard and old before its time. He carried thirty excess pounds, mostly around the middle, which was emphasized by sagging charcoal pants and a thick black patent-leather belt, and a one-size-too-small snow-white cotton shirt. The man was a blazing cry for fashion and cosmetic makeovers.
“Where were you the night he was killed?” I urged.
Jimmy Junior looked genuinely pleased that someone might think him murderer material. “I was alone, reading an old Inspector Banks novel in my condo. No, no one can verify that. My live-in housekeeper was with her sick sister on Kauai.” Pine-cone-brown eyes, bearing the same Asian cast as his uncle's, glowed with hope. “Do you think the cops actually consider me a suspect?”
“Buddy Feuer tops the list – and is currently incarcerated – but they're considering others.” (I hoped and wished.)
He requested a fresh beer from the bartender. “Buddy's not the murdering type.”
“Do you have any names you'd like to add?” I asked nonchalantly. “Or know how we can prove
her innocent?”
The doughy-faced man scanned the crowd and focused on Red-Head. “Shit.” He shook his head and gestured. “That's Cousin Eddy. I haven't seen him Denton's bachelor party. …Uh no, other than maybe my sister, no, I can't think of anyone.”
“Your sister?” I asked. “As what: murderer or innocence prover?”
“Murderer.” He simpered. “She hated Father enough, and she's certainly got the temper to kill someone, but she was at a fundraiser that night.”
“She could have slipped away,” I pointed out.
Jimmy Junior regarded me for several seconds, but didn't respond.
“There's little love lost between you two,” I commented casually.
“Like Uncle Ric and my dad, we never got along much. She's always been a spoiled, vicious bitch.” There was no rancor in the statement; it was simply a fact.
“Who'll be taking over your father's businesses?”
“If Uncle Ric decides he doesn't want to take on extra responsibilities – he's got a fruit juice company in the works – Annia will be first in line for the Picolo throne. She's got the brains and guts to take on the challenge.”
“One last thing: have you heard anything from Coco?” I asked with an easy smile. “Kent mentioned something about you being worried that he's missing.”
“Denton mentioned that Coco hasn't called since three weeks back. It's not like Coco not to call on our birthdays, and he totally missed Denton's.” Jimmy Junior looked as if he might cry, but of course it was hard to tell with those rheumy eyes.
I noticed Annia saunter to the bar like a cheetah on the prowl. Normally, she wore her long, ebon hair in an old-fashioned bun; today it was loose, luxurious, and sexy. She was beautiful all right, thanks to a surgeon's skilled hands, but her personality was glacial cold. A Bay of Fundy iceberg contained more warmth.
It was time to end a conversation that wasn't going anywhere, but I did have one unrelated question. “Why did your father called you Mr. Junior?”
“The same reason he calls – uh, called everyone by a title. Out of respect. It bothered me when I was young. It was crazy-weird to a kid, but that was Jimmy Picolo the Third for you.”
With departing words of condolences, I strolled over to join his sister.
I requested a glass of sparkling water from a portly, kind-faced bartender and nodded to a dozen people streaming through the patio doors. “The crowd's growing.”
“Wait another hour,” she stated flatly, accepting a glass of Scotch with a solitary ice cube. “We've got enough family and friends to fill this place, and the homes of the next four neighbors.”
“We forgot to ask you about Coco yesterday.”
“Coco Peterson is an annoying little creature. I always thought him nuttier than a jar of almond butter,” she chuckled. “Anyone who hung around with Coco was not in my father's good books. He'd really grown to loath him.”
“And he wasn't too keen on your brother, either?”
“Nonsense.” She waved manicured crimson fingernails. “He loved Jimmy Junior, in that wayward Picolo way. Just like he loved me. And just like he loved his money, his women and, most of all, himself.”
I motioned Red-Head, who was chewing the fat with Kent. Rey and Linda had strolled over to the gazebo and were seated on a concrete bench observing the crowd. “That's Cousin Eddy?”
“Yes. I haven't seen him in years, but Father and Jimmy Junior stayed in touch.” She eyed him from head to foot and frowned. “He's gotten older, but hasn't changed much.”
“What's his last name and where can I find him?”
“He's hardly your type,” she pointed out with a dry smile.
“He's hardly my age,” I responded tartly.
She laughed. “Galazie. He still lives in Waipahu, though not with the folks anymore.”
“Does he work at one of the companies?”
“Yes and no. Father had him doing odd jobs over the years. He'd always been fond of Eddy – he'd felt sorry for him because of a head injury he'd sustained when he was eight. It slowed him down.” Filliping the nearest bartender, she ordered another Scotch as she eyed Roch Chandrake chatting with a distinguished looking elderly couple.
“Is he a good friend?” I asked with a disarming smile.
“I'm working on it.” She peered over my shoulder.
“Good evening, ladies.”
I turned to find Ald hovering inches behind.
“Who's this absolutely hunky man?” Carmella cooed, draping an arm through the detective's. “Is he yours?”
“Hardly.” I pinched his cheek. “This is Detective Hives – pardon me, Ives.”
“I like,” she purred in my ear. “I want.”
Good grief. “He's yours,” I purred in return.
“I know a fabulous Italian restaurant on Kalakaua, with great food, wine, and music. Interested? I'm free Monday night.”
He smiled. “I'll pick you up at eight, Ms. –”
“Annia.”
“Annia,” he said with a regal bow.
“I live at – hell, you're the detective. You find me.” She all but beamed.
“I already have.” His smile and gaze bordered on the seductive.
Feeling like an unwanted player in some obscure game, I decided to return to my colleagues. Looking around, Red-Head was nowhere to be seen, nor were Rey or Linda, but Kent was engaged in animated chatter with a tall willowy blonde.
Annia shot a sly glance and pranced across the patio.
“And here I thought I was your main squeeze?” I mocked.
He tweaked my chin, and sauntered into the crowd.
If I were a betting gal, I'd have wagered a few sawbucks that the weekend walk and beer he'd proposed at La Casbah was not going to happen. …But then neither was me informing him about Coco. That little nutbar was going to remain a dirty little secret for the time being.
Chapter Twenty-Three
We'd driven to Waipahu in the Nissan Cube on a whim. As Rey, Linda and I were readying to leave, Buddy had called to see if we'd like to do dinner; she wanted to celebrate Chandrake's success at having gotten her out on bail. Although she attempted to convey cheer, it was evident she was feeling down, so we'd invited her along.
We didn't really expect Eddy to have any information about Coco's whereabouts, or fate as the case may be, but I did want to learn why he'd come to – and subsequently run away from – Picolo's Haleiwa retreat. Had he hoped to find or do something? If so, at whose request?
At Picolo's “do” last night, Eddy had spoken with Kent and Rey and Linda initially, and then solely Kent. As neither Rey nor Linda had realized that Eddy was the fellow sighted in Picolo's Haleiwa window, they'd not stuck around thanks to an eye-glazingly dull conversation revolving around the last time Kent and Eddy had seen each other.
“Which one's his?” Rey squinted to read teeny-tiny address numbers.
Linda pointed. “That one – 3913!”
“Man, you've got good eyes.”
“It's all the carrots I've been stealing from little Bonzo,” she joked.
Rey shot a not-funny look and the four of us scrambled from the vehicle to the nondescript triplex.
Lack of window coverings gave the second floor a vacant look while third-floor windows were covered with heavy plastic, as if the tenants had taken an extended vacation or were into bizarre activities that required cut-off from the outside world. The soft, staccato cooing of two zebra doves was the only sound to be heard; no people, no pets or wildlife, and no moving cars were in view. Either everyone had left town or the four of us were caught in a vintage Twilight Zone episode.
Rey rapped forcefully on the dandelion-colored door of Eddy Galazie's ground-floor flat.
“Planning on waking the dead?” I jested.
She arched a heavily penciled eyebrow and rapped a second time with battering-ram force. The door creaked open and we looked at it expectantly, awaiting a simpering psycho or entry into an otherworldly dimension. A no
t so pleasant smell wafted out.
Rey screwed up her Hollywood nose. “Ooh, this ain't good.”
“The guy either has non-culinary skills like Makjo's cousin Ruta-Lee, or he's kind of dead,” Linda commented waggishly.
“Should we call the cops?” I asked.
“It'd be better if we found evidence or answers before the police did,” Rey replied solemnly.
“What evidence or answers?” Buddy asked quietly, concern furrowing that beautiful face like snowdrifts a New Jersey shore.
“Who killed Eddy, to start.”
The furrows intensified. “Are we sure he's dead?”
“That's not burned meatloaf we're smelling,” Rey snorted.
“Maybe he hasn't done laundry in a month,” I joked.
“A year, you mean.” She screwed up her nose again and motioned ahead.
We meandered through a small sneaker-packed vestibule into a long mustard-colored hallway with two doors on the right, two on the left, and a small neon-yellow kitchen at the end.
“Eddy sure has a thing for yellow,” Linda murmured as we stopped before a small daffodil-colored bedroom.
A rustic citrine-colored comforter draped a cheap oak blanket box like soggy bacon a grilled burger. He'd left the double bed unmade, either through habit or because he'd made a hasty departure. On the worn taupe carpet near a window covered by cheap rice-paper blinds were two magazines, one on upscale real estate and one on luxury cars. Was he planning on buying one or both, or did he simply like to dream? To the side sat a jam-packed plastic laundry hamper. Three soiled track pants and two pairs of rumpled shorts hung over the top of the pile like cast-ashore wrack.
A chest of drawers had been painted, yes, daffodil yellow. On top were neatly arranged photos of family and friends, and a very cute apricot-fawn pug. Comic books, primarily Batman, Aquaman and Superman, were stacked on a windowsill and laminated posters of Miley Cyrus, Selena Gomez, and Ariana Grande lined one wall.
“There's no accounting for taste,” Rey said flatly, eyeing the three young women.
