His lips formed a nearly imperceptible smile. “Not to dis your powers of observation or anything, but there’s no way you’ve dealt with someone like Lisa Marie Prescott before. Let me hit the high points: You think Lisa Marie’s marrying Brad for his money? That’s a laugh. If anything, it’s the other way around. You ever hear of Refuse Removal, Inc.? Well, RRI’s the biggest garbage hauler in the country. They’ve got subsidiaries world-wide: Canada, Europe, Australia, you name it. The company’s worth billions—that’s with a ‘b’.”
“RRI? I think that’s the name on the garbage trucks here on Maui.”
“Bingo. RRI is a single proprietorship, solely owned by Lisa Marie’s dad, Marv. The company was started by her great-grandfather in the nineteen twenties. Their last name used to be Prescovski—it was Russian or Polish, I’m not sure—but Marv changed it to Prescott when Lisa Marie was born. She’s his only child and there’s nothing he won’t do for her—including giving her an American-sounding name. You following me?”
I nodded.
He went on. “The Prescotts don’t give a rat’s ass about money. To them, it’s like the air we breathe—infinite. All that matters to them is power and respect.” He paused as if he thought I might need a moment to let that sink in.
“I practice martial arts,” I said. “I’m well-versed in the respect thing.”
“Good. ‘Cuz if you cross them—especially if you piss off Marv—you’re toast. Literally. Rumor has it there’s more than just garbage in Marv’s landfills.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair.
“You think that’s what happened to Brad? He got out of line?” It was my turn to let a few beats go by so something could sink in.
He shrugged. “Dunno. But it’s damn hard not to wonder.”
“Great. Now I’ll be sweating bullets about getting whacked by the Godfather of Garbage if I mess up Lisa Marie’s wedding. You’ve got to admit what you’re telling me sounds like a pitch for a really bad reality show.” I couldn’t keep the chuckle out of my voice.
“Look,” he said leaning in, “this is serious. These aren’t people you want to screw with. I had to see you this morning because I want to propose something: you watch my back, I’ll watch yours. You hear anything, see anything, you let me know. I’ll do the same for you. Deal?”
“It doesn’t sound like I have much choice.”
“You don’t.”
He got up to leave. As the door clicked shut, I was left alone with two cups of cold coffee, a half-eaten turnover, and the uneasy feeling maybe it was time to start locking my doors.
***
I picked up Lisa Marie at exactly eleven and we made it from Olu’olu to the Kahului Airport in thirty minutes.
“Where are you going?” said Lisa Marie as I moved into the lane for the parking lot.
“I’m parking the car. This is as close as we can get to the terminal.”
“Maybe this is as close as you can get to the public terminal, but daddy’s jet doesn’t come in here. It lands over there.” She pointed to a sign marked ‘General Aviation.’ The road led to the other side of the runway, toward a small outcropping of buildings.
I’ve spent hundreds of hours at the Kahului airport but I’d never been out there. The general aviation area—where private aircraft land—isn’t monitored by Homeland Security. Unlike commercial flyers, general aviation passengers are exempt from the cattle chute security offered by the TSA. No ‘grabbing the junk’ or barefoot parades through the metal detectors for the well-heeled. And, at least while I was still pulling a paycheck from Uncle Sam, air marshals were never assigned to private aircraft flights.
As I pulled up to the chain-link fenced parking lot a uniformed guard scowled at my beat-up car. I rolled down my window while Lisa Marie dug out her ID. When she passed it to him, he looked at it and broke into a sunny smile.
“Aloha, wahines. You can take any open spot.”
We parked and I popped the trunk. I carefully lifted out ten purple orchid leis from a flat white box and draped them over my arm. We got to the edge of the tarmac just in time to watch a sleek white Learjet make an almost soundless landing. It glided past us and taxied to a stop.
“That’s daddy,” said Lisa Marie.
I squared my shoulders and started walking out toward the plane. Lisa Marie grabbed my arm. “You can’t go out there until they signal us.”
The engines whined to a stop and a ground crew guy waved a red baton at us. We hustled across the runway, dodging the puddles from an earlier shower. A half minute later the jet’s cabin door popped open and a built-in stairway slowly lowered to the ground.
When the stairway locked into place I positioned myself behind Lisa Marie, ready to hand her a lei for each passenger. Earlier, I’d demonstrated the proper aloha greeting—place the flowers over the head, offer a warm aloha to Maui, and then plant a little kiss on each cheek. An older guy I assumed was her father was first down the stairway. Lisa Marie stiffly went through the aloha routine with him, but then abruptly turned away and stared across the runway as if she was planning to bolt. I asked her if she was all right but she ignored me and just kept staring. I stepped up and took over. As I kissed the cheeks of the glittery blond stepmother it was hard not to notice she looked decades younger than her husband. Plastic surgeons don’t come that good. She and the three bridesmaids waiting at the top of the stairs probably graduated from high school within just a few years of each other.
“Can I get a couple more?” Stepmom said, snatching four leis from my outstretched arm. “My personal assistant certainly doesn’t need one, and those girls up there are just some eye candy Marv hired to play bridesmaids.” She winked and leaned in. “I found out coming over here that not a one of them has ever even met Lisa Marie.”
Once everyone had deplaned, the small entourage began the short trek to the passenger lounge. I hung back to walk with Lisa Marie.
“Will your real mother be coming?” I whispered as we approached the tiny building. With a pushy stepmother in attendance, I’d need to get creative with the seating chart if both “moms” showed up. It’d be a clear of dereliction of duty to seat the ex-wife mother-of-the-bride within spitting distance of the half-her-age trophy wife.
“Ha! As if I ever had a real mother,” Lisa Marie said. “No, I doubt my bio mom will be willing to tear herself away from her latest ‘Sven’ or ‘Julio’ to make the trip. She brags about putting the ‘grrr’ in ‘cougar.’ Besides, if her twenty-three-year-old daughter’s getting married, how can she explain the age on her driver’s license? It says she’s thirty-four.”
Entering the hushed passenger lounge was surreal—as if the rigors of air travel had been given an extreme makeover. The place was a quiet oasis of leather furnishings and cool slate floors. It even had a fun tiki bar with rattan stools. A uniformed hostess, carrying a tray of tall tropical drinks, encouraged the six passengers to enjoy complimentary refreshments while the crew dealt with the baggage.
“And who is this delightful young lady?” boomed Marv Prescott as Lisa Marie and I both declined a highly-garnished mai tai. I stepped up to introduce myself, extending my hand for a shake. He grasped my fingertips and brought them to his lips. His breath smelled of scotch and peanuts. His sparse hair sported an expert dye job but his puffy face, crepe-skinned neck and watery blue eyes gave away his age. I pegged him for late sixties or early seventies.
“Daddy, lay off,” said Lisa Marie in a deadpan voice.
Stepmom was giggling as if her husband’s courtly antics were beyond cute—they’d veered into adorable territory. She chucked him under the chin, and with a wink, silently promised to show him her own version of adorable as soon as they were alone.
“I’m Pali Moon. I’m coordinating Lisa Marie and…” I balked at providing a groom’s name. “…uh, I’m coordinating your daughter’s wedding. You must be Mr. and Mrs. Prescott.”
“Call me Marv. And this here’s Tina.” He gestured toward
stepmom who dipped a slight curtsy, accompanied by another giggle. I wondered if the giggling was habitual or simply the result of a long alcohol-fueled flight over the Pacific.
“This whole thing with Brad really screws the pooch, doesn’t it?” said Marv.
He didn’t look like he expected an answer, so I didn’t give one.
“You think he’s a goner?” he continued.
Lisa Marie was clearly within earshot.
“I only know what you know, sir,” I said. “The Coast Guard believes he may have fallen out of the boat.”
“Hey, no ‘sir’ stuff with me. So, if he went in the drink he’s most likely in the belly of a whale, right? You know, like Jonah.” He grinned as if expecting me to high five him for his clever biblical reference.
For a moment, I considered pointing out that whales found in Hawaiian waters are herbivores and wouldn’t be the least bit interested in human flesh, but decided against it. I stole a look at Lisa Marie to see if she’d overheard. Her stricken face signaled she had.
“Daddy, please don’t talk like that.” Her tone was pleading. “Brad’s okay. I know he’ll be back in time for the wedding.”
“You could be right, sweetheart, but I’m somewhat of an expert on what they call ‘the law of the jungle.’ My money’s on your boy sleeping with the fishes—or most likely feeding the fishes.”
Lisa Marie visibly sagged, but didn’t say anything. I was amazed at Marv’s cavalier attitude, especially if he’d played a role in Brad’s death.
Marv grabbed Tina’s arm and steered her outside toward an over-loaded luggage cart waiting by the door. Everyone else followed.
On eyeing the small mountain of suitcases, I leaned in to Lisa Marie and whispered, “How long are your dad and stepmom planning to stay?”
“Just until Friday morning. Daddy’s got an early tee time at Pebble Beach on Saturday.”
Just five days. Ever since Kevin’s tip-off meeting that morning, I’d been nervous about meeting Marv Prescott. But in the flesh I found him—and Tina—oddly fascinating. And, aside from the missing groom, the wedding was proceeding without a hitch. Sucking up to Marv for a few days seemed perfectly doable.
At about noon the entourage piled into two highly polished black Mercedes and headed for Olu’olu. I followed them out of the parking lot. Driving up Baldwin toward Hali’imaile I remembered what waited for me at home: multiple loads of laundry, a sticky kitchen floor, and a lawn that had ‘vacant house’ written all over it. I sagged. I’m not a lazy person, but living in overdrive for nearly a week had sapped my energy. I added a quick nap to the list.
I started to turn into my driveway but two vehicles blocked my way—a late model red Ram pick-up and a dark green Jeep Grand Cherokee. The garage door was open and Steve’s Jetta was parked inside. So much for getting chores done, it looked like we had company. But who? Maybe it was appraisers or potential buyers sniffing around now that word of the foreclosure was making the rounds. I did a three-point turn and parked across the street.
I’d made it about halfway up the porch steps when raucous laughter erupted from the living room. Two pair of black leather shoes were lined up to the right of the door along with Steve’s flipflops. The shoes were the heavy lace-up kind working men wear. Were Steve and Hatch inside yukking it up with the vultures circling the kill? It was all I could do to force a smile as I stepped inside.
“Hey, she’s home,” Steve said, coming over to escort me in. Two brawny men stood by the sofa—one tall, one medium height. Hatch was stretched out in his usual prone position.
Steve made the introductions. “Pali, this is Paul and Marty. They work with Hatch at the fire department.”
“Pleasure,” said the two guys in unison as they each gave me an index-finger salute. I looked them up and down. I mean, who wouldn’t? Even though their height and coloring was different—one dark, one reddish-blond—they were specimens of manhood that would do a Marine recruiting poster proud. Broad-shoulders, well-muscled arms, intelligent eyes—the full meal deal. Each wore navy pants and a short-sleeved blue shirt with a Maui Fire Department patch on the sleeve. After my usual check-out routine I looked at their left hands. Yep, a plain gold band on each. What kind of karma was throwing all this unavailable testosterone at me lately? It was as cruel as stocking a diabetic’s house with candy.
Steve said, “I’ll leave you to all to get acquainted. I need to go down to my studio and make some prints.” He leaned in and whispered to me, “Looks like our pal Lisa Marie’s hired a publicist to send wedding announcements to every newspaper on the west coast. She’s having me make up fifty copies of a rather mediocre snapshot of her with Brad. Maybe she’s not so sure he’ll show up for the wedding after all.”
When Steve left I mumbled my nice to meet you’s to the guys and turned to head upstairs.
“Hey, don’t run off,” the first guy—was it Paul?—said. “We want to thank you for taking in Hatch.”
I turned back around.
“Oh, it’s nothing. He’s easy.”
“That he is,” said the second guy. Everybody—but me—laughed.
I felt my cheeks heat up. I couldn’t believe I was feeding straight lines to a trio of spoken-for firemen.
“No, really,” the second guy went on, “it was really nice of you. We’re both married and, although we love this guy and feel real bad about what happened, our wives pretty much have their hands full.”
“Can I get you something to drink?” I said. “Maybe a soda or a beer?” I probably didn’t have either in the house, but it seemed polite to at least offer.
“Mahalo, but no,” said the first guy. “We gotta roll. We’re expecting another crazy shift tonight.” He turned to Hatch. “We had six big call-outs last time. One was another major wreck at almost the same place where you went man against machine.”
“Everybody okay?” Hatch said.
“Our guys are fine, but the driver was a fatal. A woman no more’n thirty. ”
The mood downshifted.
“Hey,” said the second guy. “But we got her baby out in pretty good shape. The guys on Ladder Two grabbed the spreaders, and bam! popped that little dude outta there in no time.”
“Spreaders?” I said. I didn’t like the sound of that.
“Yeah, extradition spreaders—you know, ‘Jaws of Life’? We had to rip open the back door to get him out of his car seat.”
All three guys nodded an unspoken ‘Amen.’
They talked shop for a couple of minutes and when there was a break I said my alohas and started up the stairs. Just beyond the landing, out of sight, I stopped and listened.
“You’re right, she’s nice. Maybe’s it’s time to take the leap. How much does she know?” It was the first guy’s voice.
Guy number two weighed in. “Yeah, what’d you tell her?”
“Look, she’s my landlady, not a blind date,” said Hatch.
“Still. Seems you ought to come clean. My wife says a woman can handle anything but a lie.”
“I’m not lying, I’m being discreet. Besides, I’ll be gone in a month and she’ll forget I was ever here.”
“I seriously doubt that, dude.”
There was a moment of silence and then the first guy said, “We better run.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” said Hatch. “Tell the chief I’m raring to get back.”
“Will do. And hey, you take care of yourself, man. ”
“Yeah,” Number Two chimed in. “Get well. My wife’s been bitching about all the overtime.”
“Since when did your ‘never met a gold bracelet she didn’t need’ wife decide she doesn’t want you doing overtime?”
Everyone laughed and the door slammed a minute later.
I tiptoed up the stairs, trying to avoid the creak on the second-to-the-last step. I wondered if Steve knew what was going on with Hatch. Maybe I wasn’t the only one he was hiding secrets from. But for the hundredth time, I reminded myself it was none of my busines
s.
CHAPTER 9
Monday morning I called my suppliers—one more time—to confirm everyone was still on board and things were proceeding as scheduled. My level of micro-management borders on harassment, but everyone’s come to expect it of me. Long ago I decided I’d rather be known as an anal retentive nag than a bridal consultant who doesn’t deliver.
“I knew it’d be you,” Keahou said as she picked up the phone in her Kula bakery. “Don’t worry. I’m baking the layers tomorrow. Then I let them temper for a day; then I’ll frost it early Thursday morning so the icing’s nice and fresh. What time you want it delivered?”
“Two o’clock would be good. Remember, it’s at Olu’olu.”
“Couldn’t forget that. I hope they let me in.”
“When you get to the gate, tell them you’re bringing the wedding cake.” As soon as it was out of my mouth, I realized she probably could have figured that out on her own.
“Is that place really owned by some mafia kahuna?”
“I don’t know. And it’s not polite to gossip.”
“Ooh,” she said. “Touchy.”
“Sorry to snap, Keahou, but this wedding’s been nothing but pilikia from day one. You know, with the dead groom and all.”
“Yeah. Seems like a pretty hupo thing they’re doing. Oh well, we need the business.”
“Yes we do.”
“Will you be down there when I bring the cake?”
“I’ll get there around ten that morning. And don’t worry, I’ll have your check all ready for you.”
“Good girl. This cake is going to be lani nui, I promise. I have lots of time to make it extra special.”
After making all the critical calls—cake, dress, videographer, limo—I was batting a thousand. Of course with tourist business at a standstill all over the island only a vendor with a family emergency—or one who’d already gone belly-up—would blow me off this week.
The weather was finally cooperating. Now we had long sun breaks interspersed with only quick showers. I couldn’t be sure it’d be sunny at the time of the wedding though, so I’d ordered a canvas canopy.
Maui Widow Waltz (Islands of Aloha Mystery Series) Page 8
