As Captain Hook wandered away, Em checked out the huge room. Tables covered in white linen cloths were scattered around the room, but not many of the attendees were seated. Thick rope was draped along the walls, and fake parrots hung from the ceiling on swing perches. The band was set up on a stage decorated to look like a main deck. A raised quarter deck, complete with a rail and mounted ship’s wheel, was at one end of the stage.
A bar was set up on the floor in the opposite corner, stacked wooden barrels that held a long wide plank. Behind it, Hilton bartenders had bandanas tied around their heads and were outfitted in white open-throated shirts with billowing sleeves. A skull and crossbones flag was draped above the liquor shelves behind the bar. A mile long buffet table stretched along another wall.
She took a step toward the bar but stopped when she spotted Louie across the room in deep conversation with a man dressed like a British sea captain. Then taking a deep breath, she made a point of walking right past them and even smiled Louie’s way. He smiled back but didn’t recognize her. If her uncle couldn’t see past the costume, her two hundred and nine dollars and eleven cents had been well spent.
She spotted Lamar dePesto, contest founder, standing with his committee chairmen and cohorts at one end of the long plank bar. She took a few more swigs of grog to muster her courage.
She almost made it to the edge of the group when someone bumped into her and actually copped a feel of her behind.
“If ’ye are free tonight I’d be ’appy to show you me longboat.” A smiling, bald, suntanned man nudged her with his elbow and winked. He reached for her again.
“Hey, matie, no fair.” The stilettos gave her a good three inches over him. She slapped his hand away.
“’ave pity on a poor castaway, lass.” He reeled closer. She stepped back and checked out his outfit—cut-off raggedy shorts, a ripped and faded aloha shirt, and a very real sunburn beneath a fake shaggy beard. “I been all alone on a deserted island for three years, pinin’ away for someone like you to wash up on the beach.”
He listed forward, fell against Em, and almost toppled her. She navigated the stilettos better than she thought she could and quickly regained her balance. When she reached up to shove him away, she accidentally sloshed nearly all of her barrel of grog down the front of his shirt.
“Listen, Robinson Caruso, how about you sail off and find another port?”
“Sheesh, what a poor sport,” he mumbled as he walked away.
Finally Em reached the group near the bar. All four men standing together in a knot turned to stare, apparently rendered brain-dead by the sight of deep cleavage. If she’d walked by as herself, they wouldn’t have given her more than a casual look, but “Pussy in Boots” had them all salivating.
“What can I do for you, my lovely?” DePesto separated himself from the others.
Em held up her mug with a smile. “I’m out of grog.”
“Can’t let a buxom wench like you go thirsty. Not around here.”
“Do you have anything other than grog? Like tequila?” She scanned the back of the bar. All she saw was rum and gallons of juice.
“I like your style, but sorry. We’re keeping it simple tonight. Only premix.”
He slid her mug across the bar and yelled, “More grog for the pretty lady.”
She laughed and had to raise her voice to be heard over the music and pirate banter in the room.
“Too many bartenders in one place?”
“Something like that. We didn’t want anyone grandstanding tonight. This party is purely for pleasure. May I say the same about you?” He reached for her refilled mug and handed it to her.
“What’s that?” She took a small sip. Even more rum this round.
“That you’re purely for pleasure too.”
Oh puh-lease. Em fought to keep her smile pasted on. Did dePesto think she was one of the hookers walking up and down Kalakaua?
She took a step closer. “Tell me all about this Shake Off. I’ve never heard of one before.”
He told her way more than she wanted to know, not only about the Shake Off but how he had founded the event nine years ago and managed to win, at least the Western Regionals every year. Then he went on to assure her that he’d rounded up some of the toughest judges in the business, and no way were they biased.
She wondered if the idea of a conflict of interest ever entered his mind. He was probably surrounded by yes men who spent a lot of time telling him how groovy he was. The heels made them just about the same height. Em noticed he had leaned forward to look down the front of her low-cut red blouse until Mr. Smee crashed past them chasing a plump matron in a silk period costume that looked like something Marie Antoinette would have worn in a smaller size.
Smee, waving a rubber sword, yelled, “When I get a hold of you, my beauty, I’m going to keelhaul you over my yardarm! Blow me down if I don’t!”
DePesto watched them tumble over a table and shook his head in disgust.
“I’m thinking of a new theme for next year. This pirate thing is getting old.”
“Any ideas yet?” Em took another sip. Flirting would be far easier if she had a buzz going.
“Zombies. They’re still popular.”
“Zombies are popular? Not much personality though. A lot of growling and shuffling.”
“Tiki Zombies or Zombie Tikis? Which do you like better?”
“I’ll have to think about that one.” She thought about batting her lashes at him, but they kept sticking to the eye holes in the mask. She fingered his official badge covered with small replicas of the golden swizzle stick award.
“Lamar dePesto. Is that your real name?”
“Do you think it’s my real name?” He cocked his eyebrow and waited.
“Do you want me to think it’s your real name?”
“Catchy, huh?”
She nodded yes and didn’t add that it made her think of an oily green sauce.
She thought she might be getting somewhere when suddenly her uncle joined them. Em held her breath. All Louie said was, “Nice boobs.”
Nice boobs? Her uncle complimenting her boobs was disgusting.
Before she could say anything, Louie asked, “Where did you get them?”
“My boobs?”
“No.” Louie’s face turned very, very red. “Your boots. I was just thinking my niece might like a pair.”
“Oh, she probably wouldn’t,” Em said a bit too quickly. She cleared her throat and lowered her voice. “You’d hate for her to break her ankle or something.” She buried her face in her mug until Louie picked up a fresh drink and wandered off.
Lamar dePesto waited until Louie walked away.
“Some of these guys would do anything to win,” he said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Take that guy. Some old dude who had a reality show on cable. Everyone is touting him as an original, like Don the Beachcomber or Trader Vic. The press is calling him the front runner.”
“Not only that, but there’s something secretive going on with him,” he went on. “He’s been lurking around the lobby looking bummed. I think he might be worried he won’t be able to pull off an upset. I know personally that he’s so worried about his recipe he’s rented a taste-tester.” DePesto didn’t add that the tester was a monkey.
“Isn’t that against the rules?”
He shook his head. “Not if you use this particular taste-tester.”
“Wow. I guess some of these guys would do anything to win.”
“You’re right about that.”
“How far would you go, Lamar?”
“All the way, baby. Whatever it takes,” he said.
Em felt like she’d just fired a cannonball and made a direct hit.
“Hey,
I have some tequila in my luxury suite. It’s one of the huge perks of being the founder of the Shake Off and booking the contest here. Wanna run up for a quickie?”
“Sure, why not.”
“You would? I mean, hey, that’s great.”
She couldn’t figure out why he was acting like he’d just won the lotto. He waited for her to turn toward the entrance before he rested his hand at the small of her back.
“Maybe I’ll try my contest entry on you. How does that sound?”
“Arrrggghhh! Time to set sail. Let’s go.”
She figured she had as much expertise as a monkey.
20
LAMAR DEPESTO’S SUITE was on the top floor of the Ali’i Tower with a three hundred sixty degree view of the Pacific and Waikiki. He ushered Em inside and headed straight for the wet bar lined with top shelf liquor. She walked out on the balcony to enjoy the view and took a deep breath of fresh air.
“Would you like me to make you a margarita? The real deal? Or maybe a tequini? How do you like your tequila?” he asked.
After swilling a mug of pirate’s grog, switching to tequila sounded terrifying.
“Straight, with a water back up.” She smiled and sauntered, as well as she could in the stilettos, back into the room.
“May I use the bathroom?”
“Of course.” He paused with a bottle of Hornitos in hand and nodded in the direction of a short hallway. “Help yourself.”
Em locked the bathroom door behind her and set her little woven handbag on the counter top. If dePesto had stolen the Booze Bible and if he’d hidden it in the bathroom, the only place big enough would be on one of the shelves under the sink. It was a place to start.
The shelves were lined with towels and various items emptied out of his toiletry bag.
She knelt down and ran her hand around under the pile of folded towels. No ring binder. In the process she knocked her tricorn hat on the counter top. It slipped back, nearly pulling her wig off. She straightened the hat, smoothed down the wig, and opened her purse. She reapplied the hot red lipstick. Then Em took a deep breath and walked back into the living area.
Lamar was holding an ice bucket in one hand and a tumbler in the other. The tumbler had a good three fingers of tequila in it.
“There you go.” He smiled.
Em smiled back. Lamar waited.
With no other recourse, she knocked the shot back. Her eyes watered, but she didn’t cough.
She said, “Yum. What about you? Aren’t you having one?”
“I’m gonna go for some ice. I’ll be right back,” he said.
“Great.” Definitely great. Go. She’d see what she could find in the bedroom.
“Tequila’s on the bar.”
“I’ll wait for you to pour me another.”
Before he went through the door he paused. “I hoped you were in there taking off the mask.”
She pursed her very red lips. “I thought it would be fun to keep the mystery going.”
“Aye, aye!” He was out the door in a flash.
Em ran back down the hall into the bedroom as fast as her stiletto boots could carry her. She tore through the dresser drawers, opening and closing them, running her hand under his piles of T-shirts and underwear. No Booze Bible. She knelt on the floor, looked under the bed, ran her hands between the mattress and the box springs, opened the closet, and tried to reach the top shelf.
She ran over to grab a desk chair to climb on. There was a lap top as well as a portable printer and reams of paper on the desk. Em was about to drag the chair over to the closet when she suddenly recognized the manila envelope lying on top of a pile of contest information. It looked just like the one Louie had received from the extortionist.
Her hands were shaking as she tried to work the clasp and finally succeeded. She pulled two pages out of the envelope and scanned it. The first page was indeed written by the extortionist. Whoever had stolen the Booze Bible was offering to sell a copy of Louie Marshall’s famous Booze Bible for twenty-five thousand dollars.
Em’s heart sank when she looked at the second page. The handwriting was Louie’s. It was his recipe for his “Tiger Shark Attack,” a drink he’d concocted after nearly being chomped by a shark off of Kauai. The extortionist had torn out another page of the notebook.
Em’s mind was reeling. Was dePesto the recipient of the letter or the one sending it? If so, the Booze Bible had to be in the suite somewhere. Was he sending the letter going to one of the other contestants? Someone desperate enough to buy a copy?
“What are you doing?”
At the sound of dePesto’s voice, Em whipped around and almost toppled off her heels. She dropped the envelope and the papers on the desk. The recipe floated to the floor.
“I . . . I’m . . . I was just looking for an . . . um . . . a private place to make a call.”
He was staring at the dresser. She had left the top drawer wide open.
“Were you going through my drawers?”
“Maybe the maid left it open?”
“I don’t think so. This room was cleaned hours ago.”
“Maybe you left it open.”
“I would remember. What were you doing with that letter?”
“What letter?”
“The one you had in your hand when I walked in. I saw you drop it.”
She shrugged and tried to smile.
“I’m calling security,” Lamar said.
Em had imbibed in enough grog for the shot of tequila to put her over the top. She was invincible. She threw her shoulders back and raised her chin—a move that unfortunately emphasized her cleavage. DePesto’s eyes bugged. She hunched her shoulders.
“Go ahead and call them,” she dared him. “Call them, and I’ll tell them you’re an extortionist. I’ll tell them you stole my uncle’s recipes and you’re holding them for ransom.”
DePesto shook his head. “What in the hell are you talking about? What uncle? What recipes?”
“I’m Louie Marshall’s niece. His Booze Bible was stolen the day we arrived. Today he received an extortion letter demanding money. A letter just like that one.” She pointed to the desk. “In an envelope just like that.” She pointed again. “That someone tore out one of his recipes to prove he had the notebook. Just like the recipe on the floor. That’s another page of the Booze Bible.” She took a step toward him. “I think that someone is you, Mr. dePesto. A few minutes ago you admitted you’d go all the way and do whatever it takes to win the Shake Off.”
“Get real. I don’t have to cheat.”
“Then explain that letter.”
“Someone left it at the front desk for me.”
“Ha!”
“Why didn’t Marshall tell me his recipes were stolen?”
“Because he thought you or one of the others may have taken them. I think his notebook is somewhere in this suite.” She pulled open the desk drawer and then slammed it shut. Then she marched over to the closet and pulled out his suitcase. It was the hard-sided kind a gorilla could jump on and couldn’t break. Em tugged the case out. Ignoring dePesto, she stepped on it to reach the closet shelf.
“Hey, get off my suitcase. Stop that. I’m calling security,” he yelled.
Em spied an extra pillow on the shelf. No better place to hide something big than a pillowcase. She grabbed it and started to tug when one of her heels suddenly punctured the suitcase. Her boot sank through the case all the way to the top of the heel. She tumbled backward. Her booty hit the floor, and her tricorn hat fell off and pulled her wig off with it.
“They don’t make suitcases like they used to.” Em laid there spread-eagled and watched the ceiling begin to whirl.
Lamar disappeared into the living room area. Em struggled to sit up and pulled her boot heel out
of the suitcase. She was on her hands and knees trying to stand when dePesto appeared in the doorway.
“Is that a knife?” Em’s breath caught. She looked around, thinking she might be able to whack him in the head with a lamp, if she could get to one.
“No, it is not a knife. It’s a citrus saw.” He looked at the tiny lime green plastic saw no bigger than a paring knife. “But it’s sharp.”
He kept the saw pointed at her as he picked up the phone and punched one of the Lucite buttons.
“Yes. This is Mr. dePesto, founder of the Shake Off. Lamar dePesto in the Presidential suite. I’d like to report an intruder. Yes, I’ll hold but . . .”
Her head started spinning as Em watched helpless from the floor. The odious taste of bad pirate swill filled her mouth. Her real hair was stuck to her head. A loose bobby pin dangled near her temple. The black tricorn lay on the floor beside her; the skull emblazoned on the front grinned up at her. Her wig was sticking out of the hat. She grabbed the wig and shoved it back on.
If she was going down, she wasn’t going down with hat hair.
21
TWO PLAINCLOTHES Hilton security officers in aloha shirts and Bermuda shorts drove Em down to the Waikiki substation. Shaken and tipsy, she tottered along on her high heels. The one she’d rammed into dePesto’s suitcase wobbled.
The Hilton cops escorted her into the waiting area filled with the flotsam and jetsam of the nightlife on Kalakaua Avenue. Three hookers in heels higher than Em’s were squished together on two chairs on the far side of the room. They were tall, lean, beautiful, and no doubt expensive. All wore the same tired, bored expressions. They’d been here before. One of them popped chewing gum in time to the beat a kid in a hoodie was tapping out as he slapped his palms against his thighs. He didn’t appear to be a stranger to the Waikiki substation facility either.
A panhandler with his face and hands covered in gold paint wearing a gold Statue of Liberty robe and foam rubber crown was handcuffed to the arm of a chair.
Too Hot Four Hula: 4 (The Tiki Goddess Mystery Series) Page 10
