Momoa ushers me into his lair, one of numerous nondescript offices along the perimeter of a large open room crammed with desks for the smaller fry, many of whom appear to work the night shift. His desk and credenza are piled high with manila folders, a testament to his workload. His walls are loaded with framed citations and photos of his unsmiling self shaking hands with various luminaries, almost all of whom are unknown to me but who together create the impression that Momoa has enjoyed a lot of success as a cop. Also as captain of the Honolulu PD’s baseball team, I see. He has a few trophies from trouncing teams from the Big Island and Kauai.
I settle into the chair in front of his desk. I’ve always been comfortable in police stations, truth be told. Must be because I’ve been visiting them since I was knee-high, proudly striding their dingy halls as the daughter of a veteran cop.
“I just saw Dirk Ventura’s sister,” I say. “She tells me he’s out of danger.”
Momoa nods and says nothing. He’s got to be curious what the heck I’m here for. Maybe he’s hoping I’ll confess.
In that case I’m going to disappoint him. “She told me something else, too.” I relate what I’ve learned about Rex Rexford staying with Tony Postagino at the Plumeria Bed and Breakfast just after New Year’s.
Momoa leans forward. “Ms. Pennington, you are jumping to a conclusion for which you have no evidence.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have no evidence that the two men stayed there together.”
“What are you talking about? I have—”
“You have the website photo which proves that Mr. Postagino at some point visited that inn, and you have the guest record which proves that in early January Mr. Rexford stayed there for two nights with a second individual. That’s all you have and it proves nothing.”
“I also have Luisa the housekeeper who says that they stayed there together. Besides, it’s a tiny little B&B and it’s totally inconceivable that these two different men would choose at two different times to stay there above all the other amazing places they could stay on this island.”
“What if one of them recommended it to the other? Mr. Postagino stayed there at some point, when he had his photo taken, and suggested it to Mr. Rexford when the latter was planning a trip to Oahu.”
I hadn’t thought of that and it sounds plausible. Suddenly I feel sort of deflated. “But what about Luisa? She remembers them being together.”
“The human element is often the weakest link. The housekeeper’s memory does not constitute proof.”
“But I mean—” I throw up my hands. “What are the odds?”
“In this business we don’t deal in odds, Ms. Pennington. We deal in evidence.”
He’s trying to put me in my place with that comment, which I think is somewhat snarky. “That’s not all I have. I know you interviewed Keola Kalakaua, and you and I both know that he and Tiffany Amber were having an affair. Do you know that she told him that she thought her husband was, too?”
Momoa shakes his head. “That’s hearsay. That’s not admissible in court.”
“But it adds weight to the idea that Tony Postagino and Rex Rexford were involved. And another thing.” I describe how I ran into Rex at the casual café, and how he might have overheard my conversation with Trixie, and how he had the opportunity to spike my breakfast drink with poison.
“He, and, from what I understand, dozens of other people,” Momoa says.
“Like Sebastian Cantwell? Are you dismissing this line of reasoning because you’ve already charged Cantwell with Tiffany Amber’s murder and my attempted murder?”
Momoa leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his chest. “I am not at liberty to discuss that matter.”
“Detective Momoa, I have a right to know what’s going on here! After all, somebody tried to kill me today. Don’t I deserve to know if the person who did that is behind bars? Because if the perp is still out there roaming free, I am in serious danger, because he or she may make a second attempt.”
“Remember, Ms. Pennington, I have reason to believe that you yourself spiked that beverage with poison. And that you yourself are behind Ms. Amber’s murder.”
“I’m not! I know that even if you don’t.” I stand up. “Coming here was a waste of my time.”
He remains seated. “Why did you come here?”
“Because I believed, and I still do, that there is or was some extramarital entanglement between Tony Postagino and Rex Rexford. And given that Tony Postagino’s wife is now dead, and that Rex Rexford had the motive and opportunity and maybe the means to kill her, that that was something you should know about. But apparently you could care less.”
“Were you hoping to get my help?”
“Yes. Because obviously you have more resources to pursue this than I do. I also don’t have it in my power to keep all the people who might have had a hand in Tiffany Amber’s murder on this island. You do. And I would think you’d want them here until such time as you can announce you’ve nabbed the killer. Maybe you have, and it’s Sebastian Cantwell, and for some bizarre reason you just can’t disclose that yet. I don’t know. But it all seems kind of fishy to me.”
Momoa rises to his feet. “I’ll walk you out.”
So I guess he’s not going to arrest me. I suppose that’s good news. Nevertheless, I retrace my steps toward the reception area feeling, more than anything else, disappointed. That this visit was a bust. That Momoa poked so many holes in my theory, it’s now as solid as a Whiffle ball. That I’m a lousy crime-solver.
Back where we started the evening, Momoa has one more salvo to fire. “Ms. Pennington, I suggest that you steer clear of Mr. Postagino and Mr. Rexford and that you leave the investigating to the police. That is the best thing you could do. And it would probably go a long way toward helping you calm down.”
It drives me crazy. That’s pretty much exactly what Jason said.
“If I’m too fired up for your taste, I apologize, Detective.” I pull open the glass door. “Somebody trying to kill you does that to a person.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Minutes later I find myself taking my third taxi ride of the day. This cabbie has even more trouble than the earlier two wending his way through Waikiki. We often slow to a crawl, or get stopped altogether, because so many beachfront streets are being blockaded for the fair. Tents and booths are going up left, right, and center. In the distance I hear a live band testing its sound system.
The cab lurches to another stop. I grit my teeth. But it’s too far to walk to the Royal Hibiscus, at least for this dragged-out beauty queen, so I force myself to settle back against the cracked Naugahyde seat. The sun is setting; I think I’ve decided once and for all that’s my favorite time of day here on Oahu. The sky is exploding in stripes of pink and purple as the sun’s great orange ball of fire disappears inch by glowing inch into the sea.
I didn’t get anywhere with Detective Momoa; that much is clear. And yes, it is true that even if Tony Postagino and Rex Rexford were or are having an affair, that doesn’t mean either of them offed Tiffany Amber. After all, as Shanelle pointed out, people have extramarital flings all the time and no one ends up tumbling dead out of an isolation booth.
Something else occurs to me. Maybe my exciting new tidbit was exciting and new only to me. Maybe Momoa’s known about it for days and already explored it and dismissed it. I have to allow the possibility that I’m behind the curve investigation-wise.
Or … maybe this revelation was new to Momoa but he dismissed it because it came from me. He listened politely enough but inside he was chuckling all the while. What an imbecile, he was thinking. How could I have thought for a moment that this woman killed Tiffany Amber? It should have become apparent in the first minute of talking to her that she’s too stupid to have pulled that off ...
It’s very dispiriting, because I expected Momoa to give this information more consideration. I carried it to him like a found treasure that only I was cunning en
ough to uncover. I see now that I wanted props from him, a pat on the back, maybe a compliment or two. Good work, Ms. Pennington, would’ve been nice. I’ll take it from here.
Who am I kidding? I’m not a cop. I’m just a beauty queen with delusions of investigative grandeur.
What with Cantwell now in jail, I need to accept the fact that my instincts about who killed Tiffany, and tried to kill me, were flat out wrong. I should be glad of what I was able to accomplish here on Oahu, winning the Ms. America title and the prize money to put Rachel through college.
Not that I’ve gotten the check yet, or that my daughter wants to go to college.
I sigh. Soon I spy the Royal Hibiscus in the distance and decide to walk the rest of the way.
The sidewalks are crowded with revelers en route to the fair. As usual, I’m going against the flow. At one point I pass Top Fiver Sherry Phillips and a bunch of other queens among the fair-bound throng. With every long-legged stride, Sherry’s red hair bounces on her shoulders like she’s in one of those slo-mo shampoo commercials.
I don’t know why I ask her this, but I do. “Hey, Sherry, you know where Rex is?” I figure she might, since I remember Shanelle telling me that Rex is her consultant, too.
“Uh ...” Her green eyes open wide. Any and all questions, even the most elementary, seem to test Sherry’s reserves. I know I’m judging her in the same harsh way that Momoa’s probably judging me, yet I can’t help but think that Ms. Wyoming isn’t the brightest pixel on the computer screen. “Not really,” she comes up with. “Maybe he’s at the fair?”
“Maybe he is,” I agree, and move on.
When I get back to my room, where Shanelle is nowhere in evidence, I use the hotel phone to call Rex’s room number. He doesn’t pick up. I don’t leave a voicemail.
I lope out to the balcony. From here I cannot see the fair but I can hear it. I can also smell it. I know from previous visits that one of its main attractions is the international food tent. I swear that I’m picking up the aroma of teriyaki chicken, which is reminding me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast. A few skewers of grilled chicken, a handful of salted edamame, a cold beer—that would make me feel better.
I realize I really should call Jason or my mom—or both—to go with me but I just don’t have the energy. I’d have to justify all my actions, and relive the chopper incident in all its petrifying detail
I make another decision. Since all I want to do is dash out for some quick grub, I’d rather not be recognized as Ms. America and have to deal with questions about what went down today with Dirk Ventura or with Sebastian Cantwell. So I simple down. I slip into my Juicy Couture sweat pants and a tank top and slide my feet into my floral Keds. I slick my hair back into a braid and clamp on the baseball cap I wear when I run. Off goes all makeup save for a neutral lip gloss.
I am a beauty queen after all; I can’t go out completely clean-faced.
This street fair boasts the usual vendors and a few unique to Hawaii, like a guy selling surfboards and another hawking totem poles similar to the one gracing the Plumeria B&B. There are the craft booths, with paintings and wood carvings and blown glass and ceramics; a ton of tents with artsy jewelry of all description; florists selling exotic orchids and plants I can’t begin to name; a woman peddling antique dolls; another with an astonishing assortment of beeswax candles. The band I heard tuning up is now deep into a set of traditional island music. The kids who aren’t in the bounce house are getting their faces painted; a few are riding donkeys being led among the fair-goers. A Scientology booth is offering free stress tests, and I slow as I walk by because I know I’m the perfect candidate.
My disguise must be working pretty well because I make my way to the food tents unmolested. There’s all kinds of Hawaiian and Asian fare, plus the cotton candy, candied apples, and corn dogs you’d find on the mainland. My stomach’s set on teriyaki chicken, though, and I scarf it.
I take a slightly different route back, focusing on the oceanside rather than the inland booths, when I am stopped short by a vendor offering holistic massage. Three mobile massage units are set up, the kind where you sit down and lean forward to lay your head on a leather-covered rest. There’s no question I could use several of the benefits the massage claims to offer. Release unexpressed emotions. Relieve stress and anxiety. Increase mental clarity. All that for two dollars a minute!
I am about to claim the one unoccupied chair when I find myself mesmerized by the hair of the man in the middle chair. Dyed blond. Bouffant. Sprayed to within an inch of its life.
I draw a mental picture of Rex Rexford’s hair. Dyed blond. Bouffant. Sprayed to within an inch of its life.
Coincidence? I think not.
A few seconds’ further inspection yields the certainty that indeed this is Rex Rexford, in plaid board shorts and a loose-fitting polo, currently undergoing an oil-free, shoulders-only, holistic massage. Since I am the sort of girl who seizes opportunity when it presents itself, I approach Rex’s masseuse, whisper in her ear, “May I? He’s my boyfriend,” and gesture that I’d like to take over. She apparently possesses a romantic streak but exceedingly weak Gaydar, because she giggles, shrugs, and allows me to switch my hands for hers, as seamlessly as if we’ve been doing this all our young lives.
I’ve never had any massage training but Jason has always told me I’m pretty good at this, so I just do to Rex what I usually do to Jason. It seems to go over pretty well, though this time it won’t end the way it usually does with Jason. At the moment, I must say, it’s much the same. Rex emits a soft moan.
So far, so good. But what the heck do I do now? Engage him in light, unthreatening conversation? Do you perchance have any unexpressed emotion you’d like to release, Rex? Like regret over lacing Tiffany Amber’s lipstick with cyanide? Or maybe spiking my breakfast drink with the leftovers?
“You have quite a knot here,” I murmur, kneading an area high on his right trapezius muscle. “Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”
“I’ll say. But most of it went away earlier today.” He chuckles.
I have to force myself not to clamp down as I process that response. Why would Rex’s high stress be reduced today? Because somebody else got arrested for the murder he committed? Somebody like Sebastian Cantwell, in whose innocence—sort of—I’ve long trusted?
“Ooh, tell me,” I breathe. “I love stories about negativity flowing away from troubled souls.”
“Well …” He readjusts his head slightly. “Let’s just say that I’ve been worried about something. But you know the saying that it’s always darkest before the dawn? That was true for me. I was at my lowest point when something totally unexpected happened. And all of a sudden the burden I’ve been carrying was lifted clean away.”
That was pretty vague but I can translate it in my own mind. I have no difficulty guessing what the absolute lowest point was: Rex overhearing me tell Trixie in the café that I was going to Dirk’s sister’s B&B to find out who stayed there with Tony Postagino. At that moment Rex thought he was going to get caught out, so in desperation he decided that he had to risk a second murder by poisoning me, too. The something totally unexpected? Sebastian Cantwell’s arrest. See above.
“So the way is clear for you now?” I say. “No encumbrances or impediments? Your personal cosmos is in balance?”
“Never more so.” He releases a sigh of deep contentment. “I am about to be blissfully happy. Like I haven’t been for years.”
Since Sonny Roberts died, I surmise. Sonny would be ashamed of you!—I want to shout. It’s not okay to murder people even if you’re doing it in the name of love. Nor is it okay to amble merrily away while somebody else takes the tumble for what you did.
It takes some doing to keep my hands from pummeling Rex, or settling around his throat in a chokehold. I struggle not to gag as I say, “I’m only guessing but it sounds like romance has blossomed anew for you.”
“I never thought it would a second time. I don’t know what I
did to deserve it but I’ve been blessed.” He resettles himself a bit. “You’ve gotten very chatty all of a sudden.” Then he tilts his head up and looks right at me.
I think I’ll remember his expression until the day I die. His eyes fly open so fast you’d think Tiffany Amber just popped out of her grave to goose him. I smile sweetly. “What’s the matter, Rex? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
He scrambles out of the massage chair. “You! You!”
“Me. Me.” I approach him. I’m feeling cocky because there are a million people around us. Nothing bad can happen to me here, in plain sight. “You had to know I wasn’t dead, right? You must’ve found out that I made it out of that chopper alive. No thanks to you,” I add, quoting Detective Momoa from earlier today.
“What’re you talking about?” He continues to back away. “Of course you’re not dead. I’m just surprised you’re the one giving me the massage, that’s all.” He lets out a laugh that sounds pretty darn nervous to me. “You’re playing a joke on me, right? That’s what you’re doing. Playing a joke on your old friend Rex.”
“We’ve never been friends, Rex,” I inform him. “And I’m feeling less friendly toward you now than I ever did.”
He bolts. He turns and bolts. The masseuse starts screaming after him to pay up but he’s gone.
And I’m gone after him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I don’t work out just to look good in a swimsuit under the klieg lights. So while beauty queens who achieve their figures through starvation alone might find themselves left in the dust by Rex Rexford at a dead run, your plucky heroine can keep up.
It helps that Rex is the one clearing a path for us. It’s him who’s slamming into bodies left and right, him who’s sideswiping little kids, him who’s forcing dog owners to drag their leashed poodles and Labradors out of the way.
Ms America and the Offing on Oahu (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 1) Page 20
