I think he is telling me in coded language that I will get my prize money. That is a giant relief. We exchange good nights, then Mario nods at Jason and heads off.
Now Jason gives me an assessing look. He claims the chair Mario just vacated. “So you’re okay, then.”
I remember I haven’t talked to him all day. “Oh Jason, I am so sorry. I—”
“I was really worried about you. By the time I got to the hospital, you were gone. Then I called your cell a bunch of times.”
“I know, I—” How do I explain? “I got caught up in a bunch of stuff and—”
“I can guess what that bunch of stuff was.”
I don’t know what to say. The truth is that I didn’t call him because I knew he’d object to my investigating. Because he knew it was dangerous. And he was right.
What makes it even worse is that all he knows about is the chopper crash. He doesn’t know a thing about what happened later with Rex Rexford, when my life was once again on the line. And I really don’t feel like explaining that now, too.
“Happy,” he says, and he sounds just so tired, “I don’t like having to find out what’s up with my wife from TV news. I find out from TV news that she’s hurt in a chopper crash. Then I find out from TV news that she’s gone AWOL from the hospital. The only thing TV news won’t tell me is where she is after that. Because all I know is she’s not with me.”
I take a deep breath. “I don’t know what to say except I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me.”
“It’s not so much that I’m mad, Happy. It’s that I’m hurt.”
We look at one another. His eyes are so sad.
He shakes his head. “This probably isn’t the best time to tell you this but I got to thinking about what you said this morning and so I signed up for pit school. I ended up getting a slot in the course that starts in two weeks.”
“Oh. Wow.”
“Since I knew that getting me to go was kind of your new project, I thought it would make you happy.”
It’s funny. Now that it’s happened, I’m not sure whether it makes me happy or not. All I know is that in two weeks, he’ll be gone to North Carolina for three months. Wow. It occurs to me that today he was missing me. But soon it will be me missing him.
“I can tell you’re exhausted,” he goes on. “I know I am. What do you say we both get a good night’s sleep.” He doesn’t wait for me to agree. He gets up, kisses me softly on the cheek, says, “I’m glad you’re all right,” and walks away.
I watch him go, wishing I could rewind the tape and do today over. I can’t. All I can do is better tomorrow.
When I get to our room, Shanelle still isn’t back. I kick off my Keds and drop into bed.
The next morning Shanelle is snoring quietly when I wake up. The digital clock informs me it’s 9:23. With the blackout drapes pulled shut, the room is as dark as it was at 2 AM. But I can see that she scrawled a note to me on the memo pad that sits on our shared nightstand. You didn’t get arrested, girl! Or if you did, you didn’t call me ;-)
I guess I can finally put those fears to bed. Funny, though, I still don’t feel at ease. Maybe it’s the fact that Jason’s going away to pit school. Or that everything having to do with Tiffany’s murder happened so fast, I’m having trouble adjusting.
The one thing I know for sure is that I’m starving. I shower and dress and hustle down to the casual café.
I’ve barely walked into the place when the girl working the counter runs up to me and grabs my hands. “I am so sorry,” she says. “I am so, so sorry.”
I think she’s about to burst into tears. “That’s okay. It was totally not your fault.”
“When the cops came in here yesterday to talk to me, and I started to understand what happened with your breakfast drink, I freaked. I totally freaked. If you or … or if that helicopter pilot—”
She’s losing it. I hug her. “It’s okay. Really. He’s going to be fine and I’m fine, as you can see.”
“Really? I am going to be so freaking careful from now on.”
“Don’t worry about it. I am really okay. I don’t think I want one of those drinks this morning, though. You have any of that coffee cake?”
“I’ll get you a piece. On the house.”
She makes me a cappuccino, too, and throws in a side dish of pineapple and blueberries. But it takes me forever to get any of it down because suddenly I am the most popular girl in the room. My fellow contestants come up in droves to find out what’s been going on with me the last 24 hours. Other guests from the hotel crowd around my table. Finally somebody says, “Let the poor woman eat!”—and people drift away, contenting themselves with stealing glances at me from adjoining tables.
One thing emerges from all the brouhaha. It is clear that people know about the helicopter accident, and Dirk Ventura downing my drink, which was spiked with the same poison that killed Tiffany Amber.
But people don’t know that Rex Rexford was arrested last night for both those crimes. They still think Sebastian Cantwell is the culprit. None of that information has yet been released by the Oahu PD.
I want to know why.
But first things first. I learned a lesson last night.
I call Jason’s cell, which goes immediately to voicemail. It must be turned off. I hope that means he’s still sleeping and not that he doesn’t want to speak to me.
Call number two. My mother.
I call her in her room at the Lotus Blossom because she always keeps her cell phone turned off. If by some act of God she decides to use it, she turns it on, places a call, and then turns it off. Nor does she know how to retrieve her voicemail. Not even Rachel, who is endlessly patient when it comes to her grandmother, can train her to use the thing properly.
“Mom, this is Happy,” I say.
Silence. Then, “Are you sure this isn’t her roommate Shanelle? Who has the kindness in her heart to make time for people’s mothers?”
“I am sorry about that, Mom. But I had a very good reason for not wanting to get into an involved phone conversation yesterday.”
“You don’t say.”
“It’s true. I was solving Tiffany Amber’s murder.”
I know I have to tell this story now; I can’t keep putting it off. And as you might imagine, it takes a while, even leaving out the most gnarly details, like how the killer was gearing up to strangle me. By the time I get to her room to pick her up, because I promised we would spend some time together, she’s moderately calmer. Moderately.
We get in one of the cabs queued up in front of the hotel. “I warn you, you will be a little taken aback by where I want to go first.” I then address the driver. “The police station on Beretania, please.”
She looks aghast. “Why in the world would you want to go there?” Then her face softens. “Unless they’re giving you a medal. They certainly should.” She calls out to the driver. “I’ll have you know, young man, that my daughter here solved a murder. This one right here.” She motions to me. “Yes sirree. Just last night. And for your information, she’s also the winner of the Ms. America beauty pageant.”
He glances at me in the rearview mirror, then at my mother. I half expect him to drop us off at a psychiatric hospital but indeed he does roll to a stop in front of Detective Momoa’s place of employment. I find out once we’re inside that Momoa is in.
He appears less surprised to see me than he did last night, but he does a double take at my mother.
I make the introductions. Momoa does a fine job of pronouncing Mrs. Przybyszewski, which has undone lesser men. He invites us into his office and has to scuttle away briefly to import a second chair. He offers us coffee. I decline.
“Yes, please,” my mother says. She sits and primly crosses her legs at the ankle. “Cream and sugar. And I would appreciate real sugar, not that fake stuff that gets passed off as sugar.”
He glances at me on his way out. I am experiencing a first. I have never before felt that Detective Momoa and I were o
n the same team. But at this moment I do.
He returns with my mother’s java and assumes the position behind his desk. “What can I do for you, Ms. Pennington?”
I see we’re still on a surname basis. I also note he does not congratulate me on solving the crime he’s been investigating for a week. “I’m curious to find out why Rex Rexford’s arrest hasn’t been made public yet.”
He steeples his fingers. “We have been conducting further investigation into the role Tony Postagino might have played in the murder.”
I lean forward. “And?”
“And we have been unable to find a single piece of evidence to link him to”—he glances at my mother—“either incident.”
“Does Rexford still claim that he acted alone?”
“He does.”
“Do you believe him?” Momoa says nothing. I fill the silence. “I have to say, I find it very hard to believe that Postagino wasn’t involved. Rex Rexford does not strike me as the type to have pulled this off alone. Conceived the plan, obtained the cyanide, laced the lipstick—” I glance at my mom. “The other thing I think he did do by himself, because he got desperate. But otherwise I don’t believe he was a lone operator. He’s just too soft-hearted. Postagino seems the more conniving of the two.”
My mother pipes up. “You should listen to my daughter. After all, she’s been doing your work for you.”
“Mom—”
“If you had listened to her sooner, this whole mess might have been cleared up sooner. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. Straight A’s from kindergarten on.”
“Mom—”
“And when the time comes, she better get credit for this. I want her name, not yours, all over the news.”
“Mom, really.” I reach over and grab her hand. “You’ve got to stop.”
She harrumphs. “What’s right is right.”
“Mrs. Przybyszewski,” Detective Momoa says, “you should know that I have been listening to your daughter.”
My head snaps in his direction.
He keeps his gaze on my mother. Maybe he can’t bear to look at me as he says these words. “When she came to me yesterday with information about these two men, I dispatched investigators to look into it.”
I almost fall out of my chair.
“They confirmed what she told me.” His eyes move to mine. “I must commend her for her fine work, and apologize for not making immediately clear that I intended to pursue the lead she gave me. Not to mention that I heartily applaud her efforts last night, which were truly remarkable.”
Oh God, I’m tearing up.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“Look what you did now!” My mother’s out of her chair, hurling accusations at Detective Momoa while digging frantically in her purse for a Kleenex.
I’m sniffling and waving my hand rapidly in front of my face, as if somehow that will prevent me from bursting into tears. “I’m okay,” I keep repeating. “I’m okay.”
Finally I am. Until I think about why Momoa’s praise means so much to me. He’s not praising me for being pretty. He’s praising me for being smart. Why can’t my father ever do that? That age-old question makes me choke up all over again.
Momoa, like many men, seems confounded by female tears. He remains seated, looking terribly uncomfortable, during my prolonged fit. Finally I recover, for good this time, and he clears his throat. “We all understand that it’s been a very stressful time for you, Ms. Pennington.”
“You can say that again.”
“Perhaps the best course of action would be for you to relax today.” He gestures to my mom. “You and your mother could do some souvenir shopping, relax at the beach, maybe indulge yourselves and go to the Halekulani for lunch.”
My mother is nodding emphatically. Until I hear myself say, “Detective, what I would really like to do is talk to Rex Rexford.” I didn’t come here with that goal in mind, but now that it’s come out of me, it seems a tremendously obvious next step.
“What?” My mother nearly drops her coffee. “The killer? I should say not!”
Momoa frowns. “And what would you hope to achieve in that conversation?”
“You would allow it?” my mother shrieks. “Over my dead body!”
“Mom, please.” I look at Momoa. “He ended up being pretty forthcoming with me last night. We have a lot of history together in the pageant world. He knew me as a competitor fifteen years ago. I think he might tell me something he wouldn’t tell one of your investigators.”
“I gather you’re hoping you could persuade Rexford to implicate Postagino. I consider that outcome highly unlikely.”
“Probably so, but I’d still like to try. What do we have to lose? And I have an idea how I might go about it.”
I can tell from Momoa’s expression that he’s considering it. So can my mother.
“Are you insane?” she asks him. My mother is not cowed by a badge, as maybe you can tell. “My daughter has had enough of killers, enough to last her three lifetimes.”
“Mom, I wouldn’t be alone in a dark alley with the guy.” Like I was last night, but she doesn’t know that. “There’d be absolutely zero danger to me. He’s in jail. There would be an armed guard right outside the door. And he’s probably in manacles, too, right, Detective?” I shoot Momoa a pleading look.
“He may well be,” Momoa says. He keeps his eyes on my face. “I will allow this on one condition, Ms. Pennington.”
My mother emits a snort of disgust.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“That you refrain from any further investigating on your own. I applaud you for what you have achieved so far but this is a dangerous matter. I do not want you confronting Mr. Postagino. I do not want you approaching him in any way. None of us wants a repeat of last night.”
My mother scowls at me. “What happened last night?”
“I agree,” I tell Momoa. I look at my mother. “Mom, do you want me to get you a cab to take you back to the Lotus Blossom? Or is there somewhere else you’d like to spend a few hours?”
“There are some shops that my wife enjoys in this neighborhood,” Momoa suggests. “Perhaps—”
She rises. “I can entertain myself perfectly well with no help from you,” she informs him. Then she focuses on me. “I never thought you’d take after your father like this.” She shakes her head as if in deep regret. “All this fascination with sickos.”
“Oh, mom.” I stand up and hug her. “I take after you, too. Remember what got me here. My fascination with beauty pageants. And that’s been true all my life.” That’s a bit of a fib. The fascination was hers; the desire to please, mine. But it all worked out in the end.
She waves her hand dismissively and stomps out the door.
Momoa pipes up. “Do I take it that your father has an interest in criminal matters?”
“He’s a cop. Like you.” Sort of like Momoa. My father wishes he’d done Homicide. But he never made it to that level. He retired pretty frustrated about that.
“Very interesting.” Momoa taps his pen on his desk. “So you’re a chip off the old block.”
I rise. “May I go see Rex now?”
Momoa makes it happen. He’s like my new best friend.
Rex Rexford doesn’t look like himself in his bright orange jail jumpsuit, though I suppose neither its cut nor color—not to mention its symbolism—is flattering to anyone. He shuffles into the windowless jailhouse meeting room Momoa made available. He looks like a defeated man. His skin is mottled and puffy and his hair is flat and pressed up against his head on one side, as if he rose from his cot just moments before. My mother would be screaming bloody murder because he’s not constrained by manacles or handcuffs or anything. At this point, though, I find him about as threatening as a kitten.
He slumps into a chair. A desk separates us. He doesn’t meet my eyes.
“How are you doing?” I ask him.
“Not great.”
It’s hard to respond to that. I can
’t exactly reassure him that things will get better. It’s all so dire and grim in here it’s almost impossible to believe cheerful Hawaiian life is going on just outside these walls.
He pipes up again. “They’re not respecting my rights.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They haven’t let me make a phone call.”
I wonder if that’s because Momoa doesn’t want Rex to call Postagino, who’d thereby be alerted that his lover was arrested. That might alter his behavior. “I don’t really know how it works. I’m sure they’ll let you make a call soon.”
“It’s my right.”
I can’t believe Momoa would risk doing anything that’s not exactly by the book. “You’ll probably find this hard to believe, under the circumstances. But you and I have known each other a long time, Rex, and I do care about you. I have your best interests at heart.”
He meets my gaze. “I’ve always thought you were a nice girl, Happy. Not like certain beauty queens who shall remain nameless.”
I nod.
“I also know what I did was wrong. I’m not one of those people who thinks it was justified or anything. I’m not deranged,” he adds, with some vigor.
“I never thought you were.”
“None of this means I’m not going to fight these charges tooth and nail. I will.”
“That’s your right, too. Absolutely.”
“Whatever I did, I did for love.” He juts his chin. I watch his eyes fill with tears. “Maybe in a court of law that counts for something.”
I take a deep breath. To steel myself, I suppose. I hope on some cosmic moral level what I’m about to do can be justified. “Rex, I believe you when you say you acted out of love. I totally do. And that’s why I’m here. Because I’m concerned you’re doing the same thing again.”
His eyes grow wary. “What are you talking about?”
“You know I visited the Plumeria Bed and Breakfast, right? I went there yesterday. That’s how I found out that you and Tony Postagino stayed there together.”
Ms America and the Offing on Oahu (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 1) Page 22
