Blood like the Setting Sun: A Murder on Maui Mystery
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Blood like the Setting Sun
• • •
A Murder on Maui Mystery
Robert W Stephens
Copyright © 2015 Robert W Stephens
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1511643005
ISBN 13: 9781511643009
For
Felicia Dames
CONTENTS
Chapter 1 Chicken Fingers and Peeping Toms
Chapter 2 The Four C’s
Chapter 3 Charlotte Chambers
Chapter 4 The Party
Chapter 5 The Swimming Pool
Chapter 6 Joe Chambers
Chapter 7 Funerals, Fights, and Cheap Scotch
Chapter 8 Candi with an i
Chapter 9 Jen Chambers
Chapter 10 Trevor Edelman
Chapter 11 Bethany and Barry Williams
Chapter 12 Surprises
Chapter 13 Game Changer
Chapter 14 The Funeral – Part 2
Chapter 15 Olivia Williams
Chapter 16 The Key
Chapter 17 The Funeral – Part 3
Chapter 18 Patricia
Chapter 19 Rebecca Acker
Chapter 20 The Final Interview
Chapter 21 Defining Moments
Chapter 1
Chicken Fingers and Peeping Toms
Let me ask you a question. If you were trying to impress a beautiful young woman, would you take her to a chain restaurant - on Maui of all places? I didn’t think so. I won’t tell you the name of the restaurant in question because I’m about to say some derogatory things about it. However, I don’t think it would be fair to not, at the very least, give you some clues. The name of the restaurant is two words. The first word starts with an r and the second starts with a t. In all fairness, I must disclose that I worked for one of this chain’s Virginia locations while I was in school.
I believe everyone should be a waiter for at least six months. It educates you so much about society and the people you will encounter as you move through life. Most waiters develop their own theories about the ones they serve. I call my theory the rule of thirds. I realize this is also the name of a photography theory on what makes a pleasant shot composition. As an amateur photographer, and someone who has spent way too much money on gear, I can attest to being well aware of that theory. It’s also the perfect name for my waiter theory, though, so forgive me for blatantly stealing it.
So here’s how my theory goes. About one third of the population is comprised of people who are generally nice. They smile at you. They’re patient. They just have an overall attitude that says it’s a good thing to help others and be kind to people. They almost always give you good tips since they’re taking notice of how much you’re running around to help them and others.
The second third of the population is generally indifferent to other people. It’s not that they’re rude or uncaring; they’re just too wrapped up in their own lives and their own concerns to pay any attention to you. They consistently give you average tips.
I call the remaining third “the jerks.” I usually employ a stronger word, but I don’t want to offend sensitive readers. These are the types of people who speed up to intentionally block you after you put on your turn signal to move into their lane. If you’re lucky, you only run into these people once or twice a week, but you see them several times a day when you wait tables. They take great pleasure in yelling at you, maybe because the fish they wanted to order wasn’t just caught that very morning. Really? Why would you go to a chain restaurant in a shopping mall if you are the type of food connoisseur who only eats fresh fish? Do you really think the Applebee’s chef races down to the docks each morning just so he or she can purchase fresh fish that you can enjoy on your lunch break? I really don’t know if this negative character trait is because they are ultimately unhappy with their own lives, or if there’s simply a malfunction in a chromosome that creates these jerks. Note to any potential government managers reading this story, this third of the population makes for excellent IRS agents. This group will give you bad restaurant tips every time, even if you provide them with five-star service.
In addition to the mental frustrations of waiting tables, there’s also the physical challenges the restaurant job places on you. The average waiter is on his or her feet around eight to twelve hours straight. It’s pure hell on the knees and lower back. I bought an expensive pair of Rockport shoes when I first started the job. I still had discomfort at the end of my night, but the shoes helped to decrease it as much as possible.
We always had a meeting with the manager about fifteen minutes before each shift started. He or she would go over the special of the day, which was normally a food item they had too much of and were looking to unload. They would also consistently remind us to push alcohol sales. For those of you not familiar with the business, restaurants do not exist to sell you food. They are in the business of selling booze. The average mark-up on alcohol can be anywhere between 300-400 percent. Restaurants make far less profit on steaks, burgers, and pasta.
During one of these pre-shift meetings, the manager told us the restaurant had instituted a new policy. All wait staff were required to purchase specific shoes from the company. These shoes had a special rubber sole made by a company called Vibram. Supposedly, they would cut down on the slips, trips, and falls of the employees, which would in turn reduce the insurance premiums the company paid. I asked the manager why the company didn’t give us the shoes instead of forcing us to pay for them. I know it was a naïve question from a less experienced version of myself, and I’m cringing as I admit that statement to you now. However, I was young and under the false impression the company should care enough about its employees and not ask a broke college student like myself to shell out forty-five dollars so the company could lower their workers comp premium. I was immediately sent home for my insubordination and poor attitude. Later that night, as I sat in my bedroom, I noticed that my Rockports actually had Vibram soles. I couldn’t believe my good luck. I returned to work the next night and showed my manager the soles, certain that I would be victorious in my battle of wills with the company. I’m sure you know what came next. He informed me that I could not wear my Rockports because they were black, and the company policy was that all staff were to wear brown shoes - never mind that I had already been wearing these same black shoes for over two years on the job, and no one had ever said anything until now, including this particular manager. Bottom line: if I wanted to keep the job, I would need to shell out the money to buy the new company-approved shoes.
As I look back on that conversation in the manager’s office, which was tucked in the rear of the kitchen, I realize it was one of those defining moments we all have from time to time. These moments always appear out of the blue, and we usually only have seconds to make a decision. Do we turn right or left? Are we in or are we out? Do we say, “Yes, I’ll bow down to you all mighty chain restaurant manager and buy the new brown shoes,” or do we say, “Stick your brown shoes up your you-know-what?”
I’m sad to say that I chickened out that night and bought the shoes. I know it’s not that massive of a defining moment, and it certainly didn’t put me on some path to living a life of servitude and misery. And I don’t mean to imply that it was any kind of big deal at all. I just want to tell you what was running through my mind as I drank a Coors Lite at the bar of this restaurant on Maui. It’s strange how places can cause our minds to drift back to incidents we hadn’t thought about for many years.
This place was thousands of miles away from the restaurant I worked at in Virginia, but it had the exact same décor
and atmosphere as I remembered. It was ironic, too, that I was now having another defining moment in this restaurant. Many questions ran through my head. How had I gotten into this current predicament? What made me accept an assignment such as this? It was not what I had in mind when I agreed to work with Mara Winters.
So what exactly made me go to this establishment again after all of these years? I was on my first professional investigation. It certainly wasn’t my first investigation, but it was the first one I had been paid for. For those of you who read my last tale, Wedding Day Dead, you’ll probably remember that I was approached by a lawyer named Mara Winters. She offered to hire me from time to time to investigate sensitive matters for her clients. She represented many wealthy people with homes on the island, and she needed someone she could trust to not leak incriminating photos or details to the media.
This was my first case for her, and it involved following a cardiac surgeon, Dr. Theodore Peterson. Mara informed me that Teddy was fifty-two years old. He was my height, six foot two, but at 220 pounds, he outweighed me by twenty. He owns a second home in Wailea on the beautiful island of Maui. His main home is in Phoenix - where he lives with his wife, Karen Peterson, and his three children, aged five to twelve.
I followed Dr. Peterson to the apartment of a young woman. She must have been watching for him because the door opened the moment he arrived, and she came bouncing outside. Bouncing was the key word. It was a sight to behold. She had quite the body on her, large breasts, a tiny waist, long blonde hair.
Dr. Peterson’s next stop was the chain restaurant, which was located in the town of Kihei, a short and pleasant drive north along the coast. I waited a few minutes after they entered the restaurant, and then I made my way over to the bar. I found a seat that offered an excellent view of Dr. Peterson and his beautiful young female friend. I didn’t know who she was, but one thing was certain; she was not Mrs. Peterson. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say she was about twenty years younger than the forty-five-year-old wife of the good doctor. She giggled at every other sentence Dr. Peterson uttered. I wasn’t close enough to tell whether she was putting on an act, but Peterson clearly ate it up.
According to my temporary employer, the Petersons vacationed on Maui a few times a year. Recently, however, Dr. Peterson had taken to visiting without his family. He claimed he was meeting friends for long weekends of golf, but Mrs. Peterson thought he was doing more than putting and driving. Judging by the dinner I was spying on, I had no doubt she was correct. I was told the Petersons had a prenuptial agreement that protected the doctor’s millions, but it would be voided if he committed adultery. My employer wanted me to “catch him in the act.” I didn’t think this dinner alone would be enough to convict him of cheating on his wife. I had no idea how I was going to accomplish my given task short of sneaking up to the window of the doctor’s home and praying I had an unobstructed view of his bedroom.
One of the things that made this assignment less than stellar was the guy who sat next to me at the bar. His name was Eddie, and he was attending a sales conference for a time-share company with a few properties on Maui. He looked like he was pushing fifty, which made his dinner selection a bit odd. You know of any guys his age who order chicken fingers and fries? He ordered a Long Island Iced Tea to go with it. The guy was strange. After his third drink, he asked me if I knew where he could find a girl for the evening. It took me a second to realize he was talking about a prostitute. To recap, this guy went to a chain restaurant. He ordered a meal typically designed for children, and he asked some random guy sitting beside him where he could hire a hooker. I informed this gentleman that I didn’t know where precisely he could locate a companion, but I suggested he Google “escorts” or something like that. He thanked me profusely and stated he didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of that. I wanted to tell him it was probably because the strong drinks dulled his brain, but I decided it was best to smile and wish him good fortune and happy hunting.
Then I looked back to Dr. Peterson and his dining companion and saw he was paying the bill. They stood and left the restaurant a few minutes later. I followed at a discreet distance. I immediately realized I should have rented an average-looking car for the night. I drive a silver BMW Z3. It’s not the most expensive car ever made, but it definitely isn’t something that blends in with the crowd.
I’m just now realizing that I forgot to introduce myself. Forgive me. My name is Edgar Allan Rutherford. My parents, God rest their souls, were fans of the legendary mystery writer. The name Edgar was not an ideal name to grow up with. I was often the recipient of bullying on the playground. However, my friends started calling me Poe by the time I reached high school. Most people call me by that nickname now, but you may call me Edgar if you wish.
I moved to Maui several months ago after falling in love with the island and a police detective while visiting my best friend Doug Foxx. The detective in question is named Alana Hu. She’s half Hawaiian and half Japanese. To describe Alana as stunning would be the understatement of the century. She has long dark hair and a slender body that renders me speechless whenever I see her. Her dark eyes are her most enchanting feature, though. She and I tangled on a police investigation that prominently featured Foxx. To be more precise, he was arrested for the brutal murder of his girlfriend, Lauren, a famous and wealthy artist on Maui. Alana thought Foxx was guilty. I thought he was innocent. That disagreement naturally resulting in us butting heads. Nevertheless, I persuaded her it was better to date me than arrest me for interfering in a police investigation. Fortunately, she saw things my way.
It was ultimately my infatuation and undeniable attraction to Alana that was the deciding factor to sell my home in Virginia and relocate to Maui. I currently live with Foxx in the beautiful town of Ka’anapali, but I spend at least half the week at Alana’s. Neither of us have committed to making the next move of officially living together. Maybe we’re afraid to jinx a good thing.
But let’s get back to my mission of catching Dr. Peterson in the act. I followed him to his beach house in Wailea. He owned a beautiful two-story pad on the coast. I already knew his address because his wife supplied it to the attorney who hired me. I had scouted it earlier in the day and learned I could easily approach it from the beach. There was a large bush near the back of the property that offered a good hiding place from which to stealthily watch the house. Fortunately for me, Dr. Peterson’s young companion walked out to the large second-floor balcony that overlooked the ocean. My earlier characterization of her had been correct. She was a real looker. She wore a short cream-colored dress that showed off her toned legs and ample cleavage. Dr. Peterson joined her a few moments later. He had two martinis and gave her one. I watched them drink, talk, and laugh for several minutes. Peterson leaned forward and kissed her. He then took the empty glasses and placed them on a small round table that was beside two wooden chairs. He walked back to her and kissed her again.
I took a photograph of the kiss. Photography is a big hobby of mine, and I have a nice selection of pro-level lenses. I selected a fast 70-200mm lens. For those of you not in the know about lenses, a fast lens is a fancy way of saying it gives you the ability to shoot in lower light. They cost a hell of a lot more than regular lenses, but they’re worth it. I checked the viewfinder on the back of my Canon and confirmed the photo had sharp focus and clearly showed Dr. Peterson’s face. I debated on how many more photos I needed to take to fulfill my work assignment. Before I could determine the answer, Dr. Peterson did something that shocked me. He bent the young woman over and removed her underwear. She leaned against the railing of the balcony as Teddy took her from behind. It took me a second to get over what I was actually seeing. Then I remembered why I was there, and I snapped several more photos of the sexual act.
Consider the prenuptial agreement null and void, Mrs. Peterson.
“Being a Peeping Tom is illegal. You know that, don’t you?”
I was so startled by the voice behind me that I didn’
t immediately recognize who it was. Fortunately, I didn’t drop my camera in the sand. I spun around and saw Alana looking at me. She had a huge smile on her face.
“Enjoying the view?” she asked.
“What are you doing here?”
“Teaching you a valuable lesson. Just because you’re following someone doesn’t mean someone isn’t following you.”
“How long have you been tailing me?”
“Since the restaurant.”
“You were there?” I asked.
“At a table in the corner opposite you. How many drinks did that guy beside you have?”
“I lost count.”
“You should increase your distance when you’re tailing people, too. You were practically riding his bumper the whole way here.”
“I was not,” I protested.
“If you say so. I imagine the only reason he didn’t notice you was because he was too busy ogling that young girl’s breasts.”
I was tempted to say they were, indeed, impressive, but that’s not exactly something you want to admit to the woman you’re dating.
Alana turned and looked at Dr. Peterson having sex with his date. She was still leaning against the balcony railing, but now her breasts were exposed and bouncing up and down. Apparently, Dr. Peterson had reached forward and pulled the top of her dress down while Alana and I debated how bad a private investigator I apparently was. I snapped another photo for Mrs. Peterson’s collection.
“Could she have gotten bigger implants? Those things are huge,” Alana said. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you take another photo.”
“How do you know they’re fake?” I asked. “And need I remind you, I’m here on official business?”
“She’s young and all, but nobody’s natural boobs stand up like that,” Alana said.
I scanned through the shots on the viewfinder.
“I think I’ve got more than enough to cook this guy.”