Ukulele Deadly

by Leslie Langtry

  After a few minutes, we give up, which is a relief because I don't want to be there any more than I have to. We approach the door, and I'm just about to turn out the light, when I see it. There's a photo of Allison Tarawa taped to the wall. There's no time to say anything to Nick because he's already opening the door. Taking the photo might tip Smoot off to the fact we were here, so I use my cell to take a quick picture of the photo and shut off the light.

  Andy and Binny are standing in the hallway, waiting for us. I'm about to say something, when I notice that the lights are on in Mail Your Stuff.

  Uh-oh.

  The doorknob to the only office we haven't invaded starts to turn. We are too far away from the exit, so we all dive back into the rooms we just came from. Nick is just easing our door shut when we hear the middle door open.

  I can hear Rose cursing as she closes the door. Footsteps tell me she's headed out the back door. We wait for a few seconds after the exit door clicks to peek out.

  "Is she gone?" I ask as Nick tiptoes to the exit and looks out.

  "Looks like it."

  Andy and Binny must've heard us, because they come out of Aloha Lagoon Insurance.

  "Where did she come from?" Binny asks. "I didn't see a car in the lot."

  "Maybe she walks from here?" I hope.

  "Is there a bus stop nearby?" Andy asks.

  Nick shakes his head. "I've no idea. But I think we should get out of here. Fast. She could come back."

  Three of us huddle in the doorway as Nick races for the foliage. When he gives us the thumbs-up, we follow. By the time we get back to the car, I've got bruises on my bruises. We run to the car, and Nick drives us out of the lot and back to his house.

  "Find anything?" Andy asks.

  I hold up my cell with the image of Allison. "He had this picture."

  Binny nods and holds up her cell. The screen is filled with newspaper clippings. All stories by Terry Flynn. All stories about me.

  "Seems like we found a couple of clues after all," I say.

  "Yes, but does it mean anything?" Binny asks.

  "My brain is tired," I whine. "Let's sleep on it and get together for breakfast in the morning?"

  We all agree as we pull into Nick's driveway. He gets out after giving me a quick kiss, and Andy, Binny, and I head back to the Blue Hawaii Wedding Chapel so I can drop them off at their cars.

  Being accused of killing a reporter with an illegal snake under a canopy of dead blowfish can wear a girl out.

  I'm just really tired. And I have a couple of lessons in the morning, so I say good-bye to my cousin and best friend and watch them drive away.

  The chapel at night is so lovely. Dan rigged it so that the small building is bathed in blue light once the sun goes down. I can hear the waves crashing on the sand just below me. It's very soothing.

  But there's a taint here now. Between the illicit reptiles and the murder, the church seems sinister. The blue light casts a haunting, ghostly glow, and I feel a small shiver go up my spine as I get back into my car and begin to drive. I turn the wheel, and the headlights gleam off of something on the ground, under the front steps of the chapel. Probably just some trash. There were a lot of people here today. I start to pass it by, when it twinkles again.

  Do you ever have a feeling that the universe is trying to tell you something?

  I put the car in park and step out onto the pavement. The thing is only a few yards away. A harsh breeze, unusual for this time of year, whips at my hair like it's trying to make me go. I need that thing. It's a clue. I just know it.

  Forcing some steel into my spine, I walk over and pick it up. A strange craaaaaaaaack sounds behind me, and I race to my car, shoving whatever it is into my pocket. I have the door locked and am speeding away when I see a dark shadow of a shape step out of the trees and turn to watch me. I break several rules of the road getting back home. Ray can just add it to my tab.

  "Mom?" I call out as I slam the door and lock it.

  "What is it?" My mother appears before me, wearing pajamas.

  The Bavarian influence is gone from the foyer, and everything looks normal. Even the pajamas. Maybe especially the pajamas.

  "Where'd you get those?" I point to a plain white button-down shirt and pants.

  There are palm leaves on them. I've never seen Mom in pajamas. She usually wears a nightshirt, and once, during a particularly trying time, she slept (and sleepwalked) nude. So I bought her ten sleep shirts and make sure half of them are always clean. Always.

  Mom looks down with a smile. "You like them? I picked them up on my shopping trip."

  She turns to walk toward the kitchen, and I follow her. The house is clean. I can smell detergent, floor wax, and bleach. I stop to peek into the living room—which has always been the canvas on which she "paints" her odd decorating style. But it's spotless and clean too.

  "What have you been doing all day?" Mom asks as I sit at the breakfast bar. She hands me a glass of lemonade and a small bowl of popcorn.

  "I haven't had a late-night snack like this since Kansas!" I grab a handful of popcorn and shove it into my mouth.

  The popcorn is buttery and warm, but I don't smell it. Maybe she cleaned the microwave right after. Or murder dampens the sense of smell.

  "Really?" Mom rolls her eyes. "You have this every night, Hoalohanani!"

  Uh-oh. Mom hasn't called me by my first name since I was twelve. And I haven't had this snack for years. And if I did, I'd have had to make it myself.

  "Anyway." Mom forgets that she'd asked about my day and picks up a cloth and runs it over the stove—which doesn't need it. "My new friend and I are going to try the farmers' market in Princeville tomorrow." She folds the towel over the oven handle and pats me on the shoulder. "I need to get some sleep. Night!"

  She's gone before I can ask her anything. But the questions in my head are all fighting for position. I have no idea if I should've contradicted her on the popcorn, asked why she used my whole name, or questioned where all the German junk went.

  And since when does she attend farmers' markets? I can't remember her ever doing that since we came here. I'd love to go, but I barely have time to hit even the grocery store, let alone haggle over coconuts. And who's this new friend? Is she the influence for the new-and-improved Hattie?

  I finish the popcorn and lemonade and put the bowl and glass in the dishwasher. This was a bad day. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow I'm going to do all I can to put these clues together so Nick and I can have that trip to Maui to sort out our feelings.

  Not that they need sorting, I think as I fall into bed. I guess I just need to know how serious we are. Is this case forcing me to move too fast for our relationship? That would make sense, since being married would provide at least one stable factor in my kill-y, death-y life.

  It sure as hell isn't my mother. Sure, she's awesome now, with an occasional tip to the Germanic. What is it Dr. Chang is looking for? What could change a grown woman's personality so dramatically? A brain tumor?

  No. That isn't right. Mom doesn't have a brain tumor. She's just going through a little phase, that's all. With everything else going on, I don't need to worry about Mom's health. It's probably nothing. Yes, that's it. It's nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mom is gone before I get up. I decide to cancel my lessons and call everyone to come over to my house for breakfast. I call Juls and say I just need another day off. She says "no problem" and hangs up, so I pull a tube of cinnamon rolls from the fridge and start heating the oven. I'm just pulling cinnamon rolls from the oven as my friends arrive, all at once.

  Andy smears butter on the top of a roll. "Any thoughts on last night?"

  "It's certainly creepy how Smoot and Tashumi have stuff relating to the murders," Binny says.

  "What does it mean though?" Nick asks.

  I shrug. "Maybe something. Maybe nothing. Who knows?"

  Nick agrees. "I'm going to try to talk to Titus today. I
've already sent him an email, asking him to find me."

  I look at him. "What are you going to say? That I followed him and want to know what he was doing at the strip mall?"

  "No. I'm just going to make conversation."

  "Well I think the clues we found last night definitely implicate our two insurance salesmen," Binny says.

  "So Smoot and Tashumi are our number one suspects now?" I take another cinnamon roll and butter it. "What do we do about it?"

  "Let me talk to Titus first," Nick warns.

  "Do you think Rose from Mail Your Stuff is in on it?" Binny asks.

  I remember how harried the woman looked when we visited. "I don't think so. She was working pretty hard when we stopped by. The men, on the other hand, were alone and doing nothing."

  Nick speaks up. "It seems that Smoot really is an insurance agent, from all the files we saw in that back room."

  Binny and Andy look at each other. "We only found the bulletin board covered with those newspaper clips."

  "No files?" I ask.

  Andy shakes his head. "There wasn't even any furniture in there."

  "That's weird," I reply.

  "I've got to get to work." Nick stands up. "I'll let you know what I find out." He takes his dish to the kitchen and disappears.

  "Where's Ed today?" I ask my cousin.

  "He got up early and headed out for some deep-sea fishing." Andy winked. "I really should spend some time checking out the island. That man has a wicked tan already."

  Binny smiles, placing her hand on his arm. "I'll show you around."

  My friends leave, and I wash the dishes, completely lost in thought. More than anything I wish I could be there when Nick talks to Titus. I wonder what he'll ask? If I were him, I'd ask if he knows anything about that new strip mall. But maybe that would tip him off.

  Sitting down on the lanai, I can't help notice a few dark clouds gather in the distance. We're due for a little rain. That's one thing I miss about back home—the change of seasons.

  No, I don't miss the blizzards or the scorching heat. But here the temperature never changes beyond a few degrees, and the rain only lasts for a few minutes. I like rain. Rainy days always gave me an excuse (not that I needed one) to spend the day in my room, practicing.

  When I first came here and found out it's mostly sunny all the time, I was a little sad. Which is strange because don't people in rainy parts of the world get depressed? Then Pastor Dan suggested I drive toward Mount Wai'ale'ale. I couldn't get close at all, but from the distance I could see the rain, and somehow that made me feel better. I don't go there anymore. The sunshine has grown on me, and I love it here.

  I also love a little drizzle now and then, and I lean back on the wicker sofa, listening to the raindrops hit the roof of the porch. It's hypnotic. One of the reasons I bought this little cottage was the quiet. Silence is a luxury, and I enjoy it any chance I get. But now, I get my silence with a side rhythm of percussion in the form of rain.

  Words and notes form in my head, but I shoo them away. For years I toyed with composing music for my little instrument. There just wasn't any time, and I don't have a ton of faith in my abilities as a songwriter. Composition wasn't my best grade at Julliard.

  It would be nice, though, to perform original music. I've plundered the local Polynesian and traditional music. The local community college has a collection of the works of one of their deceased professors, and I've learned as much as I could.

  There are some nice arrangements for popular music, and I've used them when requested. I don't play them much anymore because I work mostly for the resort now, and the luaus demand traditional music from Hawaii. Oh, once in a while I'll have one of my students learn a simple arrangement of their favorite musician.

  When all this is over, if I'm not in jail for three murders that I didn't commit, and if Mom doesn't have a personality-altering brain tumor, I'm going to break out the pencil and try to write a song. I could do something like a murder ballad—those crazy songs from the Appalachians about killing your lover.

  The idea makes me laugh. If I don't get convicted of murder, I'm going to write songs about it. Maybe I'm the one with the tumor. Opening my eyes, I see that the rain is over, and the wet grass is glinting in the sunlight.

  Glinting. I sit straight up. The thing from the parking lot last night! It's in my pocket! I rush into the house and paw through my coat, after making sure the doors are locked. Some shadowy figure was looking for it and saw me take it home. I don't want to be victim number four.

  Wait. Maybe I shouldn't touch it anymore. My fingerprints are already on it, but what if the killer's are on there too. I run back to Mom's room. She's always dying her hair black, and sometimes I help her. There are little plastic gloves that come with the hair dye. If I'm lucky, there's still one or two left.

  The medicine cabinet is my friend and yields up one glove. I slip it on and run back to my coat and pull out the mysterious thing. If it's important, I'll just have to explain to Detective Ray that I found it and that's how my fingerprints got on it.

  It's an epinephrine injector. Dr. Troy had said that Terry was allergic to snake venom. That he'd used his injector but didn't use it in time. Which means the forensics team found an empty one with the body. I shake the pen and hear liquid sloshing inside. This one is full. And the police hadn't found it.

  There's a prescription label that indicates it was Terry's. I don't know enough about them to know, but why would he have two? Is this an important clue? Or is it meaningless?

  I think about the shadow in the parking lot. Was he just some guy attending the wedding who lost something? Am I just wishing this to be important?

  This wasn't the first time I'd seen a shadowy figure. Or found something ordinary. I head to the laundry room, but the inhaler I'd found in my pocket after the Ed imposter died in front of me isn't there. Huh. Maybe Mom threw it out in her cleaning frenzy?

  My cell goes off, making me jump. Ugh. It's the detective. I have to answer.

  "Miss Johnson, I'd like you to come down to the station immediately." He hangs up.

  So the question is, do I take this with me or leave it here? The killer could've followed me and might know where I live. If I leave it here and he steals it back, a piece of evidence is gone. Because of me.

  I toss the injector into a baggie and throw it into my purse. This piece of evidence is going with me. I'd found it under the front steps of the chapel, so clearly they'd overlooked it. I call Nick on the way, and he promises to meet me there. Do I call Mom? She's way up in Princeville with her new friend. No, I'll let her be for now. There isn't any point in dragging her into this. She's already implicated me with Detective Ray. And while Sane Mom is here right now, there's no way of knowing if Crazy Mom will come back.

  I really need to talk to Dr. Chang.

  After parking at the police department, I step out of my car and hear, "Hey! It's the Ukulele Undertaker!"

  Two teenagers, a girl and a boy whom I've never seen before, come running up to me.

  "Can we get a selfie with you?" the girl gushes.

  "I can't believe we found you!" The boy says as he brandishes a T-shirt. "I got your shirt!"

  As the T-shirt is shoved into my face, I can't avoid seeing that it's a picture of me, grinning like an idiot, holding my ukulele. Across the top it says, Aloha Lagoon—Home of the Ukulele Undertaker! Who Will Be Next?

  "Hey!" is all I can manage before the kids jump in front and snap a picture of me with them. I'm pretty sure it's not a flattering photo.

  They run off, excitedly squealing something I couldn't understand.

  I have a T-shirt? Sure, I wanted to have a concert tee someday, but not like this. My cell buzzes with a text from Nick, and I see his car. I'll have to deal with this later. Whoever is selling T-shirts with my face on them might actually die at my hands.

  Nick is waiting for me when I arrive. For a moment I'm tempted to ask if he's talked to Titus yet, but I decide those quest
ions can wait. I shake off the kids in the lot and try to focus. Nick is a great support, but is it possible to smuggle him into the interview room? Probably not.

  "Miss Johnson. Mr. Woodfield." Ray looms over us, his face expressionless.

  "I'd like Nick to come with…" I start to say.

  Ray looks from me to Nick. It's like watching a basset hound decide between steak and a bouncy ball.

  "Okay." The detective ushers us back to the same interview room where he'd interrogated me after Allison's murder.

  "Your lawyer isn't answering," Ray says simply.

  "She has a family crisis on the mainland." I have an idea. "Nick can, um, represent me!" I say too quickly.

  "But he's not an attorney…" Ray starts to say before shrugging. "Okay."

  Now how did we get away with that?

  "You aren't under arrest, so it's fine."

  Oh. And here I thought I'd done something clever.

  The detective slides three photos across the table toward us. In the first, Fake Ed is lying dead in the resort parking lot. The second shows Allison Tarawa. She looks like she's sleeping there backstage. Unfortunately, she's not. The last photo shows Terry Flynn, facedown on the blue-carpeted aisle of the Blue Hawaii Wedding Chapel. Sadly, I've seen all three bodies in person. The pictures don't show anything new.

  "The man impersonating Officer Ed Hopper was poisoned. Died instantly," Ray says in his slow, plodding voice. "The singer, Allison Tarawa, also poisoned, also died instantly. And Mr. Flynn." He taps the last photo with a stubby finger. "A poisonous reptile was seen slithering out of his shirt as he fell, and two puncture wounds were found on his neck. He was allergic to snake venom and didn't get to his injector in time."

  I clutch my purse with the pen inside a little more tightly as Nick and I nod in agreement. He isn't telling us anything we don't already know.

  "What," Ray continues, "do all three of these murders have in common?"

  The answer is me, I know it. I just don't want to say it because it's probably a trap. And from the silence next to me, I'm guessing Nick doesn't want to implicate me either.