by Aysia Amery
I ambled up to Kat as she stood by the fireplace.
“We found a shack hidden in the trees about a half-hour’s ride from here. It was nestled just before an open pasture with a lot of wild horses. Do you know if someone lives there?”
She crinkled her brows. “Probably hikers passing through. Sometimes they stay in places like that when the weather’s bad.”
“Sure looked like somebody was cozied up in there for a longer stay,” I said.
“Nah. It’s probably hikers. Most of the local residents have houses or cabins, not shacks.” She seemed adamant about this.
I dropped it. Something else more important flooded my mind.
“One more thing. There’s a library room just before our room. It was open earlier, but now it’s locked. Do you have a key to it? We were thinking of doing some reading while we’re here.”
Hope that was convincing enough.
“Sure, I’ll go get it,” she said and left.
It wasn’t more than five minutes when Kat returned. “It’s gone,” she said.
“The key’s gone?”
“Yes. It’s not where we normally keep it.”
That’s a bummer. Who could’ve taken it?
“Might Evan know where it is?”
“I already asked him. He hasn’t touched it.”
“If you or he didn’t move it, who did? Where do you normally keep it?” This was starting to sound like an interrogation. I’ve been hanging around Pako way too long.
“It’s normally in the kitchen, hanging on a hook by the fridge.”
Hmm. I didn’t see any key on a hook when we were in there cooking. But then again, I wasn’t looking for it, so it could’ve gone unnoticed.
“Darn. Okay, thanks. I was really looking forward to getting in some reading time.”
“If I find it, I’ll let you know,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“You bet.” Kat left again.
Well, now what? We couldn’t just break into the place. Would we be able to see the figurines from the window? I couldn’t remember if there were curtains or shutters. Gads, Jemma’s bad memory might be contagious.
As soon as my horny assistant brakes herself away from the hunky man she wants to butt-smack, I’ll grab her to help me look for that key. It’ll be a while before we can peek into the window with the storm throwing a fit. That’s if the window is even clear enough to see inside.
Man, this wasn’t the weekend I had hoped for.
I sure hope we’re wrong about those figurines.
Please, please let there be ten Menehunes on that table.
Chapter 6
“Maybe I can jimmy the lock,” Jemma said. “Colin taught me how to do it a long time ago, so I hope I remember how.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“He learned how to unlock handcuffs in Las Vegas.”
“Escaping from the police?” I wouldn’t put it past him.
“No, when he tried his hand at being a magician.”
Colin always had some harebrained idea he thought he could master and make tons of money with. Not that being a magician was harebrained, but Colin becoming one was.
“What do you need?”
If she asked for a bobby pin, she’d be plumb out of luck. Did anybody even use those anymore?
“You got a paperclip?”
“Uh, you’d have better luck asking me for a stapler,” I said.
“You got a stapler?”
I dropped my lower jaw. “No, Jemma, I was kidding.” Okay, I wasn’t gonna roll my eyeballs.
“Well, I couldn’t use that anyway. It just surprised me that you would carry one.”
“Now that we’ve established I do not carry either paperclips or staplers, I guess I’d better go find something you can work with,” I said.
I left her and headed for the kitchen. I bet there were paperclips from years gone by in a drawer. That’s usually where you find one stuck inside the corner somewhere.
As I opened each drawer I was shocked how clean they were. Not a paperclip or rubber band or twisty tie in any of them. What was wrong with these people? How could anybody keep their kitchen drawers so tidy?
Ever since I was a kid, I remember my mom throwing rubber bands, paperclips and twisty ties in the kitchen drawer. And now I do that too. They accumulate to the point of looking like molehills. And I hardly ever use them either. Maybe I’d better think twice about why I’m collecting those dang things. Oh yeah, so Jemma can break into my locked cabinets. Why else?
Finally, I just gave in and asked Kat if she had a paperclip. Little did she know what we were going to use it for.
“Here you go, Jemma.” I proudly handed her the crime tool.
“I didn’t think you’d ever find one.”
“Yeah, I had to jump through hoops to get that, so you’d better do your job and open the dang thing,” I said.
“Okay, hush up, I need to concentrate.”
Did she just tell me to hush up?
With her tongue hanging out one side of her sassy mouth, she twisted and turned that mangled paperclip until...
“I think I got it.” Jemma stood full height and turned the doorknob.
I couldn’t believe it. She did it!
“I might need to tell Pako about your new occupation in case he gets reports of copious break-ins in and around your area.”
That stink-eye had my name on it. “Don’t come begging me to jimmy your lock when you’ve lost your house key and forgotten the combination to the garage closet for the spare one.”
“Just get in there,” I told her.
We headed for the table with the figurines. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat. The only thing I had on my mind right now was the Menehune pieces.
I had reached the table before Jemma. Yes, I took larger steps than she did. I nearly pushed her aside getting through the door. If she hadn’t meandered, she’d have gotten there first. She Tortoise, me Hare. What can I say?
As my eyes fixated on the little brown figures doing a kumbaya in a circle, Jemma said, “How many do you count?”
My mind reeled.
“You don’t have to count them. It’s obvious.”
As fear would have it, there was a gap in the circle where the tenth one should be sitting.
“Oh my god,” Jemma said, her hand covering her mouth.
My body stiffened into petrified wood. All I could do was gawk at the gap where a piece had been.
“That means...” Jemma couldn’t finish.
“Sam is probably dead.” I finished it for her.
“What are we going to do?”
“There’s still no proof. We can’t accuse anybody because she’s still just missing.”
“Isn’t this proof?” Jemma beckoned to the figurines.
“And just what are we going to say? That people are going to get murdered like in the Agatha Christie novel? They won’t believe us.”
“We need to find something to prove it. Shouldn’t there be a poem?” she asked.
“Maybe each of the guests has one in their rooms.”
“I looked in ours while you were scavenging for paperclips and we don’t have one.”
“We aren’t really guests. We’re contractors on this gig,” I said.
“I hope that means we won’t be murdered.”
There were twelve people here, so unless the murderer deviated from the story, two should be left alive.
“Well, let’s hope nobody gets murdered,” I said.
“Maybe you should try summoning Sam’s ghost. If she appears, you’ll know she’s dead and somebody is reenacting the story.”
I had a feeling that even if Sam was dead, her ghost wandered somewhere out there in the valley where she was killed, not in the ranch house, or anywhere on this property for that matter. But it was worth a try.
“Sam, can you hear me? If you’re around, please appear.”
Whil
e I tried to summon Sam’s ghost, Jemma searched the library for clues.
“No luck I take it?” she asked when I stopped calling out Sam’s name.
“I don’t think she’s resting here on this property. That is, if she’s dead.”
“I think she’s dead.”
Why was Jemma so adamant about Sam being dead?
Gawd. Who was I fooling?
I think she’s dead too.
* * *
“Ginger, I asked Chris if he had a poem on his room wall. Guess what he said?”
Why did she ask me questions like that?
Okay, since I had a 50/50 chance of getting this one right, I’ll go ahead and guess.
“Yes?”
“Bingo!”
“And guess what else?”
Okay, this one has a snowball’s chance in Kilauea’s volcano, so I’ll let her tell me.
“I give up.”
“I have a copy.” She smiled the way a child did when they brought home straight ‘A’s.
“How’d you get a copy?” I asked.
“Well technically it’s not a copy. I took it off his wall.” She pulled out the sheet of paper from the back of her jeans and passed it to me.
‘TEN MENEHUNES
Ten Menehunes formed in a line
One fell behind and then there were nine.
Nine Menehunes scavenged through a crate
One overate and then there were eight.
Eight Menehunes looked toward the heaven
One got leavened and then there were seven.
Seven Menehunes stacking up bricks
One got a crick and then there were six.
Six Menehunes went for a dive
One over-strived and then there were five.
Five Menehunes caught a wild boar
One got gored and then there were four.
Four Menehunes climbed up a tree
One scraped his knee and then there were three.
Three Menehunes swigging down the brew
One felt rued and then there were two.
Two Menehunes basking in the sun
One got overdone and then there was one.
One Menehune no longer having fun
He went for a run and then there was none.’
“The first one depicts Sam. We were in a line most of the time while horseback riding,” Jemma said, her eyes wide and blinking more than normal.
My stomach felt queasy.
“The next stanza says scavenged through a crate and overate.” I didn’t have to ponder long to figure that one out. “Oh lordy, it sounds like the next victim is going to be poisoned.”
“We have to do something.” Jemma’s eyes were those of a basset hound’s.
I knew she was right, but the others would think we were crazy at this stage since nobody had actually been killed.
“Let’s check the food in the crates to make sure they haven’t been tampered with.”
Jemma agreed.
Logically, how would we know if they’ve been tampered with? Somebody could inject them with poison or rub it into the skin and there would be no way to see it.
But I had no other plan right now, so it was something for us to do in the meantime.
We relocked the door so the person who removed the Menehune piece, the possible murderer, didn’t suspect we’d been in the room.
I tucked the poem into the back of my jeans as we headed out to the crates. But as we entered the kitchen to get to the carport, a commotion provoked a detour.
“What’s going on?” I asked Jenn when we arrived at the living room.
You’d think she had attended a funeral.
“Floyd’s dead.”
Jemma and I looked at each other as both our eyes popped.
“What? How? Where?”
“Upstairs in his room. Don’t know how he died. Heidi’s checking into it.”
Jemma and I rushed upstairs. We zeroed in on his room by the chatter emanating from the open doorway.
“Best that everyone go back downstairs. There’s nothing anybody can do for him,” Heidi said to those who were huddled around the bed. “Kat, we need to find a cold place to store the body. It’ll start to smell otherwise.”
My eyes scanned the room. On the dresser was a woven bowl with a banana and orange in it. What fruit was missing? I moseyed over to the small plastic-lined wastebasket next to the nightstand. As I inconspicuously peeked inside it, a peach or nectarine pit lay among a few balled up facial tissues.
Our fear had been realized.
The second Menehune had been killed—poisoned by a fruit.
Chapter 7
“Ginger, we have to tell them about the poem. Floyd’s death was no accident. He didn’t choke on that peach.”
“Yeah, I know.” Now how do we do this without seeming like raving lunatics? Somebody out there was a murderer. But who?
“Jemma, when you went into Chris’ room to get the poem, did you see a bowl of fruit on his dresser?”
Her eyes veered left and upward as she accessed her memory recall. Hopefully, since this event occurred recently, she hadn’t forgotten it yet.
“I don’t believe he had one. No.”
“You sure?”
She pulled in her lower lip and bit down on it. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure. The poem was pinned to the wall right above the dresser. I would’ve seen it.”
That meant somebody might’ve targeted Floyd for the poisoning, and who they offed next wasn’t random. That was my theory, anyway.
To be sure, I asked two of the guests if they had a bowl of fruit in their room. Both said no.
Once everyone had left Floyd’s room, Jemma and I doubled back when I knew the coast was clear. My sleuth-in-waiting kept watch outside the door.
“Floyd. I need to talk to you. Please show yourself.”
I waited.
“Floyd.”
The man’s apparition appeared with his eyes wide with bewilderment. It must be a shock to find yourself dead and not know what the hell happened. Although if one experienced a horrific death, probably best to not remember.
“I’m sorry about what happened to you. I know it sucks,” I said. “Do you know who brought in the fruit?”
He tried to speak.
“I can’t hear you. You have to answer with a nod for yes, and a shake of your head for no.”
He quirked his mouth like most of them did when told I couldn’t hear them.
“I believe you might’ve been murdered. I think they poisoned the fruit. You didn’t bring the fruit to your room, did you?”
He shook his head.
“Do you know who did?”
He shook his head again.
Drats! I hated when the ghosts didn’t see what happened.
“Is there anything you can help me with to find out who killed you?”
He frowned, then slowly moved his head from side to side.
“I’m sorry, Floyd.” I frowned too.
I was sorry he was murdered, but if I wasn’t mistaken, he was the foster dad that abused the sister and brother. Floyd was the only one who fit the role, since the other three men already filled other roles: David, the driver of the other car in the accident; Owen, David’s lawyer in the case; and Chris, the witness who retracted his statement.
That left Floyd as the abusive foster parent.
Still, there were other ways to seek justice done the right way. Unfortunately, sometimes victims feel this is the only way, especially if the perp had gotten away with it for all those years. I don’t know if I could ever murder anybody, but then I’ve never been victimized by a monster.
I left Floyd’s room and joined Jemma in the hallway.
“From what I could hear you say, I take it he didn’t see who killed him.”
I sighed and shrugged.
“Bummers,” Jemma said and sighed too. “What do we do now?”
“I should talk to the doc.”
Before making my announcement abo
ut the poem and the possible Agatha Christie correlation, I wanted to talk to Heidi and find out if she knew what actually killed Floyd. Was he poisoned, or did he die of natural causes, or maybe even an accidental choking?
But if she was the murderer, how could I ask her in a way that didn’t make her suspicious of why I might think he was poisoned? I did not want to end up as the eleventh Menehune.
I found the pathologist sitting outside on the porch. The rain and wind weren’t as tumultuous at this time, so lounging on the front porch was safe for now.
“Heidi, do you have a guess as to what caused Floyd’s death?” I took a seat beside her.
“Without an actual autopsy, it’s hard to say. He could’ve had a heart attack or an allergic reaction that caused respiratory failure.”
Dang. That meant she was not going to deem poison as the culprit. She was right though. Without doing an autopsy, depending on the poison, some were undetectable by mere exterior analysis. That stuff showed up in the forensics tests via the blood and/or urine. Yeah, I learned that from my detective friend, Pako.
Hmm. They still won’t believe us then. But I can’t just wait around for the murderer to kill their next victim.
What was I going to do?
“Okay, thanks, Heidi.”
I left to find Jemma. She was in the kitchen making a fresh batch of coffee.
“What did Heidi say?”
“She can’t tell without an autopsy, which I knew she was going to say.”
“Dammit.” She bit on a fingernail. “I wonder who the next victim’s going to be.”
“Don’t even go there. Let’s not put any energy in that direction. Let’s pray the storm subsides enough to get help, or for help to come get us. Nobody is going to die next.”
If only I believed that, but putting energy on those negative forces wasn’t going to help. I had to think positive; otherwise, I’d be a basket case. As it was, Jemma freaked out for the both of us.
Sigh. If only positive thinking in a situation like this were easier done than said.
Since my conscience wouldn’t let me wait until another tragedy happened, I scurried around gathering everyone to meet in the living room.
When all were settled into their spots, I bucked up my courage and sucked in a breath. Jemma stood beside me for support.
“You may all think we’re crazy, but please bear with me. We have good reason to think something amiss is happening here this weekend.”
