"I don't know," she said. "I probably better check with a supervisor before I give out that kind of information. That's Mr. Keala. He won't be back until Monday."
Four more days. No way I was going to let this lady stall me that long. I gritted my teeth to keep my impatience from showing.
"Beatrice," I smiled, trying a different tactic, "I really started out all wrong with you, didn't I? First off, I should apologize for interrupting your phone conversation."
She was still wary, unsure whether I was being serious or facetious.
"You and Tessie obviously have some important things to discuss. If I had the name I need, I could get out of your way, and you could resume your conversation."
She narrowed her eyes, probably wondering if I would turn her in to the supervisor.
"Actually," I continued, "maybe you and Tessie would rather keep your conversation private. Discuss this, say, over lunch? In fact, since I interrupted the conversation, maybe I could treat the two of you to lunch?"
I pulled a twenty out of my purse.
A black three-ring binder appeared from under the counter as if by magic. She flipped through a couple of sheets to locate the correct date. I wrote down the name her index finger pointed at. Willie Duran.
"When is Willie working next?"
She flipped forward one page. "Tomorrow. Same gate, seven to three."
"Have a nice lunch," I said, sliding the twenty across the counter.
Stepping out of the air conditioned office, the humidity hit me again like a blast. The four lanes outside the terminal were jammed with cars. The combination of exhaust fumes and flowers made my throat want to close up.
The front of the terminal was completely open to the street so I stepped inside, hoping to get a little distance from the cars. I found pay phones near the Hawaiian Airlines ticket counter. One stall actually had a phone book intact.
There were two Willie (not William) Durans listed. Senior and Junior. I wrote them both down. I'd try Junior first. The address given was on Kuamoo Road (pronounced koo-ah-mo-oh according to my guidebook).
In Hawaiian, each vowel forms a separate syllable, and they are always pronounced one way. Unlike English, which must confuse the hell out of people trying to learn our crazy language.
The street maps in the front of the phone book showed Kuamoo to be between the towns of Lihue and Kapaa, maybe five miles or so from the airport.
I paid the parking attendant my fifty cents, and headed back out Ahukini Road to Kuhio Highway. Past the golf course, and just over the Wailua River, I saw the turn.
Now I recognized it as the same way I had come with Drake to his house. Kuamoo took me through part of an old coconut plantation and some low-lying fields flooded with water. I wondered whether they grew rice or taro there. I'd have to ask Drake.
The road began to climb, taking me past a large waterfall. A parking lot beside the road was crowded with tourists, who wandered to a lookout point, and aimed their cameras toward the waterfall.
Beyond the fall, the area turned residential. I began to watch addresses. I passed the turnoff to Drake's place before the numbers started to get close to the one I was looking for. I slowed down, risking the wrath of a black pickup truck behind me who was inches from my bumper.
Finally, I spotted the number I was looking for. There were two houses on the lot. A two-track dirt lane at the edge of the property took me to the back one.
The square wooden house had once been painted brown. Where the paint had chipped away, the wood beneath was weathered gray, giving the structure a mottled appearance, like a toad with a skin condition. Blotches of rust stained the corrugated metal roof like some giant bird had flown by and done its thing.
A shiny new four-door blue Honda with a child seat in back sat near the front door. I parked beside it.
Ti plants grew in a scraggly line along the front of the house, providing the only attempt at landscaping. A banana plant near the front steps leaned precariously, laden with an almost ripe head of bananas.
The grass immediately around the house had been mowed, the effort ending abruptly about twenty feet out. A Ford van, apparently not operational, was parked against one side of the building. I noticed the mower had detoured around it, leaving grass over a foot tall growing around its tires.
A generic dog of possible beagle/pit bull ancestry trotted out to my car, and lifted his leg on the back tire. His territory thus established, he seemed friendly enough. I got out, and approached the house. The dog ignored me, finding his way to a shady spot under the banana tree.
It was then I noticed the young woman watching me. Standing behind the brownish screen door, I hadn't seen her. I wondered if she had watched me drive up. She held an infant balanced on her hip. The baby was trying to stuff fistfuls of the woman's hair into his mouth. She didn't seem to notice. I approached the door, and caught the strong scent of diapers.
"Hi, I'm looking for Willie Duran," I said.
Her eyes narrowed, suspicious of my motives. "He's not here."
"Do you know when he might be back?"
She made no move to open the screen door. Beyond it, I could see that a toddler had a tight grip on her leg. I tried to see into the dim house without appearing to stare. The TV was turned up loud, Oprah announcing that her guests today would be victims of lesbian sexual assault. As intriguing as that sounded, I turned my attention back to my hostess.
"Are you Mrs. Duran?" I asked, attempting to get something out of her. She nodded. "I don't know when he be back. He go out for beer." In pidgin, it sounded like be-ah.
"Does he work at the airport?"
"Yeah, but he no work today. Tomorrow."
"Okay, I'll catch him later."
I jumped at the sound of a shriek behind me.
Two more children, boys no more than three or four years old, rounded the house, and disappeared around the other side.
I looked back at the woman. She didn't look more than twenty or twenty-one. She had probably been a cute little thing in high school. Her face showed good bone structure and nice eyes, but her body had rounded out. She wore a faded purple t-shirt with a black Local Motion logo on it, and stained white shorts. There was a large spot of grease or spit-up over her right breast. She had a hickey on her neck the size of a quarter.
What a life.
I decided not to leave my card. I didn't want Willie to have time to think about what he'd say to me. Not being familiar with the good ol' boy network here, I couldn't be sure he and Joe Esposito weren't golfing chums at the same country club.
I got back into my car, and fitted the key into the ignition. As I backed out, the two little boys reappeared, each carrying two yellowish fruits about the size of tennis balls. They giggled and tried to hurl their ammunition at my car. Fortunately, a three year old's range is only a couple of feet.
It was not quite four o'clock, and the dark clouds we had seen earlier had moved inland, leaving this side of the island in bright sunshine. Maybe I'd just go back to the hotel, and lay around the pool for an hour or so. I'd still have time to shower and dress for dinner that night with Drake. He had mentioned wanting to take me somewhere nice.
Thirty minutes later, I was again making the rounds of the lounge chairs surrounding the pool. I had brought my notebook along, thinking I would read back over my notes. Possibly, a new inspiration might hit me.
"Hi, Charlie!" The female voice came from my left, as I circled the pool, and I turned to see who it could be.
It was Susan Turner, looking tanned and fit, stretched out on her stomach. She patted the empty lounge chair next to her. She was not exactly my idea of great company, but what the hell, maybe I could learn something new about Gil from her.
I felt decidedly flabby as I settled into the chair. Susan's lime-green bikini left absolutely nothing to the imagination. The top appeared to be nothing more than a band of stretchy cloth, pinched together in front between her breasts, which, from this angle, looked ready to spill o
ver the top. The bottom of the suit was a G-string, leaving both buns fully exposed. She had the firmest looking glutes I'd ever seen. Her skin was the color of caramel, without a tan-line showing anywhere.
She swung her long legs around, and sat up. At least I didn't have to talk to her rear end.
I noticed that her every move attracted quite a lot of male attention, which did nothing to bolster my confidence. I kept my T-shirt on. I didn't need to be marked as inferior goods in the little comparison shopping game that was going on.
She offered me a pineapple daiquiri. She had two of them on the table beside her chair, one still untouched. They had been sent over by admirers. I declined, having no desire to hang around for Susan's leftovers, either drinks or men.
"One last afternoon of sun," she said, stretching luxuriantly. "I can't wait to get out of here tomorrow, though. Hopefully, I can turn the car in early. My flight out is at eight in the morning."
"What was the deal?" I asked. "Akito asking everyone to stay around for questioning?"
"I guess so. I don't know why. It sounds to me like he's got a pretty strong case against Mack Garvey."
I wondered who had told her that. There were still a lot of unanswered questions about Mack, and most of the so-called evidence was circumstantial.
Still, I felt no need to share my views with her.
She stared down toward her toes, flexing each leg muscle in turn, apparently admiring the way they looked. I wanted to open my notebook, but hesitated. I didn't especially want her there looking over my notes with me. I was trying to think of the best way to formulate the question about her unfinished health club, when she let out a little groan.
"Oh, shit, here comes the ice princess," Susan muttered under her breath.
I followed her line of sight, past the edge of the pool. Emerging from the small outdoor cafe under the colonnade was Catherine Page. She was walking straight toward us, although she hadn't seen us yet.
"I am just not up for any of her bullshit," Susan said. "Excuse me."
She gathered her sunglasses, lotion, and wristwatch from the small table between us, and strolled off in the opposite direction. Every male eye in the place followed her G-stringed rear end.
I wondered about her remark. I wasn't aware that she and Catherine Page even spoke, but apparently some pretty venomous words must have passed between them.
Catherine was almost even with my chair before she saw me. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, and sunglasses I recognized as Dior. Her peach silk pants and shirt gave her a tropical look, without exposing her delicate skin to the sun.
Once I knew she had seen me, it seemed rude not to acknowledge, so I raised my fingers in a tiny wave.
"Oh, Charlie! How are you, dear?"
I wasn't aware that I rated being dear to her. I suspected this familiarity came from the Jack Daniels I could smell on her breath as she stretched out on the empty lounge to my right—not the one Susan had just vacated.
"Well, Catherine, will you be leaving the island tomorrow, too?" I asked.
"I suppose so," she sighed. "They sent Gil's body back yesterday, you know. I guess that means I have a funeral to plan."
She referred to it as though it were a charity function or an afternoon tea, complete with silver tea service and tiny sandwiches. She didn't bother to pretend any grief over the occasion.
I tried to imagine her working up enough fervor to plot her husband's death. Perhaps the murder was something she had planned unemotionally, just as she would now plan the funeral.
"You know, if it weren't for the funeral, and the fact that I miss Jason already, I wouldn't mind spending a little more time here." Her unfocused eyes scanned the pool area, and her voice got light and drifty again. "It's pleasant, you know."
She settled back into her chair, and didn't seem to have much else to say. I obviously wasn't going to get my notes read with her sitting there, though, so I decided to pack it in.
I murmured something about reaching my limit with the sun, and pulled myself upright. I made sure my notebook was intact, and reached to the small table on my left where I had set my room key.
Draped over the back of the chair Susan had occupied was a lime green jacket. It had to be hers; it matched her suit. Probably part of the expensive set I'd seen the receipt for several days ago.
I debated. If I left it there, it would probably end up in some backroom jumble of a lost and found, or some larcenous soul would recognize an expensive garment when they saw it and take it home with them. At any rate, Susan would probably never get it back.
As little as I cared whether I saw her again or not, I knew the decent thing would be to return it to her. My mother had instilled these little courtesies somewhere in me. It would be easy enough for Drake and me to pop up to the tenth floor on our way out to dinner.
I picked it up, bade Catherine goodbye, and headed for the elevators.
Once in my room, I took a few minutes to update a couple of entries in my notebook. The motorcycle ride and my questioning of the boat rental guy seemed to have taken place days, rather than mere hours, earlier. I checked to be sure I had written down when I could find Willie Duran tomorrow. I had.
I stuck the notebook down in a side pocket of my purse, and straightened up the room a little.
I chose a turquoise silk dress and gold sandals to wear to dinner, then headed for the shower. The stinging hot water reminded me that my last shower had been at Drake's house this morning.
I wondered briefly where we would end up tonight.
Chapter 13
Drake's knock on my door came promptly at seven. I wished I had thought to bring up something to offer as an hors d'oeuvre. We could always break into the mini-bar, and see what it might offer. He looked me up and down appreciatively, admiring the way the turquoise silk fit.
"Would you like something to drink?" I offered, indicating the mini fridge.
"Maybe we ought to get going," he suggested. "Our reservation is for seven-thirty, and we have a way to go."
I picked up my purse, turned out all the lights but one, and peeked into the bathroom to make sure I'd put away my jewelry box. Didn't want to leave anything out that would tempt the night maid.
At the hotel entrance, Drake had the valet bring his truck around. The man held my door for me while Drake took the wheel. He steered around a concrete island but at the driveway instead of turning left and exiting to Rice Street, we turned right.
"Doesn't this lead to more of the hotel grounds?" I asked.
"We're going for a boat ride," he told me, a mysterious grin playing at the corner of his mouth.
He pulled into a large parking lot, not far away, and took my hand as we walked toward a small gray wooden building. As we passed through the breezeway, I could see a boat dock extending out into a narrow lagoon.
"The boats come along every fifteen minutes or so," he said, leading me to the water’s edge. "I hope our timing will be about right."
"Is this a natural lagoon?"
"Nope. The whole thing is man made. You won't believe how elaborate it gets."
He was right, I didn't.
Within minutes, I could hear the low throaty rumble of a boat engine. This one happened to be a mahogany launch, made in Venice, according to the discreet brass placard near the steering wheel. I could tell it was expensive by the sound, rich and melodic, like a baritone doing a few warm-ups.
Half a dozen other people boarded with us, most of them making their way below decks where they could sit on thick upholstered cushions.
Drake and I opted to stay above, staking out a spot right on the rail. The captain steered his craft slowly, giving us plenty of time to ogle the scenery. Stone statues stood at tasteful intervals along the water's edge, illuminated by hidden lights which made them look like they glowed from inside.
We passed under bridges that might have been on loan from Venice, and glided past fountains where leaping stone dolphins playfully sprayed water toward each other.
I found myself staring unabashedly, although I did make an effort not to let my mouth hang open. Behind us, a golden moon the size of a platter had just peeked over the mountains. Drake slipped his arm around my waist. I felt like the heroine in a mushy romance.
Now, this is what a vacation should be.
The captain skillfully steered the boat up to a pillared landing, where a waiting crew member reached to take the ropes. We stepped out toward a small cluster of buildings, almost a mini-mall of shops.
Drake led me through the walkway, saying that the restaurant was just a little further. Names like Armani, Rolex, and Lauren rolled past, as we strolled through the arcade.
The restaurant was called Sharkey's, and featured an eye-level tank, several hundred gallons large, where small live sharks swam in endless circles. Their gray and white bodies with the solid black eyes didn't look real to me. They seemed like rubber toys, wound up to undulate around the bathtub.
"Are these from around here?" I asked.
"I don't know if this particular breed lives in our waters or not," Drake answered, "but we do have some sharks. You read about shark attacks in the paper all the time."
Hanging above the tank, suspended from the ceiling, was the taxidermied body of a great white shark. It was posed to stare down upon us, teeth exposed, ready to rip our guts out. I hoped our table would be out of sight of this ravenous creature. I wasn't sure he would help my appetite any. Large carnivorous sea creatures tend to make me squeamish. Drake's confirmation of real live sharks in the area made me glad I'd opted for the pool instead of the ocean.
A petite girl with dark curls down past her waist led the way to our table situated by the windows, looking out over the water.
The ground dropped away sharply outside, and I could see a faint hint in the dark of a narrow paved road and gently sloping ground below. Based on the diorama I'd seen of the hotel grounds in the lobby, I guessed we must be directly above the golf course.
"The seafood here is great," Drake was saying. "I'm still a steak fan, despite what they say about red meat now, so I usually get the New York strip with lobster. But, everything on the menu is usually good."
Vacations Can Be Murder: The Second Charlie Parker Mystery Page 13
