While I gathered the remains of my dignity, Wilson took a triumphant bow and hopped off the stage to join us. Emi and Chris came back with dinner for my mother, who somehow managed to pull away from an adoring throng of fans to reclaim her seat.
“You did great,” Emi told Tessie as she set the plate before her. “It’s like you belonged in Hula Club your whole life.”
“But you’re worse at dancing than you are at surfing,” Chris the ever-charming was quick to inform me.
Wilson tapped me on the shoulder. “Mai Tai?” he suggested.
I nodded curtly and headed toward the bar. Pink or otherwise, I needed a drink.
***
Pink or otherwise, those first Mai Tais disappeared rather quickly. Wilson had left in search of refills when a woman about my age approached me. “Jessie, right?” she asked. “You’re one of the people Chris Rye is teaching to surf?”
“One of the geezers,” I clarified and held out my hand. “Jessie Hewitt.”
“Gail Fazio,” she said, and we shook hands. “I own Folly Rentals. Chris pointed you out to me when you were up there.” She tilted her head towards the stage, where things had settled down considerably. The Hoochie Coochie Brothers had the entire expanse to themselves and were regaling the crowd with a medley of what I assumed were luau classics.
I turned back to Ms. Fazio and thanked her for renting us such nice surfboards. “Although I’m afraid I’m not much better at surfing than I am at hula-ing,” I added.
“But you are a good sport.”
“Did Chris say that?” I asked doubtfully.
She again gestured toward the stage. “I could see that for myself.”
I told Gail I wasn’t too concerned about hula-ing ever again. “But unfortunately Chris isn’t going to give up on me so easily.” I grimaced. “He actually expects me to hang ten.”
Gail patted my hand and was giving me a few tips for the surfing-challenged older woman when Wilson returned. He handed me my drink, and I introduced him to my new friend.
“May I get you one?” he asked and held up a Mai Tai.
“I better not. I have to work tomorrow. But I can understand why you guys need a few of those.” She pointed to Wilson’s drink.
“I take it you know about Davy Atwell?”
“Oh yes. And about Vega. And about your son’s involvement. I’m sorry your vacation is turning out so bad.”
“Chris didn’t do it,” Wilson said firmly.
“I know that. But you folks need to understand—Vega always goes after a tourist.”
“Why is that?” I asked indignantly. “It seems like everyone around here hates tourists.”
“Not everyone, Jessie. Some of us know who’s buttering our bread. Which reminds me.” She waved at the buffet table. “Have you guys eaten?”
We hadn’t, so Gail guided us to the buffet line where the main attraction was the kalua pig—a pig baked underground, as she explained. “It’s standard luau fare,” she told us, but she suggested we try the other dishes also. Thus the three of us filled our plates with pork, grilled pineapple, mango salsa, tomato couscous, sweet and sour cabbage, roasted breadfruit, the works. Then we found seats as far from the stage and as separated from the crowd as possible.
Before sitting down, I scanned the luau for my mother. She and Louise were doing fine, talking to some strangers and missing me not at all. Chris and Emi were nowhere in sight.
I took my seat and tuned in to Gail and Wilson’s conversation as they continued the discussion of tourists versus locals. Not too surprisingly, Ki Okolo’s name came up.
“He really hates tourists,” Gail said. “It all goes back to the accident. You guys know about that?”
Wilson summarized what we knew about how and why Ki and Buster had ended up living with their grandfather. “But what did tourists have to do with it?”
“A carload of them ran the Okolos off the road at Ka Pua Cliffs.” Gail shook her head. “It’s a really treacherous stretch of road.” She speared a piece of mahi-mahi. “Ki was driving.”
“What!?” Wilson and I shouted in unison, and the poor woman dropped her fork.
“It’s awful, isn’t it?” she asked.
“It explains why he hates the Wakilulani Gardens,” I suggested.
“You got it, Jessie. Tourists killed the kid’s parents, and then he and his brother had to move into a tourist trap. It didn’t help that Ki had to change high schools his senior year, or that he had to leave cute little Iwatanii Town behind and move to a whole different island.”
“I take it this Iwatanii place isn’t a tourist trap?” Wilson asked.
“No,” she said. “It’s way off the beaten path. But it’s a charming place if you ever get over to The Big Island.”
“Iwatanii Town,” I repeated. Where had I heard that name before?
But I would have to think about it some other time since Gail Fazio was still discussing the Okolos. Apparently Folly Rentals had been a fixture on Halo Beach almost as long as the Wakilulani Gardens, and Gail had been friends with Pono Okolo for decades. And she had known Ki and Buster ever since they came to live at Halo Beach.
“It sounds silly, but I’m beginning to think those guys are jinxed,” she said. “Buster’s never been the smartest coconut in the grove, but even so, no one deserves his bad luck.”
We discussed the recent troubles at the Wakilulani, namely Davy Atwell’s murder. But she didn’t seem to know anything more than we did. We moved on to the Rachel Tate mystery, and Gail agreed we were probably on a wild goose chase.
“I understand Buster was rather smitten with Rachel,” I said.
“Smitten?” Gail asked. “I guess so. He had a crush on her, and she had a crush on Davy. What a mess.”
“And she and Davy were together, right?” Wilson said. “At least for a while?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. Whatever her work ethic, Rachel was darn cute.”
“What do you know about Bethany Iverson?” he asked.
“A great work ethic there. The Okolo brothers did something right for a change by hiring her.”
“You have any idea how she got hold of Davy Atwell’s pink drink recipe?”
Gail’s face dropped, and Wilson nodded.
“Yep,” he said. “The Pele’s Melees are once again flowing at the Wacky Gardens. Thanks to Bethany.”
Gail considered this news. “She must have had sex with him.” She shook her head. “But no,” she argued with herself. “Bethany’s way too smart for that.” She sat back and scowled, perhaps pondering Bethany’s intelligence.
“What about Derrick Crowe?” I asked. “He’s also a mystery, correct?”
“You got it, Jessie. The guy’s fallen off the face of the earth.”
“Crowe’s been located,” Wilson said, and Gail and I both jumped.
“Wilson!” I scolded. “What have you been up to?”
He might have answered me, but the luau people had other plans. As the party began to wrap up, grass-skirted men and women got busy removing the dining tables. They literally took ours out from under us as a conga line started weaving around the luau arena.
With the Hoochie Coochies leading the way, people of various ages and levels of sobriety congaed past us. Some carried Mai Tais in their free hands, some carried tiki torches, and some carried each other. The word bacchanal came to mind, despite the fact that everyone was singing a vaguely Hawaiian version of Jingle Bells. Oh yes—and a few people carried sleigh bells.
Chris and Emi danced by without even noticing us, but Mother and Louise did see us. They waved us into formation, and someone handed Wilson a tiki torch. He brandished it aloft as I grabbed onto his hips.
Chapter 18
Everyone in their right mind went home after the Holiday Hula. But Wilson and I are not in our right minds. First of all, we were still on that wild goose chase to track down Rachel Tate. And lest anyone should forget, the Shynomore Shirt Shop is a twenty-four-hour operation.
“What did Russell Densmore find out?” I yawned expansively and stumbled a bit.
Wilson reached out to steady me. “How do you do that?” he asked.
“Do what?”
“Know who I’ve been talking to. Intuition, right?”
Actually no. This time I had relied on something much more mundane—simple deductive reasoning. First of all, Wilson had been late to our surfing lesson that afternoon. Why? Because he was busy calling Lieutenant Densmore—giving his right-hand man orders from half-way around the world.
“He called you back while we were talking to Vega,” I continued deducing. “And when you didn’t answer, he called you again. Which can only mean Russell got something good.” I stopped and turned. “He found Derrick Crowe, didn’t he?”
“Yep. Crowe’s working at a culinary school in northern California. Densmore called him.”
“You need to give that man a raise, Wilson.”
“Cops never get raises. But listen to this, Jessie—Crowe swore up, down, and sideways it was Buster who fired him. Not Ki, like Bethany told Chris.”
“So she lied?” I asked.
“That, or she doesn’t know the whole story. But whoever fired him, Crowe wasn’t happy about it. Said he didn’t deserve to be treated like that by an Okolo after all the years he worked for Pono.”
“Did Russell ask about the money he owes people?”
“Crowe denied it. Claims that’s why he left Hawaii—to get away from the rumors.”
“Did Russell believe him?”
“No, but he let it slide. He didn’t want to alienate the guy in case we need to talk to him again.” Wilson stopped and caught my eye. “Which we may.”
“Oh?”
“Derrick Crowe is the father of Carmen Dupree’s oldest child.”
“What!?”
“Densmore’s identified the fathers of all her kids.”
“What?” I said again, increasingly incredulous at the amazing Russell Densmore’s remarkable research skills. “How did he do that?”
“Birth records, hospital records, who knows? Densmore’s way better at the internet than you are.”
“No kidding. But this had to be more than basic research. Did he hack into stuff illegally?”
“You want to hear this or not?”
I took the low road and said I did.
“Crowe’s the father of Carmen’s oldest, and you and Louise were right—Davy Atwell is the father of numbers two and three.”
“And Ki Okolo is the baby’s father.” I looked up at Wilson. “This has got to be significant.”
“I think so. And it gets worse.”
“Do tell.”
“Densmore looked into Carmen’s child-support arrangements with these guys. She’s supposed to get something from Crowe every month, but she doesn’t anymore.”
I frowned. “Because he’s disappeared, correct? Carmen must be one of the people he owes money to.”
“And then there’s Davy Atwell.”
“Crowe owed him money also.”
“No, Jessie. I’m talking about Carmen’s child support. Carmen and Davy duked it out in court about a year ago, haggling over the amount.”
I shook my head. “So let me guess. Russell got into the court records?”
“Yep. Carmen wanted the payments to be based on Davy’s net worth. But Davy and his lawyers argued—successfully—that her child-support should only be based on his current income.”
“From his earnings as a bartender?” I thought about how unfortunate that was for Carmen. “So she was getting very little from him, even though he was rich. Louise saw his house today, by the way. It’s a mansion worthy of a stop on the Beyond the Beach tours.”
“Carmen must love that.”
“We need to take that tour tomorrow,” I insisted. “Whether or not it interferes with our surfing lesson.”
Wilson nodded consent. “According to Densmore, Davy Atwell was worth at least three million. Not including the house.”
“So Davy’s death could mean quite a windfall for Carmen, correct? She, or at least two of her children, may stand to inherit a good bit of his wealth.”
“Bingo.”
Bingo—we had arrived at the Primrose Tower.
“Did Russell discover anything about Rachel Tate in all his research?” I asked as we stared at the monolith before us.
“Nope.” Wilson tore his gaze from the Primrose and glanced at me. “Which can only mean that Rachel Tate—at least the Rachel Tate we’re looking for—doesn’t exist. Whoever this woman is, I’d bet money she’s using a false identity.”
“Wild goose chase,” I reiterated as we approached the entrance to the Primrose Tower.
“You have a plan this time, Miss Amateur Sleuth?”
I reminded him that having a plan was not exactly my style and hopped into the revolving doorway.
***
The doorway ejected me into the Primrose Tower, and I stopped short to take in the awe-inspiring surroundings. The lobby was about the size of the entire acreage of the Wakilulani Gardens. Chrome, glass, and enormous mirrors dominated the décor, and with scads of white Christmas lights strung onto every conceivable object, the room literally sparkled.
“Use Plan A from last night,” Wilson suggested as we hiked our way across the expanse of marble flooring.
As we closed in on the check-in counter, I concluded Rachel Tate, or whoever the heck she was, was not working that night. The clerk was male and even older than I.
“I hope you’re not looking for a room,” he said as we approached. A name tag informed us his name was Lloyd, and Lloyd informed us the Primrose Tower had no vacancies. “We’re full through New Year’s.”
“No, no, no,” I said with a wave of my hand. “But I do hope you can help us, Lloyd. We’re looking for an old friend.” I leaned on the counter. “Well no, that’s not quite it,” I corrected myself. “Rachel’s auntie is an old friend of mine—”
“Cicely and Jessie go way back,” Wilson finished for me.
“Way, way back.” I said. Apparently I was to take the Bee Bee role this time.
“Cicely was so excited to hear we were staying at Halo Beach on our vacation,” Wilson continued. “She told us to be sure to look up Rachel while we’re here. Gosh, this island is glorious.”
I blinked twice. Did Wilson Rye just say gosh? And glorious?
He was waiting for me. “Umm, glorious,” I mumbled, and he continued raving about this, that, and the other “glorious” thing we were enjoying about Hawaii.
“The beach!” he exclaimed. I kid you not—exclaimed. “And that volcano? We are having such a wonderful time!”
I managed a hoarse “Wonderful.”
Lloyd frowned and turned to Wilson. “What is it you’re looking for, sir?”
“Who,” Wilson corrected him. “Who.”
“Who,” I repeated dutifully.
“Rachel Tate,” Wilson clarified, and poor Lloyd winced accordingly.
Wilson pretended not to notice. “You see, Lloyd, Cicely told us Rachel worked at the Wakilulani Gardens, so we went there for dinner last night.”
“Dinner,” I Bee-Beed.
“But lo and behold, the folks there told us she works at the Kamikaze Sports Bar.”
“Kamakokoa,” Lloyd and I both corrected.
Wilson continued, “So we popped over there last night, too, didn’t we, Jessie?”
“Popped.”
“But lo and behold, those folks told us she works here now. They said she’s your new night clerk. So here we are!”
“Here we are!” Enthusiasm personified, I elbowed my way in front of Wilson. “I can’t wait to see her! If you could tell me when her next shift is, I’d be forever grateful. Rachel does work here, doesn’t she?”
“She did work here,” Lloyd said. “But she got fi—.”
He cleared his throat. “She quit last night.”
Why was I not surprised? I sighed dramatically and asked Lloyd where we might find her. Of course he had no idea. And of course he refused to give us her phone number or forwarding address.
Wilson muttered something under his breath about how handy a badge could be, and would have wandered off had I not reached out and grabbed his shirttail. I maneuvered him back into place and once again turned my attention to Lloyd.
“We had a very nice dinner at the Wakilulani Gardens,” I said. “If any of your guests are looking for a good restaurant, I would highly recommend it.”
“I hear the new chef’s great,” Lloyd agreed.
I pretended to admire the chandelier above his head. “But to be honest, we were a bit disappointed with the drinks. Cicely told me to be sure to order a Pele’s Melee at the Wakilulani, but dare I say, they were nothing to write home about?”
Lloyd shook his head at my ignorance. “That’s because their bartender just died. He kept that drink recipe a deep dark secret—probably took it to the grave with him.” He shook his head again. “Great chef or not, that place is jinxed.”
“Oh?” I used my most beseeching look, and Lloyd gave us a brief account of Davy’s murder. We acted shocked and dismayed, but he told us nothing we did not already know.
I was feeling rather disappointed in our lack of progress when he pursed his lips. “If you ever do track down Rachel, you should probably know she was engaged to the dead guy.”
“What!?” we practically shouted, and the poor guy backed up a step.
“That was her latest excuse for slacking off anyway,” he said. “She was in mourning.” He did the air-quote thing, clearly not convinced of the woman’s grief. “I’m sorry, madam, but your friend wasn’t a very good employee to begin with. And then when Davy Atwell got himself killed?”
Lloyd stopped and let us think about it.
“She was worse than ever?” Wilson asked.
“Something like that.”
***
“We’re looking for a lunatic,” Wilson said. He had lost the silly amateur-sleuth persona and was back to his normal self.
“I thought we were looking for Rachel Tate,” I argued as we found our favorite spot in the sand and sat down. I gazed out at the Pacific. “Do you think we’ll ever find her?”
Three Odd Balls Page 14
