“KiKiKiKiKiKi—”
“But using that logic,” Chris spoke over Bee Bee, “couldn’t Vega also be protecting Ki’s brother?” He bent his arm so the bird faced him. “What about Buster?” he asked, and Bee Bee switched from Ki’s name, to repeating Buster’s name a few thousand times.
I sighed dramatically. “Okay, so Bee Bee’s holding out on us. But I’m still sure he heard something useful.”
“Why kidnap him? Why not just kill him?”
Bee Bee squawked at that notion, and Chris hastened to apologize. “Just saying, buddy.”
I mentioned Wilson’s theory that the killer had gone off the deep end. “He’s stopped making any sort of rational sense.”
“Well then, it’s got to be Buster,” Chris said and started moving again. “Think about it. He’s so flakey and inept. And all this stuff that’s been happening is pretty flakey and inept.”
“Therefore, he wouldn’t ever kill Davy,” I argued. “Davy was good at his job. Buster needed him.”
“How about those love triangles Geez Louise is so excited about?” Chris was getting farther and farther ahead of me. “How about a Buster, Davy, and Rachel Tate triangle?”
“Her real name is Samantha Dimmery.”
“Say what?”
I explained Lieutenant Densmore’s research into the Samantha-Rachel person, and then Chris explained the love triangle he was picturing.
“Buster had a crush on Rachel, or Samantha, or whoever she was, but she had a crush on Davy.”
“So Buster was jealous of Davy?” I asked.
What a shocker, Chris was picking up the pace. I was tired of groaning, moaning, whimpering, and sighing, so I simply walked faster and pondered Buster Okolo’s supposed motives. No offense to Chris and Emi, but the inheritance motive between Carmen and Ki still seemed far more compelling.
But yet, either of the Okolo brothers probably possessed the strength to transport Chris and me up to Pele’s Prison.
“Why would Buster kidnap us?” I called out.
“To get away with murder,” Chris said. “Buster needs to pin this on someone from our group. And our disappearance makes Dad look guilty, right?”
“Your father? But Captain Vega is after you, Chris.”
“He’s been harassing me, but the guy he really hates is Dad.”
Oh, my Lord. I stopped short while a new brand of panic seized me.
Could Vega actually be blaming Wilson for our disappearance? At that very moment? Surely our disappearance must have been discovered by then. I glanced past the tree tops toward the sun and ascertained it was getting on for late afternoon. Was Wilson out searching for us? Or was he already under arrest?
Chris must have noticed I had stopped following him. He turned around and came back.
“I’m sorry,” he told me. “But Vega will blame Dad when they realize we’re missing. He’ll say we found out Dad’s the murderer, so he had to get rid of us. Vega always blames a tourist, right?”
I closed my eyes and prayed for strength, and conceded that Chris was indeed right. I mean, what other tourist could Vega possibly be blaming at that point? My mother?
Chris must have read my mind. “Miss Tessie thinks it was Buster. She told me last night she has a funny feeling about Buster.”
I opened my eyes and blinked at Bee Bee. One ignores Tessie Hewitt’s funny feelings at their own peril.
“Okay,” I said. “We think it was Buster.”
***
“Oh, my God.” Something behind my left shoulder had caught Chris’s eye.
I turned and saw the road. “The road!” I shouted. “The road! The road!”
“The road!” Bee Bee shouted. “The road! The road!”
“The road,” Chris mumbled with far less enthusiasm and pointed to the stream that separated us from said road. What had been a babbling brook uphill a ways had morphed into a surging stream. It was a rather wide stream. A river, in fact.
“I bet it’s been over there all along,” Chris was saying. “We’ve been on the wrong side.”
“Should we try to get over there?” I asked.
“Let’s see.” He handed Bee Bee to me and slipped off his sneakers, and Bee Bee and I watched as he plunged on in. It was deep, and at one point he had to swim a few yards to get to where he could stand up again. He waded some more and finally found solid ground on the other bank.
“Your turn, Jessie.” He waved. “Toss me the shoes.”
I pointed to Bee Bee. “What about him?”
“He flies.”
“Here goes,” I told the flying creature. I threw the cleaner sneaker across to Chris and then grimaced at its mate. Not that I was the epitome of cleanliness and hygiene at the moment, but I could still be grossed out. I wrinkled my nose and picked up the Bee Bee-soiled shoe, doing my dainty best to keep my hand away from the bird droppings.
I am happy to report that somehow that sneaker also made it clear across the river, although I wish I could say the same for my flip flops. One made it over. Its partner, however, was not so cooperative. The wind grabbed hold of it and it landed a few yards from Chris. In the water. Bless his heart, he did his best to try to save it, but apparently my flip flop was desperate to escape. The three of us watched in disbelief as it merrily bobbed its way downstream. The fake daisy disappeared from sight, I grumbled accordingly, and tiptoed into the water.
Chris waded in from his side and coaxed gently while I endeavored to shoo Bee Bee from my wrist. But Bee Bee had once again decided to be disoriented and confused. Chris and I proceeded to explain, as logically as possible, that he was going to have to fly the few yards while I swam it. The bird listened attentively but refused to let go of my wrist.
“Can you swim one-handed?” Chris asked me.
I didn’t think so. But I could dog-paddle.
I frowned at Bee Bee. “Here goes, you stupid bird.” I introduced him to the top of my head and for this treat he happily abandoned my wrist. Have I mentioned Bee Bee’s claws?
Wasting no time I plunged on in and dog-paddled at record speed. My eyes were shut tight since Bee Bee was not too well-balanced up there. But Chris was laughing so hard I had a sense of the right direction at all times. And then Bee Bee pooped.
The good news? I couldn’t see it. The bad news? I could definitely feel it. Have I mentioned all those berries he had eaten?
Despite the total gross-out factor I soldiered, or at least dog-paddled, on and made it across. I do believe it was Jessica Hewitt’s most heroic moment.
I handed the stupid, stupid bird to Chris and plunged back into the water to rinse my hair. Then I staggered back to dry land, only to decide if I wanted to walk barefooted the rest of the way or with one flip flop.
Chris held up his shoes, but I declined the offer. “Very chivalrous of you, Mr. Rye, but I’d never be able to keep them on my feet.”
“Well then, use the one flip flop, Jessie. A little protection on one foot is better than none at all.”
I muttered various obscenities and donned my lone flip flop as Bee Bee tried to convince me I was “Good as new.”
Chris also encouraged me to look on the bright side. He pointed at the road we were now standing on, and I frowned at what was in reality nothing more than a deeply rutted dirt path.
He glanced at my feet and then up at the top of my head. “At least you’ve stopped worrying about the heebie jeebies,” he tried.
“Because now I’m worrying about your father.” We started hobbling our way downhill. “Do you really think he’s been arrested?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Chapter 25
We stopped short and stared each other.
“Oops,” Chris squeaked.
You’d better believe, oops. I folded my arms and glared until Chris found his voice and actually told me I needed to ask Wilson for the details.
“Yeah, right,” I said. “I do not need to ask Wilson for the details, because I am asking y
ou for the details!” I stamped my lone flip flop. “I demand to know your father’s deep dark secrets, and I demand to know them now, now, now!”
Silence from Chris, and a “Now, now, now!” from Bee Bee. I always did like that bird.
“Now!” I repeated and continued to stamp my foot, wave my arms, and shout vague threats. Throwing a temper tantrum might have been beneath my dignity, but a bird had just pooped on my head. Let’s face it—I was running a little low on the dignity thing. In addition I was, right then, in imminent danger of dying from a lethal combination of dehydration and the heebie jeebies. I had suffered a very, very rough day, and I refused to die in a state of ignorance.
When I reminded my companions of all these compelling and relevant facts, they simply kept walking.
Walking!
I ran, or something akin to it, grabbed Chris’s free elbow and yanked him to a full stop.
“Okay, I’m begging,” I said. “Have pity on me?”
His eyes moved to the top of my head. “You are pitiful.”
We negotiated, and with much ado and haggling, finally came to an agreement. Chris would tell me all about Wilson’s deep dark past as long I kept walking. Deal, baby!
“How much do you know about Dianne Calloway?” he asked as we staggered downhill.
“Nothing except for her name. But why is this Dianne person Wilson’s deep dark secret? Why did they break up? Why was he arrested? What was her connection? And when was all this?”
“If you shut up, I might tell you.”
I shut up.
“Here goes.” He took a deep breath. “They met in Raleigh. You know Dad used to live there?”
I did. Wilson had moved to Clarence only in the past few years. Raleigh was his hometown, where he grew up, and where he had raised his son.
“Dianne and Dad were together for about two years—my junior and senior years of high school,” Chris continued. “Everyone expected they would get married after I started college.”
“Were you okay with that?”
He shrugged. “I liked Dianne. She made Dad laugh. There were a few years after my mother died—” Chris stopped talking.
“When Wilson didn’t laugh?” I asked gently.
He nodded.
“What happened?”
“Dad got arrested the night of my senior prom.”
“What!?”
“It sucks, huh?”
“What for?”
“Murder.”
“Murder, murder, murder,” Bee Bee said gleefully.
I shook my head and tried to concentrate. “Let me get this straight. Dianne Calloway was murdered?”
“No, Jessie. Dianne’s ex-husband got killed. They blamed it on Dad, but he had nothing to do with it.”
“Of course he didn’t.”
“Dianne did it,” Chris said. “But the guy was really beaten up. She killed him with a—” He took another deep breath. “Let’s just say they decided Dianne had to be innocent because of her size. No one thought a woman could have done it.”
I cringed. “Wilson, however.”
“Could have done it,” Chris said, and I cringed some more.
“I assume your father figured out the truth?” I asked.
“He said it wasn’t that hard since he knew he was innocent. What was hard was convincing everyone else. He was on mandatory leave of absence from the police force so he didn’t have access to much.” Chris glanced over and actually grinned.
“What?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Dad stinks at amateur sleuthing. You’re way better at it than he is, Jessie.”
I shrugged humbly and asked how the truth had come to light.
“An old friend on the police force finally helped him out,” Chris answered. “Dianne was arrested on my graduation day.”
“Oh, my Lord. Wilson arrested her, didn’t he? She’s in prison now, isn’t she?”
“Yep, and yep.”
“Yep, yep, yep,” Bee Bee verified.
Again, I tried to concentrate. “So, this is why you’ve been,” I hesitated, “let’s say, hesitant about me?”
“Dad did almost arrest you the night you guys met, right? For murder? And you’ve had lots of problems with your ex-husband, right?”
I frowned at Bee Bee. “Yep, yep. And yep.”
“Dad keeps telling me you’re not like Dianne,” Chris said quietly.
“I’m not like Dianne,” I agreed.
He scowled at my hair. “But you are a little scary.”
***
Speaking of scary, we finally encountered some other hikers. You’d think this would have solved our most immediate problems. But our would-be rescuers, a middle-aged couple who clearly prided themselves on their hiking prowess and insane love of nature, took an instant and intense disliking to us.
We tried to explain our unusual appearance and arduous ordeal—the murder investigation, the kidnapping, our escape, et cetera, et cetera—but the Harveys, Wendy and Roger, remained unimpressed.
“You two were involved in the murder at the Wakilulani?” Wendy pursed her lips.
“We hear a couple of tourists did it.” Roger was even better at pursing his lips than his wife. He looked us up and down while Chris and I squirmed.
“We didn’t kill anyone,” Chris said.
“Although we are staying at the Wakilulani,” I added. “Did you happen to know Davy Atwell? I understand his Pele’s Melees were something of a legend.”
“We do not consume pink beverages, alcoholic or otherwise,” Roger informed me with another prim pursing of lips. “My wife and I drink nothing but green tea, pomegranate juice, and spring water.”
“Water!” Bee Bee exclaimed, and Chris and I nodded enthusiastically.
“We could really use some water if you guys have any extra.” Chris gestured toward Roger’s backpack. “Jessie and I are parched.”
“Missing happy hour, are you?” Wendy asked.
I folded my arms and glared. Clearly the we-should-be-rescuing-these-poor-dehydrated-creatures theme that Chris, Bee Bee, and I were ourselves so clear about was somehow lost on the Harveys.
Mr. Harvey directed the next scolding at poor Bee Bee. “Pets are not allowed on Kekipi Crater,” he said. “It is against trail rules.”
“Oh, for Lord’s sake!” I stopped glaring and stepped forward to once again explain our dire circumstances, but Roger was having far too much fun tut-tutting.
“Where’s your shirt?” he asked Chris. “We are not surfing here, you know? Kekipi Crater is not an amusement park. I’ve been saying for years that proper hiking gear should be required before any tourist is even allowed on these trails.”
He pointed smugly to his own outfit—a tee-shirt embossed with a save the planet logo, khaki cargo pants, a knapsack, no doubt filled with canteens, water bottles, and high-energy snacks, and last but not least, a pair of worn but sturdy-looking hiking boots.
I made the mistake of sighing forlornly at those boots, and the Harveys switched their attention back to me. Wendy kept her eyes planted firmly on my one bare foot while her husband produced my wayward flip flop from his backpack.
“Yours, I presume?”
I leapt for joy and lunged for my shoe. But Roger jumped back and, I swear to God, refused to hand it to me.
“Littering is a crime,” Wendy informed me.
I blinked at the fake daisy dangling just out of my reach. “Excuse me?”
“Littering,” Roger snapped. “I found this on the banks of this lovely river.” He pointed to the lovely river with one hand and flapped my flip flop in front of my nose with the other. “How dare you deface these pristine waters.”
Have I mentioned I was having a very rough day? I reminded the stupid Harveys of this fact and commenced wrestling Roger for my stupid shoe.
“Watch it,” Chris said, and we both turned.
He jerked his head toward me. “Jessie is one very tough woman, Roger. I’d give her the shoe if I were
you.”
“Give her the shoe. If I were you.” Bee Bee liked the little rhyme of that.
I pried the shoe out of Roger’s stunned hand and slipped it on. Meanwhile Wendy reminded everyone that pets are not allowed on Kekipi Crater and poked her finger at our parrot. Chris stepped back, but bless his feisty little heart, Bee Bee lunged forward to take a bite. Wendy pulled away just in time.
“Bee Bee is one very tough bird,” I told her.
Chris cleared his throat. “We’re tough, but we need a lift. If you guys have a car anywhere near here, we really do need help.”
“That you do,” Roger agreed. He and his wife stepped away from us, apparently to discuss their options.
I turned to my companions. “Are they actually considering leaving us out here in the state we’re in?” I whispered. At that exact moment a swarm of particularly vicious biting insects decided yours truly was not in enough of a state. They zeroed in for the kill, and I lost it.
I stormed over to the Harveys. “If I do not get off this damn volcano this minute I am going to die!” I shouted. “Die!” I repeated. “Have you people not heard of the heebie jeebies!?”
I flapped my arms and took a couple more steps forward as Bee Bee commenced a sing-song round of “heeeebie-jeeeebie.”
But Wendy remained unimpressed. She told me my behavior left her no choice, and pulled a cell phone from her husband’s knapsack. It was hard to miss the other item she pulled out and handed to her husband. Was that really a mach—
“Stay back!” Roger shouted as he unsheathed his machete.
“What the hell?” I heard Chris say as I stumbled away from the blade.
Roger crouched into a ready-to-pounce stance. “We’re armed!” he informed us.
“No shit,” Chris said, and what with the absurdity of it all, I lost control yet again. But this time instead of having screaming-shouting-stomping-hissy-fit tantrum, I laughed. Oh, it was a downright psychotic laugh. But also downright cathartic. And apparently a bit contagious—Chris laughed, too.
“You might be armed,” I told Roger when I could speak again. “But trust me, you are no Skylar Staggs.”
“Huh?”
“Green tea and pomegranate juice,” I sputtered in disgust and returned to Chris and Bee Bee.
Three Odd Balls Page 19
