Right from the Gecko

by Cynthia Baxter

  But what I found most interesting was the fact that Holly had left the paper so abruptly—without having another job lined up. While the operation had looked innocent enough during my brief behind-the-scenes peek, the fact that one of their reporters had chosen to flee left me wondering if I’d misjudged it.

  As I crossed the lobby, I spotted a crowd of veterinarians streaming out of a meeting room. The sight was a harsh reminder that I wasn’t doing a very good job of balancing my murder investigation with the conference that had brought me here in the first place.

  Which forced me to focus on something else that was off-balance: my relationship with my traveling companion. As far as I knew, Nick was still pretty angry with me.

  I stood in the lobby, trying to muster up the courage or energy or whatever was required to go up to our room, where I was more than likely to run into him. As I procrastinated, I noticed a sign outside the White Orchid that read, HAPPY HOUR—4:00 TO 7:00. ALL DRINKS HALF-PRICE!

  Even though I wasn’t feeling particularly happy, I figured that enjoying a little Hawaiian culture—or at least a little Hawaiian tourist culture—might push me a little further in that direction. Besides, indulging in happy hour offered me a really convenient way to delay confronting Nick. In a somewhat pathetic attempt at putting myself into a partying mood, I pulled a hibiscus out of one of the lobby’s over-the-top flower arrangements and stuck it behind my ear. Then I headed inside.

  I wasn’t the only one who’d been lured in by the promise of cheap drinks. Every table in the dark, bamboo-walled bar was full. The comfortable armchairs, also made of bamboo, appeared to be occupied mainly by tourists. Young Japanese couples poring over guidebooks and sipping cool drinks in tall cylindrical glasses sat side by side with senior citizens, college kids on break, and middle-aged American couples in Bermuda shorts and splashy shirts I bet they wouldn’t be caught dead in at home. I also spotted a few veterinarians sitting in clusters, still sporting their convention name tags, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk shop.

  Instead, I dropped onto a bar stool and ordered a mai tai. Before the bartender even had a chance to slap a cocktail napkin in front of me, a tall ponytailed gentleman slid onto the stool next to me. Even though he was probably well past forty, he was dressed like a surfer dude in denim cutoffs, battered leather sandals, and an extremely faded Hanauma Bay T-shirt that looked as if one more encounter with a clothes dryer was guaranteed to reduce it to shreds.

  Glancing over at me, he said, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I mumbled, not wanting to appear rude even though I craved nothing more than solitude.

  He didn’t take the hint. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

  I grimaced. “Can’t you come up with a better line than that?”

  “It’s not a line,” he returned, sounding a bit indignant. He brushed away a strand of dark-blond hair that had fallen over his face. “It’s an honest observation.”

  “At least it’s accurate,” I replied crisply. “I haven’t been here before.”

  I always thought part of the appeal of travel was that it enabled you to leave some of the less savory aspects of your life behind. Yet even though I’d traveled nearly six thousand miles to paradise, someone who could be a clone of Marcus Scruggs, one of my least favorite people in the world, ended up sitting on the bar stool next to mine.

  I first met Marcus when I was applying to veterinary school. I’d hoped he’d be able to offer me some good advice. Instead, I spent our first meeting ignoring his off-color questions and suggestive comments. And just a couple of months ago, when my friend Suzanne Fox actually found him attractive for some inexplicable reason, I was forced to socialize with him on several occasions. When they finally split up, I didn’t know who was happier, Suzanne or me.

  Yet here I was again, fighting off the unwelcome attentions of a sleazeball who looked like a survivor from a deserted island and acted just as desperate.

  “Tourist?”

  “Not exactly.” I looked around, suddenly wishing Nick would magically appear—even if it was just to scowl at me.

  “Ah. Conventioneer.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Don’t tell me—you’re a veterinarian.”

  I shrugged. “Okay. I won’t tell you.”

  He chuckled appreciatively. As annoying as he was, at least he had a sense of humor. “Can I get you a drink, Dr. Dolittle? Maybe one of those fruity ones that come with a paper umbrella or a real flower in it?”

  “Thanks, but I’m waiting for someone,” I lied. “I can’t imagine what’s keeping him. Besides, I already ordered a drink.”

  Just then my mai tai arrived. I flinched when I saw that the tall, slender glass was decorated with both a flower and a tiny yellow paper umbrella.

  Smirking, he told the bartender, “Bring me a Scotch. Neat.”

  “You got it,” the bartender assured him.

  Mr. Ponytail turned his attention back to me. “So, where do you hail from?”

  “Look,” I returned evenly, “I’m sure you mean well, but frankly I’m not in the mood for conversation. I had kind of a bad day.”

  “A bad day? In paradise?” He pretended to be shocked. “Impossible!”

  I smiled despite myself. I also looked him fully in the face for the first time. He had exceptionally high cheekbones, pale, deep-set gray eyes, and the same weathered look that so many locals seemed to have. Just one more individual paying the price of sunworshipping, I mused.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” I commented. “Turns out that old saying about bringing your own baggage wherever you go is true.”

  “No kidding.” He shook his head slowly, as if he understood what I was talking about only too well. “And I should know. Believe it or not, I actually live here.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s right.” He paused while the bartender brought him his drink, then took a long, slow sip. “I bet I’m the first person you’ve met who’s a bona fide resident.”

  Funny: Bona fide residents were practically the only people I’d had a chance to talk to.

  “Aside from hotel employees and waiters and people like that, I mean,” he continued. “A lot of people in the service industry were probably born here. But I’m a transplant. I’d had enough of L.A., and I figured there’d be less traffic and less smog on a tropical island. So a few years ago I packed up all my worldly possessions and moved here.”

  “What do you do, job-wise, that gives you so much flexibility?” I asked.

  “Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Actually, I was premed myself, back in college. Before I came to my senses, that is.”

  I had a feeling he’d dropped that little tidbit in there to impress me, maybe because he knew I was a science jock myself. The maneuver struck me as something right out of Marcus Scruggs’s Guide to Picking Up Babes. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have given a guy like this the satisfaction of sounding impressed or even interested. But it turns out those pretty pink drinks with the paper umbrellas do a lot more than quench a person’s thirst.

  “A jack-of-all-trades, huh?” I commented.

  “I manage,” he replied, grinning. “But, hey, I don’t want to talk about work. It’s after hours. Let’s talk about all the fun things you plan on doing while you’re on Maui.”

  I glanced at my watch. As if on cue, the bartender appeared. “Another drink?” he asked me.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got to be going.” Finding myself shooting the breeze with a strange man in a bar was an indication that one drink was more than enough.

  “So soon?” My date looked genuinely disappointed. “What about the person you said you were waiting for?”

  “He’s probably so busy snorkeling he lost track of the time.”

  “But you haven’t even told me your name.”

  I hesitated. “Jessica.”

  “Jessica,” he repeated. “Pretty name for a pretty lady. And I’m Graham. Graham Warner.” Solemnly he stuck out his h
and, and I shook it. “Pleased to meet you. And I hope it’s not for the last time.”

  “It probably is.” Sliding off my bar stool, I pointedly told him, “My boyfriend and I will be pretty busy while we’re here, between the convention and all the touristy things we plan to do.”

  “Ah. A boyfriend.” He pondered the fact that I was already attached for about three seconds before saying, “I’m really good at working around boyfriends.”

  That was my wake-up call, especially since, once again, it sounded exactly like something Marcus would say. What are you doing wasting your time on this creep? I thought. Especially when Nick is probably upstairs in the room at this very moment, waiting for you with champagne and an apology?

  My blood was suddenly boiling, despite the cooling effects of the mai tai. “I see that when you packed up your computer and your textbooks, you also brought along your sleaziness.”

  He just laughed. “Touché. But before you run off, let me give you some advice.”

  I looked at him coolly.

  “That flower in your hair?”

  Automatically I reached up and touched the fragile blossom. “What about it?”

  “It’s on the wrong side,” he said with a crooked half smile.

  “Excuse me?”

  “If you’re already taken, you’re supposed to wear it on the left side of your head. If you’re in the market, you wear it on your right.” Grinning, he added, “Can’t blame a guy for hitting on you when you’re blatantly advertising your availability.”

  “Thanks for the lesson in Polynesian culture,” I returned. I yanked the flower out of my hair and dropped it into his drink. “Enjoy.”

  Much to my annoyance, I could hear him snickering as I stalked off.

  As I crossed the lobby and headed toward the elevators, I chastised myself for talking to strangers, especially in a bar. What were you thinking? I asked myself, wondering why on earth I’d wasted my time talking to a jerk like that.

  I had almost reached the bank of elevators across from the front desk when a loud voice interrupted my self-flagellation. “You’ve got to be kidding!” someone shouted. “You charged us for that?”

  I turned to see what was going on. Me and just about everybody else in the cavernous lobby.

  I was surprised to see that the outraged voice belonged to someone I knew, or at least recognized. I moved closer to the front desk, where John Irwin, Governor Wickham’s redheaded aide, stood. He was decked out in a suit and tie and shiny black shoes. The man on the other side of the desk, the person he was arguing with, was a distraught-looking older gentleman in an aloha shirt.

  “Okay, okay, so that’s a legitimate expense,” John Irwin grumbled. “But what about this one, down here? You’re charging us for bottled water? We told you up front we didn’t need any.”

  “Mr. Irwin, I have your original order right here,” the hotel employee said in a strained but polite voice. “If you’d just take a moment to look it over, you’ll see that every item you were charged for is something you specifically requested.”

  I hovered near the front desk, listening as Irwin begrudgingly let himself be convinced that he hadn’t been ripped off at the press conference here at the hotel two days earlier. When he finally turned to leave, I planted myself in front of him.

  “Mr. Irwin?” I began.

  He peered at me suspiciously. “Do I know you?”

  “I was a friend of Marnie Burton’s.”

  “Who?”

  “The reporter from the Maui Dispatch who was murdered.”

  “Oh, yeah. Tough break.”

  He brushed past me, walking away so quickly I had to jog to keep up with him.

  “Mr. Irwin?” I called after him.

  “What now?”

  He cast me an icy look, but at least he slowed down enough that I was able to walk next to him.

  “Could I talk to you about Marnie for just a minute?”

  “What for?” he replied impatiently. “I barely knew her.”

  I took a deep breath, gearing up for something I hoped wouldn’t turn out to be a huge mistake. “She seemed to think you had it out for her.”

  “Ridiculous,” he returned, barely glancing in my direction. “Like I just said, I hardly knew her.”

  The wall he’d put up was so thick I practically needed X-ray vision to make eye contact with the man. A tidal wave of anger rose up inside me, the result of his dismissive attitude.

  I decided to challenge him, just to see what kind of reaction I’d get.

  “She claimed you pushed her at the governor’s press conference here the other day.”

  That got his attention. He stopped and turned to face me, his steely blue-gray eyes boring into mine. “What?” he demanded angrily.

  “I was with her at the press conference that was held here at the hotel a few hours before she was murdered,” I said, struggling to keep my voice calm. “She fell and hit her head on a flowerpot, and she told me it was because you shoved her. Right afterward, I brought her to my room to put ice on her bruise. It was pretty severe. In fact, I was afraid she’d gotten a concussion.”

  He suddenly loomed so close that his nose was nearly touching mine. “Are you saying you think I had something to do with that kid’s murder?”

  I didn’t flinch. Instead, I stared right back at him, eye to eye. “I’m saying she said you shoved her the day she was killed. She and I talked about it afterward. She told me your name. That’s how I knew who you were.”

  He stepped back suddenly, almost as if he were performing a dance step. But any semblance to anything the least bit lighthearted was canceled out by the way he pointed at me menacingly with one finger.

  “Listen to me. I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you’d better be careful about making accusations. Maybe you’re too dumb to know it, but you’re playing with fire.”

  “Are you speaking personally or as the governor’s spokesperson?” I shot back.

  “Just watch it,” he hissed, leaning forward so that I could feel his hot breath on my ear. “If I were you, I’d mind my own business.”

  He turned and stalked away, his expensive-looking shoes squeaking against the tile floor.

  Nice guy, I thought, following him with my eyes until he passed through the front entrance and disappeared.

  I told myself I’d done the right thing by testing his reaction when I mentioned Marnie Burton’s name, as well as the incident that had occurred here in the hotel. And his reaction—a threat—had been pretty revealing.

  You got what you wanted, I told myself.

  But as I strode toward the elevators with my head held high, I felt anything but satisfied.

  In my head, I replayed Marnie’s claim that John Irwin had purposely knocked her over. At the time, I’d thought she was imagining things.

  Yet now that I’d seen for myself what kind of person he was, I wondered if there might be some history between them that had caused him to react to her so strongly. I felt a wave of frustration that there was so much I didn’t know—and that, as an outsider, I was guaranteed to have a hard time understanding. But I suddenly felt as if I couldn’t rule out the possibility that the governor’s aide might have had something to do with her murder.

  Which was probably the reason that, as I pressed the up button, my hand was shaking.

  “Nick?” I called as I let myself into my hotel room with my key card.

  I desperately hoped I’d find him in the room. It didn’t matter to me in the least that, at last report, he and I were barely speaking. After my unpleasant exchange with John Irwin, I needed him.

  Unfortunately, my fantasy that he was waiting for me, prepared to eat crow and drink champagne, turned out to be nothing more than that: a fantasy. The room was empty.

  I sank onto the bed, suddenly exhausted and overwhelmed. Too much had happened that day, and none of it had put me any closer to understanding why Marnie Burton was murdered—and by who.

  When t
he phone rang, I jumped up and grabbed it.

  “Nick?” I cried, anxious to hear his voice and know that at least I wasn’t alone.

  I didn’t hear anything.

  “Nick?” I repeated.

  Still nothing.

  “Hello. Hello?”

  When I heard a rush of air, a noise that sounded like someone breathing, I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or perturbed.

  And then, click.

  The phone suddenly felt like a hot potato. I dropped it on the bed, my heart thumping in my chest and my dry mouth suddenly tasting of metal.

  Somebody is trying to find out if I’m here in the room.

  I froze at the barely audible sound of scratching at the door. It took me a few seconds to realize that someone was struggling with the lock, trying to get in.

  Oh, my God! I thought, my mind racing wildly. The intruder! He’s back!

  Fighting the wave of panic that was quickly rushing over me, I whipped my head around, desperately searching for a weapon. Surely a fully equipped luxury hotel room had to come with something more treacherous than a fluffy white robe or a tiny plastic bottle of hibiscus-scented shampoo.

  And then I spotted it, tucked away discreetly on the closet shelf. A harsh reminder of the demands of real life, the kind of thing a tourist hotel in a tourist destination would want to keep out of sight unless it was really, truly needed.

  An iron.

  It was metal, it was heavy, and it was capable of causing a lot of damage if used properly. I grabbed it off the shelf, gripped it tightly in both hands.

  I positioned myself right inside the door, holding the iron high above my head, ready to strike. Then I held my breath as the door to the room finally swung open.

  Chapter 7

  “What counts is not necessarily the size of the dog in the fight—it’s the size of the fight in the dog.”