It’s true I have a little something invested in Marnie Burton’s murder, I thought. Especially since I’m convinced I could be the murderer’s next target. But excuse me for being compulsive about it….
“What about it?” I said calmly, deciding to act like a grown-up, or at least give my best imitation of one.
Nick sighed. “I realize that when it comes to that particular subject, I may have come across as kind of an ogre in the past. Especially on this trip.” Wearing a lopsided grin, he pushed up the hair on both sides of his head, right over his ears. “Take a look. Have I sprouted those funny-shaped horn things?”
“I’ve definitely seen signs of horniness,” I replied seriously, “but not on your head.”
“Good. At least things haven’t gotten that far.” He dropped his arms to his sides and sighed. “Look, Jess, it’s not that I don’t want to support you in anything you decide to do. I admire your strength and your initiative and your intelligence and…and all those other things that make me love you.
“But, honestly, murder?” he continued. “Is there anything more dangerous? I mean, you’ve gotten involved in three or four investigations over the last year or so, and each time you’ve come really close to getting seriously hurt—or worse. Do you have any idea how it makes me feel, knowing that you keep getting into such horrific situations and that you’re bringing it all on yourself?”
I could feel my defensiveness slipping away. Logic like that was hard to argue with. Nick was absolutely right. When it came to murder, I did seem to have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And more than once, I’d found myself in a life-threatening situation. I had no one to blame but myself—and my dogged determination to find out who had committed such heinous crimes.
Nick reached over and took my hand again. “Jess, just think of how you’d react if Max or Cat or Prometheus, or let’s say a friend like Betty, ever got into a situation like some of the scrapes you’ve been in—”
“Stop!” I cried. He was right. The very idea of someone I really loved, be it a human, canine, feline, or avian friend, becoming involved in any of the nightmare-inducing scenarios I’d found myself in over the past fourteen months was enough to freeze every drop of blood in my body.
“You’re right, Nick,” I said, squeezing his hand. “I never really stopped to think about how all this affects you.”
He took a deep breath. “That said, I’ve decided that you are who you are. And that I should stop making things even more difficult for you and do whatever I can to support you. And to help you. After all, you have to do what you think is right. I know I’ll never be able to keep myself from worrying about you—or wishing you’d stop—but I can work a little harder at helping you.” Grinning, he added, “Or at least supply you with all the Chinese food you need to recharge after a long, trying day.”
I blinked, still half-expecting a punch line that would totally contradict what he’d just said. None came.
“Thanks, Nick,” I finally said. My voice sounded oddly husky. “That means a lot to me. And I want you to know that I never intended to spoil our vacation. I really wanted it to be great.”
“And it’s been great,” he replied. “I mean, come on: Hawaii? How could that not be great? Besides, it’s time for one of the best parts of every vacation.”
“What’s that?” I asked, puzzled.
“It’s time to go to bed.”
Finally, the two of us were on the same page.
Chapter 8
“There are two means of refuge from the misery of life—music and cats.”
—Albert Schweitzer
Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Nick offered early the next morning. “I don’t want you to think I didn’t mean what I said last night, about being helpful.”
The two of us were lounging on our hotel room’s lanai, sipping Hawaiian coffee and gorging on fluffy banana pancakes doused with the wonderfully ubiquitous coconut syrup I feared I was becoming addicted to. Of course, I was fully aware that I was also becoming addicted to smelling sweet, fragrant flowers wherever I went, wearing footwear that allowed my toes along with the rest of my body to enjoy the breeze, and basking in the sunshine even though the calendar insisted it was January—all dangerous habits for someone whose real life was based in the Northeast.
“Thanks, but I really think I have a better chance of pulling this off if I’m alone,” I told him. While I was fairly confident about my acting abilities, my mission for that morning—pretending to be Marnie’s sister in an attempt to gain access to her apartment—struck me as something that would be easier without an audience.
“In that case,” Nick asked, “do you mind if I do some hiking in the Haleakala crater today, the way I planned?”
“Nope. Go for it. We can meet back here in the room later this afternoon.” I hesitated before adding, “Nick? Thanks.”
“Just be safe, okay?” He took me in his arms and held me for a very long time.
Knowing I could count on him for support as I forged ahead with my investigation of Marnie Burton’s murder gave me a newfound sense of strength, not to mention determination. As soon as I kissed him good-bye and sent him on his way, armed with a hat, hiking shoes, drinking water and a large bottle of sunblock, I set to work preparing for my morning’s outing. I folded up my canvas tote bag so I could carry it into Marnie’s place without anyone noticing. Then I stopped at the front desk to ask directions to the address I’d found on the electric bill in her desk, climbed into my rented Jeep, and took off for Paia, a former sugar town on the island’s northern coast that had also been Marnie’s home here on Maui.
When I checked the map beside me on the front seat, I saw that Paia was located just east of Kahului Airport. It was also near Kanaha Beach Park, where Marnie’s body had been found. Still, as I coasted into town, I tried to think about the time she had spent living here, not the fact that she had died just a few miles away.
I was instantly charmed. Paia’s few streets housed an eclectic mix of the old and the new. I spotted a health-food store, an Internet café, an arts-and-crafts cooperative, and a store specializing in products made with hemp. I also saw a mom-and-pop grocery store, a fish market, and a hardware store that looked as if it hadn’t updated its inventory since 1973.
While Marnie’s personality hadn’t exactly fit in with the town’s mellowness, I could understand why she had chosen to live here. Paia offered all the conveniences of life in the twenty-first century, but its one-and two-story wooden buildings still reflected its origins—even though many of the facades had been painted bright colors like purple, orange, and turquoise.
The small apartment complex in which she’d lived, Palm Breezes Court, was at the end of a quiet residential street at the edge of town. Six or eight squat wooden buildings were packed onto a modest-size square of land, giving them the appearance of a housing project rather than homes for up-and-coming professionals. Then again, Holly Gruen had told me herself that the Dispatch didn’t pay its reporters all that well.
I parked the Jeep halfway down the block, not wanting to call attention to the fact that I was snooping. Then I strolled back casually, double-checking the electric bill to make sure I had the apartment number right.
I found her apartment easily. It was in back, with a view of what looked like the rain forest. I could hear the roosters that live all over the Hawaiian Islands crowing, and I wondered how anybody could get any sleep with their windows open.
Stepping onto the three-foot-by-three-foot concrete square that served as the front porch, I glanced from side to side, making sure no one was around. And then, my heart pounding as loudly as the drum accompanying a Samoan war dance, I put my hand on the doorknob and tried to turn it.
It didn’t budge.
I just stood there, wondering what on earth I’d been thinking. Did I really believe Hawaii was so laid back that I’d be able to waltz into a near stranger’s apartment—a near stranger who also
happened to be a murder victim, no less?
I was considering bonking myself on the forehead and yelping “Doh!” Homer Simpson–style, when I heard, “Can I help you with something?”
The unexpected sound of a human voice made me whirl around in surprise. Behind me stood a slender Asian-American woman, probably no more than thirty. She was dressed in a beige business suit and black high heels, and her straight black hair was primly pulled back into a bun. She was not only wearing dark red lipstick; she also had matching nails that were long enough and sharp enough that I immediately ascertained she was someone I wouldn’t want to tangle with.
Figuring she had to be an authority figure, I decided to take a wild guess. “Are you the landlady?”
A look of annoyance flickered across her face. “I work for the property management company, if that’s what you mean. And you are…?”
“Marnie Burton was my sister. She lived in this apartment.”
She looked startled, but only a moment passed before her stern businesswoman-on-the-rise look returned. “Do you have any ID?” she asked crisply.
“Of course.” Without hesitation, I opened my purse and retrieved my New York State driver’s license.
She glanced at it, then at me. “Your name isn’t Burton.”
“Popper is my married name.”
“I see.” She handed my license back to me. Even though neither of us was about to admit that we’d accomplished absolutely nothing by that little exchange, she pretended to be satisfied that I was who I said I was, now that I’d actually produced a government-issued document with my photo on it.
“I suppose you heard about what happened to my sister,” I said, anxious not to lose the little momentum I’d gained.
“Of course,” she replied flatly. “What a tragedy. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. I flew out here as soon as I heard. As you can imagine, there are so many things to settle. One of them is shipping my sister’s things back to our parents’ house in Ellensburg. That’s in Washington State.”
I added that last part about Marnie’s hometown to sound as if I knew what I was talking about. Realistically, I figured this employee of the property-management company probably didn’t have the slightest idea where Marnie was from.
So I had to force myself not to show my surprise when she replied, “Sure. She mentioned that was where she grew up. I’m from Tacoma myself.” I guess our little talk about common geography softened her a bit, because she added, “By the way, I’m Amy Inoke.”
“Pleased to meet you, Amy,” I returned, marveling over how good I was becoming at fooling people. I turned back to the front door of the apartment and sighed. “I was hoping I’d find her place unlocked, which is stupid, of course. But I don’t have a key.”
“I can let you in.” She hesitated, then added, “I’d need you to sign some forms, of course.”
“Of course.” Given how promising things were looking, I was ready to sign anything.
“If you’ll just give me a minute…”
I waited no more than five, keeping busy by watching a tiny green gecko scramble up and down a pale pink stucco wall. To me, it was more engrossing than watching TV.
When Amy returned, she was carrying a clipboard. “If you’ll just sign here and here…”
I wrote my real name on all the dotted lines without worrying too much about what I was agreeing to. It did occur to me, however, that it would be great if Nick could get himself through law school a little faster. Despite my initial resistance to him joining what I considered a questionable trade at best, more and more I was coming to realize that having a lawyer around might not be such a bad thing.
“There we go,” I told Amy, confidently handing back the clipboard with my John Hancock scrawled all over it.
I expected her to hand over the key, turn on her treacherously high heel, and hurry off to do something useful like hassle the other tenants. Instead, she unlocked the door herself and walked in, stepping to one side to let me in.
“Thanks,” I said, flashing her a smile. Underneath my calm facade, however, I was wondering how I’d ever manage to do the snooping I so desperately wanted to do with her watching me. “Uh, do you think I could get a copy of the key? I’m going to have to get some boxes and tape, then come back. I just wanted to check the place out to see how many I’ll need.”
“Are your parents coming too?” Amy asked.
I opened my mouth without having yet decided what words would be coming out of it just as her cell phone emitted an annoying little song.
“Sorry,” she told me, without sounding at all sorry. “I’ve got to get this.”
“Feel free. I’ll just look around.”
I stepped into the apartment, finding myself in a good-size living room with sliding glass doors along the back wall. They opened onto a small concrete lanai, with a grassy area just beyond. The bedroom was on the left and the tiny kitchen was on the right. The rooms were sparsely furnished, with a sagging couch, an unmade double bed, a few low tables, and a small TV on a plastic milk crate.
I was immediately struck by the fact that Marnie’s apartment reflected the same sense of chaos I’d felt by just talking to her. The sink was filled with dishes soaking in cloudy gray water, and mounds of unopened junk mail littered the kitchen counter. Her discarded clothes were strewn everywhere. A kimono-style bathrobe lay in a heap on the floor next to her bed, a bathing suit had been tossed over the towel rack in the bathroom, and a T-shirt was balled up in one corner of the couch.
The disorderliness carried over to her work area. Her laptop sat on a cheap-looking table with a Formica top designed to look like wood. It was surrounded by disheveled piles of paper, manila file folders, articles clipped from newspapers, pens without their tops, pads of brightly colored Post-its, and all the other paraphernalia of a home office.
But I also spotted signs of her love for her new island home. Half a dozen copies of Hawaii Magazine sat in a stack on the floor next to the TV. Through the open bedroom door, I could see a neon lamp made of green and yellow tubes that formed the outline of a palm tree. The walls of both the living room and the bedroom were decorated with travel posters featuring the islands’ beaches, sunsets, and palm trees.
I was still taking in my surroundings when I heard a high-pitched cry. Instinctively, I jerked my head around. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought there was a cat in the apartment.
It was a cat, I discovered. A coal-black cat with large golden eyes had sneaked up behind me. He was looking up at me questioningly, and from the plaintive tone of his voice he seemed to be asking, “Would somebody please tell me what’s going on here?”
“You poor little guy!” I cooed. I crouched down and waited for him to approach me, which is never a bad idea with an animal you don’t know, including cats. He came right over and started rubbing against my legs. I wasn’t surprised he was so hungry for human interaction, since he’d probably been completely on his own for three days. Which also meant he was undoubtedly hungry in other ways too.
“I’ll get you some water and something to eat,” I assured him in a soft voice, reaching down and stroking his soft black fur. He looked at me gratefully with his huge yellow eyes and mewed.
I noticed then that he wore a bright blue metal ID tag around his neck. It was etched with Marnie’s phone number, as well as his name. Moose. His name implied that his kittenhood had been spent in Washington, rather than Hawaii. At least, if the availability of the animal that had served as his namesake was any indication. And that meant he had accompanied Marnie on her transoceanic trek, serving as her sidekick as she moved to a new place to embark upon the new life she so desperately wanted for herself.
“If you look at your lease,” I could hear Amy barking into her cell phone, “you’ll see that’s not at all what it says.”
Her sharp voice reminded me why I was here—and that I had to work quickly. She would be coming into the apartment any moment now, and my cla
im that I was about to become one of UPS’s best customers aside, I knew that I’d never have the chance to come back here again. I suspected that Marnie’s real relatives were winging their way across the Pacific Ocean at this very moment, bracing themselves for the heartwrenching experience of sorting through their deceased daughter’s possessions.
For all I knew, they could show up at any minute.
I hadn’t even had the chance to step into the bedroom before I heard Amy saying, “Why don’t you call me back after you’ve had a chance to look at it.” My heart sank when I turned and saw her standing right outside the front door, still clutching her phone as if loosening her grip on it just a tad might prove fatal.
“I’ve got to make a few more calls,” she told me apologetically. “Sorry.”
“No problem,” I assured her, thinking, Yes! Let’s hear it for cell phones!
It was only then I noticed that the expression on her face was stricken.
“What,” she asked deliberately, “is that?”
My first response was to feel guilty. I assumed she’d just realized that I’d brought along a large empty tote bag and that somehow she’d figured out my intention to fill it with items I really had no right to take. But a second later I realized I wasn’t the one in trouble; it was my four-legged friend.
“It looks like my sister had a cat,” I replied. Trying to soften the blow of what she clearly perceived as bad news, I added, “His name is Moose.”
“No animals allowed!” she shot back shrilly. “That’s specifically stated in the lease.”
Great, I thought grimly. Now I’m going to be fined for my imaginary sister’s transgression.
But what mattered to me even more was the little guy’s future.
“I’ll take him with me,” I promised, hoping that would get all three of us—Marnie, Moose, and me—off the hook.
“You’re darned right you will,” Amy barked. And then she turned her back and began punching a number in to her cell phone.
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