Beachboy Murder

by Sally J. Smith

  They stopped in front of me, simultaneously flipping up their clip-on shades.

  Lana draped the lei over his head and pecked him on the cheek.

  Freddy turned, flipped his clip-ons back down, spread his arms, and announced. "Hey, man, how about that? I got leied at Aloha Lagoon Resort."

  His wife, Dolly, laughed as she got "leied" herself.

  With all the members of the group now heading up to their rooms to freshen up before their helicopter tour, Koma took the bus to gas it up.

  I hooked arms with Lana as we walked into the resort and headed for my small office just past the concierge desk. "Thanks for that sweet welcome today."

  "Sure," she said. "You aren't really going to sell the travel agency, are you? I mean it seems like you just got here. And you're thinking about leaving already?"

  She sounded stressed, and for some odd reason that made me feel good, made me feel like she didn't want me to leave, like maybe I really did belong here.

  "We'll see," was all I could say. I didn't know what the outcome would be. "For all I know once they see how things are around here, they may not even make an offer to buy it."

  "Buy what?" Rick Dawson, the reason my heart fluttered on occasion, stood leaning against the wall by the door to Gabby's Island Adventures. He was dressed in his signature uniform—jeans, boat shoes, and the royal blue polo shirt with his logo hummingbird and Rick's Air Paradise embroidered above the pocket. He must have gotten some recent sun. His skin was golden, making his eyes shine like blue ice. He straightened away from the wall as we walked up, and slipped an arm around my waist, pulling me against him and kissing the top of my head. His scent, Old Spice and fresh island breeze, and the irresistible combination of his golden good looks and unmistakable virility definitely kept a girl on her toes but in a good way.

  Inside the phone was ringing, and Lana went to answer it.

  "Buy the travel agency. Lana was just asking me if I was really going to sell out to Janet's bosses."

  While the shift wasn't overt enough for me to be sure, I thought I felt a hint of his pulling back a little. "And what did you tell her?"

  "That it was all up in the air, that I didn't know if they'd even want the place."

  "Why wouldn't they want it? Gabby's Island Adventures is aces. You're the tops, Toots." His tone was frank, matter-of-fact. "You've even made my business profitable since you took over my bookings."

  "You're biased, Dawson. You do have a business interest here yourself."

  He moved his arm up from my waist and put his warm hand on the back of my neck. "My interest isn't all business, Princess. You get the notion to up and leave Kauai, and I'm gonna be one lonesome flyboy." I looked up at him, and a blue veil of yearning dropped over me, making me weak in the knees. It never failed to amaze me that a good-natured rascal like Rick Dawson found something in me that fit hand-in-glove with something in him.

  We walked into the travel agency where Lana was already on the phone, and Ace Garrison, the other chopper pilot for Rick's Air Paradise, sat in one of the director-style chairs with his feet propped up in another.

  Ace was a good-looking black man with a closely shaven head. In his late forties or early fifties, he was trim and fit. He reminded me of Eddie Murphy, both in looks and in the way he laughed whenever something tickled his funny bone. It was a big infectious sound that burst out from deep inside him like the blast of a horn or the bray of a donkey. Ace was dressed exactly like Rick.

  "Hey, Gabby." Ace dropped his feet out of the chair, stood, and gave me a brief, platonic hug. "How's every little thing?"

  "Every little thing is great." I pulled back, looking between the two men. "If you're both here, who's getting Stella and old Bessie prepped for the afternoon group?" Stella and Bessie were Rick's two helos.

  Rick shrugged, snagged two of the pineapple coconut mini muffins off the coffee stand, and tossed one to Ace. "Still mindin' two stores, I see—yours and mine." But he winked when he said it. When I'd first come to the island, my constant micromanaging had been a source of contention between the two of us. These days I made a concentrated effort to avoid that behavior, and he tended to overlook it if I slipped. "Left a mechanic at the airfield to get the girls ready to fly. It'll all be sweet and smooth for your potential suckers, Princess. Don't worry."

  "Suckers, Rick? Really?"

  "Well, you know. They say one's born every minute according to P. T. Barnum. That was back in the mid-nineteenth century though, and the way things are these days with so many different ways to scam people, there might be fifty suckers born every minute."

  "But you aren't planning to scam us, are you, Miss LeClair?"

  I whipped around to see Hershel Goldberg and his pretty blonde wife, Sarah, from the consortium. My thoughts returned to a childhood memory of having gone to my first (and only) synagogue service with my then BFF Leah Silverstein. Hershel Goldberg, with the wild and woolly hair, looked exactly like the rabbi who'd solemnly read from the Torah that Saturday morning.

  The couple stood in the doorway to the travel agency. Janet stood behind them, looking dismayed.

  Thinking what unfortunate timing Rick had, I hurried to say, "Of course not. Rick was just—"

  "—kidding around. You know just teasing her," Rick interrupted smoothly, stepping forward, his hand extended toward Hershel. "Rick Dawson. Rick's Air Paradise, and that big fella over there is Ace Garrison. We'll be piloting the birds taking you around the island today."

  He shook hands with Hershel as he dropped a playful wink in Janet's direction. "Hey, Janet. Good to see you"—then back to Hershel—"and you are?"

  Hershel introduced himself and his pretty wife who was busy sizing up Rick like he was a piece of prime steak. "I'm afraid you won't be my pilot today," she said.

  "Oh?" Rick and I said in unison.

  "My wife doesn't do helicopters." There was no small amount of scorn in Hershel's tone. "She's of the ridiculous opinion that they tend to drop out of the sky like dead weight."

  Rick's eyebrows went up when he turned to Sarah, but his manner was kind as he reached for her hand, patting it. "Oh, no, Mrs. Goldberg—Sarah, was it?—our whirlybirds are Eco-Star—sweet ladies with lots of power and a whole slew of five-star safety ratings from the FAA. You'll be as safe with us as in your mama's arms." There wasn't even a nuance of condescension in either his voice or touch.

  But Sarah Goldberg was already shaking her head and pulling away. She sounded like a three-year-old. "No. I won't go. I can't go." She even stomped one of her high-end shoes. "I'm staying here."

  Janet stepped in smoothly. "That's no problem. I'll find something fun for us girls to do. You can go on with the others, Hershel. Sarah and I will have a great time. There are lots of ways to keep ourselves entertained here at Aloha Lagoon. Aren't there, Gabby?"

  Her eyes were bright, her voice a bit more shrill than normal, and I could tell she was trying to smooth potentially troubled waters, so I slid in. "How about we catch the Talk Story Hour? It's fun and interesting, and your feet never leave the ground. It's right before the cocktail reception hour. We can meet here at four and walk over together."

  Sarah smiled, but I could tell she wasn't actually amused. "Sure," she said. "Why not?"

  "I'll go to the story hour, too, then," Hershel said.

  Janet turned to him, hands aflutter. "Oh, Hershel, no. I've taken the circle island air tour several times in the past. It's just breathtaking. You really will love—"

  He held up a hand. "I said I'll go to the stories too."

  And that, as they say, was that.

  Rick, never one to see the down side, said, "Okay, that'll free up some elbow room for the others."

  He turned toward me, two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. "I'll be out front when your group gets ready, Princess."

  Janet gave me a look and mouthed, Princess?

  I pretended I hadn't seen her, but my cheeks burned, and she was sure to know I had.

  "
Don't forget about tonight." Rick went on. He dropped a quick kiss on my cheek, and, not for the first time, I was momentarily distracted with thoughts of flying away in one of his gorgeous helicopters to a remote location where we could just sit together and watch the sun dip into the ocean, hold hands, and be one of mind and spirit. He had that effect on me.

  I sighed. The sound of all three phone lines ringing simultaneously pulled me back to the workaday reality of owning my own business. No matter what my vagabond hero said, schedules had to be maintained, livelihoods had to be earned—even in paradise.

  As I answered one of the ringing lines—"Gabby's Island Adventures. Can you please hold a moment?"—

  Rick ducked into my line of sight—"See ya later, alligator."—and walked out.

  Ace walked out with him. "After a while, crocodile." I glanced up to see him wink and lift his chin toward Janet. Janet gave him a slow wink back and blew him a kiss.

  "What's that about?" I asked before going back to the phone call.

  Janet waggled her eyebrows, mouthed the word hot, and made a gesture like she'd touched something that burned her. Her cell phone rang, and she answered it, moving away so her phone conversation wouldn't interfere with mine.

  By the time I hung up with the nice lady from Room 210 who had it in mind to take her college-age granddaughter on an ATV island tour to the waterfalls, Janet was hovering by the door.

  "I'm going upstairs to shower and change for the evening," she said. "I just had a call from Chelsea Westport."

  I frowned. "Which one was she?"

  "You know the one who dresses like a diva but looks like a schoolmarm? The widow who was worried Koma was trying to jump her? She's my roommate."

  I nodded, remembering.

  "She doesn't want to take advantage of the helicopter tour either, so she'll be coming back downstairs with me to join us and the Goldbergs for the story hour. I'll meet you back here after a while." She waved a hand and added with a sarcastic tone, "Princess."

  CHAPTER THREE

  The afternoon story hour was wrapping up. It had been a charming tale of the Menehune, those rascally little Hawaiian people credited with a lot of the amazing things that happened on the islands back in the day. Wrapping it up, Ona, the Talk Story Lady, leaned forward conspiratorially from the big rattan fanback chair and lowered her voice.

  "Okay, sure, we call it the Menehune Ditch, but it's more than a ditch. The little people?" She paused, eyebrows raised, and looked at her audience. "They built it to help the farmers bring water from the Waimea River to the taro fields. It's a beautiful thing this Menehune Ditch—the workmanship is so fine, just like everything the little people put their hands to. But all things get old and sometimes need work. Even the Menehune Ditch. It's the way of the world. So the people tell me that now and then, if you're really, really quiet and happen to be in the right spot on a beautiful island night, maybe you're gonna hear those Menehune talking, laughing, and singing while they work. Those little rascals—they're still out there." She stopped talking, looked around, and brushed her hands together like a Vegas blackjack dealer at the end of her shift. "And that's Talk Story for today. I'll be here tomorrow, spinning you another island tale. Mahalo and aloha."

  The Talk Story tales were told in soft, intimate tones in such a way, it made one feel as if long-held, treasured secrets were being revealed. Ona had once explained to me something about the stories made it irresistible for her to use the slightly clipped, musical island accent she'd copied from her mother and grandmother, both of whom had also been keepers of island legends before her.

  Ona Hale, the Talk Story Lady, looked like every mainlander's idea of a mature island woman, and she cultivated it for her job at Aloha Lagoon. Her hair was half black, half grey. I'd been told it hung almost to her waist, but I'd only ever seen it braided and pinned to the back of her head where she wreathed it in fragrant, tropical flowers or ti leaves. The traditional ankle-length loose-hanging muumuu was her costume of choice.

  She was a fireplug of a woman at about a hundred eighty pounds and a height of only about five feet. Her plump face and rounded island features made her appear as if she was always smiling whether she was or not. She was lovely.

  Sarah and Chelsea had begged to be introduced to Ona, so Janet took them to the cocktail reception while I waited for Ona to finish greeting guests who'd gathered around to speak to her or get a quick selfie.

  She turned and saw me. "Miss Gabby, aloha."

  "Auntie Ona." I still had trouble calling a woman I barely knew "auntie," but she'd insisted, explaining it branded me a non-islander to forego using the island term for a woman of that certain age. "Good story today." I submitted to a fierce hug as she wrapped her short, plump arms around me and squeezed. "A few of my VIP guests have asked to meet you. Do you have time?"

  "You betcha, sistah."

  Ona fell into step beside me. While I'd never really considered myself much of a speed-walker, Ona complained of weak knees and walked with a cane, a beautiful piece carved out of koa wood with a heavy knob as its head. It was polished to a high sheen with small bits of inlaid scrimshaw. She leaned on it heavily and had trouble keeping up, so I matched my pace to hers.

  "So, Miss Gabby, I figure to see you later at the House of Faith big deal blowout. Mistah Bobby, my bruddah, he say you and your handsome flyboy, Rick, are going to come."

  "We are. It's a great cause. Rick put up a half-day's worth of airtime to auction, and we're offering the travel agency shuttle for a party bus for one night."

  Ona was Bobby Pukui's sister and real-life aunt to my employees, Lana and Koma Pukui. The House of Faith Chapel where Bobby served as pastor was hosting a fundraiser that evening to benefit the orphanage they sponsored.

  Rick was coming to pick me up later, and I was jazzed about spending the evening with him. Just knowing I'd see him later relaxed me.

  Rick Dawson. One of a kind. And I was happy as a clam that kind had turned out to be my kind.

  Until Rick joined the army where he'd honed his pilot skills flying medevac helicopters, he'd been a California boy who'd grown up in foster homes—so different from my two-income, everything handed to me childhood in the Chicago suburb of Elmhurst. He was smart, levelheaded, and solid as a concrete slab. The twinkle in his cool blue eyes and the quirk of his mouth were the signs that there wasn't a lot in life Rick took all that seriously. It had taken a while to get used to his humor, but once I did, I fell for the guy, as he would say—hook, line, and sinker. With a slow hand and gentle persuasion, he'd teased and coaxed me from behind the protective shell of my rigid mainlander schedule and strictly business attitude into a more unguarded and relaxed existence. Well, most of the time.

  Bit by bit between Rick and the Pukui twins, my employees, Koma and Lana, I was learning how to live life beyond office hours. I didn't kid myself. There were still way too many moments of sheer, choking, heart-thumping panic when I doubted my ability to run my own company and would revert to a clock-watching, detail-obsessing jitterbug. But lately, in the recesses of my mind, I could hear the soft murmur of palms swaying in flow of the Pineapple Express, and Rick's voice reminding me to chill out and deal, Princess.

  I'd been trying to do just that more and more.

  Hershel and Sarah Goldberg were seated outside on the Makai Terrace where the cocktail reception was held for the executive-level guests every evening from five to seven. The setup on the Makai Terrace was lovely, nestled in a garden area of lush leafy plants and tropical flowers ranging from birds-of-paradise to pikake. Comfortable wicker armchairs were set up around small cocktail tables. Soft island music played in the background.

  The Goldbergs seemed to be engaged in intense conversation. She frowned under her blonde bangs, and he pulled at his frizzy hair. They had the grace to put it aside and smile when I walked up with Ona.

  I introduced Ona to Sarah and Hershel first, then to Janet and Chelsea who'd walked up and sat down at the table with them.


  A hosted bar for wine and soft drinks was at one end, where my friend Casey, one of the resort's studly bartenders who normally worked at The Lava Pot, was mixing drinks for half-price. I went to get Ona a cocktail. It was the least I could do since she was taking the time to entertain my guests.

  "Hey, Casey."

  His back was to me while he polished glasses with a soft bar towel. He turned around and switched on that great smile, those big blue eyes lighting up. "Hey, luv. How's she goin'?"

  "Not bad, Casey. Not working at The Lava Pot tonight, eh."

  "No. It's my night off at the bar. Sometimes I can pick up a few quid hanging out here, pouring wine, and mixing drinks for the pre-dinner crowd."

  "What do you think about mixing a drink for Ona?"

  "I think that's right up my alley, Gabby. And I know just what that special lady drinks." His accent made it sound like lydee. "Mai tais. Extra rum and extra fruit."

  It occurred to me that I liked extra fruit in mai tais too, but I just asked, "And a pinot grigio for me, please."

  When I carried the drinks back to the table, Mele, Ona's daughter, had joined the others.

  It was hard to imagine that Mele Hale was even distantly related to Ona. The two women looked nothing alike. In her late twenties, Mele was tall and straight like a birch tree. Her hair, long and gleaming, hung straight down her back almost to her waist. It was her best feature, as all the others were sort of mismatched—small nose, large mouth, her eyes narrow and downturned so she always looked sad. She worked at the resort gift shop.

  "Hi, Mele," I said.

  Her eyes shifted in my direction for a brief second before she looked back down at the floor and mumbled what I thought was, "Hello, Miss LeClair," in her squeaky little voice.

  Carrie Jorgenson, who must have been moonlighting from the Loco Moco, walked up balancing a tray of pupus, the light hors d'oeuvres served every night at the reception. It had definitely taken me a while to get used to that term as referring to something one puts in one's mouth.

  "Hi, Gabby," Carrie said. Carrie was one of my favorite waitresses at the Loco Moco. She was bright and friendly with a great welcoming smile and attitude. Too bad the entire world wasn't like that. "Can I offer you something?" She bent down and held the tray out so the three of us on the one side of the table—Janet, Chelsea Westport, and I—could consider her wares. Chelsea and Janet piled food onto their plates from a selection of coconut shrimp, spears of fresh fruit, and some of that yummy goat cheese from a creamery over on Oahu. I looked at the platter longingly but held off because I knew there would be offerings at the charity event later, and I didn't want to spoil my appetite.