Beachboy Murder

by Sally J. Smith

  "Where?"

  "She'd hired an Uber and gone to an all-night grocery store for her fix. Said she was too embarrassed to admit it when asked—but that's where she was. I don't have any doubt about it. Besides the damning evidence all over the bed this afternoon, there was the tell-take smear of chocolate Ding Dong around her mouth. I'd swear on my next visit to the dentist—that girl is a sugar addict, was binging that night, and wasn't anywhere near Val Markson."

  I finished her back and shoulders, and Janet went off in search of something cold to drink and, "someone hot to serve it to me."

  Hershel Goldberg still hadn't disembarked from the zodiac and sat, arms folded, looking impatient to be on his way back to the resort.

  I got up and walked over to where Sarah Goldberg sat paying more attention to her grumpy husband thirty yards away on the boat than to the warm day and exquisite scenery.

  "Didn't you have a nice time in the water?" I asked.

  She looked away from Hershel. "Oh, yes. Very nice."

  "And what about Hershel? Did he have a good time?"

  She chewed her lower lip before replying. "It's hard to tell with him."

  I looked over to where he was now drumming his fingers on the side of the boat. "Does he have somewhere to be?"

  "Matter of fact," she said ironically, "he does."

  "Speaking of going somewhere, Sarah," I broached the taboo subject. "One of the resort staff mentioned to me that you left the resort the night Val Markson was murdered and you didn't return until quite late."

  I stopped at that, waited, and watched.

  She didn't look away from the boat. In fact she raised a hand to shield her eyes so she could have a better view of it.

  She shook her head. "The resort staff must have been mistaken. I was with Hershel in our room all night long. Hershel will tell you the same thing."

  She looked at me with a calm expression and a small smile, picked up her towel, slipped her sandals back on, rose from the chair, and moved over beside Chelsea Westport who was holding court with the rest of the group as she went through some underwater digital photos she'd taken.

  I'd struck out with Sarah, but that didn't mean I couldn't come up to bat again.

  I trudged through the warm sand to the zodiac. "Sarah said you have somewhere you need to be."

  Hershel looked up at me. Impatience and boredom were written all over his face. "That I do, but I figure if we leave here pretty soon, I'll make it on time."

  "I don't think we'll be staying much longer." I sat on the side of the boat. "So the night of your arrival here on the island, do I remember you and Sarah telling me you opted to spend the evening in?"

  His eyes were on me, and I didn't like the feeling.

  "Yes. That's what we told you. That's what we both told you. Why are you asking again?" His tone was dark, and even in the bright sunshine and warm breeze a chill swept through me.

  I stood. "No reason really," I said. "Someone mentioned they saw you returning to the resort. I thought maybe the two of you had gone out, you know dinner or a club. I didn't want to recommend the same place. I'd like you all to fully experience all the island has to offer, not have to keep going to the same places over and over."

  His tone was dry. "Sure you do. But if you really want to keep me entertained, Miss LeClair, maybe you could mention to the boat pilot that we'd like to be heading back pretty darn soon."

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Once we arrived back at Aloha Lagoon resort, I tailed Hershel Goldberg so closely through the hotel you'd have thought someone was paying me to do it. Turned out that stuff you see on TV? That sneaky thing that actors make look so easy? Isn't. Not at all.

  But I got lucky. He was in such a hurry that he never even looked behind him, so he didn't see me.

  There were people in the lobby, people in the main corridor, and when he went outside and headed toward the bungalows, there were still a few people walking around here and there. I could stay fairly close, blend into the crowd, and not be seen. But once he closed in on the bungalow that he and Sarah had been assigned to, he was all by himself, and I had to hang back to avoid being spotted.

  After he went inside, I waited nearby, watching the door while I called Rick. I'd grown up a city girl and from my mom's paranoia knew that if it actually came down to it, even a smallish man like Hershel would be able to overcome weenie little old me. Having my fit-as-a-fiddle flyboy by my side would come in handy if something went wrong. Not only that, but Rick was so protective these days, he'd chew me up like a PB & J if he ever found out I was following Hershel away from resort property.

  "I'm on it," he said when he heard what I had planned.

  Forty minutes later when Hershel came out of his room, clean-shaven and dressed up in what GQ would have called resort casual, got in his rented Cadillac and drove off, Rick was waiting a few cars behind.

  I hopped in. "Hit it."

  He did, and we pulled out onto the main road, heading north a few cars behind Hershel Goldberg. For a man who'd been in such a hurry to be on his way, Hershel was operating his rental car like a man—as my dad would've said—out on a Sunday drive. But the drive north along the main road past Wailua to the North Shore was lovely and pastoral, especially in the dusky light of the early evening hours.

  I turned to Rick, appreciative of his strong profile. So blond, so masculine, the man could have been a Viking warrior, and I couldn't help fantasizing as to how he'd look in leathers and leggings and furs. He must have caught me looking at him out of the corner of his eye because he turned his head and winked, flashing me a smile that would have powered the Vegas strip.

  As always when caught in the ice blue temptation of his gaze, I was flustered. "Seriously," I stammered. "Thanks for this. It may turn out to be nothing."

  His attention went back to the road ahead. "But if it does, I got your six."

  "I know," I said. " You always do."

  "And I always will."

  I caught my breath, surprised at the strong emotion welling within me. Always?

  In the last light of day, we caught Hershel's white Caddy turning off onto a paved side road that led us to a gated property set on lush, manicured grounds. The dwelling was a massive concoction of angles and peaks, glass and wood frame.

  Hershel drove through the open gates straight up to the house. We stopped off to the side of the road just outside the gate.

  I squinted at the beautiful property that was lit up warmly both outside and inside. We could see several men moving around through the big windows.

  In front of the house, Hershel got out of the car and handed the keys to a bald man, who got in it and drove it around the side of the place. Hershel went inside.

  "What do you think this place is?" I asked. "Massive residence or smallish resort?"

  Rick whistled and made his choice. "Residence would be my guess. Some rich dude's estate."

  "What do you think Hershel's doing here?"

  Rick sat there a minute before he put the car in gear—"Only one way to find out."—and drove slowly through the gate.

  My heart rate accelerated.

  The man who'd taken Hershel's car was jogging back around the house as we pulled up.

  He waved at us.

  "Do you know him?" I asked.

  Rick waved back. "Not that I know of."

  "Then why's he waving?"

  Rick shrugged. "Just a friendly guy, I guess."

  "Oh. Sure." Sometimes I forgot where I was, forgot about the aloha and what it really meant.

  The guy walked up to Rick's Jeep, put his hands above Rick, and leaned on the frame. "Shaka, brah." He was fit and younger than I'd originally thought, his baldness a fashion choice and not age-related. He looked like an islander with lush brown skin and Polynesian features.

  He gazed up at the darkening sky, and beat a casual rhythm on the Jeep's frame—shave and a haircut, two bits. "Howzit? You going inside?"

  "Me?" Rick feigned surprise. "What do
you think, bro? I look like I belong in a place like this?"

  The valet—because that's what I'd finally decided he was, either that or a friendlier-than-most security guard—laughed. "Maybe. Maybe not. That classy lady there? She does for sure. But dudes? Sometimes hard to tell the size of the bankroll."

  "To go in you think I need a fat bankroll?" Rick asked. His voice was so light, so casual, even I'd forgotten he was trying to get information out of the guy.

  The answer came. "To sit in on that poker game? Yeah, bro. I'm told you'd probably need two or more fat bankrolls. It's high stakes, invitation only. Not so many kamaainas, mostly mainlanders coming here. I'm pretty sure it's exclusive, pretty sure too that the man don't know dis goin' on out here."

  "Police don't know about it? So you think it's an illegal poker game?"

  A shrug was the reply, then, "The dude who lives here is some kind of big deal software guy. Rollin' in it, y'know? He likes to play cards. People come here twice a week for it. Saturday nights and Monday nights—all the time. It's nice work for me. The man who lives here pays me real good. Likes to have me around. Thinks because I'm a big guy I'll scare off any trouble." He laughed. "Doesn't know I haven't got a clue what I'd do if trouble actually showed up."

  Wait a minute. Saturday night? I phrased the question that had popped into my mind. "That guy who just arrived? The one in the Cadillac? Do you remember if he was here on Saturday night?"

  "Oh, sure, sistah. I remember because they told me he was the big winner that night, and the cheapskate couldn't even be bothered to palm me a George Washington. Some people. You know?"

  So there it was. This was where Hershel Goldberg had been on Saturday night while Val Markson was being murdered. And this was why he'd conjured up a fictitious alibi.

  Hershel wasn't the killer.

  And I'd been so sure he was.

  The headlights of another car illuminated the driveway. Another gambler was arriving to ante up.

  The island man straightened away from the Jeep and looked up the long driveway at the arriving vehicle. "Yeah. That dude must have had some good luck that night and didn't want to risk it going bad. He left early—got in that flash rental car and screamed outta here way before ten o'clock."

  He walked away toward the car behind us, smiling, waving. Rick was right. He must have just been a friendly guy.

  Rick shifted into drive and slowly turned the Jeep around so we were heading back out. "What time did the coroner fix the murder?"

  "Last I heard from eleven p.m. to three a.m."

  "And Hershel left here…"

  "Before ten," we said together.

  "Plenty of time, Sherlock," Rick said.

  "Indubitably, Dr. Watson."

  We pulled back through the gates of the house that software built, and Rick said, "The game's afoot."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  When I got up on Tuesday morning, I took the time to do a load of laundry and spiff the place up. Rick and I had made plans for the afternoon, matchmaking plans.

  It seemed that Ace Garrison, the second pilot at Rick's Air Paradise, had done nothing but talk about Janet since the two exchanged lustful glances in my office on the day of her arrival.

  To get them together, we'd invited both to my place for a backyard barbecue.

  "Ooh. Yes. I'd love to spend a little quality time with that man." Janet's face had brightened, and excitement had gleamed in her eyes, reminding me of the Janet who'd hired me years ago. She'd been younger then, of course, and not as jaded by divorce and life in the corporate world.

  I was looking forward to putting the two of them together. Being around Ace's lightheartedness and generous spirit would be good for Janet.

  After straightening up the place, I'd hurried to the office in order to handle as much of my calendar as possible before taking off to play hostess later in the day. It was a good strategy.

  But you know what Robert Burns said about mice, men, and best-laid plans.

  "I want to talk to you."

  I looked up from my computer screen to see Hershel Goldberg standing in the doorway.

  "Now. If you don't mind," he said, turned on his heel, and walked back out into the lobby.

  I looked across the office at Koma, who'd been working the second desk since I'd arrived that morning, and he made a shooing motion for me to go.

  I got up and followed Hershel across the lobby, outside, and over to a table on the Makai Terrace where coffee was being offered.

  Hershel looked even more serious than usual, and for some reason, that made me nervous, so nervous my stomach did a bit of a flutter. I opened my mouth to speak, to ask what I could do for him, but I didn't have a chance.

  Hershel came out swinging. "Just what the hell did you and your loser boyfriend think you were doing by following me last night?" He leaned forward over the table. Under his bushy eyebrows, his dark eyes blazed angrily.

  I bristled. "Rick isn't a loser."

  "Matter of opinion." He sneered. "Answer the question."

  We sat there, eyes locked, staring at each other with dislike. I blinked first. "Okay. Fine. I knew you lied about having stayed in the hotel the night of the murder. When you were so frantic about getting back for your important appointment last night, I decided to follow you. Thought maybe I'd learn something about what you'd really been doing when Val Markson was killed."

  "Like that's any of your business? Who do you think you are? Dick Tracy?"

  Before I could respond he scooted his chair around until he was right next to me and leaned in so close that another inch or two and our faces might have touched.

  "I hated Markson with a vengeance. My wife paid that scum to go out with her when we were separated for a short time about a year and a half ago." His eyes burned into mine, and I could almost taste the bitter hatred he held for the dead man. "I like to play cards. For money. And I'm good at it. I win a lot. You should know that when I say a lot, it's probably more money than you can even imagine. So pillow talk." His tone was ridiculing. "You've heard of that, right? Pillow talk? This guy gets Sarah to tell him some things she shouldn't have."

  "Like what?"

  Hershel didn't answer right away. He sat uncomfortably close to me, contemplating my face, his jaw working. Finally he nodded slowly and began to speak in low tones. "Like about all the money I make on the back-room card games I run back in Chicago. Like where I put that money to keep the feds and IRS off my back. So then the frickin' gigolo decides to blackmail me, bleed me. And for the last year and a half, ever since Sarah and I got back together, Markson has been blackmailing me. I can honestly tell you there wasn't anything I hated more than paying that lowlife to keep his damned mouth shut. I didn't kill the bastard, but if I had, I would have enjoyed the hell out of it."

  I swallowed hard and drew back.

  That was when he put his hand on me, circling my wrist and squeezing.

  I pulled against him, but he held on. "You're hurting me," I said.

  In a monotone. "Oops. Sorry." But he didn't mean it, and he didn't release me. "I'm making sure you get the point. I've told you what you wanted to know—why I hated Val Markson. Now that you know what was going on, maybe you'll leave me alone. You won't be repeating this to anyone. Understand? Not to anyone." He squeezed my wrist harder. I cringed away.

  "Stop it." I looked around, but the coffee server had left, as had the occupants of the tables around us. There was no one near to help me.

  "I will," he said. "But not until you tell me that I won't see you or your two-bit lothario on my flank anymore."

  Hershel and I locked gazes, and I was opening my mouth to yell bloody murder when a hand reached in and two strong fingers pressed down hard on the soft space between Hershel's thumb and forefinger.

  At almost the same instant, Hershel was yanked to his feet, and Rick said, "Two-bit lothario? Gosh, Hershel. I think that might be a new one. But I can't say I like it much." He turned to me. His assessing gaze dropped to the wrist
I was cradling then back to my face.

  I shook my head, indicating I wasn't really hurt.

  It became obvious that Hershel wasn't as brave with Rick as he'd been with me. He dissolved into a mewling, quivering mess. "Ok. No worries really. I wasn't going to hurt your girl. I just wanted you two to back off. I didn't kill that guy."

  Rick listened, nodding. "Sure. I hear you. Now I want you to look at Miss LeClair."

  He manhandled Hershel until he couldn't help but look at me. "You see her?"

  Hershel nodded.

  "I think a lot of her. She's very special to me, and I don't like the idea that you thought it was all right to put your hands on her. In fact, I don't like the idea that you might think it's all right to put your hands on any woman. Not like that." Rick shifted Hershel back around so they were face to face. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

  Hershel looked like he might start crying. He puckered up and his heavy brows came together in a forlorn unibrow. "I do understand. Totally."

  Rick let go of Hershel. "That's a good thing. Then we all understand each other."

  Hershel's eyes ping-ponged back and forth between Rick and me. "Look, Miss LeClair, Mr. Dawson, I'd consider it a huge favor if you'd keep your mouths closed about the poker game. I don't know how fussy the Kauai cops are about illegal gambling." He stopped and seemed to be having trouble continuing. "I don't want to go to jail in Kauai. Hell, I don't want to go to jail anywhere. And what I do, the gambling, it doesn't hurt anyone, not really. Please keep this to yourselves. Please don't tell the police about the poker game."

  Neither Rick nor I uttered a word, so Hershel said, "I can make it worth your while. Miss LeClair, I can see to it the purchase of your travel agency nets you considerably more money than it might have otherwise."

  Rick looked at me, and I said, "Don't trouble yourself. If you're going to be involved, I'm having second thoughts about selling."