Honolulu Hottie

by Terry Ambrose

  A couple of times, he looked at me and whispered that he’d been put on hold. After five minutes, he still hadn’t asked her to lunch. I tapped my wrist with my finger. He nodded and when Lexie came back on the phone, he finally took the plunge. They agreed on today at noon, and then Chance made his first mistake.

  “So, um, Lexie, do you know the redhead who was coming in to see Victor?”

  I flinched at his abruptness. He jerked the phone away from his ear and flinched.

  Why hadn’t he waited until after lunch? While he’d put the island lilt on the end of the question to make it sound nonthreatening, his timing sucked.

  His brow wrinkled as he listened. “I’m sorry. No, that’s not why I called.”

  He entire body tensed as he turned away and spent another minute or so backpedaling. “No…no…yes, I really do want to.”

  Another pause. Another round of banter. Just when it appeared that all was lost, his shoulders relaxed. He whispered, “I’m sorry…I didn’t think…yes, this is super important. She might have information about who really killed Victor.”

  I felt bad for the kid. I might have ruined his relationship before it got off the ground. Obviously that Phillip Marlowe character hadn’t taught him how important timing was when looking for information.

  “Uh, no,” Chance said. “I really do want to have lunch with you. And—and, I really like you.”

  He turned back to face me and winked, his smile faint, but growing as he listened. “Absolutely. I promise I won’t tell a soul where I got the information.” He ended the call and said, “Her name’s Cody Stellon-Woodham. I’m sure we can find something about her online. Lexie thinks she might even show up at the memorial service.”

  Memorial service? We couldn’t wait that long. I put a hand on his shoulder and smiled at him. “I’m happy for you, Chance. She’s a nice girl and I was afraid I might have given you an impossible task. Your timing was a little abrupt.”

  He nodded. “I should have waited until after lunch. Yah, no?”

  “You’re going to do just fine, kid.” I winked at him. “Just fine. We still have a problem, however.”

  Chance might have uncovered the name we needed, but he didn’t realize the magnitude of what he’d uncovered. Monty had said the lady was high society. We weren’t talking just high society, this was the highest of the high. Bombshell material. The kind of thing that would rock Honolulu. “You’re absolutely positive that’s the name?”

  “No question. Lexie said it was really a big deal, too. Who is she?”

  I cleared my throat. “You might say she’s related to one of the biggest clergymen in Honolulu. She’s his wife.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Outside, palms swayed in the breeze. A couple trudged across the sand toward the shoreline, each carrying a surfboard under one arm. They chatted and pointed at the water, but here, in my living room, an uncomfortable silence pervaded the air. I suppose we were each waiting for the other to say something, but for different reasons.

  “I guess you didn’t know Cody Stellon-Woodham was the wife of Trenton Woodham. If she is—was—Victor’s mistress, that’s the kind of news the tabloids gobble up.” I shook my head. “No freaking way. It can’t be.”

  “Right, no way.”

  “I mean, Mrs. Woodham and her husband are huge philanthropists. They’re involved in charities all over. Lexie has to be wrong.”

  Chance became unusually fidgety, rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t suppose she’s another one of his victims, do you? If she’s got lots of money, he might have decided to make her one of his marks.”

  My throat went dry. The thought of going after a score like Cody Stellon-Woodham would certainly have been enough to entice Victor. But, had there been more? As much as I wanted to declare Mrs. Woodham off limits, I knew people made mistakes. “I can’t believe someone like her would be seduced by a conman who lived above a Chinese restaurant.”

  “That would be...wow, that would be major.”

  Either Lexie was wrong about Mrs. Woodham or the pillar of Honolulu society fell off her pedestal. Either way, I didn’t want to start at the top of the food chain. “My suggestion is to go after a smaller fish. How about Paddy Merlin? I know right where he lives.”

  “Good idea, McKenna.”

  Obviously, Chance also had no desire to set his sights on the rich and powerful. “It’s on Ainakoa Street.”

  He gave me an unconvincing thumbs up. “Roger. Ainakoa. Let’s go… Wait, where is that?”

  I tilted my head toward the door. “Waialae. Let’s go.”

  Merlin’s home was about four miles away on the west side of Diamond Head. Our route skirted the base of the half-blown-away volcano. The long-extinct brown cone sloped high above Honolulu, an imposing reminder of the island’s fiery origin.

  In contrast to the millions of years it took to build an island out of molten rock in the middle of the ocean, it took us a grand total of twelve minutes to make the drive to Merlin’s home. During the drive I explained what I knew to Chance. At one point, I said, “I’m hoping his conscience weighs heavier on him than his bills.”

  Chance looked confused, but he’d understand soon enough. I’d seen the ugly side of how too much or too little money corrupted people for too many years and suspected this might be Chance’s first introduction to the realities of the poor.

  Memories came flooding back when we parked in front of the house. White siding. Asphalt shingle roof. No garages. A few cinderblock carports. The same picture common to urban housing jungles on the mainland.

  We sat for a moment scanning the neighborhood. “Better than Kalihi, yah?”

  “At least here there are some newer places in addition to...well, this.”

  “Welcome to the big city, Chance.”

  “I’m from LA, McKenna.”

  “Whatever. It’s just an expression. From the looks of it, most of these places were built back in the 50s. My landlord’s eye tells me Paddy’s hasn’t had a lick of maintenance in years. Let’s see if he’s home.”

  As we climbed the stairs to the house, I catalogued how Paddy lived. Open windows. Old screens—but, no holes or tears in the material. A security door on the front entrance also sent a message—we worry about crime in this neighborhood. Landscaping on the houses fell into one of two categories. The Merlin home was in the unkempt category. Chance fell in behind me on the front lānai. I pressed the bell, but there was no sound. I knocked. Waited. Then, knocked again.

  A short while later, a man with long, scraggly hair pulled back in a ponytail inched his wheelchair into view. His tattered white T-shirt and tan shorts exposed pale skin mottled with red and brown splotches. A tube ran from an oxygen tank strapped on the wheelchair’s back to a clear, plastic mask over his mouth. His rasp might have been inaudible, but that didn’t make it imperceptible. With each rise of his chest, a faint vibration became audible. Silently, I hoped this wasn’t our man, but deep down, I feared it was.

  The wheelchair rolled to a stop and the man took a shallow breath. He raised a weak finger in acknowledgement, then pulled the mask from his face. “Who are you?” The voice was deep, gravelly, and followed by a phlegmy cough. He refitted his breathing device, winced, and waited with his eyes closed.

  We waited until he opened his eyes again, handled the introductions on our side, and concluded by asking if he was Paddy Merlin. His shoulders slumped and he nodded. It seemed like an odd reaction—unless he expected the worst.

  “Mr. Merlin,” I said. “We’re investigating the death of Victor Durisseau. Right now, Meyer Herschel—a decorated Korean War veteran—is charged with the murder.”

  He slumped further into his chair and peered off into space. He looked to be nearly the same age as Meyer. Could Paddy Merlin have served in the same war?

  Though barely audible, the coarseness of his breath as he sucked in air through his mouth was unmistakable. A wheeze emanated from the mask over his mouth and nose. What would I
do in his place? How would I deal with being penned behind a screen door that cast every minute of the day in a rusty haze? Watching in fear of threatening strangers wasn’t my thing. I couldn’t deal with that. I swallowed hard before continuing.

  “We’re sure Mr. Herschel didn’t commit the crime and believe the key lies somewhere in Victor’s business dealings. We have evidence showing you recruited two clients for Victor. If you cooperate with us, we can put in a good word for you.” Not that anyone would care what good words I said, but Paddy needn’t know the truth.

  He waved away any further explanation, unlocked the screen door, and motioned for us to enter. Our procession moved in deathly silence to an ancient 1960s couch with arms worn through to the yellowed batting below. Merlin removed his mask and laid it on his lap. His voice quaked with the effort—and maybe fear. “I knew this would happen.”

  I motioned for Chance to remain silent. “What would?”

  “Gimme a minute.” He breathed through the mask while gazing at a picture on the end table. It was black-and-white. Silver frame. A young couple. He wore an Army uniform, she, a dress style I recognized as coming straight out of a 50s movie. His posture, rigid and straight, contrasted with that of the attractive girl clinging to his arm. “I was in the Honor Guard. My wife, God rest her soul, said I was the last honest man alive. Well, she’s gone and I sold my integrity for a pittance. Go ahead and arrest me. I’ll never live to see the trial.”

  I looked closer at the picture. The soldier’s scabbard strapped on his side caught my full attention. My pulse quickened; was this one of Kimu’s knights? “We’re not here to arrest you,” I said. “We just want information. The picture is of you and your wife? How long has she been gone?”

  “Two years. Lung cancer. Even took a mortgage on my house and sold my VA benefits to that crooked bastard. We had to pay for my Barbara’s medical treatment somehow because I never bought insurance for her. She refused to become a deadbeat in her final years—said she’d rather die.”

  He paused for a breath, eyes brimming with tears. His was a voice on the verge of death—he, a man no longer interested in life. “I’d have worked with the devil himself to save her. Maybe I did. Doesn’t matter now. She only lived a few months. When she died, there wasn’t enough to pay off the mortgage.” He let out a huff and watched the carpet.

  “You can’t make the payments, can you?” I’d seen it so many times in my career. Borrow here. Leverage there. Next thing you know, the only option was lie to the creditors and pray for a lucky break.

  Paddy shook his head. “I can’t afford to stay in my own home. Victor saw to that.”

  He paused to gaze again at the picture, this time he pressed the mask to his face and breathed deeply before dropping it into his lap. I found myself leaning forward, straining to catch each word spoken in a voice as brittle as dried leaves.

  “We owned this place for close to fifty years. My Barbara loved it, even when we couldn’t get up or down the stairs anymore. We brought up two good kids here. I squandered it all.”

  “Can’t they help you? The kids, I mean. Where are they?”

  “I’m also the unluckiest SOB on the planet. Molly died at birth. Paul—Barbara wanted him named after me, but I said he shouldn’t suffer with the name Paddy—was lost in action in Viet Nam. And Robert was taken from us in a hit-and-run. They never found the driver.”

  To my side, Chance sat silently, rubbing his neck with one hand. We’d probably leave now if it were up to him. He said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Merlin.”

  “Paddy. Everyone always called me Paddy. It doesn’t matter now. I’ve only got a few months. But, I would like to show up before St. Peter with only one black mark on my record. I want to see my Barbara again and I only know one way to do it.” Suddenly, his posture straightened and determination shone in his eyes. “What do you want to know?”

  I took a deep breath, desperate to reconcile life’s unfairness. Paddy might have received a rotten hand, but he was the one who chose to gamble. Pressing forward would enable this man to unburden himself. Confession, and all that other woo-woo stuff. In truth, all this justification brought me little solace. “You said you have nothing left. Did Victor get all your money?”

  “Most of it. It all started with him creating a financial plan for me and Barbara. He told us the investments we had were all wrong, how we wouldn’t have anything left if something serious happened. Barbara never liked him, but I thought the guy sounded pretty smart so I turned our money over for him to invest.” He paused to rest before pulling further into himself. “He invested it, all right. Between the fees for the financial plan and the commissions, he made about five grand the first time.”

  Paddy paused again. After taking one particularly deep gulp of air, he continued. “He convinced me to put our money in one of those trusts you can’t touch. Said we’d get a couple of grand a month from the VA just by hiding our assets. Barbara was the smart one, she kept telling me it was wrong, but I wouldn’t listen.”

  “Did you see any increased benefit?” I asked.

  He snickered, then began to cough. His hacking gradually subsided until it settled into a series of gentle huffs under the mask. After a couple of long draws on the oxygen, he removed the mask. “Nothing like what he promised. That trust thing...took everything I had to break it.”

  “It’s an irrevocable trust,” Chance said. “I know all about them. You had to go to court and buy yours out when your wife got sick, didn’t you?”

  “That didn’t come till later, but yeah. Meanwhile, I was still flying high with all of Victor’s promises. I started introducing him to my buddies. He signed up a couple of them, but that’s when my Barbara got sick.”

  “You must have had some kind of insurance. What about the VA? You didn’t have savings?” I asked.

  “The insurance company had a clause that let them off the hook. Savings was locked up in the trust.” His voice cracked and he reached for the mask again. When he spoke again, his tone was even more brittle. “I killed my Barbara with those bad choices. That’s when I went back to Victor and told him to break the damn trust. He said the VA didn’t care about the house, but if we got rid of it, there’d be too much cash and income.”

  “But you would have had to pay off the mortgage first.”

  Paddy stared at me. Obviously, I hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know. “Victor said I was selling at the wrong time.” A tear trickled down his cheek. “Might be the only time he didn’t lie to me. After all the fees and penalties, there wasn’t hardly anything left. The thing is, it doesn’t matter. My wife died two days after the court order let me break the trust. The bank starts foreclosure any day now. I expect the VA will be showing up now that this is all coming out.”

  As hard as he was fighting to stay focused on our conversation, Paddy’s energy was ebbing away. “What else can you tell us?”

  “He had that quack under his thumb, too. I guess they were filing claims for faked services or prescriptions.”

  “Are you talking about Dr. Morph?”

  “That’s the one. I went to him for treatment once. He said I had all kinds of ailments, but he could get me authorized for treatment. I just had to sign a few forms, he said. I kept thinking about all the goddamn stuff Victor had me sign. I walked—maybe I should say rolled—out the door.”

  Paddy stifled a wheezy laugh beneath the mask and lifted a crooked finger. When the heaving of his chest settled down, he continued. “Morph also told me Victor would buy the house with cash. It just didn’t feel right, selling my Barbara’s house to the man who cost us everything. I might be alone and miserable, but at least I’ve got my memories here. Anyway, pretty soon, none of this will matter. Maybe then I’ll finally have some peace again.”

  Watching Paddy fade was like watching a balloon deflate. I expected him to shrivel into nothing at any moment. “Is there anything else? Even the smallest details are helpful in cases like this.”

  Paddy
’s eyelids fluttered and his shoulders slumped further down. It was as though our questions had slit open a vein and we were draining his lifeblood. With his eyes closed, he said, “No, I can’t help you much. He must have been half-deaf, though.”

  Chance shrugged when I glanced at him, but years of looking for people who didn’t want to be found had taught me to pay attention to the details. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because in the meetings I had with him, I kept having to repeat everything. It was always, ‘Louder, Paddy, I can’t hear you.’ He didn’t understand that I was talking as loud as I could.”

  “Do you think he really was hearing impaired? Or was he just being a jerk?”

  Paddy shrugged again. This time, his head and neck seemed to compress into one. Apparently, we’d exhausted the last of the man’s energy. We quickly excused ourselves and he followed us to the front door, where he latched the screen after we were outside. I turned to take another look at the house. Just inside the doorway, the outline of a shrunken figure hunched forward in the seat of Paddy’s wheelchair. It appeared he’d fallen asleep already.

  Anger surged through me. “Victor Durisseau was a cruel man, Chance.”

  “That’s a sad case, McKenna. It sickens me to see someone taken advantage of like that.”

  “Is that fire I detect in your voice?”

  “Yeah. I’m pissed off at Victor Durisseau. He deserved to die. But, I’m also pissed off at whoever framed Mr. Herschel.”

  “Good. Hang onto that, kid. It’ll keep you going.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  If I were rich, I suppose I might want a Ferrari, too. Fire-engine red with a convertible top. What’s not to like? Without the encumbrance of roof, I watched dark storm clouds bunch up on the mauka, or mountain, side of the car while makai, the ocean stretched unending to the horizon. The contrast was life itself—good at times, bad during others.