Forever Poi

by Tyler Colins

Playfully, I slapped a soft shoulder. “You're going to be mysterious, are you?”

  “Lee lives in that snot-green two-story house two blocks over with the big ugly angel fountain.”

  I had to think about it, then nodded in recollection. “The one with the gnarly gnomes marching along the front and rear rose gardens.”

  “That's the one.”

  “I thought the Ecritsurs lived there?”

  “They moved when Mr. Ecritsur got busted for insider trading.”

  “Really?” The man had seemed so quiet and bookish, and very Caspar Milquetoast.

  Quincy nodded and polished off the last of his cake.

  “Let's hit the sack.” I stood. “We have a date for breakfast at McD's and a visit to the mall. Don't put me in the poorhouse, kiddo.”

  * * *

  Quincy and I spent Friday morning comic-book and sneaker shopping, and swimming while “MawMaw” and I shared an enjoyable afternoon of department-store browsing, followed by manis and pedis, and power gossiping. The day ended with a simple but delicious dinner with Mom and Wilton, Quincy and myself, and the B&B guests, two amiable couples in town for a fiber-optics convention.

  Middle-aged twin brothers, Edgar and Chet Duggan, and their wives, Jenella and Colleen, were entertaining if not hilarious, and as Wilton whispered, “real genuine, plain nice folk”. Hailing from Michigan, they proudly talked about the Wolverine State and we happily listened.

  Saturday was similar to Friday, but instead of shopping, Maw-uh-Mom and I drove around old haunts and visited neighbors. While sleep had become a limited commodity the last few days, positive people and good spirits proved energizing.

  As for my colleagues, Rey and Linda texted me not to worry about the case and related follow-up. Me? Worry?

  Saturday supper was a communal affair. Everyone in the B&B either prepped, cooked or baked. Grilled chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans and fried onions were followed by port, and a fluffy lemon cake supplied by a corner bakery with the funny name of Bauble-Boons.

  Nobody at the table was feeling much pain, given there'd also been free-flowing ouzo during the main meal. Why ouzo? “Why not?” Chet Duggan had gaily asked. While no one was officially Greek, we did “opa!” a lot—enough to feel we were in the land of olives, philosophers, and feta. Even Quincy had ingested so much hot white chocolate, he radiated a sweeter than usual edge (ha ha, opa!).

  At ten, bearing exuberant smiles, the Duggans and I gamboled to our rooms with the last of the port. The guestroom I occupied when visiting was on the other side of the B&B. Though cozy, the space didn't reflect my tastes. Royal blue was a little too dark for my liking and I wasn't big on pine furnishings or overly cute knick-knacks. I didn't particularly care for recliners, either, but I could quickly grow to appreciate the padded, plush one in the far corner that provided heat and massage.

  I pulled on a ruffled, high-neck flannel nightgown with a colorful cupcake motif, a Christmas gift from my nephew and mother when they'd visited Oahu last year (evidently, forgetting what Hawaiian weather entailed). Grabbing the recently purchased novel that I was now forty pages into, I plumped pillows and climbed into a double bed. I sipped contentedly, sensing sleep would come quickly, given minimal sleep over the last few days and too much drink during and after dinner … and not even two pages later, it did.

  Hazy images, whispery words and remote voices—Rey's, Linda's, even Cash's—floated through the alcohol haze. Suddenly, a strong hand firmly clamped my mouth. Intuitively, I scratched at it while sleep-heavy eyes attempted to open. Finally gazing through the dimness, I froze: the hand belonged to Cash Layton Jones.

  Perched on the edge of an armless accent chair, he cocked that handsome face. The fine lines around the eyes, a one-inch-scar below the right eye and a tiny scar above the right eyebrow (courtesy of yours truly) only added to the attractiveness. Thick, wavy buffalo-brown hair that had previously hung two inches below the ears had been cropped into short messy-neat curls, drawing the gaze to two dazzling diamond studs. He arched an eyebrow as if to ask: can I let go?

  I nodded.

  “Fonne.” He tsked and fingered flannel. “This is schoolmarm wear.”

  “It's perfect for this wintery weather, if it's any of your business.” I scanned black attire, perfect for B&E: a T-shirt under a long-sleeved sweater, cotton pants, and high-top Paul Smith sneakers. A portion of a gold chain, sporting an unseen wolf pendant, peeked from the T. “How'd you get in here?” I demanded. “Maybe more importantly: what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I got in through an easy-to-climb dormer and way-too-easy-to-unlatch window.” He shook his head. “Your mother may as well hang a neon sign outside: burglars and robbers welcome here.”

  “Maybe you'd better provide security tips,” I advised brusquely, sitting up and slipping legs over the edge of the bed.

  “You're in one of those moods, aren't you?” Smirking, he leaned back and crossed powerful arms.

  “What mood?” I snapped. “You fly to Miami and don't call or text, or anything—save for that dyke-tart-outfit message—and then show up out-of-the-blue, here, at midnight. What do you expect me to say or do?”

  “I can think of—”

  “Not in your wildest dreams, Agent Jones,” I warned. “How long have you been here?

  He grinned. “I like it when you're saucy.”

  The man could prove infuriating at the best of times. Rolling my eyes, I drew a deep breath and smelled cologne I remembered [and liked] so well: woody-musky Bleu de Chanel. “I ask again: how long have you been here?”

  “An hour. I hid a bag in the pool change room.”

  “You're planning on staying?” I asked dryly, grabbing a fleecy robe and strolling to a window.

  “Yup.”

  “Don't.” Stretching stiff arms, I stared onto a quiet street. Save for blustery winds stirring tree limbs and shrubs and porch flagpoles, there was no sign of life.

  Muscular arms hooked themselves around me. “Even dressed in frumpy flannel, with your hair as messy as my kids' closets, you look pretty damn good.”

  I almost said, “You're not looking bad by half, either.” Fortunately, I swallowed the words in time (no point in expanding that oversize ego).

  “I missed you.” He nibbled an ear.

  Emotions tumbled like balls in a bingo cage.

  “A lot.”

  Dang.

  “How about we lose Grandma Ethel-May's nightie and I show you how much?”

  “You have a Grandma Ethel-May?” I asked nonchalantly, retreating.

  “I hail from the Lone Star state, remember?”

  “Ah, sho'nuff.” I smirked. “Let's shoot out the lights.”

  * * *

  “Who's he?”

  One weary, bleary eye managed to pry itself open. As the other one wouldn't accommodate, it made its somnolent way along the ceiling, down to Quincy and over to Cash. Despite an agreement that he would sleep on the recliner, the man was stretched out alongside. Sleep had come almost instantly as we were talking, him considerably more than me. What had been said was as foggy as the dreams, but there was a vague recollection of Julio Iglesias. Funny, I'd not have taken Cash for a fan of the talented Spanish singer.

  “I thought you said you didn't have a boyfriend?” My nephew appeared bemused.

  “I don't.”

  Cash propped himself up on both elbows. “You must be Quincy.”

  He cocked his head, displaying a combination of amusement and delight. “Aunt Sis told you about me?”

  “She told me a lot of great things, yeah.”

  Fleshy cheeks colored and he smiled awkwardly. “Who are you?”

  “Richie J's the name.”

  “Hey, Richie J. Are you coming to church with us?”

  “… I could.”

  “No, you couldn't,” I snapped, punching his thigh.

  “What's wrong with me tagging along?”

  I leaned close. “Aren't you undercover or something
?”

  “You're an agent?” Quincy all but squealed.

  “I help your aunt now and again,” came the casual reply.

  “Co-ool.”

  “When's church?” I asked.

  “At eleven. MawMaw's with the guests right now, but she told me to tell you breakfast's at eight. She's planning on making banana-oat pancakes—with bacon. She's on a diet herself, on account of Mr. Wilton, but she's eager to make 'em, because she remembers how much you like 'em.”

  “How can you turn down a breakfast like that?” Cash asked with exaggerated disbelief. “Sport, ask her to make it for three.”

  “Cool!”

  Dang, dang, dang, dang, dang.

  * * *

  As soon as Quincy left, I pulled out clothes. I was hoping the uninvited guest would leave, but no such luck.

  “Have you given thought to what I asked?”

  I stopped rummaging through a drawer. “Thought?”

  His gaze darkened. “You said you'd sleep on it.”

  I did? A rewind through the haze was in order. Okay, I was in bed, he on the recliner when I'd drifted off while he was yammering. The words, however, were merely feathers floating from a high tree-top nest.

  “Shall I re-ask?” The question held a tinge of anger.

  “If you like.” Returning to the drawer, I removed a T-shirt with sheep romping across the bosom (another gift).

  “Maybe I need to do it the 'right' way.”

  “Any way is fine.” Ignoring the abrasive tone, I grabbed towels from the closet … and dropped them when he dropped to one knee.

  He grabbed a hand. “Fonne, will you marry me?”

  “I have to take a shower,” I pushed past gravel that had suddenly piled on my lips and tongue. Like a sandcrab, I scurried into the bathroom.

  Dang, dang, dang, dang, dang.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When I took a wary peek from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, Cash was no longer around. In The Six Million Dollar Man slow motion, I ambled to the kitchen. Delectable breakfast smells like pancakes and bacon being kept warm in the oven, made my mouth water. Coffee had just been brewed while a pot of hot cocoa sat on a buttercup-yellow retro stove.

  Quincy, sipping from a Superman mug, was seated on his usual banquette spot in a breakfast area that could easily accommodate eight. On a reclaimed pine table sat three mason jars filled with preserves and a blueberry muffin the size of a softball. Absently, I glanced into the adjoining guest dining room and noticed Mom and Cash chatting with the Duggans. Given the smiles and laughter, they were sharing humorous anecdotes. And, given that Cash and I were both attired in black pants and coffee-cream turtlenecks, we'd evidently experienced a telepathic dress-like-the-Bobbsey-Twins interface.

  The pre-teen stopped chewing long enough to ask, “How long have you known him?”

  “Too long.” Pouring milk into a 12-ounce coffee cup and topping it with a fragrant Costa Rican blend, I glanced sideward just as Cash did. His smile was predictably cocky. Bristling, I strolled across the large kitchen and sat across from my nephew. “He and 'MawMaw' seem to be getting along.”

  Quincy nodded, then looked confused. “You know, when I brought him into the kitchen this morning, they seemed to hit it off … like they knew each other.”

  We eyed the man and received another smile, this one smugger than the last.

  My nephew and I stared, and in stereo simultaneously murmured, “Hmmm-mm.”

  “Do you think she knew he was coming?” I asked.

  He popped a piece of the berry-rich quick bread between full, pouty lips. “He did wink when they shook hands.”

  My nephew and I looked back. “Hmmm-mm.”

  Why had Cash Layton Jones come to Wilmington? A case? And why had he asked what he had? It wasn't April 1st, but maybe a wacky prank was in the works. Assuming all would become clear soon enough, I sucked back caffeine as the famished kid played Houdini and made the oversized muffin vanish.

  “You two serious?” he asked, draining the cup of hot cocoa.

  “We are.” Cash dropped into the padded seat beside me. “So Fonne, are you going to respond?”

  “An un-funny gag is not worth responding to.”

  “It's hardly a gag,” he said brusquely.

  “What do you call it then?”

  “A straightforward question.” The expression wavered between annoyed and affronted.

  “Why would you want to get married?”

  Glowering, he flippantly replied, “Maybe I'd like to spend the rest of my life with you?”

  “You're f'g married, you idiot,” slipped out before I could contain it.

  “Rayna and I are now officially f'g divorced.”

  “Bully for you—”

  “Stop it, you two!” Quincy's head, which had been moving back and forth like a tennis-match spectator, smacked the top of the table. “Stop it!”

  Cash and I regarded him with surprise.

  “I don't like people fighting. I remember when Mom and Pop used to.”

  I squeezed his hand. “We're just expressing opinions. It would be absolutely unrealistic to get married, given that Richie J works 24/7, and often resides in other states as a result. We'd see each other once or twice a year.”

  Quincy frowned. “Is that a bad thing if you care about each other?”

  I looked from him to Cash and back again. Was it? … Of course it was a bad thing, a very bad crazy thing!

  “I'd be willing to try with 150% commitment.”

  “You can't argue with that, Aunt Sis.”

  I gave my nephew the evil eye.

  “We'd have to keep it secret for now,” Cash advised. “And it would have to be a small wedding, maybe six or eight people tops.”

  I gave Secret Agent Man the evil eye.

  “What have you got to lose?” Quincy challenged. With a thumb's up, he grinned at Cash.

  “Your nephew approves.”

  I gave a time-out gesture and, leaning forward, stared intently into jade-green eyes. “Where and when, why and how, did you conceive of this ridiculous idea? Spit it out, Jones.”

  His forehead nearly touched mine. “I got lonely in Miami.”

  “Poor baby,” I drawled.

  “Let's just do it, Fonne.”

  “I wasn't eavesdropping, but I couldn't help overhearing.” Mom hovered in the doorframe, that attractive “naturally” enhanced oval face beaming like a lighthouse beacon.

  It was time to change a conversation that was becoming uncomfortably bizarre. “I'm up for that awesome breakfast Quincy was talking about.”

  “Sure. We can discuss details while you eat.”

  I eyed her guardedly. “Details?”

  “The wedding.” She winked at Cash and stood close. “We'll ask Pastor Martin to preside—you're a man of faith, I trust, Richie J?”

  “I can be,” he smiled brightly.

  “What is with you three? I haven't agreed to anything!”

  The conspiring trio—Lady, Bambi, and Dumbo—sported virtuous expressions.

  Mom clasped Cash's hand. “The pastor's brother, Thomas and wife Beverley-Ann, are visiting. They can serve as witnesses.”

  “I have a plane to catch tonight.”

  The matriarch's face clouded. “How can you leave when—”

  “Don't say it,” I warned.

  “Jill Jocasta Fonne, you'd better not think about eloping. I expect a wedding— here.”

  She had the look and the tone.

  “I'll stay until Tuesday evening.” Slapping the table, I marched from the room, determining to nip this nonsense in the bud before it got totally out of hand.

  * * *

  “You're kidding, right?” Rey asked flatly.

  “I wish I were, Cous. She gave the look.” I'd shared Mom's request to stay, not the reason for it.

  Rey clicked her tongue. “Okay, stay a bit longer. But don't forget there's a case to solve.”

  “I'm sure you're doing fine with
out me,” I said with forced optimism.

  “We're a team, kiddo.”

  I sat in the recliner and crossed my legs. “It's got to be just after three there. What are you doing up so early?”

  “I left the bedroom door open so Bonzo could visit Button, who's taken a liking to the new armchairs. An hour ago, he returned with her and Piggaletto. They took over the bed.”

  I had to laugh. “You're loved, my dear.”

  “More likely, I've got the nicest, softest bed,” she grumbled, snorted, and then chuckled.

  “What's happened so far? Did you get a hold of Tucker Track Ching in Miami?”

  “Haven't had any better luck than you. And, like you, left a whack of voice-mails. We did check out what was left of Randy's place. It's definitely arson. They found char patterns in the floor, suggesting liquid accelerant.”

  “Did we have any doubts?” I asked dryly.

  “No. Sidebar: we saw a house on the same street, on sale for a mill and a half. It's got five bedrooms and an ohana, which is self-sufficient, should any one of us ever get into a serious relationship and not want to live in the main house.”

  “What are you talking about, Reynalda Fonne-Werde?”

  “Us buying a house, of course.”

  “Ri-ight, you'd mentioned that.”

  “It's a great idea. And that house is perfect. Lots of land. A small pool. Nice lanai. It needs some serious work for the price, but we could do it.”

  I had to laugh. “Now we're the Triple Threat Fixer-Uppers?”

  “We could do it,” she insisted. “Anyway, back to Randy. We found nothing in the burned bits that were left of the two-story house, but we did talk to him briefly.”

  “He's out of the coma, then?”

  “Yeah. He'll be in the hospital a couple more days, but he's mending quickly.”

  “Does he recall what happened?” I asked, hopeful.

  “Someone in a ski mask caught him by surprise just inside the entrance. He punched Randy a few times, then knocked him senseless with a hunk of wood. Fortunately, as Randy tells it, he's got 'a hard head'.”

  “So the ski-mask guy didn't intend to kill or incinerate him?”

  “He may have left him to burn, but Randy came to and gut instinct kicked in when he smelled smoke. He managed to crawl outside, where he vaguely recalls kissing concrete before awakening in the hospital.”