by Tyler Colins
He peered curiously over the titanium frames of round, semi-rimless glasses. “Her boyfriend was recently murdered.”
“That's right.” I appeared suitably distressed. “She'd have to have been heartbroken.”
He nodded somberly. “She couldn't imagine who'd have wanted to kill him, by a bomb no less. What's this world coming to?”
“The man did have a gun,” Linda pointed out, eyeing him closely.
“Yes, apparently he'd wanted to shoot a trespasser,” he stated with a shake of the head, looking displeased. “But I hadn't heard if he was caught or who that was.”
“We appreciate you taking the time to see us.” I smiled amiably and stood. “Did she mention anything else of note?”
“Only that she was thinking she'd like to return to France … before someone blew her up.”
* * *
Silver-haired Ruprecht Schiff was a debonair “yachtsman”, happily retired from the corporate rat race for six years and ecstatically divorced for five.
We sat in the galley as the former Bostonian meticulously polished an antique Victorian teapot.
“Cholla could be quite the vamp,” he said with an impish smile. “She dropped by last night when I had the boys over for Texas Hold 'Em. It was around nine. We'd just opened an excellent bottle of 18-year-old Scotch.”
“Did she drop by often?” I asked.
He tilted his head one way and then the other. “Now and again.”
Linda winked. “Did she vamp often?”
Another impish smile. “When there was an audience.” His laughter, bass-like blasts, was reminiscent of a sousaphone. “She peeled off that lovely designer scarf of hers and draped it around my neck. You'd have thought she was performing a little striptease.”
I chuckled at the provocative image. “She's quite the flirt.”
More laughter. “You should have seen my face after she'd kissed it half-a-dozen times. Fletcher took at least ten photos.”
“With that red lipstick, she must have left some interesting lip prints,” Linda grinned.
For the barest blink, he seemed self-conscious. “The boys found it amusing.”
“Did you know her well?”
“No more than anyone else around here—you know, her art consulting, half-brother, that she hailed from France, and was married three times and—”
“Three?” Linda and I all but squealed.
He appeared surprised.
“There was Race Shortly and Dan Spades,” I stated. “Who was the third?”
“Someone named Irv or Herb, or something like that. They were married when she was in college. The marriage didn't last long. He was killed on the seas when they were crossing the Channel from England to France.” He studied the high gloss on the teapot and appeared pleased.
“Odd, she never mentioned it.”
“It was a very tragic moment—well, one of two actually. We'd been sharing stories of lost loves one night and after too many cognacs, she brought it up.”
“That's rough,” Linda murmured, appearing suitably saddened.
“Not as rough as having to give up a developmentally-challenged baby.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“Want to bet they'll find clothes and jewelry on a sailboat remnant or two?” I asked Linda with a smug smile as we made ourselves comfortable on a wooden bench by a handsome Gran Turismo called Mystic Memories.
“Of course they will,” she smirked, watching a handsome septuagenarian carry supplies onto a Sundancer.
“He's a bit old for you, isn't he?” I joked.
“He's very good looking and very well preserved.”
I elbowed her and glanced at my watch. “Where'd the time go? It's nearly 12:30.”
“We did ask a lot of people a lot of questions,” she pointed out wryly. “Have you been thinking what I've been thinking about the scuba diving?”
“Uh-huh. She was long gone when the boat blew. If we ask around some of the dive shops, we may luck in re recently rented tanks and whatnot.”
“Provided she didn't already have them on the boat.”
“I don't believe we saw any the other night,” I said, doing a mental rewind of our boat “tour”.
“She may have brought them after Bayat's little 'misadventure'.”
I smiled darkly. “The poor guy never saw it coming.”
“Cholla's someone-is-out-to-get-me act has a few folks believing her lover's killer got her also.”
“She planned it perfectly,” I stated wryly.
“What do you think about Ruprecht's story?”
“That she was married young and had a baby?”
“Do you think she told it to garner sympathy?”
“She tells stories for specific reasons, but not to pull heart strings or provoke emotion.”
“Let's see what we can find out about that baby.”
“It may take some doing, but let's.”
“How do you suppose Rey and Gail are making out?”
“I'm guessing that they'll learn a neighbor or three saw Cholla leave the house at a certain time, that she waved to and/or chatted with them. She staged everything seamlessly, including the departure at ten where she blew cheerful kisses to marina friends.”
Linda snorted, then laughed. “What an actress. What about James-Henri? He hasn't answered any texts or calls. Do we think he's on the run?”
“He doesn't have any reason to run.” I gazed across a dark ocean. “Not yet anyway.”
Linda leaned back and massaged her temples. “Maybe he's worried the police are going to blame him for the boat blow-up.”
“Or maybe Cholla told him to vamoose, that she'd meet up with him somewhere.”
“Which infers they're in cahoots.”
“Or that she shared her escapades and he's now an inadvertent accessory.”
“Why don't we head over to his place?” Linda jumped to her feet. “We've got what we needed here.”
“It can't hurt.” I got up and eyed her with mock sternness. “But if he's not around, there's no Reynalda Fonne-Werde B&E-ing.”
“Of course not,” she said with a coy smile.
* * *
Linda and I must have appeared as shocked (bug-eyed) as James-Henri when he opened the door as we were about to press the pearl-bloom doorbell.
Linda waved limply. “Uh, hi.”
“Uh, hi,” he repeated mockingly.
Dressed in Diesel jeans and a navy-blue T-shirt with the word “Escape” in large neon-pink script, he hardly appeared to be someone on the run.
“We heard the news,” I said solemnly. “And thought we'd drop by to see if there was anything we could do.”
With exaggerated ennui, he scanned our attire—jeans and simple cotton shirts—and then the street. “Why? You didn't much like her.”
“Fine.” Linda leaned into the doorframe. “We came to ask where she is. And don't say she blew herself up with the boat. We know better.”
“Of course she didn't,” he muttered. “Someone else did.”
Linda peered closely. “Where is she?”
“At the bottom of the Pacific,” he spat, stepping back. “If you have nothing useful to say or do—”
“What happened to the baby?”
He looked at us as if we were two-headed creatures from a 1950s sci-fi flick before slamming the door.
“That went swimmingly well,” I said breezily as we returned to the Jeep.
“At least we know he's still around.”
“For how long?”
“He'll play the part of grieving brother for a while.”
I unlocked the passenger door. “Here's a thought: what if he truly believes she's dead?”
“And is truly ignorant of any crimes?”
“It's a possibility, isn't it?”
“It is.” With a pensive brow, she slid into the passenger's seat. “Maybe the only thing the guy's guilty of is self-conceit and self-adoration. He didn't seem to be aware of any baby.”
“There's always the possibility it's nothing more than fiction, said to—as you suggested—get sympathy.” I dropped into the driver's seat and started the Jeep. “If you were Cholla Poniard, where would you go?”
“If I was planning on getting even, I'd stay close by.”
“So she'd have to disguise herself.” I pulled onto the street. “You know, she's brazen enough to—”
“Crazy enough.”
“Whatever enough to remain within sight and walking range.” I slapped her upper arm playfully. “I wouldn't put it past her to set up shop in our building.”
“I could see that,” Linda agreed. “So, what are we waiting for? Let's verify if any units have been recently bought or rented.”
* * *
Markham, one of five building security guards, always looked happy to see us. Of course, the soft-spoken gent probably looked that way with everyone in the building, given his amiable nature.
He accepted a large black coffee and two malasadas with a grateful smile. “Not five minutes ago I was thinking how I could really use a boost of caffeine and sugar. You must have read my mind from afar.”
Linda winked and leaned into a new two-unit reception station. “How's the family?”
“Sally's great and the boys are getting into mischief, as two- and three-year-olds tend to do.” He drank as he showed a dozen new photos of his wife and sons. “What can I do for you?”
“Would you know which condos have been recently rented or bought?” Linda asked.
“More specifically, if a woman recently moved in,” I added.
“We've had three for sale in the last five months and two for rent. Last month, an older couple, the Chelcers, took ownership of a tenth-floor corner unit. A dentist, Dr. Rogers, took a middle one on the eighth, but the tooth doc's a he.” Markham bit into a malasada as he considered it. “I believe a couple was looking at renting on the seventh, but I haven't heard anything about a deal going through. But then I returned from a two-week vacation only yesterday. Let me get back—”
“Markham! I need that incident report I called about.”
“Right here, Andy.”
Andrew Imran, the not-so-popular property manager, entered the lobby from an alternate entrance. His boxy face was perpetually flushed, as if he raced everywhere on those long, stork-like legs. With a nod, he slipped behind the desk.
With a grunt of gratitude, he scanned the document and then us. “Can I help you?”
“We were just chatting with our favorite security guard,” I said casually. With a wave, I told Markham we'd catch him later.
“That was a bust,” Linda said as we stepped into an elevator.
“Not completely. He's checking.”
Sighing, she pressed the button for the tenth, my floor.
On a whim, I pressed the sixth.
She eyed me curiously.
“If you want building information, who do you go to get it?”
She grinned. “The gossip lady, Jody Schnabel.”
* * *
“That was a waste of twenty minutes,” Linda sighed as we entered my condo.
“Not really. We got homemade haupia cake,” I said gaily, glancing at three days worth of unopened mail on the counter. Requests for donations, no doubt. Who else but organizations and non-profits sent mail these days?
“It was pretty good,” she conceded, sitting at the counter and looking at her phone. “Another text from Rey. She and Gail are headed to Zippy's for a late bite. They'll check in after.”
“Do we want to join them or do more digging?”
“We could use some updates—like have there been any developments with the murders of Bayat and Bizz Waxx.”
“Gail didn't mention any and if anyone would know, she would.”
“But maybe Ald and/or his colleagues aren't sharing with her.”
“Devoy Hunt isn't, for sure” Linda pulled a face. “And Ald's not returning calls.”
“I hope everything's okay.”
“Let's get back into Cholla Poniard mode.”
“Cold, crazy and scheming?” I smirked. “If she's planning on getting even, how would she do it?”
“Is there a doubt she won't?”
“She may realize that coming after us could result in her apprehension. Prison would so not be her.”
“But she may appreciate that coming after us would free her of us and that could be worth the price.” Linda chuckled dryly. “Speaking of crazy, do you think she'd go back to the house?”
“It depends on what's worth going back to collect.” I idly drummed fingers on the counter as I gave it thought. “Do you want to take a drive over? We've got nothing better to do, and maybe we'll get inspired en route.”
She hopped to her feet. “I'm so in.”
* * *
“Yeah, the kid'll be all right,” Ald said wearily, having summarized a Mainland trip to see his nephew. “He's not happy about the broken arm and leg, because it's also broken his spirit. He breathes and lives basketball.”
The detective had called as Linda and I had jumped into the Jeep to drive to Cholla's.
“He can do it vicariously on his laptop,” Linda suggested gaily as I pulled onto Ala Moana.
Ald snorted.
“When are you back?” I asked.
“Way too soon … as in late tonight too soon,” he replied flatly. “So, you two snoops called how many times, wanting to know about Bizz Waxx and Bayat Alexandre?”
“As professional private eyes, we need to stay on top of all details,” I said merrily.
Another snort. “A partial was found on Bizz Waxx's watch, but whoever it belongs to isn't in any database.”
“What an interesting spot to find one,” Linda murmured.
“It looks like he was dragged behind the crate, so the killer must have inadvertently touched the face of the watch. Or maybe it's from another time, when someone handled or admired the watch.”
I swore softly. Luck just didn't seem to favor us. “Do we at least know if it's female or male?”
“Given that males have larger epidermal ridge breadth than females, it appears we're looking at a male.”
Linda and I eyed each other.
“That silence suggests you've got someone in mind.”
“We're thinking Bayat Alexandre.” I perked up. “Say, could you check the—”
“I'll put in a call right now. Hopefully, we're not too late. Catch ya later.”
I pulled into a Foodland parking lot.
“We need groceries?” Linda joked.
“We do actually, but not right now. I want to call Race and Dan.”
Race answered breathlessly after eight rings. “I was in the shower. How's it going?”
“It's going, it's going. Quick question?”
“About the ex?” he laughed.
“Would you know if she was into explosives?”
“Like bomb-making?” he asked, incredulous.
“I guess not, huh?” I chuckled.
“If she was, she hid it from me. But you know—and I've probably said this already—that woman could learn and do anything she set her mind to. Collie was as clever as a shyster.”
After chatting a couple more minutes about the week ahead, weather, and New York, I called Dan.
My question about bombs and explosives induced dark laughter.
“She was a keen learner. A sponge. Whatever she set her mind to do, she did. I wouldn't put it past her to study on-line Bomb-Making 101.” He grunted. “More likely, though?”
“Yes?”
“She loved danger, so bomb-making would probably have thrilled her. I suspect, however, she'd not have wanted to lose a finger or anything. Most likely, she'd have found someone to do it for her… The poor sap.”
Chapter Forty
Parked two houses down from Cholla's, Linda and I sat in the Jeep sipping sparkling water and munching frenziedly through a super-sized bag of salty-sweet popcorn. Did we really expect to
see Ms. Poniard peering from a window or slipping from a side entrance? Of course not (but it would have been nice).
“Do you miss him?”
I eyed her blankly. “Who?”
“Cash-slash-Richie.”
“… No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes… No. Maybe.” I smiled sheepishly. “He's smug, arrogant, cocky, self-absorbed, infuriating, and presumptuous. Qualities I'm totally not fond of and yet ones that—seemingly and annoyingly—attract me to him.”
Linda bah-hah-hahed, something I'd not heard her do in a long time, and it made me laugh.
“What about Makjo? Miss him?”
She turned back to the house. “Like monthly cramps and root canals.”
I had to laugh again. “Come on. Truthfully?”
She arched a shoulder and sighed. “I'm kind of envious, I suppose. He experienced love at first sight and ran off to Fiji with Ms. Right. That's the making of escapist, happy-ending romance fiction, something we could all use a bit of now and again.”
“Maybe that happy ending is no longer happy and they've gone their separate ways.”
“We can hope.”
We high-fived and Linda glanced at a new Bulova watch. “It's after four. We've been here twenty minutes. Not that I mind, but I feel like we need to be doing something more—”
“Constructive?” I finished dryly.
She nodded and eyed a handful of popcorn. “Who'd have ever imagined exploded corn could taste this good?”
“The Mexicans. Apparently, remnants have been found dating back thousands of years.”
“No shit?”
Chuckling, I scanned the property again. “Any luck finding something on the baby?”
Shaking her head, she returned to the tablet. “I've tried variations on names for that period and pulled up French and English institutions. No luck. If the baby exists—or existed, as the case may be—it's going to be difficult to find. With privacy laws and all that, who's to say we'd even get any verification if we called the right place?”
“I suppose it doesn't really matter. If she had a baby, it's of no consequence to this investigation.”
“But it might explain who she is and why she does what she does.”
I eyed her curiously.