Coconuts and Crooks
Christy Murphy
Copyright © 2018 by Christy Murphy
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover designer, Priscilla Pantin
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As always thank you to my family.
Mom, Dad, David, Edie, David, Diana, Darwin, Jason, Anthony, and Ana
Special thanks to the City of Dumaguete
for your care and kindness
Contents
1. Filipinos and Facebook
2. Goodbyes and Gladiators
3. Spiders and Sand
4. Captain and Casablanca
5. Decaf and Doctors
6. Butts and Boats
7. Superstition and Secrets
8. Balut and Boyfriends
9. A Note from the Author and Her Mom
Also by Christy Murphy
1
Filipinos and Facebook
I stared at the oscillating fan, attempting with my sleep-deprived mind to will it to turn faster in my direction. I’d only been in the Philippines for a few hours and most of that time I’d spent dead tired and sweating.
“She was on her way to see him?” Mom asked, breaking from the local dialect into English.
Our host, Gurley, nodded yes.
“The day she died?” Wenling interrupted.
Wenling was Mom’s longtime best friend. They met when they were extras on a television show just after Mom moved to the United States. I’d been lost through most of the conversation, because Mom and Gurley were speaking Visayan, the dialect on this island in the Philippines. Lots of people think Filipinos speak Tagalog, but that’s mostly in the North. Here in the Central Visayas, they speak Visayan and Cebuano.
I wondered how Wenling had kept up with the conversation. She was Chinese, and even though there are a lot of Chinese in the Philippines, they rarely spoke Mandarin—Wenling’s native language.
I’ll explain how we got here from our regular home in Fletcher Canyon later, but right now even though I didn’t understand what Mom and our host were saying, I gathered it was important. Mom’s voice jumped a half an octave when she spoke her native tongue, but right now it was even higher and louder than usual.
“Retired?” Mom asked in English. I’d found that Filipinos would pop English words into sentences from time to time.
“Yes,” Gurley said.
“We have to get there before he realizes we’re in town,” Mom said.
Gurley looked down at the wood floor. I suspected word had gotten around town about our plans to investigate the death of Mom’s sister. “You didn’t tell him, did you?” Mom asked.
“Him?” Gurley asked. “No.”
Mom nodded as if this were a good answer, but Gurley and all her neighbors seemed excited that we were here. Gurley had even asked all three of us to sign the scanned color copy of Mom and me on the cover of Fletcher Weekly. Gurley’s son Dar-Dar, who’d moved to California and was currently house-sitting for us, had sent it to her from our local paper.
I looked down at the picture still resting carefully on the edge of the bamboo and glass table. Mom had bought some Sherlock and Watson props for us to use. Well, I wasn’t exactly dressed as Watson, I was more just a person holding up a magnifying glass that emphasized my double chin. Mom, however, looked adorable in her deerstalker hat holding a pipe. I’d wanted to sign over my face, but Gurley wouldn’t have it. She even insisted Wenling autograph it as well even though Wenling wasn’t in the photo.
“It’s still early. We can get there before he leaves his office for the day,” Mom said, standing up and heading to the door. My hope of heading to the hotel died an exhausted death upon hearing Mom say that.
We all headed toward the door. Mom and Gurley continued to talk as we put on our shoes in the doorway. I’d learned that in Filipino homes you take off your shoes when you go into a home. It made sense. Living on an island meant there was a sand everywhere. So much sand flooded into my sneakers, I could fill a month’s worth of hourglasses.
Mom and Wenling were saying their goodbyes, and so I did the same.
“Aye! Wait!” Gurley said as she dashed out of the room and returned to the doorway with her cell phone. “Selfie.” I guess selfie is selfie in any language.
Gurley had the new Galaxy that made the five-year-old iPhone in my pocket feel like an abacus. I needed to upgrade. There was so little memory on my phone, I had to delete a podcast if I wanted to call for a Lyft or Uber. I’d assumed Gurley didn’t have a cell phone or a computer, because we’d traveled so far into a rural area surrounded—in my mind—by jungle, and her house was in the native Nipa-hut style with tight latticework walls and open space for windows. The house was on stilts and an angled thatched-leaf roof that extended over the walls in a way that I assumed kept the rain from getting in.
We posed for the photo several times until Mom, Wenling, and Gurley were all satisfied with the picture. I have a history of being self-conscious about photos, but operating on almost no sleep and sweating for the last few hours, I didn’t even look at the picture. Exhaustion is a great tool for self-acceptance.
“No adding it on Facebook,” Mom said to Gurley.
“Is there an internet cafe here?” I asked.
“Why? Do you want a coffee?” Mom asked.
“To get on Facebook,” I said.
“No need,” Gurley said, pointing to a smooth, small box on a side table near the hall. “Pocket Wi-Fi from Globe.”
Why hadn’t I ever heard of pocket Wi-Fi before?
“No Facebook,” Mom reiterated.
Gurley looked unhappy, but then she had an idea. “What about Instagram?”
“We don’t want to let everyone know we’re here. We have to take them by surprise,” Mom said, and then added, “I didn’t know you were on Instagram. I’m on it, too. You should follow me. I’ll follow you.”
After Gurley showed Mom some Instagram tricks, Mom decided that it would be okay for Gurley to post the photos online after dinner tonight. That would give us time to catch the judge “off guard.”
“We don’t need to catch the other suspects off guard, Mom?” I asked.
“He’s the killer, so he’s only one that matters anyway,” Wenling said.
“No,” Mom corrected her best friend, “but he’s the one I’m worried will lie the most, so that’s why it’s okay.”
“Because he’s the killer,” Wenling mumbled under her breath.
I know why Wenling thought the judge was guilty. It’s because Mom had been talking about how she was almost sure that the judge had arranged the pedicab accident. Aunt Lalaine had evidence that he was a crooked judge. But of course, Mom said she’d keep an open mind. And there were other suspects.
We promised to meet up later in the week to update Gurley on the case and hurried out the door. The moment we stepped out of the house, the hot Filipino sun burned down on my face. I knew the SPF in my foundation was no match for the rays. Even if it were, I’d likely sweated off my makeup a long time ago.
The walk to the road was farther than I remembered. I hadn’t thought about it much when we arrived, because the pedicab—a popular mode of tran
sportation on the island that featured a small motorbike with an elaborate metal carriage with open sides that had two facing bench seats—had taken us on a Mr. Toad-like wild ride all the way to the door.
But now we had to walk along the “road” to get to the “main highway” to pick up a pedicab. I put those things in quotations, because by road I mean “dirt” and by “main highway” I mean “two-lane road.”
It took ten minutes to walk to the highway, and then we walked along it waiting for a pedicab to pass by. Let’s just say Mom’s old friend didn’t live in the hippest part of the island. We decided to wait in the shade under a nearby tree.
A family of four on one small motorcycle, including a baby riding up front, passed by us. No one was wearing a helmet. The amount of un-helmeted babies on motorbikes I’d seen in under a day of being in the Philippines amazed me. That and how low the power lines seemed to hang. It made me want to duck.
“When you see him,” Wenling said to Mom, “you should say ‘I will have my vengeance in this life or the next.’”
On the nineteen-hour trip getting here, Wenling had filled up her iPad with several movies to watch, but she only watched one—four times. Gladiator. It mesmerized Wenling, and she decided that this fight was Mom’s Gladiator.
“Yeah,” Mom said. “But that part about the next life is creepy and weird.”
“No, it’s not. Your ghost can avenge you,” Wenling said.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Mom said. “You don’t believe in ghosts either.”
“It’s okay. We’re not in the United States right now. We can believe in ghosts,” Wenling explained.
“Filipinos don’t believe in ghosts,” Mom said.
“Yes they do, and you know it,” Wenling said. “Just because I’m not from here doesn’t mean I don’t know here.”
I could tell from the look on Mom’s face that she’d been caught. Maybe Filipinos did believe in ghosts.
An older man on a bike pedaled by us. “Dong!” Mom called out to him.
Mom said something to the man in Visayan, and the man nodded. Mom offered the man a few pesos, but he refused. Mom insisted. He thanked her and put the money in his pocket.
“Dong,” Wenling said, “do you believe in ghosts?”
The man raised his eyebrows and nodded yes.
Wenling shot Mom a satisfied smirk, and the man pedaled his way down the highway.
“He’s going to go and see if there’s a pedicab farther down, so that we don’t wait here for too much longer,” Mom said.
We waited. Several more multi-passengered motorbikes passed as Mom and Wenling discussed how great it was going to be to catch the judge by surprise and have him confess. It had been almost ten years since Mom’s sister Lalaine had died in what had been alleged as an auto accident. Mom and her sister had been fighting against the illegal sale of their inheritance for over twenty years. Lalaine was said to have proof that Judge Hernandez had been involved in the cover-up.
Somehow I doubted that the element of surprise would trick him into confessing, but then again, I couldn’t write off Mom. She had a way of getting people to confess. No crime in our household growing up ever went unsolved—not even a few missing cookies got past her. I could only hope it would be that easy, but at least Mom and Wenling’s conversation took my mind off the sweat dripping down my back.
Somehow I’d thought that being half-Filipino myself I’d be able to handle the heat at least halfway decently, but the math didn’t work out.
The pedicab appeared in the distance and zoomed next to us. “The boulevard, dong,” Mom said as she and Wenling slid into one side of the bench seat, which easily fit the two of them. I sat opposite them. Being about six inches taller than the two of my five-foot-and-shorter co-passengers, I envied how they sat comfortably. I sat with my knees almost coming up to my chin.
Mom and Wenling continued to talk about the case in English.
“Are you the famous detectives from the United States?” the driver asked Mom.
“Yes!” Wenling beamed.
“How do you know that?” Mom asked.
“I heard you were coming from my cousin’s sister who works at the Sun Cafe near your hotel. Are you going to seek vengeance on the one who killed your sister?” the driver asked.
“In this life or the next!” Wenling said.
The driver smiled and nodded.
Mom shushed Wenling. “No vengeance in any life,” Mom said. I could see she was upset that even the pedicab driver knew about us coming to town. Although Mom and Wenling’s recent obsession with social media conflicted with Mom’s desire for the element of surprise. The idea of catching the judge by surprise seemed much less likely now.
The pedicab picked up speed as we whizzed down the highway toward town. I gripped onto the metal frame and watched the landscape. The vehicle couldn’t have been traveling more than twenty miles an hour, but the lack of stoplights or even stop signs and the bumpy ride made it feel a tad terrifying. Although I did appreciate the breeze. My shirt was soaked.
I heard what sounded like drums in the distance—like the sound of a pep rally. We came to a stop behind a bunch of other pedicabs and a few cars.
“What’s the holdup?” Mom asked the driver.
“Parade,” he answered, pointing to the left.
Mom leaned over to look in the direction that the driver was pointing. She said something to the driver in Visayan, and he nodded and proceeded to maneuver the cab through the traffic so that Mom could get a better look.
The drums grew louder, and I could hear singing. It took a while, but I recognized the song. It was a weird marching band version of “Poker Face” by Lady Gaga, sung in highly accented English. I peered over at the parade, and I could see that the streets had been decorated with colorful flags. The little triangular flags were strung from tree to building top to electrical line. I noticed that some of the floats were actually carried on the shoulders of people. One of the floats was so high they had put a person on top of a pole being carried by another person in front of it. The person clinging to the pole held a pair of scissors so he could cut some of the low-hanging streamers so that the float behind him could go by. I admired the craftiness of the handcrafted floats. One was of a colorful bird, and the other was of a very large monkey which looked to be made of papier-mâché.
Much like parades in the United States, there was a beauty contest winner waving from a convertible. Behind her were I guess runners-up to the same beauty contest, waving from the back of the truck.
“What’s the parade for?” I asked the driver.
“Fiesta. Celebrating the founding of our town,” he said.
“I didn’t know the parade was today,” Mom said. I didn’t even know there was a fiesta. Mom said something to the driver in Visayan. “Can you get us to his office?”
“Buboy is your official driver for all of your mystery-solving needs,” he said. “Hold on.” He put the pedicab into reverse, which actually meant he angled his steering wheel, pushed back with his feet, and then pushed the wheel way far to the right and U-turned. Within minutes, we were off down a side alley that opened up into a small trail in worn grass, followed by a dirt road.
Fifteen dust-ingesting minutes later, Buboy had us on the other side of “The Boulevard.” It was then I realized how close we’d been to our hotel. The sound of the band was still as loud as ever.
“I’ll wait here for you,” he said.
Mom spoke to him rapidly in Visayan. I vaguely understood a few numbers. It struck me that numbers in Visayan were very close to numbers in Spanish, which made sense considering the country’s history with Spain. Mom shook her head no as her voice shot up an octave. The driver argued back at Mom. This went on for several uncomfortable minutes, and then both parties resumed their normal friendly manner.
“Keep a lookout for any suspicious characters,” Mom said as we headed inside to the Spanish-style building.
Buboy nodded.
“What?” Mom asked, opening the door.
I’d hoped for air-conditioning to come gushing out of the building when we opened it, but was disappointed by the faint gush of warm air and telltale sound of an oscillating fan.
“The argument you had with the driver,” I said.
“No argument,” Mom said. “We were just negotiating how much were going to pay him for the week.” Mom stared at the sign.
“Is this the courthouse?” Wenling asked.
“No,” Mom said. “This is the judge’s office. The courthouse doesn’t have offices.”
Mom led the way up a thin wooden staircase. The building seemed old. I was surprised that there wasn’t a security guard outside. Almost as if she could read my mind, Mom said, “The guard must be out at the parade.”
“Looks deserted and creepy,” Wenling said just as the staircase squeaked.
“Maybe he’s not here,” I said to Mom.
Mom pretended she didn’t hear me and continued up the stairs and down the hall. I knew if she didn’t see the judge she would be disappointed. Mom had talked about him nonstop ever since we committed to coming to the Philippines to find out what happened to her sister.
Mom and her sister had been swindled out of their inheritance many years ago, and this judge, Judge Hernandez, was the man who helped that happen. Mom was sure he had something to do with her death. Lalaine, Mom’s sister, had called Mom to tell her that she found one of the hidden documents the week that she died.
Mom took a deep breath and paused at the end of the hallway. There wasn’t a sign on the door, and I wondered how Mom knew this was his office. Had she been here before? Mom knocked on the door, and there wasn’t an answer. She opened it.
“Hernandez,” she said. I noticed Mom called the judge by his last name instead of Judge Hernandez.
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