Coco's Nuts

by Tyler Colins

  “I don't think it's about music or acting.” I nudged her lightly and we moved on.

  The living room housed a mud-brown corduroy sofa with a matching armchair, a small flat-screen TV and a cheap sound system, and a five-tier bookshelf of fake oak with stacks of graphic novels. Posters of Harleys and Porsches served as art.

  The dining room, nothing more than a niche in the corner of the living room, held a small round table with glass top and three black vinyl chairs, and a florid Victorian sideboard that had probably been passed down the family.

  Buddy peered behind a narrow door. “That leaves two more rooms, not including this closet pretending to be a bathroom.”

  A tiny kitchen held old appliances and a wall of shelves supporting an array of cereals and soups. On top of a grease-spotted oven rested a greasy metal tray and on the counter was an oval plate heaped with congealed, cheese-covered, catsup-speckled French fries. An open, overturned bottle of malt vinegar lay before the sink, further confirming that Eddy had left hurriedly. Small wonder the place reeked. Closed windows + soury vinegar + old sneakers + dirty laundry = phew.

  “The guy loves his Cheerios,” Rey gestured the third shelf. “All possible flavors.”

  “Let's give him ten points for healthy breakfast choices.” Linda motioned the last room, an unadorned guestroom/office painted margarine yellow.

  Found inside: a laptop, more upscale magazines, a scratched-up oak desk, and a cot covered with a Star Wars comforter. Not found inside: a cadaver or the aforementioned simpering psycho.

  “Where's Eddy, you think? Hiding?” Rey cupped a hand to her mouth and yodeled, “Hey, Eddy? Yoo-hoo-hoo-hoo. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  I cuffed her playfully upside the head.

  “Maybe we should do as Michael Jackson once suggested and beat it?” Buddy put forward.

  What TV cops and private detectives called their “gut instinct” had started to churn in mine like cream being whipped into butter. “Let's do a quick rewind,” I recommended, sensing there was something to be found if we looked in the right place(s).

  We rechecked rooms, ending back in the main bedroom.

  I peered under the bed like a wary child searching for a bogeyman, but found none – no hobgoblin, not even a dustball. Eddy's mother would be proud.

  Linda opened the closet door and flipped gingerly through. “The guy's got a lot of T-shirts and jeans, some sweatshirts and hoodies, and a couple of those ugly, long-crotched pants. Isn't he a bit too old for that? … Ten hangers are empty, suggesting he grabbed some items before leaving.”

  We surveyed the room. My gaze, like Rey's, returned to the blanket box.

  “If he's in there,” Linda said gravely, reading our thoughts, “he's in a few pieces.” With a big bolstering breath, she swung open the top. A large recycling bag greeted our view. She yanked it off to find several plastic sandwich bags underneath filled with money.

  “Care to bet that that ain't Monopoly cash?” Rey ribbed.

  “Let's leave the betting to Annia Picolo-Advertere,” Linda answered.

  I shrugged and turned to Buddy. Her response was to shrug as she looked at Rey, who also shrugged and then extracted one of the bags.

  Rey did a quick count. “There's five hundred here, all in tens.” She quickly surveyed the other bags. “Looks like all fifteen of them are the same.”

  “Why would Eddy take off, but leave the money behind?” Linda asked with a pensive brow.

  “Maybe he didn't take off on his own accord,” I said solemnly.

  “You mean, someone ordered him to leave town, or ensured he did … maybe permanently.” Rey eyed the bag in her hand as if it were filled with festering food.

  Buddy gripped my arm. “Let's get out of here.”

  “We should call the police –”

  “And report what?” Rey snorted, dropping the bag back into the chest and slamming shut the lid. “That someone didn't finish their fries or do their laundry?”

  A shrill, tinny version of “Highway to Hell” rang forth. Without hesitation, I shoved Rey and Buddy forward. Linda, leaning into a wall, appeared frozen in place.

  “Shake it, lady!”

  Into the sunny Sunday afternoon we scrambled like seaside crabs avoiding human feet.

  One minute later, the flat exploded.

  * * *

  As we drove back to Honolulu, Kent called Buddy. He'd not been able to get a hold of me (my muted phone had been in the bottom of a bag) or Rey (her muted phone had been in the bottom of a bag). As he'd not had Linda's number, he'd aimed for his coworker.

  I watched in the rear-view mirror, noting Buddy's frown as she nodded and uh-huhed several times. Linda, seated in front with me, stared out the window, pretending not to pay attention – unlike Rey, who was all but on Buddy's lap and in her face.

  Finally, the call ended. She laughed when she noticed all eyes on her. “Inquisitive, are we?”

  Not one to mince words, Rey demanded, “What's up?”

  “Kent spoke to Annia's maid regarding her employer's whereabouts at the fundraiser the night Jimmy was murdered.”

  “Go on,” Rey urged.

  “It appears Annia arrived home around midnight. Antonia, the maid, is very loyal to her employer … has been for thirteen years.”

  “That bit of information doesn't help any,” Rey grumbled.

  “According to Antonia, Annia is a decent boss, one who doesn't rile easily. She entertains twice a month and hasn't been seeing anyone since Greg died, at least that Antonia is aware of.” Buddy looked from one face to the next. “She did mention that her boss looked pale and winded that night, and when asked if everything was all right, Annia explained that she'd eaten bad seafood and wasn't feeling well.”

  Rey perked up. “Pale and winded, huh? Now that's more helpful.”

  “But she truly may have eaten something that disagreed with her,” Linda pointed out.

  Rey leaned forward so that her face was close to my ear. “Do we want to follow up with Annia?”

  “Not right away,” I replied. “Let's hang on to this little tidbit for now.”

  “And in the meantime?” Buddy asked.

  “Rey and I are visiting with Lula on Maui later this evening.” I turned to Linda and grinned. “You're still welcome to change plans with Makjo.”

  “And give up the home-cooked dinner Mrs. Kelmore's preparing as a thank-you for proving her hubby wasn't errant?” she quipped.

  “What was Mrs. Kelmore's hubby being?” Buddy asked curiously.

  “Thoughtful,” Linda replied. “He was organizing a huge surprise party for their thirty-fifth.”

  “Just when you think men are all the same – useless – you discover one that renews your faith in the opposite sex,” Rey grinned.

  “Do you think visiting with Lula will prove beneficial?” Buddy asked, despondency fleetingly darkening that pretty face.

  “This is a two-fold quest: first and foremost, find folks to corroborate your whereabouts at the time of the murders and second, unearth the real killer. The only way to accomplish either is to pick at every teeny, tiny prospect.”

  Buddy canted her head one way and then the other before staring reflectively out the window.

  “Speaking of killer, who wants to call Ald?” Linda asked. “We should let him know about Eddy's flat … and Coco, for that matter.”

  “Someone's surely already called the police about the explosion,” Rey advised. “As for Coco, what's another day or two?”

  “I'm guessing you don't want to be around when we finally talk to the detective?” I asked Buddy with a droll smile.

  “Not within a ten-block radius,” was her wry response.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “We'll be early.” Rey nodded to the rented Toyota Tercel clock, which read 6:45. We were due at Lula's at 8:00.

  “I saw a seafood restaurant a mile back. Let's share a bite.”

  Ten minutes later we were seated by a burblin
g fish fountain near a small curved bar, drinking in the upbeat energy and made-from-scratch iced teas, and enjoying a sizeable grilled-seafood appetizer plate.

  Rey sighed. “I guess Eddy baby's a dead end for the moment.”

  “Better a dead end than dead,” I said flatly, then sighed. “Maybe he knew the murderer and decided to do some blackmailing. He did have those magazines. Maybe he thought he'd be able to afford a sportscar or house in the near future.”

  Rey absently twirled her straw. “Then what happened? The blackmailee took offense and scared Eddy into running? Something sure got the guy to leave home fast.”

  “There's a link between all that's transpired so far, including Coco.”

  Rey stared into her glass as if it might offer a clue. “Maybe Coco the Nutbar killed Picolo and then someone killed him because of it.”

  “Possibly. He did go MIA a few days beforehand. Maybe he was literally lurking in shadows, waiting for the right moment to murder his boss.” I exhaled at length. “We have a lot of suppositions, but no answers or evidence.”

  “It's like when we were working the Howell case. There was a lot of supposing going on. We did eventually figure it out, though.” Rey smiled and checked a large wall clock. “It's getting close to Lula time.”

  I eyed my cell sitting on the edge of the table. “Hang on a second. Let's go knowing all we can.” Locating Mark Jack Deon's number, I called. He answered almost instantly.

  “What else can you tell me about Pierre Rabah Kostov's wife?”

  “She did have a great pair of hooters,” he chuckled.

  It was tempting to ask the creep if he were for real but, sadly, I knew the answer. “Was it Jimmy Picolo she ran off with?”

  “I heard it was a guy from Maui. I also heard he was so not her class or style – youngish, but looked and talked like a rocker.”

  “Could it be this 'rocker' was simply helping her move?”

  “Could be, I guess. And if they were together, I can't imagine it was that long.”

  I thanked him and hung up. My cell informed me there were three voice-mail messages. I chose to ignore them. “Let's visit a friend of Buddy's after we see Lula.”

  “Who?”

  “Eb Stretta's brother, Jem.”

  * * *

  Several minutes later we pulled the car into a short, shrub-lined driveway and stopped before a spacious, single-level house. The deep-throated barks of a Great Dane poking its big gray-and-black head between frilly olive-colored curtains caught our attention.

  “Is that a dog or a horse?” Rey asked, awed.

  I hopped from the car. “He's a pussycat, I'm sure.”

  Lula answered our ring and greeted us at the door, as did Wizard the “horse” and his Persian pal, Mooky. As we stepped under a six-light iron chandelier in the mudroom and started to remove shoes, Wizard took a shining to Rey, which he demonstrated by planting huge paws on her shoulders and licking her effusively.

  Lula, a striking woman of Amazon height and build, shooed her pets into a nearby playroom and told us to make ourselves comfortable in the living room while she finished a call.

  Seated on a lush curved-back sofa, we chatted about the furnishings while awaiting our hostess' return. There was a bergere chair and ottoman, both with handsome hand-carved detailing, a maple coffee table with hand-forged iron scrollwork, and an elegant wall unit with a marble countertop and glass cupboards. Several Lene Bjarre vases were strategically placed around the warm room. It was a pleasing modern-versus-classic contrast.

  Lula reappeared two minutes later. Her hunter-green A-line skirt and creamy short-sleeved silk blouse with tiny rhinestone buttons leaned toward the classic. Butter-blonde hair, tied back with a black satin bow, gleamed, as did the freshly scrubbed face. The only makeup: raspberry-pink gloss on almond-shaped lips.

  “When did you last see Jimmy Picolo?” Rey asked.

  “A month ago. Maybe a little more.” Sure enough, she had a southern accent – Arkansan from the sound of the rolling r's. She stared at her Rolex watch and sighed. “It seems like forever.”

  “He was your lover,” I prodded softly.

  A cranberry blush crept across a heart-shaped face and she seemed to fight back a giggle.

  “Or was he someone you helped to destroy your husband?” Rey asked bluntly.

  Clearing my throat gently, I offered a baleful glare.

  “It's all right, Ms. Reynalda.” Lula waved a heavily veined hand that suggested the southern belle worked out regularly. “Pierre was extremely talented at destroying himself. He required no help.”

  “And you and Jimmy…?” I prompted.

  Her gaze drifted from me to Rey and back again. “We met at a charity event about five months and two weeks before Pierre shot himself. We clicked.”

  “Was it Jeremiah or Ebenezer Stretta that helped you move down here?”

  She looked only vaguely surprised. “Both did.”

  “Why?” I continued prodding, feeling as if we might actually learn something of note from Lulabella-Lynn.

  “Jimmy thought it would be wiser if I left town.” This time she did giggle. “He didn't want people to learn about us, considering –”

  “Your husband had frittered away money away and blew his brains out,” Rey finished for her.

  I offered another baleful glare.

  Lula sighed softly and nodded. “He thought it might look like we'd contributed to the business problems and suicide.”

  “Pierre had been depressed for a long time, hadn't he,” I guessed.

  Her smile was bittersweet. “He was bipolar, on medication, and in therapy.”

  If Picolo hadn't contributed to Kostov's despair and death, maybe the only thing he was guilty of was falling for a married woman. But what if he had been a factor in Kostov's business failures and problems? And, for that matter, suicide? Could those serve as motives to kill the renowned entrepreneur? If so, who was seeking revenge?

  “Do you see a lot of Jem and Eb?” I asked nonchalantly.

  “Jeremiah drops by every few weeks to help with chores – you know, broken pipes, backed-up sinks.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  She looked from me to Rey. “The afternoon Jimmy was murdered.”

  * * *

  Jem's long, narrow yard was indicative of his taste and lifestyle: carefree and cluttered. It was crammed with two Suzuki bikes, a rusted go-kart, two wooden picnic tables, one broken, and two barbecues, one visibly functional and the other laying on its bent side like a felled sapling. Strings of colorful pepper-shaped patio lanterns lining tall chain-link fences created a stained-glass effect.

  The three of us were seated at a cedar picnic table, Jem chugging a frosty Bud and Rey and I nursing Dr. Peppers. Once we'd determined that the weather was great, world affairs disheartening, and the sports scene uneventful, we got down to business.

  “Tell us about Lula.”

  Eyes – black and round as a crow's – widened, but only for a flash. He leaned back and stroked a long, wispy Billy Gibbons (ZZ Top) beard, not in keeping with the spiked blond do. “Eb and I helped her move to Maui, and I head over regularly to check and repair things. Picolo paid me three hundred a month, plus gas and expenses.”

  “So you knew Jimmy Picolo very well.”

  “Not really. I met the guy four summers ago when I tagged along with Eb on a P&D.” He shrugged. “A guy named Marlow phoned on his behalf a few weeks later, saying Picolo could use someone who did fix-it jobs. He'd heard about my handyman business and thought I'd be perfect. I said sure, but never heard back. Then the summer previous, Picolo himself called and said he was still looking for a jack-of-all-trades.”

  I frowned, kicking off Valentino flats and stretching my legs onto the long bench.

  “You saw Lula the afternoon he died. Why?”

  “Picolo had called that morning and requested I go over. He seemed out of sorts.” Jem finished his beer and asked Rey if she'd mind getting another fr
om the garage fridge. He stared past the patio lights in recollection. “Maybe he knew someone was out to get him. Or maybe he'd made a bad business deal that day. The only thing I know for sure is that he wanted me to check on Lula, fix a cracked window, and tell her that they'd meet in Kailua the following week. In fact, he wanted me to accompany her there.”

  “Why couldn't Picolo himself call?”

  Jem's forehead puckered. “Maybe he thought people were listening in, or he didn't have the time. Maybe she'd been on the phone all day and night or caught up in one of her church things. That woman loves to chat and socialize –”

  “But she'd have called or texted him at some point.”

  Before Jem could respond, Rey returned and he took the beer she held forth.

  “We're having a small memorial for Eb next week. We've never been big on fancy funerals. We always promised each other, if one of us got a call from the Big Guy, we'd have a memorial, say our farewells, hoist beers, and move on.” He sighed softly and gazed at a tall koa tree in the neighbor's yard.

  Gently, I interrupted his rumination. “Do you know Coco Peterson?”

  “Not well. The guy rides shotgun a lot. He'd kind of a cleaner-upper … at least he used to be. He took care of Picolo's cargo problems and little messes.”

  “Used to?”

  “Eb often shared the latest work news over beers at our local bar. A few months ago or so, he mentioned a couple of guys who were not in the boss' good books. Coco was one of them.”

  “What else do you recall?” Rey asked, keeping her expression and tone neutral (though I knew her well enough to know she was excited).

  “He wasn't liked by a lot of folks. I hear the guy bragged how he got special treatment from the boss and could do as he pleased. Apparently, he thought he was charmed.” He gazed from me to Rey. “Why're you asking about him?”

  “He's missing, maybe even dead,” she replied nonchalantly.

  “Seems to be an epidemic with Picolo employees,” he said sourly and drew on his beer before looking at me. “Eb was lured over on that deal – the mission that was 'better'n good' I told you about – and was totally clueless that something dark and dangerous was going down.”