She didn’t cut loose on him, probably because she understood that he hadn’t conspired with Jake to bring the mac salad. But that didn’t mean she was over it.
The brunt of Black Friday fell on the uniformed officers, but when things went really bad, detectives could get a call.
“Coutinho.”
“Detective, respond to the Hilo Surfside.”
Sometimes visitors to the island got into the act. They found their conflicts had followed them to paradise.
But as soon as he disconnected, the phone rang again, and he noted Lieutenant Tanaka’s number on the display.
“Gotta do this one right,” said Tanaka. “Meaning dot the i’s. It’s in the family.”
“At a hotel?”
“Yeah.”
Coutinho listened.
“Not what I expected,” he said.
The Hilo Surfside was one of the hotels on Banyan Drive on the bay. Coutinho knew the place from burglary calls. The typical Hawaii crime was a theft off a visitor’s beach blanket or from a hotel room.
The kind of situation they had now didn’t come up much.
He parked on the street and approached the hotel. Tanaka had told him the pool area was where the action was, but the two patrol cars with their lights flashing would have tipped him off anyway.
He crouched to make a smaller target. There was a gun involved. He came up next to a uniformed officer hunkered down by the right front fender, where the engine block would stop most types of ammunition. He was pleased to see it was Officer Jenny Freitas, who was level-headed beyond her twenty-six years. Behind the other car was Officer Patsy Inaba, who was also a solid cop.
“Anything changed?”
“No,” said Freitas. “We’re still waiting her out. She asked for you.”
They both knew it could be good or bad that he had arrived.
Coutinho took a look, and the first thing he had to do was suppress a laugh that bubbled up uninvited.
It was an incongruous picture. Tom Johnson’s huge bulk was down on the concrete apron next to the pool. He held his thigh, and Coutinho could see red between his banana-sized fingers. The funny part was this huge man cowering under a woman who could fit on his palm. But his wife Kimiko was definitely in charge for the moment.
This was why they called a gun “the equalizer.” It looked like a thirty-eight revolver, but Kimiko’s petite hand made it seem huge. Even a modest gun got heavy after a while, and Coutinho could see Kimiko’s arm trembling. When she couldn’t hold the gun any longer, she might decide to pull the trigger again.
“Is that Errol?” said Kimiko without looking away from her husband.
Training and experience told him this was a pivotal moment. She might be waiting for him to talk her down, or she might be saving her final act of violence for him to witness. But since she had forced the issue, he had to make a decision.
“Yeah, it’s me, Kimiko.”
She turned her eyes to him.
“You know what this is about?”
“I’m guessing something about a nurse at the hospital.”
“He thought I wouldn’t find out. I have three cousins working at this hotel, but does he remember stuff like that?”
“So you came looking for him?”
“Didn’t have to look. Room 235. My cousin called me.”
Behind Coutinho, Officer Freitas talked quietly into her radio. Someone would check the room for another possible casualty.
Silence threatened to return, and he groped for something to say.
“I’d be less surprised if it was Amy and Jake.”
“Oh, they made up. They do it all the time.”
Another pause.
“You know,” said Kimiko, “it wouldn’t be so bad if you were all like that.”
“Who?”
“Men. If you were all dogs, well, then that’s life. But you’re not. I mean you, personally.”
“Well, I’m not perfect. Ask Lucy.”
“The mac salad. I know. Am I gonna have to eat mac salad in prison?”
“This is Hawaii, Kimiko.”
It was Hawaii, and noodles and mayonnaise were cheap.
“But you might get probation.”
He doubted it, but it was a talking point.
The trembling in her arm was becoming severe. With Kimiko looking right at him, he couldn’t make a move. She might pull the trigger without meaning to. But he sensed Freitas and the other officers getting ready to shoot. Behind his back he rotated his left wrist to show them his palm in a discreet stop signal.
Johnson appeared calm for someone looking at a gun barrel. He was doing the smart thing, which was nothing. As long as Kimiko’s attention was elsewhere, he had a chance.
Kimiko let her arm drop to her side.
“I’m tired of this,” she said.
The revolver fell out of her hand onto the concrete. Coutinho flinched, but the weapon wasn’t cocked.
Freitas and Inaba converged on Kimiko and handcuffed her. Freitas got on her radio to give the all-clear for an ambulance. Coutinho went to Johnson.
“How is it?”
“No arteries. Got lucky. It helps there’s a lot of me.”
“What about the girlfriend?”
“She left before Kimiko showed up.”
“It’s not Brandi, is it?”
“No. I know the rules. And she wouldn’t, anyway.”
Coutinho decided not to ask which rules Johnson meant. They weren’t the rules he lived by himself.
“I should have listened to your mother yesterday.”
Coming from Johnson, that was major introspection. Coutinho wasn’t sure it would last.
“Well, you and Kimiko are going to have some time apart. Maybe you can figure stuff out.”
*
Unaccustomed smells greeted Coutinho as he approached the kitchen. There was cooking going on, and he wasn’t doing it.
Lucy looked up from the pan on the burner.
“Shoyu chicken,” she said. “Brandi talked me through it.”
“Brandi?”
“She learns fast. Faster than me, anyway.”
“Smells good,” he said.
It didn’t really smell like shoyu chicken, but that didn’t make it unpleasant.
“With mac salad,” said Lucy.
He groped for something to say that wouldn’t be pushing his luck. Lucy let him off the hook with a smile.
“Eat.”
No Starch in the Turkey, Please
Maryann Miller
Emily Bates looked at the fancy envelope and wondered who on earth had sent her something that looked like it could be a summons from the queen. Not that she knew what a summons from a queen would look like, never having received one. But the paper was smooth and rich to the touch, and tinted a light cream color that shouted “high end.”
The envelope had no return address. How odd. Why not? Should she worry about poison? One never knew in this day and age. Just recently on the news she’d heard about poisoned missives being sent to a congressman and to the president of the United States. While she thought perhaps members of congress should be done away with, she was leaning more toward term limits, not murder, and she didn’t really dislike the president all that much. Well, maybe she did, but that was an issue to be considered later.
She shrugged off the distracting thoughts and turned her attention back to the piece of mail. Holding the envelope well away from her body, lest she inhale some toxic something when she opened it, Emily used a ruby-edged thumbnail to slit the envelope. She opened the slit and within saw a folded piece of paper. Nothing else. No explosives. No suspicious powder. Nothing that spoke of danger, so she pulled out the paper, unfolded it, and read:
Emily,
This is your mother. I purposely did not put a return address on the envelope as I knew you would not open it if you saw from whom it had been sent. Please resist the urge to toss this letter across the room, or burn it, or do whatever it is you do to
letters I have posted in the past.
I am writing to invite you to come to the estate for Thanksgiving. I know it has been many years since we have gathered as a family, but I thought it important to make some effort to connect. As you may know, well, actually, since we have not communicated in over three years, you don’t know, but your father’s health is not what it should be. Not that he is anywhere near the great beyond, but it is time for us to consider what we will be doing with our estate.
You also don’t know that your father tore up his will back in 2002 when Tom ran off with that older man who had so many wrinkles on his neck it looked like a turkey wattle. It was bad enough that Tom prefers men over women, but he could have picked someone like Brad Pitt.
But I digress.
Please make every effort to attend, and perhaps you can bring some sweet potatoes from that farm where you work. I ask you, is that any way for the daughter of one of the richest men in America to live? Do they even pay you a living wage?
Ah, digressing again. Thanksgiving dinner. We will dine at four in the afternoon. Please come early enough to help with food preparations. The cook has asked if she could have the day off to spend a Thanksgiving with her family, and I could hardly say no. After all, she has been with me for so long, and cooked every holiday dinner here for as long as I can remember.
Alas, I am hopeless in the kitchen, so I am hoping that the farmer’s wife has taught you something about how to use a stove and oven.
Fondly,
Regina Bates
Emily collapsed in the old rocking chair, which was one of the few items of furniture she owned. No, she was not getting paid a living wage, but she was paid enough and she was happy. She read the letter again and couldn’t help but wonder whether her mother was truly inviting her to dinner or simply asking her to be the cook? She was still puzzling over the missive when the phone rang. She had a portable on the small table next to the chair, and she picked up automatically. “Hello.”
“Hi, it’s David.”
“David who?”
“Your brother. Remember? We used to live in the same house and play in the same sandbox.”
“Sorry. It’s just been a while.” Emily started to follow with a generic, “what’s up,” and then she realized what might have prompted his call. “You got a letter from mother, too.”
“How did you know?”
“You haven’t called since the family went ballistic over you marrying the Chinese princess. I think our parents hated that more than they did Tom and his guy.”
David laughed. “You might be right. You might also like to know that the phone lines work both ways little sis.”
“Duly noted.” Emily stood and went into the kitchen to get a soda from the refrigerator.
“Are you going?” David asked.
Emily balanced the phone on her shoulder and opened the can. “I don’t know. Are you?”
“Not sure. My letter said no guests, which I’m guessing means that my wife is not welcome.”
“Funny, my letter didn’t say anything about not bringing anyone. Although she does want me to bring sweet potatoes.”
“Maybe that’s because if you brought a guest, it would be a guest of the right nationality and the right gender.”
“You talked to Tom already?”
“Yeah. He was pissed because mother came right out and said that his ‘man friend’ was not welcome.”
Emily took a sip of the soda, all of the old feelings of frustration with her parents rearing up again. That bigoted, uncompromising approach to people is what had driven her away several years ago. Not that she hadn’t encountered bigotry here in a small town in East Texas, but at least here she could just walk away from it. Or tell people to shut up. One did not tell her mother or father to shut up.
“You still there?” David asked.
“Yeah. Just trying to get over being mad.”
“Let me talk to Tom again, and we can decide about going.”
“You know what?” Emily plopped back down in the chair. “I figure if mother wants us there so badly, she can just put up with your wife and Tom’s partner.”
“So you’d go?”
“Yeah. Just to see her expression when Fred and Min walk in with you guys. And there is our inheritance to consider. Mother said something about settling the estate. We might not have anything settled on us if we don’t go.”
“You know, Min has connections here in the States. She could hurry things along.”
“What things?”
“You know. Mother insinuated that Daddy’s dying. It’s only a matter of timing.”
“Are you nuts?”
“Listen, Min could get you a joint or a hit man. Your choice.”
“David. Don’t even joke about something like that.”
“Wait, I’ll ask her.”
“No. Stop it. I hated when you did this when we were kids.”
“Did what?”
“Joked around about killing things.”
“Who says I’m joking?”
Emily hung up. The headache that had started as a dull throb when she’d read her mother’s letter had blossomed into a full marching band, playing Sousa at high volume. She leaned her head against the high back of the chair and closed her eyes. Took one deep breath in and let it out slowly. Then repeated that ten times.
There. That was better.
*
Nothing was less appetizing than the remains of Thanksgiving dinner. Plates were thick with congealed gravy, the carcass of the bird was in the middle of the table like some macabre sculpture, and the various things in serving dishes no longer even resembled food—some of which had landed on the floor when Emily’s mother had taken an angry swipe at the table before storming off.
They had barely finished the main course when their father excused himself to go take a snooze. It had been a trying day. To the rest of the assembled, Tom had announced that he and Fred were going to get married and they looked forward to a long and happy life together, eventually squandering Tom’s inheritance on lavish trips. “We do so love to travel.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Regina had said, standing and trembling like she was on the frozen Tundra. “That man,” she pointed at Fred, “will never touch a penny of your father’s money.”
“But when father dies, it becomes my money.” Tom spoke so calmly they might have been discussing whether to have real whipped cream on the pumpkin pie or the fake stuff made of some petroleum product.
“Over my dead body,” Regina had said before making her dramatic exit.
“That can be arranged,” David had called out, losing his smile when Emily shot him a cold look.
“Tom. You really shouldn’t have provoked her,” Emily said. “And I guess you didn’t know, but father took you out of the will a few years ago when you left to be with Fred. I’m pretty sure you’re out, too, David. Remember how we used to joke about how he changed his will so many times he probably wrote the codicils on sticky notes?”
“That no right,” Min said, fury burning in her eyes. “Elder son get money. That Chinese way.”
“We’re in America,” Tom said. “And there are three children in this family who will split the money.”
“How much is there?” David asked.
Emily shrugged. She didn’t know. She’d never even cared about the money until this very minute when it looked like it might get away from her. She considered her sister-in-law a pretty little thing with a perfect complexion, glistening black hair, and the kind of darling figure that women spent thousands to achieve. She looked so sweet. So innocent, but Emily couldn’t stop thinking of what David had said last week. And she couldn’t get past the edge that was in Min’s voice when she made her declaration about the money.
“I don’t know a total, either,” Tom said, patting Fred’s hand that was picking at the crumbs by his plate. “But Forbes listed Daddy Dear as one of the richest men in America. One doesn’t gain that status with only a few
measly millions.”
“So that means we could each get a few measly millions.” There was a note of awe in David’s voice.
Emily didn’t say anything at first. Not until she noted a glint of excitement in Min’s ebony eyes. “There, see,” Emily said. “There will be enough for all of us. The American way.”
Min didn’t respond. She pushed away from the table, grabbed her smartphone and stomped off in a very dramatic Chinese huff. Emily’s first impulse was to laugh at the Asian display of pique, but she swallowed the laugh. What if Min had gone off to make that call?
“Um, David?”
“What?”
“You didn’t. You know…” Emily let the sentence fade, and gestured toward the doorway that Min had just passed through.
Tom asked, “Didn’t what?”
“Oh, my God.” David laughed. “We joked about having Min use her contacts to the Chinese mafia. Hurry daddy’s demise along.”
“You joked. I didn’t,” Emily said over the gasps from Tom and Fred.
“Put your mind to rest, little sis,” David said. “I didn’t ask, and Min didn’t call.”
“Are you sure about her?”
“Don’t be silly,” Tom said. “Min is part of the family. She would never hurt Daddy. Besides, Asians honor their elders, they don’t knock them off.”
*
That night, Emily crawled into what had been her childhood bed, pushing aside the stuffed animals her mother had kept all these years. Seeing them there had surprised Emily, and made her wonder if her mother was actually human on some level.
She also wondered how sick her father was. His complexion looked like cold oatmeal, and he had lost a lot of weight. Probably the big C. The disease her mother never wanted to talk about. Emily had asked, right after passing the sweet potato casserole, whether Daddy had cancer, and her mother had clutched her chest as if having a heart attack and said, “We do not discuss things like that at the dinner table.”
Even though she was exhausted from cooking most of the day—yes, Mother had wanted a cook—sleep eluded Emily. On top of her worries about her father was a little niggle of fear about Min. She wanted to be assured by what her brother had said, but that emotion was as elusive as sleep. Lest she spend the entire night tossing and turning, she got up, put on a robe, and went downstairs to get a glass of warm milk.
The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Fifth Course of Chaos Page 13