by Carol Snow
He bit his lip, thinking.
“You should really try to make it,” I said, pouring myself some coffee. “It’s his seventieth.”
Sergeant Hosozawa strode over, Jimmy’s wallet in his latex-gloved hands. The wallet was two-toned blue canvas, frayed at the edges, with a Velcro clasp. Clearly, this was a wallet no businessman would carry—it would be far too embarrassing to pull out. I’d seen the wallet countless times before. Why didn’t I realize something was off?
“I’ve got Jimmy James’s credit cards here,” the sergeant told Michael. “You got yours?”
Michael put down his mug, reached into the back pocket of his crisp khaki shorts, and pulled out a silver money clip. He fished out a few cards and handed them to the sergeant. “I’ve already canceled two of these.”
“You’re sure I can’t get you some coffee, Officer?” I chirped. If Hosozawa said yes, it would mean he didn’t suspect me of anything: murder, identity theft, or a cover-up.
He looked up from the cards briefly and shook his head. Oh, crap.
“The American Express is a match,” he told Michael. “But we figured that since it’s the card he used to buy the ring.”
Without thinking, I rubbed my left thumb against my naked ring finger.
“What’s this other American Express?” the sergeant asked, holding up one of Michael’s cards.
“That one’s for personal expenses. It’s the only one I haven’t canceled.”
“I don’t see a match in Jimmy James’s wallet. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t have one. Miss Shea, do you remember what card he tried to use at the restaurant?”
“It was a Visa,” I said. “I remember he said he had another card back at the room. I assumed he only had the one Amex, but I don’t really know.”
“Oh, great,” Michael moaned. “That means I have to cancel this card, too, and it’s the only one I’ve got right now.”
“Don’t,” the sergeant said. “Not just yet.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I doubt Jimmy James would try to use the other Amex. It’s already been turned down once. But if he gets desperate enough, he might try to use the Visa number, even without the card—or, who knows? Maybe he has your other Amex account. Or your ATM card, even.”
“Wait a minute,” Michael said.
I stared at the policeman. “Are you saying . . .”
Sergeant Hosozawa shrugged. “Maybe he really did drown. The currents were strong that day, and nobody saw him come ashore. Still, given this new twist, we have to consider the very real possibility that he faked his own death, snuck off somewhere. If he’s hiding, he’ll need money eventually.”
“Jimmy might be alive?” Tiara yowled.
The sergeant narrowed his eyes. “Yes. I just said that.”
She shook her head violently. “No. He wouldn’t fake his own death. I know Jimmy better than that. He’d never do anything to hurt me.”
We all paused and then silently agreed to ignore her.
“I think we’re done here,” Sergeant Hosozawa said. “Detective?”
“I’m through.” He crossed the room and peeled off his gloves. “And I’d love a cup of coffee, if there’s any left.”
Michael’s phone purred. He checked the display. “It’s the second time he’s called. I’m going to have to . . .” He opened the phone without finishing the sentence.
“Hey, Rick, how’s it going?”
The guy on the other end was so loud, we could hear him yelling, though we couldn’t make out the words.
I poured coffee for the detective. I apologized for the absence of Sweet’n Low; he apologized for using up my milk.
Michael closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. “It wasn’t me,” he told the person on the other end of the phone. “Some guy stole my credit-card numbers and, well, kind of my identity and—what?” His eyes popped open. “What channel?”
Seeing him scanning the room for a television, I pushed the power button on the little set and handed him the remote.
There he was on the set, poorly lit and unsmiling: Michael James—the real Michael James, that is—under the caption MAN LOST OFF MAUI COAST.
“We’ll keep you updated with any new developments,” the newscaster said.
Michael flipped to another station. There was his unflattering photo again—he looked seriously cranky—next to a shot of Slaughterhouse Beach. The caption this time: SPECIAL REPORT: SCUBA TRAGEDY. A newscaster was in the midst of his narration: “According to the coast guard, the beach is known for riptides and dangerous currents. Search crews continue to comb the area, though officials admit that it is unlikely that they will find Mr. James alive . . .”
The next station Michael checked had a soap opera that couldn’t even begin to compete with real life. Within a minute, all of the stations had resumed their regular programming. Michael ended his phone call and turned off the TV, but we all stood there silent for a moment, just staring at the blank set.
“Do you think they mentioned my name?” Tiara asked.
“You looked pretty unhappy in that photo,” I said to Michael, trying to lighten the mood.
“I was unhappy. I’d just spent three hours at the DMV. It’s my driver’s-license photo.” He was still staring in disbelief at the blank television.
“Since neither of you ladies could provide a photo, we contacted the California DMV,” Detective McGuinn said casually. “Good coffee, by the way.”
“It’s Kona,” I said.
“We will continue to present this to the press as a presumed drowning,” Sergeant Hosozawa said. “If Jimmy James is still alive, we want him to relax a little, let his guard down. If he’s alive, he may try to contact one of you.” He looked at Tiara, then at me. Then he looked back at Tiara, as if betting on which of us Jimmy would call. “If he does, I want you to pretend to be happy.”
“But I would be happy,” Tiara said.
“Miss Cardenas, identity theft is a felony. Aiding Jimmy James would make you an accessory to a crime.”
“That’s not all it would make you,” I muttered.
“If he offers to meet either of you somewhere, say yes and call us immediately. Also, we need a photo of Jimmy James,” Sergeant Hosozawa said. “To release to the press. If Jimmy James is out there, we’ll need extra eyes.”
“I don’t have a photo,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Miss Cardenas?”
She nodded and reached into her oversize purse, pulling out a tiny silver camera. “They’re on here.”
Maybe it was just my imagination, but I think I saw the detective smile.
Before the police drove her back to her hotel, Tiara took my arm and said, “Call me.”
I paused for a moment before saying (somewhat rudely, I admit), “Why?”
“We could, like, get together,” she said. “Talk about old times.”
“We don’t have any old times.”
“I mean, with Jimmy. There’s no one else I can really talk to about him. Plus, you and me, we’re both alone here, you know? It might be nice to have someone to hang out with. For, like, dinner. And manicures, and stuff.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But—I don’t think so.”
Chapter 18
After everyone left, I did what I do best: I restored order. I washed and dried the mugs and put them back in the brown plastic cabinets. I cleaned the coffeemaker and took out the garbage. I folded my clothes precisely (a skill acquired that summer when I worked in a clothing store with Katie Rothman) and stacked them in the appropriate drawers, and then I gathered my toiletries and jewelry from their piles on the carpet and put them back into their quilted cases. When I got to the anklet Jimmy had given me, I stopped cold. He’d bought it after spending the morning with Tiara, I now realized. It wasn’t a token of love, as I’d assumed. It was a token of guilt.
I picked up Jimmy’s clothes one by one—his board shorts, his T-shirts, his boxers and flip-flops—and threw them aga
inst the wall, grunting as I did so. I kicked his duffel bag as hard as I could. It barely budged.
I collapsed on the floor and cried for a really, really long time. And then I got up, washed my face, gathered Jimmy’s clothes, and tucked them neatly into the bag, which I shoved into the back of the closet, where I wouldn’t have to see it. Having handled the clothes, my hands smelled faintly of Jimmy, so I scrubbed them with a bar of the Maui Hi’s cheap white soap.
Next I made a grocery list: milk, coffee, crackers. The list was so short there wasn’t really any need to write it down, but putting everything down on a piece of paper felt so routine and normal that it gave me the faintest sense of control.
The Safeway was a couple of miles down the road, just where Mary had said it would be. It was just like grocery stores on the mainland, only it carried a lot more suntan lotion and beach mats, plus all the customers were so happy. Well, everyone except me, of course. Sunburned families strolled the aisles, negotiating over breakfast items. “But we always get Pop-Tarts on vacation,” I heard one kid say.
Inspired, I took a box of frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts off the shelf and dropped it into my cart. They were my favorite when I was a kid. It had been years since I’d bought them, but what the hell: you only live once.
I was about to go to the checkout stand when I saw the rack of sundresses in the front of the store. I don’t normally buy clothes in the same place I buy my milk (well, except for Target, of course), but these were so perfectly Hawaiian—filmy rayon things in all different colors. I scooped up a long blue one patterned with green turtles. It had spaghetti straps and fringe at the hem.
That was two things I bought that weren’t on my list. Oh, yeah, I was living on the edge, all right. But it was Monday, and I was stuck in Maui until Thursday night: I might as well pretend to be on vacation. As for a revised itinerary, tonight I would stroll through downtown Lahaina and grab a casual bite to eat. Tomorrow I would drive to the volcano in the morning and sit on Napili Beach in the afternoon. On Wednesday, I’d explore Wailea. Thursday, my last day, I would walk down the coast from the condo and find the beach where I’d spent my first morning, spotting whales and struggling to remember what it felt like to be happy.
All this assumed that Jimmy was in hiding and wouldn’t be found. I replaced the mental picture I’d been carrying around—Jimmy drowning, terrified, encircled by sharks—with an image of Jimmy in a lava rock cave, scratched and muddy, out of his mind and perhaps even talking to a volleyball named Wilson. For some reason, I thought of Katie Rothman and what she would call him: “Ath-hole.” It almost made me smile.
The news crews in front of the condo complex ruined my itinerary—not to mention my emotional equilibrium. A news-woman, looking incongruous in a pale blue suit, stood by the Maui Hi sign, fiddling with her microphone. Assorted guests loitered about, thrilled by the distraction. No pool, no beach, no hair dryers or air-conditioning, but the Maui Hi had reporters! What a deal!
I turned the red rental car around and headed for the main road, not knowing where I was headed. Lahaina wasn’t far. I’d planned to change into my new dress before heading downtown, but there was no reason I couldn’t just go as I was (rumpled and grubby). But there was the problem of the milk. If I left it in the car, it would spoil. For some reason, I couldn’t stand the thought of letting new milk go sour, of allowing one more thing in this world to go bad.
At the turn for the Kaanapali Beach resorts, I hit my blinker. Tiara’s room had a minifridge. Besides, I suddenly craved human companionship, and right now Tiara was my only option.
“I was thinking we could have decaf in that lounge downstairs,” I said once she let me into her room. I didn’t really feel like coffee, but it was too early for cocktails, and I wasn’t ready to commit to dinner.
“I’d love to!” she said. She wore a low-cut white tank top that almost entirely exposed her “Tiara” star tattoo and pink velour shorts that said JUICY on the butt. I said a silent prayer of thanks that I hadn’t been here to watch her change her clothes.
“But why decaf?” she asked. “What’s wrong with real coffee?”
I motioned to the clock. “It’s after four. Too close to bedtime.”
She didn’t say anything—just gave me a look that let me know I was the least-fun person in the whole entire world.
The milk fit easily in the small refrigerator since there was nothing else in there. I left the rest of the stuff in a grocery bag on the floor. Then I casually mentioned the reason I couldn’t use my own refrigerator.
She got so bouncy with excitement I feared she’d hit the ceiling. “So, are you sure it was two news vans? Or could there have been more?”
“I’m pretty sure it was two,” I said, wishing I hadn’t mentioned it. “But I hurried out of there pretty fast.”
“Do you think they’re still there? If we leave right now, maybe we can catch them.” She reached for her big yellow handbag.
“Tiara.” She stopped. I made her look at me. Her greenish-gold eyes sparkled with excitement. “We are not going to the condo.” I paused to make sure she understood. “We are not talking to any reporters.” I paused again, still holding her gaze, using the same look I give people when they “borrow” office supplies or take too long a lunch break.
Once she looked vaguely cowed, I said, “Jimmy broke the law. If he is alive, he is in big trouble. If the police think you and I helped him, we could get in trouble, too. Don’t you understand?”
She tilted her chin up and swallowed, as if she was trying not to cry.
“This is hard on everyone,” I said gently. “But we have to keep our heads. Tomorrow will be a better day.” I find platitudes highly effective during emotionally charged situations.
She dropped her chin and nodded. Then she looked at me from under her dark lashes. “Did you bring that newspaper, by any chance? With our pictures?”
I shook my head. Coming had been a mistake: that much was obvious. But I’d already asked her to have coffee with me. Besides, the reporters and photographers were probably still at the condo, and I had no place else to go.
Coming off the elevator, we walked almost immediately into Michael James. He looked from me to Tiara and back to me. If he had any raunchy thoughts about seeing us together, he was classy enough not to let it show in his expression.
“We’re just going for coffee,” I explained.
“There were news crews in her parking lot!” Tiara gushed.
I rolled my eyes as an antidote to Tiara’s enthusiasm. “Are you staying here?” I asked Michael.
He shook his head. “I’ve got an old friend from prep school with a place on the island. He lets me use it when he’s not here.” He stopped and wrinkled his nose. “Did that sound really obnoxious?”
“Which part?” I asked. “The reference to prep school or the bit about ‘a place on the island’?”
He grinned. A faint sunburn warmed his cheeks and nose. It softened him, somehow, made him seem more approachable. He wore a short-sleeved black silk shirt, oatmeal-colored linen trousers, and manly brown sandals.
“I’m meeting a customer here,” he said. “His shop was my first account on Maui. His parents are in town, and they wanted to go to a luau.” He looked mostly at me, I noticed, and when he looked at Tiara he kind of kept his eyes over her head, as if he was trying really, really hard not to stare at her breasts.
“A luau? Fun!” Tiara chirped.
A luau. That was scheduled for day four of my itinerary, after parasailing.
“I had to call in about five favors to get tickets,” Michael said. “They were completely sold out.” He looked at his big black diver’s watch and pulled out his cell phone, like he’d self-destruct if he went five minutes without dialing.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he said into the phone. “Yes, for real. Didn’t you get my message? . . . Well, rumors of my death are premature.” He forced a laugh. “I know—crazy. And it’ll be funny in about . . . twenty years.
At any rate, I’m not only alive, I’m at the Hyatt. Check-in for the luau begins in”—he checked his big watch—“ten minutes. But the show doesn’t start till five o’clock, so it’s no big deal if you’re a little late.”
He paused. And then he scowled.
“Wanna leave?” Tiara mouthed. I shook my head, wanting to hear the rest of the conversation.
“But—I’m not dead,” Michael said. He frowned and crossed his arms, the phone sandwiched between his shoulder and his ear. “Yeah, the cloud cover at Haleakala can be a bitch.” His jaw looked tense. “Well, Mama’s Fish House is a terrific restaurant, but it’s not a luau.”
Finally, he gave up (“We’ll do it some other time. Yeah, you have a good evening, too”) and shut the phone.
“Problem?” I asked.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet and even. “So this morning my customer—but really, I think of him as a friend—turns on the news and finds out that I’m dead.” He slipped the phone into his pocket. “He was so overcome with grief that he drove his parents up to the volcano. Which sucks for them because the peak was covered in clouds, and they couldn’t see anything. So they had lunch at Mama’s Fish House instead.”
“But you’re not really dead,” I said.
“But he thought I was. So he went sightseeing. And out to lunch. So now they’re tired and too full for dinner. On the bright side, he says he’s really happy to hear that I’m alive, and he hopes we can get together before I head back to the mainland.”
“People deal with grief in different ways,” I said lamely.
Tiara leaned forward. “You can take us to the luau!”
Michael looked horrified. “That sounds—fun. But I think I’ll try to get a refund, or maybe just exchange the tickets for another night.”
At the Weeping Banyan, I ordered an iced nonfat decaf latte, while Tiara got something that looked like a milk shake.
“Just charge it to the room,” she said when I pulled out my wallet.
“Uh, Tiara—the room is on Michael’s credit card. You’re going to have to pay for it.” I made a mental note to call the airline and car-rental companies to switch the charges to my Visa. Also, I’d have to explain the situation to Mary. The worst week of my life was going to cost a fortune. On the bright side—if you can call it that—a week at the Maui Hi was a lot cheaper than a week at the Hyatt.