I shrugged. “Like you said, maybe the story will sell a few books. I’ll clip the page, underline my name, and send it to Mildred.”
Inside, I stood beneath the soothing spray of the shower and wiped away the lack of sleep. After the shower and shave, I did feel better, but not about what I had planned for Laura.
In casual slacks and a flowered shirt Laura had insisted on buying me in the hotel gift shop, I carried a stack of paper and a pen to the deck. I set the stack on the table beside Freddy’s screenplay. “What a splendid day. I think I’ll write up some notes on my next novel, inspired by the cool ocean breeze and fabulous view of our cove.”
Laura furrowed her brow. “We promised we wouldn’t work during our honeymoon. Besides, you’re not sure Fanny is guilty. I thought you’d be uncovering other suspects by now.”
I told her about the visit from Tanaka. I went inside and showed her Billy’s hat. “Tanaka makes a compelling case against Fanny. George and Amelia are happy and the flight’s back on.”
“You’re really going to write?”
“Darling, inspiration isn’t something one can schedule.”
She rose and crossed her arms. “So, on my honeymoon, I’m supposed to watch you write?”
“It’ll only be for a few hours. You don’t have to sit around watching me write.” I slid Freddy’s screenplay closer to her. “He insists there’s a terrific part in here for you.”
“I will not.” Her words were brief and clipped.
“Don’t let me stop you from having fun. Why don’t you go for a swim or bike ride?”
“By myself.”
“You could take surfing lessons.”
Laura’s head looked ready to explode. “From Tony the lecherous surf bum?”
“Did I call him that?”
She crossed her arms. “Since when do you want me to take surf lessons from Tony? You wanted to punch him for the way he ogled me, if I recall.”
“I was being selfish. Besides, I think he’s learned his lesson from my stern attitude yesterday. I’m a married man now, and I can’t be getting into jealous fisticuffs. Enjoy your morning. I’ll join up with you this afternoon and we can try our luck at the Mambo Club again this evening.”
“If that’s what you want.” She marched inside and slammed the screen door behind her.
My plan was paying off. I’d behaved like a real cad, but I had no choice. If I’d seen tears, I might’ve backed out, but anger I could deal with. She wouldn’t want to be around me for the rest of the day.
When she came out, Laura pirouetted in a snug two-piece suit that showed her cute navel and every curve. The red suit could be seen for miles. She held a flowered robe draped over one arm.
I let out a wolf whistle. “You look fabulous, darling. Going for a swim in our cove?”
“If you still insist on writing, then I’m going to learn how to surf.”
“In that?”
“It’ll be fun. Something you suggested I do.” Sarcasm dripped with each word.
I didn’t want her wearing that suit in front of Tony, or the dozens of people on the beach between our cabana and Tony’s Surf Shack.
“You’re going to put your robe on before going out, aren’t you?”
“Huh!” She draped the robe over one shoulder, stepped off the deck, and made her way down the beach.
I stood at the edge of the deck, resisting the urge to call off the plan and go after her. I trusted her completely, but I felt like a total scoundrel. I grabbed a sheet of paper from the stack. I had to write something involving Blackie Doyle.
For a brief moment, I considered actually starting my next novel. Over the years, writing had become a comfort, a tool to step away from the stress and danger involved in being a Pinkerton. In Florida, writing took my mind away from missing Laura.
I stared at the blank page, trying to picture Blackie Doyle’s office. I’d always written better when life was a struggle. After Laura and I arrived in the bright lights and glamour of Hollywood, I struggled to revisit the back alleys of Blackie’s New York City.
As a result, my last novel had been my lowest seller, much to Mildred’s dismay. I couldn’t worry about that now. I had a real-life murder to investigate and an apology to Laura to write:
Opening Chapter
Blackie Doyle leaves to investigate the murder of a prominent Hawaiian businessman, hoping the love of his life will understand how dangerous it could be if she came along. Sorry, darling.
I went inside and removed the gun from Laura’s purse, feeling like a heel for peering into her private bag. I slipped a lightweight jacket on over my Hawaiian shirt, stuffed the gun into a pocket inside the coat, and went outside. On the deck, I read Conway’s news account and grew angrier with each embellished paragraph.
Knowing I’d soon run into Freddy, I scanned the first two scenes of his screenplay. I made my way to the main hotel lobby. At the front desk, Freddy glanced up from the newspaper with a hopeful expression. “Mr. Donovan, did you finish my screenplay?”
“I’m not finished reading it yet, but it’s very funny so far, especially the opening scene.”
He stared open-mouthed. “It’s…it’s not a comedy.”
I felt like one of those pompous writers I met when I was trying to catch a break in publishing. “There’s a fine line between comedy and drama. Both are driven by conflict. When I finish reading it, I’ll give you some pointers, but remember, I write novels, not screenplays.”
His expression sagged. “Where’s your lovely wife today?”
“Surfing lessons.”
The kid’s mouth dropped. “Surfing. With Tony?”
Laura had handled creeps like Tony as her career climbed.
“Could you call me a cab?”
“Right away.” He picked up the phone and dialed.
I headed for the front door then went back and waited until he hung up. “Freddy, ever heard of the Kana Bar?”
He gasped like I’d just uttered a dirty word. “It’s not a place to take your bride. It’s not for tourists, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I shook my head. “I’m not looking for a good time, just for information.”
He glanced around as if checking to see whether anyone was listening. “You know how to use a gun?”
“Sure.”
“Take one with you and you’ll be okay.”
“As a matter of fact, I will.”
“Then you’ll survive.”
Survive? “One more thing.” I grabbed a notepad and wrote a sincere apology and handed it to Freddy. “Would you arrange for a dozen white roses to be delivered to my wife and place this in an envelope with them?”
“Roses? In Hawaii, a man should send a special lady something more traditional. You want white, I recommend the white orchids.”
“Fine.”
“But most men send flowers to their wives after they go to a bar alone.”
I smiled and handed him the note. “I’m still getting the hang of this married life business.”
I turned around and nearly bumped into Hunter Conway.
“Donovan, I thought it was you. Did you see the paper this morning?”
“I ought to punch you in the nose. You made it sound like Tanaka is working for me.”
He smoothed the lapels of an expensive-looking suit and straightened his fedora. “I tried to get ahold of you before the story went to print. I can understand your attitude, but I got the facts right, didn’t I?”
I ignored the question and brushed past him.
“I’m wondering if you or your wife could give me a quote about the murder for tomorrow’s edition.”
“I’d be happy to.” I let loose a string of profanities that would make Blackie Doyle blush. “How’s that?”
“What’s your beef?” He followed me across the lobby. “At least I didn’t use your suicide theory.”
“Laura would love to give you a quote. She’s down the beach at Tony’s Surf Shack, but she
wouldn’t mind the interruption for someone in the press.”
I reached the entrance and stepped outside, where a cabbie drove up and climbed out. “You Mr. Donovan?”
I nodded.
Conway pointed to a ten-year-old Model A. “How ’bout a lift? No sense riding in a cramped, foul-smelling cab.”
“Hey, mac.” The cabbie stepped forward and stood inches from Conway. “You calling my cab cramped?”
To his credit, the reporter didn’t back down. “Beat it.”
Conway would surely follow if I took the cab. As much as I disliked the man, I might actually learn information that didn’t make the paper. I handed the cabbie a Lincoln and apologized for any inconvenience I might’ve caused him.
I followed Conway to his car and stopped at the front bumper. “Where’s the crank?”
“Good one, Donovan.”
A white limousine pulled up, followed by a black sedan. Two serious-looking men in suits climbed out of the sedan. They had to be G-men. They hurried to the limo and opened the back door.
Out stepped a woman in a fur coat and a wide-brimmed hat, holding the hand of a blond girl in a polka-dot dress.
Conway let out a gasp. “Damn, it’s Shirley Temple.”
One couldn’t mistake the blond curls and dimples as she smiled at her doting mother. She even wore a short dress and black patent leather shoes with white socks. I’d met the precocious six-year-old when Laura introduced me to the child star and her mother outside of the Brown Derby.
Two other security types climbed out of the limousine and the entourage escorted the young girl inside the hotel.
Conway let out a whistle. “Now, that would be an interview.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I thought you were a crime writer.”
He shrugged. “As long as my name is on the front page.”
“Laura might be able to arrange an interview.”
Conway cocked his head. “Your wife knows Shirley Temple?”
“I don’t know if Laura can get through the entourage, but Shirley took quite a liking to her in Hollywood.” I rubbed my chin. “I’ll talk to Laura. I’m sure she’d try, as long as your interview doesn’t contain anything embarrassing.”
“Deal.”
“Maybe Laura can get you an autograph too.”
Conway smiled and opened the passenger door for me. “Where to?”
I couldn’t let him take me to the Kana Bar. “The Izumo Taishakyo Mission Shinto shrine.”
Chapter 15
Conway’s Not Such a Bad Guy After All
Conway’s car was cluttered with scraps of paper. Buried somewhere in the clutter must be two-day-old meatloaf. I’d been in reporters’ cars before and they all smelled the same.
He grabbed a pair of dark sunglasses from the dash and put them on. With a grin like he’d just won the quiniela with a fifty-cent bet, he drove from the hotel chatting about Fanny Chandler’s arrest, adding little I hadn’t read in the paper. He finally took a deep breath. “You don’t have much to say.”
“I’m thinking anything I might say will show up in the newspaper tomorrow.”
Conway drove with one hand, barely glancing at the road. “We got off on the wrong foot yesterday, and it was all my fault.”
Apology accepted, but I still didn’t like the guy.
“I might have misjudged you.”
“How’s that?”
“When we first met I thought you were some fancy Dan who spent a couple of hours a day in front of a typewriter, living off a rich Hollywood dame. Anyone who had the guts to break into Hank Kalua’s office in a seedy part of Honolulu…”
“How do you know about that?”
“I usually don’t reveal a source, but I’ll make an exception in this case. Three kids in the neighborhood described you, your wife, and a kid who sounded like George Putnam’s personal secretary.”
He swerved around a car, eliciting a blast from a horn and an angry shake of a fist from the driver.
Conway waved at the man. “I learned early on, if you put in enough hours and aren’t afraid to get your hands dirty, you’ll get to the truth. That’s what you were doing at Kalua’s office, wasn’t it? Anyone who’d do what you did and get away with it is okay in my book.”
“I’m flattered.”
He pointed to the glove compartment. “Hand me that paper bag, will you?”
I opened the compartment and grabbed the bag.
“Help yourself.”
I studied the contents. Some kind of white nuts I’d never seen. “What are they?”
“Macadamia nuts. Try one.”
I tried one. I could get used to these. I had another before handing over the sack.
Conway tossed a few into his mouth and chewed. “I don’t always have time for a full meal. These come in handy.”
For the next few minutes we shared the nuts. When we finished, Conway crumpled the bag and tossed it into the backseat. “Look, Donovan, what do you say we be pals and work on this story together?”
It would take more than a bag of nuts to make us friends. “What makes you think there’s more to the story?”
“There better be. I snagged the assignment because a buddy called in a tip, but if I don’t come up with something, I’ll be interviewing Shirley Temple tomorrow afternoon.”
“She’s a sweetheart.”
“So I’ve heard, but I prefer working the crime desk.” We stopped at a red light, and he glanced in the rearview mirror.
“Where did your interest in covering crimes come from?”
Conway studied me a moment then ran a hand over his face. “I don’t usually share this with a lot of people, but I had just turned fourteen when I came to Hawaii with my parents. We had a great time for the first two days. Then they went out to dinner while I stayed at the hotel. Around midnight, the cops found them shot in an alley behind a speakeasy.”
“I’m sorry.”
A car behind us honked after the light turned green.
Conway drove through the intersection. “Cops never found the killers. I didn’t have any relatives back in the States, so I ended up in an orphanage. When I turned eighteen, I got a job cleaning at the Honolulu Daily. That happened ten years ago next month. My passion for covering crime stories, particularly unsolved ones, comes from my parents’ still unsolved murder.”
For most people, talking about the death of your parents was about as easy as explaining to your sister why men never called after a first date. It didn’t seem to bother Conway much. “Must’ve been rough.”
“I had a choice, give up or get tough. I wanted you to know the story, not so you’d feel sorry for me, but so you might realize we have something in common, an interest in solving criminal cases.”
“The difference is, I no longer want to investigate crimes.”
Conway chuckled. “Keep telling yourself that and maybe you’ll actually believe it.”
He turned the corner and drove a little faster. “Like I said before, anything you say in this car stays in the car. You don’t think Fanny Chandler killed Kalua, do you?”
“I have my doubts.”
“Why don’t you share what you’ve got and I’ll get my hands dirty while you join your wife for surfing lessons. I’m desperate to get back to the crime desk full time.”
“Why’d the paper really take you off the crime desk?”
We stopped at another traffic light near the center of the city. “A year ago, a source I trusted gave me some dirt on a scumbag businessman…”
Something about the way he said scumbag aroused my suspicion. “I’m guessing the scumbag was Hank Kalua.”
“He was the scumbag, but I got a few details wrong. He threatened to sue the Daily unless the editor printed a retraction. Kalua almost ruined my career. I hung on to my job, barely, but for the past year, I’ve covered fashion events, dog shows, and…”
“Celebrity interviews, yes, I know.”
He checked the rearview mirror.
<
br /> “Something wrong?” I didn’t like the sudden look of concern on the reporter’s face.
“Someone following you?”
I fought the urge to glance over my shoulder. I checked the side mirror. “The black convertible?”
“They’ve been a couple of cars back since we left the hotel.” He gripped the wheel with both hands. “Want me to lose them?”
I shook my head and pointed to the bus station a block ahead. “Drop me off, and I’ll lose them in the crowd.”
“Got it.” He pulled to the curb and let me out at the corner.
I climbed out and closed the door. I took my time making sure the bums in the convertible saw me. Who were these guys and why had they been following me?
Conway peered at me through the open window. “Donovan, if you’re being followed, my hunch says there’s definitely more to the Hank Kalua story.”
Chapter 16
A Man Walks into a Bar…
With my hat tugged low over my brow, I stood in a phone booth, my back to the crowded lobby of the bus depot. I had to make sure Hunter Conway hadn’t hung around after dropping me off, and I wanted to see whether anyone suspicious came in. In less than a minute, a tall gentleman with a waxed handlebar mustache caught my eye. In his mid-forties, he had a granite jaw and appeared respectable enough, but his leather gloves and tweed suit looked out of place in a bus depot.
He purchased a paper from a newsboy. He barely glanced at it while scanning the terminal. After a few minutes, he tossed the newspaper on an empty chair and marched back through the front door.
The drone of the arriving and departing passengers hit me as I left the phone booth and hurried to the front window.
The mustachioed man climbed behind the wheel of the black convertible and spoke to a man beside him. I couldn’t see the other man’s face, as his back was to me.
I didn’t stick around for a better look. I pushed through the crowd and slipped out the back door. I flagged a cabbie and we drove off. Satisfied no one had followed, I instructed the driver to take me to the Kana Bar.
“The Kana?” He glanced into the backseat like he hadn’t heard me right. “That’s not a place for tourists.”
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