Copyright © 2012 Robert Stephens
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1470090589
ISBN 13: 9781470090586
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62111-832-9
For
Felicia Dames
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1 Lousy Weather, Rotten Food, and Terrorists
CHAPTER 2 The Legend of Five Beers
CHAPTER 3 Artist on Location
CHAPTER 4 Blood on His Hands
CHAPTER 5 Behind Bars
CHAPTER 6 The Producers
CHAPTER 7 Nick James
CHAPTER 8 Cheeseburger in Paradise
CHAPTER 9 Likely Suspects?
CHAPTER 10 Artist, Musician, Pharaoh
CHAPTER 11 Tree Houses and Divorce Lawyers
CHAPTER 12 Windsurfers
CHAPTER 13 Surfing Lessons
CHAPTER 14 Fairies, Dragons, and Humpback Whales
CHAPTER 15 Bernard Henderson
CHAPTER 16 Motorcycle Man
CHAPTER 17 First Date Jitters
CHAPTER 18 The First Time
CHAPTER 19 Dreams of Mermaids
CHAPTER 20 An Interesting Connection
CHAPTER 21 Confronting Bernard
CHAPTER 22 Coconuts
CHAPTER 23 Queen Hatchepsut
CHAPTER 24 T Land
CHAPTER 25 Blinded By Bad Fashion
CHAPTER 26 The Big House
CHAPTER 27 Punk-Ass Kid
CHAPTER 28 World’s Most Famous Confessions, Caught on Video
CHAPTER 29 George
CHAPTER 30 Video Confessions Continued
CHAPTER 31 Sea Life
CHAPTER 32 Big Old Fat Clues
CHAPTER 33 Pancakes
CHAPTER 34 The Return of Queen Hatchepsut
CHAPTER 35 House of the Sun
CHAPTER 36 Road to Hana
CHAPTER 37 Aloha Means Goodbye
CHAPTER 38 The Death Card
CHAPTER 1
Lousy Weather, Rotten Food, and Terrorists
“I won’t insult your intelligence by suggesting that we can still be friends,” Dorothy said, with all the natural charm she possessed. (translation: zero.)
“Insult my intelligence?” I asked.
“You know, trying to soften the blow of a breakup by saying we can still be friends. How many of your exe’s have you remained friends with?”
“I see your point,” I said.
“Really, Poe, this is for the best. Don’t you think?”
“For the best. Of course. Have a good life, Dorothy.”
I thought about extending the hand of friendship for a farewell shake but decided the last thing I wanted to do was have any type of physical contact with the woman. I also thought about extending her the middle finger of anger, but again that probably also would have created physical contact with Dorothy - namely her fist against my nose.
“Have a good life? You sound like we’ll never see each other again,” Dorothy said.
“I thought you said we weren’t going to be friends anymore.”
“Still, I’m sure we’ll run into each other from time to time.”
“I guess I was assuming you’d pretend not to see me, like you did when I saw you and Brad at the club.”
This, of course, got no response from Dorothy, as I knew it wouldn’t. But I just couldn’t help throwing in a few more digs before we parted.
“This is just like you, Dorothy, to break up with me when I’m the one who caught you cheating.”
“So you’re saying I stole your opportunity to dump me first?” she asked.
“Exactly! You cheat on me with Brad - who’s an alcoholic, I might add - and then you have the audacity to suggest your unfaithfulness was actually my fault.”
This was the conversation I was reliving in my mind over and over again as I stood in line at gate #24 in the Dallas/Fort Worth Airport. It’s amazing how when you’re in a pissed-off mood you start to think of everything in the world that makes you angry. The above conversation took place a few weeks ago, and my luck had not gotten any better. You’ll probably be tempted to accuse me of exaggeration, but what I’m about to tell you is the God’s honest truth.
I was on my way to Maui from Norfolk, Virginia with a connection in Dallas. The Norfolk to Dallas flight was perfect. We left on time. I had the entire exit aisle to myself (how often does that happen?), and we landed in Dallas thirty minutes early. That’s when my travel nightmare began.
The captain announced over the intercom that the terminal was in lock-down mode due to a security breach of unknown origin. I applauded his honesty when he admitted he did not know how long we would be sitting on the runway. Exactly two hours later we pulled into our gate. I had a rather short layover but wasn’t too concerned because I correctly assumed that all the flights would have been delayed.
That’s when the tornado was spotted, forcing the closure of the runways.
Then the hail storm hit. It sounded like someone was using a bazooka to launch baseballs at the airport windows. They evacuated us to the lower level of the airport. We all stood there, elbow to elbow, for a few more hours as the hail pounded the living hell out of the airport. It got so hot in the lower level that a few people actually fainted, causing several others to proclaim that we were indeed experiencing a terrorist attack. I’m still not sure how al Qaeda managed to create the hail.
The storm finally passed, and I boarded my connecting flight. I sat on the plane for about thirty minutes, reading an article describing Brad’s impending proposal to Angelina, when my new captain announced that the hail storm had damaged the tail of our plane and we would be unable to fly.
Ninety-six planes in all had been damaged, and most of the remaining flights out of Dallas were cancelled. I found a hotel and crashed for a few hours before my new flight at the crack of dawn the next morning. When I returned to the airport I saw the checkout line was out the door. It took me four hours to get through the line. You guessed it. I missed my new flight. By five minutes I might add. And they had upgraded me to First Class! I waited several more hours for the next flight to Maui.
Now we were finally boarding, and I was once again reliving the Dorothy break-up conversation in my mind.
Flash forward to half-way through my flight.
There was a rather overweight man sitting in the row behind me who was coughing like he was trying to hack up a lung. I immediately thought of SARS and had myself dead and buried before we reached Maui. His coughing, though, actually helped counteract the screaming infant in the row in front of me. I can tell you exactly why the baby was crying, too. He needed his diaper changed. How do I know this? Because I could smell the damage, and we all know that in an airplane there’s nowhere for that natural fragrance to go.
What do you think is the most annoying aspect of flying? Is it the bad food, or lack of food, I should say? The stale air? The annoying ticks, snorts, and coughs of other passengers? For me, at six foot two, it has to be the severe lack of leg room. The screaming infant’s father had his seat reclined all the way, and I was regretting not having taken up yoga. My back was killing me, and I just wanted to get to the island.
Of course, these days, with tales of box cutters and shoe bombs and throw-away-your-liquids please, just showing up to your destination in one piece is enough to make a person fall to their knees and kiss the ground.
No, my luck wasn’t usually this bad. Just the past few weeks. And please forgive my complaining so much. I know you’re reading this tale for entertainment, and the last thing you need is to hear me bitch and moan. And please forgive me for taking so long to introduce myself. My name is Edgar Allan Rutherford.
As you may have guessed, my parents were either und
er the influence of something when they picked my name, or else they were huge fans of the poet and mystery writer Edgar Allan Poe. I think the correct answer is both.
As you also may have guessed, being named Edgar was not the best way for a child to become popular. I definitely got my fair share of beatings from the school bully. But what is that saying? “That which does not kill you makes you stronger”?
By the time I reached the high school years, my friends had started calling me Poe, a nickname that raised my cool factor several points. Now, at the ripe old age of thirty-five, I’m comfortable with my birth name, and you may call me Edgar if you wish.
I looked at my watch and felt some degree of relief when I saw I’d be soaking up the sunshine of Maui in about five hours. My Maui mission: to relax, get a tan, and drink plenty of Manhattans. Yes, I know. I should probably be drinking Mai Tais or Pina Colodas in Hawaii. But at the moment the ever faithful Manhattan is my drink of choice.
My other mission was to visit my best friend since childhood, Doug Foxx. Foxx had moved to Maui two years ago, and he swore he was never moving back. He’d been after me since day one to visit him, but my fear of flying and busy work schedule had kept me away.
It took the end of my five year relationship with Dorothy to convince me that I needed a nice long break. It was a good thing that I decided to visit when I did, because Foxx needed me now more than ever.
I’m sure that you noticed by the title of my tale that there occurred a murder in the tropical paradise of Maui; it would turn out that all indications pointed to Foxx as the guilty party. It would take all of my skills as a detective to discover the truth. Actually, I’m not a real detective, but I did inherit my parents’ love of the murder mystery. By the way, did you know that Poe invented the mystery novel? Just a bit of useless trivia for your next cocktail party. I had always wanted to solve a real-life mystery. I just never figured it would involve my best friend.
I live in Virginia, which means by the time I landed in Maui I had been in the air for around twelve hours. The great thing about strolling through the airport in Kuhului is that you’re greeted by warm tropical breezes that instantly rejuvenate your body and mind. They did not, however, rejuvenate my breath. I was in desperate need of a breath mint, cinnamon-flavored if possible, and I was willing to pay twenty times their value in an airport convenience store.
“Poe!”
I turned around at the sound of my name, and there was Foxx in the ugliest Hawaiian shirt ever made. Foxx is an intimidating man, standing a little over six foot four and weighing around two hundred and forty pounds. At least that’s what he claims; I think it’s closer to two sixty though. Foxx played football for the Washington Redskins until a knee injury ended his career after two short and disappointing seasons.
He grinned at me, slapped me on the back, and almost knocked me clear back to the east coast.
“It’s good to see you, Poe. I was wondering what it was going to take to get you out here,” he said.
“Yeah, sorry I haven’t come sooner. But I’m here now, and that’s all that matters.”
We started following the signs to baggage claim.
“So, are you over Dorothy yet?” Foxx asked.
I winced at the sound of her name.
“Foxx, it’s only been two weeks. How are you supposed to get over a five year relationship that quickly?”
“You know, I never liked the chick. I’m sure I told you that. Be glad she’s gone.”
Foxx had a way with words.
“And what kind of name is Dorothy?” Foxx asked. “Every time I said her name I felt like I was in the freaking Wizard of Oz.”
“Yeah, if she only had a heart I think I would still be with her.”
“Well if you only had a brain you would have dropped her after the first date.”
Like I said, Foxx has a way with words.
“Now that you’ve finally gotten me out in the middle of the Pacific, what’s on the agenda for the night?”
“It’s Halloween. They’re closing down Front Street in Lahaina. Huge party. I figured we’d hang out, have a few drinks, and gaze at some scantily clad women.”
“Sounds good to me.”
The adventure had begun.
CHAPTER 2
The Legend of Five Beers
We exited baggage claim, and Foxx lead me to a silver BMW Z3 convertible. The car belonged to his girlfriend, and Foxx told me he had a habit of borrowing it without telling her. The car was beautiful, but the trunk was so miniscule that I thought we were going to have to rub my suitcase down with axle grease to squeeze it inside. But the bag fit with a whole half inch to spare on each side.
“So, Poe, have any trouble getting time off from work?”
Foxx laughed because he knew the question would make me uncomfortable, and what are friends for if not to make you feel bad just so they can laugh about it?
My parents had both died a few years ago and left me a sizeable inheritance. Let me clarify: an obscenely large inheritance. My father had been an orthodontist for over thirty years. And his father had been an orthodontist before him. They had wanted me to follow in the family footsteps, but I just didn’t have the heart to stick my fingers in people’s mouths. It’s amazing, though, how much money one can make putting braces on teenage boys and girls. My mother was a wealthy woman on her own accord, having come from a family that oozed old money. And she had had no desire to spend it either. Her inheritance, which was now my inheritance, along with my father’s wise financial investments, was enough that I didn’t have to work another day if I didn’t want to.
Nevertheless, I had kept my job as an architect until about six months ago. I hated my job, everything about it. When I was in college at the University of Virginia, I entertained thoughts of becoming the next Frank Lloyd Wright. I envisioned monuments that would stand the test of time, not to mention making me immortal. Just kidding about the immortal part. But a decade out of architecture school I was designing warehouses for distribution centers. Big empty rectangular buildings, how creative. Add that to the fact my boss was a real jerk. If there was such a thing as jerk royalty, he would be the emperor. But I still didn’t quit. I guess I have a thing for abuse. Need more evidence? Please refer back to my earlier conversation regarding Dorothy. But regardless of my ability to take punishment, I was actually cut loose when the firm took a big hit in the recession. I was part of the second round of lay-offs. I can’t say I felt bad about it. It was actually a bit of a relief. Nevertheless, I felt horrible for the people who really needed the gig.
I hated the idea of living off my father’s and grandfather’s hard work, even though my father had been encouraging me for years to start my own company. My one-man architecture firm had been open for six months now, and I had managed to do all of one job. It was a freebee for my cousin, who wanted me to help him with some design problems on his new home.
So what have I been doing with all my free time? Well, without the terrible inconveniences of work, I’ve had a great deal of time to memorize the titles and plot points to all of the Star Trek television episodes. There’s nothing quite like watching Star Trek in 5:1 surround sound.
“No trouble at all,” I said. “Did you have any trouble taking off today, Five Beers?”
“I hate it when you call me that, man. Brings back painful memories.”
I smiled at his pain. Now we were even.
So how did Foxx get the nickname Five Beers? When Foxx and I were in college we went to a comedy club where the main act was a hypnotist. He referred to himself as an erotic hypnotist because he convinced people to do “suggestive and sensual” things while hypnotized. Somehow Foxx agreed to partake in the act, against my strong warnings, I might add. The hypnotist kept referring to Foxx as Five Beers, mainly because Foxx had managed to consume five beers in the first thirty minutes of the show. He was quite buzzed by the time he pranced onto the stage.
It was suggested to the hypnotized Foxx that he
was really a Chippendale dancer. He also suggested to Foxx that he should strip down to his underwear. Unfortunately, Foxx, for whatever reason I don’t know, had forgone the wearing of boxer shorts or any other undergarments for that matter. Knowing Foxx, he probably just had not done laundry for a few months and got tired of wearing dirty boxers.
The hypnotist and the entire audience were in for a major surprise when the completely naked Foxx proceeded to go from woman to woman in the audience and thrust his private parts in their face. How he avoided jail time I’ll never know.
After the show, I told Five Beers what he had done. Naturally he didn’t take my word for it, and it wasn’t until he received his third phone number from a female audience member that he started to believe I might be telling him the truth. For those wondering: he also received a phone number from one or two males. I never bothered to mention to him that I shot the entire thing with my camera. I still have the stills saved on my laptop. Maybe one day when he’s least expecting it, I’ll show it to his teenage kids, if he ever has any.
As Foxx mentioned earlier, today was Halloween. He insisted on finding me a costume. At that short notice there wasn’t much to be found, so we settled on a Hawaiian shirt from K-Mart that could have beaten Foxx’s hands-down in an obnoxious contest. Foxx tried to convince me that I also needed a grass skirt. I naturally refused, and instead bought a pair of baggy cargo shorts to replace my Levi’s which were now uncomfortably warm.
“Let me give you a little tourist tip, Poe. If you decide to buy any souvenirs or trinkets, buy ‘em at K-mart. They sell the same stuff as the Hawaiian tourist shops but for half the price.”
“I doubt I’ll be buying much of anything, except maybe a humungous box of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts.”
Foxx patted his big stomach.
“Those things are going to be the death of me. I gained ten pounds the first month I moved here. I know it was because of all that chocolate.”
I paid for my Hawaiian shirt and shorts, and we headed off to Lahaina. Foxx told me that every Halloween they shut down Front Street in Lahaina and have a parade in which the local kiddies show off their costumes. It’s an extremely popular event. Parking was hard to come by. We eventually pulled into a lot that was only half-full. Something had to be amiss. It took me about sixty seconds to realize why this lot wasn’t very popular: ten bucks an hour to park! But we didn’t have much choice, so I slid my Visa into the card reader and purchased a few hours.
Aloha Means Goodbye Page 1