“Did Xavier ever confront him?” Alana asked “
Not that I know of. Xavier’s so easy-going he probably never even thought twice about it. But who knows how many people have made careers out of ideas Xavier dreamed up and then just abandoned,” Ray said.
“Do you think Lauren also copied Xavier?” I asked.
“I don’t believe she copied him as far as stealing his creative visions for professional gain. He was her mentor for a few years, though, so I’m sure he had a tremendous impact on her career.”
“Do you know anyone other than Nick who didn’t like Lauren?” Alana asked.
“Not really. Lauren didn’t really associate with a lot of people in the art community,” Ray said.
“I can vouch for that,” Stephanie added. “I had never even talked to Lauren until the idea came up for the art show.”
“What was her reaction when you first approached her?” Alana asked.
“At first she was reluctant to be involved, but all of a sudden she just changed her mind. She was mostly cooperative throughout the shoot.”
“Maybe through Foxx’s influence,” I said. “Foxx told me she didn’t want to be a part of the documentary either until he convinced her. Perhaps he did the same with the art show.”
“What about Nick? How was his involvement with the show?” Alana asked.
“Nick refused to be a part of the same show as Lauren. But then he slowly came around,” Stephanie said.
“She used reverse psychology on him,” Ray added. “When he said he didn’t want to be involved, she just said ‘okay’ and hung up the phone. He called the very next day and changed his tune dramatically.”
“I think he wished he hadn’t though. He created somewhat of a stink the night of the show when he saw Lauren’s work. I think he was at the show less than fifteen minutes,” Stephanie said.
The more I heard, the more I was convinced that Nick James was the real killer. He was the only one who really hated Lauren. Something, presumably Lauren’s art, set him off at the show. He could have easily made a fast exit and gone around to the back of the building. How did he lure Lauren back there? I had no idea, probably would never find out. But I’m sure it wouldn’t have been too hard to get her back there.
“I’m sure the question is weighing heavily on you, Poe,” Stephanie said. “Perhaps we should ask the cards.”
“I don’t think Poe and Alana have time to play the cards,” Ray suggested.
“What cards?” I asked, immediately wishing I hadn’t.
“The Tarot cards,” Stephanie answered. “We’ll ask the cards your question and find the answer. It’s as simple as that.”
“What’s my question?” I asked.
“Will you ever figure out who really killed Lauren?” Stephanie said.
Was that my question? I thought my question was, “who killed her?” Not “would I ever figure it out?”
We moved to the kitchen where Stephanie had a deck of Tarot cards spread across the kitchen table. There was also a book titled The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Tarot, Second Edition on the table beside the cards.
“I don’t know why she bought that book. She hasn’t even cracked it open,” Ray said.
“Because I don’t need it,” Stephanie responded.
“You do, dear. You don’t know how the cards work.”
“I’ve certainly had my readings done enough times to figure it out for myself.”
Stephanie gathered the cards together and then slid them to me.
“Please shuffle them, Poe. This reading is called the Gypsy Wish Spread. While you’re shuffling the cards, ask yourself ‘Will I learn who killed Lauren Rogers?’ The cards will tell us if you will.”
I shuffled the cards. Stephanie had me select fifteen cards from the pile and then shuffle those again. She then placed the cards in what she called the Gypsy Wish Spread formation.
“Look at this, Poe. The Nine of Cups, the wish card. You’ll get your wish. You’ll figure out who killed Lauren.”
I didn’t know how to react. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Maybe I already did know who killed Lauren and maybe he was sitting in jail.
“Can I ask for the name of the killer?” I asked.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way,” Stephanie answered.
“Just my luck,” I said.
“Do you have bad luck, Poe?” Stephanie asked.
“Lately, if it wasn’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.”
“Then we should do another type of reading. We’ll see what the near future holds for you.”
What had I gotten myself into? I thought. How do I get out of here?
As I reshuffled the cards, Stephanie explained what the cards could and could not tell me.
“They won’t be so specific as to say ‘You’ll meet a girl named Sally and marry her on October fifth.’ But they can say ‘Love is just over the horizon.’”
Didn’t I just meet someone named Sally? Wasn’t that the name of William’s new girlfriend?
Stephanie started laying the cards down, and sure enough, the future wasn’t bright. She gasped.
“Oh no, the Death Card. I must have done something wrong.”
Stephanie reshuffled the cards and once again I drew the Death Card. This drew a raised eyebrow from Ray and a repressed giggle from Alana. I could have strangled her for not coming to my rescue.
“So what does that mean?” I asked. “Am I destined to die in the near future?”
Stephanie didn’t answer me. She just sat there, staring at me as if I had just developed a spontaneous case of leprosy. Stephanie offered to read Alana’s future, but she politely declined. Smart girl.
Alana and I thanked them for their time, and Ray walked us to the door. Stephanie stayed in the kitchen. Maybe she didn’t want to get too close to me, afraid that a lightening bolt would strike me at any moment.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about the cards, Poe. I wasn’t kidding when I said she doesn’t know what she’s doing,” Ray said.
“Thanks. I’m sure I’ll get over the initial shock.”
The truth is I didn’t believe in things like Tarot cards, palm reading, or crystal balls. But you have to admit, drawing the Death Card two times in a row wasn’t a ball of laughs.
Alana managed to keep a serious look on her face until we were outside by our cars, at which point she burst into laughter.
“The Death Card. Not a good thing.”
“Not what I was expecting when we first arrived,” I said.
“Based on this morning’s demonstration, I’d say you might bite it while surfing.”
“I’ll have you know I was intentionally holding back so as not to make you feel bad about your own surfing skills,” I added.
“Is that right?”
“That’s right. You can thank me for my chivalry at any point now.”
“Thank you. Your generosity knows no bounds.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say we were engaging in a playful argumentative way which might be best described as flirting. Maybe this day wasn’t turning out so bad after all.
“So, where are we headed now?” I asked.
“To Bernard’s studio,” she answered. “Hopefully he’ll be in a decent enough state to talk to us.”
CHAPTER 15
Bernard Henderson
We approached a rather run-down two-story wooden house. It looked like a dilapidated houseboat that had been washed to shore by a tidal wave. The owner obviously wasn’t a subscriber to Martha Stewart’s Living. I would have never suspected anyone actually lived here. The grass was at least three feet high and a few of the windows were boarded up.
Alana didn’t bother knocking at the front door. She led me to a set of stairs on the side of the house. The stairs were splintered and bowed, and I was concerned about their ability to hold our weight.
She looked back at me as we climbed.
“His studio’s up here.”
&n
bsp; “So you’ve been here before?”
“Not for a while. My mother was a hula dancer for one of the hotel shows. Bernard used to take photographs of her on the beach. Beautiful black and whites. Sometimes she’d bring me to his studio when I was a little girl.”
The door was open, and I began to fear we’d stumbled onto another murder scene. The smell was horrible. Something had obviously died in there.
The interior of Bernard’s photography studio looked like a mini Los Angeles. It was filled with so much clutter and trash that I thought I might need a machete to hack my way across the room. Did I mention the place smelled like a sewer?
Then I saw the source of the foul smell. There were several half-full Chinese food containers scattered across the table by the front door. I looked inside the nearest box and saw maggots. I really thought I was going to retch right then and there.
Bernard was sitting in front of a light box, staring intensely at negative film strips through a tiny magnifying eye piece. I was surprised he was still shooting on film. I did so myself, but then I loved the look and feel of film over digital. Apparently, Bernard and I are the only two people left on the planet who shoot photos on film.
“Hello, Bernard,” Alana spoke softly.
Bernard put the eye piece down and turned to face us. He looked like crap. There’s no other word to describe it. He hadn’t shaved in several days, and he had the worst case of bed-head I think I’ve ever seen. As we got closer to him I smelled the strong odor of whiskey on his breath. None of this seemed to bother Alana at all. Maybe she knew Bernard way better than I thought, or maybe she was simply hardened by her profession.
“Hello detective,” Bernard mumbled, not wanting the dangling cigarette to fall from his lips.
“Bernard, this is Edgar Rutherford, an associate of mine.” An associate? I asked myself. At least I was moving up in the world.
Bernard mumbled something to me. I’m not sure if it was hello or not. I’m not sure I want to know what it was. I didn’t offer Bernard a hand to shake, and I’m thankful to all that is righteous and holy in the world that he didn’t offer me his.
“I enjoyed your work at the show. Magnificent as usual,” Alana complimented him.
“You always were such a good fibber, Alana. But I thank you anyway.”
“Were you at the show, Bernard? I don’t remember seeing you there,” she asked.
“Oh, I was there. Hanging outside most of the time. They don’t let you smoke inside anymore.”
I didn’t recall seeing him in the front of the gallery. Maybe he was out back where the murder took place. I wanted to jump in the conversation right then and there, but I managed to restrain myself. I had told myself not to say much during the interview. I wanted to watch Alana’s approach.
“You’ve heard about Lauren’s death, I suppose,” Alana stated more than asked.
“Saw it on TV. I don’t get out much anymore. The art show was the first time I’ve left the studio in a month.”
That would explain the smell, I thought.
“I’m glad you made it. People deserve to see your work.”
“Nobody gives a shit about me anymore,” Bernard muttered.
“That isn’t true, Bernard.”
I was beginning to suspect this interview was a colossal waste of time. Bernard was a worn-out soul. I didn’t think he was capable of feeling anything but self-pity. He was probably bombed out of his mind the night of the art show.
“I was wondering if you could do me a favor, Bernard.”
He smiled a bit. I guess it felt good to be needed.
“Could you keep your eyes and ears open for me? If you hear anything about Lauren’s murder, please let me know.”
“I thought you got the guy already.”
“Still, if you hear anything.”
Then Alana did something that both amazed me and made me ashamed of my earlier disgust of Bernard. She leaned down and kissed him gently on the forehead.
“Take care of yourself, Bernard.”
I walked with Alana back to her car.
“You don’t think he had anything to do with the murder, do you?” I asked.
“Bernard? No. I mainly just wanted an excuse to see him. He showed my mother tremendous kindness. The money she made from his photographs kept us from getting kicked out on the street. I don’t know how he keeps putting out such great work. He seems out of it most of the time.”
She looked back at his home, and her eyes filled with tremendous sorrow.
“So, Mr. Rutherford, what’s your best guess? Who killed Lauren Rogers?”
I didn’t answer her. Not because I didn’t want to. I just didn’t have an answer at this point. I mean I was pretty sure it was Nick, but I didn’t have any real proof. And she certainly wasn’t going to let Foxx out of jail and arrest Nick without something solid to go by.
“It must be tremendously hard on you, wondering if your best friend really did it, but you’re going to have to accept the facts at some point.”
“I can’t allow myself to think that. I know he didn’t do it.”
“Then you’re doing justice a disservice, if you won’t at least consider the possibility.”
“I don’t think Foxx is capable of such a thing. It’s just not in his nature.”
“Murder’s in everyone’s nature, Mr. Rutherford, if you push them far enough.”
“Now I know you don’t believe that.”
She didn’t have an immediate reply. Maybe I was finally winning an argument.
“Maybe I’ve done this job too long. Maybe it’s starting to change me.”
“You don’t look old enough to have done any job too long.” I said.
“Oh, and how old do you think I am?”
“Not a day over twenty-one,” I replied, a bit too quickly.
“Is that your stock answer?”
I held my hands up. “You caught me.”
We both stood there, looking at each other, neither of us willing to say goodbye.
“So,” I asked, “has Bernard ever offered to photograph you?”
“Me? No.” Her modesty didn’t seem false. I found myself even more attracted to her, if that was possible.
“Really? I can’t imagine him finding a more beautiful woman on the island.” I was afraid my compliment was borderline cheesy. But most of me didn’t care. She was beautiful, and I meant every word I said. And at this point, I just didn’t care if I made a fool of myself.
I detected a slight blush to her cheeks. She didn’t thank me for the compliment though. Maybe she wasn’t used to receiving them. But how could that be possible?
Before I knew what I was doing I blurted out, “Have dinner with me tonight.”
Alana smiled at me. Or was it a smirk?
“What makes you think I’d like to have dinner with you?”
Again, my mouth engaged before my brain.
“Because I want to get to know you better. I find you tremendously interesting, and I can’t say that about many people.”
There was an awkward pause which felt like five hours. In reality it was probably only a second. Maybe two.
“Meet me at Eddie’s at eight o’clock,” she remarked, almost too casually, and then climbed into her car.
I leaned closer. “Where’s Eddie’s?”
“In Paia. Don’t be late.” Then she drove off, and I stood there grinning like an idiot until her car became a tiny dot on the horizon.
I turned to walk back towards my car when a man on a black motorcycle pulled up beside me. The driver’s attire matched his ride. He was decked out from head to toe in faded black leather. He looked at me for several long seconds. At least I thought he was looking at me. It was impossible to tell because his face was hidden behind the reflective plastic faceplate of his motorcycle helmet.
Then he kicked his motorcycle into gear and sped away.
What the hell was that all about? I made a quick mental note to keep my eye out for a psycho m
otorcycle rider.
CHAPTER 16
Motorcycle Man
For my ride to Eddie’s I decided to once again borrow Foxx’s Ford Explorer. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to pull up to my dinner with the detective in the murder victim’s BMW. But I did actually consider it for a few minutes. That’s kind of pathetic, isn’t it? Still, if you had the opportunity to drive a BMW convertible in Maui, wouldn’t you?
I left way early for dinner, fearful that I’d hit traffic and be late. Before I got half-way to Paia, I realized I was close to running out of gas. I had been doing way more driving than I realized. I pulled into the nearest gas station and just about fainted when I saw the prices. $5.75 a gallon. For regular!
I was pumping gas when the black motorcycle pulled up beside me. I almost expected to hear Darth Vader music playing in the background. The black knight pulled off his helmet, and it took every ounce of self-control for me not to start laughing. This guy couldn’t have been more than seventeen years old, zits and all.
“I’ve heard you’re helping the police find Lauren Roger’s killer.”
“Who told you that?”
The teenager smirked. “This is a small community, man. Word gets around pretty fast.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m helping the police as much as I’m helping an old friend.”
“Lauren was a friend of yours?”
“No, her boyfriend Foxx, the guy they have in the slammer right now.” Why did I just use the word slammer? Maybe I was trying to sound hip. This did, after all, seem like one of those dark alley scenes in the detective movies.
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