“He didn’t do it,” the teenager proclaimed with a tremendous amount of confidence. Had I finally gotten my lucky break?
I finished pumping gas and pulled the Explorer into a parking space by the Food Mart at the gas station. The teenager pushed his motorcycle over to me. We introduced ourselves to each other. His name was George. He didn’t offer a last name.
“How do you know my friend didn’t kill her?” I asked, praying to God that I wasn’t dealing with some nutcase.
“I think my former boss did it.”
“Who’s your boss?”
“Bernard Henderson.”
Bernard Henderson, I repeated the name in my head. The crusty, hung-over photographer whom I had interviewed that afternoon.
“What makes you think Bernard did it?”
“Because he was having an affair with Lauren.”
Lauren having an affair with Bernard Henderson? It didn’t make sense, and I suddenly felt a great deal of anger rise up in me for this teenager jerking me around.
“Can you prove they were having an affair?”
“I didn’t get video of them in the sack, if that’s the kind of proof you’re looking for.”
“Even if they were having an affair, why would Bernard want to kill Lauren?”
“Bernard loved Lauren. They had been having an affair for about six months when he proposed to her. She laughed at him and told him she had no desire to be married to anyone, let alone a drunk like Bernard.”
“And how do you know all this?”
“Bernard told me. Like I said, we used to work together.”
“Why don’t you work together anymore?”
“Bernard is a raging alcoholic. He hasn’t shot a frame of film in over a year.” George repeatedly pressed his finger against his chest. “I’m the one who’s been doing all his work for the past year. I told him I wanted to start getting credit for the work I had been doing. When he refused, I threatened to quit. Then he offered to double my salary. But it wasn’t about the money, for me. It was about the respect and the acknowledgement that I’m a good photographer.”
“So you quit?”
“Actually, he fired me before I got a chance. Now I have to give up the look I helped him create.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“Bernard’s a fairly famous photographer, despite his recent downhill slide. If I started coming out with the same type of work he did, people would accuse me of being a Bernard Henderson wanna-be. But Bernard will get what’s coming to him. He’s stopped putting out new work. Pretty soon he’ll drift off into nothingness.”
“Is that what you want, to make sure Bernard gets what’s coming to him?”
“Look, I hate Bernard, that’s a fact. But I’m not trying to set him up. Two weeks ago I overheard a phone call between Bernard and Lauren. He was begging her to take him back, and when she refused, he slammed down the phone and yelled, ‘I’ll kill the bitch.’”
“So is that what you’re basing your belief on, that one phone conversation?”
“Not at all. I was at the art show the night Lauren was killed. I was trying to network with some of the artists. Bernard was there too. I didn’t expect him to be sober enough to show up. I saw him approach Lauren when they were both outside smoking. At this point I had already been fired by him, so I made my way outside, hoping to see him get turned down again. I know that makes me sound really petty, enjoying the hurt of another human being.”
He’s right. It did make him sound petty. But I remembered a quote from the good book, “How can you see the speck of dust in your brother’s eye, when you have a beam in yours?” or something to that effect. Before I flew to Maui I heard that my ex-girlfriend Dorothy had recently broken her little toe. She apparently had stubbed it on an antique metal doorstop. I’m ashamed to admit this, but I secretly delighted in her toe pain, mainly because I’m the one who had bought her the doorstop.
George continued his story. “I couldn’t hear everything they were saying, but I did hear Lauren say, ‘I’m never coming back to you.’ She tried to walk away, but Bernard grabbed her by the arm. She spit in his face, and he let go of her.”
“Did anyone else see this argument?”
“I don’t know, maybe. I was just so happy to see her spit in his face that I didn’t really pay attention to see if there was anyone else watching.”
George was obviously filled with tremendous resentment for Bernard. But did that resentment extend to framing his former boss?
“I have something for you,” George said. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out an 8×10-inch envelope. He handed it to me.
“Here are some photographs taken by Bernard. They might help you in your search for the real killer.”
I made no attempt to open the envelope, and George didn’t seem interested in waiting for me to.
“Good luck,” he told me. Then he pushed his motorcycle out of the parking space and rode away.
I tore open the seal of the envelope and pulled out a handful of black and white photographs. They were professional-looking portraits of a very naked Lauren Rogers.
CHAPTER 17
First Date Jitters
I walked into Eddie’s. It looked like a locals’ hangout, and I felt a little out of place. I scanned the restaurant for Alana but didn’t see her.
“Are you Edgar?”
I turned around at the sound of my name and saw a gorgeous waitress smiling at me. Maybe this was my lucky night after all.
“How did you know?”
“Alana described you to me. Perfectly I might add.”
“And how did she describe me?”
“I’ll never tell. Alana called to say she’s running about twenty minutes late. Something about paperwork. Would you like me to show you to Alana’s table?”
“Alana has a table?”
“She always sits by the window in the corner. I’ve seen her wait fortyfive minutes for that table to become available.”
“Is it available now?”
“Yes.”
“Then I guess we better grab it.”
Alana was only five minutes late, but, as good as she looked, I would have been willing to wait hours. Her hair was combed straight, and it seemed to shine like in one of those shampoo commercials. She had been wearing her hair in a ponytail while on duty. I much preferred it down. Alana was also wearing a simple light blue dress that hugged her stomach and hips in a most pleasing fashion. The bottom of her dress came just above her knees. On her feet she wore a comfortable-looking pair of brown sandals. She looked casual and elegant at the same time.
What was I wearing you may ask? Actually, you probably don’t care, since I’m not nearly as sexy or exciting as Alana. But just for the record, I was wearing a pair of Levis that I had just washed to get the airplane funk out, and a light gray silk shirt. Short sleeves, of course.
I stood as she approached the table.
“You look great,” I said.
“Thank you.”
We both sat down, and the waitress brought us menus and glasses of water.
“Hi, Pam,” Alana said to our waitress.
“Don’t you look beautiful, Alana.”
“Thank you. You look great yourself.”
“In my Eddie’s T-shirt and shorts? Thanks.”
Pam left us to look over our menu.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
“Find the place okay?”
“No problem. Now parking, that’s a different story.”
“Did you have a chance to rest before dinner?” she asked.
“Not really. Between the jet lag and spending the last two nights outside by Lauren’s pool, I’m feeling pretty exhausted. Right now I’m running on pure adrenaline.”
Alana didn’t ask why I had been sleeping out at the pool, and I didn’t elaborate. I thought about bringing up George’s nude photos of Lauren but didn’t want the evening to turn
into a long debate over Foxx’s guilt or innocence.
Pam returned to take our orders, but neither Alana nor I had even looked at the menu.
“I’ll have a buttermilk pancake, please,” Alana said.
“A pancake?” I asked. “For dinner?”
“I’ve been craving their pancakes all day. Don’t ask me why.”
“So they must be pretty good, then.”
“The best,” Pam replied.
“What the hell,” I said. “I’ll take three.”
Alana and Pam exchanged amused looks.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“You obviously haven’t told him about our pancakes, Alana.”
Alana smiled at me. “No one can eat more than one. They’re huge.”
“I’m starving though.”
“One will fill you up, guaranteed,” Alana said.
“Give me two,” I said. “I know I can eat at least that many.”
“I smell a bet coming on,” Pam replied and walked away.
“A bet,” Alana said. “Sounds like a good idea to me.”
“What do I get if I win?”
“I’ll give you surfing lessons, which you badly need by the way.”
“I’m hurt. I thought I showed tremendous skill and grace on the waves.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“What do you get if I don’t finish both pancakes?”
“Let me think about that one. But I promise you it will be a doozie.”
We both ordered Budweisers with our pancakes. This was probably the most unique dining experience I had ever had.
“So, what part of Virginia do you live in?”
“Virginia Beach.”
“So you live at the beach. Anything like Maui?”
“Heavens no.”
Alana laughed. “Did you just say ‘heavens no?’”
“Unfortunately, I did.”
“So, tell me about your beach.”
“The water there is gray, but it’s still a beautiful area. I live in a condo a few blocks from the Chesapeake Bay, in an area called Chick’s Beach.”
“Chick’s Beach? Lots of chicks I suppose.”
“Lots of girls, yes, but I don’t know if that’s why they call it Chick’s Beach. Actually, I don’t know how it got its name.”
“So you live in a condo. Any roommates?”
Again, I’d like to point out to you readers who were kind enough to purchase my book that I am an utter nincompoop when it comes to the ladies. But I believe her question was aimed at finding out if I had a woman back east. I began to search my brain for possible answers that would give me the upper hand in our discussion. But my brain utterly let me down, as it is prone to do, and I answered Alana with the simple truth.
“No,” I said, “No roommates. What about you? Any roommates?”
“No roommates.”
There was a pause in our conversation. I was grateful she didn’t make the big date mistake of inquiring about past relationships. I certainly didn’t want to know about her past boyfriends. That inevitably leaves me wondering how I stack up against them. Somehow the previous boyfriends always end up being fighter pilots or Navy Seals.
Our lapse in conversation was mercifully saved by Pam’s emergence with our pancakes. I immediately knew I had lost the bet. They were monstrous, extending a good two inches over the edge of the plate. Alana began to cut a circle in the center of her pancake.
“I’ve never seen anyone eat a pancake like that.”
“It’s the only way to pour the syrup,” she said.
“Pour the syrup?”
Then she showed me what she meant. She took the maple syrup and poured it into the hole she had created in the center of the pancake. Then she cut off a piece from the edge and dipped it into the syrup pit before eating it.
“The pancakes are so big that the syrup runs right off the plate, so you have to create a little bowl in the middle.”
“I think I’m going to lose our wager.”
“I knew you would. Now I need to think of a prize.”
I started to say something, but then stopped. My thoughts must have weighed heavily on my expression because Alana immediately asked me, “What’s wrong?”
“I was just about to remark what a good time I’m having. But then I felt guilty for thinking that.”
“Because of your friend Foxx?”
“Yes, and Lauren, of course.”
“I know it’s hard to do, but you have to separate the case from the rest of your day.”
“Thanks for your advice. But I’m not a police officer. I’m a guy who has known Foxx for close to twenty years.”
“Are you this loyal to all of your friends?”
“I only have a few people I call my friends, so I guess the answer is yes. I am pretty loyal. What about you? Do you have a lot of friends?”
“A lot of acquaintances. Not many friends.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s the truth. I guess my work is my passion.”
“It’s good to be passionate about something.”
“What are you passionate about?”
“I used to be passionate about architecture.”
“Used to be?” she asked.
“I haven’t felt that way in a long time. Architecture wasn’t what I hoped it would be.”
“So what took its place?”
“Nothing yet.” I thought back to a party I had attended last week. The first question out of everyone’s mouth was, “So, what do you do?” How do you tell people you’re an out-of-work architect who’s living off your inheritance?
“I think people put too much of themselves into their jobs. Jobs are important of course. But they shouldn’t be your identity. Why can’t people ask what type of person you are instead of how you pay the mortgage?”
Alana laughed. “And what if people were required by law to answer truthfully? ‘I’m a selfish prick who can’t tell the truth if my life depended on it.’”
“You said that with such conviction. You sound like you’re describing an ex-boyfriend.”
Alana smiled.
“I saw the camera in the front seat of your car. Do you shoot professionally?”
“Maybe one day,” I said. “But I’ve got a long way to go. I’m actually hoping to do some night photography while on the island. The moon looks gorgeous tonight.”
Alana paused for several long seconds.
“I know a place you might like to see,” she said.
CHAPTER 18
The First Time
Alana only finished about half her pancake. I made it through one but fell far short of finishing the second one. When we left the restaurant, Alana told me to hop in her car and she drove me to a secluded beach. It wasn’t too far from the restaurant, but it was definitely off the beaten path. The moon was full, and we had no trouble seeing our way down to the water. There was a gentle breeze, and the sound of the rustling palm leaves did wonders to sooth my busy mind.
“Is this your first time to Maui?” Alana asked me.
“First time off North America.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No, I’m an official homebody.”
Alana kicked off her sandals. “There’s something remarkable about how the sand feels between your toes. I never get tired of the sensation.”
Now I’m about to admit something to you readers that I never thought I’d share with anyone. I have a foot fetish. There’s something about a woman’s feet - her toes, to be exact - that gets me going. The sight of Alana’s tanned toes squishing between the sand was driving me wild. However, and this is a big however, I managed to control myself and did not throw myself to the ground and hug her feet to my chest.
Alana, oblivious to the stirrings inside me, skipped down to the ocean. She walked into the water. The waves lapped over her ankles, hiding those magnificent toes from my view. I stayed put, just enjoying the scene. She was stunning,
and I wanted to tell her that so much, but I didn’t want to sound like I was coming on too strong.
“I thought you might like this place, for your photographs,” she said.
She encouraged me to bring my camera and tripod down to the beach. I set it up and took several shots of the moon over the ocean. Afterwards we both sat on the sand and listened to the waves lap against the shore. It was beyond relaxing.
“Why did you go out to dinner with me tonight?” I asked.
“Well, it definitely wasn’t the way you stomped on my toes at the art show.”
She giggled, and I wondered if she was as nervous as I was. But why were we nervous? This had started out as a casual dinner and now we were alone on the beach. She had made the decision to bring me here and that made me feel good.
“I find you interesting,” she continued. “And funny.”
“Funny?”
“When I asked if you were your friend’s lawyer, you replied you were his architect. I didn’t think you were trying to be sarcastic. I think you just said the first thing that came to mind, and it was funny.”
“So you don’t find being with me inappropriate anymore?” I asked.
“I haven’t decided that yet.”
It was as I expected. There was an undeniable attraction, but we both felt the murder investigation standing between us like a brick wall. There’s a funny thing that happens when you’ve been around death, though. You start appreciating life even more. You realize, even though you’ve known this truth all along, that life is short and you haven’t done a very thorough job of living it. Sometimes this knowledge only lasts a few days. Other times, if we’re lucky, it can inspire us to make a difference in our lives. Foxx had not had the chance to properly say goodbye to Lauren. He loved her, and now all of that was gone. Would there ever be anything between the detective and I? I didn’t know, but I was about to find out.
“Do you like to swim?” I asked.
“My mom says I learned to swim before I learned to walk.”
“Then turn around for a second.”
She turned around, and I stood up. I started removing my clothes.
“You’re not doing what I think you’re doing, are you?”
I didn’t answer her. I finished removing my clothes and then waded into the ocean up to my chest. She turned back around and saw me in the water.
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