Aloha Means Goodbye

by Robert W. Stephens

  “Where were the negatives?” I asked.

  “Just sitting there on top.”

  “Don’t you think you found the negatives a little too easy?”

  “Edgar,” she said tiredly.

  “If you had just been asked by a detective if you took nude photographs of a murder victim, wouldn’t you hide these negatives? Maybe even destroy them? You know what this proves, don’t you?”

  “What does it prove?” she asked. I could sense from her tone that she wasn’t the least bit interested in what I thought it proved, and I knew I was desperately close to overstaying my welcome.

  “That Bernard was either lying to you about a possible affair with Lauren, or someone is trying to set Bernard up.”

  “You’re grasping for straws.”

  “I’m not grasping for anything. The negatives are right here.”

  “Why would anyone want to set Bernard up? Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that someone other than your friend did kill Lauren. As far as they know, an innocent man has successfully been framed for their crime. Why would they run the risk of blowing that by trying to set up another person?”

  She had me there. Pure and simple. There was no escaping her cold logic.

  “But why would Bernard lie to you?” I asked.

  She ran her fingers through her dark hair and sighed.

  “I don’t know. Maybe those photos were taken a while ago. Maybe Bernard didn’t even remember taking them. Bernard was so far gone, I doubt if he even knew what day of the week it was.”

  “So you’re convinced his death was an accident?”

  “A drunk man walking down a rickety flight of stairs? Yes, I’m convinced he fell down those stairs all on his own. Case closed.”

  We left the studio and each walked straight for our cars. I had the car door half way open when she called to me.

  “Edgar.”

  I turned to her. Even from this distance I could see the sorrow in her eyes. I wanted to say something to ease her mind, anything, but I couldn’t think of anything.

  “I’m sorry about Foxx. I really am. But you’re going to have to accept the fact he’s guilty.”

  She climbed into her car and drove away.

  I plopped myself down in the front seat and rested my forehead against the steering wheel. Where do I go now? What do I do?

  “Lord, give me some help!” I proclaimed in my best Charlton Heston voice.

  My cell phone rang.

  It wasn’t God.

  “Hi, Poe. It’s me, Sally.”

  I didn’t really need her to tell me her name. I could have picked out that Betty Boop voice anywhere.

  “Hi, Sally, what are you up to?”

  “Nothing. That’s why I was calling. William’s gone to Oahu for a few days. Some problem with his gallery over there. I’m all alone and have nothing to do.”

  “Actually, Sally, I’d love to hang out with you. But I’m kind of busy with the investigation.”

  “Well that’s exactly why I’m calling, silly. I want to help.”

  Now that’s an interesting proposition, I thought.

  “I could really use some help, Sally. I’ve kind of hit a brick wall. I’ve completely run out of leads.”

  “Why don’t we meet for lunch? You can tell me what you’ve discovered, and maybe I can help find new leads. It’ll be exciting.”

  What did I have to lose?

  “Sure, Sally, where would you like to meet for lunch?”

  “Actually, I just remembered. I don’t own a car. Could you pick me up?”

  How do you forget you don’t own a car?

  “No problem,” I said. “I’ll be right over.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Coconuts

  May I ask an innocent question? If a woman wears a ridiculously low-cut shirt, then isn’t she inviting you to look at her breasts? Cause if she’s not inviting you, then why did she wear that shirt? I’m sure you female readers are now accusing me of being a simple minded chauvinist. But if you can answer that question for me, you’re more than welcome to call me whatever you like.

  For the second time in as many days I thought my neck muscles were going to snap as I struggled mightily against my natural desire to not look Sally in the eye as she descended the tree house ladder and walked towards me. She didn’t so much walk as swish, her hips moving from side to side in a most seductive manner.

  Growing up, my mother would always tell my brother and me when we got into trouble that we were smack in the middle of T Land - T standing for trouble, not Mr. T of Rocky III fame.

  Well, I was in T Land now, in a big way.

  We hopped in Foxx’s Explorer, and Sally directed me to the Paia Fish Market, a small restaurant on the corner of the major intersection of Hana Highway and Baldwin. You can tell I’d been in Maui a few days now. I just described that little corner as a major intersection. But the traffic did have a tendency to back up, as this was the intersection with Paia’s one and only stop light.

  At first glance, the Paia Fish Market didn’t look like anything special, but Sally had been doing nothing but raving about the taste of the seafood on the drive over here. The walls were covered with old black and white photographs of fisherman. One photograph showed a guy wearing a Creature of the Black Lagoon costume. Large ceiling fans helped cool down the inside of the joint. Sally and I both ordered crab cake sandwiches and then slid up to a relatively clean wooden table. We sipped at our Diet Cokes as we waited for our food to be prepared.

  I had told Sally about Bernard’s death on the way to the restaurant. Her response had been rather cold and heartless.

  “Perhaps he’s better off that way,” she had said.

  I hadn’t said anything in return. But I did notice that ever since I had mentioned Bernard’s death she had not been her same chipper self. Now, in the restaurant, she seemed lost in a universe all her own.

  “Are you okay, Sally?”

  “You said he had a drinking problem?” she asked.

  “You mean Bernard?”

  She nodded her head yes.

  “That’s what I had been told,” I said. “I only met the man once. He was quite drunk when I saw him, though.”

  “My father was a drunk.”

  She said this so calmly and with such a lack of emotion that it seemed like an everyday utterance, such as “the weather is sunny today.”

  “Was a drunk?” I asked. “Has he beaten the alcoholism?”

  “No, he died several years ago. Had too much to drink at the local bar one night and drove into a light pole on the way home. Went head first out the windshield.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Sally.”

  “Don’t be sorry. He was very abusive to my mother and me. I was rather happy when he died. For the longest time I felt guilty for having that type of reaction. But I don’t feel guilty anymore.”

  This had suddenly turned into a therapy session, or at least it felt that way. I was desperate to change the subject but didn’t know how. Luckily, Sally was kind enough to do it for me.

  “So, tell me about Foxx,” Sally requested, her smile magically returning to her face. “How long have you two been friends?”

  “Since grade school,” I answered.

  “Impressive. Most people don’t stay in touch with their childhood friends.”

  “We made it a point to see each other on a semi-regular basis. That was until he moved to Maui.”

  “Fear of flying?” she asked.

  “How did you know?” I asked, completely surprised she had so easily guessed the truth.

  “Why else would someone not want to come to Maui, especially if they had a free place to stay?”

  “That’s a very perceptive observation,” I suggested.

  “I like to think I’m a very perceptive person.”

  “Well, kick that perceptive personality into high gear, Sally, and help me figure out who killed Lauren.”

  I told Sally all about my conversation with t
he video producers and how their list led me to seek out each artist at the show. I then told her everything I had learned during my interviews.

  “Is that how you came to talk to William?” she asked.

  “Absolutely, he was part of the show.”

  “Well, we can cross William off the list. I know for a fact he didn’t do it.”

  “Oh,” I said. Her statement didn’t really surprise me, though, and I must admit that I somewhat wondered if this was the real reason she had requested a lunch date: to get me to stop considering her new boyfriend as a possible suspect.

  “He was with me the entire night,” she continued. “Showing me off to everyone at the gallery. I was mortified.”

  I saw her roll her eyes as she said this and wondered if she was used to being treated as a trophy girlfriend.

  “Nick James certainly sounds like the most obvious culprit,” she said, “but I’m very intrigued by this George fellow.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Based on what you told me, I don’t like him one bit. It seems to me Bernard gave him his start and he repaid Bernard with trying to set him up for Lauren’s murder. The photographs were obviously taken by someone else.”

  I was surprised by her bold statement. And it felt quite good to have someone spouting off the same ideas as me.

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “Poe, have you ever made love with a drunk man?”

  My eyes bulged out at her question. “Sally, I can say with complete and total honesty that I have never made love with any man, drunk or sober.”

  “You’re missing the point, sweetie. I wasn’t trying to question your heterosexuality.”

  I’m certain I was missing the point. But whenever someone asks a straight man that question, their initial instinct is automatically to defend their straightness. I know that doesn’t sound very politically correct, but that’s the truth.

  “Drunk men are lousy in the sack,” she said. “And from what you and William have told me about Bernard, he was drunk all the time. I think any talk of him having an affair with Lauren Rogers is pure bullshit.”

  I don’t know about you, but I was really starting to like Sally.

  “The question is, why would George want to lie about Bernard?” she asked.

  “To ruin his reputation,” I suggested.

  “But hadn’t Bernard already done a good job of that himself?”

  “I imagine so,” I admitted. “But Sally, I firmly believe that some people hate so much and so intensely that they will stop at nothing to ruin a person, even someone who’s already down on their luck. Maybe George is that type of guy.”

  “Maybe so. Maybe the obvious answer is the correct one. I think they call that Occam’s Razor or something like that.”

  Sally was starting to scare me at this point. Our train of thought was so similar.

  “But the question isn’t why was George trying to frame Bernard, but who took those photographs?” Sally said.

  If nothing else were to come out of this lunch date but that question, I would have considered the event successful.

  I had also assumed that Bernard had not been having an affair with Lauren. Therefore I assumed that maybe Bernard had not taken the photographs. But I was concentrating way too much on why George was trying to convince me that Bernard and Lauren were having an affair when I should have been questioning who took those pictures. And was this mystery photographer somehow connected to the murder of Lauren?

  We both sat in silence for a few moments, during which time the waitress brought us our crab cake sandwiches. I bit into mine eagerly, almost spraining my jaw because the crab cake was so enormous. It was extremely hot, but delicious, and the roof of my mouth got burnt. But I didn’t care because I was starving, having missed breakfast due to my argument with the detective. You’ll notice I was back to calling her “the detective,” for, at the moment, I wasn’t feeling particularly fond of her.

  “You said you saw the photographs?” she asked.

  “I did.”

  “What was your impression of them?”

  “They were obviously taken by a professional. They clearly matched Bernard’s style, but styles can be copied.”

  “The poses themselves, were they pornographic?”

  “They were complete nudes. But I don’t think I’d call them pornographic. I would say they were tastefully done.”

  “What about Lauren’s age in them? Did they look like they were recently taken?”

  “I spent maybe a total of thirty minutes with Lauren before she was killed, so I can’t really tell. If I had to guess, though, I’d say they were fairly recent. But she was wearing a Halloween witch costume when I saw her, so I didn’t get a good look at the real her.”

  “Who has the photographs now?” she asked.

  “Detective Hu.”

  “We’ve got to get those photographs to Foxx, see if he can tell us if they look fairly new - Wait a minute, didn’t you tell me George had admitted to taking all of Bernard’s photographs?” she asked.

  “You’re implying that maybe George was the one having an affair with Lauren?”

  “Maybe everything he told you was true, if you replace the name Bernard with George.”

  “George may have taken the pictures, but I’m not so sure he was having an affair.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because I think George is gay.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I saw him hugging Nick James.”

  “You think he’s gay because he hugged another man?”

  “It wasn’t the hug itself. It was the length of the hug.”

  “Are you homophobic, Poe?” She asked this with such seriousness that I thought she would get up and walk away if she didn’t approve of the answer I was about to give.

  Let’s rewind a little. I stated before that straight men get all upset when someone asks if they’re gay, presumably because the straight man fears he’s unknowingly sending out gay vibes. So he immediately and enthusiastically states that he is as straight as an arrow, at which point the inquisitor responds with the inevitable question: are you homophobic? Thus concludes the no-win situation. The truth is, or at least the way I see it, that a heterosexual man can honestly feel no hostility to gay men but still not want to be gay himself. Is that still offensive? Maybe yes, maybe no.

  “I’ve got nothing against gay men, Sally. It was just the way George and Nick hugged. It seemed kind of intimate to me, the way a husband hugs his wife differently than the way he hugs his mother or his sister. Not to mention the fact that both the video producers and Nick James himself made references to Nick’s partner. At first I thought they were talking about a business partner, but it could certainly be a lover.”

  “Well, let’s say George and Nick are lovers. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t also having an affair with Lauren.”

  I thought back to my jailhouse conversation with Foxx. He told me he and Lauren had a rather active sex life. Maybe Lauren was the type of person who couldn’t be satisfied with one sex partner. Was she having an affair with George? Was there a third guy involved? What about another woman? I would have to ask Foxx about it. No doubt it would be a painful question for him, but if it helped get him out of prison…

  “Maybe George was sleeping with Lauren,” Sally suggested. “Let’s suppose he took those photos. Let’s also suppose he then uses them to blackmail Lauren. But she’s not going to let some little punk like George tell her what to do, so she threatens him right back. George gets frustrated that his plans are falling apart, so he kills her.”

  “Who knows? Maybe Nick James was the mastermind behind the whole thing. Maybe he was so enraged over all the money he had lost to Lauren that no lawsuit, no matter how successful, could ever quench his anger. Maybe George is the patsy in all this. Maybe Nick used his influence over George to get him to kill Lauren. Maybe Nick and George killed Lauren together,” I added to her theory.


  “But if they successfully framed Foxx, why would they then try to frame Bernard as well?” she asked.

  “Damn it,” I said, banging my fist on the wooden table and causing everyone in the restaurant to look at us. “It keeps coming back to that. It’s got to be someone other than George.”

  “Not necessarily, Poe,” Sally said, placing a warm hand on my arm. “We just don’t have all the pieces yet. But we will.”

  “I’m sorry for getting so upset.” My face was starting to get red as our fellow diners kept staring at us. I felt like screaming, “What are you guys looking at?”

  “There’s no reason to apologize. Considering the circumstances, I’d say you’re doing a remarkable job of keeping calm.”

  “You’ve helped me a lot, Sally. More than you can possibly know.”

  “So what do we do next?” she asked.

  I looked up at her and smiled. “Ever been to a séance?”

  CHAPTER 23

  Queen Hatchepsut

  So, what’s your opinion on the subject of life after death? Do we just cease to be or do we actually go to a place based on how nice or cruel we were to others? Speaking of heaven and hell, have you ever come across someone who said, “You know, I’m a complete asshole. I deserve to go to hell when I die.” I didn’t think you had.

  I’m one of these people who believe that it’s impossible to kill the human spirit, the soul if you will, so I have no problem with slightly entertaining the thought that it’s possible to speak to the dead. You’ll notice I used the word “slightly.” I’m not convinced that people can speak to the dead. I’ve certainly seen no proof of it, but I haven’t ruled it out completely.

  I was just as fascinated as everyone when a few years ago there seemed to be a resurgence of people claiming they could talk to the dead. A few of them actually made the talk show circuit, and they did indeed seem somewhat legitimate. Then I saw one of those “behind the magician’s” or “physic’s secrets” shows and quickly came to realize how foolish I had been to believe in these guys, even if the belief wasn’t 100% there anyway. It’s amazing how easy it is to fool someone when they really want or need to believe what you’re saying is the God’s honest truth. I’ve had several dreams where I felt deceased relatives were speaking to me, or at least giving me some kind of advice, symbolic or otherwise. I’ve even thought I saw a ghost a time or two. But I’m also acutely aware that I have an overactive imagination, so all of these dreams could be exactly that, nothing more than mere fantasies and concoctions of the mind.