Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery

by Flowers, R. Barri

  "Aren't you being overly melodramatic?" I asked, knowing that Carter's actual executioner was a male with AB negative blood.

  "You tell me—" Darlene tossed back.

  She gave me a conspiratorial look, which seemed to once again lead to my involvement with Ridge. This made me very uncomfortable. Ridge continued to be fairly tightlipped about where the investigation was going, except for their suspicions concerning Darlene and possibly those connected to her. Could there be a cover-up of some sort within the department? I wondered. And, if so, for what reason?

  "All I know," I told Darlene truthfully, "is that the police are investigating whether or not the death of your friend Kalolo Nawahi could somehow be tied to Carter's murder."

  A shadow of regret and deliberation crossed her face. "I heard about Kalolo. I'm sorry he's dead." Our eyes met. "But to connect that to Carter's death—"

  I told her about seeing Kalolo at the funeral when he supposedly never knew her as Mrs. Carter Delaney.

  "So he wasn't as dumb as I made him out to be," she rationalized. "That doesn't prove I put him up to murdering Carter—or that Kalolo did it all by himself to try and get something out of me!"

  I agreed with her, but said anyway: "It's not me you've got to convince, Darlene—"

  "Isn't it?" she charged, flipping her hair to one side. "This is my life we're talking about here. I don't want to see it messed up any more than it already is when I'm innocent—" Her eyes fixed me with desperation. "If you have any feelings left in that heart of yours for Carter, you'll prove my innocence in his death by using your detective skills to track down the real killer."

  She made it almost sound as if being a private detective was a game or TV show, where private dicks always got their man or woman at the end of the day. If only it were that simple to track down a real killer or killers, I thought. All the detective skills in the world offered no guarantees of success. Complicating matters was an ongoing police investigation, possible cover-up, the growing questions about Carter and his dual life, and his chameleon widow, whose own issues and question marks made her less than convincing as a person who was being unfairly targeted.

  "I'll pay you whatever you want," Darlene said as added incentive.

  I was sure she would and obviously could. In this case, it was definitely not about money, whether I could use it or not, but an obligation on my part to do the right thing.

  "I can't accept your money," I told her succinctly, then added in a more conciliatory tone: "But I will follow up on any leads I come across to try and find out who killed Carter, even if the trail leads right to your door—"

  She nodded and actually looked relieved. "I wouldn't expect or want anything less."

  "Good to know," I made clear.

  "Mahalo," Darlene said, as she stood up.

  It was hard to dislike Carter's widow, no matter how much I may have wanted to. "A hui hou kakou," I told her, or until we meet again, knowing full well that the circumstances may be anything but pleasant.

  Darlene stood up and removed what looked like a journal from her purse. Pushing it halfway across the desk, she said: "Even if Carter was still alive, he'd have a hard time defending himself on some things. It's all there. He certainly won't be needing this anymore, and neither will I—"

  On that note, she turned and strutted out of the office. I lifted the thick, gray journal, which I had a feeling I would regret reading, yet was compelled to.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Darlene had not exaggerated. There were times, dates, places—some that I'd forgotten or wanted to—that were logged stretching back to when Carter and I had first separated. He knew when Ridge and I met, our first date, when we first made love. When we last made love prior to Carter's death, which was the day before he died...and seemingly every aspect of my personal and professional life that he no longer had a right to know.

  Why, Carter? I wondered, hoping that somehow he could hear me from beyond the grave. Why the hell would you do this? What did you hope to gain by prying unnaturally into my life and times?

  I could only wonder if this obsessive behavior had existed long before he became involved with me, or Darlene for that matter. I even started to consider if it was somehow tied to Carter being a control freak; as well as his gambling addiction, history as an attorney, and business practices.

  I read on, finding myself unable to put down the journal. It was like reading my unauthorized biography. Even my caseload as a private investigator had been detailed. In Carter's words, I was "brutally efficient, clever as a fox, had skills I never dreamt she possessed when we were married, and was as good as any man I knew in solving even the most difficult of cases..."

  This apparent flattery hardly enamored me, considering the source in which he chose to express himself, noting at one point that "she gave as much as she received, and then some, in bed and out of bed...only I never truly appreciated it till it was too late to turn back..."

  He talked of plans to hire me to "get the goods on that whore" who seemed to take delight in being a major embarrassment to him and all he stood for. That way he would have the ammunition to get rid of Darlene without being taken to the cleaners or giving up his daughter—the one thing worthwhile in his life.

  I closed the journal on that note, disgusted and intrigued at the same time. I wondered if Darlene had bothered to read it before she gave it to me, sensing she had. It suggested Carter had already made up his mind to divorce her once he could prove her unfaithfulness. I assumed that was what he meant by "get rid of her." If so, it was also incentive for Darlene wanting to see him dead before she lost everything.

  But it still didn't add up to murder—at least not by my calculations. Darlene wanted to hire me to disprove perceived police attempts to railroad her for Carter's death. Even going so far as to part with what amounted to Carter's last known thoughts, some of which gave her good reason to destroy this potentially incriminating evidence. In my mind, this either made her a complete lunatic or perfectly sane in her beliefs that the police were on a witch hunt, but targeting the wrong witch.

  Far more disturbing was the fact that I was the central character in Carter's journal, as though a dark novel. What was going on in his head that possessed him to violate me in a way no common criminal ever could? It was more bizarre than I was prepared to contemplate on an empty stomach.

  I locked the journal in my desk, grabbed my purse, cut off the lights, and left the office for an unknown destination. I drove around in circles for what seemed like hours, having been affected more than I cared to admit by the unfolding drama of my ex-husband who was as much a mystery to me as his death.

  * * *

  It was a quarter past five when I showed up at Ridge's door. He stood there barefoot in a striped T-shirt and shorts. Mayonnaise trickled down from the corner of his mouth, a reflection of the half-eaten chicken sandwich he held precariously in one hand.

  He took one look at me and said: "You look like you've been to hell and back—"

  I hadn't meant for it to be so apparent. Since he was right, I saw no reason to deny it. "I confess my day hasn't gone too well..."

  That was probably the biggest understatement I'd ever made.

  Ridge frowned with concern. "I can see that." He bent over and kissed me on the cheek, then hugged me with his free arm. "Come on in and tell me all about it. I've got nothing but time."

  I wondered if I could ever tell him that my ex-spouse had been keeping a play-by-play account of our love life, among other things. Maybe there would never be a reason to bring it up as long as it had no bearing on his murder. It was not something I wanted to share with Ridge or anyone else if I could help it.

  Instead, I turned my attention to the hunger pangs that stabbed at me. Grabbing the sandwich from Ridge's hand, I asked: "Do you mind?" Before he could answer, I helped myself to a generous bite of his sandwich. "I'm starving!"

  "I'll go you one better," he said, somewhat bewildered. "You can have the sandw
ich—what's left of it—and I'll make us both another..."

  We went into the kitchen and he fixed more sandwiches while I made a salad. All the while I was thinking about Darlene's allegations concerning the police, and the fact that Ridge was spearheading the investigation into Carter's death. What did it all mean? Did it mean anything?

  Ridge had managed to keep his curiosity in check during my musings.

  At the table, I told him of Darlene's visit to the office, minus the journal. Ridge responded with a little laugh and shook his head in disbelief. "That woman's a real piece of work. Did she seriously expect you to be on her payroll?"

  "Why not?" I replied, playing the devil's advocate. I was a little pissed at him for so easily dismissing the notion.

  A dumbfounded look appeared on his face. "You're asking me? Last I knew, she was still a legitimate person of interest in her husband's murder for one thing, technically speaking. And I'm assuming you haven't forgotten the lady's bad behavior was the reason Delaney hired you in the first place."

  I dug my teeth into the sandwich and chewed. "Just because Darlene was cheating on Carter doesn't mean she's not entitled to learning the truth about his death," I said.

  "There's a damned good possibility she already knows some version of the truth," Ridge said brusquely, and stuck his fork into the salad.

  "And as good a possibility that Darlene knows nothing more than she's already admitted to," I suggested, surprised that I was now suddenly defending a woman who cost me my husband and had not been totally exonerated of his murder, even in my mind.

  Ridge refrained from putting the salad in his mouth. "What exactly has Darlene Delaney been telling you?"

  Since he asked, I related her feelings of being unjustly persecuted by the police for lack of a better suspect. Then I put in my own two cents about a possible police cover-up, though I didn't have a shred of evidence to back it up or any real reason to think that the authorities had something to hide regarding the investigation into Carter's death.

  As expected, Ridge defended the department. "There's no cover-up," he insisted, adding, "at least not that I'm aware of. Believe it or not, no one's trying to protect Carter Delaney's reputation or prevent a scandal. If there was any indication that evidence was being disregarded, tampered with, or otherwise mishandled in this case, I'd go to internal affairs myself and let the chips fall where they may."

  One of the things that had attracted me to Ridge was his way of convincing you that he was always on the right side of the law. I wasn't so sure this time, but felt if he was aware of anything that wasn't above board in the investigation, he'd risk his own neck to have it resolved through the proper channels.

  "If Darlene Delaney thinks we're being too aggressive in our investigation of her, that's her problem—not yours," argued Ridge. "It's called police work. We've got to be as aggressive as we can without stepping over the line, especially when a prominent figure is murdered and, as far as we know, the killer is still walking the streets. You know the routine, Skye..." He chewed on a piece of lettuce. "Until we solve the mystery of who murdered your ex, no one is going to get a free ride—and that definitely includes the newly wealthy widow."

  Ridge had spoken and I had to respect his position. He was really trying hard, even though he didn't know half the story about Carter and the bizarre behavior that may have contributed to his death. Darlene would never win the award for the most admired woman in the world, particularly by those who saw her as the big winner in Carter's death, including myself. But sometimes winning came with a price. She had lost a husband, respect, and a part of herself. In my mind, that was enough for one lifetime and not worth any amount of money.

  Besides, from what I understood, most of what Darlene stood to gain came in the form of insurance payouts, pending completion of the criminal investigation. It appeared as though Carter had squandered away most of his fortune through gambling and bad decision-making. The fact that Darlene might still come out of it smelling like a rich rose was not something that concerned me. I had already given up any claim to Carter and whatever he was worth, and felt I was better for it.

  Ridge gave me a serious but seemingly relieved look, and said nicely: "If there's anything else you'd like to get off your chest, I'm listening—"

  I wiped my hands with a napkin, thought about it, and responded with a smile: "Yes, there is one other thing. What's for dessert?"

  He raised one of his brows. "That's up to you. What would you like?"

  I could think of a few things, but none more inviting than the man my eyes gazed upon. He looked quite scrumptious at the moment with that crooked smile, shiny bald head, and firm body staring back at me. I leaned over and kissed him. The warmth of his mouth on mine seemed to release me from the demons that had played with my mind since Carter's death. My libido suddenly came alive and I wanted Ridge more than ever right now.

  We got to know each other again in bed, rediscovering what worked and what did not, making love with passion and energy that left us both thoroughly content. We cuddled together afterward as if neither of us wanted to be anywhere else. The thought of Carter somehow spying on us from another dimension gave way to the reality of here and now with the person who currently meant more to me than anyone. I wasn't about to allow Carter to deprive me of that one bit of satisfaction.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Ollie and I went for our morning jog on the beach. We huffed and puffed for a good hour and a half before making it back home in a sweat. Ollie had more or less returned to his normal feisty self. That told me he had apparently gotten over the trauma of witnessing Carter's death and the confrontation with an as yet unknown assailant.

  I only wished the same could be said for me.

  I was having lunch today with a good friend whom I had managed to neglect recently, all in the name of the hectic life of a private investigator and security consultant. Not to mention the time spent with a certain police detective. Whitney Quinn was a psychologist who got half her business courtesy of the Honolulu Police Department. A psychological evaluation was both routine and mandatory for cops who had stepped over the line, been suspected of such, or experienced extreme psychological stress on the job.

  It was the latter circumstance that first brought me before Whitney. I had only been on the force for two weeks when I shot and killed a burglary suspect, who would have shot and killed me had I not been a hair quicker to the trigger. I had been warned that the first fatality was usually the hardest. That did not prepare me for just how hard it really was to deal with killing another human being.

  I was fully cleared of any wrongdoing, but the psychological burden was a whole different matter. That was where Whitney came in. Not only did she do wonders in helping me overcome the guilt and self-blame, but I also ended up with a lifelong friend.

  It was as a friend that I hoped to get some informal counseling in an attempt to help me understand the inner workings of the man I was once married to. A man who left behind a legacy that was as baffling as it was tragic.

  We met at Harry Woo's, a restaurant on Kapahulu Avenue in Chinatown. Spending too much time trying to decide what to wear, I was a little late getting there for the one o'clock date, whereas Whitney was her usual punctual self.

  "Sorry," I said lamely. "The time got away from me."

  "Don't worry about it," Whitney said, smiling brightly as she looked me over. I was wearing a lavender scoop neck top, gray pencil skirt, and black open toe pumps. "It's good to see you."

  "You, too," I said, and gave her a hug.

  When we pulled apart, I quickly surveyed the thirty-nine-year-old psychologist who looked much younger. She was just under my height with blue eyes and blonde hair in a short pixie style. She had on a white pantsuit, yellow cami, and brown sandals.

  "Has it really been what, six months?" I asked in disbelief while hiding my regret.

  "More like seven or eight," she said, "but who's counting?"

  I certainly wasn't, but wondere
d how we'd managed to miss each other during that stretch.

  We sat down, and Whitney said: "I have to admit, I was a little surprised to hear from you—"

  She wasn't making this any easier, but I tried to keep it lighthearted for starters. "Well, you just never know when an old friend will call and invite you to lunch," I said.

  "I suppose..." She lifted her cup of coffee. "In my line of work the unexpected means never quite knowing what's coming next. Sometimes that can be dangerous."

  "Don't I know it," I said, thinking that my own profession as a private eye had more than its fair share of unexpected dangers.

  She regarded me curiously. "How are things going with you, Skye?"

  I picked up my glass of water and took a sip before looking at her and admitting: "Not as well as they could be—"

  The menus came, allowing me time to collect my thoughts and gather my words. Even in an informal setting, it was hard to share my anxieties and anger concerning Carter. But for the sake of my own mental health and well-being, I owed it to myself to get this off my chest.

  I told Whitney about the journal, which I'd read more of, much to my mortification. This was followed by my thoughts about the bizarre circumstances surrounding Carter's death and how they'd left me drained, confused, and unsure of what the hell it all meant.

  Whitney seemed to listen with compassion and understanding even as I tried to read her mind. "I know this was a few years ago," she said, "but how did Carter take it when you told him the marriage was over?"

  "Like any man who wanted the best of all worlds," I said, remembering it as though only yesterday. "He tried hard to convince me he'd made a mistake and wanted a second chance to make it right."

  She peered at me. "But you would hear none of it?"

  "Would you, if you were in my shoes?" I challenged her.

  Whitney hit me with a remember who's the psychologist look and said: "This isn't about me or what I would do, Skye."

  I got the picture. Still, a sneer appeared out of nowhere. "All right, so I didn't need a man I couldn't trust, much less one who wanted more than I apparently was capable of giving him, either sexually or emotionally."