Hibiscus Homicide (Maui Mayhem Cozy Mystery Book 4)

by Aysia Amery

  Hibiscus Homicide

  Maui Mayhem Cozy Mystery

  Aysia Amery

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  Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved. Reproduction of any kind is strictly prohibited unless written permission granted by the author.

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  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons or situations is purely coincidental. A few places will be actual locations (some restaurants, resorts, parks, etc.), while others will be totally fictitious.

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  More from Aysia

  Author’s Note

  Many Hawaii-born locals speak in what we call ‘pidgin.’ I’ve used it minimally, if at all, but there will be some local lingo.

  In some places, I’ve also included descriptions of words in parentheses (instead of creating a glossary) so that you’re not taken out of the story to have to look it up. For example: pupu (appetizer).

  I hope you get a little flavor of the islands through my stories. Aloha!

  Chapter 1

  “Aloha, this is Elisse Wilder. I need to book another event with you.” Her tone was neither friendly nor hostile—it was as though something clouded her mind.

  “Hi. Good to hear from you,” I said in a cheerful tone, no different from what I’d normally use with a client. “What kind of event this time?”

  “A memorial service,” she said. It were as though a boulder weighed her down and it took every effort to speak. No doubt she grieved.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” I assumed it was a family member, but I could be wrong.

  “Thank you.”

  “What’s your headcount?”

  “It’ll be a private service, so I’m looking at around fifty?”

  “Okay.” I jotted down the info.

  “It was my brother.” She said this so quietly I wasn’t sure I heard right.

  “Excuse me?”

  “My brother and his wife. The funeral service is for them.”

  Oh my, it must’ve been a car accident for both to die at the same time. I didn’t ask though.

  “My condolences.” I didn’t know what else to say. ‘That must’ve been hard on your family’? Any loss is hard on the family. ‘Losing a loved one was hard enough, but losing two’? That sounded awkward.

  “The police think my brother shot his wife and then killed himself.”

  “Oh my god.” That had to be a shocker.

  “But they’re investigating it.”

  “When did this occur?” I hadn’t seen it in the newspaper. But then again, I didn’t read it every day. Blaine shared the news with me most times.

  “Last week. I’m still in shock, but I needed to get this done.”

  “I can imagine what you’re going through,” I said, my sympathies going out to her.

  “Yeah, it’s been hell. I can’t understand why he’d do that. Anyway, let’s get back to business.”

  After I took down the specifics of her catering needs, I said, “I’ll email you the forms to fill out and sign. Should I send them to the same email address as the last time?”

  “Yes, that’ll be good.”

  After we hung up, I sat on the barstool wondering how somebody could just snap like that.

  “What’s the matter?” Blaine asked, as he traipsed into the kitchen.

  “Oh, hi, babe,” I said as my hubby kissed me on the cheek. “How was work?”

  “It was okay.” Rarely did he have something exciting to tell me about his job. “You seem in a solemn mood.”

  Blaine pulled out the pitcher of water from the fridge.

  “I got a call from one of my clients for a memorial service gig.” While I spoke, my eyes focused on the clear liquid pouring into the glass. “Her brother shot his wife, then committed suicide.”

  “Really?” Blaine paused his action just before the glass touched his lips. His eyes widened.

  “That’s what the police told her for now,” I replied.

  “You gonna check with Pako on that?”

  “You already know the answer to that, don’t you?” I sniggered.

  My hubby smiled, then took a gulp. Blaine was no sipper.

  “I’m also going to see if I can talk to their ghosts. Just to make sure that’s what went down.”

  “You and your wild imagination, Ginger. You should’ve been a writer.” He laughed.

  “I’ll save that for retirement.” My lips curved a grin.

  I knew he joked about that, but it wasn’t too far-fetched an idea. Writing cozy mysteries might be fun. My ammunition was abundant with all these cases I’ve helped Pako solve.

  “Just don’t kill off your husband.” Blaine put down the tumbler, then encircled his arms around my waist. I knew what was coming next.

  He kissed me a wet one.

  “Your lips feel like they’ve been swimming in an Alaskan lake,” I said, pushing him away. I teased him of course.

  “I just drank cold water. What do you expect?” He shook his head. “Geez, give your wife some love and all she does is grumble.”

  I grabbed his shirt collar, pulled him to me and sucked on his lips, planting a juicy one myself.

  “There. No more grumbling,” I told him with a flirtatious smile.

  He cleared his throat. “Isn’t it time for bed yet?” he asked, snuggling his face into my neck.

  My fingers pushed on his forehead and he retreated. I made sure he didn’t miss the dropping of my jaw as I stared at him incredulously.

  “It’s only six o’clock! Your horniness will have to wait, my dear.”

  My Blaine frowned. “Well, I’m making a reservation for nine o’clock, so you’d better be ready or I’m throwing you over my shoulder caveman style.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” I challenged. I should know better than to do that.

  “Just try me, sweetheart.” He shined me a devilish smirk.

  Oh my, I believe my libido just kicked into high gear. “Oh, to hell with waiting! Take me, Tarzan!”

  As I was about to flop into his arms, he said, “Um, Tarzan is not a caveman.”

  I couldn’t believe it! I wanted to smack his analytical mind across the room.

  My expression must’ve knocked some sense into him because he continued with, “Uh, yeah, okay, me Tarzan, you Jane.”

  With that, he threw me over his shoulder, gave my butt a whack (‘love pat’ is what he calls it) and carried me, Jane, off to our jungle lair.

  Chapter 2

  I called Pako first thing in the morning. I hardly slept last night thinking about what Elisse had said.

  “Pako, a client I’m catering a funeral for told me that her brother killed his wife, and then killed himself. This happened last week. Are you working on that case?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “Can you give me the lowdown on it?”

  “Okay, hang on.” I heard paper rustling in the background. “Kyle and Nani Wilder.”

  “Yes, that’s them.”

  “The woman had two gunshot wounds. Entry from the back. One hit to the lung and the other, her kidney. She probably died within a few minutes. Ballistic trauma to the man was to the forehead. There was also
blunt force trauma to the back of his head. Too early for full forensics report.”

  Those always took four to six weeks or more. If those reports came out earlier, we’d have a much easier time trying to solve these cases, especially when it involved poison.

  “Front of the head? Isn’t that a weird position to point a gun if you’re committing suicide? Isn’t it normally to the temple or even in the mouth or under the chin?” I asked.

  “Normally,” Pako said without a hint of emotion.

  “You don’t think that’s weird? And what about the blunt force to the back of the head? Could somebody have snuck up behind him and struck him?”

  “It’s possible. We don’t know yet what caused the concussion. Since he was leaning against a wall when we found him, it’s definitely odd how that might’ve happened.”

  I just couldn’t get past why Kyle would shoot himself in the forehead. That was an awkward position to hold the gun.

  I changed the subject.

  “How about fingerprints?” Since a Fingerprint Identification Technician handled that analysis and not the forensics lab, they punched that report out faster.

  “Matched the husband. Any others weren’t clear enough.”

  “You mean there might’ve been other people’s fingerprints on the weapon?”

  “Hard to say. Could be more of his, or other people. Not distinct enough to conclude either way.”

  “Was the gun his?”

  “Yup. Registered in his name.”

  “What else you got?”

  “Looks like the woman was shot in the kitchen, then her body moved to the bedroom.”

  “Really? I wonder why he’d do that?”

  “Beats me. Maybe he regretted shooting her after he’d done it and gave her a better resting place. Who the hell knows what goes on in these people’s minds.”

  I wasn’t expecting an answer because nobody could know that except the person who moved her, but Pako often answered my rhetorical questions.

  “You don’t think she could’ve lain on the bed herself?”

  “Highly unlikely. With a bullet collapsing her lung and one to the kidney, she’d have a hard time getting all the way to the bedroom by herself. But I guess, anything’s possible. Like you seeing ghosts.”

  Yeah, that kinda threw a wrench in Pako’s unbelieving of the supernatural realm. Even though he couldn’t see it with his own eyes, he knew the clues I got after a pantomime session were too weird not to believe. Plus, he knew I wasn’t a liar, nor was I a raving lunatic. Well, the latter he might debate me with at times. Ha!

  “Was she lying on the bed?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “How was she positioned?” Not sure why I needed to know that, but my inner Sherlock felt I should ask.

  Hmm. Could I have been a detective in a past life? Funny, because I could glimpse into most everyone else’s past lives but my own.

  “Supine.”

  Why would Kyle move her to the bed? What did it matter to him? Was it as Pako had said about feeling guilty? And did he kill himself as an afterthought, or did he plan to all along?

  “What’s your thoughts on this, Pako?” I always valued his take on these things. I had to admit, even with the ghosts’ help, without his expertise I wouldn’t be able to help solve most of the cases we’ve worked on together. He was the professional after all, and a damn good detective at that. Thinking I was the better crime solver in this partnership would be delusional.

  “From just scoping out the crime scene, it looks like the husband killed the wife, then shot himself,” he replied.

  “But you think there might’ve been something else going on?” I sure did. Can’t explain why, but something bothered the heck out of me.

  “Hard to say, but could be. Like I said, anything’s possible.”

  “Think I should take a crack at them?”

  “You mean their ghosts?” he asked.

  “You know it.”

  “Hey, if you keep stealing my lines, it ain’t gonna be as cool when I say it.” Just from his tone of voice, I sensed a frown at the other end.

  “You just gotta come up with new ones.” I was sure there was no shortage of catchy phrases he could muster.

  “Yeah, and you’ll steal those from me too.”

  “I’m not stealing them. I’m borrowing. Hey, you should be flattered that I steal, err, I mean, borrow your catchy lines. And anyway, you didn’t make them up. You stole them too.”

  He ignored that. “Go make your own. I ain’t got time to be findin’ new ones.”

  “Grouch,” I said, wanting to laugh.

  I heard commotion in the background.

  “I gotta go. I’ll call you when I can take you over to the crime scene.”

  “You going to lunch again?”

  “What do you mean by ‘again’? I haven’t gone to lunch yet today. It’s only ten.”

  “Well, I bet there’s food waiting for you someplace.”

  In the background I heard, “Pako, the malasadas are gonna be gone by the time you get yourself some. I saw Manny carrying five of ‘em to his desk.”

  “You didn’t hear that, right?”

  “So you’re ditching our conversation for malasadas?” I tried to sound hurt, but inside I laughed.

  “Hey, Manny grabbed five, and who knows how many are left. I gotta go.”

  Click.

  How rude. He didn’t even wait for me to say goodbye.

  If malasadas and I were tied to the train tracks, I bet Pako would save those sugary Portuguese donuts first.

  Yup, I got no doubts about that.

  Chapter 3

  Olinda sprawled with open farmlands and ranches along with residential homes and private estates. Riding along the slopes of Haleakala and about 3500-4000 feet above sea-level, I let the breeze cool my face through the open window.

  Between the fresh air or air-conditioning, I’d pick the prior, always. Although having to comb out the tangles from my long black hair wasn’t fun.

  Soon after passing stands of eucalyptus and paper bark trees that towered alongside us like a gauntlet of soldiers, Pako turned into a driveway that led us to the Wilders’ estate.

  As he quieted the car’s engine in front of the single-story home, Pako turned to me and said, “You think they’re bickering with each other?”

  “Who knows? Maybe they aren’t even wandering the same area,” I replied before exiting the car.

  “That might be better anyway. To have a wife nag you for the rest of your ghostly life, one might as well be in hell.”

  I couldn’t tell if Pako was joking.

  “Did you seriously say that?” I wanted to whack him one. “Hey, he murdered her. He should be spending his death in hell. And you’d better not ever tell Kim that. You’d never hear the end of it.”

  “You think I’ve got empty space between my ears? I ain’t lolo (stupid/crazy). I know what I can and can’t say to Kim. I just hope I die someplace far from where she does. Just in case.” He laughed.

  I had to admit that was kinda funny. She does get on his case a lot. Not that it’s always unwarranted. But I don’t know what goes on in their household every day, so I’m not in the position to take sides. I’m sure there are times he deserves the nag, and yet other times, maybe not so much. Who knows?

  I know there are things I nag Blaine about, like not putting stuff back where he got them from, is a big one. It bugs me when he does that because we end up hunting high and low for the dang things when we need to use them again. No matter how many times I tell him to put things back as soon as he’s done using them, he forgets to do it.

  I’ve threatened, saying I’m gonna put Post-It notes to remind him, but of course, that would litter the house with yellow scraps everywhere. Not a good solution.

  But with everything, there are two sides to the sticky-back tape, so I’m sure he’d like to nag me about stuff I do, but doesn’t, because it’s just not like him to do so. He’s mo
re tolerant than I am, that’s for sure.

  “Is the son living here still?” I asked Pako.

  “Nope. He’s supposedly staying with his mother for the time being.”

  “I don’t blame him. Kinda creepy residing in your home after your family got killed there.” It would give me the chills, I can tell you.

  Not so much their ghosts because that I could handle, but having to utilize the areas where they were killed would be a constant reminder of the horrendous incident.

  I bet for the son, every time he was at the kitchen sink, he’d be imagining his stepmother standing there getting shot. Morbid.

  “Yeah, no kidding.” Pako might’ve been a tough guy, but he could get creeped out when it came to stuff like that.

  When Pako first found out that I could see and talk to ghosts, he had a hard time with it. Could you blame him? How many people wouldn’t? Only after about the tenth time he had witnessed me doing it, did he finally feel at ease. Well, I take that back. I think he still gets weirded out about it, but he’s accepted it for the most part. Especially since the ghosts help us solve many of their murders.

  “You wanna start on the inside of the house?” Pako asked.

  “You said that the husband was found somewhere else, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “Where exactly was that?” My eyes scanned the grounds on each side of the light tan with a dark chocolate trim home.

  “Out back of the house in the shed.”

  “Why would he kill himself there, you think? Why not in the house with his wife? It was already a mess with her blood and all. Not like he would care at that point, you’d think.” I had to make sense of things. And that just didn’t make any sense. “Also, if his son found their bodies, better to be shocked once rather than twice. People don’t think how it’s going to affect somebody else when they commit suicide.”

  I couldn’t understand why people flung themselves in front of high-speed traffic or dove off overpasses onto freeways below. The people in the cars they landed on or who hit them would be traumatized.

  Or in their homes, where it caused a bloody mess and they had a kid who’d be the one to find them. Why would any parent subject their child to that? The sight would haunt them for the rest of their life.