by Aysia Amery
Voicemail. “Hey, Vandie, call me when you get a chance. Thanks.”
No sooner had I hung up when my cell phone rang with her kids’ cute faces on it.
“Hey, Ginger, what’s up?”
“That was quick.”
“I had just finished strapping Kadie in the car seat when you called.”
“You on your way out?”
“Just finished grocery shopping. Heading home now. You need something?” She sounded breathless. Strapping her daughter in must take some effort.
Vandie was 32 and had two kids. Kadie was her second child. She was 28 when her boy Tyler was born. I think having kids four years apart was smart. That way, when the second one enters college, the other one is on their way out. Can’t imagine parents who have to pay those horrendous tuitions for two kids at the same time. Gotta take out an equity line of credit or second mortgage the house, I imagine.
Although having kids is expensive, they’d be a joy in one’s life. Blaine and I will never know that feeling. But such was the way of things. I guess we could’ve adopted, but we just never talked about it. Both of us were too busy in our careers to take time to sit down and discuss if we should adopt. Maybe it wasn’t too late and we still could. Who knows? Hmm, will need to think things through about that one a bit more.
“Yeah, I need you to get me the rundown on Tony Min and his family. You know, that guy who owned Min’s Protea Farm who died recently.”
“I read about that. He wasn’t that old to just up and die like that, but nowadays with all the crap in our foods people are dying younger than they should.”
“Tell me about it.” My mom died of cancer at the age I am now. 40 was too young to die. I’ve felt that Maile’s death might’ve attributed to her illness more than the food she ate. I’ve always believed that continuous psychological stress caused physical ailments/illnesses too. Look at ulcers. Anyway, I don’t want to think about that right now, else tears will well up my eyes.
“As soon as I get home I’ll put Kadie to nap, and then work on your case.”
“Sounds perfect.”
For my friends who did services like this for me, I returned their favors with catering food for their parties, or I’d bake them a cake, or create an amazing dessert, or even take them out to a fine-dining restaurant for lunch or dinner. I always made sure to compensate them with something worth more than the amount of time they spent.
Since sleuthing was a hobby for me and not an occupation that I got paid for, those who helped out, as Vandie did, knew that and never expected monetary compensation. These were just things friends did for each other. They wouldn’t accept money from me anyway. I’ve tried to shove some cash their way in the past, and if you thought I was bull-headed, some of my friends could beat me to the finish line before I even got halfway there.
“I should have what you need by later this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Vandie. Talk soon.”
“Always a pleasure to help you, Ginger. Bye.”
Once Vandie dug up the stuff Pako and I could work with, we should have a list of possible suspects.
:: Chapter 5 ::
It took about an hour to peruse Vandie’s research that unearthed the lowdown on Tony Min and his family, along with online newspaper and magazine articles about his protea farm.
No scandals or dirt on him or any family member. There didn’t seem be any apparent enemies who might’ve wanted him dead. But you never knew what happened ‘behind the scenes’ that never made the news. We may have to dig those up ourselves.
After Pako picked me up at my home, we headed for Min’s Protea Farm.
“So who’s in the lineup today?” I asked my detective friend.
“We’re talking to the wife and son.”
I panned over Vandie’s printed report. “Elaine and Lance Min. Nothing out of the ordinary about those two. Vandie couldn’t find any articles about them. Neither of them has done anything to create news. They’re just the wife and kid of a successful protea farmer. That’s about it.”
My eyes further scanned the printout. “Tony Min. He inherited the farm that has been in the family for generations. He has a younger brother...” I jabbered on with background info like high school and college Tony went to, sports he played, etc., etc. Nothing important that would lead to clues to his possible murder.
We arrived at Min’s farm in good time. Pako had called ahead to let the family know we were coming so they could give us their full attention as we talked.
The house stood in the middle of the 50-acre farm with protea shrubs and a few fruit trees, like banana, mango, and papaya, spanning the land around it. The kiosk was situated about 25 feet to the left of the house as you approached from the small unpaved parking area.
This single-story Hawaiian plantation-style architecture fit perfectly, nestled on a farm of this nature. As we approached the short stairs leading to the double-door entrance, my eyes surveyed the wraparound veranda with a white porch swing just left of the doors. A round table, large enough to dine on during those gorgeous sunset evenings, surrounded by four white rattan chairs sat on the opposite end to the right.
Pako knocked, and after but a few moments we were greeted by Mrs. Min.
“Are you Elaine Min?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Pako Anzo. This is Ginger Lee.”
As I would’ve guessed, she gazed at me with a ‘where have I seen this woman before’ look.
“Do I know you?” she asked once we were seated on the sofa in her living room. She sat on a chair opposite of us.
“I was here about a week ago.” I hoped she wasn’t going to remember too much about me. Especially what she caught me doing.
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, I remember you. You were talking to yourself.”
Dang!
“If I remember right, you’re a caterer. What are you doing here with the police?”
Most people don’t even ask why I’m with Pako. They take it for granted that I must be associated with the MPD.
“I tag along with Detective Anzo sometimes. I’m interested in detective work.” That wasn’t a lie. All of that was true. I just wasn’t telling her the whole story, which she didn’t need to know.
“Mrs. Min, is your son available? We’d like to talk with the both of you, as I mentioned on the phone.”
Pako knew when to rescue me. That cut her off from asking any more questions directed at me.
“Of course. I’ll go get him.”
The inside of the Min’s living room wasn’t what I expected from that of the exterior’s style. I had anticipated Hawaiiana-type furnishings, bamboo or rattan with quilt-pattern or floral cushions. Instead, the sofa, loveseat and two recliners were egg-shell-colored contemporary faux leather.
Above the fireplace hung a family portrait, typical of one taken at a professional studio. Tony Min was seated in a chocolate-color leather easy chair, while his wife, with a nestled hand on her husband’s shoulder, stood to his right, yet slightly behind. The son stood on Tony’s left. No expression reflected they had said the word ‘cheese.’
Elaine Min was back, but unless her son was the invisible man, she came alone.
“I’m sorry, my son is on an important phone call, so he said to start without him. He’ll join us as soon as he can.”
About to plant herself down on the chair, Elaine’s eyes glimmered as though a thought just hit her. “Can I get either of you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”
“No thanks,” Pako replied.
“None for me either, but thank you,” I said.
Once seated, Pako asked, “Mrs. Min, did your husband have any health issues prior to his sudden collapse?”
“He had a mild stroke about three years ago. He recovered fairly quickly after therapy. There was no noticeable paralysis or speech impediment, so you’d never guess he’d had a stroke unless you knew about it.”
“Was he on any medication?”
“Yes, he had
high blood pressure, so he was on medication for that.”
I stayed quiet while Pako did his job. I normally waited until he finished with all his questions, and if I thought of something he missed, I’d ask then.
“Did he show any signs that he wasn’t feeling well?”
She shook her head. “No, he was his usual self. I saw no signs of his health diminishing or an attack coming.”
“Can you tell me what he did that day and your interactions with him?”
“It was a Saturday, so our farm was closed to the public. My husband normally awoke at 5:30 a.m., but he had just come back from Oahu the day before, so he got up an hour later that day. He had his coffee and breakfast, then he was out and about the grounds tending to his daily tasks.
“The protea farm was Tony’s life, and even on the weekends he’d attend to it. Only one day out of the week he’d take time off to play a round of golf. And even then he’d be right back out in the greenhouse or fields when he’d return.”
Seems Tony Min was a workaholic. Sounded as though he ate and breathed his work, finding ultimate fulfillment in it though. One of the articles in the Maui News mentioned his obsession with creating unusual hybrids. I know what that’s like in my own creation of new and exotic dishes with my catering biz. One becomes more of a scientist/artist in that way, and when you’ve succeeded, you’re floating on top of the world as Michelangelo must’ve felt with his Sistine Chapel frescoes.
Elaine’s hands were clasped in her lap. Was she just nervous talking with the police, or did she have something to hide?
“That morning I had a hair appointment in Pukalani at 11:30 a.m., so my son and I left around 11:15. I made Tony’s lunch about half-hour or so before that.”
“Can you tell me what you made for his lunch?”
“A ham sandwich. I also put leftover fish stew we had for dinner the night before in a soup thermos for him. Tony always had some kind of soup or stew with his sandwiches for lunch. The combo was a ritual for him. He was set in his ways.”
“So it was always soup and sandwich? He didn’t want an occasional plate lunch?” Pako asked.
“Not when he was at home. But even when we went out he loved his soups and stews. He’d order a steak or pork chop, but he’d always have a soup to start off.”
Interesting.
“Was he allergic to anything?” Pako was thorough. He had to be.
“You mean food-wise?”
“Anything. Food, medication, pollen, whatever.”
“No, no allergies that I can think of.”
“My next question is going to be personal. I’d appreciate it if you answer it honestly.”
Elaine straightened her back and leaned forward in her seat.
“What was your relationship with your husband like?”
I regarded the expression on her face. The crow’s feet in the corner of her eyes were further defined. My attention moved to her hands again. Her knuckles turned a shade whiter.
“Well, we were married for 41 years. Our parents were close friends, so we knew each other since we were kids. A tragic car accident took his parents’ lives just a few years after we were married. When he inherited the farm, he convinced me to help him. Before that, I wanted to be a nurse. I really wanted a career of my own, but he said things that shot my confidence, so I gave up on it.” The bite of her words was like chewing on dandelion greens.
“There’s a lot I regret in my life, but we do the best we can with the path we’ve chosen.”
Somehow I got the feeling that the woman was trying to convince herself, more than being philosophical.
I wanted to ask her if she loved her husband, but that would’ve been intrusive, even under the circumstances of her being a suspect in his murder. She didn’t know she was. And she might not be so honest if she knew this was more than just an innocent inquiry into Tony’s health issues.
Anyway, I probably already knew the answer to that question, but her reaction and answer to it would be interesting to note—in either direction.
Just then, the son waltzed into the room.
“Sorry, I was on an important call.” He planted his okole (butt) on the seat next to his mother.
He clearly inherited his mom’s genes with the rounder eyes and slim nose, but reflected his dad’s triangular jaw and flat-topped head. That bristly straight black hair resembled a scrub brush and would be tough as a kukui nut to snip evenly with just a pair of scissors. Cutting through wet leather might prove easier.
“I’m Detective Anzo, and this is Ginger Lee,” Pako once again introduced us.
“I’m Lance.” We already knew that, but he might’ve not realized it.
His eyes focused on Pako now. Good. He didn’t need to ponder over why I might be there. Many do when I’m not introduced as a detective. They normally don’t ask, although you can see the questioning in their eyes. But soon they just move their attention on to what Pako would be inquiring about.
“Are you done with me, detective?” Elaine Min asked. “I have some work to prepare before our client arrives later today.”
Whether that was true or she just wanted to avoid any more questions was hard to say. I noticed a lot of hand fidgeting going on when disclosing her relationship with her husband—what there was of it anyway, because the information wasn’t substantial enough to write even a single page in a memoir. Telling us it was none of our business would’ve revealed as much.
Regardless of her discretion, she gave enough away to clearly list her as a suspect should there have been foul play. I didn’t get that there was much love in her heart for her husband. That would explain her lack of grieving state.
Pako looked at me, needing verification in case I wanted to ask her more questions. When I nodded, he knew that meant we were done with her for now. Her son might disclose more without his mother there, so maybe this was a good thing.
“Just one more thing...can you write out the names, phone numbers, and the addresses of everyone who was on the farm, either working or visiting, that day?” Although Pako asked it as a question, it was more of a request that she really shouldn’t refuse to do.
“Of course. I’ll leave it on the table by the front door,” Elaine said.
“Thank you for your time,” Pako told her as he stood to his feet to bid her a goodbye.
Once she left, Pako’s eyes focused on the son.
“Your mom told us about your dad’s health issues. She mentioned he had suffered a stroke three years ago and was on blood pressure meds. Is there anything else she might’ve missed?”
“That’s about it, unless you want to count his toenail fungus.”
Oh great, just what I needed to visualize before lunch. Was this guy serious or was he being a wise-butt?
“Umm, no, I think we can rule that out as the cause of your dad’s death.”
“When can we get an autopsy report?” Lance asked, crossing his right ankle over this left knee and shaking that foot to the rhythm of a rattlesnake’s tail.
“The completed report should be ready in 4 – 6 weeks. Do you believe your dad died of natural causes?”
Lance’s foot stilled as he gawked at Pako. You’d think the police had asked him to stand in a lineup.
“Why do you ask? Did you find something?”
I studied the man’s face. I didn’t know what to make of him yet. Hopefully the more he talked, tidbits worth something would surface.
“The preliminary autopsy report showed respiratory failure. We’re just trying to distinguish what might’ve caused that.”
“So you think it might’ve not been from natural causes?” Lance’s voice scaled a note higher. All of a sudden his eyes bugged out, and without waiting for an answer he said, “Are you saying he might’ve been murdered?”
“We don’t have anything to indicate that just yet. We’re just making inquiries on all possibilities,” Pako said, but my brain buzzed, But your dad seems to think he was.
“My dad wasn�
�t a nice guy, but who would’ve wanted to kill him?” He seemed to disregard Pako’s words. Maybe he read my mind. You never knew who had powers of the unknown. Look at me. Who’d have guessed?
Now, what did he mean by his dad wasn’t a nice guy?
“What do you mean by, ‘he wasn’t a nice guy’? Did your father have enemies?” Hmm, if I didn’t know Pako better, I’d think he just read my mind.
“I don’t know about any enemies, but the way he treated my mother and me...”
Okay, some tidbits finally.
“Was he abusive?” Pako had more than his share of responding to domestic violence calls.
“Not physically, but verbally. He never had a good word to say about any of us. I was either stupid or good for nothing. I couldn’t do anything right in my dad’s eyes. He treated my mom even worse. She waited on him hand and foot and worked her fingers to the bone, yet no compliments, just ‘the food’s cold, the food’s too hot, too much salt, the soup’s too bland, you’re driving me crazy, I don’t need your opinion, blah, blah, blah.’”
Yikes, he was sure unloading a truckload of manure.
“After a while I stopped caring about what he had to say to me, but I wanted to punch his lights out whenever he’d harass my mom. He needed both of us to help with this farm, but he treated us like crap. You can only take so much before hate overcomes you, blood or no blood.” That spewed out as painfully as stepping on a sea urchin’s spine.
“If it were only him, I’d have been long gone by now, but I stayed because I couldn’t leave my mom all alone with him. I know this is gonna sound bad, but I can’t say I’m sad to see him dead.” The muscles in Lance’s jaws twitched as his teeth clenched.
Well, that was honest, especially right after he asked if his dad might’ve been murdered. All this baggage put him high on the list of possible suspects.