The Flaming Luau of Death

by Jerrilyn Farmer

  “I told the old guy I intended to live in this house forever,” Wes said, his voice low. “I meant it, Maddie. It was going to be my forever house. I love the house.”

  I knew this story. Wes, with his fabulous eye for finding just the right blemished gem, plus his elegant improvements and terrific good taste, had worked his magic on the house on Alta Loma Drive. He had uncovered and refinished the hardwood floors, used a razor blade to scrape old paint off a hundred panes of glass to restore a dozen French doors, and cleared the hills and landscaped until he had revealed the true beauty of a home that had been embarrassed by decades of neglect and tacky remodels. The house was now pristine. The property’s 360-degree views of Hollywood could now be seen clearly for the first time in fifty years. So it wasn’t surprising that Wes was regularly getting calls these days from interested parties. A guy wanted to photograph it for a feature for the Sunday Times. A location scout asked if the perfect 1920s-style kitchen might be available for a Bounty commercial. So even though the Alta Loma house was not officially on the market, offers were arriving.

  All the realtors knew Wes. They had buyers. And as the purchase bids went up and Wesley’s restless creative eye wandered to other distressed properties across town, it was only a matter of time before he’d be moving again. And if I could figure this out, I was sure his neighbors were getting the same feeling. Elmer must have heard a rumor that Wes had said yes to a buyer.

  “He was vicious,” Wes said. “He left a rambling message. He hates what I did to the house now. He used to say he loved it, but not anymore. He accused me of destroying the historical authenticity of the property. He says I ruined the house.”

  “Now, Wes—”

  “I moved the front gate. That was it.”

  “Elmer is an older guy. Late sixties, early seventies?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And he’s lived in that house of his for fifty years, Wes. He is getting emotional. Maybe he liked you. Maybe he figured you’d look after him in his waning years.”

  Wes smirked at that thought.

  “Maybe Elmer got attached to your handyman ways and your fresh baked croissants and now he’s upset because you might leave him.”

  Wes shook his head, concerned. “You should have heard him, Mad. He called me names.”

  “You’re kidding me. What did he call you?”

  “He yelled on my machine. He said, ‘Flipper! Flipper!’”

  I would have smiled right then and there—flipper! Someone who buys homes and turns around and sells them for a big profit. But I knew Wes was sensitive to this whole thing, so I kept a straight face.

  “I don’t just slap a coat of Cottage White on the walls and then turn around and jack up the price a hundred grand. I think I have integrity in the work I do, but—”

  I had to stop him. “Wes. Get a grip, honey. This is an old angry guy. Forget about it. Okay?”

  “Why do people get so nasty?”

  I shrugged.

  “But if I do sell it, Mad, you might like this house. It’s pretty perfect for you.”

  “Oh no,” I said, smiling big. “You can’t get out of this trouble with Elmer by getting me to move in and take care of him.”

  “But you’re looking for a new place, right?”

  “I love your house, Wes, but I don’t want another great old house in the Hollywood Hills.”

  I had my own emotional real estate issues. A few months ago, the upstairs rooms of my house had been the scene of a pretty terrible crime. After the police had come and gone, Wes took over, bringing his work crew along with him. They had reworked the three small bedrooms, expanding the master bedroom and building a walk-in closet and a new master bathroom. The house was now much more wonderful than it had ever been, but I still couldn’t forget about what had happened there and feel truly comfortable.

  However, it was complicated. The main floor still worked well for our business, with the huge industrial kitchen and workspace for Holly and Wesley and me. It was just that I simply didn’t want to live there anymore. I had made up my mind. I intended to rent out my old living quarters to some nice, friendly, solvent, easygoing tenant.

  For my own dwelling, I needed a clean start, a new perspective. Time to change things up. I had fallen in love with an odd building right in the heart of Hollywood and I was working on the owner to let me lease the space I was after. I hadn’t told Wesley yet. He would fight me. He believed in owning real estate.

  “Look! Here comes Lizzie.”

  In the water, like a slippery and tipsy mermaid, Liz Mooney was splashing through the shallow surf and stumbling her way toward us.

  “Tonight,” I said to Wesley quickly, “would you mind staying in Holly’s room so Liz and Holly could stay with me? Not that we should expect any more trouble, but…”

  “Of course. No problem,” Wes said.

  “Hi, you two,” Liz called as she spotted us and changed course. The water dripping from her iridescent yellow tankini shimmered in the moonlight.

  Wes stood gallantly. “Come on over here and sit down, Liz. I’ll go back to the car and get you a fresh towel.”

  “Thanks, Wes,” she said, tumbling out of the ocean and into the chair in one almost graceful move.

  “Aren’t you cold?” I asked, watching her hold her arms across her chest, droplets of water streaming off her trim legs.

  “No,” she said, smiling. “I mean, yes. It’s colder out of the water.”

  “I was so happy you could come this weekend,” I said. “After all, you’re Holly’s oldest friend.”

  “Holly and I met in second grade,” Liz said, nodding, sending water dripping down to the sand from her long dark hair. “St. Anne’s.”

  “And you went to the same high school, right?”

  “Holy M.”

  “Holy Mother.” I knew it was in the Valley. “Isn’t that an all-girls school?”

  “It used to be. They went coed a few years before we got there. Thank God!” She began giggling, and I joined her. “I mean, can you imagine Holly in an all-girls school? She’d freak.”

  Liz yawned, and I could tell the chill in the air against her wet skin was probably the only thing keeping her awake.

  I asked, “Holly had a lot of boys interested in her, I’ll bet.”

  “Tons,” Liz said, nodding. “Tons.”

  “Tell me Holly stories.”

  “Oh, she just attracted boys. They always liked her, even though she was taller than almost all of them. Didn’t matter. Holly was like flypaper, and the boys were like bugs.”

  I nodded. “Did she go with anyone special?”

  “She went steady all the time. Lots of different guys, of course, but one at a time. You know.”

  That I did. “Do you remember the guy she went to your senior prom with? I’m thinking of making up a song for tomorrow’s dinner and we could use some great names from the past.” Never bother with the truth if an easy story comes to mind.

  “Oh, how funny!” Liz smiled and closed her eyes. I looked over and wondered if she was dozing off to a pleasant dream of high school.

  “Liz?”

  “I could tell you stories,” Liz said, opening her eyes. “Holly has never been restrained when it comes to boys. She would get very interested and then it would pass.”

  “Names?”

  “Where do I start?” she asked. “Okay, take these down. Barry Zeman in ninth grade. Then David Deutch. Chris Pantone and Dennis Fogerty and Brian Kim—they were our fencing team. Then Jason Martz in tenth. She dated Zack Wheeler from Loyola for a few months. Then Jordan Bunzel, Donny Yamaguchi, Andy and Kenny Mc-Neal…” Liz stopped reeling off names for a few seconds to put in a side comment—“…the twins”—and went right on. “Then there was Gabe Cummings, Billy Evashwick, Jesse Perlmutter, Tim O’Bannion, Michael Childers, and Joseph Allen.”

  It had been quite a recitation.

  “Wow. You have great recall for names,” I said.

 
“Madeline, I had to hear about every single one of them and how she was going to marry each one. And then how she wasn’t. Usual high school stuff.”

  “Wasn’t there another one?” I asked.

  Liz thought it over. “Did I mention Marvin Dubinsky?”

  “No.” Hot damn. “Tell me about him.”

  “Really fabulously brainy dude,” she said. “Totally off-the-map nerd, though. You know how that goes. Our Holly took the ultimate pity on Marvin.”

  I’d say so. She married him. I wondered if Liz knew about it.

  “Did Holly tell you about what happened with Marvin after the prom?” I asked.

  Liz looked at me and smiled. “I do believe she fulfilled his teenage fantasies. You should have seen the dress she wore to the prom. It was white, strapless, cut down to her navel, and skintight. All that and a white feather boa. As I recall, poor Marvin’s eyes only came up to Holly’s chest level, due to their height discrepancy, but I don’t think he was complaining.”

  “Did you ever hear what happened to Marvin after that?”

  “He went off to college, I think. He had scholarships to anyplace he wanted to go, I remember that.”

  “And what about you, Lizzie? Do you have a list of broken hearts that long?”

  “Me? Oh good God, no. I didn’t date at all during high school.”

  “No one?”

  She shook her head and smoothed her wet hair. “I was the quiet type. You know, all honors classes and a big math brain. Real Future CPAs of America material.”

  I looked at her in her tight bathing suit with skepticism.

  Liz still looked serious. “I know what you’re thinking, Maddie, but back then I was just skinny and flatchested. No boy would look at me.”

  “Lizzie, you’re gorgeous. Boys are such imbeciles.”

  “Don’t I know it,” she said, smiling. “Even the smart ones are perfectly stupid.”

  “Say, about that Marvin guy,” I said. “Do you know what happened to him?”

  “Marvin Dubinsky? No. I haven’t heard anything about him since high school. But he was a really intense guy. He was totally fixated on Holly too. Devoted. He wrote her sonnets. I wonder why he never kept in touch with her.”

  “Good question.”

  “Say, Maddie, do you think Holly’s going to live happily ever after with Donald Lake?”

  It was a perfectly valid question, noting Holly’s effervescent past. But it was not a totally reassuring thought that the young woman who knew Holly best was asking it.

  Palekaiko Lilo

  (Paradise Lost)

  The phone in my hotel room rang. I pushed a hand out from under the fine Italian linen sheet and swiped for it. Mid-second-ring I got it off the hook, my eyes still closed.

  “Miss Bean?” said a lovely lilting voice. “It’s seven o’clock. This is your wake-up call.”

  “But I didn’t leave instructions,” I said, my voice so low and raspy it would make gravel sound perky, “for a wake-up call.”

  “My most humble apologies, Miss Bean,” she said, sounding truly sorry. “I believe Mr. Westcott requested the call.”

  My brain was foggy, but I did recall that the always early-to-rise Wesley had been my roomie until I rearranged our group. Great.

  “I also have a note to remind you that your entire party has been scheduled for our Day of Beauty package in the Sports Club and Spa. All complimentary, as you are guests of the hotel manager. The first appointments start at eight o’clock.”

  Eight? What sadist came up with this blasted crack-of-dawn schedule? I took a breath to reply, but it may have sounded something more like a snore.

  The lilting voice continued, gently, helpfully. “If you’d like to inquire about changing these times, I can put you through to the spa.”

  The thing was, if I had to wake my brain up enough to think about rescheduling aloe vera wraps and frangi facials for eight people, I might as well get out of bed right now. I was done sleeping. Besides, I meant to dig around and find out more about what was going on around the hotel, maybe get some information that would make sense of the break-in in Holly’s room. And I felt I had a shot if I could talk one on one with some sympathetic hotel employee.

  “No, that’s okay. We’ll be there. Thanks.” My eyes still closed, I tried to put the receiver back on the hook. I missed. The handset of the phone clattered off the bedside table.

  “What’s up?” came a pillow-muffled voice beside me. I was sharing one queen-size bed with Holly. Liz was on the other.

  “We’re getting up,” I said. “Rise and shine. Our day of beauty awaits.”

  I heard a groan from the direction of the other bed.

  “Or,” I said, finally opening my eyes and propping myself up on one elbow, “if you both want to sleep in, you can. This is not mandatory beauty. No one will hold a gun to your heads and insist you exfoliate.”

  “Free massages,” moaned Holly into her pillow. “I cannot pass that up. It’s against my religion. I think we should just throw on clothes and get some breakfast. We can shower and whatever at the spa, right?”

  “I’m with you,” I said. “Liz?”

  From the other bed we heard a long groan. The covers were pulled up over her head.

  I turned to Holly. “I believe that’s a pass.”

  I picked up the phone and dialed Holly’s original room, the room where Wes had stayed for the night.

  “Wes?”

  “Yes, Mad.”

  “Did you get a wake-up call?”

  “At five-thirty, as I requested, yes. And I asked them to call all of our rooms at seven, which is now.”

  “You woke up at five-thirty? Are you insane?”

  “Honey, five-thirty in Hawaii is eight-thirty in L.A.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you awake enough to do the math?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you. That means it’s really ten o’clock California time right now.”

  “Oh.”

  “Feeling a little less tired?”

  “Yeah. I am. Are you coming to the spa with us?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Who can say no thanks to a free salt scrub?”

  “That’s what Holly and I have been asking ourselves. Liz seems to be able to resist.”

  “I’ll round up the sisters and meet you for breakfast,” he said and rang off.

  It turned out only five of us could manage to get it together for the eight o’clock beauty spa treatments. Daisy and Marigold could not be roused. Liz was still motionless under the down comforter when Holly and I tiptoed out of the room. But lined up in front of the spa reception desk at the appointed time were Azalea, Gladiola, Holly, Wes, and I, all a little luau-ed out, but present and accounted for. The receptionist had us each add our names to the sign-in book and then handed each of us a key to our assigned lockers. We split up at that point, Wes going off to the men’s locker room and the four women going along to our own changing room.

  The interior of the changing facility was like a tropical retreat. There were mirrors on almost every wall. Indirect lighting and thick pale-green carpet added a luxuriously muted note to the light-colored wood lockers. Restful New Age music flowed around us, coming from tiny speakers hidden in every corner of the spa. Down the hallway were showers and also a separate area for putting on makeup and blow-drying one’s hair after one’s treatment was over. A door led to the steam rooms. Another led outdoors to a palm-shaded lanai area with a large whirlpool. Here again the decor was uniquely Hawaiian, reflecting the aloha spirit of the islands’ golden age. The lap pool, whirlpools, saunas, steam rooms, and cold plunges were all set amid lushly landscaped tropical gardens.

  I found my locker, number 22, and quickly undressed. I put on the brown and black batik-print cotton robe and disposable black flip-flops that were waiting for me. The key to my locker was on a sort of coiled plastic bracelet, so I put that on as well.

  The four of us were the only wo
men present in the locker room at the time, but our lockers were spread out throughout small elegant rooms, designed for privacy.

  “I am so loving this,” called out Gladdie. “We’re like ancient Hawaiian princesses.”

  “Princesses who had access to peroxide,” chirped up Holly from another corner of the locker room, fluffing her hair in a nearby mirror.

  We met up in the inner waiting room, each of us in our identical batik robes, wearing our identical flip-flops, and our key bracelets.

  “Do you think Wesley is wearing the same thing?” asked Azalea.

  Just then, a door opened and a few of the spa’s aestheticians entered the waiting room. They were young women of various cultural backgrounds, but each wore a long sarong in a pale-green-and-tangerine-colored jungle print and a fresh flower lei. One by one, they called our names, and we split up and followed them out to our individual treatment areas.

  “Okay,” I instructed. “Nobody panic. When next we see each other, we shall be beautiful or we get our money back.”

  “Madeline?” A soft-spoken island woman who looked to be in her early thirties spoke up. She pronounced it correctly, Mad-a-line, like the little girl in the storybooks.

  “Yes, hi,” I said. It was my first time in a spa, and I was intrigued by all the manners and rituals.

  “Good morning. My name is Pualani. In Hawaiian it means ‘heavenly flower.’”

  How lovely. And my name, Mad, means completely off one’s rocker. Could anyone need relaxing spa treatments more than me?

  “We have you starting out today with our Dead Sea Mud Mask Body Treatment. Is that correct?”

  “It sounds fascinating,” I said. “But to be honest, I’m not sure what I’m signed up for.”