The Corpse with the Diamond Hand

by Cathy Ace

  I found Malia’s use of the word “nation” to be telling.

  Deciding to revert back to my initial line of thought, I changed the subject again. “As Bud said, Kai, your knowledge of your indigenous and imported flora and fauna is impressive, as you showed in your presentation. It’s fascinating that so much research is now focusing on ancient remedies using your native plants. But you’d know all about plants, given your business. You must need to be careful with some of the ingredients you use, like when you’re dealing with the castor bean, for example. I know it’s deadly. Is it difficult to handle?” I wanted to sound as innocent as possible, so I added, “As Bud said, I’m pretty useless when it comes to plants.”

  Kai smiled deferentially. “The castor plant grows much like a weed on our Islands, and rapidly too. Its ‘beans’ are really its seeds, and they simply fall, quite naturally, from the plants everywhere they grow. Because we harvest them we are careful but, as you say, pets, livestock, and sometimes—poor little things—even children die from ingesting them. They get mashed into the general detritus on the ground and eaten, or picked up and mistaken for a treat by small children who are happy to put almost anything into their mouths. It is a terrible tragedy.”

  Kai’s tone was black; something set alarm bells ringing in my head.

  “Do you have children?” I ventured.

  Malia swallowed, and I sensed a dreadful sadness. She shook her head just once.

  I suspected that Bud hadn’t noticed what I’d seen, but he had picked up on what I was thinking about in terms of the poisonous properties of castor beans, so jumped in with, “Tommy’s death was a tragedy too. Did you know Tommy, Malia?”

  Considering her answer for a moment, the woman eventually replied, “I thought I knew him a little, but I did not know him well.” She seemed satisfied with her answer.

  “And you said you didn’t know him really well, either, didn’t you, Kai,” said Bud.

  Kai tilted his head in agreement.

  I decided it was time to jump in. “So why did you say, ‘Mahalo’ when he died, Kai? I overheard you in the Games Room. ‘Thank you’ seems to be a strange thing to say when someone loses their life.”

  Kai Pukui’s black eyes glittered. His wife grabbed his arm; she looked terrified, as though seeing a horror reveal itself in front of her eyes.

  The couple exchanged a significant look, then Kai leaned toward Bud and myself and said quietly, “Because he killed our son.”

  Deep Waters

  I WAS STUNNED. AS SOON as he’d spoken, Kai took his wife’s hand in his and stroked her arm. Malia picked up a napkin from the table and wiped away a tear. Her flawless skin, her spare makeup, her beautiful figure all seemed to diminish. She was a grieving mother, doing her best not to give in to sobbing. She bit her lip, looked skyward, and breathed heavily, trying to rein in her emotions.

  “Tell them,” she managed to blurt out.

  My heart went out to this couple, and I focused on Kai as he spoke, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence, anger even.

  “It was eight years ago. Eight years and three months. Kanani, our son—it means ‘beautiful’—was just seven years old. We attended the birthday party of one of his classmates, and they had an entertainer performing magic tricks for the children. It was all good fun until the magician produced a rabbit. It was white, with very large feet, I recall. Somehow it got away from the magician and began to hop among the children, who were all seated on the grass. It was a beautiful day,” Kai paused and smiled, “though every day is beautiful in Hawai’i. It was early in the year, February, and the sun was bright. It hadn’t rained that day. The children all thought the hopping rabbit was great fun. They sprang up, squealing, trying to catch the creature, but it escaped them all. All except our Kanani, who was very fast. He would have become a great athlete, I am sure. He managed to catch one of the rabbit’s paws, which the rabbit didn’t like. It bit him. He let it go, and it ran off toward the road. Our beautiful son ran after it, and was hit by a car. Of course we ran to his side, but there was nothing anyone could do. We held him as his uhane, his soul, left his kino, his little body, for the last time.” Kai bowed his head as he finished speaking, then looked into his wife’s tearful eyes.

  Looking directly at me, Malia added, “I saw our son’s uhane flutter over our heads before it departed. It was bright, like a white bird with a light in its heart. He was an innocent.”

  I felt the Pukuis’ sadness in the pit of my stomach. “Tommy was driving the car?” I asked gently.

  Kai looked at me as though waking from a dream. “No. Tommy was the magician. If it hadn’t been for the rabbit escaping, our son would never have run into the road. He should have been more responsible with his rabbit.” White-hot anger. Struggling for control.

  Rather than challenge their logic, I said, “It must have been difficult for you both to work with Tommy over the years, feeling as you did about him.”

  “We didn’t know it was him until eight days ago,” said Malia. Her voice was bleak. Dead.

  “How did you find out?”

  “The eleventh annual Waikiki SPAM Jam,” announced Kai.

  Bud and I exchanged a puzzled glance. “We were there,” I said. “It was held the day we boarded the ship, when we were berthed at the Aloha Tower. Bud and I wandered the entire street of vendors in Waikiki, and ate as we went. I didn’t see you there.”

  “It was very busy, and we didn’t stay for long,” said Kai sadly. “It’s not the sort of thing we would usually attend, but we had promised a friend who was visiting from the mainland that we would accompany him there. It’s really for the tourists.” He nodded gently. “My apologies,” he added.

  “Please, don’t apologize,” said Bud. “Cait and I were tourists. Still are. And you’re right, the idea of dozens of food stalls using SPAM in different ways must be something that would appeal to visitors from around the world. How was Tommy involved?”

  Kai sat back in his chair, and Malia patted him on his arm. She spoke softly and quickly. “There was a large truck parked at each end of the area set aside for the festival. Did you see them?”

  “Yes,” I said. “There was a rota of young, and I suspect local, bands—of varying degrees of competence—at one end, and a sort of circus stand for the children at the other, with a bouncy castle,” I said.

  Malia looked at her hands in her lap. “Tommy was dressed as a clown on that circus stand. He was entertaining the children with magic tricks. No rabbits.”

  “I saw the clown,” I said aloud, and I scrunched up my eyes to recall the scene. “Of course! His hands. The clown had Tommy’s hands. Long fingers, dexterous.” Looking at Kai and Malia, I said, “But how did you recognize him with the wig and all that makeup?”

  “We didn’t. He approached us and said ‘Hi.’ He was entertained by our expressions at the time—he thought it was because he’d given a nice surprise to two people he knew from the cruise ship, but who didn’t initially recognize him. What he didn’t know was that seeing him like that, doing magic tricks and using patter we’d heard before, we both knew, right away, that he was the one who killed our son.”

  I was still puzzled. “So was Tommy wearing clown makeup the first time you encountered him—with the rabbit? You didn’t see his face that time?” It was the only explanation I could think of for the couple not having recognized a man who was, for all intents and purposes, a co-worker, and had been for weeks at a time for several years.

  Kai sighed heavily. “No, he wasn’t wearing clown makeup the first time we met him because he was acting more as a magician in those days, but he was about 200 pounds heavier at the time. You saw him here, now. He was a slim man, and he has been like that ever since we met him on the cruises. The magician whose carelessness led to our son’s death was very fat, very tanned, and very loud. He was called the Magic Muddle Man, and no one ever made him answer for what he did. He just vanished. We tried to track him down, but our friends who hired
him only had his telephone number. The cops weren’t interested in him at all. Everyone blamed the driver. Just the driver. We didn’t. He couldn’t have stopped. Our poor boy ran in front of his car in an instant. And we watched it all happen.” I felt the weight of their guilt as Kai spoke.

  The four of us sat silently for a few moments while I ran scenarios through my mind. I had no doubt that both Kai and Malia Pukui had a very good reason to want Tommy Trussler dead, and that Kai would have had a chance to poison Tommy’s poi. Things weren’t looking good for the Pukuis, and that wasn’t just because they’d lost their son in such a tragic way.

  Unfortunately, that was the point at which Don Ho’s “Tiny Bubbles” came over the sound system. I’d enjoyed hearing it the first dozen or so times, but it was beginning to get on my nerves, and its jollity was so out of place. There might have been a golden moon in the sky and a silver sea all around us, but I cursed inwardly at bubbles of any dimension. I wondered how to get away from the Pukuis and back to Ezra—because I had some important questions for him.

  “Are we out of our medication?” called Winston, breaking the spell.

  I took my chance. “Bud, we should get going,” I said. Bud made it clear to Winston that we were leaving and stood. I followed suit. “I’m so terribly sorry about the loss of your son,” I said to the Pukuis before we left.

  “So are we,” said Kai. “He is still with us, though. We have not lost him. Ohana never leaves you. We still believe in the ancient teachings that spirit is in all things, so our son is with us always.”

  Kai and Malia bowed their heads toward each other as Bud and I departed and made our way across the deck. I hoped that the couple was able to find solace in their belief system, and promised myself I’d find out more about it, along with any concepts of retribution it might hold.

  “Frannie Lang lost a sister. The Pukuis lost a son. Derek Cropper is dying. Tommy has been murdered. We are surrounded by death and despair,” said Bud. He sounded bleak.

  I sighed. My mind was racing. I paused in my stride, took one look at Bud, and said, “Bud, come on. You cannot let this get you down. You’re acting in a most un-Bud-like way. Please explain to me what’s going on in your head. I’m getting concerned about you.”

  We were alone on the deck, and it might have looked to anyone who could have seen us that we were sharing a romantic interlude.

  “I’m very much in love with you,” said Bud. “But I loved Jan, too, as you know. And she was taken from me. I cannot face that happening to me again. I want you to be safe. To live forever. I want to wrap you in cotton wool and keep you at home, beside me, with Marty at our feet. Wherever we go we see death. And here? Today? That’s all we seem to be encountering.” He looked bewildered. “When I was on the job, I faced danger all the time. I must be getting old and soft, because now … I don’t know. I thought that working a proper case would make me feel like I used to. But I don’t. I’m not the same man I was back then.”

  I gave Bud’s words the consideration they deserved, then said, “You’re right. You’re not. Experience changes us all, Bud. Sometimes it hits us like a wall, so vast we cannot fail to acknowledge it. Other times it seeps through the cracks in our daily lives until we accommodate it, almost without noticing. But it changes us all. It’s how we grow and become the people we are today. I love the Bud you are now. And I believe you love the Cait I am now. But we’ve both been forged in many fires, and that won’t stop. We will continue to be changed by the lives we lead, and by the experiences we have. And that’s a good thing, Bud. A healthy thing—as long as we accept it, and see it, and acknowledge it. Some people don’t understand what’s happening to them when experiences upend their lives. We must, or we could grow apart.”

  “Never,” said Bud. “I won’t let that happen.”

  “So let’s be sure we share everything we can, so we can grow together,” I said.

  Bud tilted his head. “You mean, let’s get on with catching this killer, don’t you?”

  I kissed him gently and pulled on his arm. “Come on, I need Ezra to use his procedures to help us now, rather than us just helping him.”

  As we made our way to the elevator, heading for Ezra’s office, I mused how useful it was to have the head of security at one’s disposal.

  The Murder Wall

  UPON ENTERING THE SECURITY DEPARTMENT’S area we were told there’d be a delay before we could see Ezra, so Bud and I waited as patiently as possible. A couple of minutes after our arrival, we heard Ezra’s office door being unlocked behind us, then he stuck his head into the outer office and called us in.

  The sight that met my eyes was unexpected. The tiny office had been rearranged to free up one wall, on which Ezra had arranged blown-up photographs of every person who’d been in the Games Room that morning. The photographs were mounted on larger sheets of paper, and notes appeared under the names of the people shown there. Tommy Trussler was at the center, and everyone else appeared around him. I read the notes, and it was clear that Ezra had listed connections, possible sources of poison, and, in one case, a motive.

  “You have Afrim Ardit pegged as a possible killer for hire?” said Bud.

  “Yes,” said Ezra forcefully. “It might be the case.”

  I could see that Ezra was beginning to show signs of strain. He and his people had put a lot of energy into gathering and organizing the facts—however, I suspected he was beginning to realize just how very different detection was from investigation. Gathering facts is one thing; interpreting them, and making the pieces of the puzzle fit together, is quite another.

  “We’ve come here to ask for your help,” I said with what I hoped was a winsome smile.

  Gesturing that we should sit, Ezra stood in front of his wall and puffed out his chest. “But of course,” he replied loftily. “What can I do for you?”

  “I have a list of requests that will need all your expertise,” I began. “I need you to find out if the Honolulu Police Department can trace Tommy Trussler as Buster the Clown, a children’s entertainer.”

  Ezra’s surprised expression led me to explain our encounter with the Pukuis. Eventually he nodded. “And this name comes from?”

  “I saw it painted on a board on the truck where he was performing at the SPAM Jam Festival. I also need you to find out if the jewelry store in Maui named on the receipt and the bag we found in Tommy’s stateroom containing two pairs of diamond earrings, has any security footage of the person who bought those earrings.”

  Ezra scribbled, lifted his head, and said, “Because?”

  I decided to play it safe. “Because I think I know who bought them. I believe it was Nigel Knicely, but I’d like it confirmed. It was the first day we were moored off Maui, and there was a time stamp on the receipt, which should help. And I believe he’d have paid cash. I don’t think he’d want the purchase to show up on any credit card statements. And that’s something else; can you please trace any other Knicely residences in the UK?”

  Ezra looked alarmed.

  “This couple lives near Bristol, and I expect you have their address in your records. I’m interested in people of the same name living in Kent, possibly near Sandwich, and also near Birmingham.” I paused. “And check into Nigel Knicely’s employment record too. The pharmaceutical company Nigel Knicely works for,” I spelled out the name for him, “has its head office in Sandwich, its sales head office in Bristol, and a training center in Birmingham. I know because it’s a big company, and they are written about a great deal in journals I read.”

  Bud looked bemused as I rattled on—I’d given him lists like this when we’d been working together on cases back at home in BC. “And we need to know about the exact nature of Tommy Trussler’s battle injuries, and where and when he was treated after Desert Storm.”

  Ezra nodded.

  “We also need to find out about a road traffic accident involving Frannie Lang’s sister. I can’t tell you enough about it for that to be a reasonable request right
now, so I’ll have to do some more digging. I don’t even know her maiden name, so there’s nothing to go on there.”

  “Lang is her maiden name,” said Ezra. “She reverted to it after her divorce.”

  “And just how do you know that?” I asked.

  “Her ticket was booked under her married name, Mawhinney, which caused problems when she presented herself at the port for embarkation with a passport that said Lang. One of my officers was called and it was all explained satisfactorily. So I should look for information about a woman called Lang who died … where? When?”

  I shook my head. “Not necessarily Lang. She might have been married, though Frannie mentioned a boyfriend. Honolulu was the location, she said, but it could have been on any road on O’ahu. I don’t have a time frame, though I am going to suggest it was around 1992 to 1995.”

  “Has Rachel come up with anything on any of her tests yet?” Bud asked.

  Ezra sighed. “All I can tell you is that nothing you gathered from the Games Room contains any illegal drug. She’s run a whole range of NIK tests. Nothing.” Both Bud and I were familiar with the brand of field narcotics testing kits he’d mentioned, so Ezra didn’t have to explain more.

  “So, can you get all this information?” I asked.

  Ezra looked at the list he’d made, then his watch. “I suspect it’s too late for me to be able to get anything from the Maui store, or the HPD, until the morning, though I will try the HPD right away. The UK? The timing is good, but I’m not sure if the head of security on a cruise ship in the Pacific Ocean is going to be able to get what you need.” He sounded disappointed and frustrated.

  “I might be able to call in a few favors from some old contacts,” said Bud.

  It was a delicate moment.

  “I would appreciate that,” replied Ezra. Good.