by Mike Befeler
I thought of taking a nap but rejected that idea because I’d forget how miserable I felt. I enjoyed wallowing in my misery too much.
Chapter 22
The next morning I was back to reading the notes by my bed.
At breakfast Meyer and I stared at each other.
“Henry should be coming back today,” he said.
I shrugged. “This is all a new experience for me, with or without Henry.”
The corner of Meyer’s mouth turned up in an ever-so-faint smile. “What a life you live, Paul. You don’t have to struggle with unpleasant memories.”
“I have to struggle with figuring out where the hell I am every morning and who everybody is.”
“I have an idea—a little diversion for you.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“My daughter and one of her sons are visiting today,” Meyer said. “We’re taking a tour of Doris Duke’s estate this afternoon. Since my other grandson’s not coming, we have an extra ticket. Would you like to join us?”
“Let me check my busy social calendar and see if I’m free.” I closed my eyes and put my hand on my chin for a moment. “Looks like I have an opening.”
“Good. I’ll give you a call when they get here. It should be right after lunch.”
“I can remember that,” I said.
“You better get your memory revved up right now. Here comes your girlfriend Marion.”
I saw a winsome old dame approaching.
“How are you boys this morning?” she asked.
“Just peachy,” I replied.
“We’ll have our full trio back together today,” Meyer said. “Henry’s recuperated.”
“That’s good to hear,” Marion said. “Everyone should be glad, except for Alice.”
As Meyer and I walked out of the dining room, he said, “I’ve been thinking about your investigation.”
“You’ve figured out who murdered Tiegan?”
“No, but I’ve been wondering. You said that there might be some additional litigation against you, that a lawsuit might be filed claiming you stole the stamp collection.”
“Yeah, I read that this morning. But no recent update mentioned in my journal. I think I’ll call my lawyer.”
Back in my apartment, I found the phone number and called Frederick Kapana, my slimebag lawyer who was protecting me from Tiegan’s slimebag lawyer.
“Any news of another lawsuit?” I asked.
“Nope,” came the booming voice. “You’re clean for the moment.”
“But I thought Tiegan’s attorney was threatening further legal action.”
“He was, but it must have been a bluff. Nothing’s happened.”
“I guess that’s a relief,” I said and hung up.
* * * * *
Henry was back at lunchtime. To celebrate, Meyer, Henry, and I ate outside on the patio.
Marion stopped by our table. “There’s a man inside asking questions about you, Paul.”
“I can barely make out a shape by those ladies near where we usually sit,” Meyer said.
I looked through the window and saw a short bulldog of a man in a dark suit. He stood near three seated ladies. One of the women was waving her arms like an animated scarecrow.
A few minutes later, the man in the suit came strolling out the door to where we sat. He looked like a diminutive weight lifter, taller than Henry, but shorter than Meyer or me.
He pulled up a chair. “Mind if I join you?”
“No problem,” I said.
He gave me a long, thoughtful look and then sighed. “I want to make sure you know who I am, Mr. Jacobson.”
“Blinky the clown?”
He started to reach for his identification.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I’ve already figured out who you are, Detective Saito.”
“You’ve been busy in the last few days, Mr. Jacobson.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It seems wherever you are, people are killed or hurt. You were sitting at a table with Henry Palmer here when he was poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” I said. “I thought he had a heart attack.”
Meyer jumped in. “What are you implying, Detective? Paul and I were with Henry when he got sick. We also spent the night with him at the hospital.”
Saito shook his head. “It’s amazing that Mr. Palmer survived, with Mr. Jacobson in the room. I talked to two people who overheard Mr. Jacobson threaten to poison Mr. Palmer.”
“What!” I shouted.
Saito looked at me. “In addition to your other crimes, I have enough evidence to lock you up on suspicion of an attempted homicide.”
“This is bull,” I said. “I have no idea where this poisoning crap is coming from.”
I started to rise from my chair. Meyer put his hand on my arm. “Calm down, Paul.” He turned toward Saito. “I think I can clear this up, Officer. I know what you’re referring to. Henry is a little different. He suffers from Asperger’s syndrome and says some pretty obnoxious things at times. Don’t you, Henry.”
Henry looked up briefly, didn’t answer, and then went back to eating.
“You see, Detective, sometimes Paul says things to get back at Henry,” Meyer said.
Detective Saito looked at his notes. “I quote from what Mr. Jacobson said. ‘You better be careful, Henry. I might poison your food.’”
“I remember when Paul made that comment,” Meyer said. “Henry had been insulting Paul, so Paul scared him a little. Henry gets pretty intense at meals. He wants food his way. At Pearl’s he insisted on getting a buffalo wing from Paul. . . .”
Meyer stopped with his mouth wide open. “Wait a minute. Just before Henry got sick, he traded plates with Paul. If the food was poisoned, then it was meant for Paul, not Henry.”
“I don’t buy that,” Saito said.
“Well, you better look into it, Detective,” Meyer said. “I was there. Paul was getting ready to eat the food on his plate when Henry insisted on switching.”
“Mr. Jacobson could have poisoned it after the plates were switched,” Saito said.
Meyer shook his head. “That’s not possible. Henry grabbed the food and pulled it over, right in front of him. When Henry eats, it’s like a junkyard dog guarding a prize bone. No one gets near his food.”
“What about it, Mr. Palmer? Did you see Mr. Jacobson put something in your food?”
Henry looked up like a startled rabbit and blinked. “He’s a criminal, but he didn’t do anything to my food.”
Saito scowled. “So if the poison wasn’t meant for Mr. Palmer, why would someone be trying to poison Mr. Jacobson?”
“The same reason someone conked him on the head and left him in a ditch,” Meyer said. “Whoever killed Tiegan wants to get Paul out of the way.”
I thought back to what I had read in my journal. “Meyer, do you remember at Pearl’s? A man crashed into our table?”
Saito looked at me. “I thought you had a memory problem?”
“I do, but I don’t have a reading problem.”
Meyer paused for a moment. “You’re right. A guy bumped into you.”
“Did you get a look at him?” I asked.
Meyer wrinkled his brow. “It all happened so fast. With my eyesight, I didn’t see much anyway.”
“Tall guy who had a scar on his cheek,” Henry chimed in.
I jumped up from the table and waved my right index finger at Saito. “There you go. Find a tall man with a scar on his cheek. He’s the one who killed Tiegan, stole the stamp collection, and poisoned Henry.”
“Seems like another convenient diversion,” Saito said.
“Have it your own way,” I said. “You’re wasting your time accusing me. Go find this guy. If I were you I’d start with Moki, the night watchman. He might be the link to the murderer.”
“Speaking of Moki, he regained consciousness an hour after that little incident with you in the storage area. He’s recovered and b
ack at work.”
“Did you speak with him? Verify that I didn’t hit him over the head?”
“I interviewed him. He said he couldn’t remember what happened. I wasn’t able to confirm or refute your alibi.”
“My alibi? You should be checking out his alibi. What was he doing in that storage area?”
“He said it was all a blank, and he didn’t know why he was there, Mr. Jacobson. Between you and Moki, memories are pretty sparse. It’s interesting that you can speak to occurrences of a week ago when you claim you have such a bad memory.”
“I can’t remember, but I keep a journal. That helps me refer to past events.”
“You’re a suspect in quite a list of crimes, Mr. Jacobson. Mr. Palmer’s poisoning, as well as the Tiegan murder and the theft of money from the Kina Nani business office. I’m still not convinced you’re not the cause of the suspicious injury to Moki. Also, I received a report that you had intimidated a guest at Turtle Bay.”
“That was a simple misunderstanding,” I said.
“You’re this close to getting locked up for good.” Saito held his thumb and index finger a quarter of an inch apart.
“Paul, you need to get a good lawyer,” Meyer said.
“I don’t need to involve a lawyer in this. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Saito closed his notebook and stood up. “Is there anything else you want to tell me, Mr. Jacobson?”
I remembered reading that the stamp store owner had seen the man with a scarred cheek, but decided to keep that to myself. Saito might try to use that against me somehow. No, I needed to clear this up myself first.
* * * * *
After lunch I put on a clean polo shirt and a pair of brown slacks. When Meyer called, I went up to his apartment. Inside with him stood a teenage boy and a pretty woman in her early fifties, sporting a short brown pageboy cut and wearing large oval glasses.
“Paul, meet my daughter Harriet and grandson Brad.”
Harriet smiled warmly. Brad gave me a sullen nod.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” Harriet said.
I looked at her clear complexion and small nose and caught a whiff of perfume. Trying to find a resemblance to Meyer, the only connection that struck me was the intensity of her bright eyes.
“I try to entertain your dad and keep him out of trouble,” I said.
Her eyes twinkled. “Sounds like you’re enmeshed in a few problems here.”
“Nothing that couldn’t be fixed if I could remember what happened to me the day before.”
Brad perked up. “You have memory problems?”
“Yeah,” I said. “My brain does a reset overnight.”
“I studied the brain in school this year,” Brad said. “Your synapses must be misfiring.”
“I think my synapses have all gone out on strike.”
“We better get going,” Meyer said, looking at his watch.
“You’re always so concerned about time,” Harriet said.
“I’d rather be early than miss the bus,” Meyer said.
We all headed down in the pokey elevator and approached a white Toyota Camry along the curb in front.
“Can I drive, Mom?” Brad asked.
“No. The rental contract doesn’t allow it.”
“Aw, Mom.”
Harriet turned toward Meyer and me. “Brad has his learner’s permit and has been driving every time we get in our car in Hilo.”
“So what’s the plan for this expedition?” I asked, after Meyer and I slid onto the back seat.
“We’re going to the Honolulu Art Academy,” Harriet said. “There’s a short introduction and then we’ll get on a bus that takes us out to Black Point and the Doris Duke home.”
“I remember reading about Doris Duke when I first came to Hawaii,” I said.
“I thought you had a memory problem,” Brad said.
“You remind me of my granddaughter. Nothing gets by her. I remember squat from yesterday, but can still remember details from ten years ago.”
“Cool,” Brad said.
“Not exactly,” I said.
We settled in for the ride through the Pali Tunnel. I looked at the back of Brad’s head. Long hair, but not greasy. I should fix him up with Jennifer . . . in twenty years.
We arrived at the Honolulu Academy of Arts and after a movie and short delay sitting on stone benches, we were ushered into a mini-bus.
Harriet handed each of us a water bottle.
“Thanks,” I said. “You’re taking good care of your three kids.”
“Stay on your side of the seat and don’t start poking my dad,” she said with a smile.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I said, “but he’s already fidgeting.”
“I get restless when I’m sitting,” Meyer said, crossing his arms, “and we were already on the bench too long.”
“How was it growing up with a hyperactive dad?” I asked Harriet.
“It was a unique experience. Let’s just say I was prepared for sons.”
We drove behind Diamond Head, into the residential neighborhood of Black Point with all its well-manicured lawns and hibiscus hedges, down a winding tree-lined driveway, and arrived at a rather plain-looking house. Inside, it was anything but ordinary, having been designed and stocked with every imaginable form of Islamic art: tapestries, intricate tiles, woodwork, an interior garden, carved wooden doors, stained glass, and inlaid mother-of-pearl chests.
I stared in amazement at an estate that certainly earned its name: Shangri La. Tobacco heiress Doris Duke became hooked on Islamic art during her honeymoon in the 1930s. She built this place and then wandered throughout the world purchasing works of art, before her death in 1993.
We entered a room with a view through one whole glass side looking out toward a guest house.
The tour guide was describing the huge glass wall that was electronically operated to open and close, a marvel for the 1930s, when a wooden, carved box next to a large sofa caught my eye. I thought: expensive box, then money, then money box.
In that strange way that misfiring synapses work, my mind made a connection with something I’d read in my journal that morning—the theft out of the cash box in the business office at Kina Nani.
I had picked the box up in my hands at the request of the office manager. She called out a greeting to Moki, who happened to be passing by. Yes, that was it. Moki had seen me holding the box. He had a set of master keys and could get into the office at night. After everyone else was asleep, he could easily have gone into the office, put on gloves, broken into the box, and removed the money. With my fingerprints on the box on the box from handling it earlier, I’d be set up as the suspected thief.
The guy with the scar had killed Tiegan, stolen the stamps, conked me on the head by the ditch, and attempted to poison me, almost killing Henry instead. But the theft was committed by Moki. Did the two of them work in cahoots, or were their actions unrelated? And what had Moki been doing in the storage area while I was retrieving my golf clubs?
“Paul, are you going to join the tour or not?” Meyer called from the next room.
“Just lost in thought,” I said.
After meandering through the next room, we came out onto a patio that overlooked the ocean. Surfers caught waves at the end of Diamond Head, some bailing out with their boards shooting into the air. A small boat harbor built of volcanic rock jutted out from the shore just below. A group of local boys were diving off the jetty into the backwash.
“I wish I was out there surfing,” Brad said, as he hung over the railing.
“I don’t. Being out in the ocean scares the piss out of me.”
Brad regarded me like I was from another planet. “Really? You don’t remember stuff and you don’t like the ocean?”
I shrugged. “I guess I’m like the wicked witch and water shrivels me up.”
“I love the ocean.” Brad spread his arms wide, as if giving tribute to the Hawaiian version of Poseidon. “The
excitement of catching a huge wave.”
“Aren’t you concerned about what’s out there with you?”
“You mean the wahine surfers?” he said with a smirk.
“No. Things in the ocean that bite and chew.”
“Nah. I’ve only seen a shark once and I think it was more scared of me. It’s kind of peaceful out there, sitting on a surfboard, waiting for the perfect wave. Sometimes I point my board out to sea and watch the sets of waves form.”
“Maybe it’s a generational thing. My granddaughter is interested in surfing, too.”
“No way,” Brad said. “This lady, Doris Duke? She surfed and hung out with the beach boys in Waikiki.”
“I guess you’re right,” I said. “If she were still alive, she’d be older than me.”
“It’s your attitude,” Brad said. “You need to think positive about the ocean.”
“You planning to be a psychiatrist when you’re grown?”
“Nah. Lawyer like my grandpa.”
Brad jogged ahead to catch up with the rest of the tour. I took one last look at the ocean. You’d never get me out there.
Chapter 23
As Meyer and I sat together on the bus on the way back to the Academy of Arts, I said, “I’ve been thinking what I need to do to clear my name from the most wanted list.”
“I thought you were enjoying all your visits with Detective Saito,” Meyer said.
“I figure it’s time to let him work on some other crimes, like poi heists and tourists having their pockets picked. We have to find the guy with the scar on his cheek.”
“We’ll see if anyone responds to the ad I placed.”
“That’s the first step,” I said. “I also need to figure out how Moki ties in. I’m convinced he stole the money from the cash box in the business office. He’s been up to some strange activities.”
“You’ll need to find some evidence linking him to the theft. Right now you’re the only suspect they have.”
“Well, thanks for believing in me.”