They pulled into the hotel driveway, and Donovan tossed the keys to the valet.
“I thought we might have dinner at the hotel tonight,” he said.
“Two birds with one stone? Interrogating the wait staff over mahi-mahi?”
They strolled up the walk, through the open hotel doors.
“We’ll have to spend a lot more time at the hotel if we’re going to sort this out,” he said.
“Yes, and not in our bungalow.” She gave him a mock severe look.
“We can interrogate the pool attendants. And this hotel has an excellent spa. The masseuses may have intel.”
By unspoken agreement, they’d been edging around tackling the grieving wife and brother. But it had to be done, and soon.
“Think of the possibilities at the hotel bar,” he continued. “I can see why you became a detective.”
“Oh, yes. Ever since you’ve entered my life, detecting has been a never ending whirl of champagne and resorts.”
“Do I detect sarcasm?”
“No, regret you didn’t come along sooner.”
Chapter 9
Arm in arm, they walked to the hotel’s restaurant. Its exterior walls slid back on tracks, leaving it open to the cool breeze. They wound past gas-fueled heat lamps and crowded tables. Heads turned, conversations died at their approach and rose in their wake. Riga stiffened, her cheeks warming. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, and wouldn’t be the last. She had thick skin when it came to her own reputation, but not when it came to Donovan. Last year he’d been accused of financing terrorism through his casinos. He’d been cleared, but the media which had so gleefully reported his downfall had been strangely silent after he’d been proven innocent. Anger smoldered in her chest.
He murmured something to the hostess, and she hooked a quick left turn, depositing them in a booth.
“Someone will be right with you, sir,” she chirped, and hurried off.
Riga snapped her napkin open. “It’s moments like these when it’s a good thing my magic is on the fritz.” She tried to keep her voice light, but even she heard the edge.
“Riga.” Donovan laid his hand over hers. “Does the gossip really bother you? Being recognized?”
She gazed down at their hands, entwined on the table, and flushed with shame. Selfish. She was being selfish. Her snit might have blown off steam, but it couldn’t have made Donovan feel any better. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
“It’s just talk. This business will blow over.”
“I’ve never cared what people said about me. But I have an irresistible urge to punch people who say bad things about you.” She looked up at him. “Bear with me?”
“That goes both ways. Though no one has been stupid enough to say anything but good of you in front of me.”
A waitress in khaki shorts and a white blouse materialized before their table with thick paper menus and glasses of water, tinkling with ice. “Can I get you something to drink to start with?”
“Can you do a mango martini?” Riga asked.
“Sure.”
Donovan gave the waitress a smile that could melt a polar icecap. “Brandy, neat.”
The young woman left, and Riga said, “You really are the perfect partner.”
“In life?”
“That too, but I was thinking as a metaphysical detective. I’ll bet you could charm a confession out of Lucrezia Borgia’s ghost.”
“Never met her.”
“You wouldn’t have liked her,” Riga said. “Spoiled. Petulant. Rather childish.”
“And where did you meet Lucrezia Borgia’s ghost?”
“Rome. She swore she was no killer – just trapped in her father’s schemes. I believed her. Still didn’t like her.”
“So why is she haunting Rome?”
“Wouldn’t you if the Borgias were your relatives? Imagine the family dinners.”
The waitress returned to take their orders, and Riga sat back while Donovan joked with her, making small talk. By dessert – a Hawaiian bread pudding – the waitress had relaxed enough to lean one hip against Donovan’s side of the booth, smiling.
“I’ve heard your hotel has some ghosts,” Donovan said.
The waitress laughed. “There are lots of ghosts on these islands. Why would this hotel be any different?”
“But not all of them are malicious,” Riga said. “We heard yours is a fire starter.”
She shrugged. “It’s easy to blame ghosts when things go wrong. But sometimes, you just get a string of bad luck.”
“Too bad,” Riga said. “We love a good ghost story.”
“People have reported hearing a woman crying on the rocks out by the beach,” the waitress said. “We think she’s the ghost of a woman who drowned here.”
“Oh?” Riga asked. “Who?”
She snatched the empty glasses from the table. “Before my time. Would you like another?”
“I would,” Donovan said. “Riga?”
“Please.” Riga had had enough, but hadn’t missed the waitress’s reaction. Was she afraid of the ghost? Or was there something else to the tale she didn’t want to reveal?
The waitress hurried away.
“Next time we’re interviewing a pretty girl,” Riga said, “I’ll keep my mouth shut and let you do the talking.”
“We’re not finished yet,” Donovan said.
When the waitress returned to their table, Riga said, “I’m sorry. Talking about ghosts must have seemed ghoulish so soon after the murder of the hotel’s owner.”
“No!” The girl’s smile stiffened. “I mean, yes, it was terrible. But one thing doesn’t have to do with the other.”
“Oh?” Riga asked. “What have you heard about Dennis’s murder?”
Donovan’s gaze shifted to the restaurant entrance. “Riga, we have company.”
Paul Glasgow, his red-splotched face wreathed in misery, approached, his hand at the lower back of a tall, model-thin blond. The two stopped beside their table, and the hotel owner nodded. The waitress stepped back, the tray clutched to her chest.
“Donovan, Riga. I hope you’re enjoying your stay. This is my sister-in-law, Deidre.”
A chord of grief thrummed in Riga’s heart for the new widow, and she resisted the urge to reach across the table, take her husband’s hand. But she couldn’t think of Deidre as Dennis’s widow, as someone to sympathize with. She was a suspect.
“Please, join us,” Donovan said. “We were just having drinks.”
“I could use one,” Deidre said. To the waitress: “A vodka martini. The bartender knows how I like it.” She slid into the booth beside Riga, her blue sarong skirt twisting around her legs, and she lifted herself up, adjusted her skirt. Her hair was pulled into a bun, and her eyes were the color of green sea glass. She smelled of key lime and coconut and sea salt, making Riga think of margaritas.
“Beer for me,” Paul said. He sat beside Donovan.
The waitress hurried away.
“I’m very sorry about your husband,” Riga said.
Deidre twisted her hands, her long fingers heavy with gold rings. “The police told me you found him.” She swallowed. “It was a terrible shock.”
Riga felt a twinge of sympathy and reminded herself the woman was a suspect. “How are you doing?”
“I’m still in a daze. One moment I was married, now I’m a widow.”
“Deidre.” Paul reached across the table and grasped her hand.
Her eyes softened, lit with an inner glow. And then she bit her lip, turned to Riga. “I never thought, never, that his work with the seals was dangerous. He was so passionate about it.”
“And you?” Riga asked.
“Me? I didn’t grow up here. When I first arrived, and married Dennis, it seemed like paradise. Now… I’m ready to leave.”
“Leave?” Paul said. “Why would you leave? You’re being ridiculous.”
“No, I am not,” she flared.
Paul adj
usted the gold wristband of his watch. “I just don’t think you should make any decisions now. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I hope you’re not feeling pressured about the hotel sale,” Donovan said. “Of course, you can take all the time you need.”
Deidre touched her throat, her mouth making an O of surprise. “But it’s not mine to sell. The hotel is all Paul’s now.”
Riga processed that, impassive. She understood why Paul wouldn’t want a new partner, but surely Dennis’s wife would have inherited his share. “Did you two have buy-sell insurance on each other?” she asked Paul. The insurance would ensure that Paul could quickly buy-out the widow’s share.
A muscle throbbed in his jaw, and he nodded tightly.
“My brother-in-law is a CPA,” Riga explained. “His hobby at family dinners is regaling us with horror stories of estate planning gone wrong.”
Donovan smiled. “He says not having a will is a form of spousal abuse.”
“Dennis was very well-organized.” Deidre blinked rapidly. “He was thoughtful and didn’t want to put anyone out. He would have been horrified that…” She cleared her throat.
“That his body littered the beach,” Paul finished for her. He smiled apologetically at Riga. “I know how it sounds, but it’s true.”
The waitress dropped off their drinks and scooted away.
“It was hardly his fault,” Donovan said. “Who could have done this?”
“One of the seal-haters,” Paul said. “That’s what the police think.”
“But what do you think?” Riga asked.
Paul took a swig of his beer. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Well, no,” Riga said. “The two bodies were found lying close to each other. So the question is, who was killed first – the seal or Dennis? I can’t imagine a random person accidentally or in a fit of anger killing Dennis and then coolly sticking around to kill the seal. And why would they kill the seal if Dennis was nearby? Or if he wasn’t nearby, if he came running from a distance to confront the killer, why would they hang around to shoot him instead of running away?”
“They probably didn’t see him in the darkness,” Paul said.
“Maybe,” Riga said. “But both you and your brother are wealthy and have some weight on this island. If I were the police, I wouldn’t limit my investigation to seal-haters.”
“But you’re not the police.” Paul’s face darkened.
“Riga is one better,” Donovan said. “She’s a private investigator.”
Deidre glanced up at her brother-in-law, then down at her drink. She rotated the glass in her hand.
“I’ve heard you’ve been asking questions,” Paul said. “Are you investigating my brother’s murder?”
“Would you like me to?”
A young woman in a hotel uniform, with dark skin and black hair cascading down her back approached the table. She blinked at them through eyes glazed red. “Mr. Glasgow, there’s an urgent phone call for you in the office.”
“At this hour?” He checked his watch, scowling.
“Yes, sir.” She fiddled with her kukui nut necklace. “It’s Mr. Hampstead.”
He hesitated, watching Deidre.
She gave a quick nod.
“I’d better take this.” He edged out of the booth and stalked from the restaurant, the woman following on his heels.
Deidre watched them go, her lips pressed in a flat line.
“Who was that?” Riga asked her.
“Sarah, my husband’s… Paul’s assistant now.”
“She seemed upset,” Donovan said.
“Did she?” Deidre took a sip of her martini. “So you’re a private eye. I thought I’d read somewhere that you were a psychic.”
“It would certainly make my job easier, but no, not a psychic. A metaphysical detective, and a licensed P.I.”
“And you really think there could be more to Dennis’s murder?” she asked.
“It’s too early to think anything. But there are a lot of questions outstanding.”
“Such as?”
Riga leaned against the back of the booth. “When did Dennis get to the beach? What was he doing before that time? Who might have a grudge against him?”
“Midnight. He left our rooms at midnight, to take over for another one of the responders.”
“Do you know who?” Riga asked.
Deidre closed her eyes. “A woman. Her name is Petra, I think. Petra… Singleton. I was annoyed with him. He woke me up, and I’d just fallen asleep. It had been a long day. My last words to him were… unpleasant.” She put her head in her hands. “There were so many things I should have done differently.”
“I’m sure he understood,” Donovan said. “None of us are at our best when we’re sleep deprived.”
She raised her head. “Did he understand? I’m not so sure. And it wasn’t just…” She gnawed on her lip. “I should go. I’m not fit to be out. Thank you for the drink and for the company.”
She walked a few steps away, then turned back to them, her face expressionless. “You’re wrong though. My husband didn’t have any enemies. So I’m quite certain he was killed because he was protecting the seal.”
They watched her cross the restaurant.
“She’s lying, though mostly to herself,” Riga said. The thought depressed her.
“About which part?”
“I don’t think she’s at all sure that her husband was killed over a seal. And I don’t believe her husband didn’t have any enemies. Everybody has enemies.”
“Who’s she trying to deflect us from?”
“Did Deidre and Dennis have any children?” Riga asked.
“No.”
“I’d like to talk to Dennis’s wife and brother again.”
“Then I’ll make sure we do.”
“You’re spoiling me. How will I go back to my practice as a lone metaphysical detective?”
“I thought you wanted to take your niece on?”
“Good God, no! I want to keep an eye on her, but Pen needs to walk her own path. Besides, she wants to be a film director.”
There was a crash from the kitchen, raised voices. Tension rippled through the restaurant, and Riga’s shoulders drew together defensively.
Donovan pointed to the kitchen, his mouth twisting with disgust. “If I do take this place over, that sort of thing will not happen.”
He signaled for the check, and signed for the bill.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
Hand in hand, they strolled onto the deck, leaving the shouts behind, and walked onto the beach. Riga kicked off her sandals. The sand was damp, the air cool, oppressive with humidity in spite of the breeze flowing from the north. It teased at Riga’s blouse, and she hugged her arms, cold.
Wordlessly, Donovan draped his blazer over her shoulders.
A crack in the clouds appeared, a growing crevasse, and moonlight slivered across the water, illuminating a slim female figure on the beach. Her skin shimmered with moonlight, and for a moment, Riga saw the weeping ghost. And then the image resolved to a live human, staring at the endless rhythm of waves, her long dark hair tossing in the wind.
“Isn’t that the young woman we met in the restaurant?” Riga asked.
“Dennis’s personal assistant, Sarah,” he said in a low voice. “Yes, I met her briefly earlier. She had a nice, quiet efficiency.”
“She’s crying.” Riga stamped out her empathy. “We should talk to her.”
Donovan frowned. “Now?”
“As the murdered man’s personal assistant, she’ll know things. And when people are upset, truths slip out.” She tugged Donovan toward the woman.
“Damn, you’re sexy when you’re ruthless.”
“I know. I’m a terrible person, and you have a soft spot for damsels in distress.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Just imagine she’s a man. And a rival.”
He screwed up his face. “Not gettin
g it.”
Sarah turned at the sound of their footsteps. Tears streaked her face.
“Hello, Sarah. Are you all right?” Riga asked.
The woman blinked, uncomprehending.
“Riga Hayworth.” She extended her hand. “We met in the restaurant earlier. And you’ve already met my husband, Donovan.”
She didn’t wipe her tears. One dripped off the end of her chin. “Oh, yes. What can I do for you?”
“We thought we might be able to do something for you,” Riga said. “You’re upset.”
“I’d prefer to be alone,” she said.
“Of course.” Donovan lowered his head, took Sarah’s hand. “We’ve all been shocked by Dennis’s death. He built something remarkable here, and I admired that. Our condolences on your loss.”
Sarah bit back a sob. “Then you’re one of the few. No one really appreciated him. Not his brother, not his wife. It hurt him badly. And now he’s gone. Why would someone kill such a good person?” She burst into tears and buried her head on Donovan’s chest.
Donovan rubbed her back and looked over her head at Riga, a panicked look on his face. “I don’t know who killed Dennis,” he said. “But I’d like to find out.”
Sarah took a step back, shot an embarrassed glance at Riga.
“Donovan, do you mind if I leave you for a moment?” Riga asked. “I’d like to get my jacket from the room.” Without waiting for a response, she headed down the beach. Sarah was responding to him, and Donovan would get more out of her alone.
She clenched her jaw in annoyance, and stamped her feet harder into the sand. Donovan was turning out to be a damned effective detective. The rhyme made her smile, then laugh out loud. What kind of bride was completely unconcerned with her husband’s effect on the ladies, but jealous of his professional skills? The former was pathetic, the latter ridiculous.
The hotel rooms on the bank above dimly lit the beach. She skirted a piece of driftwood, a twisted lump in the half-dark. Stones rose before her, the final obstacle to the little beach and the path to their bungalow. The noise of the waves grew, as if agitated by a passing boat. Then, silence fell. The moonlight brightened, limning the clouds with mercury. Hair lifted on the nape of her neck. The skin on her arms tingled.
One of the rocks shifted, stood. “Aloha, my young friend.”
5 The Elemental Detective Page 8