03 - Three Odd Balls

by Cindy Blackburn

  Dear Karen. I thanked her for her efforts, apologized for the inconvenience, and told her where to find fresh sheets. “It could backfire,” I warned. “They could keep you up all night.”

  “We’ll be fine,” she insisted. “But Snowflake sure misses you.”

  I pictured my feline muse and smiled. “What’s she doing?”

  “When she’s not hissing at the fat cat, she sits on your desk and stares at your empty chair.”

  “Tell her My South Pacific Paramour is coming along quite nicely.”

  “Huh?”

  “Tell Snowflake not to fret—Urquit Snodgrass will not get the better of Delta Touchette.”

  “Huh?”

  “Snowflake,” I repeated. “Tell her not to let Bernice get the better of her.”

  “And vice-versa,” Wilson mumbled.

  ***

  “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You want pink drinks.” The person manning the tiki bar looked up from the tattered index card he was studying and frowned. “And you have no idea how Davy made them, and you have no idea why he died in your mother’s bungalow. Am I right?”

  More or less. Wilson and I ignored the frown, flinched only slightly as the new bartender slammed his notes onto the bar, and plopped ourselves onto two barstools.

  It seemed unnecessary, but we introduced ourselves anyway, and Wilson held out his hand. “You must be Buster’s brother?”

  “Ki Okolo. You guys want some Pele’s Melees or not?”

  We nodded, and Mr. Congeniality grinned ominously. “Guinea pigs,” he said and started pouring ingredients willy-nilly into the blender. “Those are all the instructions my damn brother could find in the damn files.” He jerked his head at the card, and I noticed the list of ingredients—no measurements whatsoever.

  I watched dubiously as a generous portion of vodka got dumped into the mix. “I understand Davy was quite secretive about his recipe,” I said. “Did you know him well?”

  “Duh.”

  “For how long?” Wilson asked.

  Ki reached for the rum. “Since I was in high school. Everyone knew Davy.”

  “High school?” Wilson squinted. “Didn’t you and Buster just buy this place?”

  “Inherited.”

  “From your parents?”

  “Duh. From my grandfather Pono.”

  “Pono-Pono, Pono-Pono.” Bee Bee swooped in and landed at the edge of the bar.

  Ki snarled. “We inherited him, too. Stupid bird’s gonna outlive us all.” He flipped the “On” switch. Bee Bee squawked in surprise, but recovered quickly, and proceeded to imitate the blender.

  It was a surprisingly entertaining racket. When Ki realized he wasn’t annoying us nearly as much as he might have hoped, he turned off the machine. Bee Bee shut up also and waddled over to the index card.

  “Don’t you dare!” Ki yanked the card from under the bird’s beak and jammed it into the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt. Then he poured out two glasses of pinkish stuff, shoved the glasses in our direction, and waited until we hazarded tentative sips.

  I coughed hardly at all, wiped the tears from under my eyes, and waved a hand at the surrounding gardens. “This is quite an inheritance,” I said once I had sufficiently recovered my voice. “It’s lovely.”

  “It’s a pain in the butt.” Ki brandished the bitters bottle and dumped some in the blender. “I wanted to sell the place, but my stupid brother’s convinced he’s some great entrepreneur. ‘Owning the Wakilulani Gardens will be perfect,’ he says to me. ‘I’ll do all the work,’ he says to me. ‘You can be the silent partner. Stay with Carmen and rake in the cash.’” Ki stopped and glared. “You can see how well that worked.”

  “Who’s Carmen?” Wilson beat me to the question.

  “My girlfriend,” Ki answered. “Where I’d be right now if I wasn’t enjoying your company so much.” He pointed to our beverages. “You guys aren’t drinking.”

  Wilson frowned at his glass. “It’s,” he hesitated, “interesting.”

  Ki looked at me.

  “Umm,” I said. “I don’t think you got the proportions exactly right.”

  He slammed his palms on the bar. “Well, gee thanks, lady. I’ll be sure to put pink drinks on my list of problems to solve, shall I? Right before Derrick Crowe and right after people getting killed.” He grabbed the rum bottle and was about to splash more into his blender, but Wilson leaned over the bar and stopped him.

  “People?” he asked. “Who else got killed?” Apparently my beau the cop had forgotten all about our plan to leave things to Vega.

  Ki told Wilson not to get excited. “We only have one murder on our hands. You happy now, Sherlock?” He added the extra rum and turned the blender back on.

  I leaned over and switched it off.

  “Do you, or do you not, want me to get this right, lady?”

  “Who’s Derrick Crowe?” I asked.

  “Duh! Like, maybe the chef?” Ki shook his head at my obtuseness. “He’s disappeared off the face of the earth.” He resumed blending, much to Bee Bee’s delight. “Luckily I found Bethany,” he shouted over the noise.

  “Bethany?” I asked as the noise subsided. “Did she replace Mr. Crowe?”

  “Nooo.” Ki continued shaking his head in disgust.

  “Makaila Isiano’s the new chef,” Wilson, who never forgets a name, reminded me. “Bethany was our waitress last night.”

  Ki topped off our glasses. “Bethany found us Makaila. The girl’s a gem.”

  “Girl’s a gem, girl’s a gem, girl’s a g—”

  “As is your new chef,” I interrupted Bee Bee. “Our first dinner here was terrific.”

  Ki smirked. “Gee thanks. I’ll sleep better just knowing you’re satisfied.”

  Why was I even trying to be pleasant to this obnoxious jerk? I leaned forward, gearing up to tell Ki exactly what I thought of him and his supposed Pele’s Melees, but Wilson stopped me.

  He laid a gentle but firm hand on my knee. “Speaking of sleep,” he said to Ki. “Where were you last night?”

  “What? Are you a cop now?”

  “Yep.”

  “A little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you, Sherlock?”

  “Yep. Where were you?”

  Ki blinked at Bee Bee, but the bird failed to produce an answer.

  “I live with Carmen on the other side of the island,” Ki finally informed us. “You know? Over in Nettles Corner? Where no damn tourist dares to tread?”

  “You were there all night?

  Ki poured himself a drink and took a gulp. “God, this is awful,” he said.

  “Yep,” Wilson agreed. “And your alibi?”

  Ki took another swig. “I was with Carmen, like I told the real cops when they came banging on our door at five a.m. And even if I didn’t have a solid alibi, why would I kill Davy? He and his stupid drinks were the main attraction of this place. Without him, look who’s stuck being the bartender.”

  “Cheer up,” I said. “Maybe Buster will hire a replacement for Davy.” I blinked at my pinkish beverage. “Soon,” I added.

  “What? So we can get another Rachel Tate?”

  “Who’s she?” Wilson asked.

  “No one,” Ki snapped. “We’re not going there. You get it, Sherlock?”

  That time it was Wilson who was gearing up to give the obnoxious jerk a piece of his mind, and it was me doing the hand on the knee thing.

  “It doesn’t sound like you’re happy with how Buster’s running things,” I observed casually.

  “My brother can barely tie his own shoes, much less run a business.”

  “At least Buster seems eager to please,” I said.

  “Yeah? What exactly has he done to please you? Enlighten me.”

  “Enlighten me,” Bee Bee repeated and waddled over in my direction for a pat on the head.

  I stroked the bird and tried to think.

  “He built the beds,” Wilson suggested with a wink in my direction.

  “That�
�s right,” I agreed. “And he made us a very nice lunch today, and he promised us pancakes tomorrow morning.”

  Ki threw his hands up. “So now he’s serving breakfast and lunch? Like we have the staff for this?”

  “Come on, Ki,” I said. “Buster is trying very hard. He put up that beautiful Christmas tree, for instance.”

  Ki harrumphed.

  “He did that to please you,” I said.

  “Lady, my baby brother has no idea what pleases me.”

  “What pleases you?” Wilson asked.

  “Buckets of pink drinks!” Louise called out.

  “Pink drinks!” Bee Bee cried. He waddled over to the other end of the bar and did a bowing-wobbling thing as Louise and my mother approached.

  “Buckets of pink drinks,” Mother mused. “Doesn’t that sound lovely, though?”

  “Pink being the magic word,” Wilson mumbled and got up to find her a seat.

  Chapter 9

  “These still aren’t quite the correct color, are they?” Mother was assessing the contents of her glass, but my attention had landed further afield—on the dining room stage, where the Hoochie Coochie Brothers had just taken up residence.

  “Off-key,” I said.

  “Off-color,” Louise corrected me. “And what about the little gold umbrellas? What’s an off-color Pele’s Melee without a gold umbrella? I adore the umbrellas! Adore, adore, adore!”

  “Me, too!” Mother and I got into the spirit as Buster walked by our table.

  He stopped short and hovered over the pupu platter—a variety of Hawaiian delicacies—we were sharing. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “The food’s great,” Wilson was quick to reply. “But the ladies miss the umbrellas.” He pointed to my woefully ungarnished glass, and Buster scurried off.

  Lo and behold, a few moments later Ki emerged from behind the dining room bar holding a box of what we soon surmised were little gold umbrellas. He weaved his way around the tables, slamming down a handful on each. Eventually he made it to us.

  “Here!” he said. He dropped the umbrellas and stormed off.

  “Don’t mind Ki.” Bethany had come up from behind him and waited until he was more or less out of earshot. “He’s forever grumpy.” She helped Wilson distribute the umbrellas around the table. “Where’s your son tonight?”

  “With Emi. He got sick of hanging around with his old man all day.”

  “Lucky Emi.” She collected our appetizer plates and wandered away.

  I caught my mother’s eye. “People always confide in you,” I told her, as if this were news. “So when Bethany comes back, quiz her about Ki.”

  “Okay, Honeybunch.”

  “And his girlfriend—Carmen Someone,” Wilson said. “And someone named Rachel Tate.”

  “Maybe Bethany knows about Derrick Crowe, too,” I said. “He’s the former chef, who’s supposedly dropped off the face of the earth. Can you remember all that, Mother?”

  Louise pointed a parasol at me. “What are you up to, Jessica Hewitt?”

  “She’s sleuthing, of course.” Mother looked back and forth between Wilson and me. “You’re trying to solve Davy’s murder, aren’t you?”

  “Are we?” I asked.

  Wilson cleared his throat. “Let’s just say, we’re curious.”

  “So the mystery man wants to know everyone else’s deep dark secrets?” Louise asked.

  “I’m just curious,” he tried again.

  “Deep, dark, or indifferent, we need to learn a few things,” I insisted. “We need the history of this place. We need the details. We need—”

  “Louise and I already know the history, Honeybunch.”

  I sat up straight. “Oh?”

  Mother reminded me that she and Louise had talked to Davy quite a bit the previous day. “He was very cordial—somewhat of a gossip, even.” She nodded to Louise. “And we were regular barflies, weren’t we?”

  “Back in the good old days when the pink drinks were all they were meant to be,” Louise agreed.

  “It’s too bad Davy didn’t tell us his secret recipe,” Mother said. “But he did discuss the Okolo brothers. Buster and Ki inherited the Wakilulani Gardens from Pono. He passed away recently.”

  “The grandfather?” Wilson asked, and I could tell he was as disappointed as I. Unfortunately, Tessie didn’t know anything more than we did.

  Or did she? She was talking again—something about an accident. “The accident,” as she put it.

  Louise interrupted something about the “tragedy” and cut to the chase. “Buster and Ki’s parents were killed in a car crash when the boys were still in school. Buster was eleven. Ki was seventeen.”

  I contemplated this stunning information. Tessie was right, of course. It was tragic.

  “That’s when they came to live here,” Louise continued. “Buster’s been here ever since. But according to Davy, Ki left the minute he had the chance. He went off to college and he’s seldom returned since. He hates it here.”

  We glanced toward the bar, where Ki was talking with his brother. Make that, to his brother. They were struggling, tug-of-war fashion, with a dinner menu.

  “He doesn’t seem like the friendliest fellow, does he?” Mother asked.

  “But he has a lady friend,” Wilson said. “Davy mention anything about that?”

  “Carmen Dupree!” Louise said. “I adore that name, Jessica! You should put a Carmen in your next book!”

  “Oooo!” Mother exclaimed. “Perhaps with a Latin-type theme?”

  Louise pursed her lips and twirled her little parasol. “I’m picturing Carmen,” she told the umbrella. “She wears red dresses. Tight red dresses to match the flower she always puts behind one ear. Maybe like those hibiscus Buster has planted all over the garde—”

  “Ki lives with her, right?” Wilson interrupted. “The real Carmen, I mean.”

  Louise sighed and gave up on outlining my next masterpiece. “Yes, Wilson. They live on the other side of the island. According to Davy, the place is absolutely, totally, and completely dreary. Personally, I do not see how that is even remotely possible. This is Hawaii, after all. I cannot imagine one single, unfantastical spot!”

  “There are a few.” Bethany had returned with our entrees and placed Mother’s coconut curried chicken before her.

  “Doesn’t this look lovely?” Mother gestured toward her dinner. “And to think the chef is brand new. Isn’t that what you told us last night, dear?”

  “Makaila’s fantastical.” Bethany winked at Louise and worked on arranging the rest of our plates.

  “But I wonder whatever happened to the previous chef?” my mother mused.

  Bethany stood up empty-handed. “He’s gone.”

  “Well now, that’s what we heard. Evidently he’s disappeared off the face of the earth?”

  “Poof!” I said and threw my hands into the air for emphasis.

  Bethany squinted at me. “Why are you guys so interested in Derrick?” She kept squinting. “You think he had something to do with last night?”

  “Do you?” Wilson asked.

  She stared at Wilson and considered her answer. “I think he owed Davy some money,” she said eventually. “Derrick owed lots of people money. It’s why he disappeared.”

  “Intriguing!” Louise exclaimed, but Bethany was still watching Wilson.

  “You’re a cop, right?”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Word gets around. Halo Beach is a small place.”

  “Small but intriguing,” Louise repeated.

  Bethany shrugged. “It’s just rumors. But supposedly Derrick and Davy hated each other.”

  “And Davy still loaned him money?” Wilson sounded skeptical.

  “No, sir. They hated each other because Davy loaned him money.”

  Annoying but necessary—she wandered off to take care of the diners at the next table. Annoying but unnecessary—the Hoochie Coochie Brothers. I ate my mahimahi and wondered if the reggae set
they were stuck in would ever end.

  Louise must have read my mind. “Don’t you need dreadlocks for that one?”she asked with a gesture toward the stage.

  “Dreadlocks?” Mother was also distracted by the performance on stage. “Are those like accordions?”

  Poor Wilson tried getting us back on topic. “Ask Bethany about Rachel Tate,” he suggested to Tessie. “I think this Rachel character also worked here. Ki and Chris both mentioned her.”

  “Chris?” I asked, and Wilson reminded me that the woman who had rented Chris our surfboards had mentioned a “Rachel Somebody.”

  I shook my head. “You’ve been paying awfully close attention, Captain Rye. I mean, for someone’s who’s just curious.”

  “Who are you curious about now?” Bethany had returned with our desserts.

  “Rachel Tate,” my mother answered, and the woman almost dropped her dessert tray.

  “Intriguing!” Louise exclaimed, and poor Bethany had to steady her tray again.

  Mother waited patiently until all the desserts were safely served. “Bethany, honey,” she said. “What can you tell us about Rachel?”

  “Nothing good. Buster hired her, and Ki fired her. Buster’s still upset about it.”

  With a bit more coaxing, we learned that Rachel Tate had been a “disaster.” Apparently, Buster’s choice for a desk clerk had never booked a single bungalow, and had even managed to cancel any on-line reservations that potential guests might have made for themselves.

  “When people called to re-book she’d hang up on them,” Bethany said. “Never mind Ki’s fancy software system, Rachel couldn’t even answer the phone right.”

  Wilson asked how we had managed to get reservations and tilted his head toward the stage. “Or those two?”

  She explained that Hal and Cal Coochie had a standing reservation for Christmas week every year. “I guess they’ve been coming here ever since the first ukulele contest.”

  “Ten years, then,” Mother said.

  “What about us?” Wilson asked Bethany. “How did we get in?”

  “You guys booked really late, right?”

  “Correct,” I said and reminded everyone that Wilson hadn’t known his exact vacation schedule until Thanksgiving weekend. “The Wakilulani Gardens was the only resort in all of Hawaii with a vacancy for this week. And with the garden looking so beautiful on the website? I was very happy to find it.”