03 - Three Odd Balls

by Cindy Blackburn

  Bethany explained why we had been so lucky. “Other than you, no one even tried booking that late for Christmas week. And Rachel was gone by then. When Ki was here at Thanksgiving, he fired her and took over the computer himself.”

  “I do hope the poor girl has found herself another job?” my mother said.

  “Rachel’s pretty good at landing jobs, Mrs. Hewitt. It’s keeping them that’s her problem. Last I heard she’s working at Kamakakoa’s. It’s the big sports bar down near Shynomore, where I assume you got that thing.” She pointed to Wilson’s ridiculous shirt, and we were all distracted by the brilliance of his bicycles.

  Mother reached out and tapped the pink specimen on his sleeve. “Wilson, honey,” she said. “I do believe that’s the color our Pele’s Melees are supposed to be.”

  Chapter 10

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Wilson said as we wended our way down Halo Beach a bit later.

  “Nor can I,” I agreed. “But you keep insisting you need more of these stupid things.” I tugged on his shirtsleeve.

  “Not the shopping, Jessie. I’m talking about the Kamikaze bar. What’s our plan? What are we gonna say? Who are we gonna talk to?”

  “It’s Kamakakoa’s, and hopefully Rachel Tate, correct?” I stopped short. “Are you feeling well?” I asked. “Because you’re seeking my advice. It’s altogether uncharacteristic.”

  “This investigation is altogether uncharacteristic.” He pointed to the neon sign for Kamakakoa’s Sports Bar, beckoning to us from just off the beach. “Normally, I would march in there, flash my badge, and start asking questions. No problem.”

  “But you’re out of your jurisdiction.”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s just a bar, Wilson. Act friendly instead of authoritative and you’ll do fine.”

  He put his hands on his hips and frowned at the bar. “Friendly, huh?”

  I rolled my eyes. “On second thought, leave the talking to me. This is exactly the kind of thing we amateur sleuths live for.”

  I started moving again, and he hastened to catch up. “You have a plan, Jessie?”

  Heck, no.

  ***

  Despite that pesky detail, I marched into the crowded bar exuding an air of confidence.

  Enormous TVs and loud shouts of encouragement or hostility directed toward the various figures running around with various balls on the various screens greeted me. I checked to see if Duke were playing basketball on any of the screens. No, but that was just as well. If I got involved rooting for my alma mater I might forget my main purpose.

  And far better than any basketball game, I spotted two pool tables near the back of the expansive room. I grinned and wiggled two fingers at Wilson.

  He reached out for my fingertips. “How long has it been since your last game, Little Miss Cue-It?”

  “Three days.”

  “You ever gone that long without holding a cue stick?”

  I glanced at my right hand, now enclosed in his, and considered the question. “Not since I was four.”

  “You’re a little scary. You know that?”

  I told him to make himself useful and buy me some champagne. Then I headed toward the tables. I kept my eye out for Rachel Tate along the way, but all of the bartenders at both of the bars were male. I did notice one harried waitress racing between the tables. She might have been Rachel. But I had no idea what Rachel looked like, so I decided to get settled in before seeking my prey.

  I stepped up to the nearest pool table and announced my mission. Well, not quite. But I did interrupt the two young men playing at table one. And when I asked if I might shoot a game with the winner, the action stopped at both tables.

  Dare I say, this was not unexpected? Generating interest around a barroom pool table has always been one of my better talents. I scanned the ten or so pairs of eyes assessing me. Okay, make that my best talent. Indeed, in my younger days, when I was shooting pool to cover my tuition, I caused many a minor incursion just by batting my eyelashes and asking if anyone were willing to teach me. Ah, the good old days.

  But that was then, and this is now. And nowadays people aren’t so much intrigued by my beauty and naïveté, but by the fact that an old bat like me still shoots pool. If I do say so myself, folks get even more intrigued when they realize the old bat is pretty good. Okay, make that very good. I smiled to myself. Downright brilliant, even.

  The tallest of the players stepped forward from the group of young men gawking at me. “You willing to wager on your game?” he asked.

  I shrugged casually and was about to agree to a humble five-dollar bet when Wilson came up from behind us. “Watch it,” he said.

  I’m not sure whether he was addressing me or the tall guy, but we both bristled a bit. And prepared to be suitably indignant, I turned around. But bless his grumpy heart—Wilson held two champagne glasses in one hand, a bottle of Korbel in the other, and was busy pouring.

  As I reached out and took a glass, I mouthed a stern “friendly” at him.

  Wilson glanced around. “Trust me, guys.” He smiled, all friendly-like. “You need to be careful. My lady friend is not what she seems.”

  “Oh?” several people, including myself, asked.

  “She may drink champagne of all things, and she may be old enough to be your mother, but she’s a damn good player.” He addressed Tall Guy, “Sorry, buddy, but you’re about to lose.”

  Another man might have bristled some more, but evidently Tall Guy was a big man in more ways than one. He looked to me for verification of Wilson’s outlandish claims.

  “He’s right,” I admitted. “But how about this? You guys let me play a game or two, and my boyfriend here will buy a few pitchers, whoever ends up winning. Deal?”

  Apparently so, since several of the guys at both pool tables were already beckoning to the waitress and arguing about which brand of beer to order.

  That issue was finally settled, but then other complications arose. First of all, the waitress ended up being a Sylvia, not a Rachel. Darn, darn, and double-darn. And after seeing my first victory against Tall Guy, everyone decided I should play at both tables at once.

  It happens. But I pretended to be flattered by the challenge and agreed to give it a try. After all, while I kept track of two games at once, Wilson could do the chit-chat thing and work on learning about Rachel Tate, the Wakilulani Gardens, and anything else of use.

  Yeah, right.

  I was aiming at the eight ball of my fourth or fifth game when I realized Wilson the investigative professional stunk at amateur sleuthing. He was chit-chatting alright, but he seemed to have forgotten all about our mission and was instead interrogating the gang about hiking opportunities on The Big Island.

  The eight ball disappeared at table one, I finished up at table two, and announced that I needed a break. I pointed to my glass resting forlornly on a nearby table. “My champagne’s getting warm.”

  I stepped off to the side and elbowed my way between Wilson and the short bald guy he was talking to. At least they had gotten the conversation back to our island and were discussing the flora and fauna likely to be experienced by any “lucky” hiker on Kekipi Crater.

  “Speaking of gardens,” I said, dismissing the fact that no one was speaking of gardens. “The resort where we ate dinner tonight was beautiful. Wasn’t it, Honey?”

  It took Wilson an inordinate amount of time to realize he was my honey, but he caught on eventually. “Umm, beautiful,” he mumbled.

  “The Wakilulani Gardens?” I said and glanced around at several stunned faces. “The gardens and the restaurant were absolutely fantastic.”

  “Fantastic,” Wilson agreed.

  “Have y’all ever eaten at the Wakilulani?” I fluttered my eyelashes as if I were twenty-one again, and a few men muttered something about leaving the place to tourists and the cops.”

  “Cops?” Wilson repeated. He was beginning to remind me of Bee Bee.

  Tall Guy shook his head.
“Figures you guys wouldn’t know about the murder.”

  “I’m afraid we haven’t been keeping up with the news,” I said, and the whole gang laughed. “What’s so funny?”

  Tall Guy patted me on the shoulder and explained why we would never hear about a murder on Halo Beach from the media. “The newspaper’s too busy reporting on crap like the ukulele contest, and the local TV station refuses to broadcast anything that might scare away the tourists. Crime’s off limits. We have to get that information from each other.”

  I gasped. “You mean there was a murder at the Wakilulani—the very place we ate dinner tonight? And no one even bothered to tell us?”

  “Looks like it,” said the blond guy who had taken over at table two.

  I appealed to Tall Guy, and he once again enlightened me, explaining the basics of Davy’s murder while I acted shocked and dismayed. He told me not to worry too much. “The cops will arrest the tourist who did it within a couple days. They always do.”

  I took a moment to digest that disconcerting little tidbit and watched Blond Guy sink the eight ball. “The Wakilulani is jinxed,” he said as he stood up.

  “Jinxed,” Wilson repeated.

  “Oh, yeah,” the skinny guy at table one agreed. “The great Davy Atwell is dead.”

  “Dead,” Wilson said, and I bit my lip.

  Blond Guy nodded. “And don’t forget about Derrick Crowe.”

  Oh, honey, I wouldn’t dream of it. “Was this Derrick person killed, too?” I asked.

  “That’s one theory,” Tall Guy said. “He was their chef. But now the guy’s fallen off the face of the earth.”

  I tapped my chin, deep in thought. “Well then, maybe it’s for the best Rachel doesn’t work there anymore,” I said. I pretended not to notice an immediate wave of tension in the air and continued, “The Wakilulani Gardens sounds a bit dangerous, doesn’t it?”

  “Did you just say, Rachel?” Tall Guy squeaked.

  “Rachel Tate,” I said loudly and watched his face drop. “She’s an old friend. Well no, that’s not quite it,” I corrected myself. “Rachel’s auntie is an old friend of mine. Cicely and I go way back.”

  “Way, way, back,” Wilson agreed.

  “Cicely was so excited to hear we were staying at Halo Beach on our vacation,” I kept lying. “She made me promise to look up Rachel when we got here. She told me all about the Wakilulani Gardens.”

  Bald Guy asked if I didn’t want to get back to the pool game. While the gang murmured agreement with that idea, I jabbed Wilson in the ribs, and he re-filled my glass.

  “Maybe in a minute.” I held up my now-full glass and returned to the subject at hand. “Of course we made a special point of eating at the Wakilulani to see Rachel, but the folks down there told us she works here now. So here we are!”

  “Here we are!” You guessed it—Wilson.

  I asked the gang about Rachel’s next shift. “She does work here, no?”

  “No.” The waitress Sylvia had joined us with two fresh pitchers.

  “No?” Wilson asked.

  “She got fired.” Sylvia groaned out loud, as did a few of my pool-playing buddies. “I’m sorry, lady, but your friend was a disaster. She couldn’t, or wouldn’t, keep up the pace.” Sylvia took a credit card from Wilson and left to close out our tab.

  I sighed for effect. “I feel like I’m on a wild goose chase.” Sigh, sigh. “I don’t suppose anyone can tell me where I might find Rachel now?”

  “At the Primrose Tower,” Tall Guy told me. “It’s that fancy high-rise hotel at the north end of the beach. Rachel’s their new night clerk.”

  “Good luck Primrose Tower,” Blond Guy muttered under his breath.

  ***

  Two more pool games and three Hawaiian shirts later, Wilson and I stood outside Shynomore Shirt Shop, debating whether or not we possessed the energy to venture further down the beach to Rachel Tate’s newest place of employment.

  “Not,” we agreed and began our trek back toward home base.

  We walked in silence. Perhaps Wilson was enjoying the lovely moon and the sounds of the waves crashing on the shore, but I was deep in thought about the Wakilulani—its history, its owners, its staff, its missing staff. Davy Atwell.

  Louise Urko might say the place was intriguing, but I was more inclined to agree with the blond guy at pool table two. The Wakilulani wasn’t just intriguing—it was jinxed.

  Eventually we found our spot from the previous night, and as we plopped down in the sand, Wilson got right to the point. “Who’s the killer?” he asked.

  I reminded him he’s the expert. “Who do you think killed Davy?”

  “The only one I’m ruling out is Bee Bee.”

  I might have snorted.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You are.” I pointed in the direction of Kamakokoa’s. “Sorry, Captain Rye, but you sounded just like Bee Bee down there.”

  “Bee Bee?”

  “At the bar, Wilson. You kept repeating everything everyone said.”

  “Everythi—” He caught himself and mumbled something about just trying to be friendly.

  I patted his knee. “If it wasn’t Bee Bee, who was it?

  “Could be almost anyone. Right now, I’m thinking Bethany.”

  “The waitress? Why, for Lord’s sake?”

  “I’m betting all the turnover in staff is significant. For a brand new employee, Bethany seemed pretty involved in that.”

  “She found the terrific new chef,” I agreed.

  “And she was more than happy to tell us the rumors about the old chef.”

  “You did ask her, Wilson.”

  He shrugged. “She tried to hide it, but she has strong opinions about these people.”

  I remembered how my kiwi sorbet had almost landed in my lap when the subject of Rachel Tate came up. “Bethany certainly didn’t like Rachel,” I conceded. “But considering the reaction we just got at the sports bar, no one does.”

  “You were right about her, though.”

  I shook my head. “About who?”

  “Rachel Tate. Back at Kamakaze’s you said we were on a wild goose chase. I bet Bethany sent us down there to get us sidetracked.”

  “Oh, come on. She didn’t order us to go sleuthing.”

  “Power of suggestion.” He turned to me. “Okay, Miss Amateur Sleuth. If not Bethany, who?”

  I thought about my own prime suspect. “It didn’t necessarily have to be someone staying or working at the resort that night,” I suggested. “I mean, anyone could have driven in, taken the knife, and then hidden in the parking lot to wait for Davy.”

  “Anyone like Ki Okolo?”

  I jumped. “He’s my prime suspect! How did you know?”

  “That annoying Hewitt intuition must be rubbing off. Why Ki?”

  “No reason, other than he’s a misogynist jerk.” I thought a second. “But then again, Ki seems to hate everyone—female, male, human, avian.”

  “Not his girlfriend.”

  “Carmen Dupree?”

  Wilson leaned over and nudged his shoulder into mine. “What say we take a road trip to Nettles Corner tomorrow? Check out the other side of the island.”

  It took me a moment, but eventually I recollected where I had heard about Nettles Corner. Ki had told us that’s where his girlfriend lives.

  I cleared my throat. “Far be it for me to remind you of this, but aren’t we supposed to be leaving these things to Captain Vega?”

  “I changed my mind, Jessie. Vega isn’t doing squat. The guy hasn’t even been back to Wacky Gardens since last night.”

  “That’s weird, isn’t it?”

  “It’s wrong. I always make myself a nuisance at the scene of the crime. It’s the crux of almost any investigation.” Wilson caught my eye. “You remember how often I was at your place after Stanley Sweetzer died?”

  I smirked. “That’s because you thought I was cute.”

  “Or the murderer,” he clarified. “I kept bugging
you, because I wanted to get the details before jumping to conclusions. But Vega?”

  “Is jumping to conclusions.”

  “You heard the guys at Kamakaze’s—Vega’s about to pin this on a tourist. Which means one of us.”

  “But there’s no motive, remember?”

  “Maybe, but Vega’s used to blaming tourists, and it’s two days before Christmas. I’d bet money he’s gonna take the easy way out on this.”

  “Easy for whom?” I asked indignantly.

  Chapter 11

  Monster indeed! Delta Touchette sheathed her machete and nodded in self-satisfaction. For the Monster of Ebony Island was, of course, no monster at all. Just an ordinary man. But perhaps, not so ordinary. Delta took a cautious step forward to get a closer look at the person she was spying in the clearing ahead. Oh, he was most unpleasant. Filthy he was, with long, snarled, and disheveled hair, and an even worse beard.

  And that beard was becoming more unsightly every moment. For the man was gnawing on some such bones he was pulling from the fire in front of him, seeming to care not at all what dropped or dripped onto his whiskers. His fingernails were long and yellow—the same color as his skin. Occasionally, he looked up from his unwholesome repast to flash a set of crooked yellow teeth at the crates, boxes, and chests that surrounded him in his den. Ill-gotten gains, no doubt.

  Delta pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. Why, of course! She was looking at none other than the Pirate of Diamond Island. The Monster of Ebony Island was, in fact, the Pirate of Diamond Island! Wouldn’t Skylar Staggs be interested to learn that!

  Skylar Staggs. Delta closed her eyes and indulged in a brief yet exhilarating memory of the sheriff of Port Mekipii Hui. The only man on Diamond Island brave enough to escort her to Ebony Island. The only man Delta had ever—

  A grunt from beyond pulled her out of her reverie. Delta opened her eyes as the creature before her yanked another grisly bone from the fire. She wrinkled her nose and backed away into the jungle from whence she came.

  As she blinked at the gathering gloom, the urgency of her situation dawned on her. She was hopelessly lost. Her stomach growled, reminding her she was also hopelessly hungry. The dinner Auntie Eleanor had mentioned hours earlier had long ago come and gone.