Holy cow. My ghost-advisor had been snookered by a hottie? I chuckled at the mental image of a beautiful, young woman, her bronze skin glistening in the sun, swaying to some unheard melody as she beckoned Kimu to join her. I glanced down at the case. “But this is glass. Anyone who walks by can see the pōhaku and be tempted.”
“This case was specially constructed for the pōhaku, and she will be content inside it once returned. Only I should handle the transfer.”
Chance had been quiet to this point. Now, however, he looked impatient. “Kahuna Iwalani, what was it Brittany asked you to do?”
“She asked me to bless her grandfather and pray for her deeds. Brittany was quite upset. I suppose it was the fear of losing him.” Kahuna Iwalani's voice was sweet as honey. Soothing.
I looked at Sandra and then at Kahuna Iwalani. “I don't believe that's the deed she's worried about. I'm afraid Brittany may have killed Bo Lockhart to recover the pōhaku. I know how she knew Bo was the thief. Come with me.”
The two women and Chance followed as I wound my way through the museum cases. We passed one with donations dating to the 1800s—a missionary's Bible, a floppy hat, and several small implements. No doubt it was a gift from another family with a deep history in the islands who had wanted to see the past preserved.
We went to the hallway with the restrooms. There I turned to face Kahuna Iwalani. She had a look of horror on her face.
She glanced from the case to the two doors and back again. “Why is this…here? Why was it moved?”
“We were having new lighting installed. It was a last-minute decision Maile and I made. This was only supposed to be temporary.”
Kahuna Iwalani's cheeks reddened. “You must move it back before the pōhaku returns.”
“Returns?” Sandra blinked. “It's been stolen. How's it going to get back here? Besides, Maile said she'd help me move the case after we closed. The lighting is in place. We'll tell people the pōhaku has been removed from the display temporarily. We could probably get a better sign with the legend on it. Would that help?”
“The sign does not matter,” Kahuna Iwalani said.
I glanced out the window. Dusk had fallen and one of the scattered storm cells the weatherman talked about was moving through. The museum would close soon and anyone who left right now would be drenched. “Chance, would you help Sandra move this back to where it belongs?”
He shrugged. “Sure, but what good's that going to do?”
“You might be amazed.” I walked behind them as they shuffled the case back to its original location, feeling like a concerned parent as his child was wheeled into surgery. When the case had been properly situated, I knelt next to it and motioned for Kahuna Iwalani to join me.
Chance held her hand as she lowered herself and looked where I pointed. She gasped. “Who did this?”
“The person who arranged to steal the pōhaku. It was put there so Bo Lockhart would know he had the right case.”
“McKenna?” Chance peered at me. “You're still thinking this was an inside job. Right?”
I looked up at him. “No. Not anymore. See, I thought Bo might have worked alone until Sandra mentioned why they relocated the exhibit. In this location, we're clearly visible from the street. The hallway isn't visible from outside. The video system was off, but someone breaking into the case could have been seen by anyone passing by. It had to be in the hallway to make the plan foolproof. Where's Maile now?”
Sandra shrugged. “In her office, I assume. There's been so much to do for the opening.”
“Would you go get her? Tell her we've put this back and want to make sure it's positioned properly.”
As soon as Sandra was out of hearing range, I tapped Chance on the shoulder. “Stay out of sight. When the women come back down here, search Maile's office for a large shopping bag or something she could use to smuggle the pōhaku. If I'm correct, she's planning to put it back after the museum closes.”
“Will do.”
Chance went to the stairs and pressed himself against the wall where he couldn’t be seen.
Maile didn't look the least bit happy when she returned with Sandra. When the two women were past the point of seeing him, Chance darted up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“I hope I'm right,” I muttered to myself.
“The spirits tell me you are.” Kahuna Iwalani smiled at me.
My jaw fell. “Really? They told you that?”
She chuckled. “Gotcha.”
Kahuna Iwalani winked at me. I wasn't sure if she was pulling my leg again or what. I'd rocked the afterlife enough for one day. It was Halloween, and there was no way I wanted to irritate any of the spirits. No matter whose ‘ohana they belonged to.
Sandra and Maile stood with us in front of a case in which an ancient red, green, and yellow feathered robe had been draped next to a sign with details about the garment's history.
As they approached, Kahuna Iwalani leaned into me and whispered. Her voice was tinged with sadness. “Maile has a heavy heart.”
It didn't take a kahuna to see Maile's concern. Her eye was not on me, nor on where she was going. She was completely focused on the koa wood display case to my left. She spoke over her shoulder to Sandra, and the director snapped back at her. Kahuna Iwalani was on target; something was very wrong between those two.
We had just exchanged greetings when Chance re-appeared at the base of the stairs. He displayed to me a large flowered beach bag. Nodded. Flipped a quick thumbs up.
“Sandra and I were going to move this display case later.” There was a controlled anger in Maile's voice.
My pulse sped just a bit. This was how it started. Change the game. Disrupt the plan.
“You're welcome,” I countered. Before she could respond, I continued. “But Chance was right here and I was, too. We figured it would be a nice gesture for us to do the heavy lifting for you. Oh, and Maile, I was curious. Do you know what this symbol means?”
I knelt. Pointed under the case. Watched her face.
She blanched, swallowed, knelt next to me, and gave the bottom of the case a cursory glance. She shrugged and forced a smile. “I have no idea.”
Liar. She knew. Her pupils were large; her fingers trembled. She absolutely knew where the symbol had come from. But, it was too soon. “Maybe Sandra recognizes it.”
Sandra snapped, “I told you it was on a mug Bo gave me.”
Watching her face, nothing betrayed her claim of innocence and confusion, but Maile's face was an altogether different story. She went from shooting daggers at her boss to total avoidance.
Oh, of course…
She wanted Sandra's job.
Finally, something made sense. “Maile, I understand you worked with Brittany at a women's shelter. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” Maile shrugged. “I was only there for a short time, but she's still very involved.”
“I take it helping battered women is a big concern of hers. Why?”
“She was bullied quite a bit as a child. It led her to a bad relationship with a man who was very abusive. She's found that helping other women get past their crises is very…fulfilling.” She stared at Chance, who was approaching with the flowered bag. Her lips parted and fear spread across her face as she recognized the brightly colored satchel.
Kahuna Iwalani, Sandra, and Chance were watching Maile intently. Chance glanced at me and winked. I nodded.
Almost casually, he asked, “Sandra, who knew about your date with Bo?”
Sandra glared at Maile. “Far too many people.”
“Such as?”
I felt a little surge of pride. Chance had learned a lot since we'd begun working together. He'd caught the “tell”—the looks between these two women. Their professed friendship was offset by their repressed animosity.
“I told Maile the day after it happened,” Sandra said. “She must have told Brittany because Brittany said something to me later. She was quite upset over it. Word has even filtered out t
o a couple of the staff.” She scowled at Maile. “I trusted you, Maile. I talked to you in confidence.”
Her assistant gritted her teeth and muttered a half-hearted apology.
Sandra took a deep breath. “It's done. I wish I hadn't said anything. I really don't even know how it happened.”
I looked straight at Maile. Let my gaze bore into hers. “But you know, don't you?”
Chapter 11: McKenna
Maile recoiled and bumped into Chance. When he put his hand on her arm, she closed her eyes, and croaked, “Yes.”
Kahuna Iwalani moved next to Maile and put a consoling hand on her shoulder. “Tell us.”
The mascara she wore smeared when Maile wiped at her cheek. Instead of answering my question, she reached out to Sandra with a shaky hand. “I never meant for this to go so far…”
“Were you willing to do anything to get my job?” Sandra snapped. “Tell me, Maile, would you have let me go to jail for your crime?”
“Bo was never supposed to keep it,” she sobbed.
“The plan was for Bo to steal the pōhaku, ruin Sandra's reputation, and return it once Sandra got fired.” I leaned forward until she cringed at the intrusion in her personal space. “Is that what you thought would happen?”
Maile clutched her arms to her chest. She nodded. “He wasn't supposed to do anything to Sandra. You've got to believe me. Brittany gave me the pōhaku when she came in today. She's the one who killed Bo.”
Her confession came as no surprise, nor did her weak attempts to reconcile with Sandra. Maile was smart enough to know that she who confessed first and with the most sincerity fared best. “Sandra,” I said, “Maile was here when Bo was murdered. She can't be the killer. I think she's telling us the truth. Maile, why did Brittany murder Bo?”
“Because he was a vicious, evil man driven by greed. I thought he was helping me because he liked me. But he wanted you.” She glared at Sandra. “He just stole the pōhaku because he wanted to make money. He was obsessed from the moment he saw it.”
Chance shook his head. His voice sounded incredulous. “You're saying Brittany killed a man because he stole a rock?”
“No.” She sobbed, and then she took a deep breath. “Brittany hates abusive men. When she discovered what Bo had done to Sandra, she flew into a rage. She was…out of control. She takes some kind of medication for the moods, but sometimes she…loses it.”
I hadn't realized it, but we'd garnered a crowd. Some were more discreet than others, but whether they were lingering over a single exhibit or gawking openly, it made no difference. “Show's over, folks.”
Sandra flushed and stammered an apology, but it was far too late. I'd seen at least one cell phone recording us. Within the hour, this conversation would be the hottest topic on Honolulu's social media. Sandra's reputation would probably be ruined by gossip. Maybe she already sensed the end coming. She composed herself and announced the museum was closed. The grand opening was over.
The reluctant crowd of eavesdroppers, trick-or-treaters, parents, and those who were simply interested in a free day at the museum began to file out the front door into the falling rain. And that's where we found Brittany, standing in the rain and staring at our little group.
Chance took her arm and guided her upstream through the crowd. Her first words were, “I want my lawyer.”
Of course she did.
“Sandra,” I asked, “would you open the case? Also, call HPD while Kahuna Iwalani returns the pōhaku to its home.”
She nodded and picked up the bag. When we opened the display case, Kahuna Iwalani gingerly removed a bath towel. She unwrapped it and carefully placed the pōhaku in its rightful spot. “It is done.” She reached up, closed the case, and locked it.
Everything kicked into high gear when the first responders arrived. Within minutes, they realized they'd stumbled into something far more than they could handle and made calls for backup. By the time we were done, we had detectives, techs, and go-fers scurrying around and conducting interviews. Chance and I were finally released about seven.
I was exhausted by the time we arrived at the Sunsetter Apartments. As Chance parked his Ferrari, I thanked him for a fun day at the museum, even if the festivities had ended earlier than expected. “Maybe tomorrow I can find a plumber to fix my garbage disposal,” I grumbled.
“Sorry. I just thought it would be a nice break. Look, it's my fault you didn't get it fixed. Let me find you someone who will come out later tonight. Maybe after the kids have finishing their trick-or-treating. I can make a few phone calls, because I have some time before I pick up Lexie.”
“You two are back together? That was fast.”
He shook his head. “We were never really apart. It was just a misunderstanding. Totally my fault.”
I smiled. “Good. You two are great together. And, don't worry about my garbage disposal. I could have said no to your invitation this morning, but I didn't. I'll have to regroup tomorrow. Besides, I'm whipped and in no mood to deal with even the best guy on the island. Let’s call it a day. Happy Halloween.”
We said good night and I returned to my apartment, where I stuck the key in the door with a sigh. We might have saved the pōhaku, but I'd lost my connection to Kimu. The presence in the museum had evaporated the moment the pōhaku was back in its case. Now, I felt…alone. I missed the old surfer, no matter how much he annoyed me.
I closed the door behind me. Trudged into the kitchen. Dropped my keys into the little shell where I stored them. Stopped, and stared around the room.
What happened to my kitchen? Somebody robbed me? They took my cleaning supplies? What else?
In place of the sponges, boxes, and bottles I'd left strewn over the counter this morning, there was a note.
I picked it up and read.
McKenna—
Sorry I didn't get out here when you called this morning. I can't believe you sent some guy after me. Dude was a great surfer. I lost a bet with him, so he told me to take care of this mess for you. You got a new disposal and I even cleaned up. By the way, those were some rad green board shorts your guy had. Any idea where I can get a pair?
Aloha, Freddie.
--The End--
Terry Ambrose writes the Trouble in Paradise (McKenna Mystery) series, and the License to Lie thriller series. Terry has been nominated for multiple awards and won the 2014 San Diego Book Awards for Best Action/Thriller.
Kirkus Reviews said Terry’s writing has “...the kind of snark that will remind readers of Elmore Leonard.” Find Terry on the web at www.terryambrose.com.
Haunting in Himmarshee: A Mace and Mama Short Mystery
By Deborah Sharp
Editor’s Note: This is the second in a series of short stories based on the characters and setting of Deborah’s popular Mace Bauer Mysteries. When a ghost comes to call, Mace must sort out the haunted from the homicidal in Himmarshee, Florida.
Chapter 1: Bad News
With my arms full of Halloween odds and ends, I banged the toe of my work boot on Mama’s front door. Her Pomeranian, Teensy, danced around the foyer, keeping time to the rhythm of ear-splitting barks.
“Open up,” I shouted. “I’ve got your Cleopatra, and her headdress is heavier than a sarcophagus.”
My mother decided to dress as the ancient Egyptian queen for Himmarshee’s Halloween bash, which she insists upon calling a costume ball. Since Mama openly orders everyone around, and secretly believes herself worthy of worship, the royal get-up seemed an appropriate choice.
Through the front window, I saw her bustling toward the door, buttoning the jacket of her orange-sherbet-colored pantsuit. She’d recently hired a friend of a friend who’d fallen on hard times to help with her housework. It showed: The window was so squeaky-clean I could make out a waxed floor and a faint smudge of Apricot Ice lipstick on Teensy’s furry head, where Mama had kissed him. I almost felt guilty about the boot scuffs I was leaving on the dust-free door.
“Stop that pounding, Mace. You’re
going to wake the dead.”
“Good. Maybe they can help me carry in all this junk you asked for.”
As she swung open the door, I thrust a grinning jack-o’-lantern and two five-pound sacks of candy at her. I switched on the hallway light. It flickered and went out. I switched it again. Nothing.
“That light’s been acting up,” Mama said. “I need a new bulb.”
I slid the garment bag from Fran’s Formal Duds and Frocks onto the couch.
“I’m telling you right now, you’re going to snap your neck wearing that headpiece. Did you ask Fran to make the trim in gold-painted lead?”
“Stop your whining. That little bit of stuff shouldn’t bother a strong gal like you. It’s not like I asked your sister Marty to tote it over here. Marty is delicate.”
The unspoken message: Unlike big, brawny me. Of course, Mama did have a point. My job keeps me active outdoors in a wild region of Florida, north of Lake Okeechobee. I’m 5-foot-10, even without my work boots on. And though I’m slim, I’m well-muscled from clearing trails and caring for gators and other wildlife at Himmarshee Nature Park. Marty, my younger sister, takes after Mama. She’s tiny and dainty, and as pretty as a porcelain doll. Marty is a librarian, while our older sister, Maddie, is a school principal. Maddie possesses a fiery temper to match her red hair, and a bossy nature that serves her well when herding middle-schoolers.
Both my sisters are married. I haven’t made the leap yet, though Mama likes to stand right behind me on the cliff, shoving me hard between the shoulder blades.
“Where’s Carlos?” With a hopeful look, she gazed upon the empty street outside. “I thought you two were going out to dinner. Maybe to talk about your future together?”
I had the urge to tell her Carlos had run off with the cashier from the Booze ‘n’ Breeze drive-thru liquor store. But I was tired from re-stocking the feed room at work with 50-pound bags of alligator chow. I didn’t have the energy to resuscitate her from the heart attack my little joke would surely cause. Besides, the real reason my fiancé was late was nothing to laugh about.
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 54