Sleuthing Women II

by Lois Winston

  “But I didn’t.” Gurn came to me, leaned over, and gave me a gentle kiss. “Calm down. I’ll admit, I don’t like the man, but Detective Kim seems like a thorough policeman. He’ll check and see I was with other people and never left the airport the entire five days, except to fly over the fire.”

  “You think? It seems to me the police often glom onto a suspect and never let go. And what’s all this about hoping he doesn’t have to interfere with our leaving Hawaii? You, husband mine, are a suspect. We need to be proactive on this.”

  I reached for my phone and hit a frequently dialed number. Gurn looked at me.

  “Lee, darling, don’t.”

  “Lee darling do.”

  I grinned at him. Gurn returned my grin then laughed.

  “Whatever makes you happy.”

  While I waited for my brother to answer the phone, Gurn poured two more glasses of iced tea. He set one near me.

  “Let’s keep you hydrated.”

  “Thank you.”

  I took a long drink and Richard finally picked up, his tone sounding incredulous.

  “Lee? Why are you calling me? You’re on your honeymoon. Get real.”

  “We’ve got a funny situation here.”

  “Funny, as in ha-ha?”

  “No, funny as in potential trouble. I need to tap into your research acumen.”

  Richard’s tone switched from familial warmth to no-nonsense business in an instant. “Okay, shoot.”

  My kid brother is the head of the IT Department at Discretionary Inquiry, better known as D. I. to everyone save our CEO mother, who believes using initials or nicknames is akin to spitting on your hostess at a high tea. Not to brag—but I will—Richard’s computer genius helps keep D. I. at the forefront of technologically driven Silicon Valley.

  I filled him in on the situation and Detective Kim’s insinuations verbatim—because that’s one of those quirky things I can do—and gave him what we knew about the victim. Feeling better, I hung up with the understanding he’d get back to me with everything there was to know about one very dead Janet Bernstein.

  THREE

  One of the best things about being on a vacation, including a honeymoon, is you get to do whatever you want whenever you want. Like at one in the afternoon—following an unnerving visit from the police—opening a bottle of bubbly found sitting in an ice bucket placed discreetly outside the door, compliments of the management.

  Shortly after we popped the cork, a soft rain began to fall. It was the kind that makes you want to run through it with your arms extended, your hands reaching out for every drop. The sun intermittently drifted in and out of clouds often bringing a brief but intense rainbow. From every direction you could spot one making an appearance only to disappear again within an instant. It was magic.

  Relatively dry under the awning of the lanai, Gurn and I sipped our champagne and read aloud to each other from our books of the moment. His was John Grisham’s Rogue Lawyer. Fortunately, mine was Cindy Sample’s Dying For a Diamond, so when it was my turn to read, we laughed and laughed. Then we talked about our future together as husband and wife. That was magic, too.

  Of course, now and then the woman in the red bikini would mentally smack my brain with her dead, balled up fist. I tried not to let it ruin the rest of the day. For the most part, I succeeded.

  Richard called around 4:30 Hawaii time, just as the skies were clearing. It was 6:30 on the mainland.

  “I’ll get right to it, Lee,” he said. “Is Gurn with you?”

  “Yes.“

  “You’d better put me on speaker phone.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this. What have you found?”

  “A surprising development. And I want you both to hear this.”

  “Gurn, Richard wants us to listen to this together.”

  Gurn set down his book and gave me a puzzled look. I put the phone on speaker.

  “We’re ready. Go ahead.”

  “Janet Marie Bernstein, originally from Ohio, thirty-seven years old, and twice divorced. She moved to Sacramento in two thousand, went to the culinary art school, but dropped out after a year. She was a sous-chef in a restaurant or two before she started her own catering business. Parties, special events, you know, that type of thing. Not hugely successful, but managed to hang on. Hers was one of three companies hired by the county to truck in breakfast, lunch, or dinner for the firefighters last summer when the Sacramento wildfire blazed out of control. She wasn’t there much, but she supervised the initial setup and distribution of her food service, which were the breakfasts. Bottom line: she was at the airport the same time Gurn was there, at least two of those days. It’s on record.”

  “You’re kidding,” Gurn said. He glanced at me in astonishment. I could see him revisiting the experience in his mind. Then he looked back down at the phone sitting between us on the wicker table.

  “Rich, I don’t remember running into her. But most of the flyers didn’t go to the makeshift commissary for food. In the beginning, we ate and slept in our planes. After they made temporary barracks out of a hanger, we stayed there. Runners brought us our meals. Until we got the fire under control, we were flying twelve- to eighteen-hour shifts. We just crashed when we weren’t on duty. I was often too tired to eat.”

  “I remember you saying how exhausting it was,” I said. “But—”

  “But this won’t look good to Detective Kim once he finds out about Janet Bernstein and me being there at the same time,” Gurn finished the sentence for me.

  “He may already know,” I said. “That could be why we got the surprise visit from him.”

  “Hmmm.” Gurn sat thinking.

  Richard spoke up. “If Detective Kim has you tagged as a suspect—”

  “Oh, he does,” I interrupted. “Believe me.”

  “Then we should find out all we can about the lady, Huckster, and everyone who knew her,” finished Richard.

  Huckster was the nickname given Gurn in his NROTC days. Richard joined the Naval Reserve Officer Training Corps in college, and Gurn was his commanding officer. They soon became friends, even after their tour of duty. I met Gurn when unbeknownst to me, my kid brother asked him to keep an eye on me during a case, as we were both in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, at the same time. The idea I needed to be ‘kept an eye on’ still rankled, but I might not have met the love of my life, otherwise.

  “Yes, I guess I should be prepared,” Gurn said, still lost in thought. “Those five days were surreal. I put all my energies into getting the fire under control. We all did. Off the top of my head, the only women I can think of having any sort of conversations with were two other pilots and a firefighter. And those were monosyllables, at best. We were there to fight a fire, not socialize.”

  I turned to Gurn, laying a soft hand on his knee. “How many people were a part of it? Do you remember?”

  Before he could answer, Richard spoke up. “Around four hundred firefighters and volunteers at various times. Seventeen flyers in the mix, of which Huckster was one.”

  “From all over, too,” added Gurn. “You have to be specially trained to drop water or retardant on a fire. Not just any pilot can do it.”

  “I’ve got all the names of the volunteers, Lee. The team is doing a check now on their backgrounds.” The ‘team’ consisted of ten other members of the IT Department, all cracker jack at gathering information.

  “Hopefully,” I said, “we can track down a few people who remember Gurn’s schedule during that time. Who saw him when.”

  “That’s my thinking, sis.”

  “What do we know about her two ex-husbands, Richard?”

  “Ah! Good point, Lee,” said my brother. “I’ll get someone on that right away.”

  Gurn’s phone rang. He pulled it out of the breast pocket of the Guayabera shirt he was wearing over his swimming trunks.

  “Great. And text me the list of volunteer names,” I said to Richard, as Gurn looked at the number of the incoming call. “We’ll
see if anybody rings a bell with Gurn, someone who can verify where he was at certain times.”

  After a moment’s silence, Richard said, “Done; on its way. I’ll get back to you, as soon as I have something else.” He hesitated. “Am I keeping Mom in the loop?”

  Our mother, Lila Hamilton Alvarez, is the CEO of the family business, Discretionary Inquiries, and often referred to as She Who Must Be Obeyed. When displeased, she’s been known to chill Chardonnay at a single glance. While that can be handy if you’re on a camping trip in the wild, it doesn’t pay to get on the wrong side of L. H. Alvarez.

  “Probably we should,” I said. “She seems to find things out, eventually. And you know how fond she is of Gurn.”

  “Not to mention you.”

  I laughed before saying, “Thanks, Richard. Talk to you later.” We disconnected.

  Gurn looked up at me. “The call was from Ken, probably about tonight. We promised to join them for dinner, remember? I let it go to voicemail.”

  Robin and Ken Margolis was a married couple living on Kauai for the past ten years. They were around our ages and originally from the Bay Area. We’d met at an outdoor cafe the day we arrived and got together occasionally for drinks or a meal.

  “Let’s beg off,” I said. “I don’t think we’re in the mood for socializing.”

  “That may not work, hon. Remember, Robin’s brother is in town and she wanted us to meet him.”

  “Isn’t he a crop duster or something? I missed that part of the conversation when I went to the ladies’ room. I guess Robin believes you have something in common.”

  “I never got his name, but I’m sure we do. A plane is a plane. You can’t fly any of them without coming up with a harrowing story or two.”

  “There’s a comforting thought. I’ll hang onto that one the next time you go up.”

  We both laughed and felt some of the tension leave us. Gurn stood, phone in hand.

  “I’ll take a walk on the beach and call Ken back. Are you okay with it, if we can’t get out of meeting them tonight? I don’t want to go into why we’d break the date.”

  “Sure,” I lied, and gave him a brave smile.

  I watched him stride off then looked at the list of names Richard messaged me. Without Gurn to tell me who some of these people were, they were just names on a list. I texted a fast message and asked him to return sooner rather than later. He may have been taking a walk to clear his head, but murder was nipping at his heels.

  FOUR

  An idea came to me, so I phoned the front desk of the hotel. I sat on hold for a short time waiting for one of the two managers to come on the line. I’d asked for Larry specifically, as he was the kinder, gentler one. He was also the one who showed up with Gurn that morning.

  His co-manager wife was a sharp, dictatorial woman whom the staff often referred to as Killer Carla behind her back. After listening to her dress down a sobbing maid for miscounting the linen, I knew why. Her dealings with guests were somewhat better, but you could tell the ‘aloha’ spirit had somehow gotten by her.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hanson,” Larry crooned. His was a soft, sincere delivery, completely opposite that of his wife. “I hope you are doing better in light of this morning’s experiences. And on your honeymoon. Such a tragedy. A young woman like that dying out of the blue. How unpleasant. I can only assume it was some sort of heart attack?” He ended his speech with a questioning tone, i.e. a fishing expedition.

  “I wish I knew,” I said, trying to sound just as perplexed as he.

  Not only was I lying, but didn’t bother to correct him about my last name, the same as I hadn’t with the Margolis couple. I could see not bearing the customary last name of the husband was going to have its difficulties. I’d have to learn how to handle it. Maybe I could wear a sign.

  “Speaking of the woman on the beach—”

  “Yes,” Larry interrupted. “You got our bottle of champagne? The hotel’s way of saying we’re sorry.”

  “We did and it was excellent. Unnecessary, but excellent. Thank you.” I cleared my throat. “Larry, was the victim also staying at the hotel? Her name was Janet Bernstein.”

  “Yes, I remember her distinctly, just like I told the police. Ms. Bernstein was from my hometown of Sacramento, although I’d never met her before.”

  “You’re from Sacramento?”

  “Yes. You’ll find many of us haoles on the islands are from the West Coast. It’s been over twenty years since I left. Another life. Is that where you’re from? Sacramento?”

  “No, Palo Alto.”

  “Well, it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to Sacramento from Palo Alto.”

  Gawd, everybody thinks the two towns are neighbors. That is sooo not good.

  “At least a three-hour drive in today’s traffic,” I said aloud. “But it’s a small world, Larry.”

  “It is, indeed. Ms. Bernstein and I remarked about it at the time. She was here with a group of other women teachers, the only one who had her own room. The others doubled up.”

  “She was a teacher?” This didn’t jive with what Richard had found out.

  Larry hesitated. “I think so, Mrs. Hanson. I just assumed she was. I know the rest of the women are teachers because I overheard them comparing their students at lunch yesterday.”

  “How many of them in the group?”

  “Nine. As I say, Ms. Bernstein had a single room to herself.”

  “How long has the group been here?”

  “They arrived night before last. They’re due to stay a week.” He paused, and then his tone took on a conciliatory bend. “I’m sure, Mrs. Hanson, they hold you in no way responsible for her death. Rest assured of that.”

  “Thank you, Larry, but I still would like to offer my condolences. Would you mind giving me their names?”

  I could feel him thinking before he spoke again. “I’m sure there’s no harm in that. The one she seemed to be friends with was Mrs. Caroline Osborne. Mrs. Osborne is sharing a room with her sister; both very nice ladies.”

  “Do you have a room number?”

  “I surely do. 1343, first wing, third floor, view of the ocean.” Larry went on, “I think you’ll find the ladies, however, by the pool having late afternoon tea. I saw them there only minutes ago. Life does go on, you know.”

  I thanked him, disconnected, and texted Gurn one more time. It had been nearly twenty minutes and he hadn’t appeared or responded. Then I headed off to the pool area. Before hanging up, Larry mentioned Caroline Osborne as being a petite but full-figured redhead—which I surmised to mean short and tubby—wearing a bright orange bathing suit with matching sunhat. I figured I’d be able to spot someone like that, me being a PI and all.

  It wasn’t surprising I hadn’t seen the women when they arrived, as Gurn and I occupied the most isolated section of the complex. Comprised of six ground level bungalows and used mostly by honeymooners or people who wanted to be left alone, you didn’t have to see anyone except the occasional staff member during your entire stay.

  The rest of the complex was three stories high, with four separate wings connected by lush, tropical gardens, a beachfront pool and deck, lobby, front desk, reception area, and open-air restaurant. The overall effect was a chic, tropical, and glam complex covering over an acre of beachfront property. Hawaii at its most lavish.

  The route to the pool was like walking through a jungle, albeit on a cement sidewalk. Well-groomed, exotic plants and colorful flowers abounded. Even the occasional parrot looked down from a palm frond.

  Just when I was about to text Gurn again, he finally got back to me. We texted back and forth briefly. Modern marriage.

  Delayed. Ran into someone. On my way.

  At pool. Hope to find friend of victim.

  Meet you there.

  The beachfront infinity pool and burbling waterfall was surrounded by multi-layered decks overflowing with sunbathers, swimmers, or people eating, drinking and gabbing at tables under umbrellas. I spied a group of eigh
t women gathered around two tables pulled together under the shade of a large, square turquoise umbrella.

  It was easy to find the redhead in the bright orange getup, although Larry had failed to mention the huge, red sequined hibiscus imprinted on the left breast of the swimsuit or the even larger one adorning her sunhat.

  Caroline Osborne, looking to be in her early fifties, sat holding court with an animated conversation about something or other. Whatever it was, it sent the rest of the women into gales of laughter. So much for mourning.

  I pulled off my sunglasses and approached the table. “Excuse me, ladies.” I turned to Caroline Osborne. “Mrs. Osborne, my name is Lee Alvarez. May I speak to you for a moment?”

  She looked me up and down before responding. “You’re the bride of that dishy man, the one who found Jan’s body this morning, aren’t you? The maid pointed you out to me this morning.”

  It was good to know the gossip pipeline was doing as well as the surfing pipeline.

  “Yes, I am.” I smiled before going on. “Sorry for the intrusion, but could I have a moment of your time?” I paused. “In private? It won’t take long.”

  Caroline Osborne let out a mock deep sigh. “Okay, girls, in demand once more. My fifteen minutes of fame. Catch you later.” She stood and picked up her iced tea. After a split second’s hesitation, she snatched up a half dozen chocolate chip cookies from a bowl in the middle of the table.

  “You’ll excuse us, ladies.” I said, backing up and ignoring the looks of inquiry dripping from their faces. I guided Caroline toward a smaller, empty table under the shade of a palm tree. The glare of the day made me put my sunglasses back on.

  “Why don’t we sit down? I thought—”

  Either she didn’t hear or chose to ignore me. She stared up into my face, the sun causing her to squint. “I could sure use me some sunglasses like yours. Those are neat. You think they have them in the ABC Shops?”

  “Ah…they might.”

  “They look like some designer’s.”

  “Ah…yes. Gucci.”

  “Honey.” The way she drew out the two-syllable word into four, plus her tone of voice, let me know she considered me the biggest dope she’d met in a long time. Then she went on as if she were talking to a not-so-bright three-year old. “They’re not going to have those in an ABC Store. Unless they’re a knockoff. Are they a knockoff?”