Burned

by Carol Higgins Clark

  “Don’t make fun of my tapes.”

  “I’m not. Why don’t we go for a run?”

  “Now?”

  “Why not? You have too much tension built up inside. Run it off, and you’ll sleep like a baby.”

  “I’ll sleep like a baby right now if we just turned out the light.”

  “Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. Done!” Ned jumped up from the floor. “I’ll take a quick shower, then lights out.”

  I can’t take it, Artie thought. I just can’t take it. Down the hall, the Wiltons were lying in bed. They were discussing their chapter of the book on how to keep a relationship exciting.

  Bob thought Betsy got a little too jealous at times. He liked to kid around with the ladies. No harm intended. But Betsy didn’t like it one bit. That brought excitement to their relationship, but it wasn’t the right kind. Some couples liked to fight so they could have fun making up. Not Betsy Wilton.

  “Now, for instance,” Bob said as he folded his hands across his chest, “when that lady who drowned was taking pictures of us last night and I told her how good she smelled, you gave me the evil eye. Then you left in a huff and went back to the room.”

  “The reason you knew how good she smelled was because you put your arm around her and gave her a big hug. Just because she took our picture. That wasn’t necessary.”

  Bob considered this. “Well, it doesn’t matter now.”

  “I guess it doesn’t.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “That she is.”

  “I came back to the room, and you were fast asleep.”

  “I took a little piece of a sleeping pill.”

  “No wonder you were out like a light.” Bob smiled mischievously. “You know, Dorinda Dawes was wearing a shell lei when she died. I think they’re sexy. I’ll see if I can buy you one tomorrow. Good night, dear.”

  “Good night,” Betsy said as she stared up at the ceiling. Writing about bringing out the excitement in a relationship is bringing out the worst in him, she thought. It’s getting downright scary.

  Two single women sharing a room when they were thirty years apart in age presented challenges all its own. But thankfully Francie and Joy were both slobs. On that score they were a match made in heaven. The bathroom counter was littered with makeup, creams, suntan lotions, and hair care products of every variety. Towels and clothes were piled in heaps everywhere.

  They probably could have been good friends if Joy were a little older. But Joy was still sowing her wild oats and had no interest in anyone who was north of twenty-five. It was nearly three in the morning when she tiptoed into the room. She had managed to hook up with a group of young people who worked at the hotel. They had gone to Duke’s and then partied on a stretch of beach in front of the restaurant. Zeke, the lifeguard she had a crush on, was there, and he’d spent the night talking to her. He didn’t walk her back to her room because the staff wasn’t supposed to socialize with the hotel guests, but he’d told her to meet him the next night at the bar at the Sheraton Moana. Joy was thrilled. It would make her day with the Mixed Bag Tour group bearable.

  Joy tried to be quiet as she slipped into the bathroom and undressed. She picked the T-shirt she slept in off the floor and pulled it over her head. Too tired to take off her makeup, she did manage to give her teeth the once-over with a tattered toothbrush.

  Holding her breath, she turned out the bathroom light and slowly opened the door. Five seconds later she was under the covers. That’s a relief, she thought as she felt herself relax. Across the table, Francie’s voice rang out: “How was your night? You must tell me all about it!”

  Oh, my God, Joy thought. I can’t cope!

  Gert and Ev had a suite with a sitting room and a bedroom that was larger than all the others in the group. That’s because they were in charge. They tried to book the same rooms for every trip, but of course it wasn’t always possible. But they always managed to get rooms next to one another with adjoining terraces overlooking the water. Sometimes the Lucky Seven stood out on their terraces and chatted back and forth. There was no escaping each other.

  Having lived together all their lives, Gert and Ev were as in synch as two people could be. They possessed a sixth sense often shared by twins. They still wore the same clothes, used the same products, and now shared many of the same aches and pains. Ev had more of an edge than Gert. She didn’t always take to the people they had to drag on the trips.

  “Those Wiltons are so annoying,” she called to Gert from the bathroom as she was flossing her teeth.

  “No sunshine from them,” Gert agreed.

  “I’m glad we have the day off tomorrow. We’ll have our own fun.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Ev threw the floss in the trash, washed her hands again, rinsed her mouth, and went in and flopped on her bed. “Do you think we’ll find us some good deals tomorrow?”

  Gert smiled at her twin. “You betcha. We’ll make ourselves some real good deals.”

  The twins high-fived each other, said a prayer for their deceased parents, an extra-special prayer for Sal Hawkins, and went to sleep.

  Friday, January 14

  13

  S till on Los Angeles time Regan had awakened early, dressed, and left a note for Kit who was sleeping soundly when she left the room. By 7 A.M. Regan had already gone for a walk on the beach. Not wanting to deal with the big buffet in the main dining room, she went into one of the smaller cafés for breakfast.

  It felt good being up so early. The air was fresh, and the beach was quiet and calm. Whenever Regan dragged herself out of bed at the crack of dawn, she told herself she had to do it more often. But her resolve never lasted. Rising with the roosters only worked when she went to sleep early or when her body was on a different time zone from where she happened to be.

  In the Pineapple Café, Regan took a seat at the counter. The Waikiki Waters wanted to cater to all types of people, so they had all kinds of restaurants. This particular café felt like a coffee shop in New York except that it had wallpaper depicting pineapple fields. Regan reached for the stack of local newspapers on the counter that were shared by the customers. She pulled over the newspaper on the top of the heap as the waitress approached her.

  “Coffee?” she asked and started to pour before Regan responded. I guess she doesn’t get too many negative responses to that question, Regan thought.

  “Yes, thanks,” Regan answered unnecessarily as she stared at the front page. There was a picture of a smiling, attractive woman with a big orchid in her hair, identified as Dorinda Dawes, the tragic victim of a drowning accident at the Waikiki Waters.

  “Shame, isn’t it?” the waitress remarked.

  Regan looked at the woman who appeared to be in her late sixties-quite a bit older than the typical employee at the Waikiki Waters. She had a tight pageboy hairdo, a dark tan, and a wry smile. A pineapple-shaped name tag that said Winnie and about a dozen buttons that dispensed advice on life were pinned to her pink jacket. One of them read “Live every day as if it’s your last. Someday you’ll be right.” How appropriate, Regan thought, then asked, “Did you know Dorinda Dawes?”

  “I saw her around a little bit. But you know I only work when the young folks call in sick. Whenever the surf’s up, you can be sure that they all suddenly come down with bad colds. Then they run off to the ocean with their surfboards. That’s why they’re in Hawaii. So the management has us older, more reliable types on call.” She raised her eyebrows. “It gets me out of the house. I must say I like it because I can say no if I feel like it. And sometimes that’s just what I do. I tell them, ‘No way, José.’ ”

  “It’s good to be in that position,” Regan noted as she glanced back at the newspaper. “I hear the real mystery is where she got that historic lei.”

  “I know it!” The waitress’s eyes snapped. She dropped her voice. “The word is that she was running around the other night taking lots of pictures and asking too many questions. People were gettin
g annoyed. Then she talked about having to go home and get her newsletter done. Next thing you know, her body washes ashore and she’s wearing a lei no one had seen her with.”

  “Had she been drinking?” Regan asked.

  “How do I know? I wasn’t here. But I’ve seen her in action with a wineglass in one hand and the camera in the other. My friend Tess works here, too, and we were talking about this on the phone last night. Dorinda was always in the middle of every cocktail party they held here. Taking pictures, asking questions. Enough already!” Winnie lowered her voice. “If you want to know the truth, we think she was on the hunt for a guy. Well, why not? She was a nice-looking gal. And some of the men who come to the conferences are mighty handsome. Problem is, most of them are married. But let me tell you, she was some flirt!” Winnie nodded her head for emphasis. “You know what she seemed like to me and Tess? One of those women who love, love, love the men but have no use for women. Did you ever meet one of those?”

  Oh, yes, Regan thought. She’s still alive, and her name is Jazzy.

  14

  A t 9:01 A.M. Regan was seated in the chair in front of Will’s desk. He looked a little weary, she thought. This guy has a lot on his mind. His bright blue and white Hawaiian shirt did not offset the gray pallor of his face.

  “Sleep well?” he asked her.

  “For several hours. But then I woke early. How about you?”

  “Okay. But I’m used to having my wife and son around. I’ll be glad when they get back tonight. I’ll also be glad when this Princess ball is over and done with.”

  Regan nodded and pulled the newspaper out of her bag. “Did you see this?” She indicated the front-page article on Dorinda Dawes.

  “I read it at six-thirty this morning.”

  “I was interested to read that Dorinda Dawes was writing a series of articles about life in Hawaii for a new travel magazine. She was profiling people who had come to Hawaii to start a second career.”

  “In the few months she was here she managed to get into a lot of things. She was like dandruff. All over the place. At first I didn’t mind. What we paid her to do the newsletter wasn’t enough to live on. But she also had plans to start her own gossip sheet about goings-on in Waikiki and Honolulu. She told me she really wanted to uncover big stories. That made me nervous. I insisted that she keep the newsletter friendly. It wasn’t easy. Let’s just say it wasn’t in her nature to be nice. But who wants to come to a hotel where they might write snippy things about you? The first newsletter she wrote was all about the celebrities who stay here, but I wouldn’t print it.”

  “I heard about that.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. From a girl named Jazzy.”

  Will rolled his eyes. “More dandruff. She’s trying to get into everything. She’s organizing the gift bags for the ball.”

  “She told me that, too. You don’t like her?”

  “Jazzy is out for Jazzy. She’s also out for her boss. He’s actually helping to underwrite the ball because he’s trying to kick off a line of Hawaiian-style clothing. He’s donating his Hawaiian shirts and muumuus for the gift bag.”

  “She didn’t mention that. Have you seen the clothes?”

  “No. But I understand there are sketches of shell leis on them. It goes along with the princess theme.”

  “I take it this is an important ball for the hotel.”

  Will nodded. “It’s our first big event since the renovation. And it’s a very important ball for the organizations that will benefit from this fund-raiser.”

  “What organizations?” Regan asked.

  “The Seashell Museum and a group called Aloha Artists. Basically it’s a bunch of people who got together and built a studio for young artists and sculptors and craftsmen who produce native Hawaiian art. They can go to the studio to work and just be with one another. They sometimes have guest artists, and they’re trying to organize more formal classes. That’s why the auction of the royal lei is such a big thing. It shows how important native art is and how good art can be passed down for generations. Now that Liliuokalani’s lei has been found, the board of Aloha Artists is in a frenzy. They want to auction off both leis, although they’re trying to be tasteful about it. After all, one of them was found on a dead woman. And of course they have to convince the owner of the Seashell Museum to hand the lei over for the auction.”

  Regan raised her eyebrows. “I thought I’d go over to the Seashell Museum this morning and see if I can talk to someone about when the lei was stolen. Maybe it’ll lead to something. I can’t help but think that lei has something to do with Dorinda’s death. If I can find out where she got the lei, it may provide some clues as to how and why she died.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Will agreed, his voice barely audible.

  “In the meantime could you gather together all the newsletters that Dorinda Dawes wrote? I’d love to take a look at them.” Regan looked down at the newspaper. “I’d also like copies of the travel magazine. It says here it’s called Spirits in Paradise.” Regan looked back up at Will. “Do you know whom she interviewed for the pieces she did?”

  Will shrugged. “It’s a monthly magazine. She had only one article published so far, in this month’s issue. She was working on another. I think she mentioned something about maybe going over to the Big Island for an interview. I must admit I never read the magazine. Dorinda talked so much, it went in one ear and out the other. But I’ll get the article for you. We have the magazine for our guests in the spas and beauty salons.”

  “Thanks. I was wondering, did Dorinda have a locker here?”

  “No. Only the employees who wear uniforms have lockers.”

  “What time did you last see Dorinda on Wednesday night?

  “It was about eleven-thirty. We both worked late. She had been taking pictures at a couple of events at the hotel and as usual went into the bars and restaurants to see who might want their picture taken. She poked her head in my office door and said good-bye. Her camera was still in her hand, and I think she had a bag over her shoulder.”

  “And she wasn’t wearing the lei.”

  “No, she wasn’t.”

  “And her purse hasn’t been recovered.”

  “No.”

  Regan pushed her chair back and stood. “I’ll take a cab to the museum. I assume you’ll be here when I get back.”

  Will looked at her with wide, concerned eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  15

  T he Seashell Museum was about a twenty-minute ride from the Waikiki Waters Hotel. Regan looked out the window as the cab drove down the main street of Waikiki, headed in the direction of Diamond Head. It was a beautiful Friday morning. Shoppers were going in and out of the stores, and swimmers were crossing the street, headed for the beach, surfboards and boogie boards in tow. The water looked blue and inviting, the temperature was about eighty degrees, and the sun was shining brightly. Perfect Hawaiian weather.

  Regan thought about Dorinda Dawes. People seemed to have definite opinions about her. She certainly must have come on strong. There were a lot of people Regan wanted to talk to about Dorinda, but first she wanted to read the newsletters and take a look at Spirits in Paradise.

  At the museum, which was on a hill overlooking the beach, Regan paid the cabdriver and got out. It was a beautiful, somewhat secluded spot. A handful of cars was parked in the lot in front of the museum. The entrance was around back. Regan followed the walkway to the front door, went inside, and was told by a young girl behind the cash register that they didn’t open until ten o’clock. The girl had long shiny black hair adorned with an orchid.

  “What I really wanted,” Regan explained as she handed the girl her card, “was to talk to someone about the shell lei that was found on the body of the woman who drowned. I understand it was returned to the museum.”

  The girl squinted her eyes at Regan. “You need to talk to Jimmy. He’s a conchologist, and he owns the museum.”

  “Conchologist?
”

  “He’s a person who can tell you everything you ever wanted to know about shells and some stuff you could care less about. He’s down the hill, sitting on the beach. Go talk to him.”

  “Maybe I should wait…”

  The girl waved her hand at Regan. “Nah. Go ahead.”

  “Okay, thanks. What does he look like?”

  “He’s big, pretty old, mostly bald, and he’ll be sitting cross-legged.”

  Regan smiled. “How do you know he’ll be sitting like that?”

  “Because he’s always looking at his feet. He walks so much on the beach that he occasionally gets cut by the shells. He’s fascinated by the marks they leave on his skin.”

  “How interesting,” Regan murmured, more to herself, as she went back outside and paused briefly. The view of the Pacific was awesome. She inhaled a breath of fresh fragrant air and headed down the stone steps on the side of the museum to the beach.

  There was no missing Jimmy.

  He was a big man indeed and was sitting cross-legged on the sand. His eyes were closed, and he was wearing what looked like a toga. The toga reminded Regan of fraternity parties she’d been to in college where people acted rowdy. But Jimmy was the only one at this party, and it certainly wasn’t lively. There was no one else around. He looked like some sort of spiritual guru. His brown skin was deeply tanned, and a slight breeze blew back and forth the little bits of sparse hair that remained on his head. His eyes were closed.

  Assuming he was meditating, Regan stopped a few feet behind the lone figure. She was deciding what to do when he opened his eyes and turned to her.

  “Howzit. You looking for Jimmy?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Jimmy’s here.”

  “Hi, Jimmy,” Regan responded, wondering why people would refer to themselves in the third person. She wanted to add: “Regan Reilly here, too.”