When a Lover Calls: A Romantic Suspense Novella (A TURQUOISE BEACH MYSTERY Book 1)

by Jane Preston

  Now, his gut was telling him that there was something very fishy, even shady, about Sterling Matthews. Things just don't add up with that character, he thought, imperceptibly shaking his head. The coroner had determined the cause of death to be foul play. Lucy was viscously strangled to death between the hours of midnight and 3 a.m. before being dumped in the ocean.

  However, one question troubled the seasoned officer, twice decorated for his courage in the line of duty: If Matthews is guilty, why would a man with an advanced degree in psychology, from a pedigree Ivy League college, no less, be so stupid as to abandon Lucy Troppe’s body near his home? Or, had he driven her body further up the beach to get rid of it, not knowing how the strong, seasonal currents would deliver her corpse to the shoreline near his house?

  If so, it was poetic justice, Lewis thought, and exactly what the guy deserved.

  Grinding out the stub of his cigarette into the green clay ash tray his granddaughter had made for him in her second grade art class, Lewis was reminded of an exceptionally good-looking athlete, Cory Davis, who had attended his high school, one year ahead of him. The girls literally threw themselves at Davis. Lewis knew he wasn’t just bothered by the fact that the brunette, movie-star-handsome, tri-athlete had openly bragged about his conquests of the most beautiful women on campus, dragging their young reputations through the mud; those locker room stories had also proved to be true.

  Maybe I could have lived with all the bravado if Davis hadn’t gone after Amanda, he reasoned, surprised that the thought of her name could still quicken his heart. His high school sweetheart, the one he’d almost married. That is, before Davis messed it all up.

  True, Matthews has a lot more class than Davis, the captain reasoned, absently raising his coffee cup to his mouth for another long sip.

  But, come to think of it, there is a resemblance between the two men. Lewis sat up straighter in his chair. The realization gave him all the more reason to seriously consider the idea that Sterling Matthews may very well have gotten away with murder.

  However, if that was the case, Capt. Lewis, with his excellent reputation for top-notch investigations which had led to two high-profile convictions, had absolutely no intention of allowing that to happen.

  ***

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised, but Maureen was incredibly impressed by the pulsating, lush greens of the abundant forest which lined the Pali Highway as she drove her white Toyota Camry, picked up only 20 minutes before at Melvin’s Car Rentals in Kailua, on her trip to the leeward side of the island. Since it was only a half-hour trip to Honolulu, Maureen decided she may as well get started visiting the area’s sights, which had attracted millions of tourists for more than a century.

  But I bet none of them were as hypnotized by this other-worldly beauty as I am.

  It was a presumptuous thought, she knew, but the fanciful novelist allowed herself to indulge it as her mouth dropped open at the canyons and their dramatic, nearly hidden, waterfalls; the towering, jagged mountaintops covered with a mossy green blanket of foliage; and, the plethora of indigenous flowers, like Birds of Paradise and wild orchids, with their rainbow colors so intense, it almost hurt the eyes to look at them.

  Only in fairytales could nature be like this, Maureen thought, not for the first time. She was pleasantly reminded of her favorite childhood animated Disney films, like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and Cinderella where the colors simply leapt off the screen.

  Stopping at a roadside snow cone stand, Maureen happily ordered a large raspberry. Now that she was over the Pali, she had to decide which attraction to see first. As she slurped the delightfully-flavored cone of refreshing ice, the author had strong visions of Waikiki Beach and the lei-draped King Kamehameha statue.

  Let my instincts be my guide, she laughed, as she returned to her car to become one more tourist on the glorious island of Oahu.

  ***

  A sharp knock at his office door brought Capt. Lewis out of his thoughts. It was Lt. Ralph Billings, who had accompanied him to Sterling Matthews’ house. Like Lewis, Billings was an esteemed officer on the force, having worked with him side-by-side for the past 10 years. We’ve seen some real action together, Lewis thought of his trusty side-kick.

  “Yeah, Billings. Come in.”

  Billings, the quieter, more self-contained half of the detective duo, stepped into the office. “Captain, I’ve just received a tip that a suspicious man was spotted on the beach right around the time of the Lucy Troppe murder. The woman reporting it, Barbara Bowers, said she’s seen him hanging around that area before.”

  The younger police officer paused and, after receiving an affirmative nod from Lewis, continued. “Bowers said she’s house-sitting a home two doors down from Sterling Matthews. She swears it’s the same guy who occupied a table near hers at a local hotel, where she was having lunch a couple of days ago.”

  Now the questions Billings knew would be asked began. He’d been well-trained by his superior officer to rundown the right information. “Which hotel, Billings?”

  “The Clark. At Fourth and Ocean Street, Captain.”

  “Did she hear anyone say his name? Like, the waitress?”

  “I asked her that, Captain. She told me the hotel dining room was crowded and noisy. But she thought she heard the waitress address him as ‘Mr. Sylvester.’” Billings cleared his voice as he awaited instructions.

  “Get a list of all the names of the people staying at that hotel for the past few weeks. Sylvester could be a first or last name. Check it out, along with names that might sound like that, like, Silver or Silverton. And check out this Bowers woman, too. Did she say who owns the house she’s house-sitting in?”

  “Yes, she claimed she’s been a regular house-sitter for the Copelands for years, Gerald and Shirley Copeland. He works as CEO for the non-profit, Save Liberty’s Beaches.”

  Lewis grunted, “That sounds appropriate.” The older officer stood up from his desk, scratched his balding head and turned towards the nearby window to look out on the buildings in the Liberty City downtown area. “Where are the Copelands now?”

  “They’ve gone to Cincinnati to visit her folks. They’re due back in a week.”

  “OK. Bring the car around. I haven’t been to the Clark Hotel in at least two years. And, Billings, set up a time this afternoon for us to go talk to the Bowers woman.” Lewis half-turned to properly address his hard-working partner. “Thanks, Billings.” The younger officer left as silently as he had arrived.

  Good ol’ Ralph, Lewis thought. He never demands to be acknowledged or appreciated. He just does his job.

  The Captain turned back to stare out the window for a few more moments, both hands dug deeply in his pockets. Absently watching an elderly lady make her excruciatingly slow way across a busy intersection, he thought, the Bowers woman, if her tip is on the mark, we just might have our man.

  And here I was nearly convinced it was Matthews.

  Lewis pivoted and took a few short steps back to his desk, which was piled high with colored file folders.

  It goes to show you, he told himself, as he picked up his cell and dropped it into his jacket pocket, in police work there's always surprises.

  ***

  Close to evening time, back in her vacation home on the windward side of Oahu, Maureen collapsed with a loud, happy sigh into a cushioned, rattan chair on the breezy lanai, and ran a hand through her thick, slightly damp, auburn hair. She was pleasantly tired, having worked up a sweat while walking a good distance, at a fairly even pace, across the famous shoreline of Waikiki Beach, which, on this weekday, was well-populated, although not nearly as crowded as it would be when the weekend arrived.

  Relaxing her body, she recalled the breath-taking journey back from Honolulu over the Pali Highway, with its stunning views. She'd understood from her research that the highway was actually the third to be built there, the first being constructed in 1845. Stopping to take pictures at one of the lookouts, the tourist noticed
there were plenty of other drivers just like her, marveling at nature's exquisite side-show.

  A nice, tall, cold Mai Tai just might come in handy right about now, Maureen thought, reminded that the owners of the lovely home had provided a full, wet bar with the best liqueurs. Not a regular drinker, the author was willing to experiment while in Hawaii by trading her customary green tea for a few island pleasures.

  After all, she was on vacation, although it was officially a working vacation.

  Having jotted down clear, concise notes while visiting the exciting locales of Waikiki, its unique, native specialty shops, and the statue of the King Kamehameha, Maureen already had creative ideas about how she would work those details into the romantic, tropical setting she was depicting in her novel.

  She’d get back to her writing tomorrow. But for now…

  Dragging herself out of her chair, Maureen ambled across the room’s large woven bamboo rug to the wet bar, and bent down to check out its shelves of various colored bottles, each with its brand well-displayed. Good marketing, she thought, as she carefully sorted through the bottles with eye-catching labels, some of them familiar.

  Choosing a world-renowned brand of rum, Maureen walked with it into the kitchen. She’d looked up recipes for making a Mai Tai on the internet. Allowing for a few variations, they were all pretty much the same. The ingredients generally boiled down to rum with pineapple juice and orange juice. She’d also poke a stalk of freshly-cut pineapple into the tall glass; it was going to be a refreshing, fruity cocktail.

  Just what the doctor ordered. Smiling, Maureen Beckley went about the business of fixing her first exotic drink in this marvelous, laid-back, real-life setting.

  Amber and Jared should have it so good, she thought, and began to hum a popular melody.

  ***

  Boy, this guy’s something else, Captain Lewis thought, stealing a quick look at his watch. Already 8:37 p.m.

  He sat with his partner, Lt. Billings, in the enclosed, windowless interrogation room. Sylvester Wilde, the suspect they’d taken in for questioning at the Clark Hotel early this afternoon, was also seated at the stained, white table, leaning on it with his bare, hairy arms, his permissible Styrofoam coffee cup, half-filled, resting loosely in his pale hands.

  It’s mostly a toy, Lewis mentally noted, since Wilde, throughout the long hours they’d been in this room, almost never took a sip from it, using the cup instead as an available tool to express himself in small, vague and, gradually, wider circles.

  What’s weird was, the man, an awkward-looking type, seemed genial, friendly even, with apparently no idea of the trouble he was in.

  Lewis was tired of hearing the man ramble. He’d tried numerous times to pin the tall, lanky guy down to specifics: like, his alibi for the night of Lucy Troppe’s murder. Wilde stated he’d been out for a walk. No, not on Palo Valdez Beach. But at the park near the hotel. Could anyone corroborate that he was there? No.

  But then, just when Lewis thought he’d nailed him down, the suspect would change his mind. No, it wasn’t that park, it was the one over by the Walgreens store on Pike Avenue. No, no one saw him there either. Didn’t this guy realize he was only digging himself in deeper each time he changed his story?

  From what Lewis could make out so far, Wilde was a drifter, and while that certainly didn’t make him a murderer, it didn’t look good for him either. He had no identification on him. He didn’t even have a job.

  No, things did not look good for Sylvester Wilde.

  Not good at all.

  ***

  Spaghetti it is, Maureen thought, as she shrugged and giggled. Sipping slowly on her first Hawaiian cocktail, and watching the sun sizzle into the untold depths of the restless, yet paradoxically, peaceful-looking ocean, the novelist thought about what to cook for dinner; she was either too tired, or complacent, to come up with anything more imaginative for another evening in Paradise.

  On her way back from Honolulu, Maureen had stopped into a nearby grocery store to pick up the essentials, spontaneously deciding that spaghetti, while not island cuisine, had always worked for her. It would do in a pinch, anyway, and, at this moment, with the western sky being painted by a huge, invisible hand in dusky, watery hues of pinks, oranges, yellows and reds, she didn’t want to do anything but sip and stare.

  And, sip and stare.

  But her stomach was growling.

  Back to reality, she sighed, and pushing up from the deep, relaxing comfort of the lanai chair, Maureen rambled into the kitchen to prepare her first homemade dinner in Hawaii.

  Wouldn’t you know it'd be spaghetti? she asked herself wryly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sterling Matthews was seated at his customary spot early the next morning, with his habitual glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice beside his place mat, when he cracked opened the morning paper. The large headline jumped out at him. Sterling read aloud words that were music to his ears: “Suspect Arrested in the Lucy Troppe Murder.”

  Wow. His eyes consumed the article, taking in all of the details in less than a minute, including the suspect’s mug shot. Apparently, a drifter by the name of Sylvester Wilde had been taken into custody after a neighborhood house-sitter claimed to have seen him on the beach near the time of Lucy’s death.

  Barbara Bowers told police she was not alarmed when spotting him strolling along the shoreline, as she’d seen him there a few times before. Nothing illegal, or unusual, about walking on the beach, even at night, she said during questioning. She also identified him as the same man who’d sat near her table at the Clark Hotel dining room just a few days ago.

  Another wow. Sterling could not believe what he was reading. Or his good luck.

  Now he could follow Maureen to Hawaii.

  He knew exactly where she was staying; she’d given the address to Becca, one of her neighbors, who’d also shared the information with Lucy. Sterling had found it written on a piece of paper in a small notebook which had fallen out of her purse when Lucy had gone to the restroom to freshen up. Poor Lucy, he thought for a sentimental moment.

  But the moment was quickly lost.

  Already, Sterling was visualizing himself on Kailua beach, lounging in the warm, tropical sun with the beauteous, but shy, Maureen, in her scarlet red swim suit, stretched out on a large towel beside him.

  He’d reach for his Pina Colada and maybe, just maybe, Maureen Beckley would let him kiss her. Invigorated by the sudden turn of events, Sterling jumped up from his breakfast table and shot up the stairs to get dressed.

  It was going to be a great day after all.

  Calling Steven Newman, his travel agent, was at the top of his to-do list.

  ***

  Visitors to Hawaii could get happily worn out, Maureen thought, as she shuffled with slow-moving guided tours outside popular tourist attractions.

  There was so much to see just on Oahu, the entire circumference of which, she’d read, a person can literally drive around in one day.

  Not inclined to rush her sight-seeing, Maureen was pleased to take all the time she needed to smell the flowers…or the Plumerias…or the Hibiscus. Nature, in all its amazing, over-the-top abundance, had a field day in this relatively tiny state each and every single day, and Maureen had no intention of missing out on one moment of it.

  Several hours later, as she turned into the short, gravel driveway which led to her hide-away residence, Maureen noticed a woman she vaguely recognized from a nearby house, knocking at her front door. The neighbor, tall, brunette, tanned, probably in her 40s, with a garland of hand-strung white pekoe flowers around her neck and wearing a flowing, long, topaz-colored dress, cut a striking figure on the front porch near the potted azaleas, blazing with outrageous magenta and shocking pink colors.

  Everything in Hawaii is so alive, Maureen couldn’t help but think, as she briefly tapped her horn to get the woman’s attention. Spinning around, the neighborly woman smiled back, displaying a good, healthy set of teeth, and gleefully waved.<
br />
  Maureen drove promptly into the garage and, gathering her purse in one movement, rushed in the adjoining house door. Within seconds, taking rapid strides, she was unlocking the front door, and motioning her neighbor into her beachfront domicile.

  “Hi, I’m Maureen. Please come in.” She smiled, stepping back.

  “Glad to meet you, Maureen. My name is Mary Bly,” the kindly woman said, extending her long, slender hand, which Maureen gladly shook. “My husband, Bob, and I are in the house three doors down. We couldn’t help but notice your solitary walks on the beach. Would you like to come over for a drink tonight, say, in about an hour? In fact, stay for dinner if you have no other plans.”