Paradise Crime Box Set 4

by Toby Neal

  She went to the bathroom again, addressing the persistent feeling of needing to pee. She spoke to the bulge straining her T-shirt. “I’m turning into one of those people who needs to wear Depends, Baby. I don’t know how I’m going to get through another month.”

  Lei was washing up when she heard the beeping that let her know someone was typing in the code for the front gate. “Good. Tiare’s here.”

  Out in the driveway, Pono’s tall, statuesque wife hopped down from the jacked-up purple truck that Lei’s partner usually drove.

  “What’re you doing driving Stanley?” Lei called from the porch as the Rottweilers’ barking changed to ecstatic whining as they caught Tiare’s scent—she always found time to give them treats and pets.

  “Ha! Pono told me you called the truck that. My car’s in the shop, so I dropped him off today.” Tiare grinned at Lei as she scratched behind Conan’s ears. “What is that rag you’re wearing?”

  “Stevens’s shirt. With yoga pants.” Lei wound her hair up, tying it in a knot. “You should have seen me in that maternity bathing suit the office girls bought me—yikes! Kiet said I looked like a hot air balloon.”

  “You’re actually not that big.” Tiare ascended the porch steps, intelligent brown eyes assessing. Long black hair in a braid the width of Lei’s wrist brushed her back over scrubs she wore from a shift at the hospital. She frowned and put her hands on her hips. “The baby’s dropped since yesterday.”

  “I know.” The women hugged briefly, and Lei led the way inside. “They say first babies are late, but it’s hard to imagine going another three weeks like this.”

  “Well, you probably will. And that last month is a killer. Don’t let anyone tell you different. But it’s good I came by to review the birth plan, just in case.”

  “Yeah. Thank God the captain sent me out on leave yesterday. I keep running to the bathroom, and my back is so sore.”

  “Let me give you a little massage. Give you a feeling of what we’ll do when you’re in labor. Get on the couch and rest your arms and head on the back, and I’ll give you a rub.”

  Lei knelt on the couch and put her head down on her crossed arms on the high, padded back. Tiare was able to come close and rub Lei’s aching lower trunk easily. Lei sighed at the strong, gentle touch of her friend’s hands. “That feels so good. So, how hard was the extra training to be a doula?”

  “It’s challenging, but I’ve loved adding labor coaching to my résumé. I’ve been able to deliver several babies myself, but I’m not a midwife, as we talked about before—I’ll just be your coach. I can spot when medical intervention might be needed since I’m an RN, and since you’re using the hospital’s birth center, everything’s going to be really safe.” Tiare kept up the deep, gentle rubbing. “When you’re in labor, we’ll massage you like this between contractions if you feel like it. The key to progression is staying relaxed, just submitting to the process. I’m not gonna lie. It will hurt like a mofo—but natural childbirth is what our bodies were designed to do. And, girl, I’m so excited to meet this baby, I might as well be the mama.” Tiare set the side of her arm on Lei’s back and drew it slowly down with a wide, deep pressure. Lei groaned at the wonderful sensation. “You ever get a lomilomi massage before?”

  “Never had any kind of massage before.” Lei kept her eyes shut. She’d never liked being touched by anyone but Stevens, but this was different. Her body had stopped being her own when Baby took up residence, and it was doing the pregnancy beautifully without her anxious mind’s help. It would doubtless do the birth just fine, too. Thinking about the coming birth as an athletic event—one she was training for—helped Lei feel confident. Physical things she could do. Pain, she was familiar with. “I’ve been doing that prenatal yoga routine on the video you gave me every day.”

  “What about cardio?”

  “Can’t run, obviously. But I’ve been swimming four times a week. I plan to go daily now that I’m homebound.”

  “Excellent.” Tiare straightened up. “I need a beer. It was a long day at Maui Memorial.”

  “Of course.” Lei hauled herself to her feet. “But, as you know, we only have the fake stuff. I’m not drinking, Stevens isn’t, either, and I just prefer to keep temptation out of the house.”

  “Good enough.” Tiare dug around in the knapsack she’d brought in as Lei popped the top on an alcohol-free beer. “Let’s go over the list of items you need to buy.”

  “Perfect. I have to go shopping to restock the hurricane supplies—my dad says there’s a watch. If it hits, it’ll be in a couple of days.”

  “Maui keeps getting lucky—not like the Big Island and Kauai.”

  “Well, we have all those other islands buffering us here in the middle of the chain. Hopefully we just get a little rain.” Lei handed Tiare one of the beers, and they sat on the couch to review the birth plan and shopping list.

  Finally, Tiare put a hand on Lei’s abdomen. “Let me feel around, check the position.” She did so. “Good. The head’s down and well into your pelvis—a big change of position since yesterday. Could be that backache is low-level contractions. Don’t get your hopes up, but this one could come sooner than three weeks.” Tiare took a stethoscope out of her bag and applied it. “Good strong heartbeat. Let me just get your blood pressure—though you don’t seem to be retaining too much water, I still want to keep an eye on that.”

  All Lei’s readings were normal, and finally Tiare put her equipment away. “So did you have any questions? Anything from doing the class, or about the plan we made?”

  “No. Just—I wish Esther Ka`awai would call us with the baby’s Hawaiian name. Apparently she’s never been wrong about the sex of a baby, either, and I’m getting antsy to know.”

  “Having that lady on our team, praying, is some powerful medicine right there.”

  “Yeah. But I’m wondering how to keep Stevens busy during the birth. I want him there, but I don’t want him getting agitated—if he can’t handle it, it’s going to throw me off.” Lei rubbed her hands on her legs. “I worry that he’ll get upset if I’m in pain. He used to get all crazy anytime I was doing something dangerous.”

  “So how did he do during the class?”

  “Quiet.” Lei sighed. “He’s different since his head injury and that trip overseas. He just seems—like he’s not all there. Sometimes he’s a million miles away in his mind. Other times he’s over-reactive, like it’s all he can do to just handle the feeling of clothes on his skin. We’re doing good, considering. I know he’s super happy and excited about the baby—but he was really serious and quiet during the labor and childbirth class. I could tell it was hard for him.”

  “Well, we can always kick him out.” Tiare had the whitest teeth, and a dimple next to her mouth when she smiled. “Birthin’ babies is women’s work, anyway. Pono was a wreck all through my pregnancy and got so freaked-out during the deliveries my midwife made him do push-ups—for a half hour—until he could calm down enough to be any sort of help. Frankly, I could have done without him in the room just fine—but it was good for him to know just how much work it took to have our kids.” Maile and Ikaika, their children, were now high-achieving, soccer-loving middle schoolers at Kamehameha Schools.

  “We’ll just have to play it by ear. I could be worrying too much. Everyone who’s ever worked with Michael says he has a cool head for intense situations, that he’s rock solid in an emergency. And for us that’s been true—I’m the squirrely one. So this is one more thing I’ll try not to worry about. Good to know you’ll kick him out if it gets to be a problem.”

  “Yup. Executive doula decision.”

  The two hugged, and after Tiare left, Lei felt at loose ends. She threw the ball for the dogs and went out to the aluminum shed in the backyard where the hurricane supplies were stored.

  She slid the door open with a squeal of corroded metal and peeked inside.

  It smelled musty from the lawn mower, parked at the front of the shed and covered with mold
y grass cuttings. Lei squeezed past the mower into darker depths, where heavy-duty metal shelving held a row of gallon jugs of water, a lantern with fuel, boxes of candles, a stack of unopened barbeque lighters, a Coleman stove, and rows and rows of cans along with closed pails of dried food she’d ordered from an online supply. The damp of Haiku, a rainy part of Maui, had contributed to decay, which Lei spotted on the packaging of the stack of toilet paper. She checked inside the pails. The dried food was intact, but several of the canned foods showed rust, and the water was probably bad.

  Lei made notes on her phone, where she’d added things to buy for the hospital trip and outfitting an infant. The baby shower had yielded a few of these, but she wanted to pack a diaper bag with the right essentials to take to the birthing center.

  Heading back to the house across the stretch of lawn interspersed with fruit trees, Lei enjoyed the sight of their solid, sturdy, fireproof little house with its stucco exterior and the dark red metal roofing that imitated Mediterranean tile. They’d built something lasting here on Maui, both personally and in the community. It would all go on for a while without her.

  She had other important work to do.

  Lei smiled and picked up her pace as she walked to her truck. At least she had room to breathe now, whatever else the shift in the baby’s position meant.

  Chapter Nine

  Stevens

  Stevens and Mahoe stood on the doorstep of a tidy ranch house in one of the newer neighborhoods of Kihei, an area on the south side of Maui. Stevens swiveled to take in the sight of a new Kia SUV in the driveway, along with a child’s plastic wagon and a kid-sized basketball hoop. Mahoe knocked as Stevens counted four pairs of slippers beside the welcome mat: large, medium, and two small.

  Peter Claymore, Feast’s floor manager, was a family man.

  “Hello, detectives.” The man in question stood in the doorway. Five foot ten in height, one sixty in weight, blond with blue eyes, Claymore had one of those faces that registered as attractive and pleasant without being noteworthy.

  “Lieutenant Stevens and Detective Mahoe. Thanks for seeing us.” Stevens and Mahoe displayed their IDs.

  “Of course. Come in.” Claymore waved them in, opening the door wider so they could come into the foyer. “Thanks for coming by the house. Once I get to the restaurant, it’s pretty much a whirlwind. The kids are at daycare and school and my wife’s at work, so we can have a decent private conversation.”

  “I know the feeling. Got a six-year-old at home and we’re about to have another.” Stevens followed the manager into a sunken living room carpeted in industrial beige, littered with Legos and toys.

  “So you understand. Sometimes I go to work to mellow out, and it’s not like Feast is a relaxing workplace.” Claymore lifted a pile of laundry off the couch, transferred it to the floor, and gestured for them to sit. “Terrible thing, what happened to François.”

  They settled themselves, and Stevens glanced at Mahoe, signaling him to lead. Mahoe took his phone out.

  “Would it be all right to record this interview? Helps us keep track of all the moving parts of the investigation,” his young partner said.

  “Sure.” So far Claymore seemed at ease. He gave his tan chinos a little tug and sat on a large ottoman facing them. “How can I help the investigation?”

  “We’re interviewing everyone who works at Feast,” Mahoe said. “Strictly routine. Everyone gives a statement. So what can you tell us about the evening of Métier’s death?”

  Claymore cast his eyes up and to the left, recalling events. “Busy night. But then, they all are, at Feast. We were running our asses off until nine. Kitchen closes at nine-thirty, and we really only had a few new dinners to serve after nine p.m., so as you probably already figured, the food got put away a little early and no one went into the big walk-in after about nine-fifteen.”

  “Did you see anyone go in there after eight p.m.?”

  “No. I’ve been covering for our sommelier, who’s been out with a sinus infection. I was walking around with a selection of brandies and cognacs on the floor from eight on. Didn’t spend much time behind the line that night.”

  “Tell us what you know about François Métier,” Stevens said.

  “François?” Claymore pushed a hand through thinning sandy hair. “Let’s see. Talented with food. And the ladies, as I’m sure you’ve already heard. Stood up to Chef, which isn’t easy to do. Some might say he was a snob, but I’d call him confident. Knew his place in the world and didn’t question it.”

  Stevens’s brows went up at this astute description. “Was there anything specific that gave you that idea about his confidence?”

  “It was how he carried himself, spoke, and dressed. I could tell he came from money.”

  “Was this ever confirmed? That he came from money?”

  “Yeah. Overheard him on the phone with a financial adviser, talking stocks. His address was a ritzy building, and he drove a Beemer. None of that came from his sous-chef pay, that’s for sure. I liked him. Not everyone did.”

  “You mentioned women.” Mahoe was getting better at spotting an opening and slipping into it. “Can you tell us if there was anyone special in his life?”

  “You mean other than Mrs. Noriega?” Claymore’s pale blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “You know about that, I hope?”

  “We do. Anyone special other than her?”

  “Kitty Summers was angling for more. I heard from some of the guys that the two of them had some sort of home porno business going. Seemed beneath François, but . . .” The manager shrugged. “No accounting for taste.”

  “Who was he sleeping with at the time of his death?” Stevens asked.

  “I’d say Mrs. Noriega for sure. Possibly Kitty, too, though I could tell he was trying to cut her off.”

  “Why would he do that?” Mahoe asked.

  Claymore pursed his mouth. “Kitty’s a clinger. She’s a perfectly capable woman, smart and good-looking—but doesn’t believe in herself. One of those women who defines herself by her looks and connections. I’m always having to sort out problems involving her, both with customers and other staff.” He shook his head. “She’s annoying as hell, quite frankly. I’ve written her up twice: once for major mess-ups with her tables, and another time for missing a shift. Third time’s the charm and I can show her the door.”

  “Did you see Kitty anywhere near the walk-in the night of the murder?” Stevens said.

  “No. Like I said, I was out on the floor even more than usual.”

  “You seem to have a grasp of human psychology.”

  “Got a bachelor’s in psych.” Claymore grinned. “Useful in my management work.”

  “Anything else you can tell us?” Mahoe had been making diligent notes in his little spiral notebook as well as recording the conversation.

  “I don’t think so. I was as shocked as anyone when I heard François had been killed.”

  “And where were you between nine and ten p.m.?” Stevens slipped it in with a man-to-man twinkle that implied they couldn’t possibly suspect him of anything.

  “On the floor, as I said. You can check with the wait staff,” Claymore said. “I don’t think I went behind the line more than twice after nine p.m. Was working the floor with the dessert wines, as I told you.”

  “You seem like someone who knows all the players at Feast. Who do you think killed François Métier?” Stevens leaned forward with a sincere demeanor.

  Claymore stood to his feet with a pleasant smile. He brushed a few Cheerios off his slacks. “I’m smart enough not to speculate about something I know nothing about. Will that be all for today?”

  Out at their vehicle, Stevens turned to Mahoe. “I think he suspects someone.”

  “We just have to get him to talk, then,” Mahoe said.

  Stevens shook his head and fired up the Bronco. “Nope. He won’t say anything.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Years of experience. Guy like that has got a l
ot to lose with that nice little house and a family. Which makes me think he suspects Chef Noriega.”

  Kathy

  Kathy looked down at her phone as it dinged. At a red light, she read a text from Stevens as she drove back to the station from a recruiting fair at the University of Hawaii, Maui campus.

  Got a possible for the blogger at Feast. I’m swamped—can you interview Sage Bukowski for me? Attached was the witness’s last known address.

  Paused at a light, Kathy voice-texted back.

  “Sure. Glad to help. Headed out to find him now.”

  Kathy put the address into her phone, and headed out of Kahului toward Lahaina.

  Elena had refused to let her come over to the Noriegas’ house last night.

  “Was he angry about going in to the station? Did he hit you?” Kathy couldn’t help asking.

  A tinny laugh from Elena. “Of course he was mad, but I’m fine. Just tired from all the drama. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Kathy frowned through the windshield, hoping like hell that was true.

  Her phone buzzed like a fly in a bottle, sliding down the plastic of the seat in its agitation. Hoping it was Elena; Kathy hit the Bluetooth in her ear. “Hello?”

  “Hello? Kathy? This is Jared.”

  Her brain took a few seconds to process the warm baritone voice—good-looking firefighter guy. Stevens’s brother. She had an impression of his penetrating gaze in the dim hall outside the restaurant’s bathroom and remembered her need to flee.

  “Jared.” Kathy’s heart rate spiked. “What’s going on? Something happen to Lei or Stevens?”

  “No, no.” Jared laughed, self-deprecating—but there was nothing humble in the man she’d met yesterday. He’d seemed competent, confident—and if she’d read him right, used to having women fall all over him. “I was calling for—um. To get to know you better. Wanted to see if we could get a coffee or something.”

  Kathy focused on the road, her hands tightening on the wheel. She felt a wave of heat prickle her chest. He is asking me out. Stevens’s brother is asking me out. She felt off-kilter, though she shouldn’t—she’d felt his interest at the restaurant.