CHAPTER EIGHT
He’s alone now, leaning his forehead against a palm tree. He straightens and swipes his hand across his nose. He’s more Torch Boy than Torch Man now. For one thing I see that he’s really young, like 22. And for another, he’s crying. A few tears are running down the cheeks of a truly sculpted face, which I’m noticing for the first time is just as finely made as his body.
I approach him. “Are you okay?”
He jumps and moves a few steps away. “I’m fine.”
“You look upset to me. Maybe you need somebody to talk to.” I’m winging it here. I have no idea what I’m doing.
He shakes his head.
“My name’s Happy. What’s yours?”
He hesitates, then, “Keola.”
“Did you know the woman who died? Tiffany Amber? Is that why you’re upset?” When in doubt, plunge in with both feet.
His dark eyes widen. “How did you know? Are you a cop?”
Bingo. “I was a friend of Tiffany’s,” I lie. “I was also in the beauty pageant.”
He eyes me more closely. “Aren’t you the one who won? I think I saw you on TV this morning.”
It’s fun, hearing that. Refreshing and new. “Yes, I’m proud to say I did win.”
“Tiffany would’ve beat you if she hadn’t died,” he says. I get the feeling he’s not being snarky, just matter-of-fact.
I can’t say I disagree with him. “She was a strong contender. Were you really close with her?”
He looks away. For a second I expect the waterworks to resume. Then, “Do you know I’m famous, too?”
“Uh … really?”
“My family. The Kalakauas. We’re descended from royalty.”
I’m starting to wonder if Keola is a few orchids short of a lei when he confirms that suspicion by reopening his mouth.
“King Kalakaua was the last reigning king of Hawaii. People called him the Merry Monarch because he really enjoyed life. He revived the hula.” He chuckles. “I hula’ed for Tiffany once. She loved it.”
I take in the pecs, the hips, the abs. I just bet she did. “Do the cops know that you and she knew each other really well?”
“We talked about it.”
“This morning? When they took you in?”
“Yeah.”
I’m starting to feel like a pro at this whole investigating thing. Then again, this is like taking candy from a baby. Keola Kalakaua seems so unguarded.
I wonder if it was the scent of citronella that put Oahu PD on to him. There may have been other evidence in Tiffany’s room that led them to him that was gone by the time I got there.
Keola pipes up. “I told the cops I didn’t kill her. If I knew who did, I might kill them. But Tiffany? No way. Never.” He looks away from me toward the ocean. He seems to drift into a kind of reverie, like he’s remembering their time together. I’m thinking a high percentage of it was spent horizontally.
I stare at him. Boy, is it a blessing being a man. No woman could eat potato chips like this guy does and maintain that physique. For I have no doubt that he’s the one who was in Tiffany’s hotel room the prior afternoon, before the finale. Surely he’s the one who helped Tiffany unmake her bed, something fierce.
I wonder why Tiffany had an affair with him. Was something wrong in her marriage? Or was she just letting loose while she was away from home, kind of a Hawaiian When-In-Vegas thing?
Whatever, it was a crappy way to treat her husband. And her daughters.
“Okay, bye then,” I say to Keola.
He doesn’t acknowledge me. His head is hanging and I watch his hand reach again toward his eyes. His grief seems real. He doesn’t strike me as smart enough to fake it.
Nor does he seem smart enough to have murdered Tiffany. It had to be someone pretty cunning who did her in. It can’t be that easy to get your hands on poison, then know exactly how to use it. If that is how it was done.
I realize the sun has dipped into the sea and decide that it’s too dark now to walk on the beach. I head back toward my room, thinking of Keola.
I hate when beautiful people are on the dumb side. Not to be snotty but it gives us all a bad name. It bothers me that everybody assumes we beauty queens are empty in the attic. Just once I’d like it if somebody appreciated me for my brains, too.
The evening and night pass as I hoped they would. Quietly, with room service and TV and sleep. The next morning I’m down in the lobby sipping my breakfast drink and waiting for Trixie when I see Detective Jenkins, Momoa’s female sidekick, locked in conversation with Tiffany’s husband. Still flush with victory from my verbal probing of His Highness Keola Kalakaua, I pretend to be interested in the brochures by the concierge desk and sidle closer.
Jenkins is speaking. I try to listen in. I feel kind of bad for her. From my dad I know how hard it is to be a cop: not enough pay for the hours and the danger. I imagine it’s even tougher for a woman, because it would be next to impossible to find a man who’d put up with the lifestyle. I notice she’s minus a rock on the left hand ring finger. Something about the straggly blond hair with the two inches of brown roots tells me she goes through life a trifle dispirited. The cop uniform doesn’t help. It was not designed to flatter the female form.
“Let me make sure I understand,” she says to Tiffany’s husband. “You don’t want the items returned to you?”
He mumbles something. I’m thinking that maybe he said he can’t look at them. His head is hanging like Keola’s was last night and he’s rubbing his forehead.
“I understand,” Jenkins says. She seems flummoxed. Then, “Would you like me to ask the hotel to box everything and ship it to your home in California?”
At that he raises his head. His eyes are so bloodshot it looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. “That’s where I want to go,” he announces, very clearly. “I want to get back to my daughters.”
“I understand. But I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment.”
“Why the hell not? When will it be possible?” He’s pretty agitated. I can see that people other than me are listening, all while pretending to do something else. “Do you know how difficult this is for me? My little girls are asking a million questions that I can’t begin to answer.” His voice catches. Again he drops his head and shades his eyes with his hand.
Jenkins says nothing. All us eavesdroppers shuffle around.
He pipes up again. “I’m sorry for that. Pardon me. I’m not myself.”
“I understand,” Jenkins says. “I’ll relay your concerns to Detective Momoa. In the meantime I’ll arrange to get those items shipped. Her laptop as well?”
“All of it.” He walks away.
I wonder if he knows about Keola. I hope not. I hope the cops are sensitive enough to keep that salacious tidbit to themselves until such time as they must divulge it.
I get a little edgy when I see Jenkins approaching the concierge desk. She looks at me, then glances at the shark-cage-diving brochure in my hand. I had no idea I was even “reading” it. “Are you planning an underwater adventure?”
“Possibly.” I return the brochure to its slot. “We all have a lot of time on our hands.”
“Not all of us.”
Touche.
She engages the concierge in a somber conversation about shipping to California the belongings of “the deceased.” One word Jenkins uttered earlier is lodged in my brain: laptop. That’s one of the items to be returned to the Postagino home. It’s also one of the items I’d love to get my hands on. Tiffany’s computer could be bursting with clues.
I see Trixie across the lobby and wave to her. She’s dressed like I am, in a bikini underneath a cover-up, though her spandex is pastel orchid and mine is neon purple. We’re both carrying wide-brimmed hats with coordinating beach bags, and wearing beaded flip flops and sunglasses. Neither has been shy with pool-appropriate gold jewelry, since I’m sure that Trixie, like me, hasn’t the slightest intention of actually entering the water. Chlorine is hell on hair.
“You’re not wearing your tiara.” She sounds disappointed.
“That would be too nutty. And it wouldn’t fit under the sun hat.” Then I tell her the real reason. “Plus I was afraid I’d fall asleep and somebody would snatch it.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re right! We know there’s a criminal element around here.”
More like a homicidal element.
I notice Jenkins eyeing us as Trixie and I amble toward the pool. I’m embarrassed, to be truthful. Here I am, about to sip tropical drinks and bask in the sun and there she is crime-busting.
Though I’m hatching a plan of my own, investigation-wise.
