Right from the Gecko (12 page)

“Would you say she acted the same way in her personal life too?” I asked. “Intense? Extreme?”

Holly hesitated, staring at her iced tea.

“Look, like I already told you, I didn't know her all that well, okay? I mean, if you knew her since you were both kids, I'm sure you have a better sense of what she was all about than I ever did. We were just work friends.

“But she definitely had some weird stuff going on where her social life was concerned,” she continued, measuring her words. “There was this one time, just a few weeks ago, when she called me out of the blue. She said she was meeting this guy she'd been seeing for a drink after work, and she insisted that I come along. I mean, she wouldn't take no for an answer.”

“Why do you think it mattered to her so much?”

She shrugged. “Got me. It was just the way Marnie was. From what I could see, everything she did was just turned up to a higher speed than everybody else. Anyway, from the way she'd been going on about this guy, I figured the two of them were practically engaged or something. But when I saw them together, it was like they hardly even knew each other. You would have thought they were on a blind date or something. One that wasn't going particularly well.”

“No chemistry?”

“That was part of it. But the guy—he had a goofy name…”

“Ace?”

“That's it, Ace. He didn't seem all that into her, y'know? She was all giggly and flirty, and he was practically a stone wall. He seemed like kind of a creep too. Frankly, I couldn't figure out what she saw in him. But the one thing that really stands out in my mind about that night is that she kept touching him—you know, grabbing his hand or putting her arm around him—and he kept shrugging her off. I never once saw him touch her. You know, the way a guy will put his hand on his girlfriend's back or let his arm brush against hers, really casual like it's the kind of thing he's used to doing all the time. The other thing I remember is that he hardly spent any time talking to us. He kept getting calls on his cell phone, and he seemed much more interested in talking to whoever was calling him than to Marnie.”

“Do you have any idea who he was talking to? Friends? Business associates…?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Every time he got a call, he just got up and went to another part of the bar. Besides, it was pretty noisy in there.”

We paused as our waitress laid out the various plates that contained Holly's lunch. I found it difficult to believe she was going to be able to consume all that food. That is, until I saw her inhale half her shrimp salad sandwich in three seconds flat.

“So Ace wasn't exactly the love of her life,” I said, anxious to keep our conversation going. “But that sounds so typical of Marnie, doesn't it? The way she tended to see things differently from the way they really were?”

“I guess so.” Holly thought for a few seconds, meanwhile smothering her fries with salt. I got the impression she'd never really thought about Marnie Burton in exactly those terms before. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

By that point, I figured I'd pretty much gotten everything I was likely to get out of Holly. Even though she and Marnie hadn't been close, she seemed more than eager to tell me whatever she knew, including her most negative impressions. I decided it was time to move on to other possibly relevant topics—like Holly Gruen herself.

“Holly,” I asked gently, “if you don't mind me asking, why did you leave the
Dispatch
?”

I was trying to be sensitive to the possibility that she'd been fired—or that she'd resigned because she was on the verge of being let go. But I wasn't prepared for the look of alarm that crossed her face.

“Why?” she demanded, showing more fire than I'd seen since I sat down at the table. “What did you hear?”

“Nothing,” I replied, struggling not to react.

In a strained voice, she replied, “It was just time for me to move on. That's all.”

Right, I thought. With no other job to go to. And with your finances in such bad shape that the only food groups you can afford to make part of your diet are the Peanut Butter Group and the Jelly Group.

“But I guess we should eat, right?” Holly said with an air of finality, as if she'd decided she'd told me enough. Grabbing the other half of her sandwich, she added, “I'm sorry I haven't been more helpful, but I really don't know very much. In fact, I don't even know why you bothered to track me down.”

It was true that Holly hadn't given me much useful information about Marnie, aside from confirming that she was intent on uncovering scandal as a means of advancing her career and that her relationship with Ace hadn't been as solid as she seemed to think it was.

But I was struck by the strange way Holly had reacted to my question about why she'd left the paper. For the price of a sandwich and a couple of sides, I'd learned something valuable: that Marnie wasn't the only
Dispatch
reporter with secrets.

It was nearly four by the time I got back to the hotel. I was still ruminating about my conversation with Holly as I pulled into the parking garage. She had admitted to having “admired” Marnie back when they first met, as well as changing the way she felt about her over time. That was certainly consistent with what Karen Nelson had told me about their relationship. I also found it interesting that she had agreed with the
Dispatch
's other reporter, Bryce Bolt, about Marnie being intense as well as determined to find scandal everywhere she looked. In addition, Holly had picked up on the fact that there was something peculiar about Marnie's relationship with Ace.

But what I found most interesting was the fact that Holly had left the paper so abruptly—without having another job lined up. While the operation had looked innocent enough during my brief behind-the-scenes peek, the fact that one of their reporters had chosen to flee left me wondering if I'd misjudged it.

As I crossed the lobby, I spotted a crowd of veterinarians streaming out of a meeting room. The sight was a harsh reminder that I wasn't doing a very good job of balancing my murder investigation with the conference that had brought me here in the first place.

Which forced me to focus on something else that was off-balance: my relationship with my traveling companion. As far as I knew, Nick was still pretty angry with me.

I stood in the lobby, trying to muster up the courage or energy or whatever was required to go up to our room, where I was more than likely to run into him. As I procrastinated, I noticed a sign outside the White Orchid that read, H
APPY
H
OUR
—4:00
TO
7:00. A
LL
D
RINKS
H
ALF
-P
RICE
!

Even though I wasn't feeling particularly happy, I figured that enjoying a little Hawaiian culture—or at least a little Hawaiian tourist culture—might push me a little further in that direction. Besides, indulging in happy hour offered me a really convenient way to delay confronting Nick. In a somewhat pathetic attempt at putting myself into a partying mood, I pulled a hibiscus out of one of the lobby's over-the-top flower arrangements and stuck it behind my ear. Then I headed inside.

I wasn't the only one who'd been lured in by the promise of cheap drinks. Every table in the dark, bamboo-walled bar was full. The comfortable armchairs, also made of bamboo, appeared to be occupied mainly by tourists. Young Japanese couples poring over guidebooks and sipping cool drinks in tall cylindrical glasses sat side by side with senior citizens, college kids on break, and middle-aged American couples in Bermuda shorts and splashy shirts I bet they wouldn't be caught dead in at home. I also spotted a few veterinarians sitting in clusters, still sporting their convention name tags, but I wasn't in the mood to talk shop.

Instead, I dropped onto a bar stool and ordered a mai tai. Before the bartender even had a chance to slap a cocktail napkin in front of me, a tall ponytailed gentleman slid onto the stool next to me. Even though he was probably well past forty, he was dressed like a surfer dude in denim cutoffs, battered leather sandals, and an extremely faded Hanauma Bay T-shirt that looked as if one more encounter with a clothes dryer was guaranteed to reduce it to shreds.

Glancing over at me, he said, “Hey.”

“Hey,” I mumbled, not wanting to appear rude even though I craved nothing more than solitude.

He didn't take the hint. “I haven't seen you here before.”

I grimaced. “Can't you come up with a better line than that?”

“It's not a line,” he returned, sounding a bit indignant. He brushed away a strand of dark-blond hair that had fallen over his face. “It's an honest observation.”

“At least it's accurate,” I replied crisply. “I haven't been here before.”

I always thought part of the appeal of travel was that it enabled you to leave some of the less savory aspects of your life behind. Yet even though I'd traveled nearly six thousand miles to paradise, someone who could be a clone of Marcus Scruggs, one of my least favorite people in the world, ended up sitting on the bar stool next to mine.

I first met Marcus when I was applying to veterinary school. I'd hoped he'd be able to offer me some good advice. Instead, I spent our first meeting ignoring his off-color questions and suggestive comments. And just a couple of months ago, when my friend Suzanne Fox actually found him attractive for some inexplicable reason, I was forced to socialize with him on several occasions. When they finally split up, I didn't know who was happier, Suzanne or me.

Yet here I was again, fighting off the unwelcome attentions of a sleazeball who looked like a survivor from a deserted island and acted just as desperate.

“Tourist?”

“Not exactly.” I looked around, suddenly wishing Nick would magically appear—even if it was just to scowl at me.

“Ah. Conventioneer.”

“Something like that.”

“Don't tell me—you're a veterinarian.”

I shrugged. “Okay. I won't tell you.”

He chuckled appreciatively. As annoying as he was, at least he had a sense of humor. “Can I get you a drink, Dr. Dolittle? Maybe one of those fruity ones that come with a paper umbrella or a real flower in it?”

“Thanks, but I'm waiting for someone,” I lied. “I can't imagine what's keeping him. Besides, I already ordered a drink.”

Just then my mai tai arrived. I flinched when I saw that the tall, slender glass was decorated with both a flower
and
a tiny yellow paper umbrella.

Smirking, he told the bartender, “Bring me a Scotch. Neat.”

“You got it,” the bartender assured him.

Mr. Ponytail turned his attention back to me. “So, where do you hail from?”

“Look,” I returned evenly, “I'm sure you mean well, but frankly I'm not in the mood for conversation. I had kind of a bad day.”

“A bad day? In paradise?” He pretended to be shocked. “Impossible!”

I smiled despite myself. I also looked him fully in the face for the first time. He had exceptionally high cheekbones, pale, deep-set gray eyes, and the same weathered look that so many locals seemed to have. Just one more individual paying the price of sunworshipping, I mused.

“Yeah, that's what I thought too,” I commented. “Turns out that old saying about bringing your own baggage wherever you go is true.”

“No kidding.” He shook his head slowly, as if he understood what I was talking about only too well. “And I should know. Believe it or not, I actually live here.”

“Really?”

“That's right.” He paused while the bartender brought him his drink, then took a long, slow sip. “I bet I'm the first person you've met who's a bona fide resident.”

Funny: Bona fide residents were practically the only people I'd had a chance to talk to.

“Aside from hotel employees and waiters and people like that, I mean,” he continued. “A lot of people in the service industry were probably born here. But I'm a transplant. I'd had enough of L.A., and I figured there'd be less traffic and less smog on a tropical island. So a few years ago I packed up all my worldly possessions and moved here.”

“What do you do, job-wise, that gives you so much flexibility?” I asked.

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Actually, I was premed myself, back in college. Before I came to my senses, that is.”

I had a feeling he'd dropped that little tidbit in there to impress me, maybe because he knew I was a science jock myself. The maneuver struck me as something right out of
Marcus Scruggs's Guide to Picking Up
Babes.
Ordinarily, I wouldn't have given a guy like this the satisfaction of sounding impressed or even interested. But it turns out those pretty pink drinks with the paper umbrellas do a lot more than quench a person's thirst.