Death in Paradise (13 page)

I tucked my arm through hers, like we were bosom buddies. "Yes," I echoed, "what if I don't cooperate? I've already cooperated for several hours today, haven't I? Are you going to arrest me?"

"What am I going to do with you?" he said through clenched teeth. "All I want is the answers to a few questions."

"I wish it were that simple," I said. I turned to the woman and dropped my arm from hers. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to involve you in this. It wasn't fair. It's only that I didn't know what to do. He's the second policeman to come and ask me where I was at one-thirty in the morning. When I told the first one that I was in bed, asleep, at twelve-thirty, he asked me if I was alone. Now this one comes along and asks if I have anyone who can corroborate my story that I was in bed asleep at that time. How do you prove you're in bed alone in the middle of the night? So I asked him if I needed a lawyer and he got very belligerent and when I tried to walk away, he came after me and threatened to arrest me."

I knew I was being wicked and manipulative, but Bernstein's use of the word "corroborate" had really spooked me. If my whereabouts weren't a big deal, why were they being so persistent?

"That's all right, dear," she said, patting my arm. "Here comes Eddie. He'll know what to do."

"This is all totally unnecessary," Bernstein said.

"You're probably right, dear," the woman said. This time she patted Bernstein's arm. I was surprised that he didn't say something rude. His face was positively choleric. "Eddie! Eddieee!" She called his name and waved. He gave a brief return wave to indicate his assent.

The approaching Eddie was middle-sized, middle-aged, and portly. His glasses and a slightly abstracted look gave him a scholarly air. He walked with a slight limp. He was wearing one of those awful Hawaiian sport shirts enthusiastic women buy their husbands, the ones with the matching swimming trunks. His were an unnatural shade of bright blue with palm trees and hula dancers and neon green and yellow leis. Despite the ridiculous clothes and the excess weight, he looked perfectly content. A man at peace with life and himself. And I would have bet a bushel of doughnuts that he was a cop. Small-town police chief. Or if not a cop, at least cop related.

He arrived blissfully unaware of the mess his wife was about to involve him in, saying, "What's this, Marie? I thought you were going upstairs to get another book?" To us he added, "Marie is the world's biggest mystery fan. She goes through them like bonbons." Then he stuck out his hand. "Ed Pryzinski."

Bernstein's reaction was as strange as everything else had been today. I'd expected him to give Pryzinski a brusque brush-off. Instead, he got a strange, kind of awed expression on his face. Then he seized Pryzinski's hand and pumped it vigorously. "Dr. Edward Pryzinski? Author of
Pryzinski's Principles of Investigative Practice, Crime Scene Management,
and
Don't Touch That Body unless You Use Your Head?
That Edward Pryzinski?"

The woman beamed and patted her husband's arm, "See, Eddie," she said, "you're famous. Eddie's here to address the annual Maui Policeman's Banquet. He's the keynote... oh..." Her face fell. "That's you, isn't it?"

"What seems to be the problem?" Pryzinski asked. "Officer... uh..." At least, like me, he could spot 'em.

"Detective. Lenny Bernstein, Maui police. Homicide."

"Homicide!" Marie gasped. "Surely you don't think this nice girl has killed someone? Why, just this morning, I saw her saving someone." Normally I bristle at being called a girl, but right now, I was too grateful for Marie's help to be upset.

"The problem?" Pryzinski repeated.

"I just want to ask the woman a few questions."

Ah, at least
he
didn't call me a girl. Cops have so many lessons in political correctness these days that between those constraints and cop speak, it's a wonder they can communicate at all. "Dr. Pryzinski," I said, "you may or may not know that a woman was murdered here in the hotel last night. A woman who was a colleague of mine, who was chairing the conference on Girls and Single-Sex Education. Evidently someone has told the police that they saw me near the woman's room at around one-thirty a.m. It isn't true. I wasn't there, but someone has said so, and twice today I've been interrogated by police officers demanding that I somehow prove to them that I was in my bed, asleep, at the time in question."

I took a deep breath. Dr. Pryzinski had a nice, fatherly face. I wouldn't mind having him on my side. "The first detective, knowing full well that back home in Massachusetts I am—" I searched for a discreet way of putting things. Both "living with" and "boyfriend" weren't very flattering choices—"involved in a serious relationship with a state police detective... asked me whether I was alone in bed or whether I had someone with me who could attest to the fact that I was in bed asleep." I lowered my eyes demurely. "I'm afraid I found the question so insulting that I asked him to leave and then this—this—person"—I pointed at Bernstein—"this person comes up to me when I'm just cooling down from a five-mile run, acts all nice and friendly, and suddenly he's saying that they need to 'corroborate' my statement that I was alone in my room in bed. Now, first of all, I haven't a clue how anyone goes about proving they are alone in their room asleep, but second, and more important, I found his use of the phrase 'corroborate my whereabouts' very unsettling. It sounded accusatory to me, his talking about suspects and alibis. So I asked him if I was a suspect and if I needed a lawyer, and that's when he became threatening and said he'd have to take me down to the station if I didn't cooperate."

I could see that I had the doctor's attention, and Marie was giving Bernstein dirty looks. "I should back up and say that I've already given about two hours of 'cooperation' to the police today, despite the trauma of having been the person who found the victim... that I'm very tired and upset... much of the responsibility for running the conference has now fallen on my shoulders... and I would just like to have the police deal with me honestly instead of these devious inquisitions."

Damn Bernstein. I'd just wasted all those lovely endorphins that were supposed to make me feel good coping with the threat of his suspicion. Now I was a jittery wreck again, and on the verge of tears besides. I'm not given to weeping, or emotional firestorms of any sort. No PMS, no mood swings. I'm a delightfully stable professional woman with a clear head and stamina and plenty of drive. And I felt an inexplicable desire to throw myself into Marie's motherly arms and sob.

"I'm afraid I didn't get your name," the doctor said.

"Kozak. Thea Kozak."

"Thea. What a nice name," Marie said. "Is it short for something?"

"Theadora."

"Well, Theadora. I think if you and the detective come into the bar with me and Marie, and we have ourselves a few of those nice pina coladas they make so well here, we can work this whole thing out," Dr. Pryzinski said.

"I can't drink. I'm working," Bernstein said.

"We'll ask for yours without alcohol," the doctor said with a wink.

"But I can't go into the bar dressed like this," I said. Abbreviated shorts and a sweat-soaked tank top were not my idea of the proper garb for a nice hotel bar.

"This is Hawaii," the doctor said. "Pretty much anything goes, but if you'll be more comfortable, Marie would be happy to pop upstairs and bring down one of those muumuu things. She's got one in every color. You wouldn't mind, would you, dear? That teal-colored one, I think. It would suit Thea's coloring."

And thus it was that I was kidnapped and spirited off to the bar for my second round of drinks of the day. Draped in a borrowed muumuu and soothed with alcohol while Ed Pryzinski tried to persuade Detective Bernstein that I wasn't a lethal criminal. I was going to have a monumental headache by bedtime.

 

 

 

Chapter 9

 

It was a rich, velvety black night filled with a warmth and mystery that reminded me of late June in New England, of prom nights and graduation and staying up till dawn, of steamy windows and snuggling in parked cars with the radio on. The patio where we were having our luau was surrounded by shrubbery, rendering it private and secluded. At intervals, tall torches spouting leaping flames stood above the bushes. Drums beat, subtle yet insistent, in the background. The buffet tables, which hadn't yet been opened to the crowd, were heaped with a fabulous feast of barbecued meats and chicken and shrimp, masses of delectable fruits and salads. It looked like my honey-voiced contact in the conference office hadn't let me down.

Though most of the guests now knew of Martina's murder, the mood was upbeat, sustained by the festival atmosphere and the trays of hors d'oeuvres and rum punch that had been circulating for the last hour. All the guests had been greeted by hula-skirted lads and maidens who had dropped flowered leis around their necks and by servers with trays of punch. Up on the stage, a handsome Hawaiian in the world's gaudiest shirt was emceeing a karaoke contest. In the spirit of fun, Shannon, Zannah, and Jolene were acting as the backup shoop-shoop girls while Rob belted out an Elvis song.

I had been asked to join them and declined. It felt like I'd spent enough of the day on stage. Now I was beginning to regret my decision as I found myself cornered by two large ladies in peach-colored sheaths. The Elliot sisters. Identical twins who, in their sixties, still dressed alike, did their hair alike, and even wore identical jewelry. "What's the inside story on Martina?" Ann Elliot asked.

"Yes," her sister, Jan, chimed in. "We were sure you would know."

"I know everyone must be terribly curious," I said, "but I'm afraid the police have asked me not to talk about it. You know how it is with an investigation. It's important to keep the details a secret so that they know when they've actually found the... kill—uh... perpetrator."

Jan nodded. "Just like on television. Can't you tell us anything?"

I considered. I don't like being a gossip. On the other hand, the Elliot sisters
loved
to gossip. If I gave them a tidbit, they'd immediately be off to spread it around the room. And I'd be free. I told them something I was sure would be in the papers by morning. "She was strangled," I said. I didn't tell them about the stocking, or the costume, or the untouched feast for two.

"Of course, we're all so sorry," Jan said. "I can't imagine who might replace her. No one has, uh, had... a better command of the issues than Martina. I wonder how her husband is doing. He isn't here tonight, is he?" She craned her head around, checking the crowd one last time. "No. I don't suppose he would be."

"He wasn't with her," I said.

"Are you quite sure?" Ann said, raising her eyebrows. "I thought I saw him in the lobby last night."

"I understand that the police spoke with him at home in Washington this morning," I said. "He was going to get the next flight out."

"Oh, my sister," Jan said. "All handsome men look the same to her. She swears she saw Paul Newman in Chicago once, and Harrison Ford at a car rental counter. That's what she says. I can't believe Harrison Ford has to rent his own car."

"Just because I notice them," Ann said, "that doesn't mean I can't tell them apart. But it was at a distance, and rather dark. Maybe it was Tom Cruise. Or Dennis Quaid. One of those handsome, dark-haired Hollywood types. Yes, now that I think of it, I'm sure it was Tom Cruise. But the woman with him wasn't Nicole Kidman. She's going to be very upset when she hears my story, isn't she?" She linked her arm through Jan's. "Come along, sister. We'd better get some more of this punch before it's all gone." They strolled off.

"So," a voice behind me asked. "They pry any good gossip out of you?"

"I told them Martina's killer is the same person who sank the
Titanic.
They went away to spread the word."

"Well done. I hope Nihilani hasn't been back to bother you."

"He sent his brother, Lenny. Leonard Bernstein."

Jonetta muttered a lengthy and creative expletive. We stood side by side, watching the ladies up on the stage. "Why aren't we up there with them?" she asked. "Making fools of ourselves like conference organizers should."

"I was offered the opportunity. I declined. What about you?"

"I was hiding," she said. "They couldn't find me. I don't sing until I'm good and drunk. Then I shake the rafters." She looked up at the clear night sky. "Or the stars."

I smiled. There weren't too many places that a six-feet-two black woman who weighed over three hundred pounds, dressed in what looked like a cascade of hula hoops trimmed with crocheting, could hide. "Pretending to be a flowering kale?"

"Centerpiece," she said. "I was hiding among the pineapples and ribs."

"Speaking of which, there they go." There was a moan of pleasure from the crowd as they surged toward the food. "How'd you get Nihilani to leave, anyway?"

"Batted my eyelashes and shook my booty. You want to sit somewhere? My feet are killing me." We retreated to a table in a back corner where a diligent waitress immediately appeared and offered us rum punch. Whooee! The hotel was certainly making an effort to keep us cheerful. I declined, having already had my share of alcohol for the day, but Jonetta happily took both mine and hers. We settled back in our chairs. Things seemed to be going well, though I wasn't going to breathe easily until everyone was served and seated. Something could still go wrong. "Actually," she said, "he was so embarrassed at the mess he'd made of things, he was happy to escape. Behind that scary exterior he's not a bad guy."