CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I’m spellbound as I watch the cops maneuver Cantwell across the lobby and out the hotel’s main entry doors. I don’t know if this is what the reporters here at the Royal Hibiscus were waiting for—maybe they got wind of an upcoming arrest—but they’re sure getting some astonishing shots now. I get some idea what it must be like to be accosted by paparazzi. Even from this distance I’m almost blinded by the flashbulbs going off in Cantwell’s face.
The cops hustle Cantwell into the back seat of a black-and-white. They slam the door and the sedan careens away, siren blaring. Other cop cars follow. The cameramen train their lenses on the disappearing vehicles until they’re gone from sight. Then they swing back around and the reporters resume the live shot position.
The hotel staff appear shell-shocked. I see Neil, the sunburned surfer guy, standing next to the Reception Desk with his mouth literally hanging open.
As for me, I fall back against the wall behind me. Does this mean that Sebastian Cantwell is the murderer? Momoa got the proof he needed and so hauled the pageant owner in? On one count of murder and, gulp, one botched attempt?
That one was on me.
Oh my God.
I race across the lobby to get into the elevator and soon am whisked to my own ninth floor. Shanelle pulls the door open as I’m fumbling with my key card.
“Good Lord Almighty,” she shouts and grabs me in a hug that’s more like a wrestling takedown.
I’m able to resume breathing half a minute or so later. “I’m all right,” I tell her, because she keeps on asking. “I’m all right.”
“Here.” She pulls her cell phone off the waistband of her shorts and shoves it in my hand. “Call your mama. She’s frantic. You been all over the news, girl.”
I see that our TV is on and tuned to a news program. On the screen, behind a pert blonde reporter, is the façade of the Royal Hibiscus. Along the bottom four words scream: PAGEANT TYCOON A KILLER?
“Once that chopper went down,” Shanelle says, “and it came out that you and Dirk were both in it and that he was incapacitated somehow, you been on nonstop.”
I give Shanelle back her cell phone and dig my own out of my tote bag. I turn it on to find scads of messages, from Jason, Rachel, my mom, my dad, and yes, Mario Suave. I raise my eyes to Shanelle. “You’ve been watching all along, right?”
“From time to time I pack a thing or two, because now this crime’s been solved we’re all gonna be forced off this island, but for the most part I can’t tear my eyes off it.”
“Have you seen Momoa at all? Making some comment or saying he’d make a comment soon or anything like that?”
She frowns. “Not that I remember.”
“So he didn’t confirm that Cantwell’s been charged with Tiffany’s murder. Did any other official-type person?”
“Not that I’ve seen. But—”
“So maybe it’s not official.”
Shanelle throws her arms wide. “How much more official does it need to be? The man’s in police custody! He’s been arrested. Can’t be no more clear than that.”
I know Cantwell’s been arrested. I comprehend that. And it’s true he’s been one of my suspects ever since I found out that Tiffany paid a surreptitious visit to his penthouse suite. It’s also plausible that Cantwell tried to do me in today after I blackmailed him yesterday.
But still, something about this doesn’t sit right with me. I never considered Cantwell the likely killer and there’s a reason. Why would a man who’s basically a master of the universe bother murdering a two-bit beauty queen like Tiffany Amber? He could eat her for lunch. She might have tried to blackmail him but why would he even care? He doesn’t seem to give a fig what anybody thinks of him. And as for opportunity, he certainly wouldn’t have gone unnoticed backstage.
Another thing strikes me as odd. Why wasn’t Momoa here for the arrest? He’s the lead investigator into Tiffany’s murder. Wouldn’t he want to take credit? Or at least be seen to be involved? And if he couldn’t be here, why didn’t he send his lackey, Jenkins? All my life I’ve watched my dad’s police department operate. Momoa being absent for a huge break like an arrest is not what I would expect of a homicide detective investigating the highest-profile case of his career.
Shanelle snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Don’t you go daydreaming on me, girl. What’s up with you? You’re not acting like you should.”
“You mean because I’m not jumping for joy? Because if Cantwell’s been arrested for Tiffany’s murder, I’m off the hook?”
“Maybe it’s that post-traumatic stress thing that’s got you tied up in knots. Wouldn’t be surprising after what you just been through. Here, sit down.”
She prods me toward my bed and sits me down. She makes me kick off my platform shoes and gives me a mini shoulder massage. Even after all that, I’m no less ill at ease than when she started. “You know why I went to find Dirk in the first place?” I ask her.
She doesn’t so I tell her the whole story. About how hugely bizarre it is that Tony Postagino’s website photo was taken in the same location as Misty and Dirk’s steamy YouTube video. About how that location turns out to be the funky B&B owned by Dirk’s sister. About how all day I’ve wanted to go visit that B&B to find out if anybody there remembered who Tony Postagino stayed there with.
“Because,” I conclude, “Keola told me that Tiffany told him that her husband was having an affair. Maybe Tony was at that B&B with his fling, because neither Trixie nor I believe that Tiffany would be caught dead somewhere funky. And maybe—”
“It’s the fling who killed Tiffany. I get it.” Shanelle nods. “Nice theory but the problem is people have affairs all the time and don’t kill each other over it. But why are we even talking about this now? Cantwell’s been arrested.”
“Maybe …” My mind cranks. “Maybe they arrested Cantwell not because he’s the murderer but because they think the murderer will relax now that someone else has been hauled in. And so he or she will reveal themselves. You know, a smokescreen. And Cantwell went along with it because he’s so desperate to bring this whole thing to a close. And because he doesn’t really care about his reputation anyway. Heck, for him, it’s another story to burnish his legend.”
Shanelle assumes a dubious expression. “You really think Momoa’s smart enough to come up with a plan that savvy?”
“No. Not really.” I sigh. Then I brighten. “There’s something else, too. Dirk told me that Misty confessed to him that she pushed me into the macaw last night.”
Shanelle’s eyes widen. “Maybe Misty’s the fling!” She jabs her fist in the air. “I always suspected that girl!”
Nothing like impugning Misty Delgado to get Shanelle Walker on board. “So you’re willing to help me, right?”
Shanelle’s hands settle on her hips. “You want more help? What now?”
“I want to go find Magnolia to get out of her once and for all the name of that dang B&B.” I start snooping around for my beaded flip flops. My feet have had enough of those platform sandals for today.
“Okay.” Shanelle starts nodding her head. “I get it now. I get it.”
“What do you get?” I’ve just found my flip flops under the bed.
“All right, I’ll ‘fess up first. I’m not totally thrilled with this Sebastian Cantwell outcome. I’d prefer if it was Misty Delgado who got arrested for killing Tiffany, just because I would love and adore to see that girl go down. But you, you got a bigger problem. You got a deep-seated resistance to the idea that this murder’s been solved at all. And I know why.”
I go into the bathroom to check my face. As I suspected. All that hysterical sobbing in the chopper caused even my waterproof mascara to run.
“Do you hear me?” Shanelle trails me into the bathroom. “I know why.”
I moisten a face cloth and go to work underneath my eyes. This’ll take off my concealer, too, but I can reapply.
“Are you listening to me?” Shanelle’s voice has gotten more demanding.
“All right, Dr. Philomena, I’m listening.”
“You don’t want Sebastian Cantwell to be the guilty party because you’re not the one who figured out he did it. You want to get the props, yourself, for solving the crime. So you’re going to keep investigating as though nothing happened. There’s a name for that, girl.” She comes to stand beside me, her eyes boring into mine in our shared reflection. “And it’s not just a river in Egypt.”
I toss the face cloth and snatch up my concealer. “I am not in denial.”
“Do you not have one speck of self-awareness?”
“I am totally self-aware, Shanelle. Just like I am totally responsible. And that is why I am not comfortable abandoning my investigation prematurely.”
Even as I say it, I wonder if Shanelle’s right. I will admit to a smidgen of disappointment when I saw Sebastian Cantwell being hauled in no thanks to me.
I set down my concealer and turn to face her. “Look. What harm will it do? I go to the B&B, I ask a few questions. If I don’t learn anything interesting, which I probably won’t, I’ll give up the investigation. I promise. This is the only lead I have left to pursue anyway.”
She nods slowly.
“So you’ll help me, right?”
She emits a dramatic sigh. “What do you need?”
“While I’m gone finding Magnolia, will you make a few phone calls for me to tell people I’m all right? Because if I get on the cell with Jason or my mom, I’ll never get off.” That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I know the real reason I don’t want to call my husband is that he’ll rake me over the coals for continuing my investigation, which this time nearly got me killed.
I dash out of the bathroom, grab the memo paper near the bedside phone and jot down a list of who I’d like Shanelle to call. I hand her the names then head for the door. “And then please come with me to the B&B. Please?”
She shakes her head. “If this isn’t a wild goose chase, I don’t know what is. And don’t forget that now this murder’s been solved, they’ll want all of us out of this hotel and booked on flights home.”
I pull open the door. “They can’t make us leave if they can’t find us. Maybe we’ll score ourselves another day in paradise.”
Shanelle seems to get a boost from that happy possibility. I watch her eyes drop to the jotted list of names as I disappear out the door.
A wee bit of investigating yields the tidbit that Magnolia Flatt is sunbathing by the pool. I gird myself for a viewing of Ms. Flatt in her swimwear.
To my amazement, I find her in a tasteful crimson-colored halter-style swimdress with shirring at the sides—quite slimming—and cute white embroidery along the hemline. She is, somewhat less graciously, noisily sucking down the dregs of a tiki-tiki drink. I claim the lounge next to her.
Her face assumes a sullen expression. “You again. I thought maybe you bit it when that chopper went down.”
Same lousy ‘tude as ever. “Sorry I failed to oblige.”
“Just my luck you survived so you can ream me again about those brats Cantwell made me watch.” She slams her empty glass onto the concrete pool deck.
I bite my tongue. “No,” I respond sweetly. “I think we covered that pretty thoroughly before. I am a little surprised to see you here, though.”
“Why? Don’t I deserve time off?”
“I would think that with Mr. Cantwell being arrested, you’d have to man the phone lines or something. Lots of people must be calling in with questions.”
“I won’t do diddly now.” She raises her finger to summon the male server working the pool area. “With Cantwell in the slammer, who knows if I’ll get paid.”
That makes me worry about getting my prize money, not a cent of which I’ve yet seen. I can’t think about that now, though. “Do you know anything about Mr. Cantwell’s arrest? Were you in his suite when it happened?”
“No. I was in that hellhole of a babysitting room. I don’t know a damn thing about it.” She looks up at the server. “I’ll take one more of what I just had.” She glances at me. “You want something? Better order now because the gravy train’s about to dump us off.”
“No, thank you,” I tell the server. “Listen, Magnolia,” I say once he’s gone, “I’m hoping your memory’s recovered because I would really like to know the name of the B&B that Dirk Ventura’s sister owns.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” She squints her eyes. “Plum something. Like the flower.”
“You mean plum blossom?”
“No. It’s that Hawaiian flower that starts with plum.”
The woman at the next lounger pipes up. “Plumeria?”
“That’s it,” Magnolia says. “Plumeria B&B.”
I lean forward to thank our fellow sunbather. “And it’s where?” I ask Magnolia. “Kailua Beach?”
“Yeah, it’s about a half-hour drive from here.”
“Great. Thanks.” I stand up. “By the way, I like your swimsuit.”
She swipes at it. “I hate it. My mother made me buy it.”
News flash. At least one female in the Flatt family tree has taste.