The Flaming Luau of Death (5 page)

Meanwhile, the other musician picked up an ipu and began pounding it on the mat, getting a variety of haunting, primitive sounds from the traditional Hawaiian dried gourd instrument.

Matt looked at Holly as she danced onstage for us, clowning around. “Maybe you’re not too sure you should settle down yet,” he said and winked. “So here is something to help you decide. Do you have a man at home like one of these boys?”

Three new dancers, bare except for loincloths and the leaves encircling their ankles and wrists, made their bold entrance. Their chests and arms and legs were tough and muscular, their faces and bodies painted in primitive symbols. They held long knives in the air, fire covering both ends. Holly took one look at the blades and the flames and the almost-naked men and rushed off the stage. We all screamed with laughter.

“At last,” Wes whispered to me. “Here are our Samoan Fire Knife Dancers.”

“Those are not knives so much,” I commented to Wes, “as flaming batons.”

“They’re swords,” he corrected. “With, you know, two flaming ends.”

I eyed Wes, wondering if I was about to be treated to the entire history of the Samoan Fire Knife Dance, but he left me with just the basics. “Popularized by Uluao Letuli Misilagi in the forties and fifties. They called him ‘Freddie’ Letuli after Fred Astaire.”

“You can’t make this stuff up.”

Wes looked taken aback. “No, of course not.”

Onstage, the dancers were doing all sorts of outrageous things with their fiery swords. By now they had two flaming knives each and were performing some intensely crazy maneuver where they placed one blazing knife in their mouth while jabbing and thrusting at each other with the other. The drums beat incessantly, pounding a furious rhythm. We all felt the heat of the fire each time a flaming knife swung by, as we were seated so close to the stage, and with just enough alcohol in one’s blood, one could imagine one was on a primitive beach in ancient Samoa, enjoying a night out with the tribe.

“Maddie?”

I almost jumped. Holly was speaking close to my ear.

“Yes, Holl?” I smiled up at her. “You enjoying your Fire Dancers, sweetie?”

“The most,” she said. “Who could not like flaming sharp things?”

Wes and I beamed. A few feet away, blazing knives were being thrown to and fro.

“I wanted to show you something, okay?”

“Of course,” I said. “What is it?”

Holly unfolded a paper napkin. I had ordered some custom-printed ones, and they had turned out rather well. They were yellow, with hot pink lettering. They featured a little picture of a skewered shish kebab on fire, and the words said:
HOLLY NICHOLS’S FLAMING BACHELORETTE LUAU
, and then the date.

“You like?” I asked.

“I love,” she said, “but look at this.” She turned the paper napkin over, and I noticed she had drawn two small sketches. By the dim light of the flickering tiki torches, I wasn’t sure I could make out what she had drawn.

Wes pulled the napkin closer and looked up at her, surprised. “What’s this?”

“Maddie asked me to think about that man. She wondered if I remembered anything else about him.”

Wes flashed me a glance, but asked Holly, “Where did you see this?” he asked.

I pulled the napkin close and saw two symbols:
It looked like Asian writing of some sort.

Not far from us, there were swords of flame twirling high into the air. We couldn’t help but look up, even as we chatted back and forth about Holly’s napkin, pausing until the dancer caught the baton and we heard no hiss of singed flesh.

“It’s the design I saw on that man’s T-shirt. The one who grabbed me in my room.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m positive. There’s a car parked out near the road that had a sticker with the same exact symbols. I’m good with design, Maddie. I copied it down to show you. I know these are the same marks that were on that guy’s T-shirt.”

“Those are kanji characters,” Wes said. “These two are pronounced
yama
and
aoi.
”

“Really?” Holly looked relieved. “It makes sense to you?”

“Yama aoi.
It translates,” he continued, “to mountain hollyhock.”

We looked blank.

Wes said, “It was on the guy’s T-shirt, you say. I guess it could be the name of a business.”

The fact that Wesley knows how to read Japanese and is familiar with kanji is just something we have learned to take for granted. In fact, it is easier to think of the handful of things the man doesn’t know than to catalog all the ancient arts he has mastered.

“Mountain hollyhock?” I was puzzled.

“Mountain Hollyhock,” Holly repeated, but her voice was shaky. “Well, that’s impossible.” Her face looked pale in the low light. “That just can’t be.” She was beginning to sound pretty upset.

“What is it, Holly?”

“It’s just…” She stammered, looking the worse for wear. “It’s just that
that
was my nickname.”

I stared at her.

“Yes. I’m telling you! Mountain Hollyhock.”

“What? Somebody actually called you Mountain Hollyhock?”

“Yes. Years ago. Like a private nickname. The super weird thing is, it was Marvin’s nickname for me. All through senior year.”

“Marvin
Dubinsky?”
I asked, floored. I had to speak up louder, because the drums onstage were working up to their finale. “Your
husband
Marvin Dubinsky called you Mountain Hollyhock?”

“Let’s just refer to him as my prom date, okay?” Holly suggested, her voice strained. “Anyway, listen. Marvin used to write me little poems in haiku. He used to joke that I was as tall as a mountain.”

“That’s romantic,” Wes said.

I smiled. Boys were so clueless.

Holly added, “…and my real full name is, well, you know. Hollyhock. So…”

This whole thing was extremely, blazingly, scarily weird. We looked at one another, thinking it all over.

“Mountain Hollyhock,” Holly repeated, looking fairly spooked. “I guess it could just be a coincidence, right?”

What are the odds that a random creep is gonna show up, hide in a girl’s hotel room, and pounce on her while wearing a T-shirt bearing a Japanese phrase that refers to
this same girl’s obscure high school nickname? And all on the day she received a threatening e-mail trying to track down the high school dude that gave her that nickname.

Just then a sword, which was on fire, went shooting out across the stage, but this time it wasn’t caught by the waiting dancer it had been aimed at. This time it came sailing out into the audience, sort of straight at us.

With some unsuspected hidden primitive island instinct, my hand jutted out at just the right second.

The men on the stage stopped drumming, aghast. The Samoan Fire Knife Dancers stopped in midstep.

I caught the fire knife, no problem, and our entire party just clapped their merry little brains out—Gladiola wildly whistling with two fingers in her mouth—absolutely sure this had been part of the grand finale all along.

And that’s when the creepiest idea came to me in a flash of smoky inspiration. What if Holly’s missing maybe-husband Marvin Dubinsky was actually here on the island?

N
o matter what was going on with Holly’s former prom date, Marvin Dubinsky, I refused to let it interfere any further with our luau. We’d deal with everything that needed taking care of tomorrow—the threatening e-mail, the glasses I’d found in Holly’s room, and even the Mountain Hollyhock kanji. So I kept my suspicions to myself, and the party went on. A few hours later, Wes and I sat together, and this time he needed consoling.

“So now I am totally bummed,” Wes said. “I didn’t need to hear from my freaking neighbor back home. I don’t want my everyday L.A. madness to seep into this groovy Hawaiian escape. The lesson is: no cell phones in Paradise.”

“A lesson
some
of us already know,” I replied, looking up at him.

It was midnight in Hawaii, but 3
A.M.
L.A. time, and I was beat. We had resisted Daisy and Azalea and the rest of the sisters urging us to join them in an impromptu midnight swim. The ocean is just too big and dark at night. I shivered, contemplating deep-water oogie-boogies, watching Holly and Marigold and Gladdie frolic in the surf by moonlight. Dainty little Liz was out there too.

Wes and I had pulled canvas beach chairs right up to
the edge of the water and faced the dark sea. We sat together and watched the flow of the tide bring forth gentle wave upon wave, racing up the sand. One with the gumption to lap our bare feet arrived only about every seventh or eighth wave. Behind us, the beach had been cleaned up. Keniki and the party crew had packed up the tables and chairs, the platters and grills, and called it a night.

Wes knocked coconuts with me and took a final swig. “I’m going to leave my cell phone off from now on.”

“Your neighbor left a message?”

“Elmer is really angry at me, Maddie. You should hear him yourself.” He tried to hand me his little silver phone, but I put my hands up, shielding my face.

“Bip-bip-bip!” I chirped. “Remember the lesson. Remember the lesson.”

“Right. No cell phones.” Wes shook his head. “I need a twelve-step program.”

“Like, what’s this guy Elmer’s problem?” I asked, commiserating.

“He hates me.”

I had never liked this neighbor, but he and Wes had seemed very chummy since the day several months ago when Wes bought the house two down from Elmer’s. This house was in a particularly cool section of Hollywood, up on a hill behind the Hollywood Bowl. The only access to the homes in this neighborhood was by an old elevator in a tower, and atop the hill, there were no roads, only sidewalks. When Wesley moved in, he had brought his new neighbor, Elmer Minty, a basket of fresh baked goods, and the old guy had lent Wes a power tool. It was that sort of friendship.

“He heard you might be moving?”

Wesley bought fixers. Wrecks. Houses no one else
wanted. He’d find an aging, run-down, distressed jewel of architecture in one of L.A.’s old neighborhoods and then, after doing careful research, he’d commit his money and hard work to recapturing its glory days. He insisted on preserving all the period details. He and his work crew restored the broken fixtures and cracked tile work and moldings. They replaced missing items, when necessary, with authentic chandeliers and drawer pulls and whatnots that Wes scouted out from his favorite antique salvage dealers. He would devote days to hunting for authentic period replacement pieces rather than just rip it all out and install something easy to find and cheap and new. What Wes was really passionate about was more like fine historic home restoration rather than just gutting and rehabbing, and in a city with lots of cashheavy superstars looking for a special nest and a ten-year boom in real estate prices, it had developed into a lucrative side business.

“I told the old guy I intended to live in this house forever,” Wes said, his voice low. “I meant it, Maddie. It was going to be my forever house. I love the house.”

I knew this story. Wes, with his fabulous eye for finding just the right blemished gem, plus his elegant improvements and terrific good taste, had worked his magic on the house on Alta Loma Drive. He had uncovered and refinished the hardwood floors, used a razor blade to scrape old paint off a hundred panes of glass to restore a dozen French doors, and cleared the hills and landscaped until he had revealed the true beauty of a home that had been embarrassed by decades of neglect and tacky remodels. The house was now pristine. The property’s 360-degree views of Hollywood could now be seen clearly for the first time in fifty years. So it wasn’t surprising that Wes was regularly getting calls
these days from interested parties. A guy wanted to photograph it for a feature for the Sunday
Times.
A location scout asked if the perfect 1920s-style kitchen might be available for a Bounty commercial. So even though the Alta Loma house was not officially on the market, offers were arriving.

All the realtors knew Wes. They had buyers. And as the purchase bids went up and Wesley’s restless creative eye wandered to other distressed properties across town, it was only a matter of time before he’d be moving again. And if I could figure this out, I was sure his neighbors were getting the same feeling. Elmer must have heard a rumor that Wes had said yes to a buyer.

“He was vicious,” Wes said. “He left a rambling message. He hates what I did to the house now. He used to say he loved it, but not anymore. He accused me of destroying the historical authenticity of the property. He says I ruined the house.”

“Now, Wes—”

“I moved the front gate. That was it.”

“Elmer is an older guy. Late sixties, early seventies?”

“Something like that.”

“And he’s lived in that house of his for fifty years, Wes. He is getting emotional. Maybe he liked you. Maybe he figured you’d look after him in his waning years.”

Wes smirked at that thought.

“Maybe Elmer got attached to your handyman ways and your fresh baked croissants and now he’s upset because you might leave him.”

Wes shook his head, concerned. “You should have heard him, Mad. He called me names.”

“You’re kidding me. What did he call you?”

“He yelled on my machine. He said, ‘Flipper! Flipper!’”

I would have smiled right then and there—flipper! Someone who buys homes and turns around and sells them for a big profit. But I knew Wes was sensitive to this whole thing, so I kept a straight face.

“I don’t just slap a coat of Cottage White on the walls and then turn around and jack up the price a hundred grand. I think I have integrity in the work I do, but—”

I had to stop him. “Wes. Get a grip, honey. This is an old angry guy. Forget about it. Okay?”

“Why do people get so nasty?”

I shrugged.

“But if I do sell it, Mad, you might like this house. It’s pretty perfect for you.”

“Oh no,” I said, smiling big. “You can’t get out of this trouble with Elmer by getting me to move in and take care of him.”

“But you’re looking for a new place, right?”

“I love your house, Wes, but I don’t want another great old house in the Hollywood Hills.”

I had my own emotional real estate issues. A few months ago, the upstairs rooms of my house had been the scene of a pretty terrible crime. After the police had come and gone, Wes took over, bringing his work crew along with him. They had reworked the three small bedrooms, expanding the master bedroom and building a walk-in closet and a new master bathroom. The house was now much more wonderful than it had ever been, but I still couldn’t forget about what had happened there and feel truly comfortable.

However, it was complicated. The main floor still worked well for our business, with the huge industrial
kitchen and workspace for Holly and Wesley and me. It was just that I simply didn’t want to live there anymore. I had made up my mind. I intended to rent out my old living quarters to some nice, friendly, solvent, easygoing tenant.

For my own dwelling, I needed a clean start, a new perspective. Time to change things up. I had fallen in love with an odd building right in the heart of Hollywood and I was working on the owner to let me lease the space I was after. I hadn’t told Wesley yet. He would fight me. He believed in owning real estate.

“Look! Here comes Lizzie.”

In the water, like a slippery and tipsy mermaid, Liz Mooney was splashing through the shallow surf and stumbling her way toward us.

“Tonight,” I said to Wesley quickly, “would you mind staying in Holly’s room so Liz and Holly could stay with me? Not that we should expect any more trouble, but…”

“Of course. No problem,” Wes said.

“Hi, you two,” Liz called as she spotted us and changed course. The water dripping from her iridescent yellow tankini shimmered in the moonlight.

Wes stood gallantly. “Come on over here and sit down, Liz. I’ll go back to the car and get you a fresh towel.”

“Thanks, Wes,” she said, tumbling out of the ocean and into the chair in one almost graceful move.

“Aren’t you cold?” I asked, watching her hold her arms across her chest, droplets of water streaming off her trim legs.

“No,” she said, smiling. “I mean, yes. It’s colder out of the water.”

“I was so happy you could come this weekend,” I said. “After all, you’re Holly’s oldest friend.”

“Holly and I met in second grade,” Liz said, nodding, sending water dripping down to the sand from her long dark hair. “St. Anne’s.”

“And you went to the same high school, right?”

“Holy M.”

“Holy Mother.” I knew it was in the Valley. “Isn’t that an all-girls school?”

“It used to be. They went coed a few years before we got there. Thank God!” She began giggling, and I joined her. “I mean, can you imagine Holly in an all-girls school? She’d freak.”

Liz yawned, and I could tell the chill in the air against her wet skin was probably the only thing keeping her awake.

I asked, “Holly had a lot of boys interested in her, I’ll bet.”

“Tons,” Liz said, nodding. “Tons.”

“Tell me Holly stories.”

“Oh, she just attracted boys. They always liked her, even though she was taller than almost all of them. Didn’t matter. Holly was like flypaper, and the boys were like bugs.”

I nodded. “Did she go with anyone special?”

“She went steady all the time. Lots of different guys, of course, but one at a time. You know.”

That I did. “Do you remember the guy she went to your senior prom with? I’m thinking of making up a song for tomorrow’s dinner and we could use some great names from the past.” Never bother with the truth if an easy story comes to mind.

“Oh, how funny!” Liz smiled and closed her eyes. I
looked over and wondered if she was dozing off to a pleasant dream of high school.

“Liz?”

“I could tell you stories,” Liz said, opening her eyes. “Holly has never been restrained when it comes to boys. She would get very interested and then it would pass.”

“Names?”

“Where do I start?” she asked. “Okay, take these down. Barry Zeman in ninth grade. Then David Deutch. Chris Pantone and Dennis Fogerty and Brian Kim—they were our fencing team. Then Jason Martz in tenth. She dated Zack Wheeler from Loyola for a few months. Then Jordan Bunzel, Donny Yamaguchi, Andy and Kenny Mc-Neal…” Liz stopped reeling off names for a few seconds to put in a side comment—“…the twins”—and went right on. “Then there was Gabe Cummings, Billy Evashwick, Jesse Perlmutter, Tim O’Bannion, Michael Childers, and Joseph Allen.”

It had been quite a recitation.

“Wow. You have great recall for names,” I said.

“Madeline, I had to hear about every single one of them and how she was going to marry each one. And then how she wasn’t. Usual high school stuff.”

“Wasn’t there another one?” I asked.

Liz thought it over. “Did I mention Marvin Dubinsky?”

“No.” Hot damn. “Tell me about him.”

“Really fabulously brainy dude,” she said. “Totally off-the-map nerd, though. You know how that goes. Our Holly took the ultimate pity on Marvin.”

I’d say so. She married him. I wondered if Liz knew about it.

“Did Holly tell you about what happened with Marvin after the prom?” I asked.

Liz looked at me and smiled. “I do believe she fulfilled his teenage fantasies. You should have seen the dress she wore to the prom. It was white, strapless, cut down to her navel, and skintight. All that and a white feather boa. As I recall, poor Marvin’s eyes only came up to Holly’s chest level, due to their height discrepancy, but I don’t think he was complaining.”

“Did you ever hear what happened to Marvin after that?”

“He went off to college, I think. He had scholarships to anyplace he wanted to go, I remember that.”

“And what about you, Lizzie? Do you have a list of broken hearts that long?”

“Me? Oh good God, no. I didn’t date at all during high school.”

“No one?”

She shook her head and smoothed her wet hair. “I was the quiet type. You know, all honors classes and a big math brain. Real Future CPAs of America material.”

I looked at her in her tight bathing suit with skepticism.

Liz still looked serious. “I know what you’re thinking, Maddie, but back then I was just skinny and flatchested. No boy would look at me.”

“Lizzie, you’re gorgeous. Boys are such imbeciles.”

“Don’t I know it,” she said, smiling. “Even the smart ones are perfectly stupid.”

“Say, about that Marvin guy,” I said. “Do you know what happened to him?”

“Marvin Dubinsky? No. I haven’t heard anything about him since high school. But he was a really intense guy. He was totally fixated on Holly too. Devoted. He wrote her sonnets. I wonder why he never kept in touch with her.”

“Good question.”

“Say, Maddie, do you think Holly’s going to live happily ever after with Donald Lake?”

It was a perfectly valid question, noting Holly’s effervescent past. But it was not a totally reassuring thought that the young woman who knew Holly best was asking it.