Vacations Can Be Murder: The Second Charlie Parker Mystery (16 page)

We cruised slowly through the lot.

One young couple, wearing matching neon pink
baseball caps, stood at the trunk of their car. They were
apparently having a heated discussion over who would be in charge
of the camera. After a short bout of verbal back-and-forth, the
girl grabbed the camera and slammed the trunk closed. We watched
him follow timidly as she stomped toward the woods.

Their matching shirts which said "Just
Maui'd."

A gray-haired sixty-ish couple emerged near
the spot where the young couple had just disappeared. They walked
slowly back toward their car, from the direction of the beach. He
went about elaborate detours to avoid getting his sparkling white
canvas shoes near mud puddles, while she chose the direct route,
arriving at the car well ahead of him.

"Where are all the other people?" I asked
Drake, looking around at the number of unoccupied cars in the
lot.

"Probably hiking the trail," he replied.
"This is the head of the only trail that leads up the Na Pali
coast. Remember, I pointed it out on the tour?"

Now that he mentioned it, I did. It looked
different from this end, though.

He pulled the bike into a relatively
protected spot. The clouds overhead had begun to look threatening,
so he chose a place under the trees. We dismounted, and he showed
me the way.

The well worn path was strewn with leaves,
brown and soggy now, trampled into a sort of mushy carpet. Three
beer cans and a plastic grocery sack had been tossed to the side.
The remains of a campfire on the beach lay scattered over a wide
area.

Once we stepped out into the open, the view
up the coast was incredible. The wind blew fresh off the sea, the
air laden with moisture. There ahead of us, enshrouded in mist,
stood row after row of razor-like peaks, like the stand-up plates
on the back of a Stegosaurus. I felt a little breathless.

"They look so much bigger from ground level,"
I told Drake. "Even for a kid raised in the Rockies, I have to say,
this is spectacular."

"Hanakapiai Valley is the first one," he
said, pointing. "Right between those two ridges."

I turned to look all around me. If a person
rented one of those Zodiac boats with a motor, they could easily
pull it up out of the water around here somewhere. Then, they might
drive back later, maybe with a body in the trunk, retrieve the
boat, and buzz over to that valley.

This knowledge didn't exactly help me zero in
on a suspect. Any of them could have managed it quite easily.

I decided a visit to the boat rental places
would be in order.

I asked Drake if he would mind stopping on
the way back. The shop I remembered seeing might be a good
possibility. In order for the killer to have used the boat
overnight, they'd just about have to rent it for longer than a day.
Otherwise, the rental shop would expect it back the same afternoon
it was taken out.

The breeze off the ocean had turned chill,
the clouds dark overhead. We walked a short way up the trail but
soon turned back, coated with goose bumps. Drake slipped his arm
around my shoulders, chafing at my upper arm to warm it. We dashed
for the Honda just as the first few raindrops spattered us.

A half-mile down the road, we were soaked.
Frigid wind and water pasted my t-shirt to my skin. I clung even
closer to Drake’s hunched back.

Abruptly, the rain ended and within minutes
we had slipped out from under the clouds and into the sunshine. By
the time we neared the boat rental shop the wind had whipped our
shirts dry. I didn’t want to think about how I looked; at least my
nipples weren’t standing straight out anymore.

Drake slowed to watch for the place.

Their sign was the color of a taxi cab, with
letters of process blue. Easy to spot. The business was situated in
a little wooden shack, which had presumably been a plantation
cottage in the old days. We pulled up beside it, parking the bike
on the grass. I could practically hear the termites chewing away at
the short wood pilings on which the small building stood.

A layer of dried red mud coated its steps,
porch, and floor. Bright neon boogie boards leaned against the
walls outside. The door stood open, so we walked in.

A wooden counter divided the tiny room in
half. Our side had additional boards stacked against the exterior
walls, but nothing else in the way of furnishings. The counter top
held two brochure racks, which carried a variety of folders
describing the activities one could partake of here. Helicopter
tours, fishing charters, and luaus seemed to top the list.

A young man stood behind the counter,
ruffling through a bunch of notices tacked to a bulletin board
behind him. The notices looked like the neighborhood answer to a
penny shopper newspaper. The ones I could read at a distance
appeared to list various items for sale, including one "not very
rusty" refrigerator.

The guy had shoulder length blond hair,
bleached by the sun, and looking like he'd come out of the sea
without bothering to comb through it. He wore a pair of baggy
shorts that rode so low on his skinny hips, I found it
embarrassing. No shirt. He flipped long strands of bangs out of his
face as he turned to face us. I caught a whiff of pot.

"Howzit?" he greeted. I guessed it was the
island version of "May I help you?"

"Yeah," I said, "I'd like some information
about the boats you rent. You have some with motors?" Given the
distance involved, and the strength of the waves I'd seen, I
couldn't imagine any one managing it with a paddle.

"Sure do," he answered proudly. "The only
place on the north shore that has 'em. All the others are kayaks
and boogie boards."

Good. This was going to cut my search time by
quite a bit.

"I need to know if someone rented one within
the last week, and kept it overnight."

"Nope."

"Are you sure? I mean, maybe you should check
your rental receipts, or something."

"I know we didn't." His sureness irritated
me.

I pulled out my card. "It pertains to a
murder investigation. I would appreciate it if you would double
check."

He pulled out a cardboard box with frayed
edges, about four by six inches big, two inches deep. He drew out
all the receipts that were in it, a stack about a half inch
thick.

"Kayak, kayak, boogie board..." He read off
the rental item from each one, as he pointedly slapped it down on
the counter.

There was only one Zodiac rental for the
week, and it had been returned by five o'clock on the same day it
was rented. I hated the smug look he flashed at me when he was
through.

"And there are no others still out?"

This time, when he said no, I didn't push
it.

Once we were on the road again, I asked
Drake: "Where else could a person get their hands on one of those
boats?"

"You might check the yellow pages when we get
back," he said. "Business is so competitive here, these guys will
all tell you they're the only one that provides a service. I have
to say, though, I don't know of any others myself."

He had paperwork to do that afternoon, so he
took me back to the hotel. We made plans to see each other again
that night.

I went to my room to make phone calls, but
didn't get much in the way of results.

Several companies were listed who gave boat
tours along the coast using Zodiac boats, but none of them rented
their boats out to individuals. Our stringy-haired friend was
apparently correct again when he told me that they were the only
one who provided motorized rentals.

After a half-dozen calls, I gave up,
frustrated that my theory hadn’t worked out.

I sat at the table, staring at the silent
phone and tapping my mails on the wooden surface. I needed to ask
one more favor of Morton, my friendly concierge. I hoped I could
get this one for less than twenty bucks.

I picked up the receiver once again and
dialed his extension.

"Hi, Morton. Charlie Parker." My voice
sounded saccharin, even to me. I hate sucking up, although it
is
an efficient means of getting information.

"Hello, Ms. Parker." His tone was equally
sickening.

"I need one teensy favor, if you could."

"Certainly," he gushed, "whatever I can
do."

"Mr. Page, who was registered in
ten-fifty-nine, received a call last Friday night. Would your
computers show what number the call came from?"

"An incoming call? Afraid not. We only have
records of outgoing numbers."

Rats. I was afraid of this.

"Oh, one other thing," I persisted. "What
time of day did Mrs. Page check in?"

I waited on hold while he went to a terminal
and signed on. He was back a moment later.

"Ten a.m. on Sunday."

Wow. She must have been at the airport within
minutes after receiving the news of her recent widowhood. I
wondered if there was a way to find out when her ticket had been
booked. There was the possibility that she'd flown to the island a
day earlier, say, right after the telephone argument. Or, what if
the phone argument had been staged? Maybe the call didn't come from
California at all.

All this ran through my mind as I thanked
Morton, and hung up. I calculated the time on the west coast. Late
afternoon already. I wondered if I'd reach anyone in the phone
company's business office. It was worth a shot.

After dialing Information for the number, I
got a perky sounding girl named Pamela on the line.

"Yes, Pamela, this is Catherine Page. Mrs.
Gilbert Page." I gave the Page's home phone number. "I need to find
out whether a call was placed from my home last Friday night to
this number in Hawaii." I gave her the number at the Westin.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Page," she said, "I only
have access to billing records during normal business hours, eight
to five, Monday through Friday."

"Oh, dear," I said, sounding as put-out as I
could.

"Wouldn't it just be simpler to wait until
your bill comes? If you are charged incorrectly for a call, we'll
be happy to credit you."

"Oh, it's not that. Actually, I hope there
was a call, and I need to know today. See, my son is home alone. My
husband and I are on vacation in Hawaii. Jason says he was home,
and in fact called us from there, but I suspect he's been staying
with that girlfriend of his. She's a little tart, you know."

I could practically hear Pamela's eyes roll
back. God, what a bitch, she was thinking.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. Tomorrow morning would be
the soonest I could find out. I could call you then."

Great. That's all I needed. She'd ask for
Catherine Page's room, and feed her the information. How do I get
myself into these things?

"Let me call you back," I suggested. "We're
checking out early."

She seemed glad to get rid of me.

Next, I put in a call to Catherine Page. I
was curious whether the police had also asked her to stick around
for awhile. The desk told me she had not checked out, but she
wasn't in her room, either.

There was still no one among the people I'd
interviewed who had seen Gil Page alive after the alleged argument
with Mack. I needed to find such a witness, if there was one. I
also thought it would be nice to find someone else who could verify
either Mack's or Joe's version of that exchange. Maybe another trip
out to the airport was in order.

I retrieved the rental from the hotel lot,
started it and allowed it to idle for a couple of minutes, since it
hadn’t been driven in more than a day. Traffic was light—I arrived
at the airport in less than ten minutes.

The maintenance area was beginning to feel
like a second home to me. I whipped into the parking lot like a
regular, taking the third space from the end.

The little three-sided wooden structure was
occupied, this time by a man. He was seventy if he was a day,
standing approximately five foot two, weighing in at close to a
hundred pounds. One sure bet, if the Iraqis decided this was the
airport they wanted to invade, this guy would not pose a formidable
threat.

He rose from the four legged metal stool the
state had provided for his comfort, and held his ground, awaiting
my approach. I didn't make any sudden moves. Although it probably
would have taken him a good four or five minutes to wrestle his gun
from its holster, once he did, that trigger finger didn't look any
too steady.

"Hi," I said tentatively.

"Where's your badge?" His sharp black eyes
scanned me, as he growled the words.

"I don't want in," I assured him. "I just
need to ask a question."

He continued to regard me with suspicion
until I reached the fence. A jet took off on the nearest runway
just then, so I waited until the noise had subsided.

"Were you on duty here last Friday night,
about ten o'clock?" I asked.

"Friday night." He rubbed his gums together
for a couple of very long minutes. "Nope."

He turned away from me, like he was going
back to his comfy seat. I guess he took me literally when I said I
wanted to ask
a
question.

"Wait. Do you know who was on duty that
night?"

"Nope."

This guy was just a wealth of information, I
must say.

"Can you tell me where I can find out?" I
hate to be pushy, especially with our senior citizens, but
really.

"Head of security. Over't the security
office." He waved vaguely in the direction of the airport terminal
building.

I smiled as large a smile as I could muster
and thanked him. I don't know whether he noticed or not. He seemed
intent on getting off his feet as soon as he could.

I had no idea where I was going, but it
seemed like the main terminal building would be a good starting
place. Leaving the parking lot by the maintenance hangars, I had to
drive past the helipads. Mack's helicopter was gone. Instinctively,
I glanced at my watch. It was almost three. Drake had told me their
last flight was usually at four.