Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery Read online

  "Perfect. I'll see you then."

  I remained seated on my sofa for several minutes after hanging up, second-guessing if I was doing the right thing in getting involved in my ex-husband's marital problems. I had to admit, there was a certain amount of irony and a lesser degree of curiosity in taking this case. My bottom line wish was that it was over and done with as soon as possible with minimal casualties along the way.

  * * *

  "Where do I begin?" Carter asked as he sat before me in my office. As usual, he was impeccably dressed in a sharp suit, as if to wear anything else would somehow spoil his image of the consummate successful businessman now than he no longer had to get his hands dirty as a prosecutor.

  I looked down at my desk nervously and started counting the dust particles, as though about to go on my first date or something. I realized that, in effect, we were starting all over in communicating with each other in the post marriage era. And I had a feeling it wasn't going to get any easier.

  "Why don't you start by telling me why you think your wife is cheating on you," I suggested with a straight face.

  Carter reverse-crossed his legs clumsily. "There are a number of reasons. Darlene's never home for one, and when she is, she's usually bitchy, lies about where she's been and who with, and"—he forced himself to look at me—"we haven't made love in months..."

  I colored a little in that moment where it seemed like our own intimate past had come back to haunt us. He had certainly given what seemed to be legitimate reasons for his suspicions. I took notes, attempting to treat his case as I would any other client's.

  However, that seemed to be asking the impossible.

  "I take it she doesn't work?" I'd heard that through the grapevine. Not that she needed to work, since she was married to a man who appeared to be more than capable of supporting his wife. Of course, that hadn't stopped me from wanting to do my own thing when I was married to him back in the day. But then that was just me.

  "Not on this planet," Carter moaned. "Hell, not even in this city! The word work is not in Darlene's vocabulary."

  Strangely enough, one of Carter's pet peeves in our relationship was that I did work (never mind the fact that it was his hiring me that led to our romance in the first place). It had something to do with the balance of power most men prefer to have in their favor. Had he changed his tune over time? Or was this really only about Darlene doing something with her time other than maybe having an affair?

  Another one of those awkward moments between us left an eerie silence that hung in the air like thick smoke.

  "What about your child?" I asked. "I thought most mothers had their hands full just getting through the day."

  Carter's brow creased in the center. "One of the advantages of being independently wealthy is that you can afford hired help," he bragged. "Darlene has made an art form of it. Usually the only time I can get her to live up to her responsibilities of being a mother is when she wants something."

  A sad statement, I thought, if true. "Have you confronted her about your suspicions?"

  He paused. "Yes."

  "And?"

  "And she denies it." He curled one side of his mouth into a sneer. "She says I'm jealous, paranoid, and way off base."

  I had never known Carter to be jealous or paranoid in our marriage, probably because I gave him no reason to be. On the other hand, the word possessiveness did come to mind.

  "Well, where does Darlene claim she's been when she goes out?" I asked.

  "Shopping or at a girlfriend's."

  "What makes you think she's lying?"

  He scowled. "She never shows me anything she bought during the times in question, though she never has any trouble doing so the rest of the time whenever she decides to run up the charge cards." He sighed. "As for friends, I've never known Darlene to have any female—"

  We were interrupted by the untimely, irritating presence of a giant whitefly that invaded my office and seemed to take particular delight in watching us squirm. It finally had the decency to land in a most appropriate spot. I kept an insect swatter in my desk drawer for such routine occasions and didn't hesitate to use it when I thought I could nail the critter.

  "Don't move!" I ordered Carter, who had apparently lost sight of the insect. Fortunately, I knew exactly where it had landed. I raised the swatter, took two looping steps, and lowered the boom right between Carter's legs.

  Bull's-eye!

  Or right on the money, pun intended.

  Carter buckled, more from sheer embarrassment than anything else.

  "Oops," I said, and managed to suppress a giggle. It felt better than I could have expected. "Let me clean that nasty little creature off you..."

  I yanked a couple of tissues from the box I kept on the desk and scooped up the victim's remains.

  Carter grimaced. "Dammit, Skye! Couldn't you have waited for it to land somewhere else? This suit cost me a pretty penny!" He grabbed two tissues to finish wiping his pants—which turned into smearing what was left more than anything else.

  "So have them professionally cleaned," I uttered half sympathetically, "and send me the bill." I made a feeble attempt at justification. "Sometimes they just won't leave on their own. Sorry."

  "Yeah, I'll bet you are," he grumbled, and now seemed to find humor in it himself. "I suppose I had that one coming—long overdue." He chuckled. I smiled, but kept my mouth shut. "At least it was that poor bastard," he said, glancing at the wastebasket, "who got the worst of it."

  The incident appeared to break the tension in the room that had been palpable. A moment later, it was back to the business at hand.

  I asked: "Do you have a picture of your wife?"

  I had never had the pleasure (or lack of, was probably more like it) of meeting or laying eyes on his former mistress, having chosen to spare myself the indignity.

  Carter removed a five-by-seven picture from his suit coat pocket and handed it to me. It was a wedding photograph of him and his bride.

  "It was all I could find," he said guiltily. "We haven't taken many pictures—"

  I hated to admit it, but Carter's former mistress and current wife was beautiful. It wasn't surprising really. If nothing else, Carter Delaney definitely had an eye for attractive women, present company included. It was the fact that he couldn't seem to settle for one woman at a time that pissed me off. At least it had back in the day.

  Darlene Delaney looked at least ten years Carter's junior and she was several inches shorter. She had short blonde hair, blue eyes, and a shapely body in what looked like a very expensive wedding gown. Or certainly much more than what I paid for mine. Whether I chose to acknowledge it or not, Carter and Darlene were a nice looking couple. But then so were we and look where it got us.

  I wondered if Carter and his present wife were headed down the same path toward divorce.

  "This will do," I said evenly, putting the photo on my desk. "I'll also need your address, the type of car Darlene drives, and some idea of what time she likes to go out."

  "No problem." Carter dug into his wallet and pulled out a snapshot. Sporting an uneasy smile, he said: "Thought you might like to see what my daughter looks like—"

  Silently, I took the picture of a baby not more than a year old, with beautiful blue eyes and curly blonde hair.

  "Her name is Ivy," Carter said proudly.

  I tried to imagine this pretty little baby as mine—ours. That thought quickly gave way to reality. Ivy was the product of Carter and the woman he essentially gave me up for and now questioned her faithfulness to him.

  I bit the inside of my lip, but managed a smile while handing him back the photo.

  "She's cute," I said honestly.

  Carter beamed. "You should see her now—"

  It was something I was understandably in no hurry to do. I changed the subject by handing him a yellow notepad. Apparently, he got the message.

  "So what happens if your wife is cheating on you?" I asked more out of curiosity than anything else.


  Carter shrugged. "Probably a divorce..." Our eyes locked, and he said: "Guess I really never knew what I had with you until it was too late—"

  "Don't, Carter—" I said quickly for both our sakes. "Let's not go down that road. Just keep this strictly professional."

  He seemed to contemplate it for a long moment before asking: "What made you change your mind about taking my case? Or is that privileged information?"

  "There's no hidden agenda here," I assured him. "I felt there was no reason why I couldn't work for you just as I would anyone who came into this office and requested my services. It's as simple as that!" To suggest anything else would only complicate matters, I thought. Including the added pressure Ridge had given me to take the ball and run with it rather than give in to past demons.

  My response seemed to irk Carter, but he tried hard not to show it. "So how much of an advance do you want?" He pulled an envelope out of his briefcase and removed a batch of crisp bills. "Will ten thousand do for starters?"

  He put the cash down in front of me. It was certainly a nice way to begin an investigation, though I couldn't help but feel he was flaunting his wealth. Or reminding me of what I'd missed out on financially.

  I picked up the stack of hundred dollar bills. Though I was very tempted to take it all, as he apparently wanted me to, I didn't bite the bait. Since I figured it should take no more than two or three days at the most to get the goods on his wife, if there were any goods to get, I counted out five thousand dollars and handed him back the rest.

  "This should be fine for starters," I told him, choosing professional ethics and personal pride over a more than generous advance. "I'll bill you if you owe me more."

  He nodded. "You make the rules..."

  I stood. "I'll be in touch as soon as I have something for you."

  Carter rose almost reluctantly, and favored me with a grim look. "Thanks for your help, Skye. If you run into any roadblocks, don't hesitate to let me know. Darlene may be giving it up to someone other than me, but she sure as hell isn't going to spread her legs for you without fighting tooth and nail to hold on to what she thinks is rightfully hers."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I was still pondering Carter's parting words as I sat in my car outside his house. By the looks of it, I could see what Darlene wanted to hold onto. The oceanfront home was located on Kaikuono Place in one of Honolulu's most exclusive districts, Diamond Head, and screamed fabulous. On the slopes of the world famous volcanic crater by the same name, the mansion was two stories and boasted a combination of stone, stucco, and rich woods with arched windows, steep gables, and wrought iron. There was a masonry garden wall and an entry blocked from the street by an electronic gate. Palm trees and high shrubbery surrounded the property like guards sworn to protect its occupants.

  A touch of envy overcame me as I remembered the nice but modest place we called home when we were married. Carter had obviously moved up quite a bit in the world since then. And so had Darlene as a result.

  My thoughts turned to the reason I was there gawking at my ex-husband's exquisite accommodations. At precisely ten a.m., Darlene Delaney emerged from the house with her daughter. With the telephoto zoom lens of my digital camera, I honed in on the two.

  With her hair in pigtails, Ivy was wearing an pink dress and matching shoes. She held her mother's hand seemingly under protest.

  Darlene looked relaxed and stylish in an olive pantsuit and high-heeled mules. Her shoulder length hair hung loose. She removed sunglasses from an oversized purse and covered her eyes before heading toward a bright red BMW in the circular drive.

  I disappeared from view as the car sped past the gate and onto the street, whizzing by me as though my comparatively inexpensive vehicle was insignificant. Was she in a big hurry or what? I wondered while starting my car. Or was this just Darlene's normal reckless way of driving with her daughter in the car?

  In any event, I had to put on the burners just to keep up.

  During my surveillance, I considered the irony that Carter may well have been getting a major dose of the same medicine he had once dished out to an unsuspecting me. After sulking for some time, I finally got past it and on with my life. So had he, and apparently never looked back.

  Till now.

  Then I found myself wondering what Carter would think of Ridge. And vice versa. They were about as different as night and day, but had enough common ground to get involved with me. At this stage of my life, I couldn't help but think I was much better off with Ridge.

  These musings drifted away as I followed Darlene to a day care center on Ala Aolani Street, where she literally dropped Ivy off before going it alone to some unknown destination. For a time, she seemed to be driving just for the sake of driving. Or maybe to see how many heads she could turn in the cars she left in the dust.

  This exercise in tire wear came to a head when she turned onto Kalakaua Avenue and parked at the Royal Hawaiian Center, a four-level shopping mall in the heart of Waikiki.

  I parked not far from her and waited while Darlene took extraordinary pains to redo her face and hair, primping for someone apparently other than her husband. Normally I had a feel for whether or not a spouse was having an affair. But in this case, my instincts were undoubtedly flawed. Spying on your ex-husband's current wife probably nullified any objectivity. But something told me there was more to it than that. Judging by Carter's complaints about Darlene, the marriage seemed more or less doomed whether she was having an affair or not.

  Or was that perhaps wishful thinking on my part?

  I doubted it. Why on earth would Carter want to stay married to someone who mistreated him and apparently neglected their daughter? On the other hand, if Darlene was willing to fight me "tooth and nail" to keep the life and luxuries she had, why would she risk it all by having an affair that she seemingly did not give a damn if her husband was privy to or not?

  It didn't add up, making me even more suspicious, even though I knew as well as anyone that marital triangles rarely added up to everyone's satisfaction. I was living proof of that.

  Darlene left her car and headed inside the mall. I followed from a safe distance, dressed in my foot surveillance inconspicuous attire of a blazer over a mock halter and slim leg pants. I wore casual flats for practicality and brought along a nondescript handbag with all the essential elements of the trade.

  An unlikely place to meet a lover, I thought, but not impossible. Maybe Darlene would surprise me and meet with someone in the back room of one of the fashionable boutiques. Or maybe even out in the open in the food court.

  If that was the case, she certainly was taking her own sweet time about it. Darlene spent nearly three exhausting hours at the mall. At least it was exhausting for me, in spite of my fitness routine. This was one time in which the lady did take full advantage of her credit cards. She left the mall overloaded with bags, but no lover.

  Her next stop was a manicurist on Woodlawn Drive. A young woman gave Darlene the full fingers and toes treatment. Seemed innocent enough, I thought, ruling out for the moment that the affair was with another woman. I took pictures anyway just for the hell of it.

  Things finally began to get interesting when I tailed Darlene to a community park on Aala Street. She walked hurriedly to a shaded area, where she met with a thirty-something Hawaiian man of medium build with a short dark ponytail. My first thought was: Gotcha, Darlene!

  But it looked like I'd jumped the gun.

  They exchanged a few words before she handed the man an envelope. I captured it on digital and watched through the telephoto lens as he riffled through what could only have been money. More words were exchanged before he reached into his pocket and quickly—his eyes darting left and right as though scared to death that someone might catch them in the act of committing a crime—placed a small plastic bag into Darlene's palm, and curled her fingers around it for good measure.

  My guess was that I'd just witnessed a drug transaction between a dealer and the wife of a fo
rmer prosecutor and now wealthy businessman. Suddenly this case had far greater implications than merely a wife who was having an affair. I found myself almost wishing it had been something as simple and non-criminal (unless it happened to be your own spouse) as adultery. Was this the essence of Darlene's "affair"? Drug abuse? Did Carter even have a clue that his wife was doing drugs and willing to go to risky lengths to get them?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  My favorite place to unwind was at a Waikiki watering hole on Kuhio Avenue called Clyde and Bonnie's. Named after the infamous bank-robbing couple from the 1930s, the walls were lined with images from a time gone by. The music piping out was also vintage jazz standards, featuring the likes of Sarah Vaughan, Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald and other great crooners of that era.

  I sat with Ridge at a small table near the window, sharing a pitcher of beer. His brow furrowed as he studied the photograph I'd just handed him.

  He turned his eyes to me. "Looks familiar," he said. "I think I'll run it by the guys in vice."

  I grabbed the picture of Darlene and the man she had met at the park. "Strictly unofficial, remember?" Against my better judgment, I had shared with Ridge my suspicions about Darlene and her probable drug dealer. "I can't really be sure what I saw," I said waveringly. I'd held back the more incriminating pictures. "The last thing I want to do is betray the confidentiality of a client—particularly one who was once a top prosecutor in this city—by providing dirt for every cop on the police force who may have had, or still has, a beef against him."

  Not to mention those nervous investors Carter mentioned. And just plain old media folks who like to jump on any story that seems remotely newsworthy. At the very least, I figured that Carter deserved to hear it from me first if there was any substance to my suspicions.

  Ridge put the beer mug to his mouth and flashed his deep blue eyes at me drearily. "Do I detect some sentiment for Carter Delaney and his female problems?"

  I stared at the tricky question while tasting beer. "I'm not going to pretend we were never married"—as if that was an option—"or that there aren't some lingering feelings that come with the territory," I conceded, hating to admit it. "But right now my only interest in the man is as a client who entrusted me with a job—one that doesn't include smearing his name and reputation. Or, for that matter, his wife's reputation at this stage."