Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery (23 page)

Again, she interpolated with: "Carter kept a
file on you—" She hung onto to that last word long enough to watch
the obvious shock written across my face. "He liked to think that
in some strange way you were still
his
private property. He
had to know who you dated, socialized with, even what time you went
to bed—and who with... One of his fetishes was comparing himself
sexually to the men in your life since you kicked him to the curb.
Of course, Carter always rated himself superior in that
department."

I shivered with embarrassment, disbelief,
and, frankly, disgust. "Even if Carter did keep this so-called
file," I sputtered at her, finding it hard to accept, "what the
hell possible difference does it make now? Especially when Carter
can't defend himself from this crap."

Darlene stiffened. "I just thought you'd
like to know what type of man you divorced and I married," she
stated simply. "Yes, I probably should've divorced Carter and, yes,
maybe sometimes I wished him dead because of the way he treated
me..." Her voice broke. "But I also loved him and really wanted to
try and make our marriage work."

"Is that why you had Carter insured for two
million dollars one month before his death?" I asked bluntly. "Out
of love
and
devotion?"

She shook her head. "It was
his
idea.
He had me insured for the same amount. That was on top of a million
dollar policy Carter already had on himself. He said the additional
amounts were a hedge against what he called the laws of nature. He
wanted to make sure neither of us would suffer greatly financially
if either died prematurely—"

If what she said was true, could Carter have
somehow anticipated his death a month before, prompting him to put
an additional two million on his life? Equally baffling was why he
would want a woman he suspected of cheating on him, and probably
would have divorced had he lived long enough, as his
beneficiary.

I gazed at Darlene with a great deal of
uncertainty. "Have you told this to the police?"

"I'm telling it to you," she snapped. "They
hear only what they want to. There seems to be a well orchestrated
effort by the authorities to make me out to be my husband's
executioner."

"Aren't you being overly melodramatic?" I
asked, knowing that Carter's actual executioner was a male with AB
negative blood.

"You tell me—" Darlene tossed back.

She gave me a conspiratorial look, which
seemed to once again lead to my involvement with Ridge. This made
me very uncomfortable. Ridge continued to be fairly tightlipped
about where the investigation was going, except for their
suspicions concerning Darlene and possibly those connected to her.
Could there be a cover-up of some sort within the department? I
wondered. And, if so, for what reason?

"All I know," I told Darlene truthfully, "is
that the police are investigating whether or not the death of your
friend Kalolo Nawahi could somehow be tied to Carter's murder."

A shadow of regret and deliberation crossed
her face. "I heard about Kalolo. I'm sorry he's dead." Our eyes
met. "But to connect that to Carter's death—"

I told her about seeing Kalolo at the
funeral when he supposedly never knew her as Mrs. Carter
Delaney.

"So he wasn't as dumb as I made him out to
be," she rationalized. "That doesn't prove I put him up to
murdering Carter—or that Kalolo did it all by himself to try and
get something out of me!"

I agreed with her, but said anyway: "It's
not me you've got to convince, Darlene—"

"Isn't it?" she charged, flipping her hair
to one side. "This is
my life
we're talking about here. I
don't want to see it messed up any more than it already is when I'm
innocent—" Her eyes fixed me with desperation. "If you have any
feelings left in that heart of yours for Carter, you'll prove my
innocence in his death by using your detective skills to track down
the real killer."

She made it almost sound as if being a
private detective was a game or TV show, where private dicks always
got their man or woman at the end of the day. If only it were that
simple to track down a real killer or killers, I thought. All the
detective skills in the world offered no guarantees of success.
Complicating matters was an ongoing police investigation, possible
cover-up, the growing questions about Carter and his dual life, and
his chameleon widow, whose own issues and question marks made her
less than convincing as a person who was being unfairly
targeted.

"I'll pay you whatever you want," Darlene
said as added incentive.

I was sure she would and obviously could. In
this case, it was definitely not about money, whether I could use
it or not, but an obligation on my part to do the right thing.

"I can't accept your money," I told her
succinctly, then added in a more conciliatory tone: "But I will
follow up on any leads I come across to try and find out who killed
Carter, even if the trail leads right to your door—"

She nodded and actually looked relieved. "I
wouldn't expect or want anything less."

"Good to know," I made clear.

"Mahalo," Darlene said, as she stood up.

It was hard to dislike Carter's widow, no
matter how much I may have wanted to. "A hui hou kakou," I told
her, or
until we meet again
, knowing full well that the
circumstances may be anything but pleasant.

Darlene stood up and removed what looked
like a journal from her purse. Pushing it halfway across the desk,
she said: "Even if Carter was still alive, he'd have a hard time
defending himself on some things. It's all there. He certainly
won't be needing this anymore, and neither will I—"

On that note, she turned and strutted out of
the office. I lifted the thick, gray journal, which I had a feeling
I would regret reading, yet was compelled to.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE

Darlene had not exaggerated. There were
times, dates, places—some that I'd forgotten or wanted to—that were
logged stretching back to when Carter and I had first separated. He
knew when Ridge and I met, our first date, when we first made love.
When we last made love prior to Carter's death, which was the day
before he died...and seemingly every aspect of my personal and
professional life that he no longer had a right to know.

Why, Carter?
I wondered, hoping that
somehow he could hear me from beyond the grave.
Why the hell
would you do this? What did you hope to gain by prying unnaturally
into my life and times?

I could only wonder if this obsessive
behavior had existed long before he became involved with me, or
Darlene for that matter. I even started to consider if it was
somehow tied to Carter being a control freak; as well as his
gambling addiction, history as an attorney, and business
practices.

I read on, finding myself unable to put down
the journal. It was like reading my unauthorized biography. Even my
caseload as a private investigator had been detailed. In Carter's
words, I was "brutally efficient, clever as a fox, had skills I
never dreamt she possessed when we were married, and was as good as
any man I knew in solving even the most difficult of cases..."

This apparent flattery hardly enamored me,
considering the source in which he chose to express himself, noting
at one point that "she gave as much as she received, and then some,
in bed and out of bed...only I never truly appreciated it till it
was too late to turn back..."

He talked of plans to hire me to "get the
goods on that whore" who seemed to take delight in being a major
embarrassment to him and all he stood for. That way he would have
the ammunition to get rid of Darlene without being taken to the
cleaners or giving up his daughter—the one thing worthwhile in his
life.

I closed the journal on that note, disgusted
and intrigued at the same time. I wondered if Darlene had bothered
to read it before she gave it to me, sensing she had. It suggested
Carter had already made up his mind to divorce her once he could
prove her unfaithfulness. I assumed that was what he meant by "get
rid of her." If so, it was also incentive for Darlene wanting to
see him dead before she lost everything.

But it still didn't add up to murder—at
least not by my calculations. Darlene wanted to hire me to disprove
perceived police attempts to railroad her for Carter's death. Even
going so far as to part with what amounted to Carter's last known
thoughts, some of which gave her good reason to destroy this
potentially incriminating evidence. In my mind, this either made
her a complete lunatic or perfectly sane in her beliefs that the
police were on a witch hunt, but targeting the
wrong
witch.

Far more disturbing was the fact that I was
the central character in Carter's journal, as though a dark novel.
What was going on in his head that possessed him to violate me in a
way no common criminal ever could? It was more bizarre than I was
prepared to contemplate on an empty stomach.

I locked the journal in my desk, grabbed my
purse, cut off the lights, and left the office for an unknown
destination. I drove around in circles for what seemed like hours,
having been affected more than I cared to admit by the unfolding
drama of my ex-husband who was as much a mystery to me as his
death.

* * *

It was a quarter past five when I showed up
at Ridge's door. He stood there barefoot in a striped T-shirt and
shorts. Mayonnaise trickled down from the corner of his mouth, a
reflection of the half-eaten chicken sandwich he held precariously
in one hand.

He took one look at me and said: "You look
like you've been to hell and back—"

I hadn't meant for it to be so apparent.
Since he was right, I saw no reason to deny it. "I confess my day
hasn't gone too well..."

That was probably the biggest understatement
I'd ever made.

Ridge frowned with concern. "I can see
that." He bent over and kissed me on the cheek, then hugged me with
his free arm. "Come on in and tell me all about it. I've got
nothing but time."

I wondered if I could ever tell him that my
ex-spouse had been keeping a play-by-play account of
our
love life, among other things. Maybe there would never be a reason
to bring it up as long as it had no bearing on his murder. It was
not something I wanted to share with Ridge or anyone else if I
could help it.

Instead, I turned my attention to the hunger
pangs that stabbed at me. Grabbing the sandwich from Ridge's hand,
I asked: "Do you mind?" Before he could answer, I helped myself to
a generous bite of his sandwich. "I'm starving!"

"I'll go you one better," he said, somewhat
bewildered. "You can have the sandwich—what's left of it—and I'll
make us both another..."

We went into the kitchen and he fixed more
sandwiches while I made a salad. All the while I was thinking about
Darlene's allegations concerning the police, and the fact that
Ridge was spearheading the investigation into Carter's death. What
did it all mean? Did it mean anything?

Ridge had managed to keep his curiosity in
check during my musings.

At the table, I told him of Darlene's visit
to the office, minus the journal. Ridge responded with a little
laugh and shook his head in disbelief. "That woman's a real piece
of work. Did she
seriously
expect you to be on her
payroll?"

"Why not?" I replied, playing the devil's
advocate. I was a little pissed at him for so easily dismissing the
notion.

A dumbfounded look appeared on his face.
"You're asking me? Last I knew, she was still a legitimate person
of interest in her husband's murder for one thing, technically
speaking. And I'm assuming you haven't forgotten the lady's bad
behavior was the reason Delaney hired you in the first place."

I dug my teeth into the sandwich and chewed.
"Just because Darlene was cheating on Carter doesn't mean she's not
entitled to learning the truth about his death," I said.

"There's a damned good possibility she
already knows some version of the truth," Ridge said brusquely, and
stuck his fork into the salad.

"And as good a possibility that Darlene
knows nothing more than she's already admitted to," I suggested,
surprised that I was now suddenly defending a woman who cost me my
husband and had not been totally exonerated of his murder, even in
my mind.

Ridge refrained from putting the salad in
his mouth. "What
exactly
has Darlene Delaney been telling
you?"

Since he asked, I related her feelings of
being unjustly persecuted by the police for lack of a better
suspect. Then I put in my own two cents about a possible police
cover-up, though I didn't have a shred of evidence to back it up or
any real reason to think that the authorities had something to hide
regarding the investigation into Carter's death.

As expected, Ridge defended the department.
"There's no cover-up," he insisted, adding, "at least not that I'm
aware of. Believe it or not, no one's trying to protect Carter
Delaney's reputation or prevent a scandal. If there was any
indication that evidence was being disregarded, tampered with, or
otherwise mishandled in this case, I'd go to internal affairs
myself and let the chips fall where they may."

One of the things that had attracted me to
Ridge was his way of convincing you that he was always on the right
side of the law. I wasn't so sure this time, but felt if he was
aware of anything that wasn't above board in the investigation,
he'd risk his own neck to have it resolved through the proper
channels.

"If Darlene Delaney thinks we're being too
aggressive in our investigation of her, that's her problem—not
yours," argued Ridge. "It's called police work. We've got to be as
aggressive as we can without stepping over the line, especially
when a prominent figure is murdered and, as far as we know, the
killer is still walking the streets. You know the routine, Skye..."
He chewed on a piece of lettuce. "Until we solve the mystery of who
murdered your ex, no one is going to get a free ride—and that
definitely includes the newly wealthy widow."