Wedding Day Dead: A Murder on Maui Mystery

T
he madness was temporary, at least I hoped it was. I don’t even know what caused it in the first place. I assumed it was greed. After all, most of us tell ourselves that some money is better than no money, but I’ve come to the conclusion that controlling one’s sanity and blood pressure can be infinitely more valuable than having a few extra dollars in one’s pockets.

The madness that overcame me was my decision to have a garage sale, or yard sale if you prefer that term. I think Dante referred to garage sales as the innermost circle of hell. If you’re one of those people who fanatically visit garage sales on the weekend to search for that priceless gem, like an original copy of the U.S. Constitution hidden behind a worthless painting, or maybe one of those Hummel figurines that some people like to put on their mantles, I mean no disrespect, and I’m truly sorry if I have, in fact, offended you. But it’s my humble opinion, after having hosted a few of these events, that garage sales bring out the worst in humanity. I can only imagine this is how the apocalypse might go - everyone for him or herself. All is fair in love, war, and garage sales.

I listed my garage sale as starting at 8 a.m. on a Saturday. I moved most of my items into the garage the night before, so I could easily take them into the yard the next morning. It took me hours to price everything, but I figured that was better than answering “How much is this?” a million times. I had a few fold-out tables on which to display the smaller items, and I went to the bank so I would have plenty of change for that person who would hand me a twenty dollar bill for an item that I had priced at twenty cents. I recruited my retired neighbor, Mrs. Coyer, to help me. She would handle the money, while I did the
negotiations with the customers. Let’s face it, no one ever pays the sticker price at a garage sale. Even if you list the item for free, someone will try to negotiate with you simply out of time-honored tradition.

I opened my garage door around 6:00. I thought two hours would be plenty of time to get everything staged. Imagine my surprise when I saw several people already standing in my driveway. They swarmed my belongings like a pack of vultures on a rotting carcass. I considered immediately slamming the door in their faces and running into my house to hide behind my sofa. In hindsight, I should have done that. However, at that moment, the madness still had me in its tight grip, and I saw the upcoming struggle as a battle to be won. I was convinced, naively as it turned out, that I would be declaring victory at the end of the day.

Mrs. Coyer must have been watching my plight from her kitchen window because she came out about fifteen minutes later to help control the herd. It was a fruitless effort. There was a steady stream of new customers within the next two hours, and by eight, the official start of my garage sale, most of the good items were gone. This caused the people who followed the guidelines of my ad to yell at me for selling items before the allotted time. How did I respond to that? I didn’t. I just walked away and tried to obscure myself behind my yard tools and lawnmower.

Those few hours were some of the worst of my life. I had to contend with the thieves who didn’t think I saw them shoving my belongings into their coat pockets, and there were liars who would tell Mrs. Coyer I quoted them a price substantially less than what I actually did. Do you think asking five dollars for a toaster that actually works is unreasonable? Apparently someone did because she was enraged that she would have to pay more than twenty-five cents for it.

Probably the most egregious act of the day came from an old guy who showed interest in my candle-making kit. I had a cardboard box filled with small metal molds and pots that I used years ago to make candles for Christmas gifts with an old girlfriend. The box stayed in the back of the closet ever since then and had collected a substantial amount of dust. I hoped to unload it for three dollars. This guy proceeds to walk around the yard and pick up everything made of metal. He then tossed those items into the box with the candle supplies and handed me three dollars. I informed him that the candle supplies were three dollars, but he still owed me for all the other stuff
he tossed into the box. He reminded me that the box had a sign on it that said three dollars. I really didn’t know how to respond to his logic, so I told the guy that the three dollars was for the supplies in the box. It wasn’t designed to be an “everything you can fit in the box” price. The conversation after that comment went something like this.

“Well, I’m not interested in paying more than three dollars,” the old guy said.

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“The box says three dollars.”

“Yeah, but that’s like going to Target, opening up an appliance box, and then cramming whatever else you can fit inside. You can’t do that. Everyone knows the price refers to what’s inside the box, not the box itself.”

“Listen, man, you’re going to lose a sale if you don’t give me this stuff for three bucks.”

“I can’t believe we’re actually having this conversation. What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m walking if you don’t give me this price.”

“So walk. Get the hell out of here.”

He shoved the three dollars back in his front pocket and stormed off.

Dear God, why did I do this to myself ?

If a garage sale is the equivalent of enhanced interrogation, then Craigslist is not far behind. I decided to sell most of my large items, like furniture, on that website. Here’s how that experience generally went. People would see my sofa on the site, and they would e-mail me to set a time to come see it. They would then not show up and wouldn’t bother to call or text to say they couldn’t make it. Next, they would write me the following day and set a new time to see the sofa. No apology or reason for not showing the day before was ever offered. Again, they would not show. They would then write me a third time - still no apology - and my response would be to ignore them. I understand that we’re all ultimately self-absorbed people. Let’s face it, we all care infinitely more about our own issues than we do other people, but isn’t there something called self-awareness? Why does it seem like most people have no clue how they come across to other people?

Forgive me for ranting. Like I said, the madness overcame me, and I’m clearly still struggling with the after-effects.

Allow me to introduce myself before I continue with the rest of my story. My name is Edgar Allan Rutherford. Yes, my parents were huge fans of the mystery writer Edgar Allan Poe. The name Edgar was not an easy name to grow up with, but by the time I reached high school, my friends took to calling me Poe. The nickname stuck, but you may call me Edgar if you wish. I’m no longer bothered by my birth name.

About a year ago, at the tender age of thirty-five, I was laid off from my job as an architect during the recession. I did nothing but watch Star Trek on Netflix and sit on my butt for the first six months of unemployment. I had the good fortune to be able to do that because my parents left me a sizable inheritance. I eventually got off the sofa when I finally decided to take my best friend’s long-standing invitation to visit him at his new home on Maui.

Foxx and I have been friends since we were children, and he wanted me to meet his girlfriend Lauren and see the sites on the island. I was as shocked as anyone who truly knows Foxx when he told me he was in a serious, committed relationship with Lauren.

Foxx is a huge guy. He once played professional football for the Washington Redskins until a knee injury ended his career. He’s always had incredible success with women, but I never knew him to date one for longer than a week or two.

Lauren was different for some reason. She kept his interest, and apparently, she didn’t take any of his garbage. Lauren was a world-famous artist by the way. I say “was” because she’s unfortunately no longer with us. On my first evening in Maui, Lauren was brutally murdered - at an art show of all places. Foxx was arrested for the crime, and he looked guilty as hell. I would be lying to say I didn’t have my doubts as to his innocence, but he was my best friend, so I set about starting my own investigation of the crime.

This brought me face-to-face with Detective Alana Hu, who arrested Foxx and had no suspicions that he might not be the guilty party. Alana is a stunning woman, easily the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. I was instantly captivated by her, but there was that tiny thing called a murder investigation standing between us. I eventually wore her down with my charm, though, and we’ve been dating for the last few months. For those of you who read Aloha Means Goodbye, you’ll realize I’m over simplifying my relationship with Alana. It was quite up and down at the beginning, and my so-called “charm” is not exactly difficult to resist.

Eventually I discovered the identity of Lauren’s real killer, and that person is now rotting behind prison bars. Don’t worry, though, I wouldn’t dream of ruining the surprise for you new readers by spilling the proverbial beans and telling you the name, or even the gender, of the guilty party.

After I decided to stay on Maui, I had to figure out what to do with my house and belongings in Virginia. I thought briefly about renting the house, but I had heard too many horror stories from friends about their brief and unpleasant experiences as landlords. Almost all of them had eventually gotten stiffed on the rent and ended up having to pay two mortgages at the same time while some freeloader stayed in their places. They also invariably returned to their rental properties to find holes in the walls, stained carpets, and in one case, a master bedroom and bathroom that was painted in polka dots.

I decided to spare myself the headaches. I flew back to Virginia to prep the house for sale. Most of the houses in my neighborhood were underwater. I was a little more fortunate because I had paid a sizeable down payment on the house and was also one of the early people to move into that particular housing development. I guess you could say I was on the front edge of the housing bubble.

I met with a real estate salesperson, and we agreed on a price that would hopefully sell the house quickly. This, unfortunately, caused one of my neighbors to confront me on my morning jog. He was also trying to sell his house, but he listed his for over $200,000 more than mine. He bought at the height of the bubble and didn’t put any money down. Apparently he got one of those interest-only loans.

For a second there, I thought he might pull out a gun and shoot me. His face was blood red, and I thought he was going to give himself a heart attack while he blamed me for bringing down the prices in the neighborhood. I didn’t try to reason with the guy, or explain to him that I wasn’t the one that overpaid for a house. I also wasn’t the one who wrecked the economy, but I did feel bad for him and realized how horrible it feels to have your back against the wall with no good options. I just listened to him rant, and he walked away after he tired himself out. I still can’t believe those Wall Street thieves got away with it all.

Other books

Ghostly Images by Peter Townsend

Endless Fear by Adrianne Lee

The Stocking Was Hung by Tara Sivec

The Splendor Of Silence by Indu Sundaresan

All-Star Pride by Sigmund Brouwer

The Guests on South Battery by Karen White

Fighting for Julia [Panther Cove 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) by Melody Snow Monroe

The Rebellion by Isobelle Carmody

The Vampire Hunter's Daughter: Part I by Wright, Jennifer Malone

BACK IN HER HUSBAND'S BED by ANDREA LAURENCE,