Wings in the Dark (12 page)

As Tanaka and Pete drove off, I considered the detective's description of the old days and resentment of foreign influence. Could he be involved with the Royalists?

Inside the cabana, Laura was sleeping soundly on her side in our bed, clutching my pillow. I didn't want to disturb her, so I closed the door and returned to the front deck. I slumped down into one of the two soft flowered chairs. On the table beside me sat Freddy's screenplay, which I'd so far managed to avoid. I gazed out at our private cove. The phone call to the Mambo Club had changed everything for Laura and me.

I replayed the past several hours. I'd come to know Amelia Earhart better and liked the person behind the public persona engineered by her husband. She was bright and friendly and displayed a biting sense of humor. I'd even come to appreciate George Putnam. I wouldn't have bet on that happening when he'd put the squeeze on my employer in the hangar.

Maybe Tanaka got things right and Fanny Chandler had murdered Hank Kalua, but I needed to know for sure. The only other leads were the Royalists and Lyle Benedict, someone I knew little about.

The Kalua brothers met at the seedy waterfront joint called the Kana Bar. It wouldn't be easy to get the lowdown on the group there, but I had to try. I'd never take Laura to a place like that, but I wasn't sure how to get away from her long enough to go there alone.

I closed my eyes.

When I woke, Laura stood beside the chair looking rested and refreshed in a white terry-cloth robe. She kissed my cheek. “Good morning, sunshine.”

I arched my back and the bones popped like the last few kernels in a pan of popcorn.

Laura set down her coffee. She poured me a cup from a carafe that sat on the center of the table next to two items I wanted to ignore, Freddy's screenplay and a newspaper.

I took a long swallow of the satisfying brew, which flowed through my tired body better than a shot of bourbon. “Did I mention how lucky I am?”

“You might not feel so lucky after you read this.” She handed me the paper with a front-page story by Hunter Conway.

The headline read
E
ARHART
M
ECHANIC
A
RRESTED IN
M
URDER OF
H
ONOLULU
B
USINESSMAN.

Laura took a seat. “The studio thinks any publicity is good publicity but, in this case, I'm glad my name isn't mentioned, though yours is distributed abundantly.”

Damn. I read the third paragraph aloud. “ ‘Former Pinkerton detective and prominent mystery writer—' ”

“That might sell a few books.”

“ ‘—Jake Donovan was hired by Putnam to assist the Honolulu police investigation led by Detective Henry Tanaka.' ”

Tanaka would cringe when he read that line.

I couldn't read any more until I'd had more coffee. I tossed the newspaper on the table and refilled my cup. “What else does he say?”

“At one point he calls you brilliant, though he's talking about your writing. I think I planted that thought in his head during the interview, didn't I, darling? And the paper still hasn't printed our interview. If you talk to him, and I know you will, bring that up, will you, dear?”

I couldn't deal with the reporter now. It was after nine already. I had to check out the Royalists, but how would I get rid of Laura? I downed the rest of my coffee and ran a hand over the stubble on my chin. “I think I'll feel better after a shower and shave.”

Laura cocked her head. “I have to say, you're taking the newspaper article very well, darling.”

I shrugged. “Like you said, maybe the story will sell a few books. I'll clip the page, underline my name, and send it to Mildred.”

Inside, I stood beneath the soothing spray of the shower and wiped away the lack of sleep. After the shower and shave, I did feel better, but not about what I had planned for Laura.

In casual slacks and a flowered shirt Laura had insisted on buying me in the hotel gift shop, I carried a stack of paper and a pen to the deck. I set the stack on the table beside Freddy's screenplay. “What a splendid day. I think I'll write up some notes on my next novel, inspired by the cool ocean breeze and fabulous view of our cove.”

Laura furrowed her brow. “We promised we wouldn't work during our honeymoon. Besides, you're not sure Fanny is guilty. I thought you'd be uncovering other suspects by now.”

I told her about the visit from Tanaka. I went inside and showed her Billy's hat. “Tanaka makes a compelling case against Fanny. George and Amelia are happy and the flight's back on.”

“You're really going to write?”

“Darling, inspiration isn't something one can schedule.”

She rose and crossed her arms. “So, on my honeymoon, I'm supposed to watch you write?”

“It'll only be for a few hours. You don't have to sit around watching me write.” I slid Freddy's screenplay closer to her. “He insists there's a terrific part in here for you.”

“I will not.” Her words were brief and clipped.

“Don't let me stop you from having fun. Why don't you go for a swim or bike ride?”

“By myself.”

“You could take surfing lessons.”

Laura's head looked ready to explode. “From Tony the lecherous surf bum?”

“Did I call him that?”

She crossed her arms. “Since when do you want me to take surf lessons from Tony? You wanted to punch him for the way he ogled me, if I recall.”

“I was being selfish. Besides, I think he's learned his lesson from my stern attitude yesterday. I'm a married man now, and I can't be getting into jealous fisticuffs. Enjoy your morning. I'll join up with you this afternoon and we can try our luck at the Mambo Club again this evening.”

“If that's what you want.” She marched inside and slammed the screen door behind her.

My plan was paying off. I'd behaved like a real cad, but I had no choice. If I'd seen tears, I might've backed out, but anger I could deal with. She wouldn't want to be around me for the rest of the day.

When she came out, Laura pirouetted in a snug two-piece suit that showed her cute navel and every curve. The red suit could be seen for miles. She held a flowered robe draped over one arm.

I let out a wolf whistle. “You look fabulous, darling. Going for a swim in our cove?”

“If you still insist on writing, then I'm going to learn how to surf.”

“In that?”

“It'll be fun. Something you suggested I do.” Sarcasm dripped with each word.

I didn't want her wearing that suit in front of Tony, or the dozens of people on the beach between our cabana and Tony's Surf Shack.

“You're going to put your robe on before going out, aren't you?”

“Huh!” She draped the robe over one shoulder, stepped off the deck, and made her way down the beach.

I stood at the edge of the deck, resisting the urge to call off the plan and go after her. I trusted her completely, but I felt like a total scoundrel. I grabbed a sheet of paper from the stack. I had to write something involving Blackie Doyle.

For a brief moment, I considered actually starting my next novel. Over the years, writing had become a comfort, a tool to step away from the stress and danger involved in being a Pinkerton. In Florida, writing took my mind away from missing Laura.

I stared at the blank page, trying to picture Blackie Doyle's office. I'd always written better when life was a struggle. After Laura and I arrived in the bright lights and glamour of Hollywood, I struggled to revisit the back alleys of Blackie's New York City.

As a result, my last novel had been my lowest seller, much to Mildred's dismay. I couldn't worry about that now. I had a real-life murder to investigate and an apology to Laura to write:

Opening Chapter

Blackie Doyle leaves to investigate the murder of a prominent Hawaiian businessman, hoping the love of his life will understand how dangerous it could be if she came along. Sorry, darling.

I went inside and removed the gun from Laura's purse, feeling like a heel for peering into her private bag. I slipped a lightweight jacket on over my Hawaiian shirt, stuffed the gun into a pocket inside the coat, and went outside. On the deck, I read Conway's news account and grew angrier with each embellished paragraph.

Knowing I'd soon run into Freddy, I scanned the first two scenes of his screenplay. I made my way to the main hotel lobby. At the front desk, Freddy glanced up from the newspaper with a hopeful expression. “Mr. Donovan, did you finish my screenplay?”

“I'm not finished reading it yet, but it's very funny so far, especially the opening scene.”

He stared open-mouthed. “It's…it's not a comedy.”

I felt like one of those pompous writers I met when I was trying to catch a break in publishing. “There's a fine line between comedy and drama. Both are driven by conflict. When I finish reading it, I'll give you some pointers, but remember, I write novels, not screenplays.”

His expression sagged. “Where's your lovely wife today?”

“Surfing lessons.”

The kid's mouth dropped. “Surfing. With Tony?”

Laura had handled creeps like Tony as her career climbed.

“Could you call me a cab?”

“Right away.” He picked up the phone and dialed.

I headed for the front door then went back and waited until he hung up. “Freddy, ever heard of the Kana Bar?”

He gasped like I'd just uttered a dirty word. “It's not a place to take your bride. It's not for tourists, if that's what you're asking.”

I shook my head. “I'm not looking for a good time, just for information.”

He glanced around as if checking to see whether anyone was listening. “You know how to use a gun?”

“Sure.”

“Take one with you and you'll be okay.”

“As a matter of fact, I will.”

“Then you'll survive.”

Survive? “One more thing.” I grabbed a notepad and wrote a sincere apology and handed it to Freddy. “Would you arrange for a dozen white roses to be delivered to my wife and place this in an envelope with them?”

“Roses? In Hawaii, a man should send a special lady something more traditional. You want white, I recommend the white orchids.”

“Fine.”

“But most men send flowers to their wives
after
they go to a bar alone.”

I smiled and handed him the note. “I'm still getting the hang of this married life business.”

I turned around and nearly bumped into Hunter Conway.

“Donovan, I thought it was you. Did you see the paper this morning?”

“I ought to punch you in the nose. You made it sound like Tanaka is working for me.”

He smoothed the lapels of an expensive-looking suit and straightened his fedora. “I tried to get ahold of you before the story went to print. I can understand your attitude, but I got the facts right, didn't I?”

I ignored the question and brushed past him.

“I'm wondering if you or your wife could give me a quote about the murder for tomorrow's edition.”

“I'd be happy to.” I let loose a string of profanities that would make Blackie Doyle blush. “How's that?”

“What's your beef?” He followed me across the lobby. “At least I didn't use your suicide theory.”

“Laura would love to give you a quote. She's down the beach at Tony's Surf Shack, but she wouldn't mind the interruption for someone in the press.”

I reached the entrance and stepped outside, where a cabbie drove up and climbed out. “You Mr. Donovan?”

I nodded.

Conway pointed to a ten-year-old Model A. “How 'bout a lift? No sense riding in a cramped, foul-smelling cab.”

“Hey, mac.” The cabbie stepped forward and stood inches from Conway. “You calling my cab cramped?”

To his credit, the reporter didn't back down. “Beat it.”

Conway would surely follow if I took the cab. As much as I disliked the man, I might actually learn information that didn't make the paper. I handed the cabbie a Lincoln and apologized for any inconvenience I might've caused him.

I followed Conway to his car and stopped at the front bumper. “Where's the crank?”

“Good one, Donovan.”

A white limousine pulled up, followed by a black sedan. Two serious-looking men in suits climbed out of the sedan. They had to be G-men. They hurried to the limo and opened the back door.

Out stepped a woman in a fur coat and a wide-brimmed hat, holding the hand of a blond girl in a polka-dot dress.

Conway let out a gasp. “Damn, it's Shirley Temple.”

One couldn't mistake the blond curls and dimples as she smiled at her doting mother. She even wore a short dress and black patent leather shoes with white socks. I'd met the precocious six-year-old when Laura introduced me to the child star and her mother outside of the Brown Derby.

Two other security types climbed out of the limousine and the entourage escorted the young girl inside the hotel.

Conway let out a whistle. “Now, that would be an interview.”

I couldn't help but laugh. “I thought you were a crime writer.”

He shrugged. “As long as my name is on the front page.”

“Laura might be able to arrange an interview.”

Conway cocked his head. “Your wife knows Shirley Temple?”

“I don't know if Laura can get through the entourage, but Shirley took quite a liking to her in Hollywood.” I rubbed my chin. “I'll talk to Laura. I'm sure she'd try, as long as your interview doesn't contain anything embarrassing.”

“Deal.”

“Maybe Laura can get you an autograph too.”

Conway smiled and opened the passenger door for me. “Where to?”