“Considering the condition of her body, what could they possibly find?” Mother asked Brian.
“Her hands could indicate if she attempted to defend herself, possibly scratched someone, so the police might find DNA underneath her nails. They’ll probably test to see if she had sex with any possible suspects.”
Why is it whenever a murder occurs, the topic of sex eventually rears its ugly head?
Liz lifted her glass and proposed a toast. “To Keiki, may she rest in peace. And if someone was responsible for her tragic death, may they rot in hell!”
Mother and I shared a glance as we reluctantly raised our glasses. If someone was to blame for Keiki’s death, that person deserved punishment.
I just hoped it wasn’t anyone in my gene pool.
Chapter 8
After a short and somber lunch, we drove back to our hotel. Brian announced his plans to take a nap. Liz decided if Brian was sleeping then she should be shopping. Since Stan acted in the capacity of unpaid personal shopper for both of us, Liz asked him to accompany her. I felt torn between watching Stan help Liz rack up frequent spender points on her Visa, and taking a nap myself. Whether it was the morning snorkel activity or the chilling news of Keiki’s death, the idea of some quiet shut-eye won out.
Mother and I returned to our room, pleased to find the beds made and fresh orchids placed in the vase on the desk. She sank into a comfortable chair and put her feet up on the oversized ottoman. I stripped off my clothes, slipped a clean extra-large T-shirt over my head and slid under the sheets. My eyelids were seconds away from closing. Soon I would forget about everything that had occurred today. I assumed my mother would do the same.
Silly me.
“Laurel, are you asleep?”
Yes. At least I will be if there are no more interruptions.
I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth, willing myself to fall into a quick and oblivious slumber.
“Do you think Dave was having an affair with Keiki?”
Bye bye, dreamland.
I rolled over and faced her. “Why would you ask a question like that?”
She glanced down at her hands, clasped together as if she was in prayer. Perhaps she was praying for the soul of the deceased dancer. And for my brother.
“Last night, I sensed something was wrong between Dave and Regan, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then Brian and Stan made some comments today about Dave and Keiki when they thought I couldn’t hear them. Your brother is such a good man. I can’t imagine him having an affair.”
My big brother had been my rock during high school and in the three years since my divorce. But despite what my mother thought, he wasn’t perfect. No man is.
I still hadn’t forgiven Dave for kidnapping my Barbie doll when we were little and forgetting where he’d buried her in the backyard. After Rex, our Golden Retriever, dug her up and discovered the joys of nibbling on a curvy plastic doll, Malibu Barbie became the only Barbie in the neighborhood with an A cup.
I shook my head clear of childhood memories. “Why don’t you discuss it with Dave this evening?”
She vehemently shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t ask him a question like that. I’m not one of those prying mothers.”
Really? I wasn’t anxious to be a prying sister either, but I was concerned about Dave and Regan.
“I’ll try to talk to him tonight, although he’ll probably be exhausted from today’s ordeal. In the meantime, let’s try to enjoy ourselves for Liz’s sake. She’s worked hard to keep everyone entertained. After all, this is technically her honeymoon, even if she chose to spend it with all of us.”
I had a feeling the next time Liz planned an event, no one in my family would be invited.
* * *
Two hours later, Stan, Mother and I stood along the side of the imu pit oven where the kalua pig roasted. For centuries, the Polynesians had used underground ovens to steam whole pigs, sweet potatoes, even fish and bananas. This particular pit was four feet long and three feet wide with deep sloping sides.
The cook addressed the crowd of curious bystanders, describing how the pit was constructed. First, a layer of covering material, usually taro or green ti leaves, went over the hot lava rocks, followed by a hundred or more banana leaves or stalks, then the native pig, which was covered with more layers. Loose dirt formed the top.
“An all day event,” said the smiling chef, whose girth indicated he enjoyed his own cooking.
And I thought making sloppy Joes was a lot of work. There would be no kalua piggy roasts in my backyard anytime soon.
After admiring the imu’s skilled workmanship, we wandered over to the bar area, where the thirsty patrons had already formed a long line. I planned to limit my consumption of fruity drinks tonight. I needed a clear head to wheedle personal information out of my brother.