“Don’t do anything to embarrass me,” she added.
As if being arrested for the murder of an employee, followed by your husband also being held for the same murder wasn’t embarrassing.
Regan and I sure had a difference of opinion on many things.
Someday when this whole ordeal was over, I hoped my sister-in-law and I could establish some kind of friendship. Although by then, Regan and Dave might not be married.
Or they might be cohabiting in prison.
Mother and I urged Liz and Brian to enjoy their remaining time on the island alone. We talked them into driving us to the Grand Hotel so we could pick up Dave’s car. We didn’t think Dave would mind our borrowing it since he wasn’t going anywhere in the near future. His red Mustang convertible was a tight fit, but once I put the top down, Stan had more headroom in the rear seat. With my hands on the leather-covered steering wheel, and the wind blowing through my hair, I felt like we were flying.
Oops. I yanked my lead foot off the accelerator. Given their finances, I wondered what Regan thought of Dave’s new fire-engine-red sports car. Was my brother suffering such a huge mid-life crisis that the sports car splurge hadn’t been enough to make him happy?
Did Keiki pursue him or vice versa?
According to my earlier conversation with Regan, Victor should be at home today helping his wife prepare for Keiki’s service. I was concerned about intruding on their privacy but at this point, I didn’t feel we had a choice. Especially since two of the suspects were relatives of mine. I rationalized our visit by thinking if I were Keiki’s mother, my foremost desire would be to see my daughter’s killer locked up. And to be one hundred percent certain it was the right person behind bars.
Having resolved my inner turmoil, I mentally rehearsed a few questions for the couple. Once they answered them, we could get out of their hair.
Keiki’s mother and stepfather lived a few miles north of Koffee Land. We turned onto their drive, lined with coffee trees. I wondered if Victor ran a small coffee business on the side or if he only sold the coffee cherries to other farms. Several vehicles were parked in a graveled area to the side of the house. They could belong to relatives or friends.
Or even the killer.
Hmmm. What were the odds someone would arrive on their doorstep, casserole dish in hand and admit to the murder?
We walked single file up the wooden stairs to the front deck. I rang the doorbell, which chimed a cheerful melody.
A beautiful woman answered the door. With flowing dark hair and smooth unlined skin the color of café au lait, she looked too young to be Keiki’s mother. Victor peered over her shoulder. He looked puzzled then recognition dawned.
I offered my hand and introduced myself. “Hello, Mr. Yakamura. My name is Laurel McKay. Regan is my sister-in law. She introduced us the other day at Koffee Land.”
Victor nodded. “Can I assist you with something? Does Regan need anything from me?”
“Oh no, she’s fine.” Well, as fine as someone whose husband was reclining in a cell for supposedly murdering the stepdaughter of the man I was addressing. “We all feel so bad about Keiki and…”
My voice petered out, and Mother stepped forward. The shiny green foliage of the oversized plant we’d purchased at the supermarket almost hid her face.
“We brought this in memory of Keiki.” Mother listed to the left and Victor grabbed the red-flowered anthurium before she or the plant could topple over the deck railing.
“Mahalo, for your kindness.” He stepped back looking unsure whether to invite us inside or not.
“Hey, there’s Walea,” Stan piped up. “Yoo hoo, sweetie.”
Walea moved forward and whispered in Victor’s ear. He hesitated then ushered us into the house.
The Yakamuras’ house was decorated in tropical fashion, with dark woods, a flowered sofa and matching chairs grouped around a square mahogany coffee table. An open bar divided the living room from the kitchen, whose countertops overflowed with wall-to-wall casseroles and plates of baked goods. Two women sat at each end of the sofa. Both wore their long dark hair loose and flowing down their backs. I recognized them as dancers from Daiquiri Dave’s.
When we walked in, they stood to make room for us.
“Please don’t leave on our account,” I said to the women.
“No, it is time to go. Walea, we will see you at the restaurant at five.” As the dancers sashayed out the door, I marveled again at their sexy walk. It looked so natural that I cocked my hips to the left and right to replicate the swiveling movements they made.
Ouch. I hoped I’d packed some extra Advil.
“Are you performing tonight?” I asked Walea.