Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Two burned pork chops out of eight wasn’t bad. With the creamy-mustard sauce, you could hardly notice the “charcoal” flavor. That I’d managed to singe Eddy’s shaggy eyebrows wasn’t that bad, either; he liked the trimmed look. That Rey’s were now non-existent, well, that was another thing altogether. But they’d grow back.

At seven, Eddy returned to his Waipahu apartment, three-dozen salt-water taffy candies happily in hand. At half past seven, the three of us—kids at our feet—were seated on the lanai, drinking iced tea with fresh lemon slices and watching a beautiful starry sky.

“There’s no place like home,” Rey said happily. Stretching long legs onto a birch-colored cushion of a long metallic-framed rectangular ottoman, she draped an arm along the top of the sofa, next to Linda’s shoulders.

“Yeah, one we’ll be paying off for the next four decades,” Linda said drily, giving her leg a light kick.

Rey kicked back. “Pishaw.”

“Pishaw?” I asked wryly.

“My new word for the year.”

We all chuckled and settled back. Button rested her chin on my bare foot while Bonzo hopped onto his mom’s lap. Piggaletto snorted and started to slumber on the uncut grass.

“We need to mow the yard,” Linda said.

“We need a lawnmower,” I reminded her.

“Maybe we could go for the concrete look,” Rey said. “I’m not keen on grass.”

“You’re just not keen on cutting it.”

Linda concurred. “You’re the one who wanted a house—with garden, lawn, pool and all. Now you have to pay the price, which extends beyond the financial.”

Rey offered one of her water-buffalo snorts, then laughed. “You’re right. I’ll head out and buy one tomorrow. But when we pull in more cases, we’re getting a landscaper.”

“Fair enough,” I said, sipping the last of my tepid tea. “We’ve been here almost ten weeks now. It’s time we rolled up our sleeves and stopped living out of boxes and unpainted bedrooms.”

“When we’re on lawnmower patrol tomorrow, let’s make an effort to get paint colors selected. Maybe Eddy would be willing to help here and there,” Rey suggested. “He’s pretty good at whatever task he takes on.”

“Unlike you and your laundry room and pantry painting ‘venture’,” I jested, whacking her knee playfully, then motioning the fair-sized kidney-shaped pool. “We should get the pool fixed and filled. The tiles are looking pretty sad.”

“So’s the hot tub,” Linda added.

“The pay from my in-between commercials and theater gigs will help a little with the smaller tasks, but we need to get some serious work happening,” Rey said, stroking her bunny’s large, long ears.

“Linda and I could take part-time jobs—”

“No, you couldn’t, Cousin Jilly,” she interrupted. “As private investigators, we can’t be seen doing something other than P.I.ing. What’ll potential clients think?”

“What about you and your acting?” Linda scoffed.

“It’s not the same as you scanning products at the check-out counter or taking a burger order—”

“Of course it—”

“Let’s not go there again, ladies,” I advised. Before I could continue, my cell announced a text. I grabbed it from the base of the chair and eyed the display.

“One of those potential clients? Your ‘sometimes boyfriend’ from Florida?” Rey smirked.

“Adwin.”

“Adwin? As in pastry chef and former ‘beau’, Adwin Beauregard Timmins?”

“Byron,” I corrected mechanically, re-reading the message.

“What’s he want?”

“Just reminding me we’re meeting for dinner day after tomorrow.”

“What!?” Rey sat flagpole straight.

Linda’s latte-colored, almond-shaped eyes rounded in surprise. “When did you two start chatting again?”

“He emailed me about six weeks ago to see how we were doing.” I shrugged and put away the cell phone.

“And you’ve been communicating regularly ever since?”

“Kind of, yeah.”

“And he’s here?” Rey demanded. “When did he arrive? Where’s he staying? Does he want you two to get back together? I thought he’d met someone?”

“He emailed the other day to say he was on Oahu, staying with a foodie-friend in Mililani. He had met and married someone—Lizbeth was her name, I think. It didn’t work out. They were divorced after five months.”

My cousin and her BFF goggled.

“He just wants to have dinner and catch up. Nothing more, nothing less,” I said with a dry smile. Adwin had been part of The Connecticut Corpse Caper entourage, but we’d parted on good terms after solving the murders at Aunt Mat’s haunted mansion. “What’s wrong with meeting an old friend?”

“Everything. Old-lover dates are never a good thing,” Rey advised and looked at Linda.

Who nodded. “Never good, JJ. Never good.”

I rolled my eyes.

At nine, Linda wanted to peruse food and wine blogs, and Rey intended to Zoom a couple actor friends. For me, it was time to call it a night. Just as we were about to part ways, we received a call from Detective Hammill: he was in the area and would be dropping by.

Five minutes later, frenetic knocking echoed throughout the sparsely decorated house. The three of us answered it to find the detective looking annoyingly cheerful and robust, and rather attractive in a crisp white shirt and Diesel jeans held up by a thick leather belt with an elaborate eagle buckle. The finely chiseled face was freshly shaven and radiating arrogance. A recently nicked hand supported a cardboard tray with four large coffees and a small brown paper bag.

With theatrical flair becoming my cousin, I motioned the tall man with the too-white teeth inward.

“Piggaletto! Come to Mommy!”

Hammill’s eyebrows flew up as Linda swooped past like a bat out of hell.

Fleet-footed, but not always surefooted, she stumbled and sailed into the tall grass before a cluster of Frangipani. The pot-bellied pig, looking as innocent as always, ceased scampering, perched himself alongside her head and eyed her with soulful hound-dog eyes. I swallowed laughter as Linda lay there, not in the most flattering of positions. Rey simply tsked and moved toward the kitchen.

With a sigh, Linda got up, scooped her pet, and shuffled past a surprised and—gauging from the twinkle in those billiard-ball-black orbs—very entertained detective.

Placing Piggaletto on a small Persian-like rug before the entrance to the kitchen, she wagged an admonishing finger. “Do that again and no treats.”

With a yeah-right-lady look, he scurried to the water dish. Bonzo and Button appeared from nowhere, soaring past Hammill with the speed of the SC-44.

“You’re giving the Honolulu Zoo a run for their money,” he smirked.

Rey looked like she might offer a barbed response, but my warning look stopped it. Sighing, she grabbed the stainless-steel cordless kettle. “Tea?”

Hammill placed the tray on a recently purchased rectangular rubber-wood table. “I brought coffees. Ives said you’re into those sweet fancy ones, so help yourself to any cup with an X on it.” He sat in one of the vertical slat-back chairs, looking overly cheerful. “A beautiful day, wasn’t it?”

“I’m sure it was, Mr. Rogers,” Rey purred. “And just how were our neighborhood friends today?”

“Mind if I sit?”

“You already are,” Linda pointed out, plopping on a chair across from him. “So, Detective Hammy—”

“Hammill. Petroni Carter Hammill—PC for short. That should be fairly simple for those shootered brains to remember.” Prying off the lid, he took a sip and remained silent.

“Just for the record, Detective, we don’t do shooters,” I stated.

“Not often, anyways,” Rey winked, then looked at me. “Doesn’t this guy remind you of someone?”

I sighed and focused on the latte.

“Come on, you gotta admit he’s got a lot of your ‘sometimes boyfriend’ in him.”

One of Hammill’s contoured eyebrows arched questioningly.

Rey was referring to Cash Layton Jones, an undercover agent who played d**g dealer “Richie J” or “Ricky J”. Currently residing in Florida, the arrogant, audacious, and way too good-looking man and I had a tempestuous on-off relationship. At the moment, it was [once again] non-existent.

I remained mum and sipped … and bristled upon seeing Button flop before the detective.

With a grin, he provided a thorough belly rub. “She’s a cutie.”

“Any progress on the Howdy-Doody case?” Rey asked, leaning into a wall.

“Since this morning?”

“Someone might have confessed, or something been discovered—”

“Right, and kangaroos can fly. Murders aren’t often solved in a couple of hours.”

“So, it was a murder? Not an overdose?”

Hammill’s gaze met Linda’s, but he said nothing and continued sipping.

As Rey was about to say something, there was a light rap-rap-rap on the rear kitchen door before it slowly swung open.

Chestnut-brown, owl-round eyes gazed from one face to the next. “I saw the light as I was walking back from Casper’s and thought I’d pop by to invite you to a fitness function—uh, I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Hey, you,” I said with a limp wave. “Come in. Join the party.”

Linda introduced Sach to the detective.

“Sach?”

With an impish grin, he took a seat at the counter. “Yeah. Sach Martin Morin.”

“Isn’t Sach the name of a Bowery Boy?” Hammill drained his coffee and rose. “Huntz Hall’s character. Let’s see. Horace … Dubussy “Sach” … Jones.”

Our neighbor was visibly impressed. “Few people know or remember that.”

My cousin cleared her throat.

Sach chuckled. “Except for Rey. She knows tons of film and TV trivia.”

Hammill’s smile was flat and fleeting. “When I was growing up, Grandmother Manon’s idea of babysitting was seating me in front of the television so I could watch old movies featuring The Bowery Boys, East Side Kids, the Stooges …”

“Yeah, I watched those, thanks to Uncle Shawn and Great-Uncle Conerie working in film. Hey, we’ve got something in common.” The muscular man of 5’8” eyed Hammill closely. “So, you’re a detective like the gals here?”

He didn’t respond, simply scanned Sach’s attire: a tight saffron tank top tucked into loose-fitting lavender-and-lilac jogging pants.

“What kind of business brings you here, Detective? You can tell me. The four of us are good pals.”

Hammill c****d his head, his eyes expressing amusement. “You’re a private investigator, too?”

“I’m a fitness instructor and personal trainer. But I’ve offered to help. I’m great at puzzles and I’d make for excellent security.” He flexed his biceps.

“I’m sure,” he said drolly and stood.

“That’s it? You came to deliver coffees … PC?” Rey asked sardonically.

He started to say something, then shrugged. “It can wait, Reynalda.”

“Rey. And Sach won’t share. Come on, Hammy, spill it.”

Meeting Rey’s saccharine-sweet smile with one of his own, he then turned to Sach and regarded him circumspectly. Again, he shrugged. “I wanted to get an account of how you got involved in the Canal murders… It appears the small mess of teeny marks on Quist’s chest were made with a similar implement to the one used on the four bodies.”

Hammill left fifteen minutes later with Sach on his heels. Nothing else of note had been revealed or shared, but the two gents now knew as much as we did about GRP and the murders. Yes, our new friend had indeed offered to assist, but we’d not yet taken him up on the offer. There’d been no need to.

“You think GRP will call soon?” Linda asked wearily as we climbed the winding stairwell leading to the bedrooms. Hers was in the northeast corner, mine the southwest, and Rey’s on the east side, between two mid-size unadorned and unfurnished guestrooms.

“Bet on it,” Rey murmured, rubbing her eyes. “What’s that dude’s ‘game’, you think?”

“Perverse fun,” I muttered, opening the door to my room.

“Perverse something,” Linda grumbled. “Night, ladies—crap.”

She’d stopped so suddenly, Rey smacked into her.

“Take a look.” Raising a toned arm, she pointed.

Attached to the exterior of the tall arched hallway window was a satiny black rose fastened with thick, clear industrial tape. A one-word question had been scrawled with a substance that looked suspiciously like dried blood: howzit?

Beneath the word, in the same substance: a happy face.