Ten“Mr. Laurent!”
Leilani Manolo’s mouth dropped open in surprise as she stood, one hand poised on the front door handle of Cyrus May’s residence. In her other hand she held a bunch of flowers, freshly cut, it seemed, from the garden.
She flashed Aristide a mischievous smile. She was wearing a loose-fitting smock in reds and yellows imprinted with a swirling Pacific pattern—something he guessed must be common dress in Honolulu. No trace showed of the distraught young woman from two nights ago.
“Well, I’m sure you’re not here to see me,” she quipped. “Not after Saturday.”
She straightened, her eyes solemn. “I do want to say thank you for your help the other night. I never had time to say. Too much going on. It was ghastly.”
Aristide dipped his head. “It was nothing.” He stood, hat in h
