Chapter 27Petey May’s 1940s house, off Waiānuenue Avenue and not far from Rainbow Falls, had been recently painted butter yellow with teal blue trim. The flat, grassy lot was sizeable and had been freshly mown; a hay-like scent lingered in the heavy air.
“Small place,” Rey whispered as we climbed out of a cab.
“It’s a plantation house,” I informed her as we started up a zigzagging path lined with a sundry of fruit trees. “It’s quaint.”
“Quaint,” she repeated dubiously.
Upon return from chai tea with Ald, my cousin and I had literally bumped into each other when I’d stepped out of the disco elevator and she, with an expression of total preoccupation, had hurtled in like a baseball player charging home plate.
“Hey you, I thought you were out for the afternoon?”
“Seymour and I called it
