Can You Hula Like Hilo Hattie?

Chapter 5

Chapter 5It was after 9:00 p.m. when Button and I returned from a long walk to the condo. Two homemade banana biscuits for Button and three peanut-butter cookies for me, and we’d been good to go. As had become routine, she’d lay on a well-padded (extremely comfortable) wicker three-seater in the lanai and survey the marina and stars, and I’d check the Triple Threat Private Investigation Agency website that I maintained and regularly updated with new crime-doesn’t-pay stories. Lastly, I’d check email. We’d get the odd one from the parent of a lost cat or some jokester, but nothing of serious this-will-pay-the-bills prominence had yet arrived in the agency’s inbox—until this evening.

I left a voice message earlier. I’m certain my wife is cheating on me, but I need proof. Millions rest on this. Will you help? WP Howell

I checked the agency’s voice mail. Sure enough, there was a message.

“This is WP Howell. I’m looking for an agency that understands and practices discretion. My wife is having an affair, I’m fairly certain. Call me at your earliest convenience. I’m sure we can come to a mutually satisfactory financial agreement. I never go to bed before midnight. You can reach me at . . .”

The man’s voice was deep and distinguished. It sounded as if he’d had a Harvard education once upon a time. He also sounded old. There was a slight rasp and tremble in the voice; neither was overly perceptible upon first listen, but after three they were detectable.

I jotted down the number and reflected on what I knew about William Pierponce Howell. He was a multi-millionaire and philanthropist who appeared in the media now and again, usually because of a charity event or function. That was it. I stared at the number. No doubt he resided in Kahala. Or maybe Na Pali Haweo. Interesting. Why call us? Not that I minded, of course, but I’d have expected someone of his stature to contact an established private investigation firm.

I dialed and WP Howell picked up on the second ring.

“Sir, this is—”

“Thank you for returning my call, Ms. Fonne.” He sounded poised and pleased.

“You know my name?”

“It’s on your website, but I’ve also done my homework.”

Of course it would have been on the website. Silly me. I chuckled. He possessed a little cheek and a lot of confidence, an agreeable combination.

“Are you up for a wayward spouse case?” he asked. There was a smile in the cultured voice.

“We’re up for anything, save locating raging, runaway Rottweilers,” I joked. “I shouldn’t ask, but I’m curious: why come to us? I’d expect someone like you—”

“You know who I am?”

“You’re a well-respected philanthropist who makes the news fairly regularly.”

“But you don’t know more about me than what you’ve read or heard?”

“I probably know as much about you as you do me,” I replied casually.

“Touché. Listen, my dear, I need absolute discretion. I require an agency like yours—one that’s not yet established, but is eager to make a mark. I believe you’re precisely what I am looking for: three committed women willing to perform good, honest work. You would serve me better than any of the established detectives I have used. They lean toward the arrogant and trip over each other in an enthusiastic endeavor to keep the ‘rich guy’ happy. I don’t intend for that to sound ego-driven. It’s simply fact.”

The candidness was appreciated. “Would you like to meet tomorrow?”

“Tonight.”

“My associates aren’t available.” Linda was having dinner with her beau at his sister’s place in Pearl City while Rey was meeting a man she’d literally stumbled into on an escalator in Nordstrum’s the other day. Rey and Seymour were going to enjoy drinks at Duke’s Waikiki this lovely evening. Hopefully, he wouldn’t prove a dud like the other men in her life.

“I don’t bite, Ms. Fonne.”

I considered it—for two seconds. “Where would you like to meet?”

“My house. I can send my chauffeur, Juneau, to pick you up.”

“I’ll drive over. Where are you located?”

He told me and I told him I’d be there in an hour, give or take.

Dusty, a jolly and jovial security guard, allowed access through a tall thick iron gate, and I drove up a lush plant-lined driveway to a two-story house with a four-car-garage. Solar lamps shaped like Chinese-style lanterns illuminated the immediate area, displaying a lovely five-foot-high, two-tier marble water fountain and hexagonal bronze sundial. Both possessed dolphin themes. During the day, flora and fauna had to be vibrant and luxuriant. I turned off the engine and scanned the custom-built Kahala dwelling that easily boasted an interior of 8500 square feet. I’d bet dollars to donuts the rear held tennis courts and a massive pool.

Before driving to the Howell estate, I’d taken a quick shower and dressed in a lightweight cream-colored pant suit with a rose-pink silk shirt and textured Valentino leather flats (on sale at a price hard to refuse). I wanted to appear professional yet fashionable in an understated way. My hair was loose and my jewelry, like my make-up, was minimal.

I was about to press a large brass koi doorbell when one of two glass-paneled doors swung inward. A woman of approximately fifty, short and avocado-shaped, nodded and flourished a meaty arm.

I stepped inside. “I’m—”

“Ms. Fonne.” If I’d blinked, I’d have missed the smile, and if I’d been paying less attention, I’d have failed to catch the slight German accent. “I’m Sonie. Please follow me.”

She led the way down a gilt-accented, marble-floored hallway to a large L-shaped room accented in pomegranate red and forest green. The furnishings in the room that appeared to be both an office and den had a British barrister feel: old-world and academic. Tasteful for a man of Howell’s age and credentials; stuffy for a woman born to a working, lower middle-class mother.

Standing by tall multi-paned terrace doors was a man of 6’ with bushy, snow-white hair; it was full and real, of this there was little doubt. Dressed in ash-gray cotton pants and a navy satin smoking jacket, Mr. Howell was broad-shouldered and well-built. Burgundy velvet slippers covered size twelve feet. Slowly he turned, his welcoming smile as rich as he. A cross between Mr. Playboy Mansion and the Man from Glad, he inclined his head in greeting, turned to Sonie, and requested pastries and a large pot of Fujian white rose tea.

“Ms. Fonne—”

“Jill.”

Inclining his head again, he motioned two pecan-colored spoon-backed leather chairs with handcrafted maple situated before a large, elegant rosewood desk. I took one. He surprised me by taking the other instead of sitting at the desk.

“I’m glad you made it.” Sand-brown eyes, almost as round and small as dimes, studied me intently. “You’re prettier in person than on television.”

“Thank you . . . I think.”

He chuckled. “Are you as good a private investigator as you are a weathergirl?”

“Meteorologist,” I said automatically.

“I stand corrected.”

It was my turn to study him. The man was in his early seventies, but could easily pass for early sixties. His face was moon-shaped, the chin pointy, and the nose flat like a boxer’s. He wasn’t handsome or even attractive, yet there was something in the eyes and full, firm lips that lent a likeable, endearing look. He seemed the sort to tell it like it was, whether you appreciated it or not.

Sonie entered. Hands the size of baseball mitts held a silver tray supporting a Royal Doulton tea set and a silver oval serving plate filled with tiny delicious-looking tea cakes, shortbread cookies, and chocolate éclairs. Homemade, no doubt. My ex-beau Adwin, a pastry chef, baked elegant tortes and pies and tarts, but he loved simple homemade desserts the best. I was sure these would receive the pâtissier nod of approval.

“Thank you.”

She nodded and departed, and my host poured a light pink infusion into delicate silver-trimmed cups. “Tea is such civilized refreshment no matter what the time, isn’t it?”

I took an éclair when he gestured the desserts, and hoped nothing would adhere to my teeth or chin, or that filling would not fall on the expensive Persian rug.

We discussed the weather for three minutes, life on the Mainland for five, and favorite foods for another three. It appeared we both enjoyed crab and lobster, all things chocolate, and Kobe beef; I had it maybe once a year, but I was pretty positive it was a regular staple in this household. Four cups of tea and five pastries later, we got down to business.

“Carmelita’s thirty-five to my seventy-three. We’ve been married four years. There’s a prenup, of course,” he began, leaning back and looking pained.

“Then why worry about multi millions? If she’s cheating, Mr. Howell—”

“William!”

I blinked, surprised.

He turned on a 100-watt smile. “Call me William. Please.”

“Uh, if she’s cheating on you and you have a prenup—”

“Prenups can always be contested. And ensuing legal battles can take weeks if not months. We don’t have to mention how ugly and sordid court proceedings can become. You’ve seen enough cases in the media, I’m certain.”

I nodded. “Please don’t think me naïve or crass, but if you want a divorce, you could pay her off. Most people tend to have a price.”

He smiled silkily and scanned my face. “Do you?”

I smiled gaily in return. “You’d never afford it.”

His laughter was rich, like a Puccini aria. “It’s very complicated. I need to prove she is having an affair. I would hate to accuse her of something and not have anything other than feelings to back it up. That would be quite embarrassing. I’ll require corroborating photos and documentation regarding tryst dates and so forth.”

“That’s understandable, but—”

“But there’s more, my dear. It’s not that I simply want to prove she’s an adulteress . . . but . . . it’s possible she may actually have something on me. As such, I’d like to ensure we keep each other’s dirty little secrets.”

“What is it she may have on you?”

There was a hint of annoyance in the smirk. “Let’s see what you and your associates uncover.”

“If anything” hung at the end of the flat comment. Fair enough. Time—and detecting ability—would tell. “If all we discover is that she’s having an affair with the pool boy, it will help your divorce outcome. If there’s nothing else to be discovered, then . . .”

“You’re suggesting you’re not up for the task?” Another smirk.

“You yourself said ‘may’. It’s quite conceivable there’s nothing to find,” I declared, refusing to be intimidated.

“Let’s say it is more than ‘may’.”

He was testing me. Fine. “Then, we will uncover it.” I sounded and appeared ten times more confident than I felt. But I was good at researching and ad-libbing, so why not apply on-camera skills to something that went beyond weather reports and community events? I leaned back and mirrored his smug smile. “You do realize that your wife could get very p’o’d if and when something comes to light? The phrase ‘payback time’ comes to mind.”

With an expression devoid of emotion, he tilted his head to one side and then the other. “That’s entirely possible. If you find out the ‘may’ concerning me, so be it. I’ll laud your talents to everyone I know. If and when you find something on my wife, yes, it will definitely get her ‘p’o’d’ as you eloquently worded it. But it will also be enough to maintain her silence.”

I regarded him closely. “Why do I have the impression you know what it is and the last few minutes of conversation have merely been . . . an evaluation of some sort?”

“All right Jill, yes, I do have an idea, but I don’t know for a fact.” The smile was droll. “Let’s call this little one-on-one a getting-to-know-each-other moment.”

I bowed and brandished an arm like a page might before his king.

William laughed heartily while I merely watched and waited to see what else, if anything, would be revealed. “You’ll start Monday. I’ll pay six-hundred dollars a day, plus expenses. You have ten days. Take photos, as you see necessary. Send a findings report at the end of each day. If all proves acceptable, I’ll pay a two-thousand-dollar bonus at the end of the assignment. Should you discover the ‘may’, I’ll pay an extra ten-thousand each and you’ll forget about whatever you’ve unearthed once you’ve delivered.”

“That seems satisfactory,” I managed to say without having my eyeballs pop out of their sockets. “And all the éclairs and tea cakes we can eat?” I added in jest, feeling a need for lightheartedness.

“I’ll have Sonie pack a box.” He rose.

The meeting had officially ended.