Carol Clark: Burned

He stood and stretched his arms up in the air. He needed to move. He went over to the sliding glass door that looked out on a little secluded grassy area outside his office. Feeling restless, he turned and walked out of his office, past his secretary’s desk, and out to the reception area where he spotted the pretty blond girl he had helped yesterday. Her name was Kit. She was supposed to check out, but her flight was canceled because of the storm in the East. All of the rooms were booked, but he had managed to move things around so she could keep hers. She was nice and sweet and seemed to be the type of client they liked to have at the Waikiki Waters. A front desk clerk was handing her a room key.

“Will,” Kit called to him.

He put on his best smile and walked over. The open-air lobby was bustling. People were checking in and out, taxi doors were slamming, bellboys were loading up their carts. The air was filled with excitement and possibility.

Kit was standing with an attractive dark-haired woman who had a suitcase at her side.

“Regan,” Kit said. “This is Will, and he’s the manager of the hotel. He was so nice to me yesterday. He let me keep my room when they were all booked up. Wait till you see it. It’s great.”

Will extended his hand. “Will Brown. Pleased to meet you.”

“Regan Reilly. Thanks for taking care of my friend,” she said and smiled.

“We do our best.” Almost by rote he added, “And where are you from, Regan?”

“She’s a private investigator in Los Angeles,” Kit announced proudly.

“Kit!” Regan protested.

“I just know that she’s going to be interested in the story of that lei Dorinda Dawes was wearing when she died.”

Will felt the blood rise in his face. “May I buy you two ladies a drink?” he offered.

“Thanks, but a friend is picking us up in a few minutes. Can we get a rain check on that?” Kit asked.

“Of course,” he answered. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

“We’ll be here.” Kit smiled. “Now we’re just going to drop Regan’s suitcase in the room.”

As they walked off, he could hear Regan Reilly ask, “What’s the story with the lei?”

Will hurried back to his office, his heart racing. A computer whiz, thanks to all the organizing he had to do at the hotel, he quickly looked up Regan Reilly on the Internet. She was a well respected detective who was the daughter of the mystery novelist Nora Regan Reilly. Will had seen guests reading Nora’s books by the pool. Maybe Regan could do some work for him. Thank God he’d been nice to Kit and extended her room. Goes to show. Be nice and it’ll often pay off. One hand washes the other and all that.

Will thought about going home but decided to hang around. What would he do if he went back to his empty house anyway? Watch the TV reports about Dorinda Dawes? No way. I’ll stay here until they get back. Hopefully it won’t be too late. Then I’ll buy them a drink and see if I can get Regan Reilly on the case.

“I can’t believe she was wearing an antique royal lei that belonged to the queen and was stolen thirty years ago!” Regan said to Kit as she wheeled her suitcase into the room that had two double beds covered with pale green and white floral quilts. Sand-colored carpeting and dressers and a sliding glass door that opened onto the balcony with the water view gave an immediate feeling that one had stepped into a zone of calm and relaxation. Just like the travel brochures promised.

Instinctively Regan walked over to the door and slid it open. She stepped out, leaned against the rail, and stared at the vast turquoise ocean. A warm tropical breeze fluttered around her, the sun was gently sinking into the West, and the sky had a beautiful pink cast. It all seemed so peaceful. People were meandering along the beach, palm fronds swayed gently below the balcony, and the reporters covering the Dorinda Dawes drowning were gone.

Kit came up behind her. “It’s a perfect time for a piña colada.”

Regan smiled. “I suppose it is.”

“Steve will be here in a few minutes. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I’m a little tired from the flight, so it’s good to keep moving. I want to meet this guy.”

“He thinks we have a lot in common,”

“Like what?”

“We both have grandmothers who are eighty-five.”

“It’s a start.”

“You’ve got to start somewhere,” Kit laughed.

“True enough.” Regan turned and looked back at the beach. “It’s hard to believe that Dorinda Dawes was probably walking this beach last night. When did you meet her?”

“Monday night at the bar. A bunch of us from my company were there after our last seminar. She was taking pictures. She sat down with us for a few minutes, asked a lot of questions, then moved on to the next table. You could tell she was the type who tried to get people to say things they’d regret.”

“Really?”

“Nobody in our group took the bait. She was a lot nicer to the men than she was to the women.”

“One of those, huh?”

Kit smiled. “One of those.”

“Was she taking notes?”

“No. She was just acting like the life of the party. And she asked everyone to speak their names into the camera after she took their picture.”

“Was she wearing a lei?”

“No. But she had a big orchid in her hair.”

“So where did she get the lei she was wearing when she died? And who stole it thirty years ago?”

Kit shook her head and looked at her best friend. “I knew it would get to you, Reilly.”

“You’re right. It does. You know, drowning is the most difficult form of death to diagnose. It could be murder, suicide, or an accident.”

“The police believe it was an accident. She used to walk home on the beach every night. Well, Steve will be here soon,” Kit noted, hinting that Regan should get moving.

“I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes,” Regan promised. She could tell that Kit was excited about this guy and didn’t want to keep him waiting. When you find out your grandmothers are the same age, the sky’s the limit, Regan thought with a smile.

Twenty minutes later they were standing in the reception area when Steve pulled up in his big, expensive Land Cruiser. Kit waved enthusiastically and hurried to open the front door. Regan hopped in the back and breathed in the new-car smell. Steve turned around and extended his hand to Regan.

“Hello there, Regan Reilly.”

“Hello, Steve,” Regan said, having no idea of his last name. He certainly is cute, she thought. He looks like that clean-cut Wall Street I-deserve-to-be-rich kind of guy. He had on a baseball cap, khaki shorts, and a short-sleeved shirt. He was tanned, with brown hair and brown eyes. On the seat next to him Kit was glowing. They should be in an ad for something that makes you happy, Regan thought.

“Welcome to Hawaii,” he said as he turned to face front. With style he pulled out of the driveway and onto the road filled with hotels, shops, and tourists that led through the heart of Waikiki. He turned up the volume of the CD player, a little too loud for Regan’s taste. It precluded much chance for getting-to-know-you conversation. People were out in force, many wearing shorts and flip-flops and floral leis around their necks. It was a beautiful night. Soon they passed a large park where locals were barbecuing and playing guitars and ukeleles. The ocean glistened just beyond the picnic tables. They passed more hotels and then Diamond Head -the famous volcanic crater where Santana once gave a concert.

Steve’s cell phone rang-a loud, jarring noise obviously designed to be heard over the stereo. He looked at the caller ID. “I’ll let it go to Voice Mail,” he said.