Carol Clark - Burned

“Yes. Kit told me,” Regan answered.

“I’m putting together the gift bags for the ball. No one on the committee can believe that she was here three months and managed to get her hands on that stolen lei. Only Dorinda. I tell you, she worked fast. She was out to make a name for herself one way or another. I think she was getting desperate. She’d been trying for years.”

“How do you know?”

“I met her several times in New York City.”

“You did?”

“Yes. Dorinda was on the scene there for a long time. She had a lot of different jobs and then started a gossipy newsletter on the Internet. But it didn’t fly. Then she got a job as a columnist at an Upper East Side newspaper that folded. Last summer she read an ad placed by a woman in Hawaii who needed an apartment in New York for six months. So they traded places. Dorinda wanted to settle here. The few times I talked to her, I got the feeling she thought it was her last shot at making a name for herself. Not that she came out and said that. But I’ve got to give her credit. She managed to get a job at the Waikiki Waters quickly. It didn’t pay much, but it didn’t take up too much of her time and it gave her access to a lot of people and parties.”

Kit put her glass down. “Dorinda was having a swell time the other night when we saw her at the Towers bar. I think what she loved having access to was the men. And I think she’d had a few drinks.”

“She enjoyed her wine,” Jazzy sniffed, “which could be why she drowned.”

“Can I refresh anyone’s drink?” Steve asked, clearly wanting to change the subject.

“Mine!” Jazzy said. “Add lots of club soda! Hurry! You don’t want to miss the sunset!”

Regan took a sip of her drink. It seemed that wherever one went, it turned into Peyton Place pretty quickly. Gossip mills are everywhere. So are people like Jazzy. There’s no escaping them.

Steve’s two male friends, Paul and Mark, walked back inside to grab a couple more beers. They seemed like nice guys, Regan thought. So did Steve. Whether he was a good prospect for Kit was another story, and she didn’t have much time to find out.

Together they watched the sunset, oohing and aahing as the colors changed in the sky. Everyone was telling Steve how lucky he was to live in such a glorious spot. When the last bit of the blazing red and orange constellation slipped under the horizon, the painter and his dollmaker wife stood. “Thanks, Steve,” he said. “We’re on our way. Tomorrow we’re getting up early and flying to Maui for a crafts fair. Hopefully we’ll have a good day selling our paintings and dolls.” She was a native Hawaiian, and he called himself an aging hippie who came to Hawaii twenty-five years ago to find himself. He wore his blond hair pulled back in a ponytail while her black shiny hair cascaded down her back.

The remaining six piled into Steve’s car and headed into town to Duke’s Restaurant and Barefoot Bar, the restaurant named in honor of Duke Kahanamoku, Hawaii’s most famous citizen and the “father of international surfing.” Duke won worldwide fame as a swimmer, appeared in over twenty-eight Hollywood movies, and in later life became Hawaii’s ambassador of goodwill and aloha. Decades after his death he was still considered the greatest athlete in the history of the Hawaiian Islands. He had never seen snow and was quoted as saying, “I am only happy when I am swimming like a fish.” A large statue of Duke, his arms outstretched as if he were saying, “Aloha,” stands on Waikiki Beach. Every day dozens of leis are placed around his neck by adoring tourists. Steve had pointed out the flower-covered statue as they drove to his house.

The bar was packed, but they managed to get a table in the open air. Jasmine seemed to know more than her fair share of people, which didn’t surprise Regan in the least. A woman at the bar stopped Steve, put her hand on his arm, and started talking to him. To Regan he looked annoyed and seemed impatient with her. He quickly broke free and sat down with the group, and they ordered drinks and burgers. Regan was feeling pretty tired. It was Thursday night, a little after nine, which meant it was eleven in Los Angeles and two in the morning in New York. A television over the bar showed a clip of the snowstorm in the East. I’ll be there with Jack next week, Regan thought longingly. She was glad that Kit looked happy but wasn’t really thrilled at the prospect of spending all weekend with this group. And somehow she figured it was going to turn out that way. There was talk of a dinner party tomorrow night at Steve’s house. I’m sure “dinner party” is a pretty loose term with him, she thought.

Regan glanced over at Paul and Mark who were blatantly checking out the babes at the bar. I guess I shouldn’t feel insulted, she mused. This ring on my finger doesn’t exactly go unnoticed. Jasmine was leaning over and talking to people at the next table, and Steve was whispering something in Kit’s ear.

With all the noise it took a few minutes for Regan to realize that her cell phone was ringing. Regan fumbled in her purse for it. Who would be calling me at this hour? she thought nervously. Everyone at home should be asleep.

“Hello,” she answered when she finally retrieved it.

“Regan?”

“Yes.”

“This is Jack’s friend Mike Darnell. I’m a detective with the Honolulu Police Department. He asked me to give you a call.”

“Oh, hi, Mike,” Regan said with a smile. “That’s nice of you.”

“I’ve been working late, but I was thinking of heading over to a place called Duke’s. I thought you and your friend might like to meet me there.”

“I’m at Duke’s now.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Would I kid you?”

“I don’t know. If you’re engaged to Jack Reilly, you’re capable of anything.”

Regan laughed. “We’re with a group of people. Come join us. We’re to the left of the bar on the outside. There are six of us, but there could be more by the time you get here.”

“I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Regan hung up the phone as Jasmine inquired, “Who was that?”

“A friend of my fiancé’s who’s a detective in the Honolulu Police Department. He’s coming by for a drink.”

“Oh,” she said dismissively.

Am I imagining things, Regan wondered, or does Jazzy look nervous?

N ora Regan Reilly woke with a start. The wind was howling outside, and she heard a thump against the side of the house. The clock on the nightstand glowed 2:15. Beside her, Luke was sleeping peacefully. He can sleep through anything, Nora thought with a slight smile.

Thump. Thump.

Nora got up and reached for the bathrobe she kept on the satin-covered bench at the foot of the bed. She and Luke liked to keep their bedroom cold, and on this night that was no challenge. She wrapped the robe around her, walked to the big picture window, and pulled aside the curtain. She was just in time to see a huge branch from one of the trees in their backyard snap off and go crashing to the ground. Chunks of icy snow broke apart as they scattered on the sea of white below. That was Regan’s favorite tree when she was a little girl, Nora remembered.

She could hear Luke’s gentle breathing across the room. No sense waking him, she thought as she peered out at the yard. There was nothing he could do about it now. And tomorrow will be a tough day. There’s no way they can have a funeral in this weather-the roads are impassable. All those relatives of the elderly skier will be stuck at the hotel, and they’ll be looking to Luke for answers about the storm. As if he can change the weather.

Nora crept back into bed as the wind whistled outside. I hope things in Hawaii are calmer than they are here, she thought. She lay huddled under the blankets, her thoughts jumping from one topic to the next. She wished Regan was in New York this weekend. It would have been so much fun to go and hear the wedding band with her and Jack and find out for themselves if they were as good as everyone swore they were. Hopefully we’ll do it next weekend, she mused. She tossed and turned a bit and finally fell back asleep.