Burned

“Are you kidding? It’s a tourist attraction. Everyone on the highway to and from the airport will read it. And people flying above can look down and see it.”

“Only if you’re flying in a plane six feet off the ground or you happen to own a pair of supersonic spy glasses.” He picked up the shopping bags off the sand. “Let’s go.”

They ambled up to their rental car that was parked on a cliff overlooking the turquoise water and marveled that there was no one else on the beach. The setting was gorgeous, complete with a waterfall and coconut palm trees. Everything was postcard perfect except the dent on the left back door of the car. Tiny traces of yellow paint lingered. The rental agent had presented the damaged vehicle to them without batting an eye. Jason immediately called on his bargaining skills and received a ten percent discount.

“More money to spend on our honeymoon,” Carla had trilled. “You are such a smart businessman.”

The sun was blazing, and inside the car it was hot. Jason turned on the air conditioning which promptly blew even hotter air in their faces. “Come on, baby,” he urged. “Let’s cool down.”

Carla pulled down the visor and inspected herself in the mirror. She was starting to sweat, and her mascara was ru

“You want to eat now? It’ll take energy to arrange the shells.”

“Good idea.”

They pulled out onto the highway and drove north. On their left the Pacific Ocean stretched out endlessly. On their right were coffee-covered mountain slopes.

“This is awesome,” Carla said. “I read somewhere that the Hawaiian Islands are the most isolated island chain in the world.”

“I read the same magazine. It’s back in the room. It also said that the Big Island is the size of the state of Co

“The most active volcano in the world.”

“I know. Like I told you, I read that magazine.”

“When did you read it?”

“When you took two hours to get ready last night.”

“Oh. Well, maybe we should come back to the Big Island on our honeymoon. It’s rural and romantic. There are rain forests to explore, and we can horseback ride, kayak, hike, snorkel, swim…”

“Maybe.”

Carla settled back in her seat. She looked out the window as Jason turned on the radio. A song was ending, and the DJ started to speak: “Well, that was a song for lovers. And for all you lovers out there, have you tried eating at the Shanty Shanty Shack? It’s right on the beach in Kona, and it’s a great place to gaze in each other’s eyes at breakfast, lunch, or di

“Look!” Carla exclaimed. “It’s a sign for the Shanty Shanty Shack! Make a left two hundred feet ahead. Let’s try it! It was meant to be.”

Jason shrugged. “Why not?” He put on the blinker, and they turned off the highway at the next sign for the restaurant, which had a big arrow pointing toward the beach. They went down a poorly paved narrow road that curved around a grove of banana trees and ended in a little cove with a small parking lot. The restaurant was perched on stilts overlooking the water. It was co

“What a discovery! Now this is Hawaii!” Carla exclaimed. “I’d love to stay here. You feel so close to nature!”

“Let’s go inside and check out the food,” Jason said practically.

They got out of the car and stepped onto the restaurant’s rickety wooden deck. The water lapped below. “Smell that salty air!” Carla urged. “It smells not only like salt but flowers, too!”

“I smell it, I smell it. Let’s keep moving. I’m hungry.”

“Oh, look, Jason!” Carla pointed to a treehouse in the distance. In front of it was a big sign with large yellow lettering that read PRIVATE PROPERTY-KEEP OUT! AND I MEAN IT!

“Jason, can you stand it!” Carla laughed. “I’d love to meet whoever lives there.”

“Yeah, well I don’t think they want to meet you.” Jason held open the restaurant door for his fiancée. They stepped inside. The dark wood walls, large vases of tropical plants obviously cut from the lush gardens outside, and sweet cool air immediately soothed customers-not that many people in Hawaii needed soothing, but plenty of tourists who hadn’t yet unwound did. It was already late for lunch, and the restaurant was quiet. There were three people sitting at a corner table.

Carla’s happy-go-lucky mood quickly evaporated. “I knew it!” Carla whispered to Jason. “Look over there! They’re not eating at a friend’s house! Those two rotten ladies lied to us!”

Gert and Ev looked up from their seafood salads. Ev inhaled sharply when she saw the couple they had ditched at the airport. Gert turned to her and calmly put her hand on her sister’s. “I love this hotel. It’s charming, but there aren’t enough activities for our group.”

Ev looked blank, then smiled. They couldn’t have heard what we were talking about, she realized. They just walked in a second ago. “You’re absolutely right, Gert. We’ll never book any rooms here for our group. But they do make a mean seafood salad,” she exclaimed in a loud voice.

For a moment the young man at their table looked at them quizzically, but he had learned not to ask any questions. Boy oh boy would he be glad when this project was over.

30

W hen Regan hung up the phone with Jack, she once again looked quickly through the newsletters. There were ten of them, the last one with all the unflattering pictures and questionable captions published just two weeks ago. Regan couldn’t find anything that would make someone want to murder Dorinda Dawes. Of course some would argue that merely publishing bad pictures could be grounds for murder, especially lousy pictures of Hollywood stars. But there weren’t any stars in the newsletters. If they were staying at the hotel, they would have avoided the camera.

Regan looked again at the picture of Will and his wife, Kim. She was very pretty and had a dark tan, long, straight black hair that almost reached her waist, and large brown eyes. Regan wondered if she was Hawaiian. She also wondered if she had seen this photo yet. Probably not if she’s been away for several weeks. So Kim is coming back to her mother-in-law, an embarrassing photo in the newsletter from her husband’s place of employment, and a husband who’s afraid he may lose his job. Swell. Welcome home, honey.

Regan was anxious to talk to Will, but not while Jazzy was around. She picked up the Spirits in Paradise magazine, which she had only gotten a chance to glance at before lunch. Dorinda had profiled a guy named Boone Kettle, a cowboy from Montana who had moved to Hawaii a year ago. Regan turned to the article. A picture of fifty-two-year-old Boone, handsome and rugged and perched atop a horse, filled the page. He had a job leading horseback riding tours on a cattle ranch on the Big Island.

The piece was several pages long. It talked about how the winters in Montana had gotten on Boone’s nerves. He came to Hawaii on vacation and decided that this was where he wanted to live. It was tough, but he managed to get a job at a cattle ranch and was now celebrating his first a

Regan dug out the interisland directory from the drawer of the night table and looked up the number of the ranch where Boone worked. She pulled out her cell phone and made the call, hoping she might catch him in. The girl who answered told Regan to hold on, that he had just gotten back from a ride. “Boooooone!” she screamed. “Booooooone! Phooooooo

For a moment Regan held the phone away from her ear, afraid that if Boone didn’t hurry, the girl would scream again. Then she could hear the girl saying, “I have no idea who it is.”