Coco's Nuts

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Book excerpt

Prologue

As beautiful as a Bamboo Orchid and as cool as an English cucumber, Buddy Feuer seemed neither fazed nor anxious, given the grave predicament. Tall and willowy, the thirty-four-year-old former society woman turned truck driver was easy on the eyes no matter what your predilection. A “looker” or “dish” she might have been called back in the days of gin rickeys, trilbys, and gumshoes. Some females truly lucked out in the comeliness lottery, as unconventional, chinchilla-faced Aunt Rowena Jaye was often heard to utter about a relation or friend (with a wistful, wishful sigh).

Buddy had contacted the Triple Threat Private Investigation Agency after researching our involvement -- and success -- with the handling of the “Gruesome Twosome Case” (as we’d jokingly dubbed our first P.I. job) and the ensuing arrest of our client, William Pierponce Howell. The now-deceased WP Howell had been as wealthy as he’d been eccentric (a tactful way of saying f’g zany) and the murder of his young, pretty wife was not the only crime he’d been guilty of. HPD’s Detective Gerald “Ald” Ives had been gracious enough during a media interview to credit the agency with providing “some valid crime-stopping information”, which had led to the apprehension of the millionaire and his equally culpable (f’g zany) partner. The truth was we’d done considerably more, but we were cool with letting HPD take credit.

Our latest assignment was fairly clear-cut: prove Buddy hadn’t murdered renowned entrepreneur Jimmy Silone Picolo III.

Jimmy Man-I’m-Fabulously-Rich Picolo was second-generation owner of a hapu’upu’u pickling factory called Braddah Jimmy’s Pickled Aquatic Delights (who’d have guessed preserved fish cheeks and eyes could be such popular delicacies). In addition, the shrewd man owned JSP Capital-Credit Corporation and Balz to the Walz Incorporated, a demolition-construction company that knocked down buildings as rapidly as it put them up. There were also pet projects here and there, little businesses he absorbed or annihilated.

Slim and trim and relatively short, Jimmy was a cross between Dean Martin and Sal Mineo in their heydays. Over the years, the attractive man had rubbed a few people the wrong way. You see, equally successful had been his loansharking and racketeering -- excuse me, alleged loansharking and racketeering.

Unlike Jimmy Silone Picolo II, who’d been indicted on racketeering and murder in the 70s, “III” had never been convicted of anything. Equally charmed and charming, he’d navigated the tranquil waters of life and business with a multi-thousand-dollar smile and a playful monarch-like wave . . . of the middle finger. The odd time the folks in blue had become involved, paperwork transformed into ashes and lawsuits dropped like smoldering charcoal briquettes. Witnesses developed curious cases of amnesia or hopped continent-bound jets faster than Hollywood celebrities changed partners.

Picolo had been found in an alley in the business district, not far from his opulent Bishop Street office. The capital-credit company took up half the fourth floor while the main office occupied the entire top floor. Lavishly decorated with marble, crystal, and 14-K gold, it even held an interior waterfall rumored to stream champagne instead of water. How decadent was that? No longer a concern, however: expanding that firm fiscal foothold and/or working long hours while sitting in a gold-trimmed leather barrister chair before said waterfall. The quinquagenarian’s face had greeted a brick wall several times before three bullets created cranial air vents. Had he survived, attractive would certainly no longer have described Jimmy Silone Picolo III.

Buddy and I had met at 7:00 a.m.in tranquil Sans Souci State Recreational Park, not far from the Waikiki Aquarium and Diamond Head, the famous volcanic tuff cone, known to Hawaiians as Lēʻahi. I’d brought two extra-large creamy steaming coffees, she a box of freshly-baked, sugary-sweet malasadas. Sitting on a recently painted bench under a cloudless late October sky, we’d initially chatted over trivial events and how we’d both ended up on the Hawaiian Islands. She’d moved here not long after “the pater’s incarceration”. I’d landed courtesy of a fervent if not fanatical desire to open a detective agency on the part of my melodramatic (excitable) cousin Reynalda Fonne-Werde and her ever-supportive (anything-to-keep-the-peace) best friend, Linda Royale.

Once the agency’s new client and I had finished swapping getting-to-know-you facts and scarfing a second round of scrumptious confections, we got down to business. In addition to proving her innocence, Buddy wanted us to periodically apprise Howie Pastille, an ambitious but wet-behind-the-ears defense lawyer. In the event she was formally charged, she wanted to be prepared, and because she couldn’t afford the best or most experienced legal representative, money was an option. The agency’s task seemed straightforward enough, as did Buddy’s nonchalantly related story (even if rookie P.I. intuition advised there’d been some abridged segments).

Sitting in the lanai of my ten-floor Ala Moana condo, an icy herbal tea in one hand and Button, the snoozing Wunder Hund at my feet, I replayed the Thursday morning exchange in my mind . . .

Chapter One

“Wealthy and wise-ass, snooty and arrogant -- that was me once upon a time. A typical rich bitch. Flying between mansions in Boston Massachusetts and Kaanapoli Maui was part of the norm.”

Buddy’s laughter was reminiscent of Salvation Army Christmas bells: pretty, delicate, and spirited. “These days I’m much more human and a lot more humble. Still, if Father hadn’t screwed up, I’d probably be dining on pâté de foie gras and les cuisses de grenouille in a three-star Michelin Paris restaurant instead of eating donuts in an Oahu park.” She eyed the four remaining malasadas, arched a toned shoulder, and placed one on a napkin on her lap, covering the name of an Asian bakery.

A twinge, a teeny stomach stitch, ensued as I recalled the last time I’d seen that bakery name. It was a morning not so many weeks ago when a deceitful lover had slammed my condo door upon departure -- with deafening finality. Quickly, I quashed the feeling and image as if they were a couple of niggling bugs.

Even in unadorned jeans and a teal-blue T-shirt, Buddy Feuer emanated an air of elegance. Tiny sapphire studs and long golden platinum blonde hair sporting rhinestone hairpins added to the impression. A diminutive beauty mark gracing her lower left cheek drew eyes to sensual lips that curled up in a natural, permanent smile. Mascara, the sole make-up, accentuated long, feathery lashes and stunning cornflower-blue eyes. That face belonged to a magazine model, not a truck driver. Yup, some females were very lucky.

I requested she tell me about her father’s “screw up”.

“It’s a bit of a long story, as the saying goes.” The words were spoken as softly as the buzz of a bumblebee. She sipped at length and then leaned back, an expression of rue veiling that visage like a delicate morning mist. “Thirteen years ago, not long after being indicted on corporate fraud, Father was arrested for first-degree murder. The corporate fraud was essentially the motive for the murder, although the police had their own take. The truth was that Father had discovered his accountant, Avery Tavol Nuss, was cooking both his books and those of the company. Actually, Avery wasn’t just cooking, he was charbroiling. Millions from business and personal coffers had gone missing . . . disintegrated like Styrofoam hitting a blast furnace.

“Theodore Maher Morther III took justice into his own hands by shooting a metal projectile into the sleazy accountant’s jellied belly. When he gaped in stunned surprise, Father pumped one more into the glorified bookkeeper’s fleshy, fish-shaped mouth and another into his freckled forehead. . . . You know, JJ, if the weapon of choice had been a ledger, calculator, or something ‘office’, or if the shots hadn’t appeared so deliberate, Father’s expensive Manhattan attorney might have gotten him off on diminished capacity or voluntary manslaughter. But the evidence was damning and the prosecuting team merciless.”

She nibbled her donut as she peered into the past. “I was in my final year of Classics at Vassar when the trial took place. He’d requested I complete school and then visit Europe, as originally planned. He didn’t want me, my sister and brother, sitting in the courtroom, disrupting our lives. I’d intended to honor his request, but not Susan-Loni and Samuel.” A soft sigh, like the feather of a Caroline Chickadee, floated past. “With the lean, cute, fresh-faced looks, my siblings may have come across like those cartoon chipmunks, Chip and Dale, but in reality they were more like Macbeth and his Lady.

“I stressed the fact that Father didn’t want us to be present, but Samuel just burbled on about how Father needed our support as he preened before a foyer mirror. I’d have bet my trust fund, the now non-existent one, that Samuel’s house was filled with wall-to-wall mirrors.” A smile leaned toward the sour. “Pretty, perfect Susan-Loni babbled more than burbled, but she was of the same mind. Both were adamant about attending the trial so Father would know how much they cared. They cared all right -- about his money. Right. As if there’d have been any to be had after legal fees were paid, restitution made, and missing funds found and assets unfrozen . . . and the civil suit settled.”

With a whisper of a breath, she continued. “When the entire nasty business had finally been put to bed, there wasn’t enough money to purchase a patch of Mississippi swampland.” She stared across the freshly mown grass to a quintet of laughing teens racing in the direction of Kuhio Beach and I prodded her to continue.

“Sorry. For a moment, I felt as if I were back in Boston -- uh, what the hell is that?”

A glossy blue-black plumaged bird stood before our feet, his brown button eyes fixed on us. “It’s a pheasant of some sort, possibly Kalij,” I told her. I’d learned about birds in my younger years from a bird-loving relative, and had renewed an interest in them in Connecticut, thanks to several days spent with a wing-ding bird-loving killer.

“Shouldn’t he be on a farm or in someone’s backyard?” she asked quietly. “Why is he staring?”

“He probably wants the malasadas,” I said out of the corner of my mouth.

“You think?”

As if in confirmation, a gray bill pecked my uncovered toe. “I think,” I winced.

Buddy pitched a piece of pastry and our feathered friend sucked it back like a frog did a fly. Five seconds later, he was back.

“Hungry fellow, isn’t he?”

“Apparently,” she concurred quietly. “The thing can’t weigh more than eight pounds. Why are we whispering as if he’s a bully or hooligan and we don’t want to agitate him?”

“So his pals don’t hear,” I joked.

She pitched another piece and our new friend uttered a loud whistling chuckle, either a “thank you” or “chow down!”. Suddenly, a half dozen “pals” scooted over and two eyed my toes as potential sweet treats. Onto the grass the last of the malasadas flew, as did we -- to a picnic table several yards away.

Laughing, we sat and Buddy resumed her tale. “Financial and legal documents, obviously falsified, had pointed to Father as the perpetrator while Avery Tavol Nuss appeared a tiny cog in a huge embezzlement wheel. The man had orchestrated it brilliantly well. Theodore Morther would bear the brunt and Avery, if found guilty of some culpability, would get minimal time. When all was settled and safe, he’d enjoy the squirreled-away money. It was too bad for Avery that Father and the family were the only ones to appreciate his genius -- and, of course, that Father took the law into his own hands.”

I smiled as I envisioned the unctuous accountant’s dumbfounded surprise. “How does a woman born with a silver spoon in her mouth end up with the name Buddy?”

“She was actually born with the conventional and boring moniker of Barbara-Anderson Morther,” she explained with a quaint laugh and curious smirk, and didn’t continue.

“You’re going to leave me hanging?”

Another quaint laugh. “Unlike my siblings, who received nicknames based on shortened versions of their Christian names, Sue and Sammy, I was called Buddy. Yes, I was arrogant and spoiled, but I was also straightforward and never beat around the bush. Father liked the frankness, brutal as it could sometimes be, and compared it to that of business ‘buddies’.”

“What happened to your brother and sister?”

“I’d lost touch over a decade ago. Samuel had high-tailed it out of town two months after Father went to prison. He took Manilow, Barry, and Lola -- the dog, cat, and parrot -- and left behind a promiscuous wife and four needy -- or was that nerdy? -- children. . . . Rumor had it he’d moved to northern California, possibly on some of the company funds that had gone astray. Although I never doubted Avery’s cleverness or cunning, I’d always suspected someone else had been involved.”

“Your brother?”

She tilted her head one way and then the other. “Never having been a fan of Samuel’s, I’ve never been remotely interested in tracking him down. Besides, he’d not want that, because he liked me even less than I liked him.”

“That’s so sad.”

We watched a fat and feisty leash-less English Bulldog shadowed by his owner, a double for Winston Churchill.

“Did he just call his dog Flatulence?” I asked, bewildered.

“Florence,” Buddy grinned. “But Flatulence suits her better, considering.”

We chuckled and watched the two waddle Ewa (the Oahu designation for west) as if they’d just feasted at a vast breakfast buffet. Who knew dogs got gassy?

“What about your sister?”

She eyed me for several seconds, then shrugged. “Pretty and perky pea-brained Susan-Loni married high-school sweetheart, Nedwick Goodyear.” She smirked. “Neddy got a job in Daddy Goodyear’s software company and sissy stayed home to raise brats and play club-active hausfrau. There was Leonard, named after Ned’s father, Sarah after our mother, Lady after the singer, and Sushi after Susan-Loni’s favorite food. And while we’re on the topic of names, in case it hadn’t been evident, Father had had a thing for Loni Anderson in the 70s; hence, Susan-Loni and Barbara-Anderson.”

I grinned. “Thank you for the elucidation.”

She also laughed. “As for Mother, Sarah Annabelle Morther had been born a Dottle -- yes, the Charles Dottle was her father. Two years before Mother’s untimely death, Grandfather Dottle had lost his successful electronics company. The supercilious gent literally had money to burn, which he did when throwing tantrums or demonstrating what a mukety-muck he could be. What goes around comes around, as they say, and one day he lost everything based on one exceptionally bad -- and illegal -- business decision.”

The Dottle name hadn’t appeared in the media in several years, but there’d been scores of stories about the unconventional man’s vast fortune and many estates, and an arrest that had set Wall Street tongues wagging for months.

She peered into the past again. “Mother had always been into the sherry, discreetly of course. Father’s arrest and conviction, however, resulted in her becoming un-discreet. The woman developed a taste for apple liqueur, not my first choice of anesthetizing beverage, and eventually drank herself into a coma.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Enough family memories.” She punched my thigh playfully. “But now you may understand why I didn’t want to go back to being a Morther. The family was as dysfunctional, as absurd, and as frivolous as the Bennets in Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, and maybe as mad as Brontë’s Bertha Mason in Jane Eyre.”

This smart lady possessed fire and vim, and I suspected there was much more to Buddy than met the eye. “Where does Feuer come from?”

“I’d decided to keep the last name of my ex-husband, Jason-Patrice. He died when his Honda Accord was flattened by an auto hauler speeding along the Hāna Highway during a downpour. I was married at thirty and widowed at thirty-one.”

I offered another heartfelt “I’m sorry”.

“Jason-Patrice landed a managerial job at a trucking dispatch firm on Maui just before we’d married, but had been tending bar at a scuzzy haunt, The Hunted Heart, when we’d first met while I was at Vassar. My friends and I had gone there fairly regularly. They’d flirt and I’d dance or eye a dreamy bartender with creamy taut skin, ice-blue eyes and chiseled features. He looked like an underwear model. H-o-t.”

“Sounds yummy.”

“Jason-Patrice and I dated five times, but he’d always had this thing for a biker chick, Chiquita, who frequented the bar. One night, the cute brunette finally noticed him, maybe because the two guys she’d been hanging with had stopped noticing her. That was the end of Jason-Patrice until we bumped into each other at a rep screening of The Wild Bunch a few years later when I’d returned to New England for a lengthy visit. We decided to go for drinks and the rest, as yet another saying goes, is history.” She elbowed my arm.

I elbowed in return. “You’ve certainly led quite a life.”

“There’s enough history in my life to write a book, JJ. Memoirs of Buddy Feuer: Vassar Grad Turned Hand. At least, now, I finally see the humor in it. Two years ago, I’d still have cried.”