"It means she had every day taken away from her … and it wasn't her idea. That's all it means."
She sipped the screwdriver. "I'm sorry the young woman is dead, but I barely knew her."
"You did know her, though."
"I knew her as any guest at the Niumalu knew her-she was an entertainer, here-a decent one, too. She seemed pleasant enough, when I would encounter her around the place. Not stuck-up like some show-business types. I'm sorry she's gone." She looked at him over the rims of the sunglasses. "Is there anything else, Mr. Burroughs?"
"I apologize, Mrs. Kuhn-I was just making conversation. I thought… as mutual witnesses … we had something in common."
"You said that. Mr. Burroughs, if you'd like to go get your tennis racket, I'll meet you on the court. Or if you'd like to sit here and share some stories about the Hollywood celebrities you've encountered, please feel welcome. Otherwise, change the subject, or find someone else to gossip with."
He rose. "Sorry, Mrs. Kuhn. And I'm still in no mood for tennis, and I like talking about Hollywood about as much as you like discussing murder…. Have you seen Mr. Sterling this morning?"
The FBI man's bungalow was the next one over, the only other bungalow near enough to the beach for someone within to have possibly heard or seen something last night.
"Yes, I have-he chatted with Otto this morning, on this same dreadful subject. Then he headed off."
Burroughs frowned. "Do you know where he went?"
Her patience clearly all but exhausted, Mrs. Kuhn said, "I believe Mr. Sterling said he was going in to work."
"Oh… well, thanks, Mrs. Kuhn. Sorry-didn't mean to disturb you with this unpleasantness."
"I'm sure," she said, coldly. "Just as I did not mean to be rude."
Burroughs headed over to the lodge, to catch up with Hully, mind abuzz. It was unusual for the FBI man to work on a Saturday morning, and he and Sterling were set to go to the Shriners game this afternoon, with Colonel Fielder. He wondered if Sterling's Saturday-morning business had anything to do with Pearl Harada's murder.
He wondered the same about Otto Kuhn's business downtown.
SEVEN
Hully drifted through an open archway into the airy, A-frame lobby of the Niumalu, its sun-reflecting parquet floor dotted with Oriental rags, potted ferns perching on the periphery like silent witnesses. Nary a guest was partaking of the cushioned wicker chairs and sofas, but manager Fred Bivens was behind the front desk of the lodge, at the far end, distributing mail into key slots.
Fred's aloha shirt was an all-purpose blue on which floated the fluffy clouds and palmy island of its pattern. The affable, heavyset Bivens put aside his work to chat with Hully-the manager's eyes were dark and baggy, bis normally pleasant features seeming to droop, as if last night's tragedy had melted his face slightly.
"How late did the cops keep you up last night?" Bivens asked.
Their voices echoed in the high-ceilinged room.
"Not as late as some," Hully said. "Dad and I were the first questioned … us and Harry Kamana. Did they wake up a lot of your guests, for questioning?"
"No, just the residents in the bungalows adjacent to the beach. But that little Puerto Rican cop said he'd be back either today or Monday, to talk to everybody else."
Hully didn't correct Bivens's assumption about Jardine's ethnicity. "You have any guests checking out before then?"
"That cop asked the same thing-no. We're about half and half, at the moment, residents like you and your father, and tourists … but nobody's leaving before the middle of next week."
Hully leaned an arm on the counter. He was trying to keep things conversational-he didn't want the manager to figure out he was poking around. Then he shook his head and said, "Damn shame-I really liked Pearl. I know she dated a lot of guys, but I never got the feeling she was …"
"Round-heeled or anything? No. I don't think she was any virgin, but she wasn't any, you know… tramp. She was a good kid, with a good heart; but hell, all those show-business types have different moral codes than the rest of us."
"How so?"
Now Bivens leaned on the counter. "Come on, Hully-you and your dad live in Hollywood. You know how those movie actors sleep around; you know how those musicians drink and smoke … and I'm not talking about cigarettes."
Hully shrugged. "I didn't have the feeling Pearl wanted to stay in show business. Matter of fact, she told me she wanted to get married and settle down."
Bivens's head rocked back: "What, with that Fielder kid? Come on, Hully-that was a pipe dream! White soldier with a high-ranking father, marry a Jap?"
"Yeah," Hully admitted, "it was a loaded situation….1 wonder if that had anything to do with her murder."
Bivens started filling the mail slots again, talking as he did, occasionally glancing back at Hully. "Sure it did. That poor Kamana musta gone off his noodle, with jealousy. He loved that girl-everybody knew it."
"Does Harry Kamana seem like the violent type to you, Fred? You ever see him lose his temper?"
"No…. That's the pity. He's always been a sweet guy. But still waters run deep." He paused, several letters in hand, and his gaze held Hully's. "Funny thing, that. He's the leader, you know, of the Harbor Lights, and some of his guys have come to me to complain."
"What about?"
Letters distributed, he folded his arms, leaned against the back counter. "Well, they know I do the deals with Harry … book the gigs, as they put it. And they think I take advantage of Harry… that he's too nice, too soft."
"Any truth in it?"
"Hey, I give the boys a fair shake. They get pretty close to top dollar, for the size of the Niumalu and its dance floor."
"They're popular-a real draw."
Bivens shook his head, sadly. "Without Pearl… without Harry… I don't know. They're having a meeting right now, over in the dining room. I don't know what the hell they're gonna do…. Supposed to play for me, tonight."
The musicians were in the dining room, up on the bandstand, casually dressed, sitting in their respective seats in front of music stands; but they weren't rehearsing-no instruments were in sight.
A guy in a dark blue sportshirt and chinos was standing in front of them, as if directing-but he was really just conducting a meeting. Hully knew him, knew most of the remaining eight members of the Harbor Lights; the guy out front was Jim Kaupiko, a round-faced but slender trumpet player in his late twenties. Most tourists assumed the entire band was Hawaiian, and Kaupiko and Kamana and a few other Harbor Lights were indeed natives; but the band was otherwise a mix of Japanese, Chinese, Filipino and Korean.
"I know how everybody here feels," Kaupiko said. "Pearl was the best…"
The various Polynesian and Oriental faces on the bandstand were as grave as carved masks.
"… and we can't ever hope to find someone to fill her shoes. Whether we're even gonna be able to keep going, that's up in the air. But we owe it to Mr. Bivens to play out our contract, at least."
"Including tonight?" a voice called out.
"Including tonight, Terry."
Hully knew the band member who had spoken: Taro 'Terry" Mizuha, the only Japanese in the group other than Pearl.
"I don't know, Jim," Mizuha said; shaking his head. A slender, almost pretty young man-a guitar player-he really looked devastated. "I just don't know…."
"I've asked Sally Suziki to fill in on vocals-she was singing with the Kealoha Trio at the Halekulani, but they recently broke up."
"She'll do fine," somebody said numbly.
"She's no Pearl," somebody else said.
"She'll do fine," Kaupiko affirmed. "And I've got Sammy Amaulu, trombone player from the Surfriders-they're not gigging tonight. Sammy can fill in, but just this once."