Free 03 - Three Odd Balls by Cindy Blackburn Page B

your desk and stares at your empty chair.”
    “Tell her My South Pacific Paramour is coming along quite nicely.”
    “Huh?”
    “Tell Snowflake not to fret—Urquit Snodgrass will not get the better of Delta Touchette.”
    “Huh?”
    “Snowflake,” I repeated. “Tell her not to let Bernice get the better of her.”
    “And vice-versa,” Wilson mumbled.
    ***
    “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You want pink drinks.” The person manning the tiki bar looked up from the tattered index card he was studying and frowned. “And you have no idea how Davy made them, and you have no idea why he died in your mother’s bungalow. Am I right?”
    More or less. Wilson and I ignored the frown, flinched only slightly as the new bartender slammed his notes onto the bar, and plopped ourselves onto two barstools.
    It seemed unnecessary, but we introduced ourselves anyway, and Wilson held out his hand. “You must be Buster’s brother?”
    “Ki Okolo. You guys want some Pele’s Melees or not?”
    We nodded, and Mr. Congeniality grinned ominously. “Guinea pigs,” he said and started pouring ingredients willy-nilly into the blender. “Those are all the instructions my damn brother could find in the damn files.” He jerked his head at the card, and I noticed the list of ingredients—no measurements whatsoever.
    I watched dubiously as a generous portion of vodka got dumped into the mix. “I understand Davy was quite secretive about his recipe,” I said. “Did you know him well?”
    “Duh.”
    “For how long?” Wilson asked.
    Ki reached for the rum. “Since I was in high school. Everyone knew Davy.”
    “High school?” Wilson squinted. “Didn’t you and Buster just buy this place?”
    “Inherited.”
    “From your parents?”
    “Duh. From my grandfather Pono.”
    “Pono-Pono, Pono-Pono.” Bee Bee swooped in and landed at the edge of the bar.
    Ki snarled. “We inherited him, too. Stupid bird’s gonna outlive us all.” He flipped the “On” switch. Bee Bee squawked in surprise, but recovered quickly, and proceeded to imitate the blender.
    It was a surprisingly entertaining racket. When Ki realized he wasn’t annoying us nearly as much as he might have hoped, he turned off the machine. Bee Bee shut up also and waddled over to the index card.
    “Don’t you dare!” Ki yanked the card from under the bird’s beak and jammed it into the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt. Then he poured out two glasses of pinkish stuff, shoved the glasses in our direction, and waited until we hazarded tentative sips.
    I coughed hardly at all, wiped the tears from under my eyes, and waved a hand at the surrounding gardens. “This is quite an inheritance,” I said once I had sufficiently recovered my voice. “It’s lovely.”
    “It’s a pain in the butt.” Ki brandished the bitters bottle and dumped some in the blender. “I wanted to sell the place, but my stupid brother’s convinced he’s some great entrepreneur. ‘Owning the Wakilulani Gardens will be perfect,’ he says to me. ‘I’ll do all the work,’ he says to me. ‘You can be the silent partner. Stay with Carmen and rake in the cash.’” Ki stopped and glared. “You can see how well that worked.”
    “Who’s Carmen?” Wilson beat me to the question.
    “My girlfriend,” Ki answered. “Where I’d be right now if I wasn’t enjoying your company so much.” He pointed to our beverages. “You guys aren’t drinking.”
    Wilson frowned at his glass. “It’s,” he hesitated, “interesting.”
    Ki looked at me.
    “Umm,” I said. “I don’t think you got the proportions exactly right.”
    He slammed his palms on the bar. “Well, gee thanks, lady. I’ll be sure to put pink drinks on my list of problems to solve, shall I? Right before Derrick Crowe and right after people getting killed.” He grabbed the rum bottle and was about to splash more into his blender, but Wilson leaned over the bar and stopped him.
    “People?” he asked. “Who else got