Too Hot Four Hula: 4 (The Tiki Goddess Mystery Series) (27 page)

“A-looo-ha!” he called out.

“A-looo-ha!” the audience echoed.

Em smiled and relaxed back into her chair. Her uncle had the audience, and hopefully the judges, in the palm of his hand—and he hadn’t even started mixing a drink yet.

He turned around. From the end of the bar, he picked up a pith helmet Em hadn’t noticed before. Louie removed his Panama hat, set it on the bar, and donned the pith helmet.

“I’m Louie Marshall,” he said. His voice easily carried to the back row. “I’m the owner of the Tiki Goddess Bar and Restaurant on the North Shore of Kauai, a northern island in our beautiful island chain. I’ve been creating cocktails for our patrons’ pleasure for sixty years. It’s my great honor to be here mixing it up for you today.”

As Louie walked behind the bar, the crowd applauded again. Once he was in position, he began lining up martini glasses. The bongo drummer started a slow, rhythmic beat.

“There is a legend behind each and every cocktail I create,” Louie began. “These legends are essential additions to our menu at the Tiki Goddess. Not only do our guests love reading them, but the stories make it easier for them to remember the names of their favorite drinks.”

Louie pulled out a bottle of Kahlua and held it up. He said, “Kahlua—rum based, coffee flavored with a hint of vanilla—inspired by the jungles of Mexico. Whenever I see one of these tall brown bottles, I’m reminded of a harrowing trip to Brazil, to the Amazon rainforest to be exact. There, I was part of an expedition in search of a centuries-old relic, an amethyst skull known as the Manic Monkey.”

He set the bottle down, reached below the bar again, pulled out a pear-shaped bottle of amber liquid.

“This is Trader Vic’s Macadamia Nut Liqueur. You probably all know mac nuts grow in Hawaii, but they also grow in Brazil and other tropical climes.”

He set the bottle on the bar and then pulled out another. “This is Bacardi 151 proof rum. No mixologist should be without it. It’s not just Bacardi rum. 151 proof is an essential ingredient if you’re going to flame a cocktail, which is what I’ll be demonstrating today, although the Manic Monkey can either be flamed or shaken. That’s between you and your customer.” He winked at the audience.

He held up his index finger and said, “Ah! I almost forgot one more ingredient.”

There was a wooden calabash on the bar. He picked up the bowl and tipped it so that the audience could see the silver foil wrapped objects inside.

“These are chocolate kisses. Everybody needs a kiss now and then. One kiss is essential for each drink.”

Louie had already unwrapped a dozen kisses and had them ready and waiting on a small monkeypod tray beneath the bar. He pulled it out and set it alongside the liquor bottles.

“Now we’re really ready to begin.” He flexed his fingers and picked up a teaspoon and a shot glass. “You’ll also need these. The flame will be the only garnish you’ll need for the flaming version. I have a few ideas for rimming the glass for the shaken version, which I’ll clue you into later.”

“I’ll start by placing one chocolate kiss in the bottom of each martini glass.”

Louie launched into a tale of his trip up the Amazon with explorers from the Museum of Natural History in search of the Manic Monkey, a monkey skull carved of pure amethyst not seen since it was reported stolen from a jungle temple in Paraguay in the 1800s.

As he continued to spin the tale, he measured, poured, and drizzled the liqueurs into the martini glass over the chocolate kiss. Then he carefully topped them off with an ounce float of 151 rum and picked up the wand lighter.

“So, I was asleep on deck of the riverboat one night when the earsplitting screams of Capuchin monkeys shattered the silence. Not to mention our nerves. I bolted out of my hammock and staggered to the rail. Through the dense jungle growth, I saw the flickering light of torches bobbing along, parallel to the shore. We could barely make out the silhouettes of the fierce Yanomami, the indigenous people of the rainforest. They were not only carrying the torches, but a raised platform.

“Upon that raised platform was a shrine that held the skull of the Manic Monkey. Its mouth was open wide, as if forever locked in a scream. The skull’s eyes were lit by an eerie interior glow. We watched in silence as the Yanomami and the skull slowly disappeared into the depths of the forest. Then to a man, with no discussion, we voted to turn back.”

Louie whispered into his mic, “Here’s where you have to be both careful
and
dramatic.”

He flicked on the lighter and held it above the rum float. The lights dimmed on cue. The liquor caught fire, and the flame danced above the martini glass, glowing blue and beautiful in the low light of the ballroom.

The audience clapped wildly. Photographers snapped photos. The judges hunched over their score sheets. Louie slowly scanned the audience and asked for silence. Everyone immediately complied.

The cocktail was still flaming as he lowered his voice and said, “No living soul has ever reported seeing the Manic Monkey skull again.”

The drummer started beating with a frenetic pace. The crowd was on its feet. Louie was taking a bow when the door to the left of the stage flew open, hit the wall, and slammed shut again. Loud screeches brought a halt to the drumming. The bongo player jumped up and hid behind the bar as the fugitive monkey Alphonse came loping into the ballroom with a fez on its head. The animal kept screaming as it leaped onto the bar and ran toward the flaming martini glass.

Everyone in the room watched in shock and awe. Em couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Nor did she have the vaguest notion how her uncle managed to get the monkey to enter on cue. Then the door banged open again, and Little Estelle swooshed in on the Gadabout.

“Come back here, you disgusting rodent! Give me back that hat!” Little Estelle screamed. Em immediately realized the monkey’s entrance wasn’t scripted. They’d gone live and uncensored.

A second later the flame died, but not before the tassel on the fez caught fire. The monkey threw the hat at Little Estelle, grabbed the martini, and knocked back the drink. Then it smacked its lips and jumped onto Louie’s shoulder, kissed him on the cheek, and jumped on the floor. It raced out the opposite door.

Little Estelle batted out the flaming tassel and shoved the fez on her head. A fishing net with a bamboo handle was shoved into her handlebar assembly. She grabbed the net and waved it over her head.

“Don’t worry, Louie, I’ll get that furry sucker if it’s the last thing I do!” She revved up the scooter engine and drove out the open door, hot on the monkey’s trail.

The crowd went absolutely wild. The press surged forward and crowded around the bar. DePesto was seated down the row from Em. She saw him slump forward and bury his face in his hands.

Behind the bar, Louie calmly filled the line of martini glasses for the judges’ taste test. Taste was the final score element.

The audience remained on its feet as Louie touched the wand to one “Manic Monkey” after another until the entire row of drinks flamed like a host of tiki torches at sunset.

Em was thrilled for Louie and so proud she was about to burst when her cellphone vibrated in her pocket.

She pulled it out and glanced at the caller ID.

38

“HERE YOU GO, ladeeeze. We’re now in Chinatown.” Pat negotiated the van around a turn and passed a public parking lot on Beretania across from the Chinatown Cultural Plaza. “All fifteen blocks of it.”

Kiki stared out at streets crowded with shops displaying signs written in Chinese characters. Boxes of goods and produce were stacked on the sidewalks. Shoppers crowded around the boxes inspecting the fruits and vegetables. Apparently they were on the fringe of a street peoples’ settlement. Two beat patrol cops rolled by on battery-powered Segways.

Lillian had her nose pressed to the window of the rental van. “I’m certainly not in Iowa anymore.” She sounded amazed. “I won’t have to go to China now that I’ve seen this. I can’t wait to get back to Kauai and tell MyBob.”

Precious piped up, “Are we going to eat some dim sum?”

Flora said, “For sure, and den some!”

Kiki rubbed her temples. The drive from La Mariana Sailing Club hadn’t taken all that long, but it was far longer than she liked being cooped up with the Maidens.

“So where does Damian live?” Pat asked.

“
Damian?
What is he? Your best friend now? You mean Bautista the murder suspect?” Kiki looked at the GPS screen. “According to this thing, we’re almost there.”

Pat followed the GPS instructions, made another right on to Smith Street, and stopped across from a small grocery store. The windows were cloudy but not enough to hide the piles of goods inside. Pat pulled into a ten minute parking space and killed the engine.

“I’m goin’ with you,” she told Kiki. Then she ordered, “Everybody stay put.”

Precious and Flora started chanting, “Dim sum! Dim sum!”

“What’s dim sum?” Lillian wanted to know.

“Steamed or fried Cantonese food served in bite-sized pieces,” Trish said.

“Good lordy, how can you possibly be hungry? We just had lunch,” Kiki reminded them.

“Always room for dim sum,” Flora said.

“And den some!” Precious shouted. “Dim sum! Dim sum!”

Everyone joined in except Kiki and Pat.

“We aren’t getting any if ya’ll keep that up,” Pat warned.

The chanting abruptly stopped. Kiki looked at the scrap of paper, stared at the store, and reread the address.

“Maybe there’s an apartment upstairs,” she said.

“Maybe. Then again, you said this Damian was a hoarder. The inside of that store looks about right. Maybe he sleeps somewhere in those piles.”

They walked in past fresh produce that was mainly tropical fruit, rambutan, papaya, coconut, pineapple, and bananas. Kiki saw a box full of huge mangoes and paused as she debated buying one.

“Would’ja look at this?” Pat was staring though the glass of a small meat case.

Kiki forgot about the mango and joined her.

“What the heck?” Pat pointed. “Gross.”

“Pig feet,” Kiki said. She pointed to the tray on the left. “Pig head.”

“Now that’s just some kind of sin,” Pat said. “That would put me off eating if I saw it on a plate.”

A man in a butcher’s apron stepped up behind the meat case. “Hep you?”

“I’m looking for a man who lives upstairs.” She pointed at the ceiling. “Damian Bautista.”

“Nobody rive up there,” he said.

Kiki waved the piece of paper. “This is the right address.” She read it aloud.

“No. Nobody.” He shook his head. “Ask owner.”

“I will. Where is he?”

The butcher pointed across the store at a short Asian man wielding a pole with a hook on the end. He was balancing a prom dress on a hanger, lifting it toward the ceiling. By the time Kiki reached him, he had hung the blue chiffon gown from the ceiling above a triangular stack of canned bamboo shoots.

“Need a fluffy prom dress?” Pat whispered to Kiki. “Maybe we’d get a discount if ya’all ordered ten of ’em.”

Kiki ignored her. She gave a slight bow and said, “Hello. I’m looking for Damian. Damian Bautista. He lives upstairs?” She held out the paper.

The old man started shaking his head. “No. Nobody dat name rive here.”

“I was told this is his address.”

“Police a’ready here rooking for him yestaday. No apartment here. Onry storage upstairs.”

“Damian stores stuff here?” Kiki figured finding Damian was now a matter of linguistics.

The man raised his voice, as if Kiki hadn’t heard him the first time.

“Onry me. Onry my stuff. My things up there. Things for shop. Now you buy or go.”

Kiki sighed. Maybe the guy was covering for Bautista.

“I’m his friend. I need to see him. Are you
sure
he is not here?” she said.

“No. Why somebody say he rive here? He don’t. He don’t rive here.”

“Do you know if he lives anywhere else? Maybe next door?”

By now a small cluster of old Asian women had gathered and were listening intently.

“How I know? I don’t know heem. You go now.” The man shook the long pole at them.

Pat looked at Kiki. “Give up. He don’t
rive
here.”

Kiki gave up. She bowed again and said, “Mahalo. So sorry. Mahalo.”

They virtually backed out on to the street, bowing as they went. While Pat stopped a passerby to ask if they knew where to find the best dim sum, Kiki pulled out her cell and dialed La Mariana.

“A-
lo
-ha,” she said and asked to speak to Joe. When he came on the line she said, “Hi, Joe. This is Kiki Godwin again. Apparently Damian doesn’t live at the address you gave me.”

Joe said, “I got it off of his emergency card. Maybe he faked it.” There was a pause and then, “After you left, I got to thinking. Today’s Saturday, so he wouldn’t be at home anyway. On Saturday and Sunday he works a booth at the Aloha Stadium Swap meet before his shift here. I know ’cause I’ve seen him there.”

That would explain the piles of Hawaiiana
, Kiki thought.

“Aloha Stadium Swap Meet? How long does it last?”

“I don’t know. Maybe ten to three or so.”

“Mahalo, Joe.” Kiki hung up and told Pat what he’d said.

“If the police are looking for him, would he be there?”