Wings in the Dark (2 page)

How many ways could a sap like me say he was sorry? Let me count the ways.

I tried to remember my favorite apologies over the years. When Laura returned, she bounded up the deck steps and past me without so much as a glance. She went inside and slammed the front door, shaking the walls of the cabana.

Summoning my courage and the regret I felt, I went inside and wrapped my arms around her.

She stiffened at my touch and wiggled away. “You think you're going to charm your way out of this mess you put me in?”

That was my hope.

Giving me the cold shoulder, she went into the bathroom and slammed the door. I walked outside and ran a hand over my hair in frustration. On the beach, a vendor with a cart full of colorful tropical flowers mixed with a few roses came into view.

Flowers wouldn't excuse the trouble I'd caused her, but they couldn't hurt. I made my way down the beach and even found a dozen white roses, Laura's favorite. I paid the man and hurried back to the cabana. I entered with the flowers hidden behind my back.

Laura paced the narrow space beside the bed, her dark curls flailing around her head. “Jake Donovan, how could you?”

She peppered the rest of her rhetorical questions with colorful four-letter words I didn't know she knew. The discussion became a blur. I wouldn't be able to make it up to her, but I wanted Laura to vent her anger.

She finally took a breath. “Well, aren't you going to say anything?”

“I'm sorry, really sorry.” I didn't like the sound of the words as they tumbled out.

Her words dripped with sarcasm. “Well, as long as you're really sorry, I guess that's that.”

I held out the roses.

Her clenched jaw softened as she took the flowers. “You're a self-centered scoundrel, and you'll never change.”

“I'll change.”

“Sure you will.” She sniffed the roses. “Don't change too much.”

I felt like a louse.

Laura kissed my cheek. “I'm sure the interview will turn out fine. Conway seems like a lovely gentleman.”

Lovely gentleman? What table had she sat at? “I hope you're right.”

“Let's not let the interview ruin our day. After I put these in water, what do you say we head down to the beach for some fresh seafood?”

We ate shrimp cocktails on a bench by the beach, then went for a walk and reached Sato's Bicycle Shop. Laura ran her hand over the handlebars of a red bicycle. “Are you up for a ride?”

“Sure.” I'd have preferred to return to the cabana, draw the shades, and turn her kiss on the cheek into something more to make up for my earlier indiscretion, but Laura wanted to explore the island, and I owed her.

A bell rang above my head as I entered the shop and closed the door behind me. The narrow room was tidy for a bicycle shop, smaller than our cabana, and smelled of oil and grease. Bicycle parts lay scattered on a wooden table along the far wall. Two bikes hung from the ceiling.

On the front counter, a radio played an Irving Berlin song, “Heat Wave.” Mikayla Sato, a narrow-shouldered woman in a green Hawaii Rainbows football jersey, came from the back room, wiping her hands on a blue rag.

She was mid-forties and had short black hair with streaks of gray. She greeted me with a smile, stood behind the counter, and snapped off the radio.

“We'll need two bikes for a couple of hours.”

“Of course, Mr. Donovan. Take your pick. A half mile beyond the Kalua Pineapple Plantation, you'll come to a lovely secluded tropical forest.”

I liked secluded. “Thanks, Mrs. Sato.”

“No, remember? It's Mikayla.”

The woman had become our favorite beach vendor the day after our arrival when we discovered her bicycle shop. Unlike some of the cabbies and other vendors we encountered, she never exhibited any sign of resentment against Americans.

She called us by our last names but insisted we call her by her first. I definitely preferred her to that beach bum Tony who ogled Laura and offered her a free surfing lesson every time we passed by.

Outside, we walked the bikes toward the path leading away from the beach.

Tony stood outside his shop in a swimsuit, no shirt, waxing a surfboard. He waved at Laura. “A lovely day just got more beautiful.”

No doubt still sore over how I acted with the reporter, she stopped her bike. “Aloha, Tony.”

The sun glistened off his black hair. In his early twenties, he had stomach muscles as flat as his surfboard. “We're having a special today, free surf lessons for beautiful Hollywood actresses.”

The crumb deserved a sock in the nose.

“You too, Mr. Donovan. What do you say? Catch some waves?”

Laura laughed. “Perhaps tomorrow.” She took off.

I glared at Tony the surf bum and pedaled after her.

Laura rode with ease, displaying the agility and athleticism I first noticed when she and her old man moved to our street when I was in high school. I would've preferred renting a car, but Laura loved the exercise and fresh air of a bike ride.

It took almost a half hour to pass the huge pineapple plantation. When we left the rows of pineapples behind, grassy hills turned into lush green like upstate New York, except these hills were populated by Hawaiian ferns and other species I couldn't identify. We hopped off our bikes and hiked through the tropical forest. The thick green vegetation and occasional calls of exotic birds reminded me how far Laura and I had come from the garbage-filled gutters and rumbling subways in Queens.

Laura appeared to have forgotten my earlier behavior with the reporter. I stole a few kisses, but she pushed me away with a glint in her eyes of better things to come.

On the way back to the beach, her black curls billowed in the breeze as she sang the hit “All I Do Is Dream of You.” Laura peered over the top of her dark glasses and blew me a kiss.

We reached the hill overlooking the beach and paused. The late afternoon sun dipped through orange clouds, nearly touching the horizon, reflecting on the blue water of the Pacific.

Laura pulled to the edge of the path. I stopped beside her.

She gazed toward the beach. “Thanks, darling, this turned into a wonderful day after all. I'll buy you a drink from that beachfront bar when we get back.”

Prohibition was a mere memory, Laura and I were finally hitched, and we were on a roll. Life was perfect. What could possibly go wrong?

Laura glanced toward the eastern horizon. Her dark sunglasses failed to hide her concern. “Why does she do it?”

“Amelia?”

Laura nodded. “Why does she risk her life?”

“People risk their lives every day.”

“But she doesn't have to. She's proving aviation is an important part of America's future. I understand that, but I don't know why she has to attempt flights no one's ever done before.”

I placed a hand on Laura's shoulder and kissed her cheek. “She'll be fine.”

With a nod, Laura climbed on her bike and pedaled away. As I caught up with her, she glanced down the path toward the beach. “You're quiet, Jake Donovan. Afraid you'll say something stupid?”

I managed a smile. “I'm picturing that black lace nightgown I bought you in Hollywood.”

“You, sir, are a wicked rascal.” With a twinkle in her eyes, she swerved in front of me. My front tire wobbled, and I almost clipped her back fender. I gripped the handlebars and regained control as Laura laughed and pedaled away, toward the beach and Sato's Bicycle Shop.

As a former Pinkerton, I'd found myself in more than a few scrapes over the years. I had a scar or two as proof. I could be tough when the situation required it, but when it came to riding a bicycle, I possessed the skill of someone who spent too much time behind the typewriter.

Laura glanced at me over her shoulder. “Race you back.” She pedaled around a corner and down toward the beach as smooth as a knife going through warm butter.

I took the corner, the bicycle skidded on the gravel, and I slowed or I would've fallen. Knowing she'd bested me, I couldn't help but smile as I followed.

We passed Tony's Surf Shack. The young man waved to Laura from a bobbling surfboard. Back in Queens I'd have set him straight the first time he made eyes at her.

Had success changed me that much?

Laura reached Sato's Bicycle Shop and hopped off. She slipped the bicycle into the rack and faced me with a broad grin as I pulled up and returned my bike.

Laura stood with both fists on her hips, reminding me of the lady pilot she played in her last film. “Glad you finally made it, darling.”

I swept her into my arms. I breathed in the fresh fragrance of her dark hair and kissed her.

Laura returned the kiss then playfully pushed me away as two parents and their kids walked by. She dropped to a bench beside the front door, fluffed her black curls and pointed toward the shack. “Second place pays.”

As a successful actress, Laura earned more dough than I did writing mysteries, but I wasn't complaining. We weren't hurting like most of the folks in the country. I tugged my wallet from my trouser pocket and went inside.

At the counter, Mikayla explained in surprising detail the features of a camera she was renting to a couple. I looked out the window. Laura glanced toward seagulls circling over the beach. She resembled any other tourist, except for her eye-catching good looks.

In spite of her fame in recent years, she'd changed little. Oh, sure, a touch of makeup and she was glamorous. Laura was also smart, funny, and calm when facing adversity, a wonderful complement to my tendency toward losing my temper.

Our careers provided financial independence during the world's most devastating economic calamity, the Great Depression. With Japan's conquest of Manchuria and Hitler and his henchmen building up Germany's military, the future didn't look so bright.

I'd tried to explain to the reporter, I couldn't solve the world's problems or help folks who'd had more than their share of bad breaks. I accepted our good fortune and the life we led together. For the next few days, I was determined to spend time with Laura, enjoying our honeymoon. In spite of the troubled times we lived in, for Laura and me, everything was perfect.

The couple nodded to me as they left.

“Mr. Donovan.” Mikayla smiled and set the expensive-looking camera beneath the counter. “How was your ride?”

“Wonderful. Nice camera.” I slid a sawbuck across the counter.

“A hobby. Hawaii has so many wonderful sights to photograph.”

“We enjoyed the pineapple plantation and the forest. Thanks for the suggestion.”

“Kalua Plantation is the largest on the Islands.” Mikayla reached beneath the counter. With more than a hint of grease on her hands, she pulled out a book, one of mine,
Blackie Doyle Returns.
“Excellent mystery, Mr. Donovan. So many suspects. Any one of them could've killed the beautiful redheaded dame. Can you tell by looking at someone they might be willing to take another life? Blackie Doyle seems to do that.”

I chuckled. “I'm no Blackie Doyle.”

She held out the book. “Would you sign your novel for me?”

“It'd be an honor.” A request to autograph one of my novels always flattered me. Though far more people asked for Laura's autograph than mine, I didn't let it bother me. If Laura and I had never met, I'd ask for her autograph too.

I signed on the title page, adding a personal touch by thanking her for the excellent bikes we rented. I handed the book back.

When she set the book on the counter behind her, I glimpsed a narrow bed, no bigger than a cot, through the open door. I didn't realize she lived in the shop. Above the bed hung a framed picture of an Oriental building of some kind. Japanese? Chinese? Hawaiian? I thought I'd seen the place before, but I drew a blank.

Mikayla caught me looking and closed the door. As they say, once a private detective, always a private detective.

Understandably, the woman was reserved and kept her personal life to herself.

“I didn't realize you lived here.”

“I could rent a place with more comfort, but I have a wonderful view and the lapping of the gentle waves helps me sleep.”

I gave her a slight bow. “Thanks again.”

Mikayla returned the bow. “Wait, Mr. Donovan. Most tourists with enough money to vacation in Hawaii are not as…as pleasant as you and your wife.” She nodded toward the front window where a soft breeze stirred Laura's hair as she gazed toward Tony and a group of surfers riding the waves. Him again.

“A woman so beautiful, you should take dancing. Plenty of nightclubs in Honolulu.” She pointed out the window on the other side of the shop where a five-year-old Oldsmobile sat beside a gray pickup. “I also rent automobiles. Ten dollars.”

The car looked like it had seen plenty of miles, but if Mikayla maintained the vehicle as well as her bicycles, the Olds would serve our needs. “Any particular club you'd recommend?”

She shrugged. “Tourists say good things about the Mambo Club. It's down the road from the hotel. You could walk if you prefer.”

I'd had enough exercise for the day. A drive would be a relaxing change. I'd come to value Mikayla's recommendations more than those of the hotel's staff. “Have you been there?”

She laughed. “I possess many skills, Mr. Donovan. Dancing isn't one of them. And besides”—she held up her nails—“who'd ask me to dance?”

“I would, for one.”

She dismissed me with a laugh.

“I think I'll take you up on your suggestion and rent the Oldsmobile.”

“After I clean it up a bit, I'll leave the car parked in front of your hotel.”

“Thank you.” Excited by the prospect of surprising Laura and taking her to a place where she could dress up, I went outside and took her hand. The sun began to set as we strolled down the beach toward our cabana.