Murder on the Aloha Express

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MURDER ON THE ALOHA EXPRESS

by

SALLY J. SMITH &

JEAN STEFFENS

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2016 by Sally J. Smith & Jean Steffens

Cover design by Estrella Designs

Gemma Halliday Publishing

http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Sally would like to dedicate this one to Dale. He's always there to listen to my whining and support my writing in every way, saying I'm just like Mary Poppins, practically perfect in every way. Sigh.

Jean would like to dedicate this book to Eric and Michael Weiler. No two sons could ever be more supportive or enthusiastic, and they’re still waiting patiently for the movie to come out.

Sally and Jean both wish to once again thank our awesome publisher, Gemma Halliday, for inviting us to participate in the Aloha Lagoon series. So much fun writing about paradise. And a special shout goes out to Susie Halliday and Dori Harrell for their eagle eyes, as well as Estrella Designs for the beautiful cover.

And we never want to forget to mention our fabulous readers. Your great feedback encourages us to work even harder to make you laugh, make you cry, and make you keep turning the pages.

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CHAPTER ONE

As much as I hated to say it, not everyone could carry off that aloha look—the one with the oversized shirt, baggy cargo shorts, flip-flops. Not to forget the zinc-oxide smear on the nose.

The man before me was definitely one of those guys. He looked like the quintessential tourist, slumping into my office and plopping down in the chair in front of my desk. The shirt was red, yellow, and orange in a spewing-volcano print. The baggy shorts had red and white flowers all over them and big old pockets low on the sides of the legs. The flip-flops looked as if today was the first time he'd slipped them onto his lily-white feet—a complete ensemble. There was also something a little smarmy about him that put me off.

Aloha, I said. The word never seemed to roll off my tongue the way it did for others who worked at the Aloha Lagoon Resort. I'd even been practicing, trying for that soft melodic island lilt. My Midwestern accent always seemed to bleed through, but I gave it my best shot anyway—the mainlanders who came my way for exotic vacation experiences loved it. How can I help you?

The client's eyes swept the room, beginning at the tourism posters on the wall and stopping at the nameplate on my desk. So, Gab-ree-el…Le…Klair, Certified Travel Specialist… He pronounced my name phonetically, like a third grader would, as he raised his gaze to my face. You don't look like a home-grown pineapple to me. Not with that sassy dark streak in those blonde locks. And I bet that porcelain skin never bakes under a tropical sun either.

I wondered if that sort of line worked for him in bars, and then he went on, and I knew it probably hadn't.

You didn't grow up here with the rest of the coconuts, did you, city girl? Where'd they transplant you from? He tilted his head and studied me, one eye squinted like Popeye. Let me guess. I'm thinking, what? Boston? No, wait. New York? Huh-uh, farther west. Right?

I managed a smile I didn't mean. Chicago.

He slapped his bare, knobby knee. Knew it.

Of course you did.

Well, Travel Agent LeClair from Chicago, I'd like you to book me a tour.

That made me smile for real. "Well, isn't that nice? I'd like to book you a tour."

I'm David, he said. David Sherwin, Esquire. He reached across the desk, and we shook hands. I'm here representing the estate of Thomas Wesley Senior. He paused, obviously anticipating acknowledgment of some sort, maybe even applause. I didn't have clue one as to who Thomas Wesley Senior was, but I nodded so David Sherwin, Esquire would get on with it.

He did. Mr. Wesley, one of my wealthier clients—real estate mogul—passed away a few months ago. The probate's been settled, and assets are about to be released for disbursement. According to the stipulations of the will, I've brought the family together here for their payday, so to speak. Mr. Wesley and his wife spent their honeymoon on the island, here at Aloha Lagoon, and since he was widowed, he'd been waxing nostalgic about the place.

It's a beautiful island. Everyone seems to love it, I offered.

Yeah? Well, we'll be making disbursements to the family members in a few days, but in the meantime I have to keep these people… He said people like it left a nasty taste in his mouth. …entertained. Not all of them are that great to deal with, especially the heir apparent to the estate, Thomas Wesley Junior. He likes to be called TJ. Keeping him off my back is where you come in, Gabrielle.

I opened a desk drawer, took out a booking form, and reached for a pen. My friends call me Gabby.

At least that was what my friends used to call me back in Chicago when I had friends. Those friends had turned out to be good-time Charlies and Charlenes. They'd eased on down the road with Steve, my ex-husband, and from what I'd heard, they were all living happily ever after in my old Chicago stomping grounds, frolicking with Steve and his latest blonde. If I sounded a little bitter, I was. That rat had taken half of everything from me when he'd blindsided me with divorce papers. He'd put it all on me, said my nine-to-five, well, just wasn't. According to Steve I had worked around the clock, he had never seen me, and when we had been together, I'd been so rigid and stodgy it was the equivalent of mental cruelty to him. Said he didn't wander, that I drove him away. Said a man knew when he wasn't the priority in his woman's life. But what he'd really said was "Hasta la vista, baby" and waltzed off with a good portion of my liquid assets to support his downsized-five-years-earlier lazy butt. I was sure there was a good argument for community property, but so far I hadn't been able to come up with one.

At that point Steve had left, and my married life had been kaput. My social life had been kaput. My high-profile job as managing vice-president at Corporate Worldwide Travel's Chicago headquarters became my entire life. The money? Good. But after six months of twelve-hour days supervising a few hundred travel agents in a dozen international locations, then going home to an empty condo, I had finally admitted what I had wasn't much of a life. It just wasn't making it.

So I'd purchased the former Ono's Island Adventures at the Aloha Lagoon Resort and changed it to Gabby's Island Adventures. That was how I wound up sitting with David Sherwin at the Aloha Lagoon Resort in Hawaii, babying my own little struggling business, trying to unkink all the knots in my shoulders and find a life beyond corporate travel, beyond Steve, and beyond my own shortcomings—like the uncomfortable feeling I got every time someone or something sabotaged my carefully planned day or I found myself needing to gracefully accept help from others. Face it, Gabby. You're a work in progress.

David Sherwin brought me back with, There're eighteen of us, including myself, my associate, and the family members. They're nagging me to get out and explore. What do you suggest? Is there anything we could haul 'em out to later this morning? I don't mind adding on a hefty late-booking fee just to get them to shut up.

Hearing the ring of an imaginary cash register, I shifted my shoulders and tugged at the hem of my aloha blouse, a cream-colored camp-style blouse with tan-and-black bamboo leaves scattered across it. It was resort-approved work wear, along with the black cigarette pants. They were good clothes for barbecues and hanging out, but my old boss, bless her heart, would have had a stroke if I'd shown up for work at Corporate Worldwide Travel dressed like that.

Eighteen people? I thought about it, and then I grinned back at him. I think I have just the thing. Have you ever heard of the Fern Grotto? I reached across my desk and pulled a pamphlet from an acrylic brochure stand with detailed information on the river cruise to the famous fern-covered lava-rock cavern.

He took the brochure and studied it for a few beats then nodded slowly.

I went on. How about rounding up your group and bringing them out to the front entrance of the resort in an hour and a half?

He handed me an Amex, I ran the card, and we shook on it before he left to gather his people.

So far my little tour company had only been able to afford two employees—part time at that. Lana and Koma Pukui, full-blooded Hawaiian fraternal twins, were on hourly wage at my place and had to supplement their incomes with other part-time jobs.

Koma walked into the office shortly after David Sherwin had left.

I looked up from my computer screen at the Hawaiian dream boy whose brilliant smile and muscles to die for were the perfect material for a suntan lotion commercial.

Aloha, Miss LeClair. He set a to-go cup and small paper bag in front of me.

You never seem to have time for breakfast, so I thought…

I peeked into the bag to see one of the hotel's famous pineapple-coconut muffins. Thank you.

Koma exuded what was referred to around the islands as the Spirit of Aloha, which his sister, Lana, had defined to me as Living in harmony with yourself, others, and the world you live in.

It was a concept I couldn't seem to get a handle on.

Can you stay and work this afternoon, Koma? Straight to business. I just booked a last-minute group to the grotto.

Oh sure, Miss LeClair. I wished he'd quit calling me that. My thirty-two years weren't all that aged, even if you stacked them against his twenty-three. At least, I didn't think so.

I can drive for you, but Lana has to fill in at Central Island Produce. It was her second job, and I didn't blame her. She had to get hours when and where she could to pay for her ongoing pursuit of an online degree in education.

I should be able to handle escort duties on this one. I'd acted as escort before, although it wasn't my forte, and I never felt I was half as good at it as Lana. First of all, my job in Chicago had been limited to booking travel and overseeing operations, so I had little experience at escorting tours and chatting up the customers. And second of all, I didn't know the island like the back of my hand the way the twins did. Thank God, Koma would be able to go along.

Lana gets off at two, he said. I can call her and make sure she'll come straight here to cover the phones.

That would only leave the office unmanned about an hour, which was tolerable.

Koma went to the safe and got the keys to the shuttle. I'll just go to the garage and make sure the bus is all gassed up and ready to go.

Thanks, I said, thinking how lucky I was to have the twins working with me. One of these days I need to be sure to thank Rick Dawson.

Thank me for what, Princess? It was Rick, standing in the doorway.

As Koma walked out, Rick Dawson, owner-operator of Rick's Air Paradise, met him in the doorway. They did that island thing with their hands that looked sort of like call me to mainlanders. Hey, brah, Koma said and went out.

Rick propped his lean frame against the doorjamb. He wore jeans, boat shoes, and his company shirt, a royal-blue polo with his signature hummingbird on the pocket and Rick's Air Paradise embroidered in yellow above it.

Rick's short blond hair was ruffled, as if he'd been running his hands through it. His tan made the startling ice blue of his eyes extra sparkly today. His lopsided grin, as always, was a combination friendly-cocky-smug and, yes, sexy. It did an excellent job of showing off the dimple almost hidden by his beard scruff.

Thank you for introducing me to the Pukui twins. Lana and Koma have worked out so well for Island Adventures. And I prefer Gabrielle to Princess. Remember?

He crossed the room, a hint of Old Spice coming with him, and sat down in front of my desk, making himself right at home. "And thank you for hiring them, he said. You didn't have to, you know. A lot of women wouldn't have given kids like them a chance."

Everyone deserves a chance, I said.

I know a lot of people who don't agree, especially when it's their livelihood—their tush—on the line, like yours is. You're here every day, knocking it out on your own, and yet you were open-minded enough to give them a shot. He grinned. Too bad that generosity doesn't extend to giving your down-to-the-minute schedules a break, but…we can work on that one together.

I quirked an eyebrow at him. Together, Rick?

He shrugged. Sure, Princess, why not?

Our relationship was a tricky one for me. Our exclusive booking contract was beneficial to my company in terms of income. When reservations for his air tour company came in through my office, we coordinated them, made his collections, kept track of them, and retained a commission for our trouble. That way Rick and the other pilot who worked with him could do what they did best, namely fly tourists over one of the most exquisite spots on the face of the planet. So while he wasn't my boss, neither was he an employee or client, and we didn't have a social relationship. I'd admitted to myself (but not to Rick) that I was having trouble finding a comfortable slot for our association. But one thing I did know—none of my other business associates had ever called me Princess.

He grinned. Well, you're welcome. Koma and Lana are top drawer.

Top drawer, Rick? Sometimes the way he phrased things made him sound so old-fashioned.

He shrugged. "Okay, so I watched a lot of old movies when I was growing up. Anyway, I'm here just making sure the bigwigs from Tokyo are still on, and if they are, do you have any last-minute tips or suggestions on how you want me to handle them?"

The way he emphasized tips and suggestions was his never-too-subtle way of letting me know he thought I micromanaged everything way too much, including him.

Well… I pulled a folder from my drawer. Now that you're here, I'd like to remind you how important their schedule is. Please, don't forget to be here to welcome them aboard the shuttle bus before their flight, and it's important that they arrive back at the airfield right on time for the return shuttle to the resort. The hotel groups director, Juls Kekoa, has a banquet set up for them in the Plumeria Room.

He shook his head, but the smile never diminished. Sure. And are you gonna be at the banquet to cut their meat up for them too?

I tried to smile, but it probably wasn't convincing. That's not fair, Rick, but I'd even tuck them in and read them a bedtime story if it helped to keep them on schedule. It's my job.

His smile widened. That's what you call a full-service travel agent.

You don't understand—the schedule's important. This group only has so much time here.

He stood and stretched, arms over his head, his lean torso extended, his shirt riding up above the low-slung waistband of his jeans, and then he ruffled his hair with one hand. His voice wasn't unkind. I think maybe you're the one who doesn't understand. The 'here' you're talking about is paradise. Schedules have a way of disintegrating when the aloha spirit beckons.

I still have to try. I held up a copy of the Tokyo group's itinerary. Here, this might be helpful to you.

He took it and saluted. "The big question is: Will it be helpful to them?"

CHAPTER TWO

My gorgeous little shuttle, which I'd recently purchased on a five-year payment plan (my first-ever business loan), seated up to twenty passengers, the driver (today that was Koma), and a tour escort (today that was me).

Koma had run it through