the shade of the brim of her white-banded navy chapeau; Isabel, her face glowing in a hatless haze of blond hair, fetching in a white frock with red polka dots that lifted nicely around her knees as the breeze caught the wispy fabric, and which she only half-heartedly pushed down; and finally, a surprise visitor, Thalia’s Japanese maid, Beatrice, as slender and daintily pretty as any of the kimono girls serving us, but wearing a white short-sleeved blouse and ankle-length dark skirt, her jaunty white cuff-brim turban a pleasant contrast with her bobbed black hair, a small white clutch purse in one hand.
None of the guests, rocking in their porch chairs, enjoying the study in blues and grays before them, gave an inkling of reaction to the celebrity who had just entered, though a few of the males sneaked a peek at the three pretty girls.
I rose, gestured toward the three chairs—I’d only been expecting Thalia and Isabel, but this was a table for four, luckily—and Thalia held up a hand, stopping her two companions from sitting just yet. Not till she’d gotten something straight.
“We’ll be going to my new quarters at Pearl Harbor, from here,” Thalia said in her low husky near-monotone, “and my maid Beatrice is accompanying me. I hope you don’t mind my bringing her along, Mr. Heller. I believe in treating servants like people.”
“Damn white of ya,” I said, smiling at Beatrice, whose mouth didn’t return the smile, though her eyes did; and I gestured again, for all of them to sit, and, finally, they did.
The geisha brought my coffee, and filled Thalia and Isabel’s coffee cups; Beatrice had turned hers over. Then the kimono cutie stayed around to take our breakfast order. I went for the fluffy eggs with bacon while Isabel and Thalia decided to share a big fruit plate. The waitress seemed confused as to whether to take Beatrice’s order, and Beatrice wasn’t helping by sitting there as mute and expressionless as Diamond Head itself.
“Are you having anything?” I asked her.
“No thank you,” she said. “I’m just along.”
“You mean like a dog?”
This immediately made everybody uncomfortable, except me, of course.
“Well, if you expect me to feed you under the table,” I said, “forget about it. You don’t like coffee? Get her some, what? Juice? Tea?”
“Tea,” Beatrice said softly. Her eyes were smiling again.
“And why don’t you bring us a basket of goodies we can all share,” I suggested to the waitress. “You know, muffins and what-have-you.”
“Pineapple muffins?” the geisha asked.
“Anything
That seemed to amuse all the women, and I sipped my coffee and said, “I’m glad you girls could make it this morning.”
“I’m going to stop by the desk,” Isabel said, beaming, “and see about my suite.”
“I talked to C.D. this morning,” I said. “It’s all arranged. They have a key waiting for you.”
“Swell,” she said, hands folded, smile dimpling that sweet face. It was pretty clear I had a date tonight. A hot one.
“It’s lovely here,” Thalia commented, rather distantly, the black lenses of her sunglasses looking out on the blues and grays and whites of that vista whose horizon you had to work to make out. Wind whipped the arcs of her dark blonde hair.
“Would you like to wait till after breakfast?” I asked.
She turned the big black eyes of her glasses my way; the rest of her face held no more expression than they did. “Wait till after breakfast for what?”
“Well, I need to ask you some things. Didn’t Isabel mention the reason for my invitation?”
A single eyebrow arched above a black lens. “You and Mr. Darrow already questioned me, yesterday.”
I nodded. “And he’ll question you again, and again, as will Mr. Leisure. And they’ll have their agenda, and I have mine.”
“And what, Mr. Heller,” she asked crisply, “is yours?”
Isabel, the breeze making her headful of blonde curls seem to shimmer, frowned in concern and touched her cousin’s wrist. “Don’t be mad at Nate. He’s trying to help.”
“She’s right,” I said. “But I’m not a lawyer, I’m an investigator. And it’s my job to go over details, looking for the places where the prosecution can make hay.”
Thalia shifted in her wicker chair; the surf was whispering and her monotone barely rose above it. “I don’t understand. This trial isn’t about me. It’s about Tommie, and Mother…”
She’d said much the same thing to Darrow.
I sipped my coffee. “This case begins and ends with you, Thalia…may I call you Thalia? And please call me Nate, or Nathan, whichever you prefer.”
She said nothing; her baby face remained as blank as the black lenses. Isabel seemed uneasy. Beatrice had long ago disappeared into herself; she was just along.
Thalia took a deep breath. “Mr. Heller…Nate. Surely you can understand that I’m not anxious to go into court and tell this story again. I hope that’s not the road you and Mr. Darrow intend to go down.”
“Oh but it is. It’s the only way a jury can be made to understand what motivated your husband.”
She leaned forward; it was getting eerie, staring into those black circles. “Wasn’t the Ala Moana trial enough? You know, many women hesitate to report a case of assault because of the awful publicity and the ordeal of a trial.
