Read Online O'ahu Lonesome Tonight? (Islands of Aloha Mystery Series #5) by JoAnn Bassett - Free Book Online Page A

was an
awkward silence.
    “So, you’re
going to be a father?” I said, trying to keep the conversational ball rolling.
From the way things were going, it looked like it was going to be a long hour.
    “Yep, first
time.”
    “Congratulations,”
I said. I looked over at Moko . “Pretty great news,
don’t you think?”
    “I already got
four,” said Moko . “So for me the last thing I want to
hear is, ‘Honey, guess what’?” He talked with a heavy local accent, dropping
final consonants and not bothering with diphthongs. It came out like, I
‘ready gah fo ’.
So fo me, las ’ ting I wanna hear is,
‘Honey, jess wha ? It seemed odd that he and Stu
were from the same family, and only a year or two apart. They seemed like guys
from two different walks of life.
    The maître d’
didn’t seem at all pleased with Stu’s tardiness. “Your reservation was for two
pm,” he sniffed. He glowered at his computer as if he was going to have to
rearrange a complicated seating arrangement to accommodate us. There were more
than a dozen tables on the veranda and less than half of them had someone
sitting at them. It was hard to believe fifteen minutes could create so much
angst.
    “Wait here,” he
said. “I’ll see what I can do.” He blew out a sigh and left us standing there.
    Once he was out
of earshot, I leaned over to Moko . “I guess we messed
up.”
    “How dat ?”
    “For being late.”
    “Like hardly,”
he said.
    “Yeah. I’m kind of hoping this guy can’t find us a table.
I’d rather go down there,” I pointed to the beachside bar.
    “ Fo ’ sho ’ dat.”
    The maître d’
returned. “Follow me,” he said. He grabbed three menus from a stack on the
podium and, with his chin up and modeling erect posture that would do a Marine
proud, he marched us to a table set for four.
    “Can we sit out
there?” Stu said. He pointed to a table at the far end of the veranda
overlooking the beach.
    The maître d’
shot him a look of utter contempt.
    “I mean,” said
Stu, tapping his watch. “This tea only goes for another forty-five minutes. You
expecting a last-minute rush or something?”
    There was a
silent stand off as the maître d’ stared down Stu while Stu resolutely eyed the
beachfront table.
    “Very well,”
said the maître d’. But as you noted, we conclude our formal high tea service
at three. Promptly at three. We need to get the
tables set up for dinner.”
    “No worries,”
said Stu. “We won’t occupy your table one minute longer than necessary.”
    Moko whispered in my ear, “Stu got attitude just like the ol ’ man.”
    “And how about you?” I said.
    He shrugged. “I
guess I mostly take after my mom.”
    Once we got
seated I looked at the menu. At first I thought maybe there’d been a mistake.
Thirty-five bucks for a cup of tea and a couple of tiny finger sandwiches?
    “Whew,” I said.
“Look at these prices. Do they put real fingers in the sandwiches or
something?”
    Moko smiled but Stu shot me a hard look. “Oh spare us, Pali . It’s not like you can’t afford it.”
    When my father
died he’d left me in charge of his estate, much to the dismay of my newfound
half-siblings. I’d taken the high road and made sure everyone got taken care
of, but it obviously still rankled some.
     The
waiter sidled up to the table and we ordered. Moko asked if he could have a beer instead of tea and the waiter shot him a pained
look.
    “Look,” said Stu.
“Your establishment serves beer right down there.” He pointed to the beachside
bar. “How much trouble can it be to just bring a bottle of it up here?”
    “This is our
high tea service,” said the waiter in a low voice. “White
glove.” He shot a look at the maître d’ stand and bit his lower lip.
    “So, where are
your gloves?” Stu said. The waiter’s hands were bare.
    “It’s a form of
expression, sir. It means this is a formal service. Silver pots, china serving
ware and scone towers. We serve clotted cream and