Chapter 5 The Woman on the Ceiling

Afternoon sunlight slanted through my bedroom blinds, throwing striped shadows across the dingy white walls. The room needed work—curtains and a good coat of paint in a cheerful color, for starters. I settled my bruised buttocks on the edge of the bed, rolled onto my back, and found myself staring at the ceiling.

The reflection of a tired old woman stared back. Mirrored ceilings had been a standard feature when these apartments were newly built. Decades later, when the building was converted to a senior complex and the units sold as condominiums, most of the buyers did renovations that included removing the mirrors from their bedroom ceilings. Apparently none of the previous owners of my condo saw reason to do so.

I met the old woman’s gaze. She gave me an eye roll.

“What’s a seventy-eight-year-old woman supposed to do with a mirror over her bed?” I mumbled as my eyes closed.

But sleep wouldn’t come. My hyperactive brain warred with my exhausted body. Images of Pearl, of the life she must’ve led before coming to Kon-Tiki Sands, filled my head.

My thoughts drifted to poor, befuddled Arnie Kaye who couldn’t even remember his own unit number. Romy seemed protective of  him. Maybe the women felt protective of Arnie, as well. It wasn’t like there were many men our age on the market. They’re all either married or buried.

A glance at the bedside clock told me it was 2:38 p.m. I’d been lying there for over two hours. The next time I looked, it was 2:40, then 2:43. At 3:00 p.m. I gave up. Taking my Kindle from the nightstand drawer, I tried to read a mystery novel. But I had no taste for murder, even a fictional one.

TV never interested me much. Howard had been the TV watcher in our home. As soon as he settled in front of The Monster—as I’d thought of it—I would head to a back room to work on my painting or read a good book. Now I felt around in the drawer, extracted the remote, pressed the power button. Maybe the droning of electronic voices, the flashing lights and colors, would bore me to sleep.

With the volume turned low I flipped through the channels, having no idea what Hawai‘i cable had to offer. An episode of the original  Hawaii Five-0 played across the screen. A sixties-era McGarrett spoke intensely to a police officer who could’ve been Hoapili’s twin, evoking an instant re-play of my horrific morning. I tried to switch the channel. Nothing happened. I shook the remote, then banged it against the heel of my hand. McGarrett was still there. The batteries must be dead.

I pulled myself out of bed and crossed the room to change the channel, settling on the Home Shopping Network. At least it wouldn’t be remind me of dead bodies. I drifted to sleep to the sound of an attractive young brunette and her flamboyant African-American male co-host gushing over a set of LED candles.

“—A LOVELY PINK CHENILLE PLUSH BATHROBE BY STAN HERMAN!” blared from the TV. I woke with a start, my heart thudding. Something hard jabbed my hip. I felt for it and discovered I’d rolled onto the remote. Apparently the batteries were not dead after all. On the screen a beautiful blonde modeled a plush pink bathrobe exactly like the one Pearl had drowned in.

I shut off the TV. Hunching over the edge of the bed, I let my forehead drop to my hands. A sob escaped my lips.

There was no use trying to sleep. I went to the living room and powered up my laptop. It was ten years ago that my grandson Kameron set up a Facebook account for me. So we’d always have a way to stay in contact, he’d said. He was twelve at the time. Now, at twenty-two, he’s long since moved on to other forms of social media that are beyond my comprehension. Still, I look in on his page now and then, on the off chance he may have posted something.

I opened Kameron’s page. His most recent post was over two years old. I scrolled through the photos I’d seen many times before: Kameron with his girlfriend, at parties, out with friends. I’d already ‘liked’ and commented on every one of them.

My daughter, Kameron’s mother, is a private person who avoids social media.

I stared for a while at my own Facebook page. The profile picture, taken five years ago, made me look years older than I felt. I had thirty-four friends—neighbors in New York, and women I knew from the Temple Sisterhood, Hadassa, and the Jewish Seniors Club. They day I moved into Kon Tiki I’d snapped a few photos with my phone—of my condo before all the boxes had been brought in, the pool and hot tub, palm trees and tropical flowers in the courtyard. I still hadn’t gotten around to posting them. I hadn’t posted anything since leaving New York.

Now I didn’t feel much like posting those photos, and wondered if I ever would.

Kon-Tiki certainly was filled with a colorful cast of characters. A positive outtake from this morning was I’d learned all their names. It might be fun to find out more.

The first name I typed in was Esther Brown. There were several Esther Browns on Facebook, but none seemed to be my neighbor. I got no hits for Masako or Mae Watanabe, or Sylvie Ferguson. I found a listing for a Kaulana Kano—the woman Tiare said was on Maui. The profile picture was of an older woman with deeply lined mahogany skin, striking ethnic features, and long silver hair adorned with tropical flowers. A glance at her page caused a stab of envy to shoot through me. She’d gone to Kamehameha School and had hundreds of Facebook friends. None of the posts on her page were originated by her, but she’d been tagged in dozens of photos: class reunions, family gatherings, weddings, graduations, Mother’s Day celebrations, birthdays, Christmas … How wonderful to be part of such a large, loving family and community  Or, as they call it here, ‘ohana.

I sent Kaulana a friend request, then did a search for Violet LaFontaine.

Violet’s profile pic was a selfie she’d taken outside, wearing dangle earrings, Prada sunglasses, and a one-piece bathing suit. Violet had several hundred friends, though she didn’t seem to interact much with any of them. Her frequent posts were mainly selfies taken at the pool or in front of a full-length mirror that reflected the outfits she wore. In every shot her hair was styled,  makeup perfectly applied, nails done, plenty of jewelry worn.

Francesca Wolfe also had a Facebook page. She was into Ancestry.com, her posts directed at relatives she’d found online. She’d scanned many black and white photos dating back through several generations of stern-looking Germans.

Tiare Māhoe wasn’t very active on Facebook but, like Kaulana, she’d been tagged in a number of photos. Most were of a much younger Tiare, performing in shows in Waikiki. Some more recent photos showed her singing at what appeared to be an old-style piano bar called La Mariana.

Coralee Beck’s page displayed many photos of extended family—children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren—all, apparently, on the mainland. The most recent addition was a chubby-faced, grinning, toothless great-grandson. Why would she choose to live so far away from them?

Neither Arnie Kaye nor Romy Delosa had Facebook accounts. No surprise there.

I’d saved Pearl Corvelli for last. Her Facebook page opened and once again I was struck by the tragedy of her death. She had over a thousand friends that included Coralee, Violet, Kaulana, Francesca, and Tiare. Several people had posted on her wall today, unaware that she’d drowned this morning. Tears blurred my eyes and slid down my cheeks as I scrolled through dozens of photos of Pearl. Recent ones had been taken at folk dance or line dance events in Honolulu. Older photos, probably scanned in, showed her riding in rodeos. In one taken forty years ago in Denver, she posed on a horse, a crown on her head, wearing a sash that read Rodeo Queen.

Chapter 4 It's his Memory Pills

Dressed in comfortable shorts and a matching tank top, my hair still wet from my shower, I sat across from Esther at my kitchen table. The metal-frame table and chairs, left by the previous owner, were homely but would do until I could buy a new set.

Esther had changed into a chartreuse sundress patterned with large yellow-gold flowers that matched the color of her dyed hair. When she sat, the dress rose above her knees, exposing mighty thighs. The look wasn’t flattering, but had to be comfortable in the late morning heat.

Still on edge after my encounter with a dead body just an hour ago, I thought longingly of the bottle of Chardonnay chilling in my fridge. But Esther was a teetotaling Baptist, so I’d made a strong pot of hot tea instead.

“It’s his memory pills,” Esther said, settling her teacup in its saucer.

It was hard to think of eating after what I’d witnessed this morning, but I politely took a bite of one of the little cucumber sandwiches Ester had brought over. “This is delicious,” I said, meaning it.

“I figured you wouldn’t want ham and cheese.”

I nodded, finishing the sandwich. “Thank you. What do you mean, memory pills?”

“A couple years ago Arnie started forgetting things. His doctor put him on memory pills. Not long after that, Arnie passed out on the golf course. Scared his friends real bad—they thought he’d had a heart attack or a stroke. They called a ambulance and Arnie got admitted to Queen’s. The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with him so after a couple days they sent him home. The fainting spells kept happening. He ended up in the hospital a few more times, but they never did figure out what the problem was. Then one of his doctors suggested Arnie should try going off  his memory pills, see if that helped.”

“And did it?”

Esther nodded, stuffing another sandwich into her mouth. She chewed, swallowed, drank some tea. “Sure enough, Arnie stopped passing out.”

“So now he stays conscious. He just doesn’t remember who he is,” I said.

“That about sums it up.”

“He seems pleasant. Being the only man in the building—except for Romy, of course—Arnie must be in demand.”

Esther shifted in her seat. “Romy’s like a son to all of us here. But yes, there’s definitely some competition for Arnie’s attention. Pretty much every woman here has, at one time or another, tried to claim him as her own.”

“And has he actually dated anyone here?”

She shook her head, concentrating on another sandwich. “I don’t think he’s interested in settling down with one woman—and one woman’s cooking.”

My surge of adrenaline had worn off. Exhaustion was setting in. I pressed two fingers between my eyebrows.

“You okay?” Esther asked the same question I’d asked her several times that morning.

I shook my head and let out a loud sigh. “What a day.”

“You’re not kidding. Pearl is the second one to die in our building in a few weeks’ time. The last one was Imogene, the lady who lived here in your condo.”

It was an unpleasant thought, to be sure. But I figured it was pretty much the standard for a senior complex—as demonstrated just today by Pearl’s unexpected vacating of the premises. “I heard Imogene was on dialysis.”

Esther nodded. “Yeah. She was eighty-eight and had all kinds of health issues. One night a ambulance came and took her away, and next thing we know her family’s cleaning out her condo.” She gave me a pointed look. “You sure managed to move in quick once she was out.”

“I’m truly sorry for her family’s loss.” I sipped my tea. “But the family was in a hurry to sell, and it really was a lucky break for me. Ever since my husband died, I’d been having thoughts of moving to Hawai‘i. Then my dog Nigel passed on, and there was nothing left to keep me in New York.

“But my step-daughter Louise told me senior condos almost never go up for sale in Hawai‘i. When they do, they’re snatched up immediately. I had to wonder if she was trying to discourage me. Like maybe she thought I’d eventually become too much of a burden. Then one night a couple months ago, she called. She’d heard about this place from a customer on her route—she’s a mail carrier here on O‘ahu—and asked if I was interested. Of course I was. I got on the next flight to Honolulu and signed the papers before it even went on the market. I’m sure I paid more than market value, but it’s still nothing compared to prices in Manhattan”

“So you got some family here,” Esther said.

I set my cup down, stared into it for a minute, gave a little shrug. “Louise is my husband’s daughter, but I never met her while he was alive. They hadn’t seen each other or spoken in seventeen years, then she made a surprise appearance at Howard’s funeral. All the way from Hawai‘i to New York to see her father buried. As if she needed to see for herself that he was really under the ground.”

“Sounds like somethin’ musta happened between them.”

“Howard’s wife died when Louise was fifteen. Louise ran away at seventeen. I was never clear on why. I met Howard years later and his daughter was one thing he never wanted to talk about.”

“And now?”

“I have no doubt she resented me for moving into her mother’s apartment and taking over. When she came to the funeral I sensed she was prepared to dislike me, but when we finally did meet there was a surprising a connection between us. We never said it in so many words, but I felt it and I know she did too. We kept in touch, and now here I am living a few miles from her. I hope we’ll finally get to know each other better.”

Esther grew quiet for a moment, then said, “As I get older, more and more of the people I know pass on.”

I gave a slow nod. “I remember my own grandmother making that same observation when she was our age. In Manhattan I lived in Stuyvesant Town. Do you know it?”

“I’m from upstate, but I heard of it.”

“It was built right after the war, a hundred and ten high rises on eighty acres. Eleven thousand five hundred units with twenty-five thousand residents.”

“Here that would be hard to imagine.”

“Even in New York it’s pretty mind boggling. The units are rent controlled, and in Manhattan that’s priceless. The only way anyone leaves is on a stretcher, and then their apartment is usually passed on to family members. The rare ones that do come vacant are renovated and rented at the current market value. Originally, the residents were young families with kids. Over the decades, of course, the population of Stuy Town aged. More and more frequently, I’d hear an ambulance pull up outside. Too often, one of my neighbors would be taken away, never to return.”

“That’s depressing.”

“It was. When I married Howard, it was the second time around for both of us. His wife had died young, of cancer. I moved into the apartment they’d shared, where they’d raised their children. There were traces of her everywhere, including her grand piano that sat untouched in the living room like a shrine.

“Howard and I had been together nearly fifteen years when he died of a stroke four years ago. I stayed in the apartment only because it seemed a shame to give up something so coveted. Neither of Howard’s kids were interested in having it.

“Then one morning I opened my eyes and looked around at the home that had never truly felt like mine. Suddenly I knew I didn’t want those four walls, filled with other people’s memories, to define my future. I’ve got a little more life left in me and I wanted to do some living before my time runs out. I am definitely the exception. I walked out of Stuy Town on my own power.”

Esther gave me a wide grin. “Well, I’m glad you did.”

I grinned back. “Me too.”

Though, after today, I wasn’t so sure. I refilled our cups from the flowered tea pot. “In New York, with tens of thousands of neighbors, one died now and again, of course. But I was never the one to find a dead body. Then I come to this lovely paradise, with only twelve residents, and the first thing that happens …”

I massaged my forehead, trying to block out the image of the dead woman in the hot tub.

“I know. It’s crazy,” said Esther. “I can’t believe Pearl drowned. She was probably the best swimmer of all of us.”

“Do you know how old she was?”

“She made a point of not talking about her age, but I know she was sixty-seven. I was in Romy’s office when Pearl was moving in, and I just happened to see her birth date on some of the paperwork.”

“That’s so young.” I shook my head, wondering what made Pearl want to live in a complex filled with people almost old enough to be her parents.

Esther said, “Maybe she had some sort of medical condition no one knew about.”

“I guess they’ll find out when they do the autopsy.” A picture flooded my mind, of Pearl’s body laying on the ME’s cold metal table, her lopsided breasts exposed. “Esther. Was there anything unusual about Pearl? I mean, was she a little … off-balance?”

Esther held her teacup in two hands and stared straight ahead. “She was a colorful personality, for sure. She didn’t quite fit in with the rest of us. Flamboyant—that’s the word I’m looking for. Besides teaching country western line dancing, she liked to go to folk dancing. She would wear fancy cowgirl boots and these full denim skirts with layers of petticoats underneath. In her younger days she was a rodeo queen. She’s got lots of ribbons, trophies, and framed photos in her living room. I wonder what’ll happen now to her condo and all her stuff.”

“Does she have any relatives?”

“She never mentioned any. I don’t think she ever got married, never had no kids.”

I tried to picture Pearl as the vibrant woman Esther described. “Was there anything odd about her—physically?”

Esther thought for a moment. “Some of them thought she wore her hair too long for a woman of her age. The ladies here all enjoyed her dance class on Tuesdays, but behind her back they called her a show-off. Pearl was an attractive lady and I’m sure they were jealous of her.”

“Good figure?” I prodded.

“Whoa, yeah. She had a killer fig—” Esther’s fingers clamped over her mouth, her eyes opened wide.

“Poor choice of words.”

She nodded.

Had Pearl’s breast somehow deflated when she died? Does that even happen? It seemed such a private thing. If no one else had noticed, I shouldn’t be the one to bring it up.

Chapter 3 Meeting the Neighbors

Officer Hoapili turned his attention to the women, whose sobbing had quieted during his exchange with Romy. “You ladies are all residents here?”

No one answered.

Finally, Romy spoke up. “They’re all resident owners.”

“How many units get in da building?”

“Twelve.”

“And how many people live here, total?”

“Twelve. One in each unit. Well … eleven, now that Pearl …”

Hoapili gave an appropriately solemn nod. “First I like get everybody’s name, telephone numbah, and unit numbah. Den I can let you go.” He turned a page in his notebook . “I get you, Mistah Delosa, in one-oh-one.”

“That’s right.” Romy recited his office and cell numbers.

“Who live in one-oh-two?”

“I do,” said the anorexic, over-tanned, bleached blonde. Her leopard print swimsuit hugged her knobby frame. She appeared to have had multiple plastic surgeries so it was impossible to guess her age.

“Your name?” Hoapili asked.

“Vee-oh-lette La Fontaine.” She pushed her Prada sunglasses to her head and used a tissue to dab mascara from below her eyes.

“How you spell your first name?”

“V-I-O-L-E-T.”

Hoapili raised an eyebrow as he wrote her name, then got her cell number. “And who live in one-oh-three?”

“That’s Kaulana’s unit,” Tiare said. She held her back straight, hands resting on the arms of the chair, one long leg crossed over the other. Tears glistened on her cheeks, but her voice was clear and strong.

“Kaulana wen’ Vegas,” the stout Japanese woman threw in. She had a surprisingly girlish voice for someone who, at a distance, could be mistaken for a man. She wore her hair cut very short and dyed ink-black, and was the only one fully decked out in head-to-toe Hydroskin.

“She did not,” said Tiare, her chin tilted upward. Even sitting, she seemed to look down at everyone else in the room. I got the impression she was used to getting her way. “She’s on Maui, visiting her daughter. She gets back tonight.”

While Hoapili’s eyes were on Tiare, Violet slipped a silver flask from her bag, took a big slug, and shoved it back in.

Hoapili’s pen hovered. His gaze moved between Mae and Tiare before settling on Tiare. “Can I get Kaulana’s last name?”

“Kano.”

“Mahalo. And who live in one-oh-four?”

“That’s me,” said Esther beside me. “Esther Brown.”

He made a note of her name and phone number. “One-oh-five?”

The Japanese woman gave a little finger wave. “Me.”

“Your name?”

“Masako Watanabe—but  call me Mae. That’s M-A-E.” She recited her phone number.

“Thank you. One-oh-six?”

“Me.” I raised my hand, then felt silly and let it fall. “Lillian Reuben.”

“You  da one wen’ discover da body, yeah?”

I started to nod, then looked to Esther. “Well, Esther was actually the first to see it. I heard her scream and turned just in time to see her pass out. I hurried over to help Esther, and that’s when I saw the … the woman in the hot tub.”

“You recognize da body?”

“No. I’d never met her. I just moved in last Thursday and I’ve been busy getting settled. Today was my first time joining any of the activities.”

“Okay. Ms. Reuben, Ms. Brown, we may need fo’ speak with both of you again.”

We nodded and gave him our contact information.

“One-oh-seven?”

“Francesca Wolfe,” said the strong-looking woman dressed in men’s board shorts and a turquoise rash guard. She recited her phone number in a guttural voice with a heavy German accent.

“Thank you. And one-oh-eight?”

“Tiare Māhoe.”

Officer Hoapili’s eyebrows shot up. “Eh, Tiare Māhoe! My parents love you.  I need fo’ get your autograph before I go.”

Tiare gave him a sweet smile. “Of course.”

“Okay, who live in one-oh-nine?”

“Coralee Beck.”

“And you teach da aqua jogging class, Ms. Beck?”

Coralee nodded, her nose red, her eyes puffy from crying. “In an unofficial capacity. It’s something I enjoy and I’ve invited the other ladies to join me if they want.”

“Do most of ’em join you?”

The corners of her mouth lifted. “They all do.”

“Including Ms. Corvelli?”

Coralee’s smile dropped. She took a deep breath and nodded. Her voice broke as she said, “Yes.”

“Okay, who live in one-ten?”

There was a moment of silence before Romy said, “That’s Pearl’s unit.”

 Officer Hoapili jotted in his book. “And one-eleven?”

“Me,” said Sylvie, whose chair was pulled up beside Hoapili’s.

“Can I get your name?”

Sylvie’s earlier devastation seemed to vanish. She gave him a wide-eyed smile. “I’m Sylvie.”

“Last name?”

“Ferguson. You know, you remind me of my son-in-law. He’s a reverend, too.”

Officer Hoapili’s pen froze. He gave her a stare.

“Father, can I make a confession?” Sylvie tugged at the waistband of her nylon underpants. “Now, don’t tell Pearl I said this.” She looked around the room like a mischievous schoolgirl. “She’s not a natural redhead. I know because—”

“Sylvie!” Tiare commanded. “That’s enough.”

Sylvie jolted as if she’d been slapped. The smile dropped from her face.

“Sorry, Officer,” Tiare said. “Sylvie gets confused.”

Officer Hoapili glanced at Romy, who raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

Hoapili let out a long breath and took a minute to refer to his notes. “Okay, get one more condo here? One-twelve?”

“That’s Arnie’s unit,” Romy said.

“He stay at home?”

“I think so. Want me to go get him?”

“Please.”

Romy disappeared around the corner. A few minutes later he returned with a slight, pleasant-looking man at his side. I’d seen Arnie a few times around the complex and he always greeted me with a nod and a hello. He had little hair, a deep tan, and the sunburned head and neck of an avid golfer. This morning he was neatly dressed in an aloha shirt, khaki shorts, white socks, and tan orthopedic walking shoes.

Arnie gave the room a friendly wave and perched on the edge of the only available chair. He leaned slightly forward, knees together, clasped hands resting on his lap, as though he didn’t expect to be there long.

“Good morning, sir,” Hoapili said.

Arnie offered him a nod and a benign smile. “Good morning.”

“I’m Officer Hoapili. Can I get your full name?”

Uncertainty crossed Arnie’s face. His eyes flitted to Romy.

“His name’s Arnold Kaye,” Romy said. But you can call him Arnie.”

Hoapili jotted in his notebook. “And you live in unit one-twelve?”

Again, Arnie looked to Romy.

“That’s right.” Romy said.

Relief replaced Arnie’s look of confusion. His vague smile returned.

Hoapili said, “Mistah Kaye—Arnie.”

“Yes?”

“Are you aware of why we are here?”

Arnie shook his head and continued to smile.

“Your neighbor in unit one-eleven, Pearl Corvelli, was found dead this morning.”

Arnie pursed his lips. “That’s terrible.”

“How well you knew her?”

“I don’t believe I ever met her.”

Hoapili glanced at Romy, who gave a slight head shake. Romy leaned closer to Hoapili and said in a loud whisper, “Can we talk in my office?”

Hoapili stood. “Thank you ladies—and gentleman—for your time. If I get any more questions, I’ll be in touch.”

Chapter 2 Police Inquest

Kon-Tiki Sands was designed for socializing. Twelve condominiums—four units to each of three sides—face inward toward a tropical courtyard that includs a barbecue area, a pool, and the heart-shaped hot tub. The manager’s office, laundry room, storage room, and an open-air clubhouse comprise the fourth side, completing the enclosed square.

A tall, barrel-shaped police officer with a heavy Pidgin accent introduced himself to us as Officer Hoapoili. He herded the group of stunned women into the clubhouse, out of view of the pool deck. The coroner and his crew had already strung up yellow crime scene tape and were preparing to pull the body from the water.

Some of the women hugged each other, weeping openly, while the others held hands in quiet shock. I hadn’t known the dead woman, but witnessing the grief of her friends brought stinging tears to my eyes.

My knees throbbed from exertion. My backside ached from the fall. I eased myself onto a cigarette-scarred bamboo sofa beside Esther. She’d refused to be taken to the hospital after being examined by EMTs.

“How’re you doing?” I asked her.

She swiped away a tear as it trickled down her cheek, sniffled, gave her head a slow shake. “I’ll be okay. I just can’t believe it. Pearl is gone. She was the youngest one of us, and so active. I was sure she’d outlive us all.”

I shivered in spite of the eighty-five-degree heat and pulled my towel tighter around my shoulders. I was the only one who’d gotten wet this morning, not to mention the only one who’d hot-tubbed with a corpse. All I wanted was to get back to my condo and take the longest, hottest shower of my life. But because the body had been found in unusual circumstances, the Officer Hoapili explained, the cause of death couldn’t immediately be written off as natural. No one would be allowed to leave until the he’d spoken with each of us.

It was my first time in the clubhouse. I let my eyes roam over the room’s décor—a style made popular in the sixties that I could only call tacky tiki. A bar with cracked orange Naugahyde stools took up one end of the room. Two sofas and a number of chairs, all with cushions upholstered in a putrid gold and brown Hawaiian print, sat grouped around a large kidney-shaped coffee table. Glass fishing floats, dulled by years of cigarette smoke and dust, hung from the ceiling. Faded tapa cloth lined one wall. Another wall had been painted turquoise and hung with a fishnet. Dead starfish sprayed hot pink, bright red faux lobsters and crabs, a variety of plastic fish, and neon-colored seashells clung to the net. Carved wooden tikis of various sizes grimaced from the darkened corners of the room. A large oval poker table and a flat screen TV completed the amenities.

Our live-in manager, Romy, shuffled in wearing a grim expression. Based on his full head of graying brown hair, cut with Caesar bangs, I guessed him to be somewhere in his fifties. Which made him a good twenty to thirty years younger than the average Kon-Tiki resident. The day I moved in he’d told me he’s a retired PE teacher. But his yellowish pallor, fleshy jowls, and liver-colored bags under his eyes spoke of years of unhealthy living. Today he was dressed in the only type of outfit I’d seen him in: loose shorts, a stained tee shirt that rode up over his low-hanging paunch, knee-high compression socks with worn-out Crocs. Romy dragged a stool over from the bar and hoisted himself onto it.

Officer Hoapili cleared his throat. The room quieted. “I won’t keep you folks for long,” he said. What I need from everyone at dis time is your names and contac’ information, in case we get any questions later.” He looked to Romy. “You da live-in manager?”

“Yes, sir. Romeo DeLosa. You can call me Romy.”

“You wen’ check inside da hot tub before you lock da gate last night?”

“Absolutely. I always check the pool and the hot tub before I close up. There was no one around.”

“And who wen’ open da gate dis morning?”

“I did. At seven-thirty.”

Hoapili jotted on a notepad. “And da gate was lock when you get dere.”

Romy squinted dark eyes that were too small for his fleshy face, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Did you go inside, take one look around when you unlock it?”

“No, sir. I just swung the gate open and headed back to my office. I wanted to grab a cup of coffee before aqua jogging started at eight. I lifeguard for the ladies during their classes, make sure everyone stays safe.”

“You one certify lifeguard?”

“Not anymore, but I was for thirty years.”

“Did Ms. Corvelli know how for swim?”

“Yes, sir. She was a good swimmer. She spent hours tanning by the pool. Every half hour or so she’d jump in and swim a few laps to cool off.”

Hoapili rubbed his chin with two fingers. “Anyone else get one key to da pool?”

“No.”

“Where you keep your keys?”

Romy held up several keys that dangled from a lanyard around his neck. “During the day, they stay right here. At night I keep them in my condo.”

“Any way someone could’a took your keys and put ’em back?”

Romy hesitated before shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”

“And dis complex stay secure at night?”

“Yes. During the day is takes a card key to get in the glass sliding doors on the street side. There’s a back gate to the parking lot and dumpsters, also controlled by card keys. We have a ten o’clock curfew. Anyone entering the building after ten p.m. needs to buzz my apartment.”

“How often dat happen?”

“Never. Nothing goes on around here after ten p.m. By then everyone’s at home, either watching TV or sound asleep.”

“Okay,” Hoapili said, making some notes. “Da Medical Examiner goin’ give us one bettah estimate of da time of death, but my best guess is Ms.  was dead at least a few hours before da ladies wen’ find her.” He locked eyes with Romy. “How you think she wen’ end up in da hot tub in da middle of da night?”

Romy held his gaze. “I can’t imagine, sir.”