Another Problem in Paris: Surfing Detective Mystery Series

By Chip Hughes

In Another Problem in Paris when study abroad student Marie Ho fails to return from her semester in Paris Kai Cooke is hired by her estranged stepfather, psychiatrist Gordon Grimes, to fly to Paris and hand her a sealed envelope. The PI tracks her through Paris neighborhoods, guided by an old flame French professor, and finds Marie living with her boyfriend and another woman. Meanwhile Kai himself is being tracked. When he delivers the envelope Marie's apparent ménage à trois is violently torn asunder.  Kai suspects the Frenchmen who have been following him. And behind them someone closer to home. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chip Hughes
• Release date: Aug 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386925019

Chip Hughes

Chip Hughes earned a Ph.D. in English at Indiana University and taught American literature, film, writing, and popular fiction for nearly three decades at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa.  His non-fiction publications include two books and numerous essays on John Steinbeck. An active member of the Private Eye Writers of America, Chip launched the Surfing Detective mystery series with Murder on Moloka‘i (2004) and Wipeout! (2007), published by Island Heritage.  The series is now published exclusively by Slate Ridge Press, whose volumes include Kula (2011), Murder at Volcano House (2014), Hanging Ten in Paris Trilogy (2017), and reissues of the first two novels. Chip and his wife split their time between homes in Hawai‘i and upstate New York. 

Book preview

one

Monday, April 1. April Fools’ Day. I’m in my Maunakea Street office in Chinatown facing a mound of tax forms and receipts. I hate paying taxes. And I hate even more coming up with figures to put on the forms. It’s a kind of fiction, really, since I’m not the best record keeper. The question always in the back of my mind is: will the tax collectors buy it? I never know until I receive either a refund check from the Feds or a letter saying I’m being audited. The refund or audit letter from the state comes on Hawaiian time—later.

April is the cruelest month, some poet said. I wonder if he was thinking about paying taxes.

I’ve got to take a break from these forms and figures. I step outside my office and glance at the hanging ten surfer airbrushed on my door and SURFING DETECTIVE: CONFIDENTIAL INVESTIGATIONS—ALL ISLANDS.

If only I had an investigation. I’d put off filing taxes until the April 15 deadline.

I walk down the hall by the shop of our resident psychic, Madame Zenobia. The odor of incense wafts into the hallway.

Kai! she shouts through her psychedelic bead curtain. How about a quick reading? On the house.

Sorry, Shirley—Madame’s real name is Shirley Schwartz—I’m in kind of a hurry. That’s a lie, but Shirley delving into my future means trouble. The news is either good and she’s wrong, or bad and she’s right.

C’mon in. Won’t take but a minute, she says. Just got this new crystal ball yesterday from Amazon. Eight inches around. Cost only ninety-nine bucks. I love Amazon.

I peer into the candlelit incense haze. In her throne-like wicker chair Madame hovers over a large glass orb. My eyes smart. Crystal balls are a departure for Shirley. Her usual gig is reading palms and Tarot cards. I can’t walk away now without seeming a heel. Plus I happen to know she’s had a tough life. Her only son came home from Afghanistan in a box.

Okay, if you can make it quick. Reluctantly I step in and sit. I gaze over the glinting orb at my office neighbor, her hair flaming red and frizzed, her mascara darker than a Hotel Street hooker’s, and her beads and bangles more abundant than a gypsy’s.

Here we go. She bends down close to the crystal and puts both open palms around it, but doesn’t touch the surface. The incense smoke makes it hard to see, hard to breathe. I’m waiting. And wary.

Shirley peers into the ball. Her face brightens. I have it, Kai!

Tell me, Madame. I try not to sound too interested. What’s in my future?

A journey, she says.

"A journey? That’s kind of generic, isn’t it? I thought I wouldn’t care what she said, but this is a let-down. The ball says nothing more specific?"

Let me look again. Madame peers once more into the crystal. She moves her hands around the ball. I see it now! I see it!

You see what?

You will travel far, Kai, to a foreign and exotic land.

I shake my head.

Madame looks annoyed. Don’t take your future lightly, Kai. She rises from her crystal ball. The tendencies are strong.

I’ve got no travel money, I say. I don’t even have a passport. Where could I go?

That will all be taken care of, she says. Never mind the details. It will happen.

You see? This is why I don’t like Madame Zenobia peering into my future. No way is what she’s saying going to happen—which if it did might be a good thing—but now I have to worry about what the fortune might really mean, which is probably a bad thing. Either way is trouble.

Thanks. I rise from my chair. I’ll send you a postcard from nowhere.

two

I pop downstairs to the lei shop beneath my office. Mrs. Fujiyama, the proprietor and my landlady, stands at her accustomed place behind the cash register ringing up a customer with three plumeria lei. The plumeria are cream white with yellow centers and I can smell their lemony perfume from here.

‘Morning, Mrs. Fujiyama, I say when the customer strides away.

She peers up at me over her half glasses. Good morning, Mr. Cooke.

"Maybe I go holoholo," I say, meaning to wander about.

"You go holoholo?" She seems surprised.

Da Madame psychic upstairs, I point up, say I going to journey far—to one foreign and exotic land.

No listen to her, Kai. Mrs. Fujiyama makes a cuckoo gesture. "Da lady lolo."

Good. I staying hea. Mo’ time fo’ surf. I head out the door.

I step from the lei shop into the morning bustle of Chinatown. On this first day of April the sun beams down from the robin’s egg blue sky. I’m hoping Shirley is wrong about my future. Now if we just get an early spring swell, today will be made. Let the future take care of itself.

I head for my parking garage. It’s been said that most Chinatowns these days cater to tourists, but that is only part of the story here in Honolulu. Yes, there are curio shops where you can buy souvenirs and gizmos and gadgets, but you’ll also find fishmongers, butchers, fruit and vegetable vendors, noodle makers, and many more purveyors of life’s essentials. You may likewise encounter drug dealers, homeless people, and occasional rank odors wafting from empty storefronts, but it’s all part of the flavor of this vibrant slice of the city.

I climb into my old Chevy, my surfboard riding inside next to me, and head for the uncrowded break near Point Panic called Flies. Usually I surf here with my buddy Kula, a rescued golden retriever, but I’m on the outs at the moment with his foster mom.

I’m about to pull my board from the car when my cellphone rings. Caller ID says PARADISE COLLEGE. I answer.

Hello, Kai. Serena here. Serena Wright is Director of International Studies at the college. She’s a bright Brit for whom I’ve done work before.

Suddenly I’m hopeful she has something new for me.

Remember the sad case of Ryan Song? She’s referring to the murder of a study abroad student and surfer, an investigation I did not quite a year ago.

Hanged in his own dorm room by his fellow students, I say. How could I forget?

It’s a miracle you solved that case in Paris without leaving O‘ahu.

Hardly a miracle. But I appreciate the compliment. And now I’m wondering what that case has to do with her call. I don’t have to wonder long.

Kai, the college has another problem in Paris, Serena says. It’s a bit delicate and I’d prefer not to discuss it on the phone. Could you stop by my office straightaway this morning?

I gaze at my surfboard and say, How about in an hour or so?

It’s actually a matter of some urgency, she says. The sooner the better.

Okay, I’ll be there shortly.

I put away my phone and hit