Thomas

I don't know exactly when Daisy Munro got under my skin, but it happened. Not quickly, but over time, like anything you take for granted and then realize is kind of wonderful once you see it for what it is. Not planned, although she was pretty, not intentional although including her in everything got easier and easier . . . .

Let's back up. I first met Daisy Munro when she jumped off the roof of Robin's Nest. I was paddling in from a long trip out on the water, doing my best to avoid thinking about how I was going to pay for a few things when I glanced up and there she was, standing on the slope side of the tiles facing the ocean, looking like a professional high diver.

Because that's sort of what she was, but I didn't know it at the time.

Anyway I panicked a little because all I could see was some stranger who about to take a leap off the roof and I had no idea how she'd gotten up there or where Higgins was and I was still too far out to be of any use. I started paddling double-time, trying to get closer when she gave a wave, hopped, and soared out, dropping down onto what I later found out was a stunt foam pad hidden behind the hedge.

When I got up there, out of breath and trying to yell for Higgins it floored me to find not a broken body, but a person sitting up and grinning at me. Of course the fact that she had a fading black eye and a spectacular set of bruises down one arm took me back, but she held out a hand and I helped her up off the foam pad, wondering what exactly was going on.

"You must be the private investigator that Mr. Higgins mentioned," the woman sort of chirped at me. "Thomas Magnum, right?"

"Yes. Why . . ." I waved to the roof, panting a little, "did you just . . ."

"Practice," she told me. "Sorry, didn't mean to alarm you. I did it on the ocean side so I wouldn't scare anyone. Guess I blew it."

"Practice," I repeated just to make sure I'd heard her correctly.

She nodded, and touched her arm. "Don't worry, this wasn't from right now. I did this falling off a moving van in Hilo. Missed the mat completely that time but we got the shot in one take so it worked out."

I looked her over. Medium height and curvy. Muscled, actually. She had dark red hair in a long ponytail and the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. I got the feeling that she'd started life as a tomboy and never slowed down. Probably played sports all through school.

"Stuntwoman?" It seemed to be the obvious guess.

"Yep. And body double, stand-in, and extra sometimes," she agreed. "Daisy Munro."

"Magnum," I nodded, and then looked at the pad. It hadn't been there when I'd gone out earlier that morning so this woman—Daisy—had either set it up herself or had Higgins help her. And why was she even here much less practicing jumping off the roof?

"Robin Masters is my godfather," Daisy told me and I wondered if she'd read my mind. "He found out I'd . . . fallen," she looked at her bruised arm, "and urged me to come stay here to recuperate. I'm between jobs so it's kind of lucky. I won't get in your way though," she assured me. "Promise."

"Magnum." And there was Higgins, looking as stuffy as usual. I glared at him.

"Hi. So a little heads-up would have been nice," I tried not to whine but it kinda came out that way. I could tell because he gave me that stare he does so well.

"Miss Munro arrived after you'd left or I would have made proper introductions at that time," he drawled at me. "No need to sound so aggrieved."

"She jumped off the roof," I pointed out. "I think I'm entitled to be a little aggrieved."

"He has a point," she agreed with me and I liked her for that. "I appreciate you coming to check on me and I'll let you know when I'm going to do something like this next time if possible," Daisy told me. "Agreed?" She held out a hand and I shook it, feeling a little less annoyed now that we had a deal and that I'd gotten my breath back.

When she went into the house I looked at Higgins but he wasn't forthcoming, even when I asked.

"Miss Munro will be staying with us for an undetermined length of time," was pretty much all I got out of him along with, "I know it's difficult for you, but I fully expect you to respect her privacy, Magnum. You're not entitled to everyone's life story."

"I know," I told him, "but basic information helps, especially if you want me to stay out of her hair. She already told me she's Robin Master's godchild."

"Yes," Higgins admitted, "the only one, in fact."

"Does he know she's doing dangerous things here?" I needled him a little and saw the edge of his mustache quiver. Aha. So Higgins was unhappy with it too.

"I'm sure he's aware of it. Miss Munro can be somewhat . . . determined about maintaining her skills," he harrumphed. "Perhaps we can draw up a schedule . . ."

I looked at the pad. "Right." I copied his British way of saying it. "Shed-u-al."

That didn't win me any points; Higgins rolled his eyes and headed back into the main house. I waited until he'd gone before looking at a few of the reddish stains on the mat and wondering just how many times she'd missed.

-ooo—

So that's when Daisy moved in. She was good to her word and I didn't see her much for the first couple of weeks, usually out on the grounds or passing on our ways in and out. But I was between cases and a little bored so I decided to do some digging. Not snooping . . . per se. But info about Daisy Munro might give me a little more about Robin and that was always a good thing. So I checked on her.

Apparently Daisy's full name was Daisy Olivia Munro and she'd been born in South Carolina to Simon and Danielle Munro. Simon was a professor of film studies at one of the private universities and I saw his name was listed in several of Robin's books in the acknowledgements sections, so the family friend connection made sense. Her mom was a music teacher and played with a few local orchestras. How two cultured, highbrow parents had a kid who did stunts for a living was a mystery in itself.

But apparently Miss Munro double majored in theater and psychology at Winthrop and then worked her way west to Hollywood at various theaters until she reached California. After a year there, her history went cold. I couldn't find anything for the next six years which was weird. If she was trying to get into show business there should have been something out there, some credits or listings or resumes. All I had was a listing for a phone number in the Holmby Hills area.

And looking into THAT threw me against some major roadblocks. When I dialed it, the automated voice at the other end demanded an identification number which I didn't have. For the moment I was stymied, but figured I could glean something through conversation. People like to talk about themselves if given half a chance. Case in point: Higgins. Nearly everything in life reminds him of something he's gotta share.

So I made it a point to say hi. Nothing wrong with that, right? We were roommates, sort of, and we had a few things in common, like toast. The kind of toast a person likes is a great indicator of their philosophy. Higgins takes his nearly burnt, with a little charring around the edges. Me, I'm more a golden brown sort of person, and apparently Daisy was too. She liked toast, I liked toast, so it was a start.

"Best thing on toast is peanut butter and onions," she told me. "Yum."

I gave her a look. "What?"

"Peanut butter and red onion slices," Daisy elaborated. "You've got a great mingle of flavors and textures, plus you're getting three different foods all in one. Not overly sweet, like doughnuts; not all eggy like, well, eggs. Perfect breakfast."

I stared at her. To my way of thinking, neither peanut butter nor onion was a breakfast food, but her enthusiasm was intriguing. She held out her toast to show perfectly spread peanut butter and wafer-thin slices of onion on top.

"What if you've got to kiss someone later?" I asked. Not that I'd intended to ask that but it was one of the first things that popped into my head. Freudian I guess but raw onion can be . . . lingering.

"Oh nobody kisses me," Daisy replied and that stumped me a little. Couldn't see why not—she was pretty and wouldn't have any trouble getting a date that was for sure.

"That's not true," I countered. "The dogs do." Which was both a fact and a sore point. Zeus and Apollo adored Daisy. Me, they barely tolerated, but they'd roll over for belly rubs from her.

"Doggie kisses don't count," Daisy pointed out. "And I don't kiss them back because even I have my limits. You know what else is good? Bacon and peanut butter. Now that's a winner too, especially on rye."

Clearly this woman had evolved beyond cereal and milk, but the longer I thought about the combinations, the better they sounded . . . which meant either she was getting to me, or I was in a rut. Probably both if I'm being honest. Thinking about peanut butter was safer than thinking about kissing too.

Daisy

When Robin told me I couldn't stay in the guest house because someone was already living there I was a little peeved. But when I asked and got the story about the bet and how Magnum managed to win, it tickled me so much that I got over pretty fast. My godfather, for all his other eccentricities, doesn't welsh on bets and I respect that. And there were plenty of other bedrooms for me to stay in, so I took the one in the north corner because I could climb out on the veranda roof from it and watch the stars if I wanted.

Hawaii is gorgeous and I knew I was lucky to be able to stay here a while without worrying about . . . well, anything for the moment. If I was anywhere else I might have a few concerns, but between the Lads, Mr. Higgins and theoretically, Magnum, I was pretty safe. If I had to lay low, I could think of worse places to do it, honestly.

And I had a lot to think about, not that I wanted to. It's weird, but just when you think you've got a good idea of where you're going, life pushes you in a different direction. I'd left home for Hollywood only to find that the tinsel of that particular town wasn't all it was cracked up to be, especially in the small and specialized world of stunts. I was too tall to double for kids, and most directors were perfectly happy to wig a guy instead of hiring me, even on the non-union sets. I spent time working out and working in gyms, trying to make ends meet . . . the usual sort of scratching out a living story although in my case it was getting more destitute.

Certain directors and producers were starting to make offers to me that might have been lucrative but not useful to the career, and I was getting desperate enough to consider them when I got help from an interesting quarter.

Jane Buchanan offered me a job. I knew her from the gym; she was one of my clients. Older woman in good shape with one of those queenly personalities. Some of my co-workers thought she was snobbish but I knew it was just her way. She paid well and took my suggestions seriously about her workouts so we got along. At some point though, I must have said something about my situation because the next time I saw her, she pressed a business card into my hand.

"Call and use the identification number on the back, Daisy. You must come work for me," she told me on her way out.

I kept the card and three days later, when I was looking at a bank statement that was in single digits with no hope of getting bigger for at least three weeks, I called. Holmby Hills exchange from what I could see, and once I recited the number I was connected to someone called the Director.

Long story short, I went to work for Jane. Now I'm sure you're wondering what sort of business it was, and let me assure you it wasn't what you're probably thinking. I'd already been approached about that sort of work and turned it down before. Lots of girls in Hollywood have it as a side job, or do it for a while until their careers take off, but I wasn't going to be one of them.

Anyway.

I ended up using both my stunt skills and my psychology while working at Casa de Làtigos so overall it was a good thing, actually. A lot of acting with room for improvisation; familiarity with slipknots; bonding with the clientele to a certain degree . . . and some personal growth, to be honest. I'd gone into the work thinking I could be objective about it but the longer I worked for Jane, the more I realized I was getting emotionally involved with it.

And that was dangerous. Doctors shouldn't fall for patients; therapists shouldn't fall for clients. I'd let one of my regulars get too close, and we were on the verge of crossing the line. Normally Jane would handle matters but I'd made the mistake of nearly getting involved for the wrong client, damn it; one who wasn't about to agree to see someone else, or stop showing up. Things got ugly, what with threats and blackmail and finally I told Jane I was going on the lam for six months, back under my real name.

She agreed it was for the best, and so I took off for Hawaii, letting Robin know.

I really don't want to relive THAT particular phone call, ugh. He'd known—I don't know HOW he knew but he'd known what I'd been doing. And while he was trying his hardest not to be judgmental I could tell he didn't really understand it. To be fair it's hard to explain but at the very least he invited me to Robin's Nest for the time being while I tried to figure how long I could stay under the radar.

I tried to stay out of Higgin's way; he was always kind to me and I understood the need to keep some of that established protocol around him. He was polite and I was as quiet as I could be. What I hadn't counted on was Magnum of course.

When someone mentions a private investigator I automatically think of someone looking like Humphrey Bogart or Robert Mitchum. You know, a sort of gruff loner with a drinking problem and a chip on his shoulder. I was NOT prepared for a curly-haired hunk with a mustache straight out of a Keystone cops movie. Wearing screamingly loud shirts and shorts no less. I mean really—that was NOT a private eye, no way.

But Higgins assured me he was, and I had to take him at his word. The worrisome part was the very fact that Magnum didn't LOOK the part—and that meant I'd have to be careful around him. Anybody doing that 'oh shucks never mind me' sort of routine is probably a lot sharper than they look. I've met a few so I know the type, believe me.

So for the first couple of weeks it was just 'hi, how are you?' as we passed through the house, and that was fine. I had people to see—mostly little local studios doing small commercials and promos—and time at the gym. I tried not to be in the way and scooted out whenever Magnum showed up but we did both end up in the kitchen around breakfast time. Apparently Mr. Private Investigator hadn't heard you could put other things on toast besides butter and jam. Watching his expression contort a little as I made my peanut butter and onion special was the most fun I'd had in a while.

But he wasn't brave enough to try it . . . at least not yet. I'd never convince Higgins of course, but I might win Magnum over just by letting him get used to the idea. And that of course, was the core of what I'd been doing for the last couple of years anyway. Helping people get used to something that fascinated but worried them. Easing them into something new and potentially enticing.

I wasn't sure if I was doing it on purpose, or just because I was used to making breakfast my way without anyone, but I had a debate with myself later, after I'd cleaned up and done the dishes. "You don't need to make trouble," I told myself quietly. "You've already got more than enough of that. Just keep your head down, Munro. The last thing you need right now are any more complications."

Easier said than done most of the time. I was just glad Higgins had put the dangerous suitcase up in the attic.