Maui Widow Waltz (Islands of Aloha Mystery Series)

  MAUI WIDOW WALTZ

  The First in the ‘Islands of Aloha’ Mystery Series

  Copyright 2011, JoAnn Bassett

  All rights reserved

  Print ISBN: 978-1463606657

  E-book ISBN: 978-1465740151

  This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this book are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Discover other titles by JoAnn Bassett at http://www.joannbassett.com

  For Tom Haberer—my kane no ka oi.

  CHAPTER 1

  People marry for two reasons: love or money. So it was pretty clear what was at stake when she showed up wanting to marry a dead man. I normally run a pretty straight shop—no mai tai infused “quickies” or Elvis-on-the-beach impersonators—but my standards had slipped. In late December a line of squalls had parked over Maui dumping thirteen inches of rain in two weeks. The daily downpours continued through January, sending visitors fleeing back to the mainland like snorkelers spotting a dorsal fin. By early February business all over the island had ground to a halt. My mortgage was in arrears, my day planner was blank, and the credit card people had revoked my Visa. In other words, desperation was the new black.

  On Tuesday morning I laid out my bills, solitaire-style, on my battered Balinese desk. There were supposed to be three piles—those I could pay right away; those I’d pay by the end of February; and those that would never get paid unless I won the lottery. Too bad Hawaii doesn’t have a lottery. Pile number three stood an inch high. The other piles were bare, with only a Post-it note—a freebie from the real estate office across the street—marking the spot.

  The door to my shop creaked open and a pale female face peeked around the jamb. In the space above her head I saw the shimmer of wind-whipped rain.

  “Can I help you?” I said looking up not expecting much.

  “Are you the wedding planner?” she said in a whisper I associate with people inquiring about illicit drugs.

  “I am.” I sprang from behind the desk and gestured for her to come in. She stepped inside and I pushed the door closed against the stiff breeze.

  I figured her for early-twenties. She was a pale imitation of me at that age. Shoulder length blunt-cut blond hair, pale topaz blue eyes, and skin the color of haupia—coconut pudding. I had about ten years on her, and since I live in Hawaii my skin’s perpetually tanned. My hair’s a few shades darker, and my eyes more hazel than blue. But in silhouette we shared the same five foot six height, same small build.

  “Wow. What a gorgeous ring,” I said zeroing in on her left hand. “I’m Pali Moon, the owner here.”

  “Polly? Like the parrot?”

  “Well, it’s pronounced the same, but the Hawaiian spelling is P-A-L-I.”

  If I’d been more truthful, I’d have explained that Pali isn’t my legal name, but it’s the one I use in everyday commerce to avoid dealing with snorts and chuckles.

  Her swift glance around the small room tipped me off this probably wasn’t what she’d imagined when she saw my yellow pages ad. I had no mannequins dressed in wedding gowns costing as much as a small car, no displays of Swarovski crystal-encrusted headpieces, no glossy posters of demure brides and cocky grooms. Just a fifteen by thirty room, split by a plywood wall with a doorframe hung with a bead curtain. Behind the bead curtain I had a small dressing room with a carpeted step-up backed by a three-sided mirror.

  “This is ‘Let’s Get Maui’d,’ right?”

  “Sure is. And please don’t be put off by the simple digs. We keep overhead low so your costs aren’t high. We focus on making each bride’s special day totally unique—completely original. You bring the dream, we bring the team.” I’d spent the past few weeks brainstorming business slogans and took the opportunity to try a few out on her.

  She lifted a nostril as if detecting an obnoxious odor, but managed to twist her lips into a thin smile.

  I offered her a seat in the rattan chair across from my desk and she moved toward it, the scent of tuberoses trailing in her wake. I slipped behind the desk, dumping my bills into the pencil drawer as I took my seat.

  Something about the tug at the sides of her eyes and her pinched facial expression seemed out of place for a blushing bride, but I chalked it up to the lousy weather.

  “Can you put together a fabulous wedding by Valentine’s Day?” she said in the same low murmur as before.

  “Of course,” I said, my voice too loud in contrast. “Are you thinking inside or out?”

  “Outside. On the beach.”

  “No problem. We’ll rent a rain canopy if we need to. How many guests are you inviting?”

  “Only a few friends and family.”

  “Good. The smaller the better in such a short timeframe.”

  “It has to be perfect.”

  “We specialize in perfect.” I smiled, but it wasn’t returned.

  “No, I mean it. Everything has to be fabulous because my fiancé might not be there. He may have to watch it later on the video.”

  “Oh. And he won’t be there because...” I let it trail off—hoping she’d fill in the blank. It’s a common speech pattern with wedding coordinators.

  “Because he’s been missing since last Thursday.”

  Oh great. Just as I was mentally shifting a few unpaid bills to pile number two, she threw that ringer. I leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and slipped into high school counselor mode.

  “Let me see if I’ve got this right: you’re fiancé’s gone missing, but you want to go ahead with the wedding anyway.”

  “I need to. We promised each other.” She twisted the oversized chunk of emerald-cut diamond around her ring finger. “And besides, the Coast Guard’s still looking for him.”

  I recalled reading something in The Maui News about a mainland guy who’d disappeared in a boating accident.

  “Hmm. Well, we may have a problem with the license. The State of Hawaii requires—”

  “I’ve got the license. Brad—he’s my fiancé—and I applied for it the day after we got here.” She pulled a folded paper out of her jacket pocket and handed it to me.

  “Well, good. But he’ll still need to be present to sign the marriage certificate at the time of the ceremony.”

  She stared down at her clasped hands for a moment. “Brad and his business partner, Kevin, have a General Power of Attorney for each other,” she said. “Kevin says that means either of them can sign anything for the other one. He said he’s willing to stand in and sign stuff for Brad until he gets back.” She looked up, checking my reaction. I had the prickly feeling I wasn’t the first wedding planner she’d pitched this to.

  Her revelation of the missing fiancé called for a diplomatic response, heavy on the tact. Unfortunately, tact and I have a rather arm’s length relationship. “Yes, but the way I understand it, a Power of Attorney ceases at death. Kevin’s signature isn’t valid if Brad’s no longer alive.”

  “No problem,” she said, apparently ignoring my dire implication. “Because even though they’re saying he might be dead, I know he’s not.” She puffed out a sotto voce sigh. “Look, I know it isn’t cool they found his empty boat on the beach. But they don’t know Brad. He’s a fantastic problem solver—and a strong swimmer. In my heart I know he’s fine.”

  She tucked a damp lock of hair behind her ear and fingered a flashing diamond stud in her earlobe. “When Brad and I got engaged we agreed on a Valentine’s Day wedding in Maui. Him being gone sucks, but he’ll be back, bragging about how he could win the million dollars on ‘Survivor.’ In the meantime, it’s up to me to get everything set
up. The bride usually ends up planning most of the wedding stuff anyway, right?”

  I nodded, and glanced at my desk calendar—February fifth. “Well, in that case, we better get moving. Valentine’s Day is just nine days away.”

  I took out a crisp white wedding consultation folder from a lower desk drawer and dug around in my pencil cup for a pen that worked. “May I have your full name?”

  “Lisa Marie Prescott.”

  Ah, I thought as I wrote down her name, like Elvis’ daughter. Michael Jackson’s first wife. But I had personal experience with parents tagging their kid with a goofy name, so I stifled the urge to comment.

  Instead, I explained I had a colleague who was an ordained minister—The Church of Spirit and Light—but she could opt for another officiate if she’d prefer. My function as wedding coordinator would be to bring all the pieces together and ensure that everyone involved showed up as promised. I didn’t mention this was no small feat on Maui where good surf, a busted carburetor, or Uncle Kimo’s funeral could waylay the most sincere commitment. I did tell her that for my efforts she’d pay me fifteen percent of the total cost of the wedding. When she didn’t balk, I slid the file folder across the desk and asked her to fill out the contact information—address, telephone numbers and so on. As she worked on it, I checked over the marriage license and then pulled out a copy of my standard contract.

  “This details the services I’ll perform, and what you’ll pay me. If you have any questions, now’s a good time to ask.”

  She didn’t even pretend to read the contract before scribbling a signature at the bottom.

  “I need you to promise me it’ll be perfect,” she said, handing back the paperwork.

  “With just over a week we’ll be a bit rushed, but I can pull together flowers, music, photographer—everything we’ll need for an unforgettable beachside ceremony.”

  “And video. Don’t forget the video.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you,” she said as she rubbed a phantom tear from the corner of her eye. “And don’t worry. Brad’ll be back in time.”

  She stood up and snapped open her jumbo probably-not-a-knock-off Gucci bag. After a bit of rummaging around, she pulled out a sealed business-size envelope and silently slid it across the desktop.

  “I brought along a deposit,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind large bills. The teller at the bank was pretty snotty about giving me so much cash early in the day.”

  My jaw remained dropped in what I’m sure was an unflattering gape as she got up and headed for the door. I didn’t recover in time to bid her aloha before she quietly pulled the door closed behind her.

  A few minutes later, the door swung open again. I slipped the envelope into a drawer. She’d have to arm wrestle me to get it back.

  It wasn’t her.

  It was Noni Konomanu, a former friend who’d reportedly gone over to the dark side.

  “Hi Pali. I’ve been meaning to drop by and see you. I finally got the chance.”

  “Hey, Noni. What’s up with you? I heard you moved to Honolulu.”

  “Not yet. Although I’ve got a new job.” She surveyed my sparsely-appointed shop like a tax assessor with a quota to fill.

  “Yeah, people say you’re working for Tank Sherman.”

  “His name is Terrance.”

  “Yeah, well, he’ll always be ‘Tank’ to me. Is he still buying up child care centers and old folks’ homes over there?”

  “He’s consolidated his business interests to include a number of lifestyle verticals. We’re now looking at expanding into new profit centers on the neighbor islands.”

  We locked stares. No way would I ask what she was dying for me to ask.

  “So, how’s business?” she said, dragging a finger along the window sill. She glanced at her fingertip and then blew off the dust as if blowing me a kiss.

  “Business is great. In fact, when you came in I thought you were my new client who just left.”

  “Thought she was coming back to cancel?”

  “No, I thought she’d decided to double her guest list.”

  “Face it, Pali. You’re broke. Everyone knows it. Mr. Sherman is willing to help you out by offering five thousand dollars cash for your shop fixtures, your business name and your vender contact files. It’s worth half that, but since we all go way back—”

  “We don’t go anywhere—forward or back. You tell Tank Sherman I’ll burn this place to the ground before handing my business over to him. And while you’re at it, remind him this is Maui, not Honolulu. Over here we treat each other like ohana. My contacts are as dear to me as aunties and uncles. Family members don’t sell out to Oahu slumlords who jack up prices and squeeze out mom and pop businesses just to make a buck.”

  “Mr. Sherman warned me you might say something like that. Guess what? He’s buying this building, and when he does, he’s raising your rent. He’s investigated your business and we know your lease is up next month. You’d be smart to shut your mouth and consider his offer. Five grand is a makana—a gift. You have until the fifteenth of this month—next Friday—to make up your mind.”

  She popped open an umbrella festooned with plate-sized red and yellow hibiscus flowers and turned to go back outside. She had to flip the umbrella sideways to get through the doorway.

  “It’s bad luck to open an umbrella inside,” I said, racing around the desk to follow her out. The shrieking wind swallowed the sound of my voice. I watched as she trotted across the rain-slicked street to her black BMW sedan. She aimed a remote key at the driver door and the taillights winked a welcome back. Looking back at me, she smiled and shot me a shaka—the “hang loose” sign.

  I shot her a different hand gesture altogether.

  CHAPTER 2

  Although I’ve lived in Hawaii all my life, I’d only been a wedding coordinator for two years when the foul weather brought my business to a screeching halt. Before that, I’d worked at the usual tourist gigs—luaus, restaurants, that sort of thing. Right out of college I even did a short stint as an air marshal for the Transportation Security Administration. But after less than a year of leg-numbing flights to Tokyo and Taipei I actually found myself hoping a passenger would go postal so I could spring into action. Anyone who knows me will agree: I’m not the poster child for patience.

  What I am is detail-oriented and punctual. I’m also a devoted student of kung fu. My workouts at the kung fu school, or guan, provide a welcome yin to the yang of whining, bitching, and hissy fits I deal with in the bridal business.

  ***

  “You’re kidding,” said my roommate, Steve, as we dug into our thrown-together dinner of stir fry vegetables and rice. “She’s engaged to that guy who disappeared off Kapalua?” His wrinkled brow underscored the disapproval in his voice. “So, in other words, your new client’s doing it ass-backwards—a widow before a bride.”

  I shook my head. “Her guy’s only been missing since last Thursday. He may not be dead, you know. It could turn out his bachelor party just got a little out of hand. And besides, if I hadn’t said ‘yes,’ she’d just have found another planner who’d do it.”

  “He’s toast, Pali. The Coast Guard’s been searching nonstop. It’s been all over the news.”

  I put my full attention to shoveling rice into my mouth with my chopsticks.

  Steve went on. “You know, it’s probably illegal to perform a proxy marriage for someone who’s missing. Anyhow, I sure hope it is. Maybe she’s pulling some kind of tabloid stunt, or a reality show prank. How can you be sure it isn’t a joke?”

  “I’m not sure about much of anything anymore. But paying the mortgage on this house is no joke, and I haven’t booked a wedding in weeks. If I hadn’t taken this client, pretty soon we’d both be looking for new digs.”

  Steve and I share the house I bought in Hali’imaile, a former plantation town on the windward slope of Mt. Haleakala—Maui’s dormant volcano. As cozy as it sounds to have a male roommate, Steve and I aren’t
a couple. Not now, not ever. When Steve answered my ad for a roommate I learned he’s a first-rate photographer, a fabulous cook, and he’d done hair and make-up in Hollywood for both movies and TV. It wasn’t very PC of me to leap to conclusions about his gender preference when I first met him, but in my business, a three-in-one guy’s a treasure. I couldn’t care less about his social proclivities. I offered him the room at rock-bottom rent.

  “What about wedding photos?” he said, clicking his chopsticks together. I was glad to hear he was already considering his role in Lisa Marie’s upcoming nuptials. He went on, “There’s only so much I can do with a camera, you know. The patent on bringing the dead back to life is still held by the Big Guy.”

  “The bride sincerely believes the groom will show up in time for the wedding.”

  “Right,” he said, tossing his head back and splaying his fingers across his cheek in a theatrical pose. “And I sincerely believe I’m the next Leonardo DiCaprio. Maybe I’ll get Marty Scorsese on the horn and let him know I’m ready for my close-up.”

  “Anyway, it’s too soon to plan the photo shoot,” I said, ignoring the dramatics. “So far all we’ve nailed down is the date—Valentine’s Day—and that it’s going to be a small beach wedding. She gave me a thousand dollar deposit, in cash. If it’s a hoax, or he’s a goner, it’s still a house payment. She signed the contract so no matter what, the money’s mine.”

  ***

  At seven o’clock the next morning, the phone rang. Steve picked it up in the kitchen before I’d had a chance to clear my throat and reach for my bedside extension. I heard his voice through the wall.

  “No problem,” he said. “Yeah, Pali told me about your situation. I’m Steve Rathburn, the photographer. I’m sure we’ll be getting together soon.”

  There was a pause.

  “No really, no problem. She usually gets in around nine.”

  Another pause.

  “Okay, I’ll tell her.” There was a final pause before his ‘good-bye.’