Isle Be Seeing You (Islands of Aloha Mystery Book 9) Read online

  ISLE BE SEEING YOU

  By JoAnn Bassett

  ISLE BE SEEING YOU

  Copyright © 2017 JoAnn Bassett

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved.

  This book and its contents are protected by U.S. copyright law and the laws of the nations in which it is published, sold, or distributed, and may not be reproduced, copied or distributed, in whole or in part, without permission from the author and/or publisher, except as expressly permitted under United States Copyright Law.

  First published by JoAnn Bassett

  Lokelani Publishing

  Green Valley, Arizona 85614

  http://www.joannbassett.com

  ***

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author and publisher.

  ISBN-13 - 978-1973852360

  ISBN-10 - 1973852365

  Also by JoAnn Bassett:

  “Islands of Aloha Mystery” Series

  Maui Widow Waltz

  Livin’ Lahaina Loca

  Lana’i of the Tiger

  Kaua'i Me a River

  O’ahu Lonesome Tonight?

  I’m Kona Love You Forever

  Moloka’i Lullaby

  Hilo, Goodbye

  “The Escape to Maui” Series

  Mai Tai Butterfly

  Lucky Beach

  For Susan Cook-Goodwin, a mainland mom with an aloha heart.

  CHAPTER 1

  In a battle between truth and honor, which should win? Most people would pick truth. After all, from the time we can talk we’re scolded for lying. “Don’t lie to me,” is right up there with, “Eat your vegetables,” and “Respect your elders.” So, it takes a bit of doing to challenge that mindset. But should truth always prevail? After what happened in late July, I’m not so sure.

  My new husband and I were headed home from a clinic next to Maui Memorial Hospital, each of us lost in our own private reverie. I say “new husband” because we’d only been married six months. As far as I was concerned, the honeymoon wasn’t over but the clock was definitely ticking.

  We turned mauka, or inland, off the Hana Highway to the Haleakala Highway. The dark bulk of the mountain loomed before us—a vivid reminder we were but a speck in the natural landscape. The depth of our silence was a pretty clear sign neither of us was ready to accept the news we’d been given, much less talk about it.

  Finn flipped the turn signal to make a left onto Hali’imaile Road and I finally spoke up. “When are you due back on O’ahu?”

  “Gotta go tomorrow. I was supposed to be there tonight, but…” He downshifted in lieu of finishing.

  “Yeah. Well, I appreciate you sticking around.”

  He nodded.

  We went inside and I half-heartedly offered to make dinner, but Finn wisely didn’t take me up on it. I’m a lousy cook in the best of circumstances. Given my current attitude, I’d probably poison someone.

  “Think I’ll sleep upstairs tonight,” he said.

  “Seriously? Don’t you think we should talk about this?”

  “What’s there to say? You made it clear what you want and I can’t cut it. If you want to wipe the slate clean, I understand.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You can get an annulment for this kind of thing, you know.”

  “Wait a second. I’ll admit this is—”

  He cut me off. “Look, Pali. I need some time, okay? It’s bad enough as it is. Let’s not make it worse by rehashing it all night long.”

  The next morning Finn crept downstairs before daybreak. I heard the fourth stair creak and hoped he’d come in to say good-bye but then I heard the back door click shut. There were no flights out of Kahului to Honolulu until after seven, so his early departure meant he’d opted for airport coffee over dealing with me. It stung, but I respected his wishes. I like to jump in and get things straightened out. Finn prefers a “time heals all wounds” approach.

  Since this was more Finn’s problem than mine, I was willing to let him call the shots. We’d both been single far into our adult years and we’d grown accustomed to flying solo. Wrangling things out as a couple often got us bogged down in perceived slights and accusations of “you’re not listening.” This was clearly not the best time to strain our already precarious communication skills.

  I got up at six-thirty and slipped on my usual work attire: cropped pants, plain color t-shirt, and rubba slippas. I didn’t take a shower. I ran a hand through my hair attempting to fluff out the “bed head” as I made my way to my car. It wasn’t like me to go to work grubby, but then it wasn’t like me to wallow in self-pity like this, either.

  I considered pulling in at my shop, but kept driving. I’ve been a wedding planner going on four years now. I own my own business, “Let’s Get Maui’d,” and my shop is smack dab in the center of the über-chic hippie enclave of Pa’ia, Maui. When I first moved to the area, the town was mostly known for simply being the last recognizable town on the road to Hana. It was a place where tourists gassed up and picked up a picnic lunch before heading out on the twisting trek to Maui’s nether reaches. Now, it’s cheek-to-jowl with high-priced bikini shops, art galleries, and organic cafés that serve stuff like arugula and kale bruschetta. Go figure.

  I’m thirty-six years old, born and raised in the islands. I was born on Kaua'i. After my mom died and my dad took off for parts unknown, my guardian, who we called Auntie Mana, moved us to Maui. I’ve been here ever since except for the four years I went to the University of Hawaii on O’ahu. The U of H now has a satellite campus here on Maui, but that’s a recent addition.

  I pulled into the alley behind Palace of Pain, the martial arts studio or guan, where I work out. A banged-up black Jeep Wrangler signaled that my sifu, or head instructor, was already there.

  I pushed through the unlocked door. “Aloha, Sifu.”

  “Aloha, Pali. How’d it go?”

  “Not so good.”

  When I failed to go on, he narrowed his eyes in what I covertly call his “Vulcan mind meld” look.

  “What’d the doc say?”

  “It’s not looking promising.”

  He stared, and then raised his palms. “What? Am I gonna need a crowbar to get more than that out of you?”

  “Sorry, Sifu, but it’s hard for me to talk about.”

  “You need tea.”

  He motioned for me to follow him to his office. As I trotted behind him, it occurred to me I’d probably been in that office more times than I’d been in the kitchen of my own house. I’d trained with Doug Kanekoa for over ten years. I’d been in my house in Hali’imaile half that long.

  He began his brewing ritual which was as choreographed as a Japanese tea ceremony. Flip the switch on the electric kettle to boil the water, lift the lid from the pottery wish pot that held his proprietary tea blend and then measure a heaping spoonful of tea leaves for each cup he was brewing. I could tell how long he expected me to hang around by how many cups he made. This time he tapped the spoon against the porcelain teapot four times, so I knew this wasn’t going to be a quick sip and go. He must’ve been gearing up for a speech. I hoped he was expecting to do most of the talking, because I was in no mood to delve into my situation.

  Sifu Doug’s tea is legendary, although it’s totally on the down low. Doug only offers it to those in his innermost circle. It was only when I earned my first black belt that he invited me
to share a cup.

  Rumor has it the blend includes some herbs of questionable origin, but far be it for me to demand the recipe. All I’m willing to say is that I usually finish my cup in a much better mood than I came in with.

  “So, let’s review,” he said. “What exactly did the doctor say?”

  “She found what she called ‘fertility issues’ with Finn.”

  “But you were kind of expecting that, right? I mean, you told me he’d been a paid guinea pig for a nuclear medicine experiment when he was in college. That kind of stuff can mess you up.”

  “True. But we were hoping it hadn’t.”

  “Did the doc say that was the for-sure reason?”

  “No. She said there’s no sure way to know what caused it, but for now, Finn’s sperm count is pitiful.”

  Doug winced at my reference to unmanly-things. “So, now what?”

  “I don’t know, Sifu. We both avoided talking about it last night, and now Finn’s off to O’ahu for the next week or so.”

  He nodded.

  I set my empty cup down on his desk. “Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone, okay? Finn’s having a hard time. He said maybe we should get an annulment.”

  “Whoa, that’s harsh. But no worries on the talkie-talk. I got marriage problems of my own.”

  I looked up. “You and Lani? You guys are as reliable as the tide. What’s going on?”

  Leilani Kanekoa, who everyone calls Lani, was Sifu Doug’s wife and the mother of his two early teens keiki.

  “Seems she’s got somethin’ goin’ on.”

  We’d switched roles. Now he was the reticent one, and I was the one probing for answers.

  “What kind of ‘something’? What are you talking about?”

  “She’s been sneakin’ around. Tellin’ me she’s goin’ someplace and then I find out she never showed up. I’m thinkin’ she’s steppin’ out on me.”

  I blew out a breath. “Okay, look. I’m not sure about much, but I’m a-hundred percent sure that’s not true. Lani and you are like mac salad and rice. I mean, plate lunch is no good without both.”

  “Maybe. But it looks like maybe she’s piling on a second helpin’ of kalua pig. Maybe I’m not enough man for her.”

  I laughed. “Then every dude on this island’s in trouble. Look, I’m not buying it. You need to talk to her.”

  “I’ve tried.”

  “You need to try again. Don’t give up.”

  “I’m givin’ you this strictly on the DL, right? I mean, don’ go sayin’ nothin’ to Farrah or Finn. I jus’ needed to tell somebody.”

  “I’m honored you’d trust me with this, Sifu. And don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul. But I’m positive you’re wrong. Promise you’ll call me as soon as you figure out what’s going on, okay?”

  “Even if she’s doin’ the deed?”

  “Look, you’ve said yourself I’ve got great instincts. And my gut tells me there’s a perfectly logical explanation that has nothing to do with her cheating on you.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am right. And now I want you to go home. I’ll teach the keiki class at two.”

  “But you don’t know what to do.”

  “Oh, come on, Sifu. It’s a bunch of little kids. And their moms. Have a little faith in me.”

  He shot me a tight smile. “If you insist.”

  “I do. Now go home and have a heart-to-heart with Lani.”

  “Mahalo, Pali. I owe you.”

  “Sifu, on the great tally sheet in the sky, I’ve still got hundreds to go.”

  Doug left and I rinsed out our cups and wiped out the hot pot. It was only twelve-thirty. Plenty of time for me to grab a bite to eat before the kiddie class showed up.

  Seriously. How hard could it be to wrangle some little ankle-biters for an hour?

  CHAPTER 2

  After lunch I went back to the guan and saw six cars parked in the alley. That meant I’d be running a class for at least six kids who were hip deep in the throes of the terrible twos and threes, along with their harried mothers. Although an hour earlier I’d brushed it off as a no-brainer, I’d never actually watched one of Doug’s “Keiki Kung Fu” classes so I wasn’t up to speed on the routine. But how hard could it be? I’d lower my voice an octave, growl at them to stand up, sit down, and then assume an easy form Doug had probably already taught them. It’d be like running a dog obedience class for knee-high humans.

  I pushed through the door and was greeted to a roar I’d never heard before at the Palace of Pain. At least a dozen kids chased each other around, shrieking and giggling like they’d just stuffed their faces with Halloween candy and their blood sugar levels were spiking in the red zone. But Halloween was three months away.

  The mothers huddled in a far corner on metal folding chairs. They looked like refugees waiting for UN peacekeepers to show up to get the situation under control. Then it hit me: I was the UN.

  Doug had a canister air horn he’d been given as a joke when he’d been asked to referee a seniors’ martial arts tournament. The horn had actually come in handy as he’d pretty much lost his voice after only a few rounds of officiating at full-volume when the participants kept shouting, “Speak up! Can’t hear you.” I found the air horn in his office and came back out to the practice room and gave it a toot. The blast was ear-splitting.

  The keiki screeched to a halt. The mothers’ heads snapped up as if they were marionettes and someone had jerked their strings. After a beat of stunned silence a few of the younger-looking kids started to sniffle, then a couple of them burst into full-blown tears. One of the bigger boys gently patted a smaller compadre on the back as if to assure him he’d be okay.

  “What the hell?” One of the mothers stood up, hands on hips.

  In a calm voice I said, “Aloha. My name is Sifu Pali, and I’ll be conducting class today. Lesson one: each of you will show respect for the guan by waiting quietly in a sitting position until your sifu directs you to do something.”

  One little girl kept up the waterworks. She glanced over at her mother as if hoping she’d come over and comfort her. Or more likely, she was waiting for mommy to promise her something if she’d knock it off.

  I held up an arm. “Okay, everybody on the floor. Cross your legs and fold your arms across your chest.” I demonstrated folding my arms but I stayed standing.

  The little kids looked from one to the other as if I’d spoken Swahili but I kept my mouth shut. When it dawned on everyone I wasn’t going to elaborate, one of the mothers got out of her chair and sat down cross-legged on the floor. She folded her arms.

  The other mothers followed suit. One by one, they got out of their chairs and down on the floor with their arms folded. A very pregnant mom had a hard time crossing her legs so she tucked them along one side.

  I hadn’t meant for the moms to sit on the floor, but now that they’d done it I wasn’t about to back down. Not one of them looked like she’d suffer much damage by participating in the class. Besides, it gave me an idea.

  The kids drifted over to their mothers and plopped down, legs crossed, arms folded.

  “Okay. Good. Second lesson of the day: obey your mother. Watch what she does and do the same thing. Today your mom will be your honorary sifu, so learn from her.”

  For the next twenty minutes we played a kind of “Simon Says” where I barked a simple instruction, then demonstrated it, and the mothers did their best to keep up. The kids watched and copied their moms. Some moms seemed to be in better shape than the others, but I kept the workout easy and nobody fell behind.

  When we’d gone through every basic form I could think of, I announced that the first part of the class was over. I told the kids to watch carefully as I demonstrated the correct way to show gratitude to their mothers for acting as their sifu. I modeled placing my right fist into the palm of my left hand and lowering my head while keeping my eyes focused forward.

  “Look your sifu in the eye and say, ‘Mahalo, sifu, for you
r time and wisdom.’” I made that last part up. At PoP, adult students offer silent respect to their sifu, but I felt the kids needed to say something.

  The kids solemnly followed suit.

  I asked the moms to “take five” while I divided the kids into groups of four and ordered them to run relays from one end of the practice room to the other. They took off and once again the noise level approached deafening as the team members cheered each other on. When the kids started looking sufficiently winded, I gave the air horn a split-second peep and everyone froze.

  Thankfully, this time nobody freaked out.

  “Mahalo for coming today,” I said. “Sifu Doug had to deal with an ‘ohana matter, but he’ll be back next time.”

  As moms began herding their offspring out to the alley, one of them came up to me. “That was a really good class. Mahalo for stepping in for Doug.”

  “My pleasure. Kids this age sure have a lot of energy.”

  She laughed. “Tell me about it. It was great for you to run them like that. I’ll bet my boy goes down for a nap without a fight for the first time in months.”

  I locked up and drove to my shop. After a half-hour of puttering I hadn’t accomplished much beyond opening the mail and staring blankly at my emails. My thinking kept getting interrupted by thoughts of what was going on with Lani, not to mention my own disappointing news from the day before.

  At three-thirty I closed up and went next door to see Farrah Kingston, my long-time best friend. Since earlier that year, she was also my sister-in-law.

  “Hey, girl,” she said waving at me from the produce section. She was lining up glistening ruby-red tomatoes into neat rows. The sign above them read “Local Tomatoes $5.99/lb.”

  “Seriously? Six bucks for a pound of tomatoes?”

  “They’re organic.”

  “For that price, they should be hallucinogenic.”

  “These little dudes are from Moonbeam Farms up in Kula. People swear they’re the bomb.”

  “The what?”