JoAnn Bassett - Islands of Aloha 07 - Moloka'i Lullaby Read online

Feeling vastly relieved that the good folks at the HNL inter-island terminal were doing their part in fighting the “Global War against Terror,” I speed-walked across the tarmac.

  CHAPTER 19

  It was way past lunchtime when I landed at Ho’olehua Airport, and my stomach was putting up a racket loud enough to draw attention. I hadn’t eaten since my few bites of yogurt that morning, and the diet soda I’d drunk while waiting for the cab to show up wasn’t helping.

  Luck was with me because Sifu Doug’s friend’s blue Geo was still in the airport parking lot, just where I’d left it. I was anxious to find out what had happened at George’s last night, but if I wanted anything to eat, I’d need to go to Kaunakakai first. I got a kid’s meal from the drive-thru at Molokai Burger and then headed west on Highway 460. By going just a tad over the forty-five mph speed limit, I managed to get to Malama’s house in Maunaloa in less than half an hour.

  I pulled up at Malama’s and my phone chimed.

  It was Amanda. As usual, she didn’t identify herself but I was beginning to recognize the LA phone number.

  “Don’t bother coming over,” she said. “”Cuz I won’t be here. I’m leaving this horrible place and going back to LA.

  “How’s Richard doing?”

  “Didn’t you hear? They flew him to a hospital in Honolulu, but then they called this morning and said he’d had a heart attack.” Her voice was calm. Like she was telling me her fiancé had dribbled gravy on a silk shirt and the stain probably wasn’t going to come out.

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  “Not hardly,” she said. “He died.”

  “At the hospital?”

  “I guess so,” she said.

  “I’m so sorry. And you weren’t there. Wouldn’t they let you go with him?” I said.

  “I didn’t ask. When the ambulance got here last night they said they were just taking him in for observation. Then they left. It wasn’t like I had time to get myself ready or anything.”

  I was so stunned by her lack of emotion I wondered if she grasped the gravity of the situation. Maybe she was in shock. I hate talking about emotional things on the telephone. It’s tough to guess how another person is feeling without seeing their reaction.

  “Amanda, Richard’s gone,” I said in a low voice. “Forever. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Nah, I’m fine. But there’s no reason for me to hang around here any longer.”

  It took me a beat to think of something appropriate to say, but my thoughts were interrupted by a loud banging on Amanda’s side of the call.

  Amanda muttered an unladylike expletive, and then said, “Creepy George is at the door. I’m outta here.”

  The line went dead.

  I thumbed the “end call” button and got out of the car. Malama hadn’t come out of her house, but I knew I was at the right place because Lono’s distinctive red truck was parked in the driveway.

  As I approached the house, I felt a pang. How much did I owe any of these people—Amanda, Richard, Malama or Lono? I’d only met Amanda nine days earlier. My best friend was ill in a Honolulu hospital, and I’d left before finding out just how sick she was. I chastised myself for getting sucked into yet another family drama simply because I’d agreed to plan a wedding. If I was smart, I’d get back in the car and call Malama and advise her to hire an attorney. Then, I’d drive back to the airport and catch the next flight back to Honolulu.

  But I didn’t go back to the car. I couldn’t. It simply isn’t in my nature to walk away from someone in need. I hadn’t known Richard well, but I felt a twinge of responsibility for him. His gold-digger fiancée may have written him off, but I hadn’t. And what about Malama? I’d pulled her and Lono into this quicksand; wasn’t it my obligation to help them find their way out?

  I went up the three wooden steps to the door and knocked.

  ***

  Malama came to the door. Her eyes were red; her face sagged. I realized I’d never seen her when she wasn’t smiling and, without her smile, she looked a decade older.

  “I see Leonard’s here,” I said, pointing to the truck.

  She gestured for me to come in and take a seat. Her house was sparsely furnished, but spotless. I saw a worn path leading from the front door to the kitchen in the old plank floor and wondered how many times Lono had come in and made a beeline for something to eat at his mom’s house.

  “He’s not here,” she said. “He came over last night and asked if he could borrow my car.”

  “Why?”

  “Everybody knows his truck. He said he needed some time to think before he talked to the cops.”

  “But won’t the police recognize your car?”

  “I drive a little silver Toyota. We got lots of those on this island,” she said. “And, guess what? The police called a few minutes ago. They want me to come down to Kaunakakai.”

  “To the police station? Why?”

  “I s’pose they’re looking for Leonard and they think I know where he is. Or, maybe they want to ask me about Amanda and Richard. Everybody in town knows I was helping with that wedding.”

  “You heard Richard died this morning?” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said, nodding. “That’s even more bad news for my boy.”

  “Amanda called. She’s going back to the mainland,” I said.

  “She’s taking Mr. Atkinson home to be buried?” Malama said.

  Since I hadn’t asked, I decided to give Amanda the benefit of the doubt. “I suppose so.”

  “She told the police my Leonard pushed him in.”

  “I know. That’s what she told me, too. But you don’t think so?” I said.

  “Of course not. Why’d he do somet’ing like that? Last night I asked him what happened and he said he didn’t have nothin’ to do with it. He said Mr. Atkinson just fell in by accident.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I’m his momma; of course I believe him.”

  “Are you going to drive the truck down to the police station?” She’d need a stepladder to get into the cab of Lono’s truck.

  “No, I’m gonna have to call a cab. I can’t drive a stick.” Her face crumpled and she swiped tears from the corners of each eye. “Why would that girl say that about my boy? What’s gonna happen to him now?”

  I offered to take her to the police station. I told her I’d bring her back home after she was finished. I warned her to eat something before we went because I’d done my share of police interviews and it usually takes hours.

  “What you gonna do while I’m in there?” she said.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll keep myself busy.” I had no idea how I’d pass the time.

  We got in my car and she directed me to the main police station in Kaunakakai. It was in the Mitchell Pauole Center on Ainoa Street. The one-story building was painted yellow-brown; a color reminiscent of Dijon mustard that’s used on many State of Hawaii government buildings. Only a color-blind person would pay good money for paint like that, but I had a hunch the taxpayers of Hawaii had paid plenty.

  I went to fill up the Geo at one of the two gas stations in town. It amazed me that on an island of some two hundred sixty square miles, with more than seven thousand people, there are only two gas stations—and they’re two blocks apart. Consequently, there isn’t much competition and regular gas goes for over five bucks a gallon. I went inside to see if I could pay using my phone. My cash and credit cards were in my wallet, which if I was lucky, was still joy-riding around O’ahu in the back of a taxicab.

  “We don’t got that phone pay thing here,” said the clerk behind the counter of the gas station.

  What was I going to do? The Geo’s gas gauge needle had slid onto “E” yesterday. I hadn’t had time to fill up before Hatch called about Farrah’s seizure. I’d left the car at the airport, promising myself I’d send a check to Sifu Doug’s friend to pay for gas and thank him for the loan of the car.

  I walked back outside to move the Geo out of the way
of other people who’d pulled in and were waiting to fill up. At the next pump over, on the opposite side, I glimpsed a crown of yellowish-white hair sticking out at all angles. The guy had his back to me and was opening the door of a black Range Rover when I called out.

  “George? Is that you?”

  The guy peered through the gap between the pumps, his eyes wary.

  “Ah, hello there,” George said. He nodded and kept moving, like when you don’t want to appear rude, but you don’t want to engender further conversation, either.

  I dashed through the gap and tapped him on the arm. He jerked back, as if my mere touch might soil his clothing.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “But I must be going.”

  “George, remember me? I’m Pali Moon. I’m the wedding planner who was coordinating Richard and Amanda’s wedding at your house. I’m so sorry to hear about the loss of your friend.”

  “Of course I remember you,” he said. “And thank you for the condolences. It was quite a shock.” He gave me a wan smile and took a step back, as if to prevent future bodily contact.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I have a bit of a problem,” I said.

  He eyed me like a Waikiki tourist glaring at a panhandler blocking the sidewalk, but he said nothing.

  I went on. “You see, I lost my wallet in Honolulu, in a cab. I’ll be going back there today, but I’ve promised to give a friend here a ride back to Maunaloa, so I really need to get some gas in this car.”

  “You’re hitting me up for gas money?” he said. “What a novel request.”

  I wasn’t sure if that boded well or ill for me, so I decided to play it straight. “Yes, I’d really appreciate even a gallon or two. I’ll reimburse you when I get back to Honolulu.”

  “I don’t want your money,” he said. “Where’s your car?”

  I pointed through the gap at the Geo.

  He cringed. “That is your personal automobile?”

  “No, it’s a loaner. As you may recall, I live on Maui.”

  “Ah, yes. I’d forgotten.”

  He extracted a credit card from a black eel-skin wallet. “Go ahead and fill it,” he said. “When you’re finished, the contents of the gas tank will no doubt be worth more than the car.” He chuckled at his witty observation.

  The pump stopped at a tad over fifty bucks. The Geo tank only held ten gallons, so it appeared I’d been running on fumes even longer than I’d thought.

  “Mahalo nui,” I said, then I translated, “Thank you so much. I’ll send you the fifty-two dollars. I’m not a mooch.”

  George smiled. “I haven’t heard anyone use that word for years. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  I was taken aback by his offer, but I agreed. After all, I had at least another hour to kill before Malama would be finished at the police station.

  “That’d be great,” I said.

  “Do you mind taking a walk while we drink it? My doctor tells me I don’t get enough exercise.”

  I wasn’t sure what his motives were, but one great thing about holding a black belt in martial arts is I’m never too worried about being overpowered by a man. Especially a paunchy crazy-haired guy in his seventies.

  We parked our cars on the street, and I followed him back over to the gas station. I was skeptical of drinking gas station coffee since Auntie Mana always told us, “Don’t eat where your car does,” but it turned out to be surprisingly good.

  “Let’s walk down the dock,” he said, gesturing to the long Kaunakakai pier extending out into the bay. The pier was so wide cars and trucks could drive on it, but there was also a dedicated sidewalk.

  “Sounds good,” I said. I still wasn’t clear on his motives, but what harm could come to me in the middle of the afternoon on a bustling wharf? Even if he threw me in the water, it was a short swim back to shore.

  We walked in silence, passing two old guys fishing and a kid toting a bucket of ice. Finally, George spoke.

  “I didn’t tell the police this, but I feel somewhat responsible for Richard’s death.”

  “How so?” I said.

  “Well, as you’ve probably heard, he and I had a bit of a row, and he was angry when he left the house.” He glanced at me as if judging my reaction. “But in my defense, he left me with one hell of a mess.”

  I murmured a little sound in my throat that stands for, “Please, go on.”

  “After all these years, I thought I knew Richard. I figured we were, as they say, ‘birds of a feather,’” he said. “But it seems he got the last laugh.”

  I could hardly imagine that dying of a heart attack constituted any kind of laughing matter, but I didn’t respond. Instead, I took a sip of coffee.

  “And that horrible young woman,” George went on. “What kind of rock did he turn over to find that one? Imagine, her still being married, but trying to get her hooks into Richard anyway.”

  “What?” I spun around to face him and nearly dropped my coffee. Was he kidding?

  “Watch it,” he snapped. “This shirt is a Reyn Spooner classic. Cost me nearly thrice as much as that gas I put in your car.”

  “She’s already married to someone else?” I said. I did my best to avoid spitting coffee on his fancy shirt, but I was flat-out sputtering.

  “Yes, she is,” George said. “When this whole thing with Richard and the art forgeries came to light, I decided to do a little digging. I hired a private investigator. And what do you know? It turns out his sexy little plaything has been married twice before to doddering old fools. The first died in his sleep only a few months after their nuptials. The second is still on life-support. Seems she spent the greater portion of his money and then high-tailed once she’d latched onto Richard.”

  Ah, so maybe that’s why Amanda was so skittish about getting the marriage license. Perhaps she was afraid her current marital status would pop up on the computer.

  “What’s the story on the forgeries?” I said.

  “Ah, that. As you probably know, we’re art dealers,” he said. “We’ve got galleries in major art markets around the world: Tokyo, Paris, New York, Los Angeles, and so on. We built the business from nothing.”

  His voice softened. “It was tough going, in the beginning. We put up everything we had to buy a few paintings from middle-of-the road artists. Richard was great at promotion. The guy could crash an A-list party and work the room like he owned the place.”

  He chuckled, ostensibly remembering happier times.

  “Anyway,” he went on. “After about ten years, we hit it big with an unknown artist. You ever hear of Ivan Raminsky? A Russian, but still a decent enough guy. His work took off in the mid-seventies when the Cold War was raging. Bobby Fisher had just beat the Ruskies at chess, and everyone wanted a shot at the commies. Ivan defected as a political refugee and became the darling of the Western art world. Our gallery in New York suddenly became the ‘it’ place because we represented him. Our events and openings were like red carpet affairs. It was heady stuff.”

  By now, we’d reached a wide metal gate near the end of the pier. From that point on, Homeland Security took over since cargo barges and ships from around the world docked there. Outside the gate, a wide parking area had been built for the dock workers’ cars, and to allow space for fisherman.

  We sat on a bench and looked back at Kaunakakai. The four-block town appeared to be no more than a wide spot in the road; the hills behind looming like a furrowed brow. The green mounds were dappled by sun and shadow from passing clouds, creating an ever-changing scene of peace and serenity. From this perspective, the island appeared to be a living, breathing being. It wasn’t hard to imagine why the people of Moloka’i hold fast to the literal meaning of the Hawaiian term for a native-born person: kama’aina. Kama means “child” and ‘aina is “land.” As children of the land, those born and raised here are obliged to respect the environment with the same reverence we extend to our elders.

  “So, anyway,” George continued, “Richard and I opened new galleri
es, and built up a rather impressive reputation. For the next thirty years, we handled all the major names. We have well-connected clients who will only buy from us. That’s why Richard’s lapse is so unforgivable.”

  “What’d he do?” I said.

  “It’s what he didn’t do. He was so smitten with this tramp—this bigamist tramp, I might add—that he failed to perform the proper due diligence on six works he acquired. These weren’t silly works by unknown nobodies, mind you. These were major acquisitions.”

  “And they turned out to be forgeries?”

  “Precisely. Rather clumsy forgeries, to my way of thinking. But he’d already sold and shipped them before I had a chance to weigh in.”

  “He must’ve been really embarrassed when it came to light,” I said.

  “That’s the strange nut of it,” he said. “He didn’t seem all that concerned. He told me to ‘get a grip’ and ‘calm down’ and such twaddle. In the fifty-odd years we’ve been in business together I thought I’d seen all sides of the man: charming, high-spirited, vigilant, but I’d never seen him lackadaisical. Quite frankly, it shocked me.”

  “So, the fight you and Richard had last night was about the forgeries?”

  “Yes, and other things as well. He said he’d make things right on that account, but when I brought up what I’d learned from the private investigator about his so-called fiancée, he became livid—claimed it was all rubbish. I countered if he didn’t want to believe me, that was his right. But I was unwilling to host a charade wedding in my own home. I told him they’d have to leave.”

  “And that was the last time you spoke with him?”

  “I’m afraid so. He flew out of the house and down the walkway like a man possessed. It’s black as sin out there at night. He must’ve gotten himself turned around.”

  “Where was Amanda while all this was going on?”

  “I assume she was in the ohana. I didn’t see hide nor hair of her until she started screaming that Richard had toppled into the pool.”

  “She was the one who found him?”

  “It appears so. She must’ve heard the splash. You know, the ohana is right next to the pool area.”