Maui Widow Waltz (Islands of Aloha Mystery Series) Page 5

  I’d made the coffee and settled down at my desk when the phone rang. Glancing at the caller-ID I saw it wasn’t an 808 area code, which meant it wasn’t local. Probably a collection call from the mainland. I took a deep breath and picked up.

  “Morning, Pali.” It was Lisa Marie, singing my name like we were b/f/f. “I found something in a magazine I’m just dying to show you. Can you come by here this morning?”

  I hesitated. I still hadn’t taken the time to sleuth out where she was staying. Now I’d have to wring it out of her.

  “Sure, I can come over. But I’ll need the address.”

  “Check my client folder.”

  I couldn’t believe she was playing that game again. “If you’ll give me the address it’ll save me the time of looking it up. I’ll be able to get there that much sooner.”

  She sighed, and I heard a loud thunk, as if she’d banged the receiver down on a table. A half-minute of murmured voices was followed by the clatter of someone picking up the phone.

  “Hello? Hello?” The voice was tentative, with a slight lilt.

  “Aloha. This is Pali Moon. Who is this, please?”

  “I am Josie. I work here.”

  “Oh. Is Lisa Marie still there?”

  “She here, but she say to tell you where she is. She not know.”

  “Great. What’s the name of the hotel, please?” I said.

  “Is not hotel. Is house.”

  “Okay. She’s staying in a private home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you give me the address?”

  “You know where is Olu’olu?”

  “Yes, over on the west side.”

  Every Maui resident knows Olu’olu. It’s a touchy subject. A supposed ancient Hawaiian burial ground, the entire area bucked development for decades. A single residence had been built there—on a spit of sand jutting into the ocean. The property flagrantly violated about half a dozen building ordinances—from Coastal Commission setbacks to the razor wire-topped fence that runs from the property line all the way down to the ocean preventing public access to the beach. But there’d been no hearings when the building permit had been issued. Rumor had it the house was owned by a mainland mob boss who’d used creative measures to sail through the permit process. Allowances had been made; dissent had been stifled.

  “It is the house on the beach. Across the street from the big banyan tree.”

  “I know exactly where you are. Mahalo.”

  No one I knew had ever been to the house, and even though I’d driven past the property at least a hundred times, I’d never noticed any sign of life. I wondered if the house even had an address other than simply “Olu’olu.” It was so removed from the other homes on Maui’s west shore, I figured it probably had its own ZIP code.

  I arrived at the turn-off to Olu’olu just after eight in the morning. Making a left-hand turn off the Honoapi’ilani Highway during rush hour proved nearly impossible. After sitting with my blinker on and backing up traffic for upwards of a quarter mile, a kind soul coming the other way slowed down and waved me across. I could see his eyes widen in disbelief as he watched my trashed-up Geo turning into the driveway of the purported mobster’s mansion-by-the-sea.

  I inched up to the entry gate. The driveway and gate were the only breaks in an eight-foot tall stucco wall that surrounded the house, hiding the property—and its occupants—from curious passers-by. The gate itself was substantial, made of a verdigris-colored metal, with sculpted dolphins leaping out of intricately fashioned waves. I rolled down my window in anticipation of talking into a square black box which I figured was an intercom.

  “Your name and your business,” a deep baritone voice boomed from the box before I had a chance to say anything. He had what we Hawaiians call a ‘Southern accent,’ which meant he sounded Samoan or Fijian.

  “Pali Moon. Let’s Get Maui’d,” I said, realizing too late he probably just wanted to know the nature of my business, not the name of my shop.

  “Let’s not, and skip right to the honeymoon,” the voice chortled back. I love my business name, but I admit it makes me an easy straight man for every joker on the island. Oh well, I figured the guy deserved a little amusement. It can’t be much fun manning a rarely-used guard gate for the Sopranos.

  “I’m here to talk with Lisa Marie Prescott about her wedding.” I said with a certain amount of anxiety. Why was Lisa Marie staying here? Was Brad Sanders a mobster, and his high-tech gig just a cover?

  The gate creaked open and I drove through. It didn’t ease my tension to look in my rearview mirror and see the gate silently closing behind me.

  The house was stunning. It perched on a patch of land surrounded on three sides by the crashing surf. Apparently the architect had designed the home to take full advantage of the setting by creating a floor plan that followed the curve of the peninsula. The driveway circled around so you entered on the right, drove up to a flagstone apron by the front door, and then by continuing to the far left side you’d be poised to exit back out to the roadway. I parked my ancient green Geo Metro at the outermost left edge, as far out of sight as possible.

  As I walked to the front door, I felt someone watching. I glanced up, but spotted no visible cameras. I looked out toward the beach, but saw no one—just frothing surf, glistening gold sand and an azure sky dotted with cottony clouds.

  The massive double front doors were carved from slabs of koa wood. Koa forests, once plentiful in Hawaii, are now nearly depleted and the wood is rare and spendy. An eight by ten koa picture frame can set you back a hundred bucks. I approached the right-hand door and it opened before I could search for a door bell.

  “Aloha and welcome,” said a child-sized woman in a black maid’s uniform. “Come in. Miss Prescott be out soon.” She slightly rolled the “r” in Lisa Marie’s last name, and that, plus her diminutive stature, had me pegging her as a Filipino. Not that anybody cares much about ethnicity in Hawaii. Most people pride themselves on being what we call “poi dogs”—a mixture of this and that. Racially, everyone pretty much gets along.

  She showed me into a sunny room with a soaring heavily-beamed ceiling and a glass wall only yards from the crashing surf. There was a spacious flagstone lanai off to the right. I couldn’t help but wonder what a tsunami would do to a place so close to the water, but it certainly was a spectacular setting. A trio of rattan-sided sofas, cushioned in a sunny yellow Hawaiian print, had been placed at a U-shape to take full advantage of the view. The pale golden walls and egg yolk-colored carpet gave the light-infused room the feeling of an architectural smiley face.

  “Would you like tea?” The maid gestured toward a Chinese-style pottery tea service, as if encouraging me to say ‘yes’ by showing the tea was already prepared.

  “Thank you. That would be lovely.” I tend to slip into a snooty vernacular when in the presence of gobs of money. It was all I could do to keep my pinky finger from flipping up as I lifted the tea cup from the ebony tray.

  After the obligatory five minutes of making me wait for her grand entrance, Lisa Marie walked in lugging a foot-high stack of glossy magazines. She nodded a quick greeting and dumped her load onto the coffee table. Then she plucked the most recent issue of Hawaii Bride from the top of the pile.

  “See this?” She said as she flipped to a page marked with a dog-eared corner. She laid the magazine open on her lap and pointed to an article describing the tradition of the bride folding one-thousand origami cranes before her wedding. “I like this idea. I want oregano cranes.”

  “It’s pronounced ‘origami’ and I’m afraid we don’t have enough time for that, Lisa Marie. Did you read what the cranes represent?”

  She gave an evasive shrug. I leaned over and read aloud the caption under a photo montage of four artfully framed origami crane collections.

  “The origami crane keepsake keeps alive an ancient Japanese tradition whereby the bride presents the groom with one-thousand origami cranes demonstrating her patience and attention
to detail. The groom folds one more as a promise of fidelity.”

  “Fine,” she said, slapping the magazine closed. “I need you to get me one of those crane picture thingies for my wedding.”

  I closed my eyes and took in a full breath, pulling my diaphragm up tight under my ribcage. It was a pre-fight exercise I’d learned from Sifu Doug to center my mind and allow me to appear calm when faced with a daunting opponent.

  “The bride makes the cranes, Lisa Marie,” I said, slowly releasing air through my nose. “One thousand tiny perfectly folded cranes made of fragile gold-colored origami tissue. It normally takes a bride-to-be months and months to finish.”

  “It’d go a lot quicker if she hired some people.”

  “You don’t hire people,” I said, silently adding the ‘you idiot’ that so naturally followed. “It’s your job. The point of folding the cranes is to prove to your husband, and his family, that you have what it takes to be a good wife. It’s not something you phone in.”

  “You promised me a perfect wedding. Well, it won’t be perfect without a crane picture. So get with it and find me some origami folders. I’ll pay them fifteen bucks an hour if they get it done by next Tuesday.” She stood up and headed for the French doors before I had a chance to protest.

  “Oh, and by the way,” she said, turning back to face me. “I know all about the Coast Guard calling off the search for Brad. But I’m not worried. He’s not in the water anyway. I had a dream last night. He was walking along a trail, high above the ocean. He wasn’t even wet. In the dream he told me he has some stuff he needs to do, so he wants me to keep getting everything ready for our wedding.”

  I just nodded because no suitable comment came to mind.

  Changing the subject I asked, “When are your parents arriving?”

  “Tomorrow. Oh, and that reminds me, I’m going to need a ride to the airport. Daddy will have his car that’s in storage delivered to the terminal, so you won’t have to bring us back here, but I want to meet his plane when it lands.”

  “No problem,” I said. “What time does the flight arrive?”

  “I think he said around noon.”

  “So when would you like me to pick you up?”

  “Be here at eleven-fifteen. I don’t want to have to hang around the airport too long.”

  “How many people will be arriving with him?”

  “You’re sure nosy. What do you care? I already said we’ll have our own ride back here.”

  “True, but I’ll be bringing aloha leis. I need to know how many to get.”

  She blew out an exasperated breath. “Bring a dozen. There won’t be that many people, but my dad’s wife will probably glom on to three or four. She’s kinda greedy.”

  Half an hour later, as I was waiting to make the turn off the highway to go toward Pa’ia, I had a flash of brilliance.

  I pulled out my cell phone and punched in a number.

  After fives rings, it went to voicemail. Akiko’s message left no doubt she wouldn’t be coming to the phone. You leave your numba and I call you later. My daughter still not have that baby, and I busy making a bride dress. Aloha.

  I flipped the phone closed, changed lanes and made a furtive U-turn. As I neared Akiko’s house, I saw two little boys out front. The girl who’d come into the kitchen last Thursday was sitting on the top porch step, her head propped on her fist. She looked like she’d been stationed there to watch over her younger siblings who were busy hurling toys at each other in the yard below.

  “Hi,” I said, as I passed by her on my way to the front door.

  “Hi,” she said in a tiny voice that split the middle between talking to strangers and prudently ignoring them.

  “Is your grandmother at home?”

  “My tutu said not to bother her.”

  “I know. I need to ask her something really quick. My name’s Pali, and I’m the person who hired your tutu to make the wedding dress.”

  “You’re getting married?” She said it with incredulity as if I didn’t, by any stretch of her childhood imagination, fit her vision of a dewy-eyed bride.

  “No. I’m the wedding planner. I help the bride get ready for the wedding.”

  “I’m Kalani,” she said with a little bow of her head. “Those are my brothers.” She pointed to the two boys who were now rolling on the ground grappling with each other.

  “I’ll watch the boys for you if you’ll go in and tell your tutu I’m here.”

  “She might get mad.”

  “True. Well, here’s the deal: actually, I need to ask you something, not her, but I don’t think I should talk to you about it until I get your tutu’s permission. Could you just tell her that Pali’s here to offer you a job?”

  Her small face scrunched in distress, as if she couldn’t decide which was worse: risking her tutu’s ire or not learning about a possible job offer.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said. “You tell those boys to stop hitting.”

  I looked down into the yard and saw a full-blown fistfight in progress. I bounded down the steps.

  “Hey, hey. What’s going on here?”

  The smaller boy had sunk his teeth into the larger boy’s forearm. The big boy howled in protest, but didn’t seem to be making much of an effort to pull his arm away.

  “You hungry?” I said to the little biter. “You can choose. Keep chomping on your brother, or have some gum.” I held out a half-pack of fruit-flavored Trident I’d dug out of my purse.

  “No fair,” the older boy screeched.

  The little boy glanced toward the house, then snatched the gum and put it in his shorts pocket.

  “And for you,” I said, rummaging through my sizeable beach bag satchel. I came up empty in the candy and gum department, so I scavenged some coins from the bottom. “Money.”

  The bigger boy shot out his arm and grabbed the change just as Akiko appeared on the porch.

  “What you doing here?” she said. “I not done with this dress. Maybe I never get done with these keiki making all this kulikuli.”

  The boys hung their heads, but I saw impish grins forming as they flicked their eyes back and forth to each other.

  “Akiko. I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to ask if your granddaughter might like to help out a little with a wedding.”

  Akiko looked fierce. “She’s busy watching the boys.”

  “I can see that. But this is a job she could do while she watches them, and maybe a few of her friends could help.”

  At the mention of involving friends, Kalani perked up.

  I told them I had a client who needed help folding her one thousand origami cranes. I avoided mentioning it was Lisa Marie, since she and Akiko hadn’t seemed to hit it off too well.

  “Do you know how to fold a perfect origami crane?” I bent down to look Kalani in the eye.

  She sniffed as if I’d asked if she could count to ten.

  “Great. Well, this client will pay a quarter for every perfect crane you and your friends make. You’ll need to get the gold paper they use for the wedding cranes, and you and your friends will need to finish one thousand of them by next Tuesday. Do you want to do it?”

  “Can I, tutu? Please, please.”

  “I thought you say the bride need help with the cranes. But you got the kids folding all of them?”

  I shot her a puckish smile.

  “I will ask her mother,” Akiko said, throwing up her hands as she turned toward the door.

  Akiko’s daughter called me on my cell a half-hour later. She’d talked with a few of Kalani’s friend’s mothers and they’d lined up six girls from her Girl Scout troop who were eager to earn summer camp money. She told me the girls were already at work practicing their folding technique. One of the girl’s fathers—a Hawaiian Airlines pilot—had agreed to pick up the special origami paper in Honolulu and would bring it home on his last flight into Kahului that evening.

  I pulled into the alley behind my shop feeling like a hero. Nice moment, but
short lived. Noni Konomanu’s fancy black car was parked in my spot. I double parked, blocking her exit. Now she’d have to back all the way down the narrow alley to get out of there.

  A few minutes later, after I’d heard what she’d come for, I reconsidered my rudeness. I shouldn’t have blocked her in; I should’ve taken a baseball bat to her windshield.

  CHAPTER 6

  I entered the Gadda-da-Vida Grocery and quickly spotted Noni and Farrah in the far reaches of the produce section. I listened, but heard nothing. I made my way back there and found them staring each other down like a couple of tomcats.

  “Hey, you two. What’s up?” I said.

  “Nothing,” said Farrah in a clipped voice. She held the small paring knife she used to trim lettuce, and she was clenching the handle so tightly her knuckles were white.

  “Oh, I beg to differ,” said Noni. “I’m glad you showed up, Pali, because this concerns you as well. I stopped over at your shop but you must have popped out for a latte.” Her snotty attitude forced me to throw her my fiercest glare.

  “I don’t have time for lattes. Managing a successful bridal business requires a lot of running around handling details.”

  “I’m sure running a successful bridal business requires a lot of running around, but I think in your case any time crunch is most probably due to a lack of organizational skills.” She shot me a simpering grin. “Anyway, Mr. Sherman asked me to come by and talk to Farrah about his plans to buy this building. He also said if I saw you I should let you know he’s been in touch with the mortgage lender on your house up in Hali’imaile. He’s going to be putting in a bid on it at the first possible opportunity.”

  Taunts don’t rile me much. Well, anyway, that’s what I’d like people to think. In my younger years I might have gasped, or talked trash back at her, but I’d trained myself to simply offer a steady stare when attacked. I hadn’t quite mastered keeping my blood pressure from shooting up, though, and I wondered if my cheeks were flaming.