Isle Be Seeing You (Islands of Aloha Mystery Book 9) Page 5

  I let that hang. I wasn’t about to quiz a guy who was doing me a favor, regardless of his snarky attitude.

  After a couple of beats, he went on. “It’s the ‘Ulupalakua Ranch Store. Their food operation isn’t fancy, but people seem to like it. Especially the burgers.”

  “Do you know when they stop serving?”

  “You’ll have to ask them, but we close at five-thirty. Your party must be off the premises by then.”

  “May I ask how much you’ll charge?”

  “Will you be buying wine from us?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll get some for the wedding dinner and I’ll buy some for the newlyweds to take home.”

  “Are we talking at least a case?”

  “A case is twelve bottles, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy a case.”

  “Then there won’t be a charge.”

  “Mahalo, Bobby. I really appreciate you bending the rules. I wouldn’t be asking if the situation wasn’t desperate. I definitely owe you one.”

  “Ms. Moon? Make sure you allow enough time to get here tomorrow morning. Highway 37 can be slow-going if it’s foggy or you get stuck behind a cattle truck.” He seemed to be warming up a bit. I’ve learned most people actually like helping out as long as they get credit for it.

  “I’ll see you at eight sharp.”

  We hung up and I immediately called Kat.

  I triumphantly crowed, “Great news! I’ve found a wonderful venue.”

  “Okay. Where?”

  “I had to pull a few strings, but I was able to talk Maui Winery into letting us hold your ceremony there.”

  She barked a dry cough. “Nice try, Pali, but I’m sure by now you’ve figured out Alex is hard-core Christian. He doesn’t smoke, swear or drink.”

  “You don’t have to drink. It’s a gorgeous up-country setting and they’ve agreed to let us hold the wedding there even though it’s not something they normally allow.”

  “He still may not go along with it. I’m pretty sure he won’t like the idea of supporting the liquor industry.”

  “You won’t be supporting anything. They’re allowing us to use their beautiful grounds for free, no strings attached. The photos will be spectacular.” Okay, I’d fudged a bit on that one. First, I was going to have to buy a case of wine, so there were strings, and second, I hadn’t been to Maui Winery since they’d changed management several years ago. I mentally crossed my fingers that the grounds and gardens were as lush and manicured as I remembered.

  After obtaining Kat’s grudging promise to do her best to persuade Alex, I clicked off and replayed Finn’s message.

  Sadly, it sounded even more depressing the second time around.

  ***

  I got to bed early Friday night since the next day I’d once again be up before dawn. The winery was in an area of the island called ‘Ulupalakua, where Highway 37 (aka the Haleakala Highway) becomes Highway 31. At that point the road heads east along the extreme south side of Maui. If you choose to stick it out after mile marker twenty-five, it becomes a rough narrow roadway that will take you all the way to Kaupo. After Kaupo the road widens a bit, with less brain-jarring ruts and holes. If you keep going, the road leads to Hana.

  The south side approach is definitely not the usual, nor the easiest, route to Hana and rental car companies threaten everything short of bodily harm to deter visitors from attempting the journey. My little Mini Cooper, with its low-slung suspension and go-kart size tires would probably never make it in one piece and I have no reason to try. Besides, locals in that part of the island value their peace and quiet. I’m pretty sure that’s one reason the state has been reluctant to improve the road.

  The next morning I only had to make it to ‘Ulupalakua, deep in the heart of Maui cattle country. Most visitors would be surprised to learn that Maui is home to some of the largest cattle ranches in the state. Everyone thinks all of the big ranches are on the Big Island, but Maui includes more than fifty thousand square acres of pasture. Our little corner of paradise raises thousands of cattle, providing a substantial percentage of the beef consumed locally.

  In 1793, explorer Captain George Vancouver presented a gift of a few mainland cattle to King Kamehameha on the island of Hawaii. The cattle did so well that by 1820, with their numbers multiplied many times over, they became a nuisance: over-grazing the king’s lands and menacing the local population by tearing up cultivated food crops and charging at unsuspecting people who got in their way. In time, some of those cattle were brought to Maui and became the root stock of the current cattle population.

  Maui’s pastures aren’t flat prairie like Texas. They’re on the hilly, sometimes steep, flanks of Haleakala where grass grows as tall and thick as a cane field. Rounding up the wandering cattle was a problem for the king, so he brought in Spanish-Mexican vaqueros to teach the locals what they needed to know. The result is the modern-day Hawaiian cowboy, or paniolo. Paniolos dress pretty much like their mainland cousins—blue jeans, wide-brimmed cowboy hats, big belt buckles and leather boots.

  I occasionally see paniolos in the upcountry town of Makawao driving dusty pick-ups blasting country music and I can’t help but marvel at how they could be plunked down on a ranch in Midland, Texas and they’d blend right in.

  ***

  On Saturday I awoke at four-thirty and couldn’t get back to sleep. I got up, showered and did a load of laundry. I planned to head out at about six. Since it was the weekend, there wouldn’t be as much truck traffic as on a weekday, but you never know. From Kula, Highway 37 becomes a twisting, two-lane road with little or no shoulder. If there’s an accident or a vehicle breaks down, the back-up can stretch far down the mountain and stay that way until a tow truck is summoned from Kula or even as far away as Kahului.

  The predawn sky sparkled with a splash of stars so bright they seemed within reach. It’s the best time of my day. Nothing but balmy silence. No one demanding the impossible or insisting I resolve a problem I didn’t cause.

  I pulled onto Hali’imaile Road and made my way along the rise and fall of the roadway as it winds through the cane fields to the Haleakala Highway. At the light, I turned left and joined a smattering of traffic—no doubt people headed to the crater. I checked the clock. Five-fifty-seven. Sorry, folks. Too late to make it for the sunrise.

  A few miles beyond Pukalani I peeled off to the right to continue on Highway 37 while others took Highway 377, the access to Haleakala National Park.

  The breeze through the open car windows became cooler as I made the steady ascent. At the junction of Lower Kula Road a sign alerted me to the elevation: 3,208. From sea level to over three thousand feet in twelve miles. No wonder my ears were popping.

  Beyond Kula, signs of civilization—houses, businesses and cars—dwindled to a few here and there. The emerald green vegetation along the roadside grew thick and tall. As the roadway narrowed, shoulders and turn-outs became non-existent. I smoothly took the turns, marveling at the jaw-dropping views of Ma’alaea Bay and the West Maui Mountains. From this perspective, the island I’d called home for almost thirty years seemed strangely unfamiliar, as if I was viewing it standing on my head or in a funhouse mirror.

  Small clusters of cattle huddled by the fence line. The grass was so tall only their heads poked above it. Their beseeching brown eyes made me wish I’d joined Farrah in embracing a vegan diet. I avoided eye contact, but the hairpin twists were now coming closer together so I really didn’t have time to get emotional over their fate anyway.

  I pulled into the parking area at Maui Winery a few minutes after seven, nearly an hour early. The gate to the main walkway was open, so I trudged up the path. The tasting room, which they call “The King’s Cottage,” is a solidly-built white cottage with green shutters and an open porch extending across the front and around the right side. In front of the cottage is a wide, grassy lanai, with a ring of tall wooden figures carved to portray the human form.

  A sign
provided clues to the history of this serene property. In the late-1800’s, Captain James Makee built the cottage as part of his expansive ranch in ‘Ulupalakua. He hosted elaborate parties at the estate, and invited prestigious guests such as King David Kalakaua, Hawaii’s “Merrie Monarch.” King Kalakaua had rescinded the missionary-inspired ban on practicing hula in the islands so when the king visited, Makee made sure a group of the most skilled dancers were on hand to provide entertainment.

  In Kalakaua’s day, the grassy lanai used by the hula dancers was surrounded by a ring of ironwood trees. When the trees were felled decades later, the enormous stumps were carved into figures depicting those long-ago dancers.

  The lush grounds were tidy and ablaze with color. As I inspected a two-foot long string of aqua-colored blooms on a plant I didn’t recognize, a deep voice behind me said, “That’s jade vine. It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

  “I thought jade plants were succulents with oval-shaped leaves.”

  He smiled. “They are. This is jade vine. The devil’s in the details.”

  “Don’t I know?” I stuck out my hand. “Pali Moon, wedding planner.”

  “Ah yes, weddings. Then I guess you would know.” I looked him over as we shook hands.

  He was about five-ten, tanned, with a shock of bleach-blond hair that hung over one eye. Too bad, because his gray-green eyes were shocking both in color and intensity. My husband’s a handsome man, and I’m not the only one who thinks so, but this guy was disarmingly attractive. The kind of dude who’d probably been a beautiful child and was used to having his looks work to his advantage. I made a note to chide Steve about not mentioning the guy looked like a Greek god.

  “I’m Bobby. We spoke on the phone.” His penetrating gaze was unsettling. “I trust you didn’t run into any problems on the way up.”

  “No problems.”

  “Good. Well, if it’s okay with you I’d like to get this wrapped up and get out of here. Tell me about your wedding couple. Do you think they’d enjoy a short tour of our wine operation before the ceremony?”

  How could I tell this guy the groom would start spouting Scripture in support of the Eighteenth Amendment, the one that established prohibition, if he caught even a whiff of the wine-making operation?

  “Uh, no. Mahalo for the offer, but it seems the wedding couple has alcohol issues.”

  “Understood. It’s good when people know their limits, don’t you think? I’ve got a close friend in AA, and I’m in complete support of his recovery.”

  I left it at that.

  He gestured for me to join him. “Why don’t we walk the property and you can decide where you’d like to hold the ceremony. I have two or three places I think might work.”

  At the far edge of the property I looked across the road to the ocean. “Is that Kaho’olawe?”

  “Good eye, Ms. Moon.”

  Kaho’olawe is the uninhabited island off the southwest coast of Maui. At forty-five square miles it’s big enough to support life, but its grim history has left it a literal wasteland. In early times it had a few fishing villages and was home to ancient Hawaiian religious sites. In the middle 1800’s sheep and cattle were brought to the island and allowed to overgraze its sparse vegetation to the point that it became a barren, windswept desert. After the attack at Pearl Harbor, the U.S. Navy began using it as a bombing range. They dropped tons of ordnance. Most of the bombs exploded, but countless numbers didn’t.

  After decades of protests, the military finally stopped the bombing in 2003, and ownership of the island was transferred to the State of Hawaii. The still-live munitions are being cleared and new vegetation is being planted by volunteers but no one really knows if the island will ever fully recover.

  Bobby walked me to a tiny cottage on the property with a sign that read, “The Old Jail.”

  “This was the original owner’s office, but at one time it was used to lock up locals who’d partied a bit too hard.”

  “Not a great visual for a wedding,” I said, pointing to the sign.

  He squinted in confusion.

  I went on. “You know, the ol’ ball and chain. No more freedom for him—that sort of thing.”

  “We could drape something over the sign.”

  “I think they’d like to be outside. With so few people we won’t need chairs or even a roof over our heads. And the view is spectacular.”

  “Okay. What time are we talking about?”

  I didn’t have the heart to admit I hadn’t heard back from Kat whether it was a go or not, so I winged it.

  “Four o’clock. Plenty of time for photos and the ceremony and still be finished before you close.”

  “Excellent,” he said. “Let’s head up to the tasting room so you can select your wine.”

  ***

  Before leaving, I dashed across the street to check out the ‘Ulupalakua Ranch Store but it didn’t open until nine. I peeked through the windows and saw what appeared to be more gift store than ranch supply store. I circled around the ancient plank porch and came upon a huge grill and smoker, along with a series of picnic tables. As Bobby had said, not fancy but homey. If Alex and Kat didn’t like it they’d have to drive down to the Kula Lodge for somewhat fancier fare.

  During the ride down from ‘Ulupalakua I sent up a silent prayer that Kat and Alex would agree to get married at the winery. I didn’t have a Plan B, and anyway this was already Plan B after their disastrous choice of sunrise at the crater. The wedding was now just three days away, meaning I didn’t even have time to get a beach permit, let alone try to book a private location.

  I parked in the alley behind my shop. I was eager to find out what they’d decided but first I needed something to eat. I find it easier to wheedle and cajole on a full stomach.

  Farrah was at the front counter at the Gadda. “Hey, girl. Where’ve you been? I went over to see you.”

  My antennae went up. Farrah rarely left the store during business hours.

  “What’s up?”

  She held up a finger as if to say, “Give me a minute,” as she waited on a woman buying a gallon of milk. When the shopper cleared the door, she plunked down a sign directing customers to pay at the deli counter.

  “C’mon,” she said, steering me to the back.

  “What’s with the cloak and dagger?”

  She leaned in. “Your sifu’s the talk of the town.”

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  Farrah knew Doug, but they weren’t close. Lani Kanekoa shopped at the Gadda so Farrah knew her better.

  “Seems Doug and Lani went nuclear at Chico’s last night,” Farrah said in a whispery voice. “The bartender even called the cops.”

  “That’s crazy.” I recalled Doug’s easygoing attitude at the guan the day before. What could Lani have said or done to rile him?

  “Nah, it’s true. Seems they came in early and ordered a couple burgers. Bartender said Doug had one beer, maybe two. By ten o’clock Lani was totally freaking out. Screaming, throwin’ stuff. She picked up a chair and tried to deck him, and that’s when they called the cops.”

  “Lani threw a chair?”

  “Yeah. Totally out of it. They had to cuff her to get her to mellow out.”

  I’d never seen any evidence of Lani being anything but sweet and kind. At Sifu Doug’s tournaments I’d seen him transform from my laid-back instructor into a bone-breaking combatant but Lani didn’t practice martial arts anymore. In fact, in the whole time I’ve known her, I’ve never seen her exhibit even a hint of anger or frustration.

  “Where is she now?”

  “The cops let her go. Doug said she’d had a bummer day and she just needed to catch some zz’s. But from the story people are tellin’, seems more was goin’ on there than lack of sleep.”

  “Poor Doug.”

  “Yeah, well I figured you’d want to know. You been to the Palace yet?”

  “No, I got up early and went to the winery at ‘Ulupalakua.”

  “Kinda ear
ly to be hittin’ the sauce, don’t you think?”

  “It’s for my wedding on Tuesday. The couple had this lame notion about getting married at the crater at sunrise but that was a non-starter.”

  Farrah crossed her arms tightly. “Brr, total bummer.”

  “Yeah. Steve gave me the idea about the winery. It’s a gorgeous place, but the groom’s got a thing about drinking so I’m not sure they’ll go along.”

  Farrah made a fist with an extended thumb and touched it to her lips. “Lush, huh?”

  “Quite the opposite. Seems drinking alcohol is against his religion.”

  “Muslim?”

  “No, super-Christian.”

  “Whoa. Even the J-man drank wine. Heck, he made wine, right?”

  I wasn’t about to debate religion with a woman who was an ordained minister of the über-liberal Church of Spirit and Light as well as a loyal advocate of several voo-doo practices, so I changed the subject.

  “How are things with your backyard ghost?”

  “The kahu is coming from the Big Island sometime next week. He has to check flights and stuff, but he said he’s cool to go wherever. Have juju, will travel.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  Just then, a knot of bare-chested kite-surfer types banged through the front door.

  “Gotta run before they steal me blind,” said Farrah. But we both knew they’d probably be her best deli customers all day. After a morning out on the water, those guys can wolf down two thousand calories and still claim to be hungry.

  I left, but a half-minute later it hit me. I’d forgotten to mention the call from Finn.

  CHAPTER 8

  On Sunday morning I woke at six-thirty and basked in a moment of bliss before the bubble popped. Kat and Alex would be at the shop at eight o’clock. I’d promised to make it quick so they could make it to nine-thirty church service. I hopped out of bed and into the shower. On my way out the door I grabbed a stale half bagel and munched on it as I careened down Baldwin Avenue.

  I got to town with fifteen minutes to spare so I kept going, pulling into the alley behind Palace of Pain. Sifu Doug’s Jeep wasn’t there, but a shiny red Camaro was. It belonged to Luke, a newly-minted black belt. We rarely trained together so I didn’t know him well, but I’d been a judge at his promotion ceremony so I’d seen Doug hand him a key to the guan. It was an honor our sifu bestowed on every new black belt.