Lana'i of the Tiger (The Islands of Aloha Mystery Series) Read online

  I got so wrapped up in my homeward-bound reverie that, even with the steep incline, I came upon the scenic lookout sooner than I’d expected. I slowed to a walk and went to the edge to admire the view. Below was the vast green canyon known as Maunalei Gulch. The gal at the museum said there were folks working down there restoring the area to the way it was when the ancient Hawaiians lived and worked in the gulch. Beyond the gulch was the Au’au Channel between Lana’i and West Maui. As I gazed at Maui’s craggy mountains silhouetted against an iridescent blue sky, my throat tightened. My sense of longing was so fierce it felt as if someone was pressing a fist into my chest.

  Oh yeah, it was definitely time to go home.

  CHAPTER 8

  The jog back down the Munro Trail took a lot less time than the trip up. Of course I was heading downhill, but I was in such good spirits after deciding to go home, it probably would’ve felt easy even if I’d been scaling a sheer rock cliff.

  The Lodge at Koele came into view and I saw the shuttle van heading down the driveway, back toward Lana’i City. That meant I had at least a thirty-minute wait for the next one. I’d already been gone almost two hours, so rather than wait I kept jogging down the road back into town.

  I arrived at the White Orchid out of breath but within minutes of the time on the ‘be back by’ sign. I unlocked the door and went inside. Tyler was nowhere in sight. The message light on the answering machine was blinking, so I quickly dialed the retrieval number.

  You have three messages, the voicemail lady said in her no-nonsense tone. First message, left today at three fifty-three. “Hello? We’d like to make a reservation? Hello?” The message abruptly halted.

  Next message, left today at four twenty-nine, “Hello, we’re the Bowman family. We’re down here at the ferry dock and we’d like to know if you have room for us this evening. Party of four. Two adults and two kids. Please call.” They left a phone number.

  Next message, left today at four-thirty-five, “Hey, it’s us again, the Bowmans. We’re going to grab a shuttle bus and come up there since we haven’t heard from you. If you don’t have room we’ll go up to the Hotel Lana’i, but we’d rather stay at your B and B. See you soon.”

  I looked out the window and spied a bedraggled little band of mother, father and two small boys coming into the front courtyard. I dashed out to meet them.

  “I’m so sorry I missed your calls,” I said. “I was away for a couple of hours. I was just about to call you back.”

  “Not to worry,” the father said. “We decided on a whim to take a quick trip over here from Maui. We’re just staying one night. Can you put us up? I’m Ross, and this is my wife, Sarah, and our boys, Miles and Morrie.” Miles looked about six and Morrie looked a year or two younger. Both had curly brown hair that nearly reached their shoulders. Even with their girlish mops of hair, their faces signaled they had the naughty boy thing down cold. Don’t listen to that guy, their smirking expressions told me, we’re the ones in charge.

  “Ho’okipa to the White Orchid Bed and Breakfast,” I said. “Yes, we have a nice quad room available this evening.”

  Ross came inside and looked around. I helped Sarah lug an overstuffed carry-on bag through the door, and then held the door open for the boys. One of them (I wasn’t about to worry about figuring out who was who for a one-night stay) stomped his sneaker onto my bare foot as he came through the door. I winced, but didn’t give him the satisfaction of crying out.

  I checked them in and while I was explaining the amenities, the boys ran screaming through the great room and down the hall toward the guest rooms. They seemed to be playing some kind of ‘tag.’ It would have been a good way to burn off steam out in the yard, but not so good inside the house. When one little guy toppled a stained-glass floor lamp, Sarah turned to me and said, “Maybe you should put away some of these fussy things. The boys could get hurt.”

  I picked up the lamp and checked the shade. Nothing broken, but I placed it behind the computer desk to make it appear I was concerned for the boys’ safety.

  I asked what time the boys went to bed so I could bring them graham crackers and milk, but Sarah told me the boys kept their own schedule.

  “We don’t want to crush their spirit with arbitrary rules,” she said. “Ross and I are raising the boys according to the Archway Method. Have you heard of it?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t have children.”

  “Well, when you do, you’ll want to look into Archway,” she said. “It’s the only technique out there that guarantees strong, self-confident children who will grow into mentally and emotionally capable adults. We don’t use words like ‘no’ or ‘you must’ or ‘you should’ with the boys. This allows them to rely on their own inner voice to make good decisions. Gordon Arch—he’s the psychologist who came up with the Archway Method—is a genius. He says children raised according to his program will grow up free of self-doubt. And that’s important, because self-doubt is the root cause of depression, drug use and rebellion.”

  Maybe so, but at that moment the boys were demonstrating their lack of self-doubt by shimmying up the woven bamboo draperies in the great room. Each boy had taken a panel and was trying to beat the other in a race to the top.

  Bam! A drapery panel separated from the rod holding it, and one of the boys crashed onto the hardwood floor below.

  He started crying. The second boy, still gripping his own drapery panel, began cat-calling his brother. “Crybaby, Morrie. Crybaby, crybaby!”

  “Oh, my sweet boy,” Sarah cooed as she ran over to pick up the wailing Morrie. Meanwhile, the drapery rod supporting Miles had pulled away from the wall and he was beginning to lose his grip. He slipped and landed with a thump.

  “Mama Sarah,” he screamed. “What about me? I fell too!”

  But Sarah’s attention was fully focused on Morrie. She gently prodded his knee. “Does that hurt, honey?” He shrieked and slapped his mother’s hand away.

  “You know,” she said, shooting me a look that would freeze alcohol, “this establishment is unsafe for children. You shouldn’t advertise this place as ‘family-friendly’ if you haven’t childproofed everything. Your website should be labeled, ‘adults only’.”

  She’d get no argument from me.

  The boys calmed down and I guided the family back to the large quad guest room to settle in. The room included bunk beds and immediately the boys began squabbling over who got the top bunk.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to work things out,” I said as I inched toward the door. “Let me know if you need anything.” Like a rolled-up newspaper to swat some ‘self-doubt’ into those little monsters.

  The Bowman family left for dinner soon afterward. I nuked myself a frozen burrito and went to bed early. No use trying to salvage an unsalvageable day.

  CHAPTER 9

  I woke up early on Tuesday and hustled out to the kitchen to make breakfast for the Bowmans. I wasn’t sure what the boys would eat. Would Sarah insist on organic steel-cut oatmeal, or would the boys prevail and clamor for Fruit Loops? I split the difference and made a breakfast sausage, egg and cheese casserole—one of Darryl’s simpler recipes. Then I toasted a pile of both wheat and white bread. Alongside the toast I set out an assortment of jams—mango, guava, apricot-pineapple and good old strawberry. I also added a little dish of peanut butter and a bowl of fresh fruit I’d peeled and chopped into a fair approximation of fruit cocktail.

  The Bowman clan was more subdued in the morning than they’d been at check-in. The boys nudged and bickered with each other at the table, but when Ross asked if they’d like to trade seats and have Mama Sarah and Daddy Ross sit between them, they both bellowed, “No!”

  At about ten o’clock Sarah came to the great room to check out. Ross was outside on his cell phone. I didn’t know where the kids were, and I didn’t care. The magic words, checking out, had put a smile on my face even the Bowman boys couldn’t wipe off.

  “I’m sorry, but I must lodge a complaint,” Sara
h said as she pulled a credit card from her wallet. “I’m afraid this wasn’t our most enjoyable time in Hawaii. There’s nothing for the boys to do here and your bed and breakfast really leaves a lot to be desired in terms of basic amenities. I mean, no TV in the room? Is that even legal in the hotel industry?”

  I assured her most of our guests prefer no outside distractions.

  “And no telephone! Ross had to use hours and hours of his cell phone minutes because he has to keep in touch with his office. That’s hardly fair for what you’re charging for the room.”

  “We’re the most affordable accommodations on Lana’i. And in our listing on the Internet we clearly state that the rooms don’t have private phones, TV, or Internet.”

  “Well, we didn’t book this place on the Internet,” she huffed. “We heard about the White Orchid from someone on Maui. So how could we possibly know you offered such Spartan conditions?”

  I stared her down. There was no way I was going to give them a discount after all the havoc her boys had wreaked.

  “It’ll be one-thirty-nine, plus tax,” I said in my most business-like voice.

  “I don’t think we should have to pay over ninety-nine dollars,” she shot back, “including the tax.”

  “Okay, how about this?” I said. “I’ll charge you ninety-nine dollars for the room, and then a hundred dollars for the damage to the draperies. That’s only fair since it will cost at least twice that to get them repaired.”

  “Why should we pay for your sub-standard draperies? They were unsafe.”

  We locked eyes. I’d stared down guys twice her size in kung fu matches. This cranky, spineless excuse for a parent didn’t realize who she was up against.

  “Very well,” she finally said. “I’ll agree to pay the one-thirty-nine. But you better not charge me a penny more. My husband’s an attorney.”

  By ten-thirty, I had the place all to myself again.

  I went out to the greenhouse and asked Mr. Ho if he knew where Darryl kept his hand tools—hammer, screwdriver, things like that.

  “He has some tools out back,” Mr. Ho said. He led me around to the far side of the greenhouse. There was a little shack, weathered gray, with a carpet of rotting pine needles covering the roof. He opened the door and we went inside. Darryl had attached white pegboard to three walls and he’d hung a tidy array of hand tools on the pegboard. I took down a ball peen hammer and noticed Darryl had used a magic marker to outline the hammer on the pegboard. It looked like the chalk outline of the dead body at a crime scene.

  “Wow, he’s a pretty fastidious guy,” I said.

  Mr. Ho glared at me. “No, he not tricky bad. He clean.”

  I figured ‘fastidious’ probably wasn’t in Mr. Ho’s English vocabulary, so I hurried to clear up the misunderstanding. “Yes, it looks like he keeps things very clean. Very tidy.”

  “You need hammer?” He looked at the ball peen I was holding. “This one more bigger, eh?” He reached over and pulled down an enormous rubber mallet.

  “Thanks, but this one will do.”

  Mr. Ho, who seemed to take offense at my unwillingness to go along with his suggestion of the huge mallet, grunted and left me alone in the shed.

  I searched through the minuscule drawers of a cabinet that held nails, screws, bolts and washers until I got the parts needed to re-hang the bamboo drapes. Then I found some crusty, but still usable, wall spackle. I gathered everything up and went inside to begin making repairs.

  ***

  It was almost four o’clock when I finally had the White Orchid back to its pre-Bowman family condition. I was on a step-stool putting the final touches on the spackle when the phone rang. I climbed down and wiped my hands, but by the time I picked up, the call had already gone to voicemail.

  I quickly retrieved the message. It was Tyler Benson. His voice sounded like he was being strangled. “Hey, Penny. I need to talk to you. The sooner, the better. Call me at this number when you get a chance.”

  I’d punched the CID key to redial Tyler’s number when he suddenly burst through the front door. His cell phone began to ring in his pocket. The ringtone was a tinny rendition of Who Let the Dogs Out?

  “That’s probably me calling you back,” I said, pointing to his pocket.

  “I hope so,” he said. He looked like what my Auntie Mana used to call ‘ten miles of bad road.’ He was unshaven and there were deep furrows under his bloodshot eyes. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone. He looked at the caller ID screen, then tossed the phone on the polished wood coffee table. It skittered across the smooth surface and fell on the floor. He didn’t make a move to retrieve it.

  “Whoa,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  “Not by a long shot,” he said. “Mind if I lock the door?”

  I screwed up my face as if his paranoid request had me a little concerned about his grip on reality.

  “It’s not even dinnertime, Tyler. I think the bogey man comes out after dark.”

  “Well, that shows how much you know.”

  Right then, I heard something crash through the bushes outside the house. A head popped up in the window by the reception desk and I jumped back in surprise.

  “Those sons of—” Tyler put his hands over his face and turned away from the window.

  I leapt up and pulled the shade down.

  “Who was that?’ I said.

  “Can we go back in the kitchen and talk?” Tyler said, picking up his phone.

  “Sure.”

  When we got inside the kitchen I pulled over a couple of stools so we could sit at the prep table. Tyler glanced around, taking in the set-up. The kitchen had three interior walls, and the one outside wall had only a narrow clerestory window high above the cabinets.

  “What’s up?” I said. “I’m assuming that guy was some kind of media-type.”

  “Yeah, the Hollywood paparazzi. One of many who’ve shown up.”

  “Why are they here? I mean, no disrespect or anything, but you’re no Brad Pitt or Denzel Washington. Not that you’re not a handsome man, mind you, but you’re—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Here’s the deal. For the past couple of years there’s been all kinds of Hollywood speculation about me. I’ve been called gay. I’ve been accused of being a selfish asshole who gets what he wants from women and then kicks them to the curb. I’ve been branded a workaholic with no private life, yada, yada and more yada. Now someone’s blabbed to the tabloid press about Deedee and me getting married, so I’m back in the news.” He shot me a look that begged for a response.

  “You think it was me? No way. First of all, I wouldn’t dream of gossiping about you, and second, even if I were prone to gossip, I don’t have any idea who I’d call.” I could’ve added a third reason, which was that I was in a witness protection program and there was no way I’d draw attention to myself by encouraging a bunch of snoopy reporters and photographers to descend on Lana’i. But I kept that to myself.

  “Well, somebody tipped them off. And Deedee’s gonna be royally pissed when she finds out.”

  “She doesn’t know?”

  “No. She flew over to Honolulu this morning to do some shopping and she’s not due back until four-thirty. I came down here as soon as I recognized a few of the vultures checking in at the Lodge. What am I going to do? They’ve seen me, both at the Lodge and now here.”

  “I had a sifu—that’s a martial arts teacher—who used to say, You know what you need to do, but you don’t want to do it. You think that might apply here?” I watched him take it in.

  “I don’t know what that means. Are you telling me I shouldn’t marry Deedee?”

  “I’m not telling you anything. Don’t listen to other people, listen to your heart.”

  “No disrespect or anything, Penny, but if I want to hear bullshit like that, I’ll call Oprah.”

  ***

  Tyler stayed another fifteen minutes before heading out to the airport.

  “I hate to go out there,” he said as he peered
through the front window. “But I’ve got to pick up Deedee.”

  “Good luck. Are you going to come back down here tonight?”

  “No, I think I’ll stay up at the Lodge with Deedee. She’s uncomfortable enough in LA when these guys start shoving and yelling. I’m pretty sure she’s really going to go ballistic when she finds out the bottom feeders have tracked us down in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do. Most folks around here are pretty good about leaving celebrities alone. Famous people come here all the time. And besides, we don’t have a first-run movie theater here on Lana’i so movie people aren’t that big a deal.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that. I think.” He got up and went outside. The sun was getting lower in the sky but it would be at least four more hours before it got dark. As Tyler made his way back to his Jeep I saw cameras flash and I heard urgent voices yelling stupid questions like, Are you getting married because people think you’re gay? or, Is your main squeeze sporting a baby bump?

  I silently wished Tyler well. He was a nice guy. He’d chosen his life, and he was well-rewarded for it. He had a private jet, a gorgeous home in Los Angeles and piles of money. But even considering all the BS I was putting up with in witness protection, I wouldn’t have traded places with him. Not for a month, a week, or even a day.

  It was a good thing I didn’t covet Tyler Benson’s life. Because his life was about to start skidding downhill. Fast.

  CHAPTER 10