Maui Widow Waltz (Islands of Aloha Mystery Series) (3 page)

I spent the next three hours
phoning vendors. Concerned that my usual contacts would snub me for asking them
to perform miracles on such short notice, I began each call with, “Sorry to
call at the last minute, but…”

In every case, the response was,
“No worries, Pali. What do you need?”

Seems I wasn’t the only one feeling
the pinch from the rotten weather.

A few of them asked if they could
get back to me with prices, but by four o’clock I’d managed to secure most of
the services I’d need. I ordered a wedding cake from Keahou’s Cakes up in Kula,
videotaping from Mikey O—who worked at the Lahaina Video Plus Store and used
their off-the-shelf inventory on the sly—and I’d gone next door and reconfirmed
with Farrah about doing the flowers and conducting the ceremony.

I’d promised to return the rental
dresses by four-thirty, but before I did that I needed to make one last call.

“Hi, Akiko,” I said, holding the
phone receiver between my chin and shoulder as I finished zipping a
heavily-beaded gown into its protective bag. “This is Pali Moon. Remember me? I
met you at Leilani’s dress shop last summer. I mentioned I had a wedding
planning business in Pa’ia called ‘Let’s Get Maui’d’.”

“Ah yes, I remember you.” She
didn’t sound like she did, but was too polite to say so.

“How’re things with you?” I said.
Any response would have been acceptable except
swamped
.

“Not bad. Kinda slow.”

I pumped a fist in the air.

“Can I come over to your place and
talk to you about doing some work for me?”

“You got a gown needs hemming?”

“Better’n that.”

“Two
gowns?” Her voice
squeaked in anticipation. I cringed, knowing when she heard the job specs any
delight she might be feeling at the moment would be trashed. I picked up a pen
and asked for directions to her house. I didn’t have a notepad handy, so I
jotted the address on the back of my hand. 

“I need to make one quick stop on
the way, but I can be there in about half an hour.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Akiko’s ancient clapboard house was
on a steep street in a working class area of Wailuku. The scrabbly front lawn
was littered with little kid’s toys—a faded plastic Big-Wheel tricycle, a
sodden refrigerator-size cardboard box with a hole cut in the side for a door,
and a confetti of limbless action figures and naked Bratz dolls strewn about as
if they’d come down with the rain.

I found a parking spot on the
street across from her house. I set the brake and checked it. My ancient Geo
was prone to whims of escape whenever I left it on anything approximating an
incline. As I climbed out, I heard the creak of a screen door. Akiko had come
out onto her porch, smiling and waving. She seemed to have shrunk a couple of
inches in the six months since I’d first met her. She probably weighed less
than ninety pounds.

I crossed the street and picked my
way up the cracked sidewalk.

“These grandkids,” she said, eyeing
the clutter in the yard. “I tell them to pick up, but eh, do they listen? So,
you give me some dresses to hem and I can ignore this mess for another week.”
She chuckled and her eyes disappeared in a fan of wrinkles.

We went inside where chaos
continued to reign. Akiko was rumored to be a perfectionist with a needle and
thread, but housekeeping apparently rarely made her “to do” list.

“Where are the dresses?” She said,
eyeing my empty arms. “You just want a quote?”

“No, I don’t need a quote. I need a
dress.”

A tight crease formed between her
eyebrows.

“A dress? You need me to make you a
dress from scratch? I not do that for years and years.”

“This is kind of an emergency.”

She gestured for me to follow her
into the kitchen. “I’m going to make us some tea.”

While we sipped green tea, she
talked about the rain, the slowdown in business and the eminent delivery of her
fourth grandchild. From a back bedroom I heard the hush and roar of a TV sitcom
laugh track. After about a half hour, the sound of stubby bare feet on wood
floors was followed by giggling and a slamming door.

“
Tutu
?” A girl of about ten
or eleven popped her head in the kitchen doorway. “The boys locked the door
again.”

Akiko looked up at the clock and
sighed.

“I gotta get these
keiki
their dinner.”

“I apologize for coming over so
late.”

“No worry. You say you need a gown?
Why not just order one from Honolulu and let me alter it?”

“There’s no time for that. I need
it right away. The wedding’s next Thursday—Valentine’s Day.”

She snorted with such force I was
glad she’d finished her tea or it probably would’ve shot out of her nose.

“You kidding, right? This some kind
of joke?”

I shook my head.

“A week? No way.”

“At least give me a price.”

“A million dollars. I’ve got my
three grandkids here ‘cause my daughter’s going to the hospital to have the
next one. No way a dress in a week.”

“Akiko, I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t
desperate. This girl is in a really sad situation.”

“Pregnant?”

“No. Worse.”

“What’s worse? She on her death bed
or something?”

“Did you hear about that guy who
disappeared off the fishing boat? The
haole
from Seattle who’s been on
the news?”

She squinted, nodding.

“This girl is his fiancée. They
planned a Valentine’s Day wedding.”

“So? No man, no wedding. Why she
need a dress?”

I explained the stand-in groom and
Lisa Marie’s insistence that the wedding proceed on schedule.

“I’ll need to charge a lot of money
to finish a dress so fast. She needs to pay me for no sleep and buying Mickey
D’s every night to feed these
keiki.
”

“No problem. She’s willing to spend
money. The most important thing to her is that she gets married on Valentine’s
Day.”

“What if they find that boy’s
body?”

“No worries. I promise you’ll get
paid no matter what.”

Akiko agreed to come to the shop
the next morning after she’d put the grandkids on the school bus. I asked her
to bring pictures of two or three gowns she knew she could finish in time.

“What if she doesn’t like any of
them?”

“It’s my job to make sure she
does.”

***

My cell phone rang as I was getting
ready for bed that night. It was Steve. He hadn’t been home for dinner, but we
don’t keep tabs on each other.

“I’ve got a favor to ask.”

“Not a good night for favors, I’m afraid.
It’s been a long day and I’m already in my p.j’s”

“Actually it’s not so much a favor
as an opportunity.”

I chewed on that for a moment.

“You still there?” he said. I
hummed my presence and he continued. “A friend of a friend of mine needs a
place to stay. He got injured and can’t work for a few weeks. He’s pretty
busted up and he’s willing to pay good money for room and board.”

“Room and board? I don’t even give
you
board.”

“Pali, work with me, okay? My
friend swears he’s a really great guy. He’s just going to be laid up for a
while. If you want, I’ll do all the cooking. How about it?”

“What’s his problem?”

“Busted up his leg real bad. He
gets out of the hospital tomorrow.”

“I suppose he’ll want the
downstairs bedroom.” I wasn’t thrilled to have to give up my first floor room
and camp out in the spare room upstairs next to Steve’s.

“He’s willing to pay five hundred a
week.”

Whoa, why didn’t he say so earlier?
For that kind of money, I’d hand over the whole house, with gourmet room
service and a chauffeur. But I hadn’t yet asked Steve about doing the retake
photos of the high school girl, so I played it cool—I’d trade a favor for a
favor.

“Okay. I guess I could move my
stuff upstairs for a while.”

“
Mahalo
, Pali. I’ll call and
let him know.”

I hung up the phone and went out to
the garage for cardboard boxes. While boxing up the contents of my dresser
drawers, I avoided looking at my bed. I’d jumped at the chance to make some
extra money. But gazing around the familiar room I began to doubt my decision.
This was my home, my private space. What if this guy turned out to be a chronic
bed wetter with bone-deep B.O.?

My hippie parents had been gone
from my life for decades, but my Auntie Mana often told me stories about them.
And right then, their mantra of
turn on, tune in, and drop out
stood in
sharp contrast to the motto I’d recently adopted:
hang on, give in, and suck
up
. 

CHAPTER 4

L
isa
Marie brought a long list of wedding gown must-haves to our meeting on Friday
morning. She prattled on, describing multi-tiered flounces, seed-pearl beaded
bodices, and seven-foot trains. She kept flipping through her celebrity wedding
scrapbook, and from the looks of things, she was hankering for a glitzy get-up
that would weigh in at about thirty pounds.

“Not gonna happen.” I said while
Akiko stared at the back wall in what could have passed for a catatonic trance.

“You
said
she was the best.”
Lisa Marie spit it out as if she’d caught me in a bald-faced lie.

“She is.” I glanced over at Akiko
to see if she appeared insulted at being talked about as if she weren’t there.
From the looks of it, she’d gone into a Zen state, imagining herself someplace
else entirely. Apparently no offense taken.

 “Here’s how it goes, Lisa Marie.
You pick from one of these three basic dress designs and Akiko will spend every
waking minute between now and Valentine’s Day creating a stunning gown that
will make Brad’s eyes pop out when he sees you. Or, you can hold out for
something else and you’ll be on your own to find it.”

Okay, the
Brad’s eyes popping
out
image was a little macabre, even for me. But Lisa Marie didn’t even
blink.

“It better be gorgeous.”

“
You’ll
be gorgeous; your
gown will just accentuate the fact.”

She smiled for the first time that
morning.

Farrah stepped out of her store
while I was stashing fabric samples into the back of Akiko’s ancient
seaweed-colored minivan. The dressmaker was still in the back room, measuring
Lisa Marie from every possible angle

 “Ad-bay oos-nay,” Farrah said
in a low voice, nodding toward my shop door.

“Mainlanders can figure out pig
Latin,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“The Coast Guard’s got some dish on
your Brad Sanders dude. The TV said they’re doing a press conference at three.”

My stomach clenched. I looked up at
the sun peeking through the clouds. Not quite noon.

“Listen, what are you planning for
flowers?” I said in a voice that even to me sounded like a fake attempt at
calm.

“Don’t you want to chill on that
until we hear what they say about the missing dude? No use digging ourselves
any deeper.”

“No. I don’t care what they say. We
need to move forward.”

“
Da kine,
okay then. I’m
thinking cymbidium orchids—pink—and lots of white pikake for fragrance. It’s a
no go on the tuberoses she wants. Wrong time of year. I’m figuring about five
hundred bucks ought to cover it.”

“Can you push it to eight hundred?”

“Eight hundred bucks for flowers?
For a little beach wedding? If you weren’t already my best
hoa aloha
,
I’d be whipping out the b/f/f tiara and planting it on your head. Let’s see.
How’s a plumeria-draped arbor sound? And I’ll get flashy white and green orchid
leis for the guests. By the way, how many guests we talking about?”

“She said less than a dozen. Her
family, of course. And I imagine a few of Brad’s co-workers will be coming
over; probably more for the ghoul factor than to support Lisa Marie.”

“Too weird. Well, don’t sweat it,
I’ll get abundantly creative.”

“In this case, less isn’t more;
more
is more.”

“
Da kine
. I got it.”

By early afternoon I finished
lining up the remaining details—printers, caterers, guest favors, hair and
make-up, limo service, all of it. My friends and colleagues had all gushed
their gratitude for the business. The only glaring omission was a venue. I told
everyone I’d be back to them that afternoon with the exact location.

I called the pricier hotels with
private beaches. Since Brad Sanders’ disappearance had made him something of a
local celebrity, I was concerned a public beach could attract the press or
curious onlookers. Maui’s notorious for local gossip. If just one vendor
slipped up and told his cousin who told his neighbor who told his boss’s wife,
a beach parking lot would fill up with looky-loos hours before Lisa Marie’s
“perfect” wedding.

“Not possible,” sniffed the special
events coordinator at the Maui Prince Hotel. “We limit our beach access to
weddings coordinated by our in-house bridal staff.” The sentiment was echoed by
the Grand Wailea, the Four Seasons, and all the other high-end Wailea hotels. I
didn’t bother calling the Ritz-Carlton in Kapalua because not only did I figure
the response would be the same, but it creeped me out to imagine conducting
Brad’s proxy wedding on the beach where his empty boat had washed ashore.

I was left pondering if I could hold
it at a less swanky oceanfront hotel or one of the more obscure public beaches.
I hadn’t asked Lisa Marie if she had a particular beach in mind, and I wasn’t
even sure where she was staying. Maybe her hotel would sanction a quickie
wedding on their property if I cajoled—a nicer word than
bribed
—someone
at the concierge desk.

I called her cell.

“What is it
now,
Pali?” she
said in an annoyed tone that made me want to pipe,
Sorry, wrong number
and hang up. “I hope this is good news. I’m just about to get a massage and I
don’t want any stress following me onto the table.”

“Yep, I’ve got great news.
Everything’s lined up for next Thursday. Only one little detail left to
decide.” I took a breath to allow her time to congratulate me on being so damn
good at my job. All I heard was the low murmur of New Age flute music in the
background.

 “Which beach?” I said.

“What do you mean
which beach
?
Are you talking about my wedding?”

I started to say something smart-ass,
like ‘No, I’m calling to ask if you know where they’re gonna shoot next year’s
Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition’
but I held back. No doubt she was
feeling a ton of anxiety over Brad. I needed to remain supportive, upbeat.

“Yes, I need to tell the people
working on your big day where we’re holding it.”

“I can’t believe you’re asking me
this. I already told you where I want it.” She blew out an irritated breath.
“Don’t you write anything down? I think it’s incredibly unprofessional of you
to ask me to repeat myself simply because you’re so ditzy.”

Had she mentioned the venue? My
brain raced around like someone looking for their car keys. Nope, not there.
Not over there, either.

“I’m sorry, Lisa Marie. Your
consultation folder says you want a ‘beach wedding’ but there’s nothing
specific about which beach.”

“Well, duh. The beach right here on
the property, of course. I’m sure I went over all of this on the very first
day. How would Brad know where to come if we held it anywhere else? Look, I’ve
got to go—my masseuse is waiting. And Pali, please don’t bother me with stuff
like this again. If I need to talk to you, I’ll do the calling.” She clicked
off.

I’ve worked with difficult brides
before. Not anyone I’d go so far as to label mentally ill, but women teetering
darn close to the edge. I’ve been called ‘stupid,’ ‘mean,’ and even expletives
so blue I wondered if they’d use that same mouth to kiss their groom. So, in
the scheme of things, I rated Lisa Marie’s snippiness at about a six- minus.

I carefully looked through her
consultation folder—front, back, and all the pages inside. In the contact
information area she’d provided her local address as simply, ‘Maui’—no hotel
name, not even a town. Like most visitors, she probably didn’t know the street
address of where she was staying. Most likely she’d been picked up by a taxi or
a hotel shuttle at the airport and they’d whisked her off to her resort. But I
was surprised she hadn’t bothered to even fill in the name of the place.

A few minutes before three o’clock,
I locked up and headed over to Farrah’s store.  Farrah kept a tiny black
and white TV under the counter ostensibly to watch for storm reports, but most
of the time it was tuned to the afternoon soaps. I didn’t see her right away,
so I peeked around the counter to see if the TV was on. On the grainy screen a
tall, clean-shaven man in black tie and tails was berating a woman dressed in
what appeared to be some kind of French maid’s outfit. They cut to a close-up
of her, and I watched as she narrowed her eyes and raised her arm into position
for a dramatic slap. The camera pulled back in time to show him catching her
arm mid-whack.

I was becoming somewhat engrossed
in what was going on when the picture went blank and a gray channel ID screen
popped up indicating breaking news. Farrah came out from the back room, humming
and carrying a Sex Wax counter display. She nodded in greeting, but continued
her humming.

She made her way over to the two
wooden stools behind the counter, sitting on one and patting the seat of the
other to indicate I should join her. At the end of her song, she held the note
in a lingering finish.

“
Mahalo
for the hush,” she
said. “I think it’s bad juju to not finish a song.”

“Sure. What was that?”

“
In Dis Life
. You know—Iz.”

“Right.” Okay, she’s my friend and
all that, but the woman cannot carry a tune. She could have said it was the
Star Spangled Banner and I would’ve agreed.

She leaned over and turned up the
volume on the TV but it was still silently displaying the ID screen. When the
sound came on, a booming voice blasted out of the tiny speaker.

“We interrupt our regularly
scheduled programming to bring you the following special report”.
The
screen flipped to an image of an empty podium, festooned with microphones
displaying not only the call letters of television channels 2, 4, 8, and 9 in
Honolulu but also the major mainland television networks, including CNN.

“Wow. Your missing dude must be
some kind of celebrity over on the mainland,” she said.

“Yeah, I guess. And I thought he
was just some under-the-radar computer nerd who’d struck it rich.”

A Honolulu police officer in a
glowing white short-sleeved dress shirt stepped up to the mic. Even on Farrah’s
feeble TV I could see the heavily starched creases that dissected his shirt front
into three equal parts. His above-the-pocket badge flashed a brilliant white
when it caught the sunlight.

 “Testing, testing,” he said
tapping the mic. His eyes were pulled into a self-conscious squint.

“I’m Lieutenant Muro, Public
Information Officer for the Honolulu Police Department. I’d like to welcome my
colleagues from the Governor’s office, from the Counties of Maui and O’ahu, the
Coast Guard, and members of the press. At this time we have an update on the
disappearance of Bradley James Sanders, founder and president of DigiSystems
Corporation in Seattle. Mr. Sanders was here on vacation when he disappeared
off the Maui coastline sometime after nineteen hundred hours the night of
January thirty-first. His rental boat was recovered, unmanned, on the beach at
Kapalua at oh-six hundred hours the next morning.”

He paused and looked over his right
shoulder at the assembly of uniformed men standing behind him as if giving them
an opportunity to step up and disagree with his facts. No one so much as twitched
a cheek muscle.

“Commander Roman of the Coast
Guard’s Search and Rescue team will now present the latest information on the
rescue and recovery effort.”

He nodded toward a puppy-faced guy
in dress whites who looked much too young to even be in the Coast Guard, let
alone hold the rank of commander. Commander Roman stepped forward and pulled
himself up to his full height in an attempt to reach the microphones. He missed
the mark by a good three inches. He fiddled with the center mic, pulling it
down toward his chin while the sound popped and squealed.

“Since when did the Coast Guard
start recruiting munchkins?” Farrah said, peering at the screen. “That dude
looks about twelve years old.”

I nodded in agreement.

“Good afternoon. I’m Commander
Roman of the Coast Guard’s Search and Rescue Squad based here at Pearl Harbor,”
he said in a deep voice that added at least a decade to his appearance. “Our
report today concerns the finding of debris in the waters of Au’au Channel—the
strait between the islands of Maui and Molokai. At fourteen hundred hours
yesterday afternoon, a Hawaiian-style shirt and rubber thong sandal were
located at sea approximately one-quarter mile from where Mr. Sander’s boat
beached at Kapalua. An acquaintance identified the items as matching similar
clothing worn by the victim at the time of his disappearance. This evidence,
coupled with a weeklong land and sea operation which has failed to locate Mr.
Sanders, has prompted us to halt the rescue and recovery effort until further
notice.” He paused.  “At this time, we’ll take questions from the media.”

Dozens of reporters’ hands shot up
while some just shouted out questions. After a few minutes of mostly pointless
back and forth, with the Coast Guard saying, “We have no knowledge,” or “We
can’t discuss that at this time,” Farrah turned the sound down.

“He’s a goner,” she said, looking
up to check the round curved mirror used to spot shoplifters.

I shook my head.“An
aloha
shirt and a
rubbah slippa
? That’s not evidence. I’ll bet the next guy who
walks through your door will be wearing those same things.”

The bell on the door jingled and a
bare-chested surfer wearing board shorts held up only by the grace of his
protruding hipbones burst in. He was barefoot.

I glanced at the
No shirt, No
shoes, No problem
sign above the door.

“Okay, well maybe not here in
Pa’ia,” I said. “But in Lahaina, every
haole
tourist on Front Street is
decked out in either a red dirt tee-shirt or an
aloha
shirt. And
everybody wears
rubbah
slippas
to go on a boat.”