Maui Widow Waltz (Islands of Aloha Mystery Series) (4 page)

“Pali, I know you’ve got a lot
riding on doing this dudette’s wedding. But let’s face it. This thing’s got
only two ways to go: One, he became shark chum the night he disappeared—which
means they’ll never find as much as a tooth—or, two, before long totally wasted
body parts will start washing up on the beach. Either way, this wedding is
pau
—over.”

“I can only deal with what I know.
And right now, what I know is I have just five days to pull off a big bucks
wedding.”

“Exactly.”

“And your point is…?”

 “C’mon, Pali, think about it.
Why does she want this fake wedding anyway?” Farrah reached over and snapped
off the TV. “Answer? And here’s a big hint: everybody says this guy owns a
multi-million dollar tech company. No doubt he’s loaded. Your girl wants that
M-R-S in front of her name before they get around to issuing the death
certificate. The grieving widow is always first in line when they divvy up the
goods.”

“Whoa,” I said. “What’s happened to
you? I figured you’d be firing up the incense and extolling the virtues of
undying love.”

“I don’t extol for shameless gold
diggers.”

 I stood up and pushed my
stool back. “Okay, I get it. But I sure can’t talk. She’s marrying him for the
money? Well, welcome to my world. You think if I wasn’t dodging creditors left
and right I’d have signed on to do this crazy gig?”

Farrah took my hand. “Hey, sorry.
This crappy weather’s making us all go a little
pupule
. Guess what? This
morning I got my first collection call—from my dairy supplier in Honolulu. He
wouldn’t cut me slack even when I told him I had to toss out most of it. With
nobody buying nothing, I had a zillion gallons of milk still sitting here after
the sell/by date.”

We sat in silence. I watched Felix
the Cat’s tail flick back and forth on the wall clock.

 “We need this wedding to go
off as planned,” I said. “Lucky for us Lisa Marie’s hell bent on spending as
much as she can, as fast as she can. Who cares whose money she’s using? Once we
get paid, the collection calls will stop.”

“
Da kine,
I seriously need
to mellow out.” Farrah said. “I guess if the little gold digger’s gonna toss a
little moolah my way, the least I can do is hold her in my heart with
aloha
.”

I couldn’t agree more.

CHAPTER 5

I
’d
promised my suppliers I’d be back to them that afternoon about the wedding
location, but I balked at taking the time to track down where Lisa Marie was
staying. It wouldn’t have been that difficult since I know staff people at
nearly all of Maui’s oceanfront resorts, but I simply wasn’t in the mood to
play detective. I thought about heading down to the kung fu studio for some
kicking and screaming but then realized an hour of physical release would only
postpone the inevitable. I wanted to get home and learn what five hundred bucks
a week was going to cost me in aggravation.

When I pulled into the driveway
Steve’s black Jetta was parked off to the right near the back door. Evidently,
he’d wanted to avoid the steep front porch steps. I parked out front and
trudged up the stairs, practicing a welcoming smile as I went. It felt bogus,
like when someone’s taking your picture and they fool around with the camera so
long that by the time they click the shutter you’re wearing a tiki god grin.

The front door was unlocked, which
is the way we usually leave it. I pushed it open and saw Steve in the living
room crouched down next to the sofa. The new guy was stretched out, his head
propped up by pillows at the near end and his body covered by a tucked-in
blanket. From the bumps in the blanket, it appeared that he took up the full
six-foot length of the sofa and then some. He had wide shoulders and a
well-muscled neck. His dark brown hair stuck up at odd angles. Most of the guys
in Steve’s inner circle would’ve rather been boiled in oil than be seen with
their hair askew, but probably the guy’s hospital stay had taken a toll on his
personal hygiene routine.

“Hey, you’re home,” Steve said
looking up. “This is Hatch Decker, our new roommate.” He stood and moved out of
the way so I could make eye contact with Hatch. “And, Hatch, this is your new
landlady, Pali Moon.”

Wow, what a face.
Look-right-through-you brown eyes smoldered under thick
macho man
eyebrows. Why did all the gorgeous men prefer other men? He smiled and pulled
his right arm out from under the blanket and held it straight out. It took me a
couple of beats to realize he was offering to shake hands.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, hustling
across the worn carpet. I got a static shock when we touched, and my hand
recoiled in reflex. When we reconnected, I felt a warm palm and firm grasp. I
didn’t want to let go. It’d been weeks since a man—any man—had laid hands on me
and his touch caused my shoulders to lift in a little shudder.

“Hatch is a new firefighter with
Maui County Fire and Rescue,” said Steve. “He broke his leg at work.”

“You fall through a burning roof?”
I said. It seemed the logical way a fireman would break a leg.

“Nope. Nothing that impressive. I
got sideswiped while we were working a wreck out on the Pi’ilani Highway. Guy
in a pick-up blew right by the flagger. His bumper snagged my turnouts and he
dragged my ass about thirty yards.”

“Whoa. I hope they got the license
number.”

“Oh yeah. The on-scene cop was on
him like Bubba at a luau.”

“So, how long you going to be laid
up?”

“The doc says I should be back to
light duty work by the end of the month. In a couple more days the shoulder
should be healed enough I can use crutches.” He pointed to his left arm which
was wrapped tight against his body with a giant elastic bandage.

“Well, no rush. You’re more than
welcome to my bedroom for as long as it takes.”

“Huh. Too bad I’m a crip. That’s
the best offer I’ve had in months.” His eyes crinkled as he smiled.

I nodded and smiled back at his
flattery, even though I knew my bedroom—with me in it, anyway—would hardly make
his top ten list of good times. I glanced over at Steve to see if he was
annoyed by Hatch’s phony come-on, but he just grinned as if he was thrilled to
see the step-kids getting along so good. 

That night, Steve knocked himself
out making a complicated chicken curry with all the condiments. He served it
with jasmine rice and a gorgeous Kula greens salad with tomatoes and balsamic
dressing. He’d bought a chewy loaf of artisan bread at the Hale Kai Bakery,
which must have drained all the cash in his wallet. If he was trying to impress
his potential new boyfriend with his domestic skills, I’d say he more than
succeeded.

We ate in the living room so Hatch
could stay put on the sofa. It took some maneuvering to get a dinner tray to
stay in his lap since his inert arm was in the way. When I cleared the dishes
after dinner it seemed Hatch’s smile seemed a little forced and his forehead
sported a couple of deep furrows I hadn’t noticed earlier.

“Thanks guys,” he said. “Sorry I’m
not better company, but I’m still wiped out from the pain meds. Dinner was
great. We don’t get much in the way of fancy food down at the firehouse. It’s
mostly spaghetti or chili, and we hardly ever get to finish before we’re called
out again, so this was pretty swank for me.” He shot me a look and added, “But
don’t worry, Pali. I’ll still be out of your hair as soon as I can get up off
my sorry butt.”

“No worries,” I said. “Is your room
all set up?” I turned to Steve, since he would have been the one who’d hauled
in Hatch’s things.

“Yep, his abode is ready for
occupancy,” he said. “You want some help getting in there, Hatch?”

“Thanks, maybe later. Is that the
only TV?” Hatch nodded at the ancient twenty-four inch set in the corner.

“Yeah, sorry. We’re not big TV
watchers,” I said.

“Well if it’s okay with you guys,
I’d like to watch a little basketball before turning in.”

“No problem,” said Steve. “I’ll be
down in a while to help you get to bed.”

I thought it was sweet of Steve to
be so gallant, but figured there was probably an ulterior motive at work. Hatch
was definitely what I’d call a “man’s man” and Steve appeared utterly smitten.

I went upstairs to the spare room
and read for a while, but once I’d turned out the light I found it hard to
sleep on the pull-out sofa bed. I tossed and turned, wondering about Lisa
Marie’s motives. Would she prove Farrah wrong and cancel now that the Coast
Guard had abandoned their search? Or would she bull ahead, insisting that Brad
was going to magically catapult from the ocean like some geek Silver Surfer?
And what if he doesn’t show up? I was pretty sure a proxy marriage by Power of
Attorney wouldn’t be legally binding in Hawaii, or in any other state, so how
could she claim to be his widow?

The next morning, I got up at first
light and took a quick shower before heading down to the kung fu center. I
hadn’t worked out in almost a week and my body resisted the idea. I pulled into
the alley and parked behind a red door marked with large black Korean characters
which translated into English as “Palace of Pain.”

People who earn a black belt at my
guan
are not only awarded the prestigious belt, but are also given a position of
trust as special recognition for passing the rigorous test. At my black belt
ceremony I’d been given my own key to the back door so I could come and go
whenever I pleased. I slipped inside and entered the chilly, dark space. The
floor mats were sticky and cold on my bare feet. I could barely make out my
reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, but I didn’t turn on the lights or
the space heater. I train at Palace of Pain because the name speaks to me. I
don’t believe in powder puff martial arts, where the air is conditioned and the
mats smell like Mountain Fresh Lysol. At PoP we pride ourselves on what Sifu
Doug—our head instructor—calls “sucking it up.” Take what you’re dealt and use
it to your advantage.

I warmed up in a matter of minutes,
and after an hour of forms and work with the
mao
—the long lance—I was
relaxed and centered. I took a lukewarm shower in the locker room and dressed
for work, which simply meant trading my black martial arts uniform for a pair
of white capris and a blue lace-trimmed tee-shirt. At the outer door, I slipped
on my well-worn
rubbah slippas,
and headed out to my car.

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.