He nodded and sat quietly the rest of the trip.
Chapter 22
Alexander’s complete belief in his Great-Grampa Kimu had shaken me. How could someone that I’d considered completely normal believe in that sort of thing? Did he have proof—a half-eaten cookie, dirty dishes from a midnight snack? Something? Anything? Logic told me visits from ancestors weren’t possible. Emotion said to not be a fool, look around, feel the mana, the power of these islands. And what about my own dreams?
The fact that I was deeply conflicted and didn’t want any possible kupuna mad at me weighed heavily on my decision to trek back to the North side of the island. For all I knew, these dead guys were now friends with Madame Pele. She’s the Hawaiian volcano goddess who, according to legend, lives at Kilauea, a volcano on the Big Island. Kilauea may not have much in the way of furnishings, but the Halema`uma`u crater is one helluva living room. Hale means house and ma`uma`u is a type of fern and the legend says that a jilted suitor of Madame Pele’s built a house of ferns over Halema`uma`u to keep Pele from getting out of her home and causing eruptions. I say, come on, like a house of ferns is going to stop any pissed-off woman?
I stared out the front window and gave Alexander my decision. “I’ll speak with Roger’s wife.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“I’d just never decided. Besides, I don’t want Kimu ticked off at me.”
“Now you making fun of my kupuna.”
I shook my head as Alexander flicked on his left turn signal. “Nuh-uh. Believe me, I’m not.”
Maybe I was just doing this out of fear. In addition to the legends about a young, lovely, and gracious Pele, there were stories of people in Cleveland who had mailed back volcanic rock they’d stolen from Pele’s home after they’d suffered a streak of incredibly bad luck. Me, I figured I’d be smart and do my best to stay on her good side—unlike the Cleveland tourists who “accidentally” stuffed rocks in their suitcase. Maybe you don’t believe in that sort of thing, but Kilauea has been spewing lava in a steady stream for years. Scientists will give you all sorts of geological techno-speak about magma, core pressure and other things that they think sound impressive. But, the fact is that they can’t explain why Kilauea, which has been around for maybe a half-million years, sat dormant and then suddenly decided to start a duel with the ocean that has created almost a half million acres of new land since 1983. My money’s on Madame Pele.
From the back seat, Meyer shouted, “This doesn’t look like a ball field. Thought you said we were going to a ball field?”
“Dillingham Field.” I called over my shoulder. “It’s where Shapiro kept his plane.”
“I know where he kept it.” He started muttering, “Darn people don’t speak up. Don’t speak clearly. How’s anyone supposed to understand what they said?”
I rolled my eyes. “Have you been here before?”
“Bob took me up once. He had it custom painted, you know. And this ain’t exactly a big airfield.”
To my surprise, what we’d come to see was in the hangar as though it had never left. The plane itself was basic white. The nose was painted a reddish brown directly behind the prop that tapered into a narrower stripe. On either side of the reddish brown, there was a strip of white, then a blue stripe that tapered until all three colors blended into a single blue line that ran the length of the plane. The tail had the sunset and palm trees painted on it, just like I’d seen in the photo. And there was the N-Number that Harris and I had spent so much time trying to figure out. That part of this journey seemed as though it had happened years, not just days, ago.
Meyer did a quick walk around the plane, then checked a panel on the side. To my surprise, the panel opened.
Meyer said, “Damn fools, they ought to lock the cargo door.”
I yelled, “What do you know about planes?”
He shrugged, “Quite a bit, used to fly my own until my eyesight started to go. My wife and I used to take day trips all over the Midwest, but once she passed on, well, it just wasn’t fun anymore. I sold it and my house about five years ago and bought that apartment building. Best damned investment I ever made.”
I glanced at Alexander, who was standing off to the side, arms crossed over his chest. I noticed that Meyer had stuck his head inside the small cargo door and was rooting around. I put on my best “I’m cocky” attitude and said, “Best damned investment I ever made,” in a low voice to Alexander. He smiled at me, then pointed back to Meyer.
Meyer’s voice sounded hollow from the insides of the cargo hold. “Ain’t much in here but a toolkit.”
When he stepped away, I walked over to the cargo door and stuck my head inside in hopes that I might at least appear to have a clue about what we were looking for. Off to my right I noticed a small scrap of paper. I grabbed it and backed away, holding it out far enough to read without my normal reading glasses. Apparently, it was a shipping label because the only thing on it were two addresses. One here on Oahu, the other on Maui.
The Oahu address was in a largely commercial area of Kalakaua Ave. I had no idea what type of neighborhood the Maui address was in. The sender and receiver were both Stone Music, Inc.
I held the label up for Alexander to read, then said, “You know where this is?”
He nodded. “I didn’t know there were any music stores there.”
Alexander couldn’t be expected to know every business on the island, but if Stone had more than one store in the islands, wouldn’t Alexander have heard about him? “Maybe there’s not.”
Meyer was moving his head back and forth like a trombone slide as he tried to read the address. I told him what it was and he said, “Yeah, that Stone ships a lot of stuff. Bob never realized how much stuff Stone would want to ship inter-island. He was pretty upset about that when he figured out how much of his time he’d be spending on their businesses.”
I could feel my eyebrows creeping up. If I didn’t watch it, they might blend in with my hairline. “How much stuff?”
“What?”
“How much stuff!”
“I dunno, but Bob was having to do at least a flight a week. He was going to talk to them about it, but he got run down first.”
I pointed my right index finger at Meyer. “Maybe he didn’t get run down first. Maybe he did talk with them.”
Meyer shrugged. “All I know is he was mighty unhappy about something the last time I saw him.”
“And when was that?” Meyer made a funny face, so I repeated it, louder.
He closed the cargo hatch and walked toward the front of the plane. “Day before he died,” he said.
From behind me, I heard Alexander. “Uh, McKenna.”
“Just a minute.”
A deep, loud, and ominous-sounding voice commanded attention. “What’s going on here?”
I nearly peed my pants as I whirled around to see who’d caught us pawing over Shapiro’s plane.
Chapter 23
The man behind the voice was short and stocky, wore an airport security uniform, and had parked his official-looking car just a few feet away. He had dark hair cut short, just slightly longer than a crewcut. He wore it messy and spiky and had little chin whiskers that reminded me of mold on cheese. His hands rested on the belt buckle of his rumpled uniform in the popular Hollywood-bad-cop pose. I’d been so engrossed in my conversation with Meyer that I hadn’t even heard him drive up.
Meyer looked surprised, too, but not frightened. Alexander stood with his hand over his mouth, glancing from Rent-a-Uniform Guy to me, then back again. Was I the only one smart enough to be worried about this?
Rent-a-Uniform Guy did the jerk-down-the-belt buckle routine and said, “Well?”
Meyer jumped right in. He pointed an accusing finger in my direction and said, “He brought me here. He wanted to check out the plane. Me, I’m half-deaf; I thought this was his. Well, gotta go.”
Meyer started to half-trot away in the opposite direction, but Rent-a-Uniform yelled at him
. “Get back here.”
Ouch, flaring nostrils. Definitely not a happy face.
Meyer turned to face us, his face scrunched up like a child caught dead to rights.
“I’ll remember that,” I said.
Meyer lowered his gaze to the pavement, “I never liked detention.” He winked. “Besides, it was worth a try.”
Alexander gripped his jaw with his hand, the tightness of his grip turning his knuckles white. His shoulders shook as he glanced away.
I barked at him, “What’s so damn funny?”
He started to laugh, then the guard did also. Alexander said, “Give ‘em a break, Dijon.”
Dijon nodded, they extended their arms and did a playful knuckle tap.
“Meet my Cousin Dijon,” said Alexander.
At first, relief washed over me, then irritation. The kids had played us for suckers. I snapped, “Is that like the mustard?”
“McKenna.” Alexander was getting good at that schoolteacher voice.
I gave Alexander a fake smile. Take that.
“No problem, happens a lot.” Dijon held out his hand to shake, but I extended my fist instead. He nodded as we touched knuckles. Little did he know what I really wanted to do with my fist. On second thought, the only fight I ever got into was when I was in about seventh grade. I took a swing at my best friend for some long-forgotten reason. I missed. He shoved. I landed on my rear in a juniper bush. End of fight, end of story, end of any shred of dignity I ever had that year.
The conversation with Cousin Dijon didn’t last long. He’d had his fun by scaring us, or at least, me, to death and just wanted to get back to his routine. As he was preparing to leave, he said, “I’ll check this plane more often. Too many people showing up here.”
Curious, I said, “Who else has been around?”
“I drove by earlier, there was some woman and a man. Looked like they were having a big argument, so I stopped by. They said it was no problem and left.”
“What’d they look like?”
“Caucasian guy, dark mustache. Nice looking blonde, short skirt—we don’t see much of that out here. I just figured they’d been out on a sightseeing flight. This plane, it’s been in and out three—maybe four times this week. I hadn’t heard about the owner’s death. I’ll keep a closer eye out now.”
I asked, “Did you see what kind of car they were driving?”
“Funny—there was only a few cars here. I did see a black sedan. Late model, very clean. It had one of those personalized plates—what was it? High Sky Fan? I think it was HISKYFN.”
“That’s the only one you remember?”
He nodded. “I remember it ‘cause the engine was running. There was some dude in it, but I couldn’t make him out. Very strange, brah.”
We thanked Dijon for his help. In return, he suggested that we should report the plane as stolen if we were positive that no one had the right to fly it. However, he cautioned us that if we weren’t sure, or thought that maybe someone was using it with permission of the owner, we should hold off on that. “Sheriff takes a dim view of false reports about stolen planes. They might even bill you for their time if they find out the report’s bogus.”
My raised eyebrows must have given away my anxiety over the idea of getting billed for anything. The old wallet was tight enough already; it didn’t need more bills.
Dijon obviously noticed my reaction. “Just kidding, brah.” He smiled, gave us the shaka sign, then left.
Although Shapiro was dead, we didn’t know if whoever was using the plane had a little pass similar to the ones the teachers hand out in grammar school for the bathroom.
I tried to loosen up my back before we piled into Alexander’s truck, but somehow, all this driving around the island had me wishing I could afford a massage. Finally, we were in the truck and driving out the entrance when I heard Meyer in the back seat. I said, “You okay?”
He was fumbling with the seat belt. “This damn thing don’t want to stay locked. Every time I get the male part in the female part, it pops out. Reminds me of—”
I shouted, “Never mind! Sorry I asked.”
Alexander massaged the back of his neck with one hand as we made the right onto the main highway. We were off to see Roger Lau’s wife. I’d have the dubious honor of apologizing for my earlier behavior, something I probably would do poorly. I’d also get to explain how Alexander’s kupuna came to visit him in the night. Just between you and me, I’m a pretty poor candidate for this whole family reunion thing. I hate reunions. Especially with dead people.
Other than the loud click of Meyer’s seat belt engaging and the even louder “whoopee” from him when it happened, we passed the rest of the trip in relative silence. As we pulled up to the Lau house, my insides churned like a Kilauea lava flow.
I said, “You sure your uncle wants me to do this?”
“Grampa. He’s my Great-Grampa Kimu. Don’t screw this up McKenna.”
“Whatever. Visit in the middle of the night. He likes surfing at sunrise. He was a happy-go-lucky kind of guy and now he wants me to tell the grieving widow that her hubby got tossed from a plane and splattered all over a mountainside. Got it. Thanks for the opportunity.”
Alexander stared at me impassively. I could feel his irritation building. I glanced up and wrinkled my nose. “All right,” I said. “I’ll see if I can soften it up a bit.”
Meyer’s voice blasted into my ear from the back seat. “You believe in heaven, McKenna?”
I shrugged and made a noise like a noncommittal “dunno.” I guess the older I got, the more I hoped for something meaningful beyond this screwed-up world.
“You think she does?” he said.
I unfastened my seatbelt and let out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. I’ll tell her he’s gone surfing with Great-Grampa Kimu and they’re talking story and having a great time.” I opened the door and started to move the seat for Meyer.
He put his hand on the seat back and held it in place. “I’d better stay here. This kind of news is more personal.”
I looked across the truck at Alexander. Would he go with me?
Alexander opened his door, “Someone gotta help you get started.”
We had just stepped onto the front lanai when Mrs. Lau burst through the door. She wore another faded-flowered muumuu, this one also came to her ankles. An apron over the muumuu read, “Aloha Spirit.” She’d tied her hair up in a bun behind her head, which did little to dispel the angry linebacker image she projected in my direction. She clenched her fists as she ground out, “What you doing back here?” She stuck her hands in the pockets of the muumuu and glared at me.
I watched the lanai floor. Hmmm, the wooden slats were worn smooth, they needed paint and, uh-oh, there were pudgy little toes pointing angrily in my direction. For once in my life, I didn’t know what to say. I scratched my head and looked at Alexander, then at Mrs. Lau, then at the boards on the lanai. I scratched my head again and said, “I, uh, I came to say I’m sorry.”
“I no need you here.”
Fear flooded my veins. What if I blew this? A small bird with brown and gray feathers landed on the lanai and stared at me. Shit, what had I done to him? Then, the bird winked. I swear, he winked, then he nodded. That just about sent me running for the airport because legend says that the Hawaiian gods, depending on their mana, or power, can take different forms. I told myself it was just a bird. Alexander stared at me as though I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had.
“Mrs. Lau, I apologize for having said some terrible things about your husband earlier. I’ve since learned that he was a good man and wasn’t one of the bad guys. Can we come in and talk for a few minutes? If you have some time?”
She crossed her arms over her ample chest.
“Please?”
She opened the door. We followed her in, and she motioned towards the dining room table. “So what change you mind?”
I wasn’t about to reveal that I’d been freaked out by a bird and a bad dream. These two woul
d read “spirit world” into that. Not me. Should I cross my fingers? Knock on wood?
“A couple of things.” I said, “A friend of mine told me that your husband and Bob Shapiro were good friends. And that he didn’t think Roger would ever do anything to hurt Shapiro.”
“I told you that before.”
“I know, I was just too suspicious. And I was looking for scapegoats. The other thing that happened is that Alexander’s Great-Grampa Kimu told him that Roger didn’t kill Shapiro.”
Her eyes got wide as she stared across the table at Alexander. “Kimu Ioneki?”
He nodded.
“You know who he is?” I said.
“What you trying pull?” she asked. “Everyone knows who Kimu Ioneki is—was.”
Stupid me, guess I’m not everyone. “We’re not trying to pull anything. Kimu visited Alexander last night and said that I should tell you what happened to Roger.”
Slowly, a sad smile spread across her face. She put both hands on the table, then said, “That Kimu. He always pick the least likely person for a job. Always he try help the underdog learn he can’t win if he don’t try.”
“He picked me because I was—a loser?”
Alexander and Mrs. Lau both chuckled. She said, “One of the last things he did was introduce me and Roger. He said we were going marry and have two great keike. Roger had always gone out with pretty, skinny girls. I was opposite of ones he choose himself. But, we went out to make Kimu happy and Roger propose on next date. We have two fine boys. They so like their father.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, then wiped away a tear. “So what else Kimu say?”
My eyes felt watery as a lump settled in my throat. I’d proven once before that I wasn’t good at this rapport thing. Could I do better now? My thoughts were interrupted when Alexander shifted position. He nodded when I glanced in his direction. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was remembering something. Someone. What did you say?”
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