by Debra Bokur
Manuel chose a large metal deck chair lined with cushions, and made himself comfortable. There was a wood-slatted chair beside it, and Kali turned it slightly to face him. She sat down and placed her bag on the floor at her feet, reaching in and rummaging around for her notebook and pen. Manuel watched her, his face reflecting what appeared to be a mild suspicion outweighed by curiosity.
“You don’t look like a cop,” he said.
“Oh?” she said, her voice still friendly. “What is a cop supposed to look like?”
He laughed gruffly. “I mean, you aren’t wearing a uniform or anything.”
She glanced down briefly at her faded jeans and canvas slip-on shoes. The shoes had been a deep purple color when she’d purchased them, but repeated wear and washings had left them a pale violet shade. Her white T-shirt bore a logo showing a can of Spam. Around her neck was a leather cord, from which her small collection of talismans hung. She considered what Manuel had said, and had to agree. She probably didn’t look anything at all like what most people assumed a cop should look like.
“Well, I’m not part of the uniform division,” she said. “So I guess that might be confusing. But what I’d really like to discuss is the Shandling Fruit pineapple plantation on Lna‘i. I understand it’s been defunct since 1997, but it must have been a busy place before then.”
Manuel nodded, even as a deep scowl consumed his face. “Greedy. That’s what the Shandling people were. Greedy and heartless. Didn’t care about the job losses, or how they would affect the people and families who worked the fields. All they cared about was how it would cost them less and give them bigger profits to grow their pineapples where it’s cheaper. Costa Rica. Honduras. Ecuador. Thailand and India, too. Those places. Cheap labor, and more.”
Kali noticed that his breathing had become more rapid. He began to drum the armrest of his chair with his fingertips, growing agitated. Clearly, he had still not come completely to terms with the shutdown of Lna‘i’s farms and production facilities.
“There was kind of an art to it, you know. Determining the pick point, when the pineapple was at its peak for harvesting, all brown and yellow. You could smell them when it was time—a kind of perfume that filled the air and your heart. One day, it wouldn’t be there. The next day, you’d walk into the field and it was as though every fruit in the field had decided it was time to be full.”
Kali watched his eyes. The light slowly growing in them was replaced abruptly with sadness.
“They told us we could find new jobs in the new hotels, those two big resorts they built. What could we do there? Take out other people’s trash? Bring them food on trays? Change their dirty sheets as if we were servants, trapped inside a big house?” He shook his head. “No, no. It was all wrong. We were strong men and women, meant to be outside, working with the earth beneath the sun.” He looked at her. “When the business shut down there, it broke so many people. Their spirits and their hearts.”
She spoke carefully. “There must have been a lot of anger when the announcement came that the shutdown was happening.”
He looked at her, incredulous. “Anger? People’s lives were being destroyed. And that wasn’t the worst of it.” He rose from the chair, the action labored. “Let me show you something,” he said. As she began to get up to follow him, he shook his head. “Stay here in the shade. I’ll be right back.”
He went back inside, where Kali could hear him fumbling around. In a few minutes he was back, carrying a heavy photo album. He placed it on a small, glass-topped table that stood at one end of the lanai, brushing off a few stray leaves that had fallen on the table’s surface. He dragged it closer to where Kali was seated, pulled his own chair up to the table, and sat back down.
“I guess these days, everyone keeps their pictures on their phones,” he says. “But this is how we used to do it. Big books full of memories you could keep nearby and look through whenever you wanted to remember some other time or place. You could pick them up and hold them.”
She watched as he opened the album and flipped through a few pages, each one of them a series of cellophane sleeves that held photographs. He removed a few, laying them on the table glass in front of Kali. He pointed to one.
“This was my crew, the people who kept things running all day. And me, in the middle.”
She lifted the photo, inspecting it closely. There were five men—two on either side of a tall, strong version of Manuel that was far younger than the man across the table from her. They looked happy and fit, as though the photographer had caught them at the exact moment when they’d collectively gotten the punchline of a shared joke.
He gathered the remaining loose photos into a small stack and handed them to her. She looked closely at each one. The faces were Portuguese, Asian, Hawaiian, Black, Hispanic, Filipino, and White, men and women and a good number of older teens.
In one, a row of baskets sat on the ground, filled with what looked like green, sharp pineapple leaves.
“The fruit grows from the crowns,” he told her. He sighed, as though remembering. “All planted by hand—long row after row of crowns shoved into the earth.”
He leaned forward, reaching for the book and selecting another image showing a woman standing alone. He sat holding it for a moment, gazing at the woman’s face, then handed the photo to Kali. The woman was wearing a hat to protect her face and head from the sun, but her shy smile was clearly visible. She was wearing what appeared to be a pair of thick gloves, and one hand was holding a large pineapple by its green, spiky crown.
“This is my late wife, Carolina. Made the best coconut cake in the world. She worked on the picking line, laying fruit on the conveyer belt. The fruit would end up in a truck bed, then be sorted and packed with the crown facing down to be transported to the dock for the barge trip to the processing plant off-island. The best-looking ones were left whole, to be sold at the markets.” His face darkened. “After they were sprayed again, of course.”
Kali was silent, waiting for whatever it was that he wanted or needed to say.
“No one wants to talk about it,” he said. He looked through the photos on the table, choosing another one. There were two men in the image, standing on the back of a large truck. “These guys both died a few years after the plants closed. Cancer. I think it was from the chemical sprays. My wife, too. She was only fifty-two.”
All Kali could hear was the whirring of a small table fan set in front of an open window, blowing into the house from the lanai. Then she heard a car passing on the road in front of the house, a snippet of music from its radio momentarily lilting across the air, linking the listener in the car to herself. Once again, she sat, absorbing yet another story of loss told to her by a still-grieving stranger.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve heard about the heavy spraying. Pesticides?”
“Fungicides, too. To kill nematodes. Mealybugs and the like. They sprayed those plants regularly, and the rest of us couldn’t help but breathe it in or get it on us. They kept telling us it was safe. I got lucky, somehow. I don’t know why.” He looked at her. “There was even an extra spray treatment at the end of the harvesting for the whole fruits heading to supermarkets. As if no one ever made the connection that chemicals that killed one kind of life would of course have an effect on all the other life nearby. Those executives. Greedy, all of them. Gambling with other peoples’ lives.”
“The pineapple company people?”
He nodded. “Them and the chemical company people, working together. The bigwigs in their sharp suits, stopping by for a few days in the islands to get a tan and mingle with the natives.” He lifted the heavy album and searched through it, peering closely at the images. Finally, he passed the album to Kali and pointed to a picture at the bottom of one page.
“Those guys are the ones we mostly dealt with. That picture was taken at a little awards dinner they held after some important harvesting record got broken.”
In the image, three men stood together in a grou
p in front of a banquet table. They all looked happy. The man in the middle held a plaque, and each of the men standing beside him was turned slightly toward it, each resting a hand on the shoulder of the center man.
Kali took it in, then turned the page, gazing at scenes from past growing seasons, and the faces and figures of strangers. Her eyes froze suddenly on a photo showing several ladies in the act of preparing food at a counter. To their left was a yellowish-brown refrigerator that looked very familiar. She slipped the photo from its sleeve and handed it to Manuel.
“Where was this taken?” she asked.
He held the photo up, studying it. “That was our new break room. Those ladies were some of the planters.”
“Can you tell me anything about the refrigerator?”
He looked at her as though she’d just asked him to reupholster her flying saucer, then gazed back at the photo.
“The refrigerator?”
“Yes. Was it new? Do you remember what year this was taken? Do you know what happened to the fridge?”
He sat back, still looking at her in confusion. “Well . . . let me see. It was a big deal when we got it, because the old one leftover from the previous pineapple company had been on the blink and we needed something to keep lunch things in. We were given three used ones, and this was the nicest one. We only got it just a couple of years before those of us who were still working all lost our jobs. So, summer of 1994 or ’95 would be my guess.”
“There were others? Were they the same as this one—brand and color, for instance?”
“No, the other two were small, old, beat-up ones that had been donated at various times. I think they were both white. This big fancy golden one was a gift from the management people. They could have afforded to give us a new one, but we were grateful anyway. I have no idea what happened to it. When we all left on the last day, we just took our hats and lunch pails and locked all the doors behind us.” He looked at her again. “Is that what all this is about? Did someone steal the refrigerator?”
She gave him a small smile, and stood up. “No, nothing like that. It would be very helpful if I could take these photos with me. I promise you they’ll be treated well, and I’ll return them unharmed as soon as our investigation is over. Would that be okay?”
He looked at her doubtfully, then picked up the photo of his wife from where he’d placed it on the small table. “All of them?” he asked.
Kali watched him and saw a look in his eyes that she had seen more than once in her own, gazing back at her from the bathroom mirror as she brushed her hair and prepared herself for the day in a house where only she woke up each morning.
“Not that one,” she said. “Keep that beautiful photo of your wife here with you. I’ll take the others, and the album, and bring them back to you soon.”
His face brightened. He gathered the other photographs together and replaced them in their empty slots in the album, then handed it to Kali.
“That will be fine,” he said. “When you come back, maybe you would like to hear more stories about the pineapples.”
She took the album and nodded, moving toward the door. “I’d like that,” she said. “Meanwhile, thank you for your time. You’ve been a great help.”
She made her way back to the Jeep, placing the album gently on the seat beside her. The little glass star swung as she pulled her door closed and dug through her bag for her phone and punched in a number. Walter answered immediately.
“I’ve got something,” she said. “I’m heading back to the station now. See you in about an hour.”
CHAPTER 18
The photos loaned by Manuel Raso were spread across Kali’s desk. Walter stood beside her, looking through them, lifting each in turn to study the details. He lingered long on the one showing the refrigerator, holding it up to the light of the open window for a better look.
“So,” he said, “based on the fact that the fridge was still there when the pineapple plantation shut down permanently in 1997, we can eliminate our pineapple man going missing before then. Probably the others as well, as it’s unlikely a killer would have used the field as a cemetery while workers were still coming and going.”
Kali nodded her agreement.
They heard a chair push back. Hara stood up suddenly from his desk, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Yes, sir. I’ve added that information to the calculations,” he said, betraying his own excitement. “That leaves us seven males still unaccounted for, and four women that fit the general victim descriptions. And . . .”
Walter looked at him with a raised brow. “And what? Spit it out, Officer, before you explode. Or implode. Or possibly both.”
“We have a definite link between two of the missing people and the pineapple plantation,” said Hara, sitting back down, his excitement barely contained. “Reggie McCartney and Helen Stafford. An unmarried couple who fall within the physical parameters given to us by forensics for the male and female found with the infant. Went missing on Lna‘i in December of 1997. Helen Stafford was listed as a former employee at the pineapple operation.”
Walter let out a low whistle.
“Any mention of a child?” Kali asked. She could feel her pulse quickening.
“No,” said Hara, “but it looks like there’s a sister in Reno, Nevada. Both her home and work numbers are here, with a note that she helps out afternoons at a senior center near where she lives. We have that number, too.”
Walter’s phone buzzed. He looked at the small screen, replacing the photo on the table. “It’s Stitches.”
Kali stood up, moving closer. “Put her on speakerphone.”
Walter nodded, then answered the call. “Hello, Doctor. I’m here with Kali and Officer Hara. We have you on speaker. What’s up?”
Stitches’s voice reverberated throughout the interior of the office. “The dental records for Matthew Greene supplied by his parents are an exact match for the second skeleton,” she said without preamble. “The parents also positively identified that sunburst belt buckle, which had apparently been a gift from the mother. DNA samples were also provided by the mother and father and are being compared to what we have here. Test results will be in later today, but I believe we have an identity: Matthew Alan Greene.”
“One down,” said Walter. “That’s good. But we’re not any closer to finding out what happened to Matthew, or why.”
“You aren’t any closer,” corrected Stitches. “We are still evaluating the remaining unidentified bodies. I’ll be in touch soon.” A beep followed, then silence. Walter put his phone away and turned to the others.
“Thoughts?”
“More calls. What time is it in Reno?” asked Kali, walking across the room. She stood next to Hara’s chair, peering at his screen, where the list of missing persons was displayed.
Hara typed rapidly on his keyboard, pulling up the local time. “Close to noon,” he said, waiting for instructions.
“Okay,” said Kali. “And what’s the sister’s name?”
“Marcia Woolsey,” said Hara. “The number—”
“I see it. Let’s try the home number first.” She pulled her own phone out of her back pocket and dialed the number that had been entered next to the woman’s name. She activated the speaker option on the phone, and all three of them listened to the sound of ringing on the other end.
Outside, a breeze moved the branches of the ‘kia shrubs growing along the side of the building, stirring up the scent of the plant’s small, yellow-tinged flowers, gently wafting through the widow screen into the air of the room. All the while the ringing continued, until a woman answered.
“Hello?”
Kali glanced at the others. “Marcia Woolsey?”
There was a faint hesitation, and Kali imagined the woman trying to determine if she’d just made the mistake of opening the line to a sales pitch or a plea for campaign funds.
“Yes. This is Marcia.”
Kali spoke quickly, before the woman decided to hang
up. “This is Detective Kali Mhoe calling from the Maui Police Department. If you have a moment, I’d like to speak to you about your sister, Helen Stafford.”
This time the pause was longer.
“Miss Woolsey? Are you there?”
A deep sigh came in reply. “Yes, I’m here. I’m sorry, it’s just that you took me by surprise. How can I help?”
Kali spoke carefully. “There have been some developments in the missing persons case that you filed here in Maui after your sister’s disappearance. Our records show that when your sister disappeared, she may have been in the company of Reggie McCartney. One of the things I’m calling to check on is whether you’ve had any news of either of them since the last time you were in contact with the police.”
“No, there’s been nothing.” The woman’s voice grew wistful. “No word from anyone.”
“I’d appreciate it if you could refresh me on the details, including any information you might have about the relationship between your sister and Mr. McCartney.”
Marcia took a long, deep breath, then began to recount what she remembered. Kali listened as she described a carefree young woman and her college sweetheart, who’d dreamed of living in a tropical setting far from the ordinary cares of the world.
“They had a calendar on the kitchen wall in their apartment with pictures of Hawai‘i. Helen had always hated Reno and the desert, the whole time we were growing up. She used to tell me she’d been born in the wrong place and time, and I think she may have been right. She was kind of a hippie. So was Reggie. Long hair and beads and tie-dyed shirts, you know? I used to tease them both so much.” Marcia laughed, but then grew silent for a moment. “I wish I hadn’t done that,” she finally said. “I wish I had been nicer. She was my only sister. And Reggie was a really great guy. The kind of person that kids and animals just naturally followed around, like they instinctively knew he would always be kind.”