Bet Your Bones

by Jeanne Matthews

  Lyssa seemed to enjoy twitting her father. Claude Ann said that she had brought up the sore subject of her mother’s suicide. Maybe she had some sort of emotional hang-up about her death and she was angry at Xander for remarrying. Lyssa couldn’t have been much past the toddler stage when her mother died and Xander had probably spoiled her rotten. Dinah wondered if there had been some mental disorder or precipitating event that drove her mother to commit suicide.

  Suicide among all indigenous peoples ran high and Hawaii was probably no different. Depression, substance abuse, and poverty topped the list of causes, but there was another theory, something anthropologists called “historical trauma.” Historical trauma included conquest and colonialism, forced assimilation, degradation of the environment and, ultimately, the dilemma of being torn between two cultures. Dinah didn’t deny that these were depressing things to have to cope with. Her Seminole grandfather and one of her uncles had committed suicide more than a hundred and fifty years after their ancestral lands were stolen and their forebears driven into the Everglades. Be that as it may, it was a reach to think that the overthrow of the Hawaiian queen drove a healthy young woman with two small children over a cliff.

  Dinah closed her book and contemplated the pretty whitecaps sweeping onto the beach. She could practically feel them sloshing and sudsing around her feet. It was just nine o’clock. She had hours to kill before she was slated to meet Claude Ann and Lyssa at the bridal shop and she decided to take her crummy mood downstairs and pamper herself with a leisurely breakfast on the terrace. Afterwards, she would go for a long walk on the beach, or even huff and puff her way up Diamond Head. The hotel offered a shuttle to the base of the crater. That’s what she’d do. Sweating up a hundred and seventy-some steps and down again, followed by a refreshing dip in the ocean would readjust her attitude. She felt better already. She dressed, grabbed her book, and rode the elevator down to the lobby.

  A young couple, gazing into each others’ eyes like honeymooners, were checking in at the reception desk. Dinah went to the front door and looked out to see if the Pele demonstrators had returned, but there was no one on the lawn or under the banyan trees and the only car parked under the portico was a Royal Hawaiian taxi.

  Feeling strangely let down, she donned her Wayfarers and went out onto the terrace. The hostess seated her at a table adjacent to the beach, which was already bustling with walkers, joggers, sun worshippers, shell hunters, kite fliers, sand castle builders, and kids splashing through the waves. A catamaran bobbed in the distance and the air smelled of Coppertone and coconuts. She scanned the menu and, in furtherance of anthropological investigation, decided on something called loco moco. After a few minutes, a friendly woman in a blue sarong took her order, poured her coffee, and traipsed off to the kitchen.

  Dinah tried to read more about Lo-Lale, but her thoughts kept circling back to another attractive bachelor named Wesley Spencer and Claude Ann’s zinger about Dinah making a fool of her. Before Xander, Wesley had been the love of Claude Ann’s life and what happened vis-à-vis Wesley and Dinah had become the fly in the ointment of Dinah’s friendship with Claude Ann. Dinah had tried to shield Claude Ann from a truth she thought would be devastating. Like so many good intentions, Dinah’s backfired. She knew now that meddling in another person’s love life, however noble one’s intentions, was a recipe for regret. But if Claude Ann harbored the notion that, were it not for Dinah’s meddling, she would’ve married her heart’s desire instead of Hank, she was deluding herself. Wesley Spencer. That was one bachelor myth that had to be debunked or Claude Ann and she would never get their wires uncrossed. The question was how and when to broach the subject. Two days ahead of the wedding, the words “Remember the handsome guy who ditched you before” probably wouldn’t go over too well.

  The tropical breeze was like a warm caress. She turned her face up to the sun and was half-dozing when her loco moco came. Meticulous as an archaeologist unearthing a precious shard, she excavated it with her fork. Fried egg on top, a puddle of brown gravy beneath that, then a hamburger patty resting on a bed of rice. So much for the exotic name. Oh, well. She scooped up a forkful of egg, filled her mouth, and nearly choked at the sight of Eleanor, Pele’s outsized ambassador, barging barefoot down the beach in a red-flowered muumuu.

  This morning Eleanor was alone and carried no sign, but her enormous girth and imperious carriage caused heads to turn. Dinah stared transfixed. Slowly, it dawned on her that this amazing character was looking straight at her. Following Xander’s directive, she lowered her eyes, hid her face behind her hand, and waited for the woman to pass.

  Useless. In a minute, Dinah heard the unmistakable voice rumbling over her head. “I saw you las’ night wid dat woman Garst gonna marry.”

  Shit. Well, there was nothing Dinah could do now. She swallowed her egg and looked up with a submissive smile. In the light of day, Eleanor appeared even more sinister than she had by torch light. Her bushy eyebrows lowered above her small black eyes and her mouth was as unforgiving as a boning knife.

  “Boddah you if I sit?” Her tone implied that it had better not.

  Dinah glanced around to see if any objection was forthcoming from the management.

  “No worry, sistah. All de beaches in Hawai’i, dey public. What’s yo name?”

  “Dinah Pelerin.”

  “I’m Eleanor Kalolo.” She pulled up a chair. “You a friend of Garst?”

  “I’m a friend of his fiancée. A very good friend.”

  “Den you bettah tell her dat buggah’s no good for her.”

  “Why? Because he’s building houses in a place you don’t want him to?”

  “Dat’s one reason.” She tipped her head back and squinched her eyes, as if gauging Dinah’s niche in the food chain. “You no look like you’re all haole.”

  “What’s haole?”

  “White. Caucasian. Wat da kine you?”

  “My father was white. My mother’s Native American, Seminole.”

  Eleanor’s bosom swelled. “I’m full-blooded Hawaiian. Pele is ‘aumakua, my ancestor and family god.”

  That TV reporter had started to say something about someone Eleanor was related to. Could she have been referring to the fire goddess? Dinah said, “I’ve never met anyone who claimed to be related to a god.” Eleanor glowered and she quickly added, “I meant no disrespect.”

  She gave Dinah that slitty-eyed, speculative look again. “I tink you no like Garst. I tink you plenny akamai.”

  “What’s akamai.”

  “On da ball. Smart. Like you know wot’s wot.”

  Provoked as she was, Dinah couldn’t help but be impressed by the gall of the woman. “Why are you telling me this, Eleanor? I don’t hold sway over my friend’s choice of a husband, and I certainly don’t have any influence over Xander Garst’s land deals.”

  Her glower softened. “We Native Hawaiians have received the same benefits from the haoles as the Native Americans—death from the measles and smallpox, subversion of our customs and our religion, and the appropriation and occupation of our land.”

  Whoa! So Eleanor could shift registers at will. Dinah’s curiosity intensified. Did she use the pidgin dialect to maintain street cred with the locals, or as a guise to make people like Xander think she was ignorant and controllable? “Is your quarrel with Xander Garst about a single housing development or Native Rights in general?”

  “It’s about making sure Garst gets what he deserves.”

  “But you can’t hold one man accountable for the injustices of history.”

  “Not all of them.” She tilted her head back and fixed her small, shrewd eyes on Dinah. “Have you ever heard of the Great Mehele?”

  “No.”

  “In eighteen-hundred-and-forty-five, King Kamehameha proclaimed that foreigners would be allowed to purchase land that had been set aside for the Hawaiian
monarchy. Fifty years later, foreigners owned ninety percent of our islands.”

  “I can empathize, Eleanor. Aboriginal peoples seem always to come out on the losing side of history. But you can’t dwell on the past. Xander Garst isn’t a foreigner. He’s an American and so are you.”

  She snorted. “And we simple savages should be grateful that a hundred years after America ousts our queen and steals our land, Bill Clinton signed an Apology Resolution?”

  Dinah bristled. “As you say, it was a hundred years ago and one more housing development in this day and age doesn’t warrant the extra effort you’re putting into your anti-Garst campaign. This is personal. What did the man ever do to you?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  “Claude Ann said you believe there are bones buried on the property. The bones of an old king. Is that what this is about? Was this king one of your ancestors?”

  “You just tell Garst that Uwahi is wahi pana. You tell him this time he’s going to pay.”

  Ordinarily, Dinah tended to side with the natives and the less powerful. But in this case, Eleanor was the one who came off sounding intimidating and prejudiced and Xander who seemed the underdog. It occurred to her that Eleanor might be trying to shake him down for money. “If you expect me to pass along your warning, you’d better tell me what wahi pana is and how much money you want from him.”

  “Now I tink you not so akamai. You jus’ remembah one word. Pash. He’ll know. He’ll know what he gotta answer for Bumbye.”

  The growling rancor in her voice sent a chill down Dinah’s spine. She tried to imagine what would engender such hatred. Xander said that Uwahi was part of a volcanic flow. Had there been some recent breakthrough of lava? Had someone fallen into a steam vent? “Did this Pash you mention, or Bumbye, get injured on the property? Did someone die?”

  She answered with a snort of majestic disdain. “You care ‘bout yo friend, you tell her dat kane Garst bring her trouble. Akahele.” Her mouth quirked up in a nasty half-smile. “That means she’d better beware what she’s getting into, Dinah Pelerin. And so had you.” Whereupon, she rose up from the chair like an evil jinn and lumbered off down the beach, her awesome hips undulating hula-like beneath the muumuu.

  Chapter Seven

  Dinah hastened back to the lobby. She felt as if she’d had a visitation from the Spirit of Prophecy and the portent was not good.

  Bumbye. Was it a person, one of Eleanor’s children, perhaps? Or maybe it was a place or a holy shrine to Pele. After the warm beach, the air-conditioned lobby felt like a refrigerator. She stood fidgeting at the front desk while the receptionist reviewed a bill with a peevish guest. Should she ask the hotel to telephone the police? How specific did a threat have to be to involve the police? Maybe she was overreacting. She took a deep breath. Xander had scolded Claude Ann, albeit mildly, for engaging with the protesters last night and he’d told the hotel receptionist he didn’t want any publicity. The prudent thing would be to convey Eleanor’s diatribe to Xander and let him handle the situation as he deemed necessary. As for conveying Eleanor’s marital advice to Claude Ann, Dinah would sooner be shot.

  The receptionist got rid of the complainer at last. “Thanks for waiting, Ms. Pelerin.”

  Dinah said, “Please ring Xander Garst’s room and ask him to come to the lobby right away. It’s urgent.”

  “I’m so sorry. Mr. Garst and Ms. Kemper left in a taxi a half-hour ago.”

  “Do you have his cell phone number?”

  “No, I don’t. Is there something wrong?”

  “If he calls the hotel, would you please give him my number and ask him to call ASAP?”

  “Certainly.” She jotted down the number Dinah gave her.

  Dinah had another idea. “Is there a computer I can use?”

  “Of course.” She led her to a room behind the reception area. “Just use your room number to log on.”

  Dinah thanked her and got to work. If Google didn’t come through for her, she’d buy a Hawaiian dictionary. Aumakua, wahi pana, akahele. The ka-hooey word that young protester had flung at her had already slipped her mind. Bumbye didn’t sound Hawaiian. She didn’t think the Hawaiian alphabet had a letter b. It didn’t have an s either and the one word Eleanor had charged her with remembering was Pash.

  The online Hawaiian dictionary defined aumakua as Eleanor had—a family or personal god. Aumakua could assume various shapes—a shark or an owl or a rat. Even a rock. Apparently, the aumakua appeared to mortals in dreams to offer guidance or reproach. Akahele meant take care or watch your step, which sounded slightly less threatening than “beware.” And wahi pana referred to a sacred place. Bumbye, she learned to her chagrin, was pidgin for by and by. Xander would know what he had to answer for by and by. The only entries brought up by “Pash” were for an indie band whose best known song was “Kill the Rich Boys,” the Petroleum Accountants Society of Houston, and Australian slang for tongue kissing.

  “Beg pardon. Oh, hello! Are you Dinah?”

  She turned and saw a silver-haired man of about sixty with a florid complexion, kinetic blue eyes, and a somewhat manic demeanor. He wore a Hawaiian shirt with coral colored flamingos. The tanned legs poking out below his golfing shorts bowed like the staves of a barrel.

  “Yes, I’m Dinah.”

  “Claude Ann’s friend. Excellent, excellent, excellent. Avery Wilhite, at your service. Xander’s business partner.” He handed her a card. “Heard at the desk you were asking for him. Some kind of trouble. Bride hasn’t got cold feet, has she?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” He was so blithery she had to smile. “It’s nothing to do with the wedding.”

  “Didn’t think so. Just joking. The protesters haven’t made any more fuss, have they? Pesky lot. Saw a clip of them on TV this morning. Feel bad for Xan and Claude Ann. Her, especially. Dirty pool to hassle a bride at a time like this.”

  She read the card. SAX Associates. “Are you Xander’s partner in the Uwahi project?”

  “Partner and primary investor. I’m the A in SAX.”

  Dinah was eager to unload her worries about Eleanor onto someone else and she could see no reason why Xander would object to her relaying Eleanor’s message to his partner and primary investor. She said, “Actually, one of the protesters accosted me while I was having breakfast on the terrace.”

  “Botheration. Well, no sense burdening Xander. Enough on his plate, poor boy. Let’s go to the hotel conference room and you can give me the lowdown. Maybe I can get them off his back.”

  He shepherded her through the lobby and down a short corridor she hadn’t noticed before. He threw open the double doors on the left and blundered into a poker game in progress. “Oh! Wrong room. I do beg pardon.”

  Raif tongued a swizzle stick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Pull up a chair, Avery. You, too, Dinah. The more the merrier and the richer the pot.”

  “Raif Reid? Is that you?” Wilhite seemed discomfited out of all proportion.

  “None other.”

  “Raif. Well, well. Raif. Good to see you. Been a while. Lyssa good?”

  “She’s good,” said Raif with what seemed to be his signature semi-sneer. He sat slouched in front of a tall stack of blue chips and a Starbucks’ Vente.

  “Well, good for Lyssa,” said Wilhite. “Excellent.”

  The two men Raif was playing with were older-middle-aged. One had a heavy five-o’clock shadow, dark circles under his eyes, and a beer gut. One of his hands fondled a short stack of red chips and he didn’t appear to appreciate the intrusion. The other player, a fleshy-faced man with a deeply furrowed brow, didn’t either.

  “Afraid we can’t stay and play,” said Wilhite, backing out the door. “See you and Lyssa at the shindig tonight?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” said Raif.

  “Excellent.”
Wilhite closed the door and tried the one across the hall. “Here we go. This has to be it.” He opened the door and gestured Dinah inside.

  The last people to meet in this room must have been Eskimos. The air conditioning had been ramped up to near-freezing. Wilhite pulled out a chair for her at the end of a long, teakwood table and sat down next to her. “Astonishing, eh? Never would’ve imagined it.”

  “Raif’s gambling?”

  “No, no. Boy’s a pistol. More moxie than’s good for him. Drives Xan up the wall, but that’s youth for you. No, I meant Xan getting married. I’ve known him for thirty-five years and, after being a widower and blade about town, it’s hard to believe he’s making it legal again. Not that Claude Ann isn’t the cream. Beautiful girl. Young for him, but then I wouldn’t have expected Xander to be dazzled by a woman his own age. Not that older women can’t be alluring, you understand. What do they call themselves now? Cougars? But I’ve never seen Xan with a cougar. Always has a young one on his arm.”

  Dinah felt as if she’d hit the gossip motherlode. Given the opportunity, her news about Eleanor could wait a few minutes. “Where did you and Xander meet?”

  “Oh, at the University. We were on the tennis team. Both of us from back East, both married local girls and decided to stay. We’ve played a lot of tennis over the years.”

  “You must have known Xander’s first wife. What was she like?”

  “Oh, my God. Spectacular woman. Knew it, of course, but that’s neither here nor there. Never met a man who didn’t fall head over heels for sweet Leilani, myself, included. When Xan married her, his ego shot into the stratosphere and the rest of us island swains moped about like lovesick adolescents.” He slapped his knobby knees and chuckled. “Louis Sykes was another one. Besotted. Married, though, like me. Nothing to do but admire from afar. Like her, Louis died young. Tragic. His son Steve’s the S in SAX Associates. He’s our legal eagle.”