JoAnn Bassett - Islands of Aloha 07 - Moloka'i Lullaby

by JoAnn Bassett

  I’d never worn a watch, except during my short stint with the feds, but I was pretty good at guessing time based on the position of the sun, my stomach rumblings, and, when I was in my shop, the sounds coming through the walls from Farrah’s grocery store next door.

  Hatch always wore a watch. “It’s ten-fifty,” he said. “Perfect time for a burger.”

  We parked and went inside. The menu board featured a “ramen burger,” a hamburger wrapped in a ramen noodle “bun.” The picture looked like a greasy mess to me, but the ingredients were right up Hatch’s alley. I opted for the more pedestrian mushroom burger.

  The smiling girl who took our order told us they had free wi-fi. I thought it was odd she’d mentioned that, until I realized that although this was a burger place, it wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination, “fast food.” We sat at our table checking emails and just generally fiddling around with our phones. In due time, the burgers were up.

  “Where are we staying?” said Hatch.

  “In a condo at Moloka’i Shores. It’s just down the road.”

  We ate our burgers in record time, and then drove down the King Kam Highway to the condo. We checked in, and then realized we’d forgotten to pick up any supplies in town. The woman at the check-in desk recommended Friendly’s Market, so we drove back into town.

  Friendly’s turned out to be only about half the size of the Gadda da Vida, but it had an amazing collection of merchandise. Not too much of anything, but a little of everything. We bumped and “excuse me’d” down the narrow aisles until we had a hundred dollars-worth of provisions. It sounds like a lot, but at Moloka’i prices, it all fit quite comfortably into our two re-usable grocery bags. Plastic bags had gone the way of the dinosaur throughout Maui County years ago, so everyone was used to bringing cloth bags to the store.

  We returned to the condo and put the food and drink away in the tiny kitchen. The condo was on the second floor. It had one bedroom and a bath, with a lana’i sporting a peek-a-boo view of the ocean. Even though the water view was limited, the place was so quiet we could hear the waves crashing ashore.

  “I forgot how wonderful it is to be at the beach,” I said.

  “Yeah. Sometimes I can hear the ocean from my place, but I can’t see it at all,” said Hatch. “This is great.”

  I wanted to just plop down on an outside lounge chair and let the ocean lull me to sleep, but I had work to do.

  “I need to drive to the west side and find the address Amanda gave me,” I said. “But if you’d rather stay here and nap, that’s okay.” Hatch often needed a nap after getting off work since he’d usually been up all night going out on calls.

  He screwed up his face. “Hmm, drive a trasher car across the island to eyeball a wedding place, or hit the bed with my girl? Hard to choose.”

  “Okay, funny man, I wasn’t offering you company. I was just wondering if you wanted to drive over there with me. I want to check out the venue before I try to arrange anything else.”

  “If it’s okay with you, I think I’ll let you go it alone this time. I’d like to stick around here and see if there’s any place to do a little body surfing. When you get back, let’s see about that nap.”

  “Sounds good. But you know you don’t have to just bodysurf. There’s a surfboard in the bedroom.”

  “Seriously? Where?”

  “Under the bed. I’m sure it’s okay to use it. Why else would they keep it there?”

  Hatch dashed into the bedroom and dropped to his knees to check under the bed.

  “How’d you know this was here?”

  “I found it when I was checking out the place. You know me: I always look under the bed, in the back of the closets, behind the toilet, and—”

  “Geez, I was the cop, not you.” Before switching to firefighting, Hatch had been a Honolulu cop. He’d so fully embraced his fireman persona I sometimes forgot he’d ever walked the thin blue line.

  “Yeah, but you weren’t trained by the feds to always expect the unexpected.”

  “Oh, babe. When I was on the force I busted more than my share of transvestite working ‘girls’ in Waikiki. And, the first week I was at Maui Fire we stumbled across a little kid hiding in a closet during a house fire. Believe me, I’m always expecting the unexpected.”

  “Well, it’s just something I do when I stay anywhere new. I check out everything.”

  “Glad to hear it,” he said, taking me in his arms. “But hurry back from wherever you’re going, ‘cuz I got something in the bedroom I really need you to check out.”

  We kissed good-bye and I hustled out to the car. I only had the rest of the afternoon to get up to speed on what I’d be facing to coordinate a wedding on Moloka’i. Hatch would want to relax on Sunday before going back home, and Amanda was scheduled to arrive bright and early Monday morning. I’d managed to dupe her into thinking I knew what I was doing, but if I didn’t get busy, even a dim bulb like Amanda was bound to catch on that I was flying blind.

  ***

  The ride across Moloka’i was like a flashback to my childhood in upcountry Maui. In the thirty-five minute drive, no more than ten cars passed by going the other way. The few farms and homes along the way were generally tidy, but not upscale. Although it was greener, the island reminded me a little of Lana’i: not many people, not much going on.

  My cell phone GPS instructed me to turn off Highway 460 at Kaluakoi Road. I took the winding downhill road makai—toward the beach. I passed by Papohaku Beach Park, and the GPS kept nagging me that I’d “arrived at my destination.” I looked around and didn’t see a house; or even a driveway. Maybe Richard’s business partner would turn out to be a starving artist who lived in a campsite at the park.

  I made a U-turn and pulled into the parking lot. The immense park was eerily empty, but I did see a woman striding toward the public restroom with two little kids in tow. I approached her and she eyed me warily, as if encountering another person was reason for concern. I asked if she was a local and she guardedly answered she was. I smiled and told her my name, adding that I was also kama’aina, from Maui, just visiting for a few days. At that she seemed to relax a bit. But when I showed her the address Amanda had given me, she shook her head and said she didn’t recognize the street name.

  I went back to my car and drove on a bit further, but didn’t come across a single house that looked occupied, much less a gas station or convenience store where I could stop and ask directions. How did people live in such isolated conditions?

  Finally, I turned back and went up to the main road and drove into an area marked “Maunaloa,” a small community at the end of the road. The place looked pretty deserted, but there were a few storefronts with lights on inside. I went into a one-room art gallery and a chime sounded. After looking around for a few minutes, I wondered why no one had come out to greet me.

  The walls were covered with paintings sporting price tags of thousands of dollars each. They were beautiful paintings, some featuring island people, some of local landscapes and tropical plants. One that really stood out was a gorgeous portrait of a woman sitting cross-legged with a wide basket of ripe papayas in her lap. The painting was priced at thirty-two hundred dollars. Where was the proprietor? Not that I was criminally inclined, mind you, but it seemed to me that even the most inept thief could simply lift the painting off the wall, sell it on eBay, and live quite comfortably for a couple of months—even with the high prices on Moloka’i.

  As I stood contemplating how easy it would be to commit grand larceny, a short, smiling woman popped her head around a bamboo screen that separated the main gallery from a back room.

  “Aloha, I thought I heard someone come in,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  I wanted to tell her I thought I could help her. I mean, who leaves valuable artwork—almost fifty thousand dollars’ worth, by my estimation—completely unsupervised? Granted, this gallery was off the beaten path, but thieves tend to be opportunists. They don’t care if it’s downtown Honol
ulu or the back of beyond. I wanted to point out that art galleries on Front Street in Lahaina employ full-time security guards, although they’re dressed like tourists to avoid taking anything away from the aloha atmosphere. I thought she should get a surveillance camera, or at least a sign warning that she had one.

  But I didn’t scold her for her naiveté. Instead, I asked, “By any chance are you familiar with the area around Papohaku Beach Park?”

  “Yes, I live down there.”

  “Great. Well, I have a friend who has a house there and I’ve been unable to locate it. The address is 31 Papapa Place.”

  She eyed me as warily as the woman at the park.

  “And what is your friend’s name?” she said.

  “George. George Bustamante. He’s in the art business, too.”

  She laughed. “Ha, I suppose you could say that. But unlike me, Mr. Bustamante is a big kahuna in the art scene. I’m simply a starving artist. My name’s Kapi’i, by the way.” She offered her hand.

  “I’m Pali,” I said, giving her a quick handshake. “These are your paintings?”

  “Yes. Except for the jewelry in the case over there, everything in here is mine.”

  “They’re beautiful,” I said.

  “Mahalo,” she said. “That’s our Hawaiian word for ‘thank you.’”

  It wasn’t the first time, or likely the last, that a local would mistake me for a tourist. With my light hazel eyes and hair the color of a coconut husk, I hardly resemble most people’s notion of a Hawaii-born kama’aina. I started to set her straight, then paused. Perhaps on Moloka’i I was technically a tourist. After all, I’d only been there once.

  She interrupted my reverie to add, “I can direct you to Mr. Bustamante’s place. When you get to the turnoff for the park, keep going. Stay on that road for about a half a mile or so. Not as far as Kaupoa Beach, but just before. Mr. Bustamante’s place is called ‘Hale Kahakai.’ I don’t think he’s got the address posted outside, just a little brass sign with the house name on it.”

  “I see. So George named his beach house, ‘Beach House’ in Hawaiian,” I said. “Not very original of him.”

  “You speak our language?” she said.

  “I’m island-born and raised.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Your name: Polly. It sounded to me like an English name.” She looked downright mortified. As if mistaking a local for a tourist was an unpardonable sin.

  “It’s spelled P-A-L-I. But, no worries,” I said. “I appreciate your kokua.”

  She smiled. “My pleasure. You have a good day, eh?”

  “You too,” I said, as I waved good-bye with a shaka.

  ***

  I pushed the little Geo to its maximum speed, forty-eight, making it down the winding road to Hale Kahakai in about ten minutes. The place was hidden behind a fortress-like lava rock wall at least eight feet high. There was a formidable metal gate across the entrance to the driveway, so I parked on the street and approached on foot. At the mauka, or inland, corner of the wall was a three-foot gap opening to a sidewalk that allowed pedestrian access, probably for the hired help or perhaps the occasional UPS delivery guy.

  Once I’d gotten past the wall I could see why Bustamante had sealed off his property. The place was incredible. It was more of a compound than simply a house, with two or three ohana, or guest houses, and at least three large outbuildings that looked like either garages or barns. At the far end of the property was an enormous swimming pool with views to the beach below.

  I made my way toward a majestic main residence with a soaring pitched roof and what appeared to be an entire wall of glass facing the sea. It sat up high, like a mighty ship’s bow, with a wraparound lanai. From where I was standing, I could count more furniture on the lanai than I had in my entire house.

  The sidewalk was festooned on each side with lush ferns interspersed with orchids of all shapes, sizes and colors. I’m kind of a nut for orchids, so I took a minute to really inspect an especially interesting one with stalks of yellow blooms. The blooms had dark purple markings that made them look like tiny human faces. I didn’t know what the horticultural name might be, but I dubbed it the “smiley face” orchid and vowed to keep an eye out for one at my local nursery.

  I knocked on the door. No answer. I looked for a doorbell, but didn’t see one, so I knocked again. Louder. Still, no answer.

  I backtracked, taking the sidewalk in the other direction, down toward the beach. As I got closer to the swimming pool I could see it’d been lined in crystalline blue tiles that rivaled the lapis blue of the sky above. Everything was clean, tidy, and perfectly manicured. And silent. Unnervingly silent. Even the low-tide waves washing ashore seemed hushed and hesitant.

  When I got to the wall on the property line, I looked back at the magnificent house looming above me. I’d never seen anything like it. I’d once done a wedding for the spoiled daughter of a mainland “garbage king” who’d built a beachfront house in Olu’olu, a very exclusive area of West Maui. His home was beautiful. This one was spectacular.

  I surveyed the length of the wall and calculated how much beach frontage the property was sitting on. Although no one in Hawaii can ever technically own the beach from the water line to the highest water mark on the shore, it’s still pretty darn private when you’ve erected a behemoth house that looks down on the beach below.

  I wondered if Amanda and Richard were planning on getting married on the beach, but then I remembered the wheelchair. If my hunch was right, and he wasn’t totally dependent on the wheelchair, maybe he’d be willing to forego it for a few minutes so he could look into her eyes when they took their vows. One more detail I’d need to clarify.

  I headed back toward the house, glancing left and right in hope of finding at least one member of the apparent army of landscapers, pool cleaners, and window washers it must take to keep a huge property like Hale Kahakai in such top notch condition. I wanted to introduce myself and hopefully gain access to the house so I could get an idea of the space I’d be working with.

  I’d gone back up the sidewalk and had nearly made it back to the gap in the wall when I heard rustling. I looked around, but the lush foliage was so thick I couldn’t see anything—in front or behind me.

  “Stop!” said a voice.

  I halted, delighted I’d finally found someone to talk to.

  A scowling guy stepped out of the greenery no more than five feet behind me. He definitely looked like a local. Dark skin, bare-chested, with formidable musculature and a face streaming with sweat.

  It was surprising I noticed the sweat, because by now my attention was focused elsewhere. Mainly, on the thick blade of the three-foot long machete he held gripped in his massive brown hands.

  CHAPTER 8

  Machete Man growled, “This is private property. You got no business being here.” His pronunciation of the word business made it sound more like bidness, but I was in no position to offer an elocution lesson. I raised my open palms to shoulder height in an effort to appear cooperative.

  “Aloha,” I said. My voice quavered. Even though I’d offered no resistance, he still hadn’t relaxed his grasp on the menacing blade. “I’ve come from Maui to check out Mr. Bustamante’s property. A business associate of his is getting married here in a couple of weeks.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I didn’ hear nuthin’ about no wedding.”

  I wanted to point out that I doubted if the wealthy property owner felt obliged to disclose the social happenings on his private estate to his gardener, or security guy, or whatever this guy’s job was. But, once again, I took the high road and kept my mouth shut.

  “It’s true. Mr. Bustamante’s colleague, Mr. Richard Atkinson, is getting married here on the twenty-seventh. It won’t be a large affair, maybe fifteen to twenty people, tops. They’re keeping it casual, you know, buffet dinner, open bar—”

  “Stop,” the guy roared. “I tol’ you I never heard nuthin’ about it.”

  Well, I
thought, I’m not surprised. You’re not an easy guy to talk to.

  We stood there, facing each other, him flexing his fingers on the machete handle, me wondering if I was wearing Emergency Room-worthy underwear. Wouldn’t you know, at that moment my cell phone went off.

  “That’s my phone,” I said. “Can I answer it?”

  He glared at me as if accusing me of telepathically arranging to receive a phone call just to complicate things for him.

  “It’s probably just my fiancé calling to check up on me. He’ll get worried if I don’t answer. And then he’ll come looking for me, or call the police or something.” I didn’t think it wise to mention that my fiancé didn’t have a car, and had no real knowledge of where I was. I hoped the thought of a worried guy calling the cops might give Machete Man something to think about.

  And, apparently, he was thinking. He stayed silent while the phone continued to chime. Then it stopped. About ten seconds later, the phone chirped a bright ping, indicating the caller had left a message.

  “How’d you get back here?” Machete Man finally said.

  “I walked through the opening in the wall over there in the corner. I thought that’s what it was there for: people coming in on foot.” I turned and nodded toward the wall behind me. “Look, I appreciate you being so attentive to private property rights and all. But seriously, I’m simply here to see where the wedding will take place and to get a few ideas on how we can set things up. I’m the wedding planner.”

  “You’re a wedding planner?” he said in a perky voice that was light years removed from his previous growl. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t already mentioned the wedding at least twice before. Maybe the guy was slow on the uptake.

  “Yes,” I said. “From Maui. And I’m here to check out the venue.”

  “Why didn’ you tell me that before?” he said. Now, he was all smiles. He transferred the machete to one hand, bringing the point down and shoving it into the dirt like a conquistador claiming territory.

  “Ya know, my mom does weddings, birthday parties, stuff like that. She’s good at it, too. You should call her. She can pro’bly hook you up with everyt’ing you need.”