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

by JoAnn Bassett

  Monday was Hatch’s final day at Maui Fire. He’d been pretty sure they’d give him light duty that day to allow him time to say his good-bye’s and get his gear ready to turn in. He’d warned me there might be a farewell party, and he’d even grilled me about whether I knew if there was one planned. But no one had said anything to me.

  I went down to my shop at about ten. I’d skipped working out, since I wasn’t ready to face Sifu Doug and endure another lecture on the joys of marriage. Until I knew if Hatch would be taking the job in LA, and we’d had a chance to talk about it, I wanted to curtail all discussion of weddings and marriage with anyone. I felt like I was in a tug of war where I’d been unable, or unwilling, to choose a side.

  The first thing I did was to scoop the stack of mail from the floor. There was a lot of it to go through, so I decided I’d get a little exercise by cleaning the shop first. The dust on the window sills had built up, and my desk was so cluttered I couldn’t find a space large enough to dump the pile of mail.

  I dusted, and then ran my old vacuum along the floors of both the office and the bridal fitting area. The interior of my shop had been totally rebuilt after the fire, but I’d opted to stick with the original décor: wide plank flooring in the office and a sisal carpet in the small room I used for dress fittings. And, even though the fire marshal had recommended I go with drywall because it was more fire-resistant, I’d stuck with just replacing the plain wood paneling on the walls with stuff similar to what I’d had before. Farrah’s store had been designated a “historical site” which had been both blessing and curse. She got a ridiculously favorable loan to rebuild after the fire, and she was assured the building wouldn’t be demolished or turned into condos, but she had to play “mother may I?” with the historical society at every turn.

  My shop was part of the overall building, but it was mostly ignored by the historical types. And, since I hadn’t opted for the flashy chrome and glass look of the big bridal salons in Honolulu, the society had pretty much let me do as I pleased.

  I scrubbed out the tiny powder room sink and toilet, and was just about to sit down to sort through the accumulated mail, when my door opened and a stout female figure came bustling inside.

  “Ah, so you back, eh?” she said. “I been stickin’ it tru da door. You been gone long. What’s it? A week?”

  Trudy had been the mail carrier in Pa’ia for as long as I could remember. The woman—and I’m using the word in its largest sense, since she’s one of those big local gals that require close scrutiny to determine gender—was also the biggest gossip around.

  As the cops say, “anything you say may be held against you,” so it was always wise to just stick to the simple 4-1-1 with Trudy.

  “Yeah, I had to do a wedding on Moloka’i,” I said.

  “No lie? My people come from there. What you t’ink?”

  “About Moloka’i? It’s beautiful. I really loved it.” True, and true. So far, so good.

  “I hear from my sista they got some trouble over there. Some local boy done hung himself dead.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Yeah, I heard that, too. Very sad.”

  She peered at me as if hoping I’d have more, but when I didn’t elaborate, she said, “You only got two pieces today.” She handed me a Hawaii Bride magazine and a first-class letter.

  “Mahalo,” I said.

  “How’s your best girl doing over in the city?” she said.

  “She’s good. She had twins.”

  “I know that. A boy and a girl,” she said. “You know what names they pick?”

  “Last I heard, they hadn’t put anything on the birth certificates.” It was like tiptoeing through a mine field.

  “Well, I bet she names that keiki girl after you,” she said with a toothy smile.

  I smiled back.

  “Well, gotta run. Always gots lots to deliver on Mondays,” she said.

  When she’d closed the door behind her, I looked down at the letter I was holding. The envelope was made from lovely thick ivory-colored paper, pre-printed with a return address in script font. The letter was addressed by hand to “Let’s Get Maui’d.” In the lower left-hand corner, the sender had written, “Attn: Polly Moon,” followed by the words “Personal and Confidential.”

  I sliced the envelope open with my letter opener. Inside, was a hand-written note, and folded inside that was a check made out to Let’s Get Maui’d for $5,000.

  Dear Polly:

  Forgive my quick exit, but I had no choice. I learned of Amanda’s previous marital history and knew I was next. I’m enclosing what I hope is sufficient to offset any expenses you may have incurred.

  If anyone inquires, please tell them I willingly gave that young man my cash roll in payment for helping me escape. I hope he puts the money to good use.

  Sincerely,

  R. Atkinson

  I reread the note twice, and then checked the postmark. It had been mailed from zip code 90292 on April 18th, last Wednesday. But hadn’t Richard had a heart attack and died the night before?

  Things weren’t adding up.

  I looked up the zip code online and found it was from a place called Marina del Rey, California, a waterfront suburb of Los Angeles. The pre-printed return address turned out to be an art gallery on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills.

  Looked like I might be tagging along with Hatch to Los Angeles, after all.

  CHAPTER 29

  Hatch was thrilled when I told him I’d changed my mind about accompanying him to California. He even offered to buy my plane ticket. I demurred, thanking him but saying I’d get it myself, but he’d insisted.

  “LA Fire is paying for my ticket,” he said. “Please let me get yours. After all, you’re doing this for me.”

  I came close to telling him my real reason for going, but then I balked. I didn’t know how I’d be able to come clean about my ulterior motives without it looking like I was being an opportunistic snoop. Which, of course, I was.

  Worse, I didn’t want us to have another fight before we left and have him fretting over our situation when he went into his interview. If he wanted that LA job so badly, who was I to chum the waters of his self-confidence?

  We left in mid-afternoon on Thursday. The flight to LA would take five and a half hours, with an expected arrival time of right around midnight, given the time change. Hatch’s interview wasn’t until ten the next morning, so even though we’d probably be getting to bed pretty late, he’d have a chance to sleep in and be well-rested for the interview.

  When we got to Kahului Airport, Hatch flashed his firefighter credentials at the gate agent and she moved us to seats in an exit row. Normally those roomier seats go for a few extra bucks, but there’d been an unfortunate spate of airline mishaps in the news the previous week, so I think they were glad to have someone there who’d know what to do in the event of an emergency.

  We didn’t drink on the flight over. Hatch wasn’t sure if they’d drug test him at the interview, and as he put it, “I don’t want to give them a dumb-ass reason for saying, ‘no thanks, buddy.’”

  The fire department was putting Hatch up in a decent, but not luxurious, airport hotel. We went to the car rental place and got a car for him to drive into the city the next day. I noted the whereabouts of the place, so I’d be able to get back there on my own, and I felt a twinge of guilt. I appeased it by vowing I’d fill Hatch in on what I’d been doing after he’d aced his interview.

  The airport hotel turned out to be relatively quiet even though it was directly under the flight path into LAX. I couldn’t believe how many take-offs and landings came overhead every hour: a dozen? a hundred? It was impossible to tell without sitting outside and using a clicker to count.

  We ate a light dinner at the hotel restaurant and went upstairs to turn in early. Neither of us said much at dinner.

  “Thanks again for coming with me,” Hatch said. “I’m sorry I haven’t been better company, but I’m kinda nervous.”

  “They�
�d be lucky to have you,” I said.

  “Is that how you feel?”

  “You mean, lucky to have you?”

  He nodded.

  “Any woman would be,” I said. Inwardly, I cringed at my weasel-ly response, but Hatch didn’t seem to notice.

  ***

  The next morning, Hatch left at 8:30. He’d gotten a car with GPS, but rush hour traffic in Los Angeles is legendary and he didn’t want to be late.

  Twenty minutes later, I was sliding my credit card and Hawaii driver’s license across the counter at the car rental desk.

  “Would you like to upgrade to a Cadillac Escalade, or maybe a new Mustang convertible?” said the rental agent.

  “No, the cheapest car you have with a nav system will be fine,” I said.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Beverly Hills.”

  She grinned. “Sure you don’t want to re-think the Escalade? We’ve still got some black ones available.”

  I declined, and she handed me the keys to a Nissan Sentra. I found it parked alongside three other Sentras of the same color: car rental gray. I’m sure on the dealer sticker it listed the color as “silver frost” or maybe even “precious pewter,” but the car was gunmetal gray, pure and simple.

  I tapped in the return address from the letter Richard had sent, and after “acquiring satellites” and hemming and hawing for a minute, the breathy female voice of the GPS system told me to “drive to highlighted route.”

  I followed the purple path out of the car rental lot, onto West Century Boulevard, and then got onto the entrance to the San Diego Freeway heading north.

  I’d never seen such traffic. In Honolulu, the H-1 freeway can be a parking lot during rush hours, but this was twice, or maybe even three times, worse. Here, the traffic would come to a complete stand-still, and then, without warning, it’d start up again with everyone accelerating to sixty miles an hour before screeching to a halt a few minutes later. It was like a giant game of “Red Light/Green Light” with Mercedes and Porches and Bentleys instead of barefoot island kids.

  At Santa Monica Boulevard, the GPS lady told me to exit. I did exactly as she instructed, never missing a turn or forcing her to say, “Recalculating.” But still, she stuck to her assistant principal tone and insisted on telling me everything at least twice. She must’ve thought I was terrified of driving in LA traffic. Then again, maybe she was psychic.

  The gallery address was right in the heart of the posh Rodeo Drive shopping area. I wasn’t impressed by the upscale shops. I’d seen those names before, on Kalakaua Avenue in Waikiki: Gucci, Chanel, Tiffany. Of course, I’d never shopped in any of them. Even during my short flirtation with wealth, when my birth father had left me an obscenely large sum of money, I’d avoided places like that. Auntie Mana’s mantra had been, “Live simply so others can simply live,” and I’d embraced that concept for richer, for poorer.

  I parked the Sentra and went to the door. The place wasn’t like art galleries on Front Street in Lahaina, with wide open doors and valuable pieces displayed within a few feet of passersby. Here, you had to press a button and wait to be buzzed inside.

  I pressed, and a voice came over a speaker. “Please state your name and your appointment time.” The electronic female voice sounded eerily like the GPS lady. I wondered if she hired out.

  “My name’s Pali Moon. I don’t have an appointment, but I have a letter from Richard Atkinson.” I waved the envelope at the glass door, even though the black glass was nearly opaque. I had a feeling the inside occupants could see out, but not the other way around.

  The buzzer sounded and the door clicked, as if someone had thrown open a bolt. I went inside.

  The spacious gallery had twenty-foot ceilings, but there was very little artwork in sight. A painting here, and a sculpture over there; to me it looked like the place had been robbed.

  A young, blond woman was seated smack dab in the middle of the floor at a glass desk. Anyway, I guess you’d call it a desk. It was a two-inch thick piece of glass about the size of an interior door. It had no legs, but was held in a horizontal position by four thick silver cables at each corner, suspended from the high ceiling.

  “Good morning. How may I help?” she said. She had a Slavic accent. Probably Ukrainian, or perhaps Romanian or one of those other countries near the southern Russian border. I have a hard time keeping them straight.

  “I received a letter from Richard Atkinson, and it’s important that I speak with him.”

  “When did you receive this letter?”

  “This week. The postmark says he mailed it on Wednesday, the 18th.”

  “This is impossible,” she said. “I’m afraid Mr. Atkinson is, as you say, passed away. He is gone since 17 April. He became ill while on vacation in Hawaii.”

  My antennae were up, telling me she wasn’t a person I should confide in.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I must be mistaken about the date. I’m sorry for your loss, but I need to get in touch with his family. Would you please tell them I’m visiting from Hawaii and I’m here in Los Angeles for the day? I’d like to extend my condolences in person. Tell them I have important information for them.”

  I dug out a “Let’s Get Maui’d” business card and handed it to her.

  “How do you say this name?” she said.

  “Pali Moon. The first name’s like the parrot, you know, ‘Polly want a cracker?’”

  She narrowed her eyes and gave a little shake of the head. “I do not know this.”

  “Ah, okay. How about ‘Pollyanna?’ The little girl who always looked on the bright side of things?”

  She still looked flummoxed.

  “Just tell them Pali Moon would appreciate a few minutes of their time,” I said.

  She stood, and I half-expected her to click her heels before she sent me on my way.

  “I will tell him,” she said. “Ah, I mean ‘them.’ I will tell them. My English is not so good sometimes.”

  I walked out. I thought her English was just fine, thank you.

  CHAPTER 30

  I was back on Santa Monica Boulevard heading toward the freeway when my phone chimed. I couldn’t possibly answer it. What with trying to listen and follow the GPS lady’s commands, keeping up with the frantic LA traffic, and avoiding getting sideswiped by a guy with a death wish driving a black low-rider Honda Civic, I had my hands full. I hoped whoever was on the line would understand.

  A few seconds later the phone pinged, alerting me I had a message. I pulled into a grocery store parking lot and called my voicemail.

  “Miss Moon,” said a muffled male voice. “I hear you’re in town. If my check wasn’t satisfactory you could’ve just called. But since you insist on tracking me down like a bounty hunter, why don’t we meet at the house?” He gave me the address: 44 Spindrift, in Marina del Rey.

  I punched the address into the nav system. After a few seconds, the exasperated-sounding GPS woman barked, “Drive to highlighted route,” and I took the next entrance to the San Diego Freeway south.

  Marina del Rey turned out to be, not surprisingly, a pricey upscale neighborhood. The streets were lined with late 20th century odes to conspicuous consumption that, no doubt, gave Architectural Digest plenty to chew on. The houses faced a marina, and most of the homes sported million-dollar yachts or sailboats parked within spitting distance of the front door.

  I pulled the Sentra a block away from Richard’s place to avoid being mistaken for the cleaning lady, and walked up. His house was a rather refined-looking glass and cedar-shake number, one of the least ostentatious of the lot.

  He answered the door himself, and he was not in his wheelchair.

  “You look downright hale and hearty for a dead man,” I said. I’d been practicing that line for the past few minutes.

  “Do come in, Miss Moon,” he said.

  He led me up a small flight of stairs to a living room with floor to ceiling windows that looked out on the sparkling waterway.
A sailboat with a crisp white triangular sail glided by as if on cue.

  “Beautiful view,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m sure Amanda misses it.”

  “I don’t have much time,” I said.

  “Of course. I’ll get my checkbook.” He turned to leave.

  “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Oh?” He cocked his head like a robin listening for a worm.

  “I’d like to hear what really happened at George’s that night.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” he said.

  “Not really. Your note said you’d enlisted Lono’s help in your, as you say, ‘escape,’ but that doesn’t really add up.”

  “Are you acting on your own behalf, or at the behest of the authorities?”

  “On my own,” I said. “And, I want to be able to give a grieving friend of mine some answers.”

  “Amanda?”

  “Hardly. After you left, Lono—you know, the guy you paid to help you escape—asked his mother to hold the money for him, and then he took off. A short time later, he committed suicide. He hung himself. His mother believes he killed himself out of shame because he’d stolen the money, and to avoid going back to prison.”

  By now, Richard’s face had become a mask of confusion.

  I went on. “Are you aware Amanda told the police that Lono pushed you in the pool?”

  “Well, good for her,” he said. “For once in her life, she told the truth.”

  “He threw you in?”

  “Well, it wasn’t as dramatic as all that,” he said. “It was more like he assisted me. It was dark, and I was concerned I might go into the shallow end and crack my head.”

  “What were you doing?”

  He let out an irritated sigh. “I needed to get out of there in a swift and discreet manner. Actually, I was quite pleased with my strategy: I’d fall in the pool, then they’d call an ambulance, and I’d bribe whomever necessary to file a false report of my death. Sometimes the best plans are the most simple.”