A Walk Through the Fire

by Marcia Muller

  “In what way was it miserable?”

  “Oh… the usual. What started out as a passionate love affair between two good-looking and well-off people degenerated into incompatibility. Elson was far more intellectual and better educated than Celia. She was intuitive and artistic—Stephanie gets her talent from her mother—but she had no real means of expressing it. Celia resented Elson’s work and the traveling it involved, wanted him home with her and the children. He didn’t need the money and could have turned down the magazine assignments, but then he would have been as rudderless as Celia. Eventually they both drifted into infidelities and alcoholism, and weren’t particularly attentive to their children.”

  “Peter seems to have fond memories of his father, though. Matthew, too. That’s not usually the case with neglected children.”

  “Peter and Matthew worshiped Elson. So did Stephanie. But it was more the way a fan adores a celebrity than a child does a father.”

  “And Andrew?”

  “Andrew was a difficult, disturbed child.”

  “A drug addict?”

  “… Eventually.”

  “What became of him?”

  She shook her head, lips pressed tightly together.

  “To get back to Elson’s relationship with his other children…”

  Mrs. Davenport seemed relieved at the change of conversational tack. “It wasn’t that he didn’t love them; he simply wasn’t good with children. In fact, the only young person I ever saw him relate to was a distant relative, a hapa haole named Russell Tanner.”

  “Hapa haole?”

  “The term means half white, although I believe Russell’s mainly Hawaiian. Celia resented their closeness, felt that Elson was robbing her and their children of his affection. She even went so far as to suggest that Russell was Elson’s illegitimate son. Of course, there was no evidence to support that. I think there was just something about the boy that touched Elson in a way his own children did not. They didn’t need him, you see. Russell did.”

  The way Mona Davenport spoke told me more about her than about Elson or Russ. There had been some unusual attachment between this woman and her best friend’s husband—a friendship, certainly, perhaps an affair. Its exact nature wasn’t important, but she might know more about the circumstances of his disappearance than even she realized. I decided to probe that again, and her mention of Tanner had given me a good starting point.

  I said, “I understand that a dozen years ago Elson Wellbright gave Russ Tanner a substantial amount of money to start his charter service.”

  Mona Davenport looked surprised. “How did you learn about that?”

  “Russ told me.”

  “Oh, you know him. Well, yes, the gift was quite large, and Elson could make no secret of it. It dealt the final blow to the marriage. When Celia found out about it, she made Elson move out of Pali House. Russell had always been grudgingly welcomed there, but he, like Elson, became persona non grata. It must have hurt him badly; he’d always valued his Wellbright connection.”

  “And did being made to leave hurt Elson badly as well?”

  “He was relieved to be out of that chaotic household. He settled down to his work in the little caretaker’s cottage on the estate and, when he wasn’t traveling, seemed quite content.”

  “Then why did he vanish?”

  She shrugged. “I’m sure he had his reasons.”

  “Are you sure you have no idea what they were?”

  “… I have no idea.”

  “You were close to Elson Wellbright, weren’t you? He told you things he didn’t tell others.”

  She sighed. “He told me things.”

  “Things you didn’t tell his wife? Your best friend?”

  Mona Davenport’s eyes grew stern and her lips pulled into a taut line. “Young woman, there are some things one doesn’t tell one’s best friend. Things that would hurt her. Things that would hurt others. There was a great deal I didn’t tell Celia.”

  “Such as?”

  “If I didn’t discuss them with her, I’d hardly discuss them with you, now, would I?” She shook her head emphatically, staring into the sunlight at the far shore of the bay.

  “Celia Wellbright is dead, and Elson—”

  “Would have been seventy-two years old this year and had not taken good care of himself. It’s not likely he’s still living. Let him be.”

  “The family needs to establish—”

  “The family! You mean Ben Mori. Peter doesn’t need that estate probated quickly; it’s common knowledge that he made millions from the sale of his company. Matthew’s so weak and ineffectual that he wouldn’t know what to do with his share. And neither Stephanie nor Jillian cares about money. But Ben needs funds badly. I’ve heard he’s overextended because he counted on developing those cane lands west of Waimea. He even wanted to develop the land Elson’s forest used to stand on. Thank God Matthew showed some backbone for once and stood up to him. I say, let Ben Mori wait for his share of the spoils!”

  “Mrs. Davenport, with or without my conducting a search, the Wellbright estate will be put into probate. Elson will be declared legally dead.”

  “I know that. I’m only asking that it be done in a fashion that won’t destroy his or Celia’s memory. I’m sure that’s what Peter wants, too.” She paused, eyes focused on the distance once more. “Look over there, Ms. McCone. That’s Lumahai Beach, where scenes of South Pacific were filmed. That was the romantic drama of my youth. Have you seen it?”

  “Yes.” Now where on earth was this going?

  “You remember Bali H’ai? The special island? You’re there—what they filmed was actually the palis of Kauai.” Her lips twisted wryly. “In reality, Kauai doesn’t measure up to Bali H’ai, even though our tourist board claims it does. This island has always been and always will be full of real people, with real problems. Some of them quite insurmountable.”

  “People like Celia and Elson Wellbright.”

  “And Matthew and Jillian. Stephanie and Ben. Russell Tanner. Peter. Let it be, Ms. McCone. Do enough of an investigation to satisfy the attorneys and the courts. Please let it be.”

  And that was all I could get out of her. Our meals arrived then, and she proceeded to relate a series of chatty reminiscences about the Wellbrights, anecdotes that were curiously at odds with our earlier conversation. Perhaps she regretted talking so frankly and hoped to distract me with her stories.

  It didn’t work. She only whetted my appetite for more information.

  When I got back to Waipuna, I parked in front of Donna Malakaua’s bead shop and remained in the car while I called Mick’s condo in San Francisco. He was home, sounded grumpy, and when I asked why he and Keim hadn’t gone away for the weekend, he replied, “Girlfriend of hers came into town unexpectedly. They’re off someplace. It’s raining so hard I’m thinking of drawing up plans for an ark. And there’s nothing good on TV.”

  “Feel like working?”

  “Might as well. What d’you need?”

  “A background check on a person who’s been missing for almost six years.” I gave him the particulars Peter had supplied about his father.

  “We’re supposed to find this guy?”

  “Find him, or find proof that he’s deceased.”

  “All right! I’ll get cracking on it.” Now he sounded cheerful. Nothing like a difficult case to inspire Mick. I told him I’d check back later, and headed for the bead shop.

  It was called Crystal Blue Inspiration, and the curtain that hung in the doorway was of iridescent beads in various shades of blue. They clicked and swayed as I pushed my way through. Inside was a small space—more of a stall than a room—with counters on three sides covered with wooden trays much like the ones that printers once stored type in. Each space was filled with a different kind of bead, some plain, some fancy and hand-painted. Two teenagers with long silky hair stood over one of the trays, pawing through the wares and discussing them with utmost solemnity.

  Instantly I
was transported back to the days when my high school friends and I would drive all the way from San Diego to Laguna Beach to visit a special bead shop. We too had discussed our potential purchases as if the decision were life-altering. It was nice to see that things, in places like Waipuna at least, hadn’t changed all that much.

  A large woman who might have been in her late twenties was sorting through plastic bags of beads at the rear counter. She had curly black hair, a wide pleasant face, and troubled eyes. When I came in, her gaze jerked nervously to me. Quickly it returned to the merchandise.

  “Ms. Malakaua?” I said. “My name’s Sharon McCone. Sue Kamuela—”

  “She told me you’d come by.”

  “Can we talk?”

  “About what?”

  “Your brother, Buzzy.”

  She glanced at the teenagers. “Adrian? Debi? You guys cool with me going outside awhile?”

  They kept on sorting through the tray. “Sure, Donna,” one said.

  Donna Malakaua came around the counter and motioned for me to follow her. Without speaking she led me across the street to the shopping arcade, where we settled on a bench near the play area. The day had grown hot, and there were only a few children on the swing set. Malakaua sighed heavily, took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her pink shift, and lighted one.

  “So what you want with Buzzy?” she asked.

  “I was hoping he might be able to put me in touch with Amy Laurentz.”

  Her lips pursed as if she’d tasted something sour. “That bitch. Junk, you know? Was a bad day for Buzzy, he found her.”

  “I’d say so. He’s been with her for how long?”

  “Two, three months? Long enough.”

  “And you last saw him when?”

  She dragged on her cigarette, watching the kids on the swing set. “Sue said you workin’ for the Wellbrights. What’s a rich haole family want with Amy?”

  “She may have some information I need.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Something to do with the old cane lands where she and Buzzy’ve been living.”

  She shook her head. “Don’ know how Amy can help you. Wellbrights oughta know about that land. Belongs to them.”

  I tried another tack. “The three other men who are living down there—do you know them?”

  “Three?” She frowned. “Only one I know is Tommy Kaohi.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Kid from out Hanalei Valley. He’s junk, too.”

  “How so?”

  “Just junk. You know.”

  I watched Donna Malakaua as she tossed her cigarette on the ground and crushed it out with her flip-flop. Dark circles under her eyes, stress lines around her mouth. Worried about her little brother.

  I said, “This Tommy Kaohi, does he wear an earring—a long, curved silver one?”

  “Dangly, down to here?” She measured with her forefinger.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s Tommy.”

  And it meant Tommy Kaohi was the man whom the others had tossed into the sea.

  “Where does Tommy hang out?”

  She looked at me for a minute, then sighed. “You got a piece of paper?”

  I took a small notebook from my purse, handed it to her along with a pen. She wrote Tommy’s last name, drew a small map. “Don’ tell him I told you,” she said, passing it back to me. “Tommy’s bad. Real bad. He the reason Buzzy’s in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  No response.

  “Maybe I can help.”

  The look she flashed me was disbelieving. Why would a stranger from the mainland who was working for a rich haole family want to help her brother?

  “Look,” I said, “I’ve got a brother too.” I conjured up an image of Joey who, last any of the family had heard, was working as a waiter in McMinnville, Oregon, but might be anyplace by now. “He’s really dumb and screwed up, but I love him. And he’s always getting into trouble. One time? He was drunk and rear-ended a cop car. And when the cop came back to look at the damage, Joey jumped out of his car and punched him. Now, that’s trouble.”

  Donna Malakaua smiled faintly. “That’s trouble, but Buzzy, he got worse.”

  “He tell you about it?”

  She took some time lighting another cigarette, smoked for a while. “Okay, you got a brother, you know how it goes. But it’s that bitch Amy’s fault, I swear.”

  “I hear you.”

  “That Amy… Damn, why does he go with her? He got a job, was workin’ steady. And then there she is, talkin’ about the Hawaiians, but all the time she’s peddlin’ dope to them for that Tommy Kaohi. I tell you… okay, Buzzy, he come to see me yesterday morning while it’s still dark. Asked for money. Said stuff’d gone crazy. What stuff, I ask him? He won’t say, ’cept he and his friends got hired for a job, and Tommy decided to score big, and it all went wrong. Buzzy say him and Amy, they gotta leave the island. So I give him what cash I got.”

  “Did he say where they were going?”

  She was silent again, staring at the swing set. The kids had run off, but the swings still swayed back and forth. I watched her worried eyes move with them. When she raised her cigarette to her lips, her hand trembled.

  “He didn’t say, but probably Oahu. Amy got business associates there.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, hell!” She put her hand to her eyes. When she took it away, it was wet with tears. “Amy never had no business associate wasn’t a drug pusher. Buzzy, he got big plans, but you know what? He talks and talks and talks, but he’s a loser. Just a loser!”

  After I said good-bye to Donna Malakaua, I headed for the car, but halfway there I spotted Tanner walking along the sidewalk with a slender, ponytailed girl of about thirteen. They were both eating ice-cream cones.

  His daughter? It had never occurred to me that he might have a child.

  I waved; he waved back and waited for me to catch up. “Sharon,” he said, “this is my daughter, Sarah. Sarah, this is the lady detective I was telling you about.”

  She regarded me solemnly, her lips smeared with pink ice cream. Her hair was a lustrous dark brown, her eyes gray, her oval face delicate. “Casey,” she said.

  Her father grinned. “Sorry, I forgot.” To me he added, “She changed her first name for Christmas. Said it sounded too missionary. I haven’t gotten used to the new one yet.”

  “I like the name Casey,” I said.

  “Mahalo.” She kept eyeing me as if I were some unfamiliar species that she wasn’t sure she could relate to.

  I asked Tanner, “Is business slow today?”

  “Had some shirts this morning, and signed off on your boyfriend’s currency, but nothin’ going for this afternoon. Casey and me, we’re just hangin’ while her grandma does her shopping.”

  “Well, then, how’d you like to fly me someplace? I’m working for Peter now, so he’ll pick up the tab.”

  “Sure, where?”

  I showed him the map Donna Malakaua had drawn.

  “Hanalei Valley, eh? What’s this about the Kaohis?”

  “You know them?”

  “Yeah, they’re relatives. Which Kaohi you lookin’ for?”

  “Tommy.”

  “Rob and Sunny’s kid. What’s he done now?”

  “He may be mixed up with those militants you steered me to.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. Kid’s in his early twenties, has been a pain in the butt since the day he was born. High school dropout, doesn’t work, into drugs. Got caught smoking pakalolo—local word for grass, means ‘crazy weed’—when he was only eight. I heard he took over Andrew Wellbright’s customers after Drew left, and I suspect he puts his profits up his nose.”

  “Does he live with his family?”

  “When he can’t find some other place to crash.” Tanner glanced at Casey. She was sucking melted ice cream through the bottom of her cone and listening intently. “Your grandma gonna be shopping for a while, honey?”

&nbs
p; She nodded.

  “Want to go fly with us?”

  A more emphatic nod.

  “Okay, why don’t you run over to the grocery store, tell her what we’re gonna do and that I’ll bring you home later?”

  She nodded and skipped off toward the road.

  “Cute kid,” I said.

  “Good kid, too. Smart, but not smart-ass. Gets good grades, stays out of trouble. Lives with my mother, since I’m gone so much, but we spend a lot of time together.”

  “And Casey’s mother…?”

  “Died when she was five. Drug overdose. We were already divorced.” Something flickered in Tanner’s eyes. Anger? Sorrow? Whatever, he was aware I’d noticed it, because he fished his aviator’s sunglasses from his pocket and put them on.

  Casey came running back. “Let’s hele on!” she called.

  Tanner said, “Kid loves to fly, but she’ll never make a pilot.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “She doesn’t throw up, I hope?” An unpleasant image of the one and only time I’d taken my brother John’s boys flying flashed before me.

  “Nothing like that. You’ll see.”

  “Take a look back there,” Tanner said. We’d lifted off a few minutes ago and were headed for the island’s interior.

  I glanced into the backseat, where Casey had hopped in, refusing a headset and popping plugs into her ears. She was slumped to one side, fast asleep.

  “Does she do that every time she flies?”

  “Like clockwork. Loves the takeoff, but after that it’s dreamland for her.”

  “Well, at least she’s getting her rest.”

  “And giving us a chance to talk. What’d you find out about those militants?”

  “Enough to make me suspect they had something to do with the disruption of the filming. I found a postcard in the mill dated last Tuesday and mailed from Lihue. It said ‘Friday, nine A.M. Dry cave.’”

  “The shoot that was hit by the sniper.”

  “Right. I think somebody who had access to the shooting schedule hired them.”

  “Somebody close to Pete and Sweet Pea, then. Christ!”

  “At least that narrows it down. By the way, I had lunch with Mona Davenport today.”