Maui Widow Waltz (Islands of Aloha Mystery Series)

by JoAnn Bassett

  “Which beach?” I said.

  “What do you mean which beach? Are you talking about my wedding?”

  I started to say something smart-ass, like ‘No, I’m calling to ask if you know where they’re gonna shoot next year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition’ but I held back. No doubt she was feeling a ton of anxiety over Brad. I needed to remain supportive, upbeat.

  “Yes, I need to tell the people working on your big day where we’re holding it.”

  “I can’t believe you’re asking me this. I already told you where I want it.” She blew out an irritated breath. “Don’t you write anything down? I think it’s incredibly unprofessional of you to ask me to repeat myself simply because you’re so ditzy.”

  Had she mentioned the venue? My brain raced around like someone looking for their car keys. Nope, not there. Not over there, either.

  “I’m sorry, Lisa Marie. Your consultation folder says you want a ‘beach wedding’ but there’s nothing specific about which beach.”

  “Well, duh. The beach right here on the property, of course. I’m sure I went over all of this on the very first day. How would Brad know where to come if we held it anywhere else? Look, I’ve got to go—my masseuse is waiting. And Pali, please don’t bother me with stuff like this again. If I need to talk to you, I’ll do the calling.” She clicked off.

  I’ve worked with difficult brides before. Not anyone I’d go so far as to label mentally ill, but women teetering darn close to the edge. I’ve been called ‘stupid,’ ‘mean,’ and even expletives so blue I wondered if they’d use that same mouth to kiss their groom. So, in the scheme of things, I rated Lisa Marie’s snippiness at about a six- minus.

  I carefully looked through her consultation folder—front, back, and all the pages inside. In the contact information area she’d provided her local address as simply, ‘Maui’—no hotel name, not even a town. Like most visitors, she probably didn’t know the street address of where she was staying. Most likely she’d been picked up by a taxi or a hotel shuttle at the airport and they’d whisked her off to her resort. But I was surprised she hadn’t bothered to even fill in the name of the place.

  A few minutes before three o’clock, I locked up and headed over to Farrah’s store. Farrah kept a tiny black and white TV under the counter ostensibly to watch for storm reports, but most of the time it was tuned to the afternoon soaps. I didn’t see her right away, so I peeked around the counter to see if the TV was on. On the grainy screen a tall, clean-shaven man in black tie and tails was berating a woman dressed in what appeared to be some kind of French maid’s outfit. They cut to a close-up of her, and I watched as she narrowed her eyes and raised her arm into position for a dramatic slap. The camera pulled back in time to show him catching her arm mid-whack.

  I was becoming somewhat engrossed in what was going on when the picture went blank and a gray channel ID screen popped up indicating breaking news. Farrah came out from the back room, humming and carrying a Sex Wax counter display. She nodded in greeting, but continued her humming.

  She made her way over to the two wooden stools behind the counter, sitting on one and patting the seat of the other to indicate I should join her. At the end of her song, she held the note in a lingering finish.

  “Mahalo for the hush,” she said. “I think it’s bad juju to not finish a song.”

  “Sure. What was that?”

  “In Dis Life. You know—Iz.”

  “Right.” Okay, she’s my friend and all that, but the woman cannot carry a tune. She could have said it was the Star Spangled Banner and I would’ve agreed.

  She leaned over and turned up the volume on the TV but it was still silently displaying the ID screen. When the sound came on, a booming voice blasted out of the tiny speaker.

  “We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to bring you the following special report”. The screen flipped to an image of an empty podium, festooned with microphones displaying not only the call letters of television channels 2, 4, 8, and 9 in Honolulu but also the major mainland television networks, including CNN.

  “Wow. Your missing dude must be some kind of celebrity over on the mainland,” she said.

  “Yeah, I guess. And I thought he was just some under-the-radar computer nerd who’d struck it rich.”

  A Honolulu police officer in a glowing white short-sleeved dress shirt stepped up to the mic. Even on Farrah’s feeble TV I could see the heavily starched creases that dissected his shirt front into three equal parts. His above-the-pocket badge flashed a brilliant white when it caught the sunlight.

  “Testing, testing,” he said tapping the mic. His eyes were pulled into a self-conscious squint.

  “I’m Lieutenant Muro, Public Information Officer for the Honolulu Police Department. I’d like to welcome my colleagues from the Governor’s office, from the Counties of Maui and O’ahu, the Coast Guard, and members of the press. At this time we have an update on the disappearance of Bradley James Sanders, founder and president of DigiSystems Corporation in Seattle. Mr. Sanders was here on vacation when he disappeared off the Maui coastline sometime after nineteen hundred hours the night of January thirty-first. His rental boat was recovered, unmanned, on the beach at Kapalua at oh-six hundred hours the next morning.”

  He paused and looked over his right shoulder at the assembly of uniformed men standing behind him as if giving them an opportunity to step up and disagree with his facts. No one so much as twitched a cheek muscle.

  “Commander Roman of the Coast Guard’s Search and Rescue team will now present the latest information on the rescue and recovery effort.”

  He nodded toward a puppy-faced guy in dress whites who looked much too young to even be in the Coast Guard, let alone hold the rank of commander. Commander Roman stepped forward and pulled himself up to his full height in an attempt to reach the microphones. He missed the mark by a good three inches. He fiddled with the center mic, pulling it down toward his chin while the sound popped and squealed.

  “Since when did the Coast Guard start recruiting munchkins?” Farrah said, peering at the screen. “That dude looks about twelve years old.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Commander Roman of the Coast Guard’s Search and Rescue Squad based here at Pearl Harbor,” he said in a deep voice that added at least a decade to his appearance. “Our report today concerns the finding of debris in the waters of Au’au Channel—the strait between the islands of Maui and Molokai. At fourteen hundred hours yesterday afternoon, a Hawaiian-style shirt and rubber thong sandal were located at sea approximately one-quarter mile from where Mr. Sander’s boat beached at Kapalua. An acquaintance identified the items as matching similar clothing worn by the victim at the time of his disappearance. This evidence, coupled with a weeklong land and sea operation which has failed to locate Mr. Sanders, has prompted us to halt the rescue and recovery effort until further notice.” He paused. “At this time, we’ll take questions from the media.”

  Dozens of reporters’ hands shot up while some just shouted out questions. After a few minutes of mostly pointless back and forth, with the Coast Guard saying, “We have no knowledge,” or “We can’t discuss that at this time,” Farrah turned the sound down.

  “He’s a goner,” she said, looking up to check the round curved mirror used to spot shoplifters.

  I shook my head.“An aloha shirt and a rubbah slippa? That’s not evidence. I’ll bet the next guy who walks through your door will be wearing those same things.”

  The bell on the door jingled and a bare-chested surfer wearing board shorts held up only by the grace of his protruding hipbones burst in. He was barefoot.

  I glanced at the No shirt, No shoes, No problem sign above the door.

  “Okay, well maybe not here in Pa’ia,” I said. “But in Lahaina, every haole tourist on Front Street is decked out in either a red dirt tee-shirt or an aloha shirt. And everybody wears rubbah slippas to go on a boat.”

  “Pali, I know you
’ve got a lot riding on doing this dudette’s wedding. But let’s face it. This thing’s got only two ways to go: One, he became shark chum the night he disappeared—which means they’ll never find as much as a tooth—or, two, before long totally wasted body parts will start washing up on the beach. Either way, this wedding is pau—over.”

  “I can only deal with what I know. And right now, what I know is I have just five days to pull off a big bucks wedding.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And your point is…?”

  “C’mon, Pali, think about it. Why does she want this fake wedding anyway?” Farrah reached over and snapped off the TV. “Answer? And here’s a big hint: everybody says this guy owns a multi-million dollar tech company. No doubt he’s loaded. Your girl wants that M-R-S in front of her name before they get around to issuing the death certificate. The grieving widow is always first in line when they divvy up the goods.”

  “Whoa,” I said. “What’s happened to you? I figured you’d be firing up the incense and extolling the virtues of undying love.”

  “I don’t extol for shameless gold diggers.”

  I stood up and pushed my stool back. “Okay, I get it. But I sure can’t talk. She’s marrying him for the money? Well, welcome to my world. You think if I wasn’t dodging creditors left and right I’d have signed on to do this crazy gig?”

  Farrah took my hand. “Hey, sorry. This crappy weather’s making us all go a little pupule. Guess what? This morning I got my first collection call—from my dairy supplier in Honolulu. He wouldn’t cut me slack even when I told him I had to toss out most of it. With nobody buying nothing, I had a zillion gallons of milk still sitting here after the sell/by date.”

  We sat in silence. I watched Felix the Cat’s tail flick back and forth on the wall clock.

  “We need this wedding to go off as planned,” I said. “Lucky for us Lisa Marie’s hell bent on spending as much as she can, as fast as she can. Who cares whose money she’s using? Once we get paid, the collection calls will stop.”

  “Da kine, I seriously need to mellow out.” Farrah said. “I guess if the little gold digger’s gonna toss a little moolah my way, the least I can do is hold her in my heart with aloha.”

  I couldn’t agree more.

  CHAPTER 5

  I’d promised my suppliers I’d be back to them that afternoon about the wedding location, but I balked at taking the time to track down where Lisa Marie was staying. It wouldn’t have been that difficult since I know staff people at nearly all of Maui’s oceanfront resorts, but I simply wasn’t in the mood to play detective. I thought about heading down to the kung fu studio for some kicking and screaming but then realized an hour of physical release would only postpone the inevitable. I wanted to get home and learn what five hundred bucks a week was going to cost me in aggravation.

  When I pulled into the driveway Steve’s black Jetta was parked off to the right near the back door. Evidently, he’d wanted to avoid the steep front porch steps. I parked out front and trudged up the stairs, practicing a welcoming smile as I went. It felt bogus, like when someone’s taking your picture and they fool around with the camera so long that by the time they click the shutter you’re wearing a tiki god grin.

  The front door was unlocked, which is the way we usually leave it. I pushed it open and saw Steve in the living room crouched down next to the sofa. The new guy was stretched out, his head propped up by pillows at the near end and his body covered by a tucked-in blanket. From the bumps in the blanket, it appeared that he took up the full six-foot length of the sofa and then some. He had wide shoulders and a well-muscled neck. His dark brown hair stuck up at odd angles. Most of the guys in Steve’s inner circle would’ve rather been boiled in oil than be seen with their hair askew, but probably the guy’s hospital stay had taken a toll on his personal hygiene routine.

  “Hey, you’re home,” Steve said looking up. “This is Hatch Decker, our new roommate.” He stood and moved out of the way so I could make eye contact with Hatch. “And, Hatch, this is your new landlady, Pali Moon.”

  Wow, what a face. Look-right-through-you brown eyes smoldered under thick macho man eyebrows. Why did all the gorgeous men prefer other men? He smiled and pulled his right arm out from under the blanket and held it straight out. It took me a couple of beats to realize he was offering to shake hands.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, hustling across the worn carpet. I got a static shock when we touched, and my hand recoiled in reflex. When we reconnected, I felt a warm palm and firm grasp. I didn’t want to let go. It’d been weeks since a man—any man—had laid hands on me and his touch caused my shoulders to lift in a little shudder.

  “Hatch is a new firefighter with Maui County Fire and Rescue,” said Steve. “He broke his leg at work.”

  “You fall through a burning roof?” I said. It seemed the logical way a fireman would break a leg.

  “Nope. Nothing that impressive. I got sideswiped while we were working a wreck out on the Pi’ilani Highway. Guy in a pick-up blew right by the flagger. His bumper snagged my turnouts and he dragged my ass about thirty yards.”

  “Whoa. I hope they got the license number.”

  “Oh yeah. The on-scene cop was on him like Bubba at a luau.”

  “So, how long you going to be laid up?”

  “The doc says I should be back to light duty work by the end of the month. In a couple more days the shoulder should be healed enough I can use crutches.” He pointed to his left arm which was wrapped tight against his body with a giant elastic bandage.

  “Well, no rush. You’re more than welcome to my bedroom for as long as it takes.”

  “Huh. Too bad I’m a crip. That’s the best offer I’ve had in months.” His eyes crinkled as he smiled.

  I nodded and smiled back at his flattery, even though I knew my bedroom—with me in it, anyway—would hardly make his top ten list of good times. I glanced over at Steve to see if he was annoyed by Hatch’s phony come-on, but he just grinned as if he was thrilled to see the step-kids getting along so good.

  That night, Steve knocked himself out making a complicated chicken curry with all the condiments. He served it with jasmine rice and a gorgeous Kula greens salad with tomatoes and balsamic dressing. He’d bought a chewy loaf of artisan bread at the Hale Kai Bakery, which must have drained all the cash in his wallet. If he was trying to impress his potential new boyfriend with his domestic skills, I’d say he more than succeeded.

  We ate in the living room so Hatch could stay put on the sofa. It took some maneuvering to get a dinner tray to stay in his lap since his inert arm was in the way. When I cleared the dishes after dinner it seemed Hatch’s smile seemed a little forced and his forehead sported a couple of deep furrows I hadn’t noticed earlier.

  “Thanks guys,” he said. “Sorry I’m not better company, but I’m still wiped out from the pain meds. Dinner was great. We don’t get much in the way of fancy food down at the firehouse. It’s mostly spaghetti or chili, and we hardly ever get to finish before we’re called out again, so this was pretty swank for me.” He shot me a look and added, “But don’t worry, Pali. I’ll still be out of your hair as soon as I can get up off my sorry butt.”

  “No worries,” I said. “Is your room all set up?” I turned to Steve, since he would have been the one who’d hauled in Hatch’s things.

  “Yep, his abode is ready for occupancy,” he said. “You want some help getting in there, Hatch?”

  “Thanks, maybe later. Is that the only TV?” Hatch nodded at the ancient twenty-four inch set in the corner.

  “Yeah, sorry. We’re not big TV watchers,” I said.

  “Well if it’s okay with you guys, I’d like to watch a little basketball before turning in.”

  “No problem,” said Steve. “I’ll be down in a while to help you get to bed.”

  I thought it was sweet of Steve to be so gallant, but figured there was probably an ulterior motive at work. Hatch was definitely what I’d call a “man’s man” and S
teve appeared utterly smitten.

  I went upstairs to the spare room and read for a while, but once I’d turned out the light I found it hard to sleep on the pull-out sofa bed. I tossed and turned, wondering about Lisa Marie’s motives. Would she prove Farrah wrong and cancel now that the Coast Guard had abandoned their search? Or would she bull ahead, insisting that Brad was going to magically catapult from the ocean like some geek Silver Surfer? And what if he doesn’t show up? I was pretty sure a proxy marriage by Power of Attorney wouldn’t be legally binding in Hawaii, or in any other state, so how could she claim to be his widow?

  The next morning, I got up at first light and took a quick shower before heading down to the kung fu center. I hadn’t worked out in almost a week and my body resisted the idea. I pulled into the alley and parked behind a red door marked with large black Korean characters which translated into English as “Palace of Pain.”

  People who earn a black belt at my guan are not only awarded the prestigious belt, but are also given a position of trust as special recognition for passing the rigorous test. At my black belt ceremony I’d been given my own key to the back door so I could come and go whenever I pleased. I slipped inside and entered the chilly, dark space. The floor mats were sticky and cold on my bare feet. I could barely make out my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, but I didn’t turn on the lights or the space heater. I train at Palace of Pain because the name speaks to me. I don’t believe in powder puff martial arts, where the air is conditioned and the mats smell like Mountain Fresh Lysol. At PoP we pride ourselves on what Sifu Doug—our head instructor—calls “sucking it up.” Take what you’re dealt and use it to your advantage.

  I warmed up in a matter of minutes, and after an hour of forms and work with the mao—the long lance—I was relaxed and centered. I took a lukewarm shower in the locker room and dressed for work, which simply meant trading my black martial arts uniform for a pair of white capris and a blue lace-trimmed tee-shirt. At the outer door, I slipped on my well-worn rubbah slippas, and headed out to my car.