Livin' Lahaina Loca

by JoAnn Bassett

  “There’s a ton of weird vibes around that hair. In Hawaiian, we’re talking heavy pilikia—trouble. I’d say if this hair is from your missing girl, she’s in deep doo-doo.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “You know I’m no fan of the establishment, but I think you need to call in The Man on this one.”

  “Should I mention the tarot turned up the Tower and the High Priestess?” I was only half-joking.

  “Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you rock it. Remember, the cops came to me to find that dude who tried to swim to Moloka’i.”

  “They only called you because his auntie was a mucky-muck assistant to a county councilman and she insisted they try every angle. But I gotta admit, everybody was pretty stunned when you nailed his exact location. The Maui News even managed to spelled ‘Ouija’ right.”

  “No biggie. Basic CSI.”

  I squinted.

  “Channeling Spirit Images.”

  I drove back to my house chewing on how I’d file a police report about a severed ponytail showing up on the back seat of my car on Halloween night. I mentally rehearsed the call.

  I’d like to report some minor vandalism. My car got keyed last night in Lahaina. Oh, and while I’ve got you on the line, somebody left a creepy hank of red hair on the back seat. My psychic friend says it’s full of bad juju.

  By the time I got home, I’d decided the police probably had their hands full clearing the streets of the hardcore party animals. It was already past midnight; time to get to bed. I had a nine o’clock meeting with the bridal couple in the morning. Maybe they’d come bearing good news about their friend. Nothing would have made me happier than dumping the severed tresses from my back seat into the garbage and chalking the whole thing up to an ill-advised haircut after too much Halloween hooch.

  CHAPTER 3

  Nicole Johnson and Keith Lewis clomped up the stairs to my temporary shop just as I was lighting a third gardenia-scented candle. The garbage truck had been a half-hour late and my shop still reeked of yesterday’s catch-of-the-day.

  As I welcomed them in, my greeting sounded less than heartfelt, but it was probably just envy. They were both buffed beachy-looking blonds from Southern California, with sprayed-on tans and laser-whitened smiles. They were such a matched set it was kind of creepy—like fraternal twins separated at birth. Besides their good genes, it was hard not to resent their seemingly unlimited money supply. As usual, they showed up wearing yet another pricy gal-guy outfit—a Ralph Lauren mix and match that included front-pleated twill shorts and deeply-hued polo shirts. His was a vivid jungle green and hers an energetic hibiscus yellow.

  “Hey, did you check out Halloween last night?” Keith lifted a fist but I avoided the bump-back by turning toward Nicole at just the right moment.

  “Yeah, it was so amazing.” Nicole stretched the word out to about five syllables.

  “They call it the Mardi Gras of the Pacific,” I said. “It’s rumored to be the largest outdoor Halloween celebration in the world.”

  “Well, it was f—uh, freaking fantastic.” Keith grinned at Nicole. She patted him on the arm and I gathered he’d been making an effort to substitute his favorite f-word for something she found more acceptable.

  Although they’d been to my shop once before when we signed the original contract, I noticed Keith’s eyes narrowing as he took in the tiny space. The sublet was roughly a fifteen by twelve room with a battered Balinese desk with a chair behind it and two chairs on the opposite side. In the far corner I had a curtained-off area I used for dress fittings. My shop space in Pa’ia was more than twice as big but not, unfortunately, much more elegant. The first time they’d come in I’d explained my current funky digs by briefly describing the fire and the hassle over getting the occupancy permit. But even with my sparse quarters in Pa’ia I prefer a simple workplace. I tell my clients that by spending less on overhead I’m able to offer them more free services than the costly foo-foo wedding planners who have shops resembling Marie Antoinette’s boudoir.

  “You ready to look at some cakes?”

  Nicole gripped Keith’s brawny upper arm and leaned into him. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this, baby. We’ve been talking about getting married for so long—and now we’re looking at wedding cakes!”

  “Yeah, great. Say, do you two girls really need me to hang around? I mean, I like cake as much as the next guy, but the World Poker Challenge Final is on TV right now.”

  Nicole let go of his arm. Her eyes narrowed; her lips disappeared into a tight line.

  “This isn’t my wedding cake, Keith. It’s our wedding cake. It’s the most major decision we’ll ever make as a married couple.”

  So, I thought, I guess having children, buying a house, living within your budget, and negotiating your sex life fall somewhere short of the cake decision. If so, good luck with that. But I’ve learned in delicate situations it’s best to keep the smile going and the mouth shut.

  “Hey, sweetcakes. I’m here, aren’t I?” Keith put his arm around Nicole’s waist and pulled her tight against his crotch. “I’ll call the hotel and see if they’ll DVR the first part of it for me. How long can it take to pick out a cake?”

  “Well,” I said, “I don’t want to drag this out or anything, but traditionally there are two cakes: the bride’s cake and the groom’s cake. The bride’s cake is the big one—usually a multi-layer creation decorated with flowers and fancy icing. The groom’s cake is smaller. It’s usually done up in a way that has a special meaning to the groom.”

  “Two different cakes?” Keith winced as if he had a hemorrhoid acting up. “Great. We’ll probably be here all day.”

  “No, it shouldn’t take long,” I said. “I’ve got a nice photo album that shows what’s available.”

  I pulled a three-inch binder from my bookshelf. Keith eyed the heavy volume and groaned.

  “You’re inviting about forty people, right?” I sat down behind my desk and gestured for the two of them to sit on the other side. I opened the binder and flipped to the section on mid-size bridal cakes.

  “We hope that many will come,” said Nicole. “We haven’t gotten all the RSVP’s back. Can you believe it? We’re paying for everything—airfare and all their expenses and still people are too lazy to even send back the stupid little card. The wedding’s in ten days. I want to call all the deadbeats up and say, ‘Hey people, put the damn little card in the mail or don’t you dare show up,’ but Keith said that would be rude.”

  She sniffed and crossed her arms.

  I took the moment of silence as an opportunity to nudge her back to the subject at hand. “Well then, let’s order a fifty-serving cake. That way, you’ll have plenty left over for your first anniversary. And remember, you’ll also have the groom’s cake. Some people will eat that one instead.”

  While they flipped through page after laminated page of wedding cake photos, I pondered how to mention finding the hank of hair. I’d hoped they would have expressed some concern over their missing friend without prompting, but since they hadn’t, I had to bring it up.

  “It’s hard to choose, isn’t it? Speaking of choosing, I was wondering how you selected your bridesmaids. I mean, six bridesmaids is lot of girls for a small wedding, especially since you’re having your ceremony on a boat.”

  “They’re all my best friends forever. How could I possibly decide who to pick and who to leave out?”

  “That’s true, it’d be hard to choose just two or three. And they’re all really pretty girls. I guess it’s true what they say about beautiful people sticking together.” I was babbling like a beauty pageant contestant answering a tough question, but I was trying my best to maneuver the conversation around to discussing the missing bridesmaid.

  “The girls I hang around with are all just like me,” Nicole said. “We all belong to the same health club and we all date the same kind of guys—successful ones. We know what guys like in a girl and we dress to impress. Hey, if you don�
�t work at looking good and finding love, you’ll end up alone, slaving at some stupid job just to make ends meet.” She shot me a pitying look.

  I didn’t allow my eyes to wander down to my baggy yellow cotton tee-shirt dress and rubber flip-flops—what we call slippas. That morning I’d given up trying to find something fetching to wear to this meeting. It’d been months since I’d gone shopping in Honolulu. In fact, the last article of clothing I’d purchased had been a new kung fu uniform. A few weeks earlier my instructor, Sifu Doug, had taken me aside and pointed out that my black silk uniform had been washed so many times it had faded to a dusty gray. He said a worn-out uniform sets a bad example for the younger students, and since I held a black belt they looked up to me as a role model, and so on and so forth. Meeting Sifu Doug’s dress code had set me back eighty bucks plus tax.

  “Oh, speaking of looking good, have you had any word from…?” I waited for Nicole to supply the name of the missing bridesmaid so I could pretend she’d brought it up first.

  “From my parents? No, they’re being jerks. They’re saying they don’t like to fly. Funny, they don’t seem to have a problem flying to Vegas two or three times every year.”

  “No, I mean, you know, have you heard from your bridesmaid who didn’t come back to the hotel after the bachelorette party on Tuesday night?”

  “Crystal Wilson? Oh, she’s kind of weird like that. Like you said, I don’t need all six girls. And besides, I thought she looked kind of pukey in the super-pink bridesmaid dress. She’s the totally wrong color for it.”

  What she referred to as super-pink is a color most people call fuchsia. It looked stunning on her brunette attendants; okay on the blonds. But I had to agree—it looked downright clownish against Crystal’s milky-white skin and vibrant red hair. Had Nicole sacked Crystal over a color clash and then covered it up by claiming Crystal had taken off? That still didn’t explain the creepy ponytail on my back seat.

  The couple decided on a colossal three-tiered hexagon-shaped lemon pound cake with a vanilla mousse filling studded with fresh papaya. The whole thing would be covered in bright pink ganache and decorated with handmade white sugar plumeria blossoms. It was, hands down, the most expensive model in my cake collection. I couldn’t be more thrilled for them, or for my baker up in Kula. To thank me for selling the top-of-the-line she’d probably throw in a dozen free cupcakes for me and Steve.

  Then we moved on to the groom’s cake. Keith’s shoulders sagged as I flipped to the tab marked Groom.

  “Do we have to do this right now?” he said. “I mean, I came down here thinking we’d only have to pick one.”

  I slid the cake book across the desk to him and his face brightened.

  “A boob? I can have a boob cake?”

  “If you like.”

  The first cake in the section was an attention-grabbing realistically rendered woman’s breast—complete with erect nipple.

  Subsequent groom’s cakes were done in golf motifs, poker hands, baseball themes and so on, but the breast cake was always the show-stopper.

  “Keith, really.” Nicole wagged her head as if she felt obliged to feign disdain, but it looked to me like she was more amused than offended.

  “Here’s the best part,” I said, spooling up for the coup d’ grace. “If Nicole’s willing to provide a photo of her breast, the cake artist can match it. Color, shape, nipple size—everything. But that’s if you’re okay with that. Otherwise, we’ll just go with the standard model.”

  “Oh, Keith. How cool is that?”

  “Way cool. Okay, let’s do it. So, are we done here?”

  “Almost,” I said. “Can you guys come downstairs with me to my car? There’s something I need to show you.”

  “I already missed the poker finale and I’m supposed to play golf at eleven.” Keith checked his chunky expensive-looking watch and then gave Nicole a pointed look.

  “Yeah, we’re kind of in a hurry.” She grabbed her purse and popped up from her chair as if she’d just remembered she’d left the iron on in her hotel room.

  “I promise this will only take a minute.” I’d already made it to the door.

  We clomped down the back steps and across the alley to where I’d illegally parked my car in a loading zone.

  Keith stopped short. “That’s your car? Seriously? Does it run?”

  “It runs fine. It’s a little pupuka from living so near the ocean. You know, salt air is really hard on things.”

  “Hey, man, don’t blame the salt air for that sorry heap. That’s the most pathetic set of wheels I’ve seen since high school. What do they call that color—phlegm green?”

  I unlocked the rear door and pointed to the back seat. I hadn’t moved the hair from where I’d found it the night before. Even though I’d agreed with Farrah that I should call the police, I’d stalled off, wanting to see what the bridal couple had to say.

  “Any idea what we’ve got here?” I said.

  “Ugh,” said Nicole. “What is that? It looks like some Hawaiian voodoo thing.”

  “No, it’s a ponytail—with a scrunchie,” I said. “And it looks a lot like your friend Crystal’s hair, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t think it looks like hers at all. Her hair’s lighter. More blond.”

  I turned and stared at her. She grabbed Keith’s hand. “C’mon lover, we’ve gotta go.”

  “Nicole,” I said, “I found this hair on my back seat last night. I’d been asking around town about Crystal and then when I came back to my car I found this. Pretty odd coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “Wow, Lahaina was totally crazy last night, don’t you think?” said Keith, faking a laugh. “It’s probably just a wig from somebody’s costume.”

  “Have you seen or heard from Crystal since the bachelorette party?” I said in the tone of voice I usually reserve for hung-over grooms.

  “No,” said Nicole. “But I already told you: she’s weird, and she’s moody. I’m not worried about her, and you shouldn’t be either. She probably hooked up with some guy and they’re still partying. Don’t stress over it.”

  “I’m pretty sure this is real human hair,” I said. “So, just to be safe, I’m going to call the police.”

  “Uh, I wish you wouldn’t do that,” said Keith. “I mean, this is our wedding. Our friends are coming over here for a good time. If the cops start snooping around, asking a million questions about some chick with a screw loose, it’ll wreck the whole vibe.”

  “Vibe? What kind of vibe do you think I got finding a hacked-off ponytail in my car? And especially since it’s the same hair color as your missing friend’s.”

  “Pali, I told you. That’s not Crystal’s hair,” said Nicole. “She’s way more blond than that. That’s pretty much an auburn color, and I’d call Crystal’s hair light strawberry blond, right Keith?”

  His gaze was fixed at a point far down the alley.

  “Keith! I’m talking to you.”

  “Oh, sorry, what’d you say?”

  “I said, Crystal’s hair isn’t that color. It’s way more blond.”

  “Yeah. You’re right. Anyway, I gotta go. My tee time’s in forty minutes and I’ve got to get to the driving range for a little practice before then.”

  “Yeah, me too,” said Nicole. “I’ve got a pilates class and then at noon the girls are taking me to a fortune teller up in Pa’ia. She’s going to give me a tarot card reading. I’m dying to hear what she has to say about my future.”

  There was only one so-called ‘fortune teller’ in all of Pa’ia who did tarot readings for tourists. I considered calling Farrah to clue her in about who’d be showing up for her twelve o’clock appointment. But then I figured, hey, she’s the psychic, she probably already knows.

  CHAPTER 4

  I never lock my car. No reason to, and it wouldn’t do any good anyway since the lock on the passenger side door’s been broken since the day I bought the car. I’d never considered it a problem, but after the hair showed up I
no longer felt it was okay to leave my car wide open. I still wasn’t worried about car theft—that’d be cause for celebration—but it creeped me out to imagine someone getting in and rummaging around my personal space at will. I wasn’t buying Nicole’s claim it wasn’t her bridesmaid’s hair. On TV crime shows, the cops use hair to identify people through DNA testing. I was sure once I filed the missing person report the police would be eager to track down the missing woman. And I’d be able to supply them with Crystal Wilson’s DNA, because I had her hair—lots of it.

  I pulled out my cell phone. It was dead. It’d been doing that lately. It never stayed charged for more than a few hours. I trudged back up the stairs to my shop and plugged it in.

  When the phone sparked to life, the message beeper went off. I punched in my code and listened.

  “You have three messages,” purred the voicemail lady. Message received Wednesday, at eight-thirty-two. “Hey, Pali. It’s me, Steve. I won’t be coming back to the house tonight. Didn’t want you to worry. I’ll see you tomorrow after work. Have a good one.”

  Message received Wednesday, at nine-oh-nine. From the first word, I recognized Hatch Decker’s deep voice. “Hi, babe. It’s me. I’m on shift tonight. If you’re going down to Lahaina I might see you there. We’re taking an extra med unit down just in case. I’m off tomorrow but I’m going fishing with the guys. I’ll be off again on Sunday. Maybe we can hook up then.”

  Message received Wednesday, at nine-fifty-nine. “Hello Pali Moon.” The male voice was unfamiliar—even the accent wasn’t one I recognized. “I hope you got my present. You tell Lewis I—” The voicemail ended and there was a long pause.

  End of messages.

  I looked up the number for the Maui Police Department. I knew better than to bother nine-one-one with a non-emergency call. “Maui Police Department, how may I direct your call?”

  “I need to report a missing person.”

  “Missing person reports are taken here at our main station in Wailuku from eight a.m. to five p.m. Do you need directions?”