“Of course. Just a moment and I’ll look up where they are right now. Can you give me a name?”
“Holly Nichols.” I didn’t want Holly to think I’d abandoned her. I’d leave her a note and let her know I was coming back soon.
“Holly Nichols is currently getting a Lomi Lomi massage.”
“What’s that?”
“Lomi Lomi is a traditional Hawaiian massage that connects the heart, mind, body, and soul,” she recited flawlessly.
“Is it as good as the Dead Sea Mud Mask Body Treatment?” I asked, ever the comparison shopper.
“Oh, it is quite a different experience,” she said, smiling. “But each is magical. The Lomi Lomi is quite popular here, as it is a sacred healing art, passed down from generation to generation in Hawaii.”
“Ah.” I wondered if there would be time enough when I returned to get me one of those. I might yet find relaxation possible.
“Yes, the Lomi Lomi utilizes rhythmic strokes integrating the use of the forearms and elbows.”
“Pardon?”
“The masseuse uses her forearms and elbows. Very relaxing.”
Indeed.
“Your friend, Miss Nichols, will begin her Lomi Lomi in five minutes. You might actually be able to catch her in the inner waiting room if you want to try.”
I thanked the receptionist and went back into the women’s locker room, walking straight through to the spa waiting area. By now I was thoroughly accustomed to the scent of spicy herbs that saturated the air and the sound of tinkly sitar music over the sound system. Three other women were seated, reading magazines, awaiting their treatments. The clock said 9:55. Just then Liz and Holly came in, both wrapped in the standard batik robes.
“Mad!” Holly yelped, happy as a pup to see me.
“Hey, Madeline,” Liz greeted me. “I finally woke myself up. I’m usually an early bird, but what a night we had last night!” She shook her head. “I am now ready to get spa-ed. So how come you’re dressed? Where are you going?”
“Must run a little errand,” I said, raising the large green shopping bag in some vague reference to “things to do.”
“We’re both getting Lomi Lomi–ed,” Liz said, speaking softly so as not to disturb the other spa patrons, who were trying to relax.
“Wonderful.”
Holly looked more blissed out than ever. “Oh, Mad! I’m having such a good time.”
“Excellent. Perfect. I’ll be back in an hour or two. Don’t worry about me.”
Holly pulled me over to the side of the room, away from Liz and the other women. “Where are you off to? What kind of errand?”
I held up the bag. “Remember Keniki from last night?”
“Of course.”
“I’m just going to run something out to her house. No big deal. I have the rental car and I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Oh, okay.” Holly smiled. “Sounds good.”
She didn’t need to hear all the grisly details of Kelly’s death quite yet. After all the time and effort these good spa people were putting into relaxing us, I felt it wasn’t fair to undermine every one of our states of bliss. Liz and Holly took seats and waited to be led away to another hour of beauty.
I took a few steps away and opened the bag I was holding, making sure I had the driving directions I needed. Inside were several small items. A hairbrush. A makeup bag. A bottle from a local pharmacy, half filled with pills. A framed photograph. I couldn’t help but notice it was a picture of Keniki with a young man. Kelly. I pulled it out of the bag.
The room began to sway. Or maybe it only felt that way. I stared at the picture. Keniki Hicks’s young man was a nice-looking guy with Asian features. And in the photo he was wearing glasses. I looked closer. The oval lenses were held in place by tiny silver arrows. The exact same wire-rimmed eyeglasses I’d discovered in Holly’s hotel room bed.
“Holly,” I said, my voice a little sharp.
She looked up from her magazine.
“Could you come over here?” I whispered, toning my volume way down.
“What’s that you’re looking at? Is that Keniki?” Holly asked, turning my hand so she could view the picture.
I nodded but almost lost my grip on the frame when Holly let go of it abruptly and stepped backward.
“Oh my God, Maddie. Oh my God!” She was still whispering, in deference to the soft tinkly music and spa manners, but her expression had completely changed. She now looked extremely stressed, her blue eyes wide with disbelief.
“This is the guy that was in your room, Holly, isn’t it?”
She stared at me. “He’s the one who grabbed at me. The one who scared the living daylights out of me yesterday.”
“Look at the T-shirt,” I told her.
“It’s the same exact one with the kanji for Mountain Hollyhock. And the wire-rimmed frames. It’s the guy!”
It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. “This is terrible, Holly.”
“Who the hell is this guy, anyway? And how does he know Keniki?”
“I’m taking a guess. But I think he could be her fiancé.”
“Keniki’s boyfriend was hiding in my hotel room?” Holly asked, completely befuddled.
“Hey, you guys, what’s up?” Liz asked, joining us.
I turned the frame around and showed her the picture. Liz let out a strangled little yelp.
“Liz, do you remem—”
“Oh my God, Maddie!” Holly screeched, her voice much louder than spa courtesy might dictate. “Catch her! Catch Liz!”
It must have been too much for Liz, the shock of seeing the hotel-room guy again. Damn. Just as Liz Mooney started to swoon, I managed to get my arms around her. Off balance, I began to topple myself, but then Holly got her arms around me. Still, gravity had its way.
“Oh my goodness!” murmured one of the waiting women seated nearby, her copy of Town & Country slipping.
“Dear God!” said another one sharply.
The three of us—Holly, me, and an unconscious Liz—landed in a dog pile on the center of the light-green carpeting, a most unexpected lady wrestlers–style floorshow for the waiting spa-sters.
From the bottom of the dog pile I quietly announced: “Got her.”
And Holly just giggled uncontrollably on the floor.
Ni-ele
(The Busybody)
I pushed on the heavy doors of the spa facility and stepped out into a perfectly gorgeous island day, feeling better the moment I emerged from the darkened building into the bright daylight. The Hawaiian sun warmed my skin.
Liz had already recovered a bit, ministered to by Holly and several spa attendants. The young woman with the coiled braid had taken charge, bringing ice water, calling an ambulance. I waited to make sure Liz was really all right and then I slipped out. I longed to breathe fresh, un-candle-scented air. As I left, I heard Liz protesting she didn’t need to go to the emergency room, and Holly gently insisting, no, she really did.
Each step I took away from the spa building gave me that much more resolve to take action. I now had two tasks this weekend, and I didn’t see why I couldn’t succeed at both. I would continue hosting Holly’s party extravaganza, of course, but at the same time, I would get to the bottom of what had happened to Kelly Imo.
My plan was to return to my room and pick up the keys to the Mustang and then sort out all the new and disturbing information during the drive out of town on my way to pay my call on Keniki Hicks. Driving helped me think straight. And then, from Keniki, I was pretty sure I’d be able to uncover the answers to much more.
I turned right at the path to the beach bungalows and went over the odd events again. None of it made sense. Just what had Kelly been doing in Holly’s room? Was he a disturbed young man, a sexual predator? I looked across the beach, my view filled with the gentle blue of the sky, the gentle aqua of the ocean, the palm fronds barely swaying in the slight breeze. A man filled with dark intentions in such a beautiful paradise? Was it possible?
Whirls
of new questions washed over me. Had his death really been an accident? If Kelly Imo fell off a cliff in the middle of the night and died in the surf, had somebody pushed him? And really, how the hell did Kelly connect to us?
A family with two small children passed me on the path. The mom, her oversize plastic tote filled with beach toys, waved. The dad, his exposed white gut betraying a certain desk-bound mainland existence, said hello. They were here looking for fun; I was looking for telling details. I smiled a busy, distracted, I’ve-got-work-to-do smile. We were headed in different directions, and for me the beach could wait. Relaxation, frankly, is overrated. I would much rather solve a puzzle than doze.
The family turned back and looked at me, their faces showing surprise—or was it concern that I wasn’t wearing a resort-mandated laid-back expression?—and then walked on. But really, I wanted to tell them, I felt energized by all the things I planned to do. Workaholism gets a bad rap.
I still had a few questions that needed answers. Important questions. I stopped walking, pulled the framed photograph out of the shopping bag, and studied the two happy faces. Keniki Hicks, our hula instructor, was wearing a sarong, pale yellow with pink and blue orchids in the print, smiling at the camera. The young man with his arm across her shoulder was athletic looking, clean-shaven, his features handsome. There was no mistaking the wire-rimmed spectacles he was wearing. I had held them in my hand last night. Studied them. I clearly remembered their unique nose bridge, an odd retro style. So what had Kelly Imo been doing in Holly’s room?
His face shined up at me from the photo.
Perhaps he was connected to some illegal schemes on the island. Burglaries at the Four Heavens, for instance. Maybe he had taken his girlfriend’s resort master key and made a copy.
The whole idea got me irritated. It seemed completely unfair that there should be crooks and con men in Hawaii. It was positively un-state-like. This wasn’t California, for heaven’s sake, where a person must wear daily her skepticism like armor against all the genial liars and scam artists and fakes. This was Hawaii. The Aloha State, for pity’s sake. Sure, back in L.A., I’m prepared for deceptions. It’s a town where “reality” is produced and edited. It’s a town where everything and everyone must be suspected of being artificial until you can prove otherwise.
But here in Hawaii, couldn’t a con man thrive just as well? I traced the outline of Kelly Imo on the eight-by-ten photo. That clean-cut exterior could be just the image he wanted to project, the good-looking camouflage to cover up a heart filled with schemes.
So what the hell was Kelly doing in Holly’s room? And how had he gotten mixed up with the people who had sent Holly the nasty e-mail, the ones looking for Marvin Dubinsky?
I put the framed photo back into the bright green shopping bag and began walking again. I would think it over later. Driving around the Big Island with the top down on the Mustang would blow some new ideas my way, get things straightened out. I realized just then, walking next to that pristine sandy beach, that I missed the traffic in West Hollywood. Six lanes across on Santa Monica Boulevard. Stopped at red lights, waiting for the left-turn arrow, I seemed to get my best inspirations. How about that?
The neat path was lined with leafy bushes abloom with perfect yellow hibiscus, and I followed it to our row of hotel rooms. As I approached our bungalow, I suddenly remembered Holly’s two sleepy sisters, Daisy and Marigold, and wondered if they had ever managed to get out of bed. It was almost ten-thirty, which—not to sugarcoat it—was actually one-thirty in the afternoon, West Coast time. And with that realization I instantly snapped right back into my party-planner mode. The girls might sleep away this golden day and miss the fun.
Marigold had room 1025. I turned up the little walkway and noticed the door was not fully closed. That was odd. As I got closer, I realized Marigold had stuck a small trash can in the doorway to keep the door ajar, perhaps to encourage breezes. She must still be inside.
Or maybe she had gone next door to room 1027, visiting her other late-rising sister, half of the twin-set, Daisy. I stopped for a second, wondering if I should go to Daisy’s room first, when the sound of a female voice caught my attention. It was coming from Marigold’s room. She was there after all. I was just about to call her name when her words began to register.
“…never again. That’s Holly! I mean I love her to death and all, but she doesn’t deserve the attention, Daisy.”
Well, well, well. It appeared that Marigold was gossiping—maybe on the hotel telephone?—to her sister Daisy, next door.
“Why did he fall all over himself?” Marigold’s voice sulked.
Was this sibling jealousy I had inadvertently (I swear!) eavesdropped upon? Was Marigold dissing Holly’s fiancé? Holly and Donald seemed like a pretty cool couple to me.
I should have called out to Marigold right then. I should have said, “Yoo-hoo! Marigold!” or in some other way made my presence known. I realize that. But before I could, Marigold’s voice piped up again from inside the room, sounding defensive and a little whiny. “But what about me? He never knew I was even alive. I’ve waited and suffered, Daisy.”
What was this about, then? Marigold suffered and waited? For whom? Holly’s Donald? No way. That just wasn’t right. I was struck with a sudden thought: how lucky I was that I didn’t have any sisters. How could five sisters ever get through life without invading one another’s most private feelings?
“Hello!” I called out before another secret could be spilled. “Are you here, Marigold?”
“Who is that?” she asked, and then, a second or two later, her blond head appeared in the open doorway. “Mad? Omigod! You scared me! What’s up?” She cradled the phone between her ear and her shoulder, the trick of a habitual phone marathoner, as she opened the door all the way.
“Hey, there,” I said, all smiles.
“Come on in. I’m just talking to Daisy. We’re always on the phone. She’s taking forever to get dressed,” Marigold complained. “Normally, I wouldn’t mind waiting a couple more hours for Daisy to get ready,” she continued, her humor always taking an affectionate potshot when it could, “but today we’re going down to the spa, where she’ll just have to get undressed again.”
We both laughed. Marigold was dressed and ready. She was wearing a lime-green T-shirt and very short shorts in the same hue, and her makeup was perfectly done.
“Wait a minute, Daze,” she said into the phone. “I’m asking Maddie about the spa.” Then, without taking a breath, she asked me, “Did you get a massage? Was it très cool?”
“I loved it.” I did. And the party planner in me wanted to shield my guests from any hint of unpleasantness, so I stuck to that.
“Daisy,” Marigold scolded into the phone, “Maddie’s here checking up on us, for goodness’ sakes! She thinks we’re the worst sort of slackers. Listen to me, now. Wear the tangerine tank, the shorts with the word HELLCAT on the butt, and come on over here. Right away.” Marigold hung up on Daisy and giggled at me. “Little sisters.”
Looking at Marigold, away from the pack of Nichols sisters, I had to say that aside from the blond thing and the height thing shared by all the girls, she didn’t really look like Holly at all. While Holly has a delicate pointy chin and tiny nose, Marigold was all about big strong features. If Holly was the ballerina of the family, Marigold was the linebacker.
“It’s exciting to think about your sister getting married, isn’t it?” I asked. I mean, what’s the use of eavesdropping if you can’t press your advantage?
“The wedding?” Marigold said, raising an eyebrow. “You mean if Holly actually goes through with it.”
Marigold was jealous. Holly’s Donald was a nice-looking guy, in that sort of corn-fed from the Midwest, great cleft in his chin, hunky in a pair of Levi’s way. And certainly he had achieved fast success in Hollywood. His first screenplay had been a wild hit. But gosh, there were other attractive men in Los Angeles besides just Donald Lake, so did Marigold have to go pining away for
the one guy in the big city who was soon to be married to her sister?
“I’m just saying,” she said coyly, “it’s not that Holly is all that predictable when it comes to men, you know? I sure hope she gets married. Mom and Dad have spent a fortune on the wedding, so it would be really nice if she goes through with it.”
Hm. What was she really saying? Interpretation of sister-speak was an art perhaps best practiced from within the family.
“You two talking about Holly and Donald?” asked Daisy, pushing open the door and entering Marigold’s messy room. The beds were a jumble of fine sheets and fluffy comforters, with several pillows tossed here and there on the floor. Marigold and the absent Gladiola had apparently just opened their suitcases and goody bags any old where, and seemed to be grabbing clothes as needed.
“What else?” Marigold smiled a tight-lipped smile.
“I think they are a cute couple,” Daisy said. “I really do. And if Donald can put up with Holly and all her scattering around, they should be very happy.”
“I was just telling Maddie that. But you know our Holly. She is so all over the map when it comes to men.”
Sisters.
“Like you’re any better,” Daisy teased.
“Shut up,” Marigold said, tossing a stray pillow across the room at Daisy’s head and missing. “We’re late, as usual.”
I ducked, just avoiding a goose-down whap in the mouth, and followed the girls out of the room.
“You coming?” Marigold asked me.
“I can’t right now,” I said. “I’m taking off for a while, but you two go and enjoy!”
I could multitask better than anyone I knew. I had gathered the last of my tardy guests and was herding them off to the day’s activities. Now it was time for me to go after some answers, and I knew the place I had to start.
A visit to Keniki Hicks.
Kipa Wale
(Dropping In)
The address I had been given was about a thirty-minute drive from the Four Heavens Resort. Keniki Hicks lived in a rented house that was located outside the old sugar town of Hawi, at the northernmost tip of the Big Island, near the spot where the Kohala Coast turns the corner onto the Hamakua Coast.
The Flaming Luau of Death Page 9