Out on Highway 250, I left the ranch town of Waimea behind and steered the Mustang convertible—top down, baby—through lush jungles north to Hawi, which I soon learned was pronounced Hahvee by the instructive locals I stopped to ask for directions, probably retired grammar teachers, all of them.
I looked around as I drove, spotting historic markers hidden here and there among the thick foliage, marking remnants of the island’s exotic past. While the Hawaiian Islands are the textbook example of natural beauty, their history is less than lovely, steeped in island-againstisland warfare and blood and kapu. Even before the Europeans and Americans began to covet this land, the island people fought and battled among themselves. And then, of course, the missionaries arrived in 1820. Had I traveled straight up the Kohala Coast, on Highway 270, I’d have been tempted to stop and visit the Kalahikiola Church in North Kohala, founded in 1855 by an old Maine missionary, Reverend Elias Bond.
I had studied Hawaii’s past while planning our trip. In addition to the inter-island skirmishes and wars, the islanders’ interactions with their earliest outside visitors was at best ambivalent. As a prime example, there’s Captain Cook. In 1779, an English captain named James Cook sailed along the Kona Coast, where today the best resorts, including the Four Heavens, were located. As it happened, Cook anchored there during an island festival, one that was ruled by the god Lono, and the islanders mistook the sails of Cook’s ships for the banner of Lono. Stories about parties naturally capture my attention, so I remembered the details of this one quite well. It is recorded that the Hawaiians mistook Cook for the deity. So far, this was a fairly typical tale—simple, trusting native people; weird white dude with strange technology. But the story goes on.
After a pleasant visit—hey, they treated the guy like he was Lono—Captain Cook sailed north, where, alas, he encountered trouble. A severe storm broke the mast on one of his ships. Limping back to the bay, Cook returned to his new friends, expecting a reverent welcome once again. But this time the Hawaiians were suddenly skeptical. Big storm. Wrecked ship. What kind of god couldn’t control a few waves? Of course they now questioned his godliness.
Small items began disappearing from his ships, and when a skiff was stolen, Cook got fed up. He took a local chief as hostage, setting off a skirmish in which Captain Cook, ultimately, was killed. So the moral of the story: Just because the island people are gracious at their luaus, don’t assume they cannot add two plus two, especially once they have sobered up the next day.
A local guidebook describes a white obelisk at the north end of Kealakekua Bay that marks the spot where Cook is believed to be buried. A pointed reminder indeed for anyone visiting from L.A., where we can take ourselves a little too seriously.
Before long, I had reached the town of Hawi, and soon I found the turnoff to Kamakana Place, Keniki’s street. Just one block from the main road, I spotted her house.
Everywhere I looked, up one street and down another, was landscaping so lush it could bring tears to the eyes of a mainland gardener. The grass was incredibly emerald here and seemed to shimmer a brighter green than was altogether natural. In front of Keniki’s small home, a splashy carpet of bright green rushed up to the deep pink stucco of the house. Three stubby sago palms hugged the home’s walkway while two coconut palms stood tall out by the driveway, shaggy fronds scraping the light blue sky.
I pulled my Mustang up to the curb across the street from Keniki’s house, not wanting to take up prime parking space; her relatives and friends would probably be arriving throughout the day. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. After all, we hardly knew each other well. And yet, perhaps there was something I could do to help. And, equally urgent, perhaps Keniki could answer some of my questions.
At the front door, I rang the bell, and in the seconds that followed had a brief moment to reconsider. Who knew how Keniki would be taking the news of her fiancé’s death? And yet I was certain she held keys to the puzzle.
After about a minute, a young woman opened the door. Very long dark hair. Slender build. She looked so much like Keniki I almost thought it was her, but when the woman didn’t recognize me, I started to notice small differences. This woman was taller. And her eyes were smaller, rounder. At the door, beside her, squirmed a yellow lab, his tail wagging, his head pushing her aside to sniff the new visitor.
“Aloha,” said the young woman pleasantly, greeting me at the door. “You must be a friend of Keni’s. How good of you to come.”
“Thanks. We haven’t met. My name is Madeline.”
“Oh, hi.” She stood there, lost in thought for a moment. “I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m Cynthia Hicks, Keniki’s sister.”
“I heard about Kelly and…” I started over. “I wanted to check with Keniki to see if I might help out, if I could.”
As we stood there at the open doorway, I patted the lab’s head, and he gave my legs a frenzy of good, strong sniffs.
“Who’s this fellow?”
“Let me introduce you to Dr. Margolis,” she said, smiling at the dog.
“Hey, Doc.” His nostrils quivered. He was in love with my scent. I wondered if he could pick up any remnants of Dead Sea Mud. Just then a white van pulled up in front of Keniki’s house and stopped, half in the driveway, half out in the street, rap music spilling out of the open windows. On the side of the van, Best Coast Florist was written in green script under a picture of purple orchids.
The driver of the van, a kid in jeans and an OutKast T-shirt, hopped out and went to the back of his vehicle, soon coming up the walk with a large arrangement of tall, stalky birds of paradise amid a lush tangle of greens.
“More flowers,” said Cynthia, reaching down for her dog’s collar as his curiosity transferred from me to the new guy and he strained to get some new whiffs.
“Why don’t I take these for you?” I asked, holding my arms out to the flower van driver, a skinny guy with braces.
“Hey, I’ve got two more,” he said, relinquishing the flowers to me.
“Thanks,” Cynthia said vaguely. “But what do we do with all these plants?” She held the screen door open, and I walked into a bright living room, decorated in vintage bamboo furniture and 1950s-style prints. Wesley would love this place.
I set the flowers down on a low table, next to two smaller arrangements that must have arrived recently, just as the kid from the florist’s van came to the door with two more. Dr. Margolis had trailed the driver from house to van to house again. There was some jockeying of bowls and vases, but we managed to situate the gifts, creating a small jungle of indoor flora. I noticed many of the arrangements featured native plants.
“Keniki has been resting, lying down in her room,” Cynthia said after the young man had left us.
“I don’t want to disturb her.”
“It’s okay. Just a second. I’ll tell her you’re here.”
Dr. Margolis sat down so close to me he actually sat on my right foot. And he rested his chin on my bare knee. “Hi, guy,” I said, rubbing his forehead. “Are things kind of sad around here today?”
While I waited, I stood up and looked about the room. A painting of two young Hawaiian girls dressed in hula costumes, flowers circling their bare feet, was hanging over the sofa. It had been painted in an artful primitive style, which I liked, and I wondered if it might possibly be of Keniki and Cynthia as children.
“My mother painted that one,” said a soft voice. I turned to see Keniki, still wearing her resort uniform, a sarong with the Four Heavens’ hibiscus print, her long hair hanging on both sides of her face.
“It’s really beautiful.”
“Forgive me,” she said, “but I’m surprised to see you…here. Was there a problem with last night’s luau?”
“No, no. Everything about the luau was just perfect. I brought some of your things from the Four Heavens.”
She noticed the bag I had carried into the house and nodded.
I continued, “I hope you don’t mind that I came to see
you. I just wanted to offer my support.”
“Have you heard about what happened?” Her eyes were wide, but little comprehension could be observed in them.
“I did. I felt—”
“The luau last night was wonderful, wasn’t it?” she asked brightly, cutting me off. I was a little surprised she was holding herself together so extremely well. “You’re sure you were happy with everything?”
“At Holly’s luau? Of course. It was amazing. Thanks to you.”
“It was my pleasure. Come and sit down,” she said, gesturing to the sofa and a matching bamboo armchair. So calm. Dr. Margolis stood up and walked in a complete circle, then laid down at Keniki’s feet.
I checked her out. “How are you doing?”
“Fine. Really.” She smiled at me.
I tried to smile back.
She must have read my thoughts because she said, “It’s probably odd, I know. But…”
“Who can say what’s the right way to react? Whatever way you feel is right.”
“I just keep asking myself, how can this have happened? Kelly and I were engaged, you know? We hadn’t set our wedding date, but we were waiting for him to save enough money to…” Her voice trailed off.
We sat there as the silence stretched out. I had so many questions to ask her about Kelly, but I wanted to be sure she was comfortable.
“Look,” I said, “about the luau, I know we arranged to pay you the balance at the end of the month, but I want you to have all your money right now. There are sure to be expenses.” I rummaged in my bag and came up with the check.
She looked at the crisp rectangle of pale blue paper. “This is too much,” Keniki said, handing it back to me.
“No. This is fine. You have enough to deal with right now, Keniki. Bills need to be paid, right? And if there is anything else I can do to help you, please just let me know.”
“You are truly a kind person,” she said, her eyes dreamy.
I noticed her sister, Cynthia, was standing in the hallway, listening to us but not joining us in the living room.
“We’re a little lost,” Keniki said, apologetic. “We aren’t sure what to do. Kelly’s family is in California. They were called by the police or someone. His dad is flying in to take care of everything. I think they plan to take him back to Oakland.”
“Oh.”
“But all his friends are here,” Cynthia said, coming a step into the room, into the conversation.
An opening. I asked my first question gently. “How long has Kelly lived on the Big Island?”
Keniki answered immediately. “Two years. But we only started seeing each other about six months ago.”
I noticed she held a fresh tissue in her hand, but she didn’t seem to need it. She must still be in shock. Or perhaps she had been given a pill and it was working.
“Do you feel like talking about him?”
“I don’t mind,” Keniki said, meeting my eyes. “Everyone is so upset. Everyone else seems afraid to talk about Kelly now.”
Cynthia shed a tear. “I’m sorry, Keni. I’m not sure what is right and what is wrong.”
“This is a hard time,” I said, and then turned back to Keniki and tried another question. “I don’t think I heard how you two met.”
“At a party,” Keniki said, and she smiled a shy smile. “Kelly was there with a guy that he works with. I went with Cynthia. It was a very posh party, but I took one look at Kelly and he looked at me. We knew. Neither one of us belonged at that party, but we knew we belonged together.”
“Where did he work?” I asked.
She looked at me and blinked. Her boyfriend would now and forever be referred to in the past tense. “Over at a horticulture center,” she said. “He was in love with plants. That’s why people are sending us all of these. And these.” She gestured to the forest of shoots and stalks erupting in pots in front of us. “This one is B. nutans. And here is a T. siamensis. Kelly taught me all the plant names.”
“Kelly could grow anything,” Cynthia said softly.
“It’s true,” Keniki agreed. “He could. But these plants are just for show, Cyn. These people weren’t his friends. Not his real friends. They are all such…” She took a deep breath. “They’re hypocrites.”
“I know,” murmured her sister.
I looked up. “What do you mean?”
Keniki plucked the card from the tallest green arrangement and read it aloud. “We will miss our brother, Kelly. From The Bamboo Four. Can you believe their nerve?”
“Kelly had enemies,” Cynthia explained to me quickly.
“What sort of enemies?”
“He was very political. And there were factions that were working against him—like those four. I guess he was threatening the wrong people, and they were not too happy.”
I paid very close attention. Were Keniki and Cynthia implying Kelly Imo’s death was tied in some way with politics? But they sounded so calm. “Can you tell me what sort of politics?”
“Oh, Kelly had radical ideas,” Keniki said, smiling at the thought. “And not everyone here on the island was too happy with that. Still, they all sent gifts, didn’t they? The Four! The jerks.”
“The jerks,” Cynthia agreed, her soft voice bitter. “I hate them.”
And then Keniki’s head fell into her hands. That eerie force, which had somehow managed to restrain the terrible storm of emotions up to this point, could hold it back no more. Anger set it free. And a primitive moan racked her slender body. Then another. And there were tears. Tears came pouring, torrents of tears. Dr. Margolis stood up but stayed close to her as the tempest of sorrow and anger was finally unleashed in that small living room.
“Oh, Keni.” Cynthia, her own tears flowing once more, sank down on her knees on the floor in front of her sister. Their graceful arms entwined around each other. “That’s okay. That’s okay.”
Witnessing their pain was difficult, but you don’t have to be Dr. Phil to know such a release is necessary, healthy even. Now she would be able to move through her grief. It was all about feeling her true feelings, giving herself up to the truth. But man, the truth in this case was hard.
And it was more than time for me to leave, despite the fact that so many of my questions would remain unasked. I whispered, “You can call me for anything,” and stood to go. Keniki would know how to reach me at the resort if she wanted to talk later.
Cynthia caught up to me at the door, put her hand on my arm. “Thank you for this. This is right. We needed this. It’s for the best.”
By now, everyone has watched enough Oprah to figure out what is best for everyone. I swear, that woman on TV does the world a great service.
“Look,” I said. “I’m wondering about something Keniki said.”
“Yes?”
“Can you just tell me what sort of politics?”
Cynthia stared at me, not comprehending, but I had to know just this little bit more. Just this one thing. “Kelly’s politics?” I stood with the front door open. “Local? Federal?”
“About the future of Hawaii,” Cynthia answered, still perplexed.
Our conversation had caught Keniki’s attention. She grew quieter, calming herself down. She called to me at the door, “They’re all probably meeting right now.”
I turned back to her, facing her red and swollen eyes. “Where?”
“At Bamboo, of course.”
“Oh, no. I think they probably canceled their meeting,” Cynthia said, but she didn’t say it with conviction.
Keniki shook her head, her long wavy hair shimmying. “They sent me a lovely plant, but I know these friends of Kelly. They are still having their filthy meeting today. Kelly should be there too. My Kelly…” But she couldn’t go on. She began choking on a new rush of tears, and Cynthia turned and went back to her.
Through it all, Dr. Margolis had stayed right by Keniki’s side, but he looked up at me as I put my hand on the doorknob, his dark brown eyes giving me a warm good-bye. And then I let
myself out of the house, more confused about Kelly Imo than when I had arrived. Everything I learned about Kelly seemed to contradict everything else. But now I had a lead—a meeting at someplace called Bamboo. So I would have to keep digging for more. And if I was very lucky, I thought I might find it soon.
Kahua Ho’olulu
(Meeting Place)
Of course I still didn’t know if Kelly’s death was natural or not, but his death had to be considered suspicious. And it seemed Kelly had been involved with the people who were making threats to Holly. It was possible that they could be the same political people that Keniki had mentioned. The Bamboo Four. I was certain I could discover everything I needed to know if I could just find the political meeting that the Hicks sisters said might be in progress.
I pulled the rented Mustang out onto the main highway and decided to cruise through town. Hawi is an old city. Once bustling with growth in the 1800s and early 1900s, during the sugar boom, and then almost extinguished when the sugar plantation shut down in 1970, the town was now recast as a small artists’ way station. This same dismal economic theme played throughout Hawaii over the past thirty years, as the world price of sugar had plunged and the one industry that had sustained many island workers became extinct. Unemployment, depression, suicides. That was the legacy of a local industry gone bust.
Today, Hawi was trying to keep its original Hawaiian history intact, and many of the original buildings had been preserved. I slowed down as I drove along the three blocks of downtown Hawi, noting a Kona coffee shop and a handmade-ice-cream shop amid a few other touristoriented stores, all set in mildly refurbished structures.
And right across the street from the ice-cream shop was a ramshackle three-story building from the old days. The pale green clapboards could use a fresh coat of paint, but atop the open double-door entry was a beautifully kitschy sign. Brightly painted bent bamboo, the yellow letters proclaimed: BAMBOO.
Isn’t that interesting?
The Flaming Luau of Death Page 10