Pleasing the Dead

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  “It’s after midnight. I need to go and I don’t want to leave you here.” She reached out to touch his arm. “Let me drive you.”

  “Not yet. I’m okay.”

  “I’m tired. You must be, too.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  The waitress had appeared at their table. “We start closing up in about an hour. Someone will drive him home. We’ve done it before.” The smile she gave Damon was kind.

  ***

  Raging thirst, a thumping headache, and a stomach that rocked and rolled awoke Storm at seven-thirty. She decided not to go for a morning jog. Three cups of strong coffee, a dry bagel, and a dip in the ocean improved her outlook, but she still regretted that second beer. Or was it the third?

  She got to the dive shop around nine-thirty, and found she’d arrived before Lara. Stella and Keiko were busy moving files and boxes into the back room. The fresh plumeria in Stella’s bright blonde hair smelled wonderful. One of her gold teeth glinted in a smile. “I’m glad you’re helping Lara. She needs it, and we heard good things about you.”

  “Thanks.” Storm blinked. “What kind of help do you think she needs most?”

  “Picking men,” Keiko said, then flushed.

  “Ryan’s good for her.” Stella flashed a look at Keiko, who shrugged. “Keiko and I knew her last boyfriend, and he wasn’t so nice.”

  “His name is Greg Wilson,” Keiko said as if Storm might have met him.

  “Never heard of him,” Storm said.

  “You can mention his name,” Stella said. “She’ll only be mad at me for about a tenth of a second and she needs the reminder.”

  “You sure? I don’t like to reveal a source.”

  “I’m sure. It’ll do her some good.” Stella looked like she meant it.

  “Stella introduced Ryan to Lara,” Keiko said.

  Stella gave her a playful slap on the arm. “Oh, hush.”

  “Do you know where she is?” Storm asked.

  “Talking to the florist,” Stella said, and headed for the back room. The aromas of sweet flowers and old cigarettes wafted along with her.

  “For the wedding?” Storm asked.

  “Either that or the opening,” said Keiko. “It’s hard to keep track right now.”

  This conversation was the first time Storm had heard the young woman speak. She had a low, soft voice with a hint of an accent. One of Storm’s friends had moved from Asia to Hawai‘i at the age of twelve, and Keiko sounded like her. Storm guessed Keiko to be around twenty.

  Storm picked up a box from the stack waiting to be taken to the back office. “How do you know about Lara’s old boyfriend?” She trailed behind Keiko. The box was heavy, probably filled with papers and files.

  She set it on a table next to Stella’s last load. The older woman gave her a half-smile. “I’ve known Lara since she was a kid.” She left to carry more boxes from the front room.

  Damon was at the other end of the office space, carefully measuring for the installation of a cabinet that sat on the floor.

  “You okay this morning?”

  “Getting by.” He sounded bad and looked worse. “My daughters called this morning. They heard it on the car radio going to school.”

  “That sucks.”

  “You’re telling me. So then my ex gets the idea it might be too dangerous for the girls to come stay with me this summer.”

  “Not going to happen. She can’t do that.”

  Damon’s face brightened. That is, it went from burgundy to a capillary-webbed cherry. “She can’t?”

  “Hiroki’s and his daughters’ situation isn’t relevant to your child custody agreement. You didn’t cause it; your girls aren’t in danger.”

  “Will you represent me if she makes trouble?”

  “You’d be better off using your divorce lawyer. He or she knows the original agreement. If that person can’t help, I’ll take a look.”

  Storm felt a wave of relief when Damon nodded in agreement.

  “Yeah, that makes sense. I’ll call him this afternoon.”

  Storm watched a painter, a face she hadn’t seen yesterday, trim around a window casing. “New guy?”

  Damon shook his head. “No, he was scheduled today. I’m doing Hiroki’s work.”

  “You heard anything about his daughter?”

  “I called Carl this morning and left a message. He hasn’t called back.”

  “He’s busy.”

  “Yeah, I don’t envy him.”

  “Storm?” Lara’s voice rang out and Storm went out front to see her. Lara looked nearly as tired as Damon.

  Storm greeted her. “I came by to talk business. We’ve got to get insurance papers filed if you’re already running dive tours.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Lara slumped into a desk chair. “So much going on at once.”

  “This is important. If something happens on one of your boats, you don’t want to be liable.”

  “Ken’s a great captain. He’s real careful.”

  “What if someone falls down the steps? Claims you should have had a sign up that warned they could be slippery?”

  Lara looked aghast. “Could that happen?”

  “Sure, and that’s not as serious as someone panicking underwater and claiming your dive equipment was faulty. Lara, we have to talk about how your corporation is set up, what the terms of your land-lease agreement are, and a whole list of other things.”

  “Ryan should be here for that.”

  “When can we do it?”

  Lara picked at her thumb nail, which was painted shell pink. “He’s tied up all day with appointments.”

  “Your insurance company is going to want this information, too.”

  “We’ve got some insurance.”

  “What kind?”

  Lara chipped away more nail polish. “Ryan and his dad own the property. They’ve got insurance.”

  “It probably doesn’t cover diving or boating accidents.”

  “Ryan told me it would until we got started.”

  “You’ve started.” Storm folded her arms across her chest. “Lara, Stella wanted me to remind you about Greg Wilson.”

  Lara jumped out of the chair, hands on her hips. “That bitch.”

  “She cares a great deal about you.”

  She dropped back into the chair, legs stuck out straight. “She cares about her point of view, not mine. She thinks I’m still a kid.”

  “So who’s Greg Wilson?”

  “Some pig I dated a couple of years ago. When I broke up with him, he claimed he trained me and wanted half of my winnings. When the asshole moved out, he took all my autographed sports stuff. I had a soccer ball signed by David Beckham.”

  “Did he train you?”

  “Of course not.” Her eyes flashed. “I met him a few months before I quit.”

  “But I gather you were with him for a while.”

  “Longer than I should have been.” She shuddered.

  “I’ve had a relationship or two I’ve regretted, too.”

  “As in total brain lapse?”

  “Utter stupidity. Can’t imagine what I saw in him.”

  Lara’s face lit up. “Thank God I’m not the only one.”

  “We’re not alone.”

  Lara looked at her through wings of sleek hair. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “I’m sure I don’t. But the stakes are higher for you now. I want to make sure you don’t have any regrets. Lawyers, contrary to popular belief, want to prevent train wrecks.”

  “But we’re getting married. Ryan wouldn’t endanger my business because it will affect his own.”

  “I hope he won’t for other reasons, too.” As in he adores you and wants the best for you. “Lara, it’s a business. You need to protect yourself.”

  Lara looked away, as if there might be an answer painted on the wall behind Storm. All of the workers had evaporated into the back roo
m.

  “He’d never do anything to hurt me.”

  Storm had heard that before. In fact, she’d said it about her own ex, who ran the bar where Storm worked after college. He was so handsome all of her girlfriends had been envious—until he’d shown himself to be creepier than a Moray eel. Gorgeous to look at, but manipulative, slimy, and scheming.

  Chapter Nine

  Ryan and Tagama stood inside an empty warehouse in Kahului, not far from the airport. It was only eight o’clock, and they’d left Wailea at seven. Ryan held an extra large Starbucks cup. Whatever that size was called. Vente? He wished it came with an intravenous drip.

  He and Lara had shared a bottle of wine last night, which was more than he usually drank. After that they began to argue, softly in the restaurant and much louder on the way home. That lasted until two, when he went to sleep on the couch.

  Friends had told him about the stresses of a wedding, but he hadn’t thought they would apply to them. The friends’ stories revolved around overbearing future mothers-in-law, but Lara’s mother couldn’t even get her name right half the time, let alone force a china pattern down their throats.

  Nor did Lara nag about crystal like his friends’ wives had. No, she wanted real estate. She wanted the deed to the whole goddamned strip mall. Ryan kept telling her it would be in the family once they got married. It was part of Mālua LLC, Tagama and son’s business. Lara wasn’t the only one with a new corporation.

  Lara’s Aquatic Adventures took up two-thirds of the prime real estate space in the mall, which was worth over a million. The amount of her lease rent was for property half the value—and she knew it. There was even room for future expansion; the only stores left were an art gallery, an upscale wine shop, and an organic coffee/sandwich shop whose bread tasted like sawdust and the coffee like road tar.

  “…this afternoon.” Tagama narrowed his eyes. “You listening?”

  “Sorry. Didn’t get enough sleep last night. What did you say?”

  “Can you show the wrought iron people the other half of the warehouse this afternoon?”

  “The sculptor’s willing to share it?”

  “They use some of the same equipment.”

  “It’s a great location.” Ryan looked around the high, wide space. “And clean. Must have been expensive. How’d you find it?”

  “Heard about a Chapter 11. Bank was going to repossess it, so I made an offer.”

  “Where we going now?” Ryan wondered if he might get another cup of coffee on the way.

  “A shopping center about a mile from here. We bought it about the same time as the warehouse.”

  That “we” sounded very good.

  “Has a good family restaurant in it. Home-cooked food, popular with the locals.”

  “Nice. Have we closed on the properties?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “Great,” Ryan said.

  He was amazed. They were worth millions, as in multiple millions. He wondered where his father got that much money.

  Until five months ago, Tagama would invite Ryan to dinner and take him to his golf club once a month, but they didn’t interact much. They didn’t talk about business, and often his father’s colleagues, foreigners with vague but important titles, were around.

  When Tagama invited his son to join Mālua LLC as a principal partner, the timing couldn’t have been better. Ryan and a friend had just decided their gelato business wouldn’t support the two of them. He thought he might have to persuade Lara to move to Honolulu, where jobs were more plentiful, and he’d been in turmoil at the prospect. But Tagama said he wanted to work with his son, get to know him as a man, and leave him a legacy for the future.

  “Did you turn over some other properties to buy these?” Ryan asked.

  Tagama gave Ryan a sideways glance, but answered. “I had two houses in Kahala and two on Waialae Iki Ridge. Nice, desirable neighborhoods on O‘ahu. Made some good money.”

  Ryan didn’t ask how his father had bought those. He knew the areas. One of his friends, a lawyer, had bought a ridge home a year ago for two million.

  Ryan knew his father had made astute investments over the years, and was delighted to be his partner in commercial real estate. His income had skyrocketed to the point that he hardly knew what to do with it. Brokerage houses loved him; someone from Merrill Lynch called at least once a week.

  He played it down around his old friends. Marini, in particular, was still barely scraping by with gelato. Riley Murakami’s tattoo parlor was marginal, too. These were good guys, and Ryan hoped they got out of the hole. Maybe he could help them out some day.

  Chapter Ten

  Stella interrupted the conversation about toxic ex-boyfriends with a call for Lara to get the phone. Lara shot from her chair as if springs had fired her into the air. Storm could hear her book a string of dive outings, the relief in her voice resonating at a level that would leave her customers delighted.

  The morning session had obviously come to an end. That was okay; Storm had plenty on her mind. The Hawaii State Family Court had appointed her guardian ad litem for an O‘ahu child, but the grandparents, with whom she needed to speak, lived in Kahului. She’d called earlier and set up an appointment.

  On the way out of the shop, she paused to look at the progress in the large front room, where a worker was laying ceramic tile the color of the ocean. In a side room, wet suits and BCDs hung to dry and scuba tanks lined a wall. Ken McClure was busy in there with an assistant, some buff, bare-chested guy in surf trunks with a big eagle tattoo on his arm. It was heavy work, and they were sweating as they arranged equipment and loaded supplies into the back of a van with Lara’s Aquatic Adventures emblazoned on the side. The shop even had its own air compressor for filling the tanks to exact safety standards. Hundreds of thousands of dollars were going into Lara’s new business.

  Damon emerged from the back room and headed outside to his truck. Storm followed him. “I’m going to Kahului on other business. Do you know if Carmen was taken to Maui Memorial Hospital?”

  He gathered a load of tarpaulins and paint rollers. “Probably. That’s where I’d go. You think she’s covered by Hiroki’s insurance?”

  “You pay his premiums, right?”

  Damon nodded.

  “I’ll check and let you know.”

  “The hospital’s in Wailuku, not Kahului.”

  “No problem, they’re close.”

  Storm drove out to Pi‘ilani Highway, then pulled into the parking lot at Elleair Golf Club where she could make a couple of calls on her cell phone without running red lights or rear-ending someone. One of the calls was to a Honolulu number.

  “Bureau of Conveyances,” the operator answered.

  “Mike Chilworth, please.” Storm hoped he was in the office and not out on a site.

  Mike picked up, and Storm went through the usual pleasantries regarding his wife and kids before she got to business. “Mike, how do I check who holds a land lease on a strip mall in Maui? It’s in Kihei.”

  “You on Maui? You’re one lucky wahine.”

  “Like I’ve got time to enjoy it.”

  “Not surfing?”

  “I wish.” Storm could hear Mike flipping through papers.

  “Okay, here we go. You want the Maui County Real Property Assessment Division in Kahului. Here’s the number. Ask for Sally—tell her I sent you.” He chuckled. “Maybe you can finish early and go to Ho‘okipa.”

  “I’m not holding my breath about getting to the beach, even if it is Ho‘okipa.”

  Storm smiled at Mike’s teasing, but it faded when she remembered one of the errands she wanted to accomplish. Visiting a twelve-year-old orphan with a gunshot wound wasn’t going to be easy.

  She had to drive around a bit before she found the Property Assessment offices, and in doing so, she made a detour around a badly damaged, once-elegant restaurant surrounded by warning signs, crime tape, and a handful of official-l
ooking people. The site of the explosion that had tied up traffic on Wednesday. Still under investigation, and it probably would be for days. She parked a few blocks away and walked by the place. The whole left corner of the building had been ripped off, revealing a scattering of dining tables and tattered linens, along with part of the sign, which now said “—lue Marine.”

  When she got to the Property Assessment offices, she was sweating from the bright, hot sun. Inside, though, the air conditioning was set to January in Nova Scotia. The clerk who told Storm that Sally was at lunch wore a sweater buttoned to the neck.

  “She should be back in a half hour.”

  In her sleeveless linen blouse, Storm was covered with goose bumps, so she headed back outside. On the other side of the shattered restaurant was a small mall, which was sure to have a sandwich or coffee shop. She skirted the yellow crime tape, but along with all the other pedestrians, ignored the signs to use the sidewalk on the other side of the street.

  It was hard not to stare at the destruction. The missing wall reminded her of the open side of a doll house where the petulant owner had reached in and tossed furniture, draperies, and wiring into a violent tangle. The dangling table linens were blackened and torn and dining chairs leaned, askew. Storm looked away from the dark stains on the carpeting.

  Three police officers, alert but not vigilant to the point of obsession, patrolled the area and watched pedestrians and traffic. They weren’t fiddling with the holsters on their hips, or speaking into radios.

  Storm squinted in their direction. One of the cops looked like the guy she’d seen last night. And how had Damon introduced him? Moana. She remembered because it meant ocean in Hawaiian. A soft word for a man with a hard job.

  She waved at him. All three officers’ heads swung her direction, but only Moana walked over.

  “No stopping, please.” He pointed at the signs directing people across the street, through the busy traffic. The closest crosswalk was a block away.

  “I met you last night. I was with Damon.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Sadness softened the authority in his eyes. “Sorry, I forgot your name.”

  “Storm Kayama. You’re Sergeant Moana, right?” He nodded, and Storm asked what had been on her mind all day. “How’s the little girl?”