Pleasing the Dead

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  Damon threw himself back in his chair. “No, it wasn’t like that. Well, maybe Barb was a little hard on her, but Angela had it coming.”

  “What happened to Barb? Why’s she in the rest home?”

  “When Michael died, she went to pieces. She just couldn’t go on. Lara takes care of her.”

  Storm nodded. “It’s really sad.”

  “No shit. I hate to see anything else happen to Lara.”

  “Yeah, I understand.”

  Storm looked at Damon, who was frowning into his bottle. “Have you ever heard of a guy named Obake?”

  His raised his eyes slowly to hers. They were bloodshot and tired. “No, who’s that?”

  “I don’t know.” Storm stood up. “I’d better let you get some rest. Thanks for letting me use your car.”

  “I already jumped it. It’s been running, so you should be okay. If it doesn’t start in the morning, give me a call. Your hotel isn’t that far from Lara’s shop.”

  “I’m going to stay around here,” Storm said.

  He looked surprised. “Hey, I’ve got an extra room.”

  She was grateful for the offer, but staying in his place didn’t feel right. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Not far, believe me.”

  He blinked a few times. “’Kay then. Call me if you change your mind.”

  The Subaru Legacy station wagon was dusty, but in decent shape. Storm waved her thanks and started down the road. Even if she’d looked, she wouldn’t have seen Damon watching her. He stood in the shadow of a big monkey pod tree a few doors down from his house, checking to see if she turned right or left at the stop sign at the junction of Honoapi‘ilani Highway.

  A few miles away, near the turn at the beginning of Front Street, Storm saw a modest, two-story motel with a lighted welcome sign. Twenty minutes later, she was in a room, comfortable in the knowledge that no one knew where she was, at least for a few restful hours. She settled into bed, thinking about what Damon had told her that night about Lara’s Makena house.

  Makena was the new hot spot for investors, and Lara had prime ocean front property. The house could make the young woman millions in profit.

  Lara was working to cement her financial independence in a way that couldn’t be threatened. It made sense, especially in light of her family and their problems. It also explained Lara’s evasiveness on the ownership of the strip mall where the dive shop was located. If Lara bought it, the terms of incorporation would be changed. What would Ryan’s role in the shop be? And what did he know about her plans to buy the land from Mālua LLC?

  Storm decided she’d have to raise the subject when she met Lara in the morning. She could do it tactfully, mention that she’d heard about the Makena house, and compliment Lara on her real estate acumen. Their appointment was at ten-thirty. If she got up in time, she could drive to Makawao, pump Auntie Piko for information on Paradise Consortium and Mālua LLC, and be back in plenty of time to meet Lara.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Storm couldn’t get comfortable. The bed was hard; there was a lump in the center of the mattress. She was hot, she was cold. She should have adjusted the motel’s air conditioner better when she went to bed, but now she couldn’t muster the energy to get up and do it. It hummed and made rattling noises. She drifted into deeper sleep.

  An elegant woman touched her shoulder, but Storm couldn’t rouse herself. The woman leaned over her, and Storm shivered. Now the air conditioner was on too high; it was inconsistent. She’d have to tell the management about it.

  She was freezing. Not enough blankets. The woman loomed before Storm’s face, but Storm knew it was a dream because somehow she knew her eyes were closed. If she were awake, she’d get up and put on another blanket.

  The woman was Japanese, middle-aged, with expressive almond eyes and perfect, rosebud red lips. She wore an elegant suit with a silk flower on the lapel. At some level, Storm knew her mind was unraveling the trauma of last night, when she’d observed the wooden stoicism on the older Tagama’s face.

  Storm had never seen Yasuko, but she knew she was the lovely woman in her dream. Storm wondered what Yasuko had really looked like, but she liked the vision she’d imagined. Ryan and Lara were there now, too. Lara’s face so white, it glowed like the light behind her. Ryan’s eyes were wet.

  No, no, on the beach, Lara’s eyes had been wet and Ryan’s face was white. But this was a dream, so it didn’t have to make sense.

  When a ray of sunlight worked its way through the drapes and scraped against her burning eyelids, Storm felt as if she’d worked all night. It was six-thirty; she was as tired as if she’d had two hours sleep instead of seven. A shower helped a bit, and she was grateful for the motel’s little bottle of shampoo. When she’d bought deodorant the night before, some guardian angel had whispered in her ear that her old toothbrush looked like it had been flattened with a steam iron and her toothpaste tube was nearly as bad. So she was set for the basic morning ablutions, but she’d have to put on the same clothes that she’d worn to dinner. Jeans and a sweatshirt would have been her choice for a trip upcountry, but the dress and sandals would have to do.

  Storm knew it could take an hour or more to get to Makawao, which was across the island to Kahului and another eight or ten miles up Haleakala Highway. She had to be back at Lara’s Aquatic Adventures in Kihei by ten-thirty.

  She got a large coffee at a Starbucks in Kihei, near the northbound road to Kahului. In Kahului, she pulled into a little mall and picked up another travel cup of Bad Ass coffee. It was the inspiration she was seeking. She was beginning to feel like herself.

  She also filled the tank in Damon’s ex’s station wagon, which was running like a dream. A few loose papers—they looked like soccer-signup sheets—fluttered around the back seat, which made Storm feel right at home.

  The weather in Kahului was clear and sunny, with trade winds blowing about ten to fifteen knots, and mauka showers. Mauka, in this case, was exactly where Storm was headed: up the mountain called Haleakala, House of the Sun. This was where the Hawaiian god, Māui, had lassoed the sun. After using his grandmother’s magic rope to catch Kalā, Māui then tied him to the roots of the wiliwili tree and chopped off some of his legs with a sacred adze.

  Violent tales, Storm reflected as she drove upward, into the clouds. Mist clouded the windshield. A brutal legacy, those Hawaiian tales, like so many other cultures’ birthrights. A shiver passed through her, and Storm felt vulnerable in her sleeveless dress and sandals. Not the clothes for a confrontation, certainly, and she reconsidered her purpose for this drive, which was twofold: to see how Pauline felt about the sale of her shop to Mālua LLC and Paradise Consortium, and to see if Pauline had heard from Keiko and Carmen. The second reason overshadowed the first at this point.

  Storm had grown up in small towns like Makawao, and she found the local grocery without any trouble. Inside, she breathed in the aromas of fresh baked goods and the earthy smells of produce. It took her five minutes to fill a small basket with four papayas, limes, a jar of passion fruit butter, and a loaf of fresh Moloka‘i bread.

  The clerk rang it up and added a few home-grown mangoes to the bag. “My tree,” she said.

  “Thanks, I love them,” Storm said, and sniffed at the sweet fruit. “Do you know Pauline Harding?”

  “Where you from?”

  “O‘ahu. I’m here for the weekend, doing some work and visiting friends.”

  “She lives about a mile from here. Real pretty place with a great view. I heard her son bought it for her.” The clerk gave Storm directions, and even threw in two more mangoes. “Here, she’ll like these. Someone told me she’s got some friends visiting.”

  “I’ll tell her they’re from you,” Storm said, and wondered about those visitors. Back in the car, she called Stella’s number. Stella must be sitting on the phone, because it didn’t have time to ring.

  �
�Any word from Keiko?” Storm asked.

  “No.” The woman’s voice was ragged. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Call the cops.”

  “I have to, don’t I?”

  “Yes, and do it now. Have you talked to Pauline since noon yesterday?”

  “I called her again last night.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said she already told me she’d call if she saw them.” Stella sounded embarrassed. “She told me I’m bugging her.”

  “Really,” Storm said. Some friend.

  It was easy to follow the clerk’s directions, and Storm marveled at the homes on the mountainside. Elevation was around fourteen hundred feet, and many of the homes had views across miles of velvet green foliage to the sparkling sapphire of the Pacific. They might not be as expensive as ocean front estates, but people paid for vistas like these.

  Pauline’s address was easy to find by the number on a lava rock post by the street, but the driveway was long and tree-lined, and anyone watching from the house would see her coming for a quarter of a mile. Storm didn’t want to give Pauline that much time to prepare for a visitor.

  When Storm saw the Rainbow Bed and Breakfast only three properties from Pauline’s place, she allowed herself a big smile. To make things better, across the street from the B & B was a turnout. Storm pulled into it, looked around at a scattering of cigarette butts, and surmised that she wouldn’t be the first to stop and enjoy the scenery.

  A low lava rock wall ran between Pauline’s property and her neighbor’s, and Storm stayed on the neighbor’s side of it. She walked along and thought up excuses for taking this route if someone asked, but there was a narrow path and she figured she wasn’t the only one to have used the trail. Eucalyptus trees and ironwood provided shade, while Pauline’s side had only a few plumeria trees and some flowering shrubs.

  Storm wished she wore sneakers instead of sandals, and she now questioned the wisdom of stopping at the store for omiyage. It was an island tradition to take a host or hostess small gifts when visiting, but Storm had a nagging feeling Pauline wasn’t going to greet her with open arms, especially since Stella said she was annoyed.

  As Storm grew parallel to the house, she saw steps incorporated into the wall. They led to a path across Pauline’s lawn. Storm set down the gift bag and climbed over. She picked the bag up again. It gave her a degree of legitimacy.

  The view was outstanding, and a wide lanai encircled the house, whose front window panes looked out onto the wide green lawn, flowering plants, and wisps of clouds. The house itself gave off a feeling of self-imposed isolation. It took a minute for Storm to realize that the reason for this was that all the windows were closed. If this were her house, she’d have them all open to the cool, eucalyptus-scented air.

  Maybe Pauline had taken her guests to another island or to Hana, a long drive from upcountry Makawao, for a day or two. The quiet, closed house could be entirely innocent.

  Storm walked around to the front, climbed the steps to the lanai, and called out. “Hello?”

  No answer. She thought she heard a noise from within, but it could have been something in the yard, a branch or a nearby bird. “Hello? Pauline?”

  Not a sound this time, so Storm walked toward the carport, which was to her immediate right, on the far side of the house from where she’d climbed the wall. The driveway widened around the structure to include a parking area. Like many of the homes in the area, the carport had walls, but no door. Inside was a late model BMW sedan.

  Storm’s feet crunched on the gravel of the drive. “Hello?”

  She could see a car parked on the other side of the house, pulled off the gravel of the drive onto the lawn, where it sat in the shelter of a Plumeria tree.

  It was a blue Toyota sedan with a dull finish, a few rust spots, and a Save the Whales bumper sticker. It was Stella’s.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Storm’s heart raced. Pauline had lied to Stella. Unless Keiko had hidden Carmen without telling Stella—a possibility—Storm had to assume the worst. The girls were being held against their will in Pauline’s house.

  Storm fought the urge to drop her gift right there on the grass and tear across the yard to safety on the other side of the rock wall. Her arms trembled, and she tightened them around the bag. But no footsteps sounded, no voice called out, no window shade trembled. The house stood mute.

  Storm tiptoed down the steps and forced herself to saunter back to the wall as if she were a disappointed caller. She climbed over and set the bag down.

  Either no one had seen her or there wasn’t anyone home. So get a grip. No dogs, no running guards, no warning shouts. The only sound was the wind soughing through the soft needles of the ironwood trees.

  Except for the thumping noise she’d heard, and the memory troubled her. It was the kind of thud a falling branch would make, or the sound of an elbow or head striking a wall.

  Storm slipped into a copse of ironwood trees where she could lean against a broad trunk and observe Pauline’s house. Graceful grey-green needles on drooping boughs acted as a screen, a reassuring partition that allowed her to catch her breath, slow her heart rate, and gather her wits.

  Five minutes went by, and nothing moved in the house or garden next door. Storm tried to make a call on her cell, but couldn’t get a signal. While she stood there, she thought about Carmen, helpless, and Keiko, who looked terrified sitting at comfortable restaurants in Kihei.

  What had she promised Carmen? “I’ll be back. I’ll bring you your kitty.”

  And when the little girl asked, “Will you help me go home?” Storm said yes.

  She stared at the curtained windows of the house. It was broad daylight and once she stepped out of the trees and crossed the wall, anyone who looked out would see her. There was no point in running across the lawn, as it would only make her look more furtive.

  Storm picked two mangoes out of her bag and marched back across the lush grass. If someone stopped her, she would say her tree was dropping mangoes and she was offering them to neighbors, a common activity for islanders whose trees had bounty crops. She hoped Pauline didn’t recognize her neighbors.

  Storm got to the side of the house without hearing or seeing anything suspicious and paused between two closed and curtained windows to decide what to do next. Now she had to choose among the plans she’d rejected on approach.

  It didn’t take her long to decide to head in the direction the sound had come from, and she rounded the corner toward the back of the house. Shrubbery and flower beds bordered the outside walls, but most of them hadn’t filled out to the point where could use them as cover.

  If she crept behind them, she’d make more noise than if she walked on the lush grass, so she strolled as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Or so she hoped.

  Not far from the back door, she stopped again, nervous. They’re not here, she thought. Keiko is protecting Carmen and Pauline took them for a drive. Sure, the BMW was there, but Pauline could have another car. The problem was, she couldn’t deny Stella’s car and how Keiko had disappeared without a word to Stella.

  No, chicken shit, you’ve got to do something. Bang on the door, check to see if it’s open.

  Storm had her hand on the doorknob, and a child’s voice rang out. “It hurts,” the thin voice cried.

  A second voice said something, but Storm couldn’t hear the words. Then a third voice carried through the house. “I’m sick of your crying. Dammit, I didn’t ask for this job.” And a door slammed.

  A whimper floated to Storm’s straining ears, then no other noise.

  Storm shrank against the side of the house and crouched between two mock orange shrubs.

  The grumpy woman’s voice moved closer, and spoke to someone else. “The kid looks sick. I don’t want them here anymore, you hear me?”

  Storm couldn’t hear an answer, which strengthened her hunch that Grumpy was on the phone. She put her
ear up to the wall. When the back door slammed, it practically deafened her. It also scared her so much she froze, which was a good thing, because a heavy woman in a loose dress and dyed red hair stormed out of the house, twenty feet from where Storm crouched between the two inadequate shrubs.

  The woman stomped in the opposite direction of Storm’s hiding place, along a cement walk toward the carport, her rubber slippers slapping at cracked heels. She muttered to herself as she disappeared around the corner. A moment later, a throaty engine growled from the carport, followed by the crunch of tires on gravel.

  Storm waited until the crunching stopped, the car changed gears, and the powerful engine hummed away. The back door was locked, of course. She went to the car port. There, arranged along on the wall, were the yard tools she’d hoped to find. She grabbed a hedge clipper, a shovel, and a pair of work gloves.

  Wearing the gloves, she returned to the back door and used the handle of the shovel to break out one of the panes of glass. She knocked away all the jagged edges. Then, she stood to the side of the door with the face of the shovel raised like a bat in case anyone came running to check out the noise.

  No one came. No one made a noise, either. Keiko and Carmen were probably too frightened.

  After a few long moments, she reached through the hole and fumbled with the door knob. The bulky gloves made the job difficult, but she got the door opened and stepped inside.

  Her sandals crunched over the glass on the floor. “Keiko?” she called in a soft voice.

  “Hello?” A young woman’s muffled voice came to Storm from above. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Storm.” She pounded up the staircase, which was off the living room area. “Keep talking. Where are you?”

  “Here,” Keiko called again.

  “Help,” a weaker voice echoed.

  “I’m in the hall,” Storm said.

  “We’re in a bedroom.” Keiko’s words were muffled. “In the closet.”

  The master bedroom had a great view, but the bed was unmade and the room smelled of unwashed clothes. “Talk to me.”