Sinking Suspicions (Sadie Walela Mystery)

by Sara Sue Hoklotubbe

  She peered through the screen door at a handsome Indian man holding his cowboy hat in his hand. “May I help you?” she asked as she smoothed her hair behind her ears and smiled.

  “Name's Lance Smith,” he said. “Just driving by and thought maybe Buck had turned up. I've been helping search for him.”

  Dee Dee walked out onto the porch and shook his hand. “I'm Dee Dee Skinner. Nice to meet you. I'd invite you in, but that house is filthy,” she said. “Not to mention it's hotter than a pizza oven in there.” She smiled again to deliberately reveal her straightened teeth.

  “Oh, you must be his niece. I noticed the California plates on your car.”

  “Yes, that's me. It's a shame there's no one to take care of my uncle but me. Now he's gone and disappeared. Do you have any idea where he is?” She didn't wait for a response before she continued. “I've been trying to get him to put his affairs in order before something dreadful happened to him. I don't think he takes very good care of himself, and now he's up and disappeared. If he doesn't show up pretty soon, I'll probably have to go to court to gain control over his property. No telling how much that's going to cost. I'm his only heir, you know.”

  “No, ma'am, I don't know too much about that kind of stuff.”

  She watched him as he nervously bounced his hat in circles in his hands.

  “But you're saying you haven't heard from him in the last couple of days?” he asked.

  Dee Dee shook her head. “No, and I knew in my heart there was something wrong. That's why I called Sheriff O'Leary. He told me if they couldn't find him and if there was no sign of foul play, there was nothing he could do. You'd think the law around this hick county could do something.”

  “Yeah, you'd think.” Lance turned toward his vehicle.

  “Wait,” she said and reached for his arm. “Can you help me out? I don't come here very often. Do you have any idea where I can spend the night?” She wrinkled her nose. “I can't stay here.”

  “I'm sure you can get a room either in Jay or Sycamore Springs,” he said, pulling his arm away. “I doubt there's anything in Eucha that would meet your expectations.” He walked into the yard. “You be sure and let the sheriff know if you hear from your uncle, you hear?” He climbed into his truck and drove off.

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Smith,” she said aloud. “I think I'll remember you. You're kind of cute.” Dee Dee pushed her bangs off her sweaty forehead and returned to the sweltering house to continue her search for anything of value, anything she thought she might want, just in case her uncle never returned.

  Lance drove, silently evaluating what he'd just seen and heard. Dee Dee Skinner's appearance and attitude weren't exactly what he'd expected. From what little he knew about Buck and the simple life the old man lived, it was apparent that he and his niece were about as diametrically opposed as they could possibly be. Lance could visualize the places and people in Dee Dee's life, and they weren't even close to the area and folks in Delaware County.

  No wonder the old man hadn't returned the woman's calls. They couldn't possibly have enough in common to make a conversation last more than thirty seconds.

  There was no denying the attractiveness of Buck's niece. Based on his lawman's intuition, he guessed her to be close to his own age—about fifty. She must have inherited her red hair and fair complexion from one of her parents, he thought, and it wouldn't have been the one related by blood to Buck. The shape of her face and her high, chiseled cheekbones reminded Lance of some beautiful Indian women he'd met over the years, but her freckled skin and green eyes screamed Anglo descent. The intense hue of her hair appeared to have been helped along chemically, but it obviously wasn't that far off from her natural color—red.

  Red hair meant she was probably part Irish. Lance chuckled. An Irish-Cherokee woman could be a very stubborn, strong-willed woman, and he thought it would be best if he steered clear of this one.

  After all, he was already wrapped up emotionally with Sadie. With her coal-black hair and intense blue eyes, she'd captivated him from the first time he'd ever laid eyes on her. It wasn't her outward appearance alone that had stolen his heart, but her unparalleled inner grace and strength. She was all woman. He was crazy about her and already missed her terribly.

  As Lance traveled the gravel road a couple of miles past Buck's house, he noticed a man sitting on the porch of his house. He decided to stop and see if he could find out anything about Buck.

  Lance turned into the yard, parked, and let the dust settle before getting out of his truck. Two bluetick hounds rose from their shady spots at the base of a tall elm tree, stretched, and welcomed him with a duet of howls. One short word from the man on the porch and the dogs' suspicious barks immediately transformed into wagging tails and slobbery snorts.

  Lance introduced himself from a distance. The man silently nodded an invitation to join him on the porch before speaking. “Jeremiah Hart,” the man said. “You can call me Jelly.”

  “Hello, Jelly.” Lance removed his hat and shook the calloused hand of a man who appeared to be in his mid- to late sixties, with a friendly face and fair skin that had been weathered to a soft tan by the constant and unrelenting Oklahoma sun.

  “Have a seat,” Jelly said, as he ran his fingers through his thick, unkempt salt-and-pepper hair. “It's cooler out here than it is in the house.”

  Lance settled into a nearby folding lawn chair, the kind of lightweight portable chair Indians typically carried to powwows all over Indian country. Jelly handed him a metal ladle and nodded to an aluminum bucket sitting on the porch railing.

  “Want a drink of cool water?” he asked. “Just filled it up from the springhouse.”

  Lance got up and dipped the ladle into the water and took a long drink, then thanked the man, handed the dipper back to him, and resettled in his chair. After the customary small talk about the heat and the lack of rainfall ruining everyone's gardens, Lance began to talk.

  “We've been looking for your neighbor, Buck Skinner,” he said. “You haven't seen him in the last day or two, have you?”

  Jelly looked off into the distance. “No, can't rightly say that I have. But whatever he decides to do is all right with me.”

  “Decides to do?”

  “The last time I saw Buck, he was pretty riled up at the government. Can't say that I blame him.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I've got my own bone to pick with the likes,” he whispered.

  Lance waited in silence for Jelly to continue.

  “You know, you spend your whole life doing what you think is right by others, and most people give it right back. But those big shots, they don't care nothing about nobody. They take your money and that's it. They don't care nothing about you as a human being.” The man spit into the yard.

  Lance sat forward in his chair and frowned. “You think Buck might've been up to something?”

  Jelly laughed quietly. “Maybe old Buck decided to chuck it all in.” He paused for a moment and then continued. “Maybe he decided to walk off into the sunset and call it good.” He turned and looked at Lance. “That's what I'm going to do. When they come and try to throw me off my land, I'm going to set this place on fire, walk off into the woods, and call it good.”

  “Why would anyone want to throw you off your land?” Lance asked, realizing the conversation had taken a turn in the wrong direction.

  “Just ’cause they can,” he said, and then repeated, “Just ’cause they can.”

  “You live here by yourself?” Lance began to feel concern for the man.

  Jelly looked down at his feet. “I lost my wife about six months ago. Everything's been all messed up ever since she died.” The words seemed to catch in his throat. “And it's been real lonely around here without her.”

  “You got any family close by?”

  “Nope,” Jelly answered sharply.

  Lance decided to let the man's answer go, allowing it to evaporate into the stifling air between them. “So you think Buck is okay, maybe
just went off somewhere?”

  “Probably.”

  “You don't think Buck would want to go off and hurt anybody, do you?”

  A raspy chuckle rose slowly out of Jelly's chest. “I wouldn't want to make Buck Skinner mad at me.”

  “So, you're saying he could be violent if he wanted to?”

  Jelly grinned and swatted at a fly, caught it in his fist, then slowly opened his hand and let it go. “Nah, Buck Skinner wouldn't hurt a fly.”

  Lance stood, pulled a business card from his billfold, and handed it to Jelly. “If you see Buck, would you mind giving me a call?”

  Jelly took the card, slid it into his shirt pocket, and nodded one time. Lance got back into his truck and headed toward his original destination—Sycamore Springs.

  Chapter 15

  Back in her condo, Sadie quickly lost interest in the paperback the woman had insisted she take from the bookcase in the lobby. She dropped the book on the coffee table and walked to a CD player near the television. She hit the play button and waited to see if the batteries would work. They did. A pleasant ukulele melody filled the air, and then a pleasant male voice began to sing.

  Sadie picked up the CD case and sat on the nearby sofa. The haunting words of the first song struck at her heart. She rose, went back to the player, and started the CD over and turned up the volume.

  The lyrics told a story of ancient Hawaiian ancestors, wondering what they would think if they saw the changes to their sacred land. Tears came to Sadie's eyes as she listened to words written about the Hawaiian experience that echoed the struggle of all Native people, including her Cherokee ancestors.

  Goose bumps ran up Sadie's arms when the chorus began. The emotional song described the pain associated with the loss of land and how Hawai‘i would never be the same. She turned the CD case over in her hand and read the credits. The song, “Hawai‘i ’78,” had been recorded by Israel Kamakawiwo‘ole.

  She allowed the CD to continue playing through two more songs before starting it over and listening to the first song again. Finally, she returned to the CD player, punched the off button, and stared at the ocean. The sad music caused her to think about Lance and her situation. She felt conflicted. This place seemed to hold a magical spell over her, yet she had never felt so unsettled, having lost contact with the rest of the world, especially Lance. If she could just hear his voice, she would feel better.

  A loud knock caused her to jump. She approached the door and stood on her tiptoes to eye her visitor through the peephole. It was the flowered dress.

  “I brought a friend to see you,” the woman said through the door.

  Sadie unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door to discover Pua standing behind the receptionist.

  “Oh, how nice to see a familiar face,” Sadie said, genuinely pleased to see her. “Please, come in.”

  The flowered dress nodded and disappeared down the hall as Pua stepped out of her sandals and left them beside the door, then followed Sadie into her vacation rental. “I would have called first, but none of our phones are working.”

  Sadie pointed to the pieces of broken cell phone lying on the kitchen counter and laughed. “I know the feeling.”

  “I'm on my way to Lāna‘i to check on Tutu. I'm sure she's okay, but I'll feel better when I see for myself. I thought you might like to go with me.” She looked at her watch. “It's not yet ten o'clock. If we hurry we can catch the noon ferry, spend a few hours with her, and then come back on the last sailing of the day at six forty-five.”

  “Oh, I was going to see if I could catch an earlier flight home.”

  Pua sounded sympathetic. “I have a feeling they're going to have their hands full, with canceled flights and all, and you mentioned you had an interest in island life during the war. Tutu might be willing to talk to you about it. I just don't know.”

  Sadie thought for a moment. “You're right. No point in hanging around here when I could be out sightseeing.”

  “Let's hurry then.”

  Sadie pulled on a pair of sneakers, grabbed her purse, and followed Pua down the stairs to her car.

  “How far is it?” Sadie asked. “The woman on the radio said to stay off the roads.”

  “The ferry is in Lahaina Harbor. If the road is completely closed, we'll have to come back. But I think we can get through.”

  The two women climbed into Pua's small and well-used Toyota and took off. They traveled an almost deserted highway around the island in the opposite direction from the one that Sadie had driven the night before.

  “How do you know the ferry will be running?” Sadie said. “Isn't everything shut down? What if there's another earthquake?”

  “Mother Earth is pretty unpredictable, but after she lets out a good burp like she did this morning, she's usually okay for a while.” Pua looked at Sadie and smiled. “Besides, my cousin is the boat captain, and he says the safest place to be is on a boat in the water. We'll be okay.”

  Sadie nodded, accepting her new friend's rationalization.

  Pua drove carefully, dodging several small and medium-sized rocks that had fallen into the road. As they approached a road crew moving a large boulder to one side, Pua slowed the vehicle and came to a stop, then leaned out her window.

  A heavyset, dark-skinned worker wearing a fluorescent orange vest bent down to Pua's window. “Hey, Sis, what you doing out on the road?” He glanced through the driver's window toward Sadie with a look of concern.

  “Got to catch the next ferry to Lāna‘i and check on Tutu.”

  The road worker nodded. “Okay, you be careful. One big rock in the road down there.” He pointed with his head in the direction they were driving.

  “Will do, Lui,” Pua reached out to the large man and touched his arm with her hand and offered her thanks. “Mahalo,” she said.

  Before Sadie knew it, Pua had maneuvered around “one big rock in the road,” sailed past miles of vacant coastline, and parked at their destination—the Expeditions Ferry's loading pier in Lahaina Harbor, across from the Pioneer Inn. Pua got out of the car, gathered two large paper sacks from the backseat, and approached the ticket booth, where she pulled something from one of the sacks and gave it to the woman selling tickets. The woman smiled, looked at Pua's driver's license, and sold her two tickets.

  Pua hurriedly ushered Sadie onto the nearly empty vessel to a seat at the front of the enclosed cabin. Pua placed the two sacks on the seat next to her and began to rummage through one. She pulled out a box that read Home Maid Bakery on the top.

  “How about a little snack for the road,” Pua said, and handed Sadie a napkin and a pastry that looked like a fried doughnut without a hole.

  Sadie graciously accepted the treat and took a bite. “Oh, my gosh.” Sadie tried to speak with her mouth full. “What is this? It's delicious.”

  “Malasadas. They're best when they're hot, but Tutu will appreciate them no matter, hot or cold.” Pua poked around in the sack again. “Tutu loves anything from Home Maid Bakery. Besides malasadas, I've got some crispy manju, too. They're filled with imo, purple sweet potato,” she explained, “and some peanut butter mochi. Mochi is pounded rice cake.” Pua looked at Sadie. “Want one?”

  “Ooh, I'd better wait. We don't want to eat all of Tutu's goodies before we get there.”

  “So true,” Pua said, laughing. “It's customary to take gifts when traveling from one island to another. We call it omiyage in the Japanese culture—a gift to share, something to eat.”

  Sadie smiled, thinking about the similarity between island culture and her own Indian ways. The ferry began to move, and the two women settled into their seats.

  The captain skillfully nudged the ferry out of the slip and moved it into open waters, where they set sail for the island of Lāna‘i. The front of the ferry rose and fell as water sprayed both sides of the boat. As the women talked, sharing things about their lives with one another, Sadie began to feel a kindred spirit in Pua.

  “You mentioned Japanese culture
a while ago,” Sadie said. “Is your mother Japanese?”

  “Japanese Hawaiian. My grandfather was Japanese. His name was Kichiro Takahashi, but he changed it when he moved from Japan to the islands. He was about twenty years old and wanted to begin a new life working in the pineapple fields.” Pua bit her lower lip. “It was a new life all right, a very hard life.”

  She stopped for a moment and then continued. “He took the name Keola, which means ‘life,’ and then Kichiro morphed into Kimo. Kimo is a familiar Hawaiian name for Jim, or James,” Pua explained again and smiled. “I think he thought he fit in better as Kimo Keola, but let's face it,” Pua laughed, “once Japanese, always Japanese.”

  “Tutu's mother was Hawaiian,” she continued. “Her name was Leina‘ala. They were married in 1926 not long after my father arrived in Hawai‘i, and Tutu was born the next year. Tutu was only seventeen when her father, my grandfather, joined the army. Even though he was thirty-seven years old by then, he was so distraught about what was going on with the war and all, he joined the 442 in 1943. I was actually born the following year.”

  Sadie did the math silently. It was hard to believe that Pua was sixty years old.

  “We don't know if he ever got the letters telling him he was a grandfather,” Pua continued. “We never heard from him again. He died in 1944 fighting the Germans in Europe.” Pua's voice wavered for the first time. “He never even got to see me.”

  “What is the 442?” Sadie asked.

  “U.S. Army 442nd Regimental Combat Team, made up entirely of Japanese Americans, the most highly decorated unit in U.S. military history.” Pua stared straight ahead and spoke as if she were reciting a story she had memorized as a child. “They fought in Italy, France, and Germany. They lost eight hundred men in one battle trying to rescue two hundred Texans who were surrounded by Germans and cut off from their unit.” Pua looked down at the limp hands in her lap. “Eight hundred for two hundred. Doesn't seem right, does it?”