After what seemed like an eternity, but was in actuality only a couple of weeks, the ship anchored at Maui to stock up on provisions. Forbidden to disembark, he could only gaze with wonder from the ship nestled between one large and two small islands. He'd never seen anything like it and wished he could tell everyone back home about it. More than anything, he wished he knew exactly when he was going to be allowed off this gigantic ship. He hadn't signed on to be a sailor, and now he knew for certain he didn't like sailing. He sat on his bunk and wrote his folks a letter that night expressing those very sentiments as the ship quietly sailed toward the front lines. He hoped he would get to see those beautiful islands again.
The next day, Ben and the other Marines finally discovered their destination—the Marshall Islands. They landed at Roi-Namur and went straight into battle. They fought for nine endless days before taking the islands and handing them off to the U.S. Army. Ben came away unscathed, which couldn't be said for everyone. He had watched Marine after Marine fall all around him, but they had won the battle. He knew the Japanese had suffered the bigger loss.
He was glad the fighting was over for now. The bitter taste of death clung to the back of Ben's throat and stole his breath away. He didn't know how many men he had killed at Roi-Namur, but the trauma of trying to stay alive had changed him in a way he didn't like.
Ben and the rest of the Marine Division returned to Maui in February and began to set up camp. According to the sergeant major, they would live there in their pup tents until the war ended or they were killed in battle, whichever came first.
In an effort to shake off the effects of war, Ben volunteered for every work detail offered. Then he joined the baseball team. Every chance he got he hitched a ride to the Kahului USO show where the local girls danced hula on the weekends. Anything to take his mind off the war.
Four months later, he was digging foxholes and trying to survive again. This time on the island of Saipan. He lost track of time. He fought past the point of exhaustion, when adrenaline took over. Finally, waiting for the next round of fighting, he'd collapsed in a foxhole and nodded off.
A pebble bounced off Buck's arm, thrusting him back into the present. The humidity and the damp earth in the sinkhole seemed to intensify Buck's memories of war. At least no one is shooting at me here, he thought. Another pebble fell from above and Sonny's head appeared, partially blocking the sun.
“You again, huh?” Buck called out for help just in case someone had followed the dog. Sonny stood up and barked. “Go get Sadie, Sonny. Go get Sadie.” The dog barked again and disappeared. Buck decided relying on a wolf-dog to save him deemed his situation pretty grim.
He tried to remember again how he had ended up in this hole in the ground. He remembered getting out of bed and going to the creek, where he'd performed the traditional purification ceremony of prayer, and going to water just as he'd done every morning for as long as he could remember. When he'd returned to the house, he remembered stopping by the mailbox, something he did at least once a week. That's when he'd found the letter from the IRS. He couldn't remember what happened after that. He knew he didn't want to lose his land. Thinking about it now caused anger to well up inside him.
He loved his two-hundred-acre ranch, there was no denying that. The land had started out as Indian land, part of the original land allotted to his Cherokee ancestors when the U.S. government divided up Indian Territory and parceled it out to tribal citizens when Oklahoma became a state. In his opinion, the land allotments had been a sorry pittance for the thousands of acres stolen from the Indians by Andrew Jackson in the 1800s. The corrupt U.S. president had single-handedly forced the Cherokees and the other tribes from their homelands in the southeastern United States, mostly for the rich gold reserves they had found.
He knew the story well, as told to him by his father and his father's father. Their ancestors had made the long walk from Georgia to Indian Territory on what had become known as the Trail of Tears. His people had starved, frozen, and died along the way in unbearable conditions. But that was in the distant past, and he couldn't focus on that right now. It made him too angry.
After Buck's father died, his mother had sold the land to a white man and moved to California with Buck's older brother. When Buck discovered what his mother had done, he'd tried to stop the sale from going through, but he was too late. A decade later, when he drove by and saw a “For Sale” sign nailed to the front gate, he almost wrecked his truck before he screeched to a stop. He pulled the sign off the gate, walked up to the front door, and handed it to the owner.
It took every penny he had, including all the money he'd sent home from the war, but the land was finally back under the name of Skinner where it belonged—free and clear.
Once he'd secured the old home place, he added another forty acres on the southwest side of the property to make an even two hundred acres. To some, the land might have seemed useless, with rocky soil, high ridges, and deep valleys making it unsuitable for growing crops, but for Buck it meant everything. It was a magical place that held memories of his ancestors and his childhood deep in its earthy grasp.
Buck's thoughts moved to his horses. No man should be without a horse, he thought. He'd acquired six mustangs—two brown-and-white paints, a red roan, and three buckskins—and he'd turned them loose to run free on his land. The wild horses had never been ridden, not even by him. They're just horses being horses, he thought, and he loved to sit on his back porch every evening and watch them graze on native grass.
His thoughts returned to his predicament with the IRS. If his mother hadn't sold off the land to a white man to begin with, the federal government wouldn't be able to put a lien on it because it had been Indian land. But she had—it wasn't Indian land anymore, and that was that.
Buck squirmed in an effort to release pressure on his back. None of this would matter soon. He'd be dead and a part of the land forever. And how ironic was that? A warrior should die in battle, he thought, not holed away like a chipmunk in the ground.
Chapter 18
Sadie followed Pua as they disembarked and walked to a waiting van.
“Aloha, Makani.” Pua handed the driver a couple of bills. “All day for both of us,” she said and nodded toward Sadie.
“Howzit, Pua? Just here for the day?”
Pua smiled. “Yes, just for the day. Want a manapua?”
The driver, a big man in an even bigger blue-and-white Hawaiian shirt, shoved the bills into his pocket, made a check mark on his clipboard, and smiled. “Thought you'd never ask,” he said.
Pua dug into her paper bag and handed the driver a pastry and a napkin. He carefully laid his prize on the dashboard and kissed Pua on the cheek. “Mahalo,” he said.
Sadie smiled at the driver and took the empty seat in the van beside Pua. “How many of those things do you have in there, anyway?”
“Enough,” Pua laughed. “Say, Makani, was there any damage on the island? The phone service is out. I couldn't get in touch with Tutu.”
“Not much. My brother said the shaking knocked his Jeep out of gear and it rolled into the ocean, but I think that story is suspect. My brother drinks a lot.”
Pua smiled. “Did you lose power?”
“Of course not. We got one big extension cord here on Lāna‘i. It runs on the bottom of the ocean all the way to Honolulu. We always got power.” Makani grinned and flexed his upper arm.
“That's good to know, Makani.” Pua shook her head.
A man with a golf bag slung over his shoulder walked off the ferry, climbed into the van, and took a seat in the rear.
“One lonely tourist,” Pua whispered. “That's okay. By tomorrow they will have forgotten all about the earthquake and everything will be back to normal.”
“Is there a lot of tourism on Lāna‘i?” Sadie asked.
“Ever since Dole shut down the pineapple fields, the only thing keeping this island alive is tourism. We have three hotels and two championship golf courses. Everything else r
elates to those places in one way or another. Either that, or the folks are retired from Dole.”
Makani climbed back into the driver's seat, closed the van's door, and picked up his pastry. He took a bite and began to speak.
“Looks like you wahines get special treatment today.” He gestured with the manapua in his hand. “Got to make one stop at Manele for the gentleman, but if no one gets on then I can take you wherever you want to go.” He finished off the manapua, wiped his hands on the napkin Pua had given him, and began to guide the van up the hill and away from the harbor.
Sadie stared out the window at the lush palms and brilliant tropical flowers that lined the road. She felt like she had entered another world, a world a million miles away from her little place in Eucha, Oklahoma. Her thoughts turned to Lance. She wondered what he was doing and whether or not someone had found Buck. She frowned as she thought about the old man and wished she could help search for him. But she was so far away, so helpless. Thinking of Lance again, she wished he was with her to see this magnificent place.
Her thoughts about home were cut short when Makani turned the van off the road and down a long driveway toward a luxurious hotel. The sign at the entrance read “Manele Bay, a Four Seasons Resort.” The manicured grounds were exquisite, picture perfect.
Makani pulled the van up to the front door and parked under the canopy. The golfer stood and hurriedly exited the vehicle. He turned and offered Makani a dollar bill and walked away without saying a word.
Makani shoved the bill in his pocket and turned toward Pua. “We will be here for fifteen minutes if you want to get out and walk around. I'll stay with the van, so your things will be safe.” He smiled broadly. “That is, unless I locate the rest of those manapuas.”
“Can we?” asked Sadie. “This place is gorgeous.”
“You keep your hands off these pastries, or you'll have to answer to Tutu,” Pua warned.
Makani looked like a scolded youngster and then laughed. The two women joined in his laughter as they climbed out of the van and entered the resort.
Sadie found herself lagging behind Pua, staring at her surroundings, knowing she would never be able to absorb it all. She reached for her camera and snapped a few photos of the exotic Asian-themed decor before Pua took her arm and pulled her forward.
“Let's hurry,” said Pua. “I want you to see the view from the terrace.”
The view turned out to be one of the most beautiful sights Sadie had ever seen. The unique shape of the pool, the bright yellow umbrellas, the bright pink shrubbery that gave way to the white sand beach and azure ocean below all came together to create a stunning sight.
“That's Hulopo‘e Beach below,” Pua said, “and you can't see it from here, but the golf course is over there.” Pua pointed to their right, past flower gardens filled with exotic plants and waterfalls. “People come from all over the world just to play golf here. Jack Nicklaus designed it. It's called The Challenge at Manele.”
“Wow, how do they keep from hitting their balls into the water?” Sadie asked as she continued to view the area through her camera lens.
“Oh, I'm sure there are a lot of balls in the ocean,” Pua said, “but it's kind of hard to climb down a cliff to retrieve a golf ball.”
Sadie watched as a waiter delivered umbrella drinks to a group of women sitting near the pool.
“This is the hotel where Bill Gates got married in 1994,” Pua continued. “He rented the entire island, every room on Lāna‘i. Can you believe that?”
Sadie shook her head. “Wow, not really.”
“Hurry,” Pua said, “get your pictures. Time's up.”
Sadie clicked her camera as fast as she could before Pua pulled her away and guided her back through the hotel to the van, where a grinning Makani stood tapping his foot and pointing at his watch.
The two women quickly climbed into the empty van.
“Are my manapuas still safe, Makani?” Pua teased.
“Safe for now,” he said. “Let's go.”
With that statement, Makani nosed the van out of the hotel driveway and back onto the paved road leading away from Manele Bay. Sadie watched from her window as the vehicle moved around first one curve and then another, switchbacks that continued to climb higher and higher. She could see the ocean in the distance and the hotel they had just left grow smaller behind them.
After only a few minutes, they reached the top of a plateau. Makani turned right at a T intersection, onto a road lined on both sides with giant Norfolk pines. Beyond the pines, there was nothing but vacant land.
“All of this used to be pineapple fields,” said Pua. “Lāna‘i is known as ‘The Pineapple Island.’ Tutu worked for Dole until they shut down. Makani, we'll get off at the Blue Ginger.”
Makani nodded to her in the mirror.
Pua turned to Sadie. “We're almost there,” she said. “Lāna‘i City is only a couple more miles. Tutu lives in town. We'll check at her favorite café first, and if she's not there, we can walk on over to her house.”
Lāna‘i City turned out to be a small community filled with petite, colorful wooden homes and not a single stoplight. Dole Park, full of more giant Norfolks, sat in the middle of town, surrounded on three sides by local businesses—gift shops, cafés, a post office, and a bank. The Blue Ginger was a café, painted bright blue, of course.
The folks inside the Blue Ginger welcomed Pua like a long-lost family member, offering hugs and food. Tutu had not been there that morning, according to the teenager behind the counter, so after introducing Sadie to everyone and spending a few customary minutes to visit, the two women left for their next stop—Tutu's house.
Sadie and Pua took Ilima Street, the side street next to the Blue Ginger that looked more like an alley than a city street, and walked two and a half short blocks. Suddenly Pua gasped, dropped her bag of pastries, and ran toward a pink frame home. A tall ironwood tree had fallen onto the house, leaving the front window shattered and the front door blocked. Sadie ran with Pua to the back of the house, where they found the back door standing wide open.
“Tutu! Are you okay?” Pua called out to her mother as they entered the empty house. After searching every room with no success, they returned to the back porch.
“I can't believe no one at the Blue Ginger said anything about this,” Pua said. “Surely someone would have known.”
“Do you have any idea where your mother would have gone?” Sadie asked.
Pua thought for a moment. “I'm not sure. Maybe the senior center. Let's go.”
After retrieving the pastries and stowing them inside Tutu's kitchen, the two women walked with urgency back toward the town square.
They returned to the Blue Ginger, then turned right on the sidewalk and walked to the end of the block. The senior center turned out to be no larger than anything else in town. The door to the center was locked and the building appeared to be deserted. Pua turned and looked across the street. “Let's try the church,” she said.
When they got closer to the Lāna‘i Union Church, they could hear the unmistakable sound of a ukulele and someone singing.
Pua laughed. “I'd know that voice anywhere. We've found her.”
They entered a side door into what appeared to be a fellowship hall and found Tutu sitting on a folding chair, strumming her ukulele, singing and shouting commands to five gray-haired ladies as they danced hula together. Tutu stood and placed her instrument on her chair.
“Please ladies,” she said, “watch me.” Tutu's slender hips swayed and her arms moved gracefully above her head as she showed the women the correct moves.
Pua clapped for her performance and the old woman let out a shout. “Ah, come, come. Show them how it's done, Pua.”
Pua stood in place and copied her mother's moves to the delight of everyone. Sadie stood in awe at Pua's graceful movement.
“That's it for today, ladies.” Tutu's voice was strong. “Same time, same place, next week.”
The women gathere
d their things and left as Pua and Sadie made their way over to Tutu. Tutu embraced Pua and kissed her cheek.
“Are you okay?” Pua couldn't hide the concern in her voice. “The ironwood tree made a hole in your house.”
“I'm fine. You should have called,” Tutu said. “What on earth are you doing here? Aren't you working?”
“The phones are out of service because of the earthquake. How else would I know if you were okay?”
“That's silly. I've lived through more earthquakes than you'll ever know. I've been trying to get rid of that tree for years. Just hacked on it in the wrong place, I guess. Someone's coming tomorrow to fix everything up.”
“You tried to cut down an ironwood tree?” Pua sounded angry. “Why didn't you tell me? We could have made arrangements and had it removed.”
The elderly woman turned her attention to Sadie. “Aren't you going to introduce your friend?”
“This is Sadie Walela. She's one of our new travel agents from Oklahoma. I asked her if she wanted to come along today because she's doing some research on one of her relatives who was stationed in the islands during World War II. We thought you might be willing to share what it was like on Maui during the war.”
Sadie moved forward to shake her hand, but the woman ignored her gesture and instead gave her a hug and kissed her on the cheek.
“What was your relative's name, dear?” she asked.
“Andy Walela.”
“Was he Hawaiian?” Tutu asked.
“Oh, no. Cherokee. Walela is a Cherokee name.”
Tutu's eyes sparkled. “Cherokee? Really?”
To their surprise, Pua's cell phone rang. She dug in her purse, turned her back to the others, and answered. Her voice sounded like a mother calming a daughter. “I'll be home this evening, honey. We'll talk then. Yes, Tutu's fine. I will. Love you, too.”
“Is everything okay?” Tutu sounded concerned.
Sinking Suspicions (Sadie Walela Mystery) Page 11