I'm Kona Love You Forever (Islands of Aloha Mystery Series Book 6)

by JoAnn Bassett

  I raced down to the Palace of Pain to get in a quick workout. I knew if I waited until the news of Farrah’s return sunk in, I’d find a thousand excuses to not go. My sifu, Doug, was teaching a tai chi class to five senior citizens. Two men and three women with salt-and-pepper hair, and faces scrunched in concentration, mimicked his deliberate stances and postures. To me, tai chi looks like a leisurely download on an ultra-sluggish Internet connection, but it’s a genuine form of martial arts. And, with its slower, more precise moves it’s a life-saver to folks with creaky knees and Medicare cards. The Ghost of Christmas Future, I said to myself as I caught my sifu’s eye. I gave him a quick bow of respect and headed for the locker room.

  I changed into my workout clothes and took a spot facing a far corner. After twenty minutes of warm-up and thirty minutes of hard-charging effort with the long staff I’d gotten my heart rate up and silenced my head chatter.

  “You got a minute?” Doug said as he came up behind me. He’d stealthily approached, but instead of being spooked I simply turned to face him. One of the upsides of attaining black belt status was a physical self-confidence that kept the bogey-man in his place. Too bad my emotional self-confidence hadn’t followed suit.

  “Sure. Can it wait until I grab a fast rinse-off?”

  “No problem.”

  I took a quick shower and dressed in my business “uniform”—white cropped pants and a cheery pink tee-shirt sporting a sparkly palm tree. I’m not really a “pink” kind of gal, let alone sparkly, but it’s kind of expected in my line of work.

  I went into Sifu Doug’s bare-bones office. The Palace of Pain was doing quite well financially, but you’d never know it from looking at the tiny office. Doug still worked off a chipped Costco folding table and sat on a wheeled chair he’d picked up off the street. It’s a custom in Maui neighborhoods to place discarded but still usable items like lamps, chairs and even pillows next to a Dumpster or garbage can to signal the stuff is up for grabs. I’m pretty sure they don’t follow this custom in Sprecklesville or Wailea—tony areas that no doubt have strict rules against “public dumping”—but in more downscale places it’s common.

  He pointed to a white plastic chair and asked me to sit. I had to move an assortment of headgear, multi-colored fabric belts and something that appeared to be a greying stretched-out jock strap off the seat before I could sit down.

  “Sorry about that,” Doug said. “That’s my lost and found. I’ve got to remember to send an email to the parents to get down here and pick up their kids’ stuff.”

  “What’d you want to see me about?” I said.

  “I’ve got a problem and I’m hoping you’ll be willing to help.”

  “Of course.” Martial arts teaches discipline. One of the first things you learn is to respect your sifu. There was no way I’d question whether I was the best person for the job, or offer excuses about why now wasn’t a good time. If Sifu Doug says, “Jump,” the only acceptable answer is “How high, Sifu?”

  “My niece is coming over from Honolulu for a visit and when I mentioned you and your wedding business she got very excited. I was wondering if you’d be willing to take on an unpaid assistant for the rest of the week.”

  “Unpaid? That seems kind of wrong. Don’t you think if this girl works for me she should get paid?”

  “Believe me, you’ll pay,” he said. “But not in the normal sense of the word.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Tell me a little about her,” I said. I tried to keep the panic out of my voice. I was used to working alone. While I had all the self-confidence in the world when it came to defending myself in an alley fight, I wasn’t so self-assured when it came to promoting teamwork or bossing around underlings.

  “Her name’s Kaili. She’s sixteen. Her mom is Lani’s sister but they couldn’t be more opposite. As you know, Lani’s pretty strict with our kids, but Kaili’s mom is—well, let me just say the word ‘n-o’ isn’t in her vocabulary. I think one of the reasons Lani’s pushing for this girl to work at your shop is to cut the time she’ll be at our house with our kids. My oldest is only twelve, you know. She thinks since Kaili’s from the big city everything she says or does is ‘cool.’ Last time Kaili was here it took Lani two weeks to get the kids back under control.”

  “Uh-huh. So, when will Kaili get here?”

  “She’s coming over tonight. We’re hoping she can start at your place tomorrow. What time do you open your shop?”

  I was silent for a moment. I believe in showing respect to my sifu, but I’m not stupid. This was my one chance to throw up a boundary.

  “I usually get in kind of late since I check on vendors and run errands after I leave here every morning. How about you bring her in around ten-thirty?”

  Doug glared at me with his Army Ranger eyes. One look from those eyes could strip the paint from a car parked in his reserved spot.

  “Let’s make it ten. My kids are up at seven. That gives Kaili almost three hours. It’ll take Lani the rest of the day to undo the damage.”

  “C’mon, Sifu, she can’t be that bad.”

  He tossed his head like a guy who’d just slugged down a straight shot of tequila. “Nah, you’re right. I’m sure the two of you will hit it off just fine.”

  CHAPTER 4

  By four-thirty, Steve had called or emailed at least two dozen friends to storm the ramparts to welcome Farrah and Ono back from their honeymoon. The plan was to carpool down to Lahaina and wait for Ono’s catamaran, the “Maui Happy Returns,” to sail into the harbor. Then we’d board the vessel like a marauding band of pirates and relieve the happy couple of any remaining food or drink aboard.

  Unfortunately, Steve had failed to alert everyone that Ono is a chip-carrying member of Alcoholics Anonymous. Therefore, the boat wouldn’t be carrying any drink more ribald than Gatorade. And Farrah, my dear sweet friend born about forty years too late for her counter-culture lifestyle, had no doubt stocked the galley with fun foods like quinoa, dried kelp flakes, and carob-covered pomegranate seeds. There’d be nary a sign of the kettle chips, ranch dip, and beef jerky the ersatz pirates would be looking for.

  We arrived at ten to seven. The sun hovered at the horizon as we unloaded everyone and made our way down to the dock. I squinted at the far side of the harbor and saw a boat bobbing in the slip normally assigned to the “Maui Happy Returns.” Ono wouldn’t be pleased someone had poached his slip while he’d been away. Those tie-ups cost something close to a mortgage payment, and even though Ono didn’t actually pay it himself—the catamaran was owned by his boss, a very sweet, very rich, widow in Honolulu—he was fiercely protective of all things related to the boat.

  Steve and I led the small army of well-wishers down the splintery wooden dock. When we got within twenty yards of the slip, the truth came out. They’d already arrived. The gleaming white hull was not only familiar, there was a life ring emblazoned with “Maui Happy Returns” at the bow.

  The cat’s sails were buttoned down and no lights were showing. More importantly, I saw no one on deck.

  “They must’ve come in early,” Steve said.

  I shot him my “ya think?” look and he scowled.

  “You said nightfall,” he said. “Look, the sun’s still up.”

  We both looked to the east. And, blink, the sun slipped below the rolling hills of the island of Lana’i.

  “It was there a second ago,” he said.

  I called Farrah’s cell. She answered on the second ring. “Did you forget we were coming home today?” she said.

  “We’re here. Where are you?”

  “No, you’re not here,” she said. “We’re at your house. We got in early so we thought we’d surprise you, but nobody’s home.”

  It was turning into one of those “Who’s on first?” moments.

  “Okay,” I said. “We’re down at the harbor. We brought a bunch of people to welcome you home.”

  “Wow, groovy. Hang on, okay?” I heard her tell Ono what was going on. Then she
came back on. “Ono says it’s your call where we should meet up.”

  “Stay there. We’re coming back. You know where the key is, right?”

  “Under the hibiscus?” she said.

  “You bet. Make yourselves comfortable. We’ll get there as fast as we can.”

  ***

  “I guess we botched this,” Steve said as I rounded the curves past Oluwalu. “But it’s technically not my fault. You said ‘nightfall’ and they came early. Now they’re up there thinking we snubbed ‘em. It’s gonna take at least forty-five minutes—”

  “Look, I’m going as fast as I can,” I said. I had the Mini Cooper pushed to the limit.

  Steve looked at the enormous speedometer on the dash. “The speed limit’s only forty-five through here. You’re doing almost eighty.”

  “No worries, I’ve got friends in the police department.”

  “Did you read in the paper about Maui police and fire being way over budget?” he said.

  “I didn’t need to read it. Hatch has been whining about it for weeks.”

  “I’m just saying maybe you should slow down,” he said. “What if the cops try to make up the shortfall by writing more tickets?”

  “They’ll hit the tourists, not locals,” I said. “I’ve been stopped loads of times. I never get anything tougher than a warning.”

  “Well, you better hope your luck holds. Thirty-five over the limit’s no doubt a big chunk of change. And Maui’s Finest is in need of some pretty big chunks.”

  As if he’d summoned the public safety gods, blue lights began flashing in my rearview mirror.

  Steve turned to look out the rear window. “And I’ve got a real bad feeling you’re about to find out exactly how big your chunk’s gonna be.”

  ***

  After the cop wrote me the speeding ticket I carefully pulled back out on the roadway. I used the Bluetooth to call Farrah. I said I’d been caught in a speed trap but I’d be there soon.

  After I hung up Steve said, “Eighty-one in a forty-five doesn’t technically qualify as a ‘speed trap,’ you know.”

  “This hasn’t been my best day,” I said. “How about you pretend I’m a cute guy you’re trying to pick up at the Ball and Chain? Be nice to me. Maybe ask if you could buy me a drink or rub my neck or something. Do anything but rag on me all the way to Hali’imaile.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” he said. “You had me at ‘pretend.’ You nervous about seeing Farrah?”

  “Nervous? Why should I be nervous?”

  “Well, she did sort of up and marry your former boyfriend. That’s gotta be a little weird. And they’ve been gone for two months. Who knows what she’ll be like after sixty-some days of lolling around the South Pacific?”

  “I’d like to clarify a couple of things,” I said. “First of all, Ono Kingston was never my boyfriend. He was my friend, that’s all. And second, I doubt there was much in the way of ‘lolling’ going on while they were sailing. Ono’s a real Captain Bligh when it comes to that boat. I bet he had Farrah working like a scullery maid to keep things clean, stocked, and ship-shape tidy.”

  “Aren’t you just the little Miss Cranky Pants? They were on their honeymoon. I can hardly imagine him tying her to the mast and whipping her for insubordination.” He laughed. “Although, who knows with Farrah? That girl could be totally into the tying and whipping scene.”

  I shivered at the mental image of my friends locked in flagrante dilecto in Ono’s cozy cabin below-decks so I ignored Steve’s final remark. “I’m not being cranky. I’m being realistic. It’s hard work sailing a catamaran for months on end.”

  We pulled up to the house and there were already six cars parked out front. The door was open and thumping music poured out across the porch and down to the quiet street below.

  “We should’ve invited the neighbors,” I said.

  Steve pointed to the houses on either side and the one across the street, “Done, done, and done.”

  “You’re a genius,” I said.

  “Good to see you’re finally admitting it.”

  I gave him a soft punch in the arm and he feigned injury. He looked around and said, “I wonder if anybody saw that? I could sue, you know. You, with the black belt, assaulting a member of a protected class.”

  We went up to the porch and, as I paused at the door, I realized Steve was right; I was nervous. I hadn’t been apart from my childhood friend for this long since I’d met her in the second grade. Even when I was going to college on O’ahu I managed to sneak in a visit to Maui every month or so. Farrah and Ono had been gone for nearly seven weeks as they plied the waters of Tahiti, Bora Bora, and a bunch of tiny South Pacific islands I’d never heard of.

  Farrah was terrified of flying and had barely made it back in one piece when she flew to Honolulu for my college graduation, but she seemed utterly at ease on Ono’s boat. For the past ten years I’d figured she was somewhat agoraphobic because she seldom left the confines of her grocery store and the illegal apartment she occupied above it. But when she met Ono she’d taken to sailing as if she’d been born to ply the oceans blue.

  “Well, it only makes sense I’d like sailing,” she’d told me. “I’m a Pisces, a water sign. Maybe if I was an air sign like you, I’d be cool with climbing inside a tin missile and hurtling through the air with only an engine built by the lowest bidder keeping it from crashing to the ground in a fiery blaze. But I’m the sign of the fish. And everyone knows fish take to water.”

  I took a deep breath and walked through the front door. People were standing shoulder-to-shoulder so it took a few moments to spot Farrah. She looked better than I’d ever seen her, all tanned skin and smiling white teeth. Her navy cotton shorts and form-fitting tank top showed off a body you’d expect to see on a marathon runner. Except for the boobs. Her impressive display of pulchritude hadn’t suffered a wit from her recent weight loss.

  Okay, I felt a small pang of jealousy. But it passed in the time it takes to blow out a candle.

  “Pali,” she squealed when our eyes met. “Get over here, girl.”

  We hugged like a couple of teenage girls who’d been reunited after a scary night of being lost in the jungle. I started to pull back but she held on.

  “Not yet,” she said. “I want to take in your scent.”

  Alarm shot through me. Had I remembered deodorant that morning? The room was stifling with dozens of people crammed in there. And the paltry overhead fan was no substitute for A/C. None of these old houses had either furnaces or air conditioners, so we were used to sucking it up on the occasional days when the temp dropped below sixty or soared above eighty-five. But the heat radiating off thirty bodies at ninety-eight-point-six degrees made the room feel stuffy and close.

  She sucked in a deep breath. “I love how you always smell like toast,” she said.

  Toast?

  “I’ve missed you so much,” I said.

  “Me too.” Tears pooled in the corners of her brown eyes.

  “Are you okay?” I said. “Are you enjoying married life?”

  “I love it. I love Ono nearly as much as I love you,” she said.

  I glanced over at Ono, glad to see he was out of earshot. “What are you saying? Don’t you love Ono more?”

  “No way. I’ve only known him a few months. I’ve known you forever. We’re ‘ohana, remember?”

  “Of course. But Ono’s your ‘ohana now.” ‘Ohana is the Hawaiian word for family. Family is at the tippity-top of the social pyramid as far as island people are concerned. Your job, your school, your neighbors, your pets—they’re important. But they will always be relegated to a lesser status than family members. And in the case of Farrah and me, we’d become ‘ohana in fourth grade. We’d each picked a scab and pressed our bleeding knees together and became “blood sisters.” Nowadays such tribal rituals were no doubt frowned upon due to concern over blood-borne diseases, or even good hygiene, but back then it was a common schoolyard practice.

  “He’ll be ‘ohana
in time,” she said. “But for now we’re just groovin’ on each other. We’re not quite there, but we’re working on it.”

  I gave her a kiss on the cheek and went to greet Ono. He gripped me in a tight one-armed hug since he was holding a gigantic tiki-shaped plastic cup in the other hand.

  “Hey, you,” he said. “We both missed you.”

  The meeting was bittersweet for me. I’d known Ono long before he’d ever met Farrah. He and I had shared a fleeting glimpse of the boyfriend/girlfriend thing, but we hadn’t clicked. Ono is the poster boy for the laid-back boating lifestyle, but not in a Tommy Bahama way. He’s not “casual chic” as much as simply “casual.” He’s a transplanted mainlander with a checkered history of success, loss, despair, and redemption. Now and forever he’ll be an avid friend of Bill W and he takes his sobriety seriously. No doubt his tiki cup held pog—passion fruit, orange, and guava juice. It was his signature cocktail.

  “Did you have a great sail?” I said.

  “The best. I got to wake up every morning with the most beautiful girl on earth—uh, you being the second most beautiful, of course—and sail brilliant blue water to islands so green they make you squint.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Yeah. ‘Wow’ is the only way to describe it. I’ll never be able to thank you enough for bringing Farrah into my life. It’s wonderful to finally have my own ‘ohana.”

  “Farrah feels the same,” I said. I wasn’t a hundred-percent certain about that one, but I sure as heck wasn’t going to tell him Farrah was “working on it.” As the French say, “When two lovers meet there’s one who kisses and one who gets kissed.” Farrah was clearly the one getting kissed in their relationship.

  “Where’s Hatch?” Ono said.

  “He’s on shift today. I left him a message but I haven’t heard back. Some days are like that. A few weeks ago he told me their call-out rate had doubled over the past couple of years. I guess either people’s houses are burning down more than they used to or there are more car wrecks out there.”