Molokai Reef

by Dennis K. Biby

  “You think the ’vair is safe here?” Kara asked as she stopped the car in the same parking spot where someone had used the ’vair as a bait bucket.

  “The car still stinks so how can they make it worse? Fill it with squid instead of fish?” Gybe joked.

  “Besides, I think you should go back to Susan’s house. I need some time alone. I want to think about what we know and where we should look next.”

  A few volleys later, Kara conceded and started the ’vair. From her posture in the car and the chirp of the tires, Gybe guessed that she was pissed. And he didn’t care.

  26

  Gybe stood at the bow of the inflatable and looped the painter around an aft cleat on Makani. Mongoose with sky blue teeth of the day greeted him from the aft deck.

  Settling into the cockpit, Mongoose passed a cold Lavaman red ale to Gybe and placed a basket of chips on the small cockpit table. “Aloha, my friend, where’s the manic maven of Mendocino? Has she been thrown off the island?”

  “Ah, ’goose, you’re in love aren’t you?”

  Gybe selected a big triangular chip from the basket. “These chips are good. From the Hotel Moloka‘i?”

  “Where else? For sure, none of the grocery stores carry them.”

  “What’s that sweet smell in the air? You been smoking pakalolo again?”

  “Now Gybe, you know that crazy weed – marijuana - is illegal. They could take my boat if they find even one seed. Besides, batu – ice – crystal meth is the local drug du jour.”

  “Tell me you’re not a tweaker.”

  “No way. Use ice and your brain looks like moldy Swiss cheese. I’ve seen pictures of their brain scans. I’m into the simple pleasures of beer and chips. And if I can get rid of you before the canoe races, I plan to pick me one of them sweet young wahine paddlers after she finishes her practice.”

  Gybe was familiar with the outrigger canoes. It seemed that every port in Hawai‘i had at least one club. He had heard there were more than one hundred clubs around the islands. The canoes, similar to those of the ancient Polynesians who discovered and settled Hawai‘i, were nearly forty-five feet long. The long narrow, only eighteen inches wide, hulls, once carved from koa wood, were made of fiberglass. A small outrigger, or ama, helped steady the canoe in rough seas. Six paddlers, one behind the other, powered the canoe through the ocean. Although dubbed six-man, the canoes were as likely to carry six women as men.

  “Got the hint. Tell me what you’ve heard since we talked yesterday.”

  Mongoose repeated most of what he had told Kara and Gybe on their first visit. Of course, Mongoose had heard about the concrete helmets, Gybe’s visit to Maui, and their visits with the seed companies. He told Gybe that when the marine patrol came by looking for a stolen jetski, he asked about the murders.

  “What’s the word about town? Do the people think Susan is the murderer?”

  “Mostly. Susan isn’t very popular. Jobs are scarce, so when Susan protested against every new form of development, the people resented her. They don’t want to ruin their island, but they want to eat. Eat first, protect later.”

  “Catchy, Mongoose. Why don’t you make up some bumper stickers, ’Eat first, protect later’ or maybe ’Eat now, save later’.”

  “Good idea. Gotta keep it short, like their attention span.”

  “Hand me another beer and bring some more chips.” Gybe was feeling the effects from the first beer more than he should have. He hadn’t eaten recently; maybe that was it.

  As the two pals washed down the new basket of chips with the fresh beers, Gybe explained how he wasn’t able to get much information from the seed companies. He knew that Mongoose had extensive computer skills and where he lacked skills, he was capable of cultivating contacts within the IT community. Could the ’goose see what he could find out about the victims’ work?

  Mongoose owed him from the incident with the police, but Gybe also played to the ’goose’s curiosity. He had known Mongoose less than a month, but his respect for the apparent bohemian continued to grow.

  Finished with his second beer, strangely feeling no pain, Gybe motored the dinghy back towards Ferrity just as the first of the afternoon six-man canoes paddled away from the beach. Six young Hawaiian wahines stroked the paddles in a choreographed motion. Three paddled on one side, two on the other, and the steersman alternately stroked or used her paddle as a rudder to guide the canoe.

  After perhaps a dozen strokes, she would signal the paddlers to switch sides. In sync, each girl lifted her paddle to her other side and stroked on the new side. Their backs, above and below the bikini tops, glistened with sweat as they paddled first one side, then on command, shifted in unison, and paddled on the opposite side. No doubt Mongoose, true to his namesake, was on the hunt. A snake in mongoose clothing.

  Kara sat reading a paperback, a Stephanie Plum novel, in the cockpit of Ferrity when Gybe maneuvered Aweigh alongside. He wrapped the painter around the starboard midship cleat and climbed aboard. “How did you get aboard? Do you always go into someone’s house without an invitation?” Gybe plopped down across from Kara.

  “Kiss, kiss.” Kara puckered up and handed Gybe a new beer.

  “How did you get here?” Gybe took the beer, but wondered if maybe he should slack off a bit on the alcohol. Unable to focus, he shut down the senseless waste of neural capacity.

  “Swam. It isn’t that far from the pier. I put some dry clothes in a bag and swam out. Unlike some men of late.” She glared at Gybe. “Others appreciated my form when I dove off the pier. By the way, what does ’hana my’ mean?”

  Recognizing that hana ma‘i meant sexual intercourse, Gybe smiled and ignored her question. “Did you bring dinner?”

  Gybe lit the barbecue grill that hung from the stern rail and showed Kara how to adjust the temperature. He went below and began preparing a salad from the veggies that they had purchased at the Maui Safeway. He looked forward to the next farmer’s market. When the salad was ready, Kara removed the two mahimahi steaks that had been marinating on the counter and placed them on the grill.

  When Kara had arrived on the pier, a fisherman had been dressing his fresh-caught fish. Like practitioners of the oldest profession, Kara flirted with the angler until he sliced off two nice steaks from the still bleeding fish, placed them in a resealable plastic bag, and presented them to Kara.

  Gybe retrieved a fresh bottle of an Australian Sauvignon Blanc from the reefer and pulled the cork before joining Kara in the cockpit with the bottle, two glasses, and the salads.

  The sun hovered two outstretched fists above the western horizon. Mongoose and Makani were anchored a third of the way between Ferrity and the shore. Already, one of the six-man outrigger canoes was sitting alongside Makani – the women laughing and enjoying the ’goose. Most of the noise came from a non-ending procession of cars and pickups, full of young people, driving out the causeway, around the pier parking area, and then back up the causeway to town. Island fever.

  Gybe and Kara ate and watched the falling sun.

  After dinner, Gybe should have taken Kara ashore. He should assert his authority. He should maintain his independence.

  27

  Gybe had succumbed to the call of nature last night. Oats had been sown in an uncivilized fashion yet he prayed that none would sprout. He hadn’t taken Kara back to the pier after dinner.

  Kara made coffee and prepared the cereal breakfast while Gybe swam to the harbor buoy and back.

  Over breakfast, they discussed plans for the day and decided to visit the widow of Ray Wilson, the other murder victim. She lived in the middle of the island, not far from the high school.

  Before getting into the car, Kara slid over to a pay telephone mounted outside the ferry terminal and called the widow. Mrs. Wilson agreed to meet with them as soon as they could drive out to her place.

  In the driver’s seat, Kara twisted the screwdriver clockwise. The starter motor stirred the pistons, the carburetor atomized the gasoline, the sp
ark plugs lit fires, and the rear-mounted engine stumbled to life.

  Fifteen minutes after they left the harbor, Kara drove along a street in Kualapu‘u. A boy, maybe eight or so, rode his bike along the sidewalk as Kara cornered the ’vair into the driveway. Three small girls were playing in the carport attached to the modest home. At the front door, Mrs. Wilson invited Gybe and Kara into the home.

  “Thank you for meeting with us, Mrs. Wilson. We are sorry for the loss of your husband.” Kara sympathized.

  “Sharon, please call me Sharon. I get enough of the Mrs. Wilson at school. I teach ninth grade literature, you know.”

  Gybe looked around the room. They sat at a small table in a breakfast nook. Sharon offered coffee and they accepted. The house was furnished with new, but functional, furniture, a necessity with two youngsters in the house. On the way in, Gybe had noticed a den or study to one side of the entrance hall. Floor to ceiling bookcases spanned the walls. Even here in the nook, bookshelves filled the spaces beneath the bay windows. Most of the titles were of popular literature. Not, Gybe noticed, professional books of a genetic engineer.

  “Sharon,” Kara began, “we are trying to find out who murdered your husband. The prosecutor believes that my friend Susan is guilty. I don’t agree.”

  Fighting tears, “I was surprised at Susan’s arrest as well. I knew her from some of the protests at Ray’s company, SynCorn, but I also knew her from her work at the school.” Sharon said.

  Sharon explained that Susan volunteered one afternoon per week during which she taught a non-credit environmental awareness workshop to students in ninth through twelfth grades. Although the workshop was an elective, many of the students participated, perhaps due to Susan’s obvious passion for the subject. Sharon liked Susan.

  “That’s very kind, I wasn’t aware of all of Susan’s activities. Who do you think could have murdered your husband?”

  “I don’t know. Ray’s life was his work and his family – our two children and I. When he wasn’t at work, he was doing something with us. The kids are…” she stumbled “ were very important to Ray.”

  “Like most scientists, I think, he worked a lot. Most Saturdays.”

  “Do you know anything about his research?”

  “Ray and I were opposites when it came to work. I love literature, poetry, the arts. Ray was a scientist. I didn’t understand his work and he didn’t understand mine. We seldom talked about work.”

  “Who were his friends?”

  “Mostly coworkers. Ray got along with most people but he never cultivated lasting friendships.”

  “Ray’s boss, Les Spooner, told us that he worked with Ray on the mainland. Then when Spooner founded SynCorn, he hired Ray and moved your family over here.”

  “No, you must have misunderstood. When we moved to Moloka‘i, Ray worked for another company. That company went out of business six or seven months after we moved here. Les hired Ray the day after the company foundered.”

  “How well did you know Les? Did you know him before Ray began working at SynCorn?”

  Like mold on a strawberry, disgust crept across Sharon’s face. “Well enough.”

  Gybe tried to ask the question again. “How well did Ray get along with his boss?”

  “All right, I guess. Les was short on funding, and even though once, he was a scientist, he pushed the researchers to hurry the development. Ray used to comment that you can’t make a corn plant grow faster. I think Ray sometimes told this to Les.”

  “Was Ray satisfied with his work? Was he looking for a new job?”

  “No, he wasn’t looking. But,” Sharon hesitated, “I guess it is all right to tell you now that he is gone. He told me that he was working on something that was going to make us very wealthy. Something that would allow us to live our future without monetary worries.”

  “Did he say what it was that he was developing?”

  “No, he said it was a secret. Something that he had to keep quiet.”

  “I’m sorry I have to ask, but was Ray using drugs?”

  “No, of course not.” Sharon paused. “Well, not anything serious anyway. We smoke a little pot now and then, who doesn’t?”

  “How about finances, any problems there?”

  “Not really. The first company, the one that failed, covered all of our expenses for the move here including the loss that we took on the sale of our former house. My salary as a teacher in Hawai‘i is nothing, but Ray made good money at SynCorn. Plus, he was optioned with a lot of stock. When the company goes public we will be very well off.”

  “Who gets the stock options now?” Gybe kicked in.

  “Uh, I’m not sure. I haven’t thought about it since …”

  Sharon hadn’t thought about the stock options. She knew about them, knew they might be valuable, yet she hadn’t thought about them. Odd, Gybe thought. He decided to shift the conversation to another topic.

  “How were you and Ray doing? Any marital problems?”

  “We were fine.” Sharon stood and looked at her watch. “If you’ll excuse me, I must get the children ready for their swim lesson.”

  28

  Back in the ’vair, Gybe suggested sightseeing might clear their thoughts. He was a believer in lateral thinking and found that sometimes if he let a problem percolate in the background, a solution would bubble to the surface.

  “Let’s start with a drive to the north shore.” Using a map of the island, he guided Kara to a lookout overlooking the Kalaupapa Peninsula. On the west side of the peninsula, lay the old city of Kalaupapa, home to Father Damien, the Jesuit priest who tended the leper colony through some terrible times. Gybe and Kara decided not to hike the three-mile switchback trail down the 1700 foot sea cliff to the Kalaupapa National Historic Park. Kara snapped several pictures with a small digital camera.

  Next, Kara drove back to the center of the island where Gybe suggested she turn right onto Maunaloa Highway and drive towards the west end of Moloka‘i. A mile marker indicated a distance of twelve miles to the beach resort ashore of the Papohaku Roadstead. The ’vair climbed from the central lowland saddle of the island up to a moderate ridge and then gradually down to a turnoff onto Kaluako‘i Road which descended to the beach.

  At the end of the road, they got out and walked across the white sand beach to the water. A northwest swell dumped heavy surf at the tide line. The Papohaku Resort had reopened after an extensive remodeling effort. Dozens of tourists frolicked in the pool. Others lounged under beach umbrellas while young men in aloha shirts and young women in sarongs shuttled drink trays to the beach lizards.

  After exploring the beach, they returned to the parking lot where they waded through several surfers admiring the ’vair. Leaving behind a cacophony of catcalls and car comments, Kara drove back up Kaluako‘i Road and at the intersection with Maunaloa Road turned right towards the town of Maunaloa.

  “Isn’t Maunaloa on the Big Island?” Kara asked.

  “That it is.” Gybe switched his voice to narrator mode. “Mauna Loa, the volcano, rises more than 13,000 feet above the south central part of Hawai‘i, the Big Island. On its southeastern flank, Kilauea has been erupting since 1982.”

  Sensing her confusion, Gybe proffered. “As I understand the Hawaiian language, meaning very little, mauna means mountain and loa means long or high. When I first sailed into the islands, I was more confused than normal.”

  Gybe’s rare admission of non-perfection elicited a smirk from Kara.

  “The same place names exist on different islands. There is a town named Kailua on O‘ahu and one on the Kona coast of the Big Island. Sometimes, a town will share the same name as a region, area, bay, or coast. To identify the town, people will refer to the town followed by the word town. The town of Puna may be called Puna town to distinguish it from the Puna coast.”

  In Gybe’s opinion, Kara appeared eager to learn but perhaps too proud to learn from him. She seemed glad to see that the road was about to end along with Gybe’s narration, at the
town of Maunaloa. Kara turned into a parking lot of The Lodge, a luxury resort overlooking the western downslope of Moloka‘i.

  “Let’s get some lunch, follow me.” Gybe struck out for the front door.

  They had missed the main lunch crowd, so the hostess led them to a window table overlooking the west end of the island. At an elevation of 1200 feet, The Lodge offered an unobstructed downslope view to the ocean, less than five miles away. Gybe pointed to the outline of O‘ahu, twenty-five miles across Ka‘iwi Channel. “The tall peak is Makapu‘u Point. Just to the left, the smaller peak is Diamond Head.” With the clear skies and lack of fog or smog, the view was consuming.

  After lunch, they explored the small town – laid out grid fashion and no more than five blocks from edge to edge – noting only one fast food place, a small movie theater that claimed to be the only one on the island, and a general store. For Gybe, the most interesting shop was the Big Wind Kite Factory. A kite in the shape of an old two masted square-rigger, a brigantine, drew Gybe’s immediate attention.

  “Wow. That doesn’t fly does it?” Gybe turned to the clerk.

  “Absolutely,” replied the sales clerk. “All of our kites fly.” She explained that she constructed each kite from bamboo and nylon. “They fly best in winds of five to fifteen miles per hour. This one is our flagship model, but we have several others.”

  Gybe wanted the kite. “I’ll take it.”

  Kara’s eyes, if eyes could speak, said “boys and their toys.”

  As Gybe handed over his credit card, he asked. “Must be a lot of kite fliers in this town – can’t be more than a couple hundred people.”

  “We sell to locals and tourists, but the Internet has been a great business tool.” She processed his card and handed Gybe the chit to sign.

  Gybe wanted to try out the new kite but Kara convinced him that they should head back to the harbor.