by Chip Hughes
Fernandez’s monologue is interrupted by the return of the waitress laden with three oval platters bearing our lunches. In front of Marie she puts a mound of greenery that would make a bunny’s eyes pop. Next comes Fernandez’s seared ahi and all the trimmings. And my mahi sandwich.
Before Marie takes a first bite of watercress, she says to the homicide detective: “My stepfather had reason to want my mother dead."
Fernandez puts down his ahi. “When a woman dies under questionable circumstances, the first person of interest we interview is her husband or boyfriend. And I can assure you that your stepfather was thoroughly investigated.”
“And what did you find?” I ask.
“Dr. Grimes was on Moloka'i at the time of your mother’s death.” Frank nods to Marie. “He was in the Moloka'i Beach Hotel register. Hotel personnel say they saw him there that night and the next morning.”
“Who are they?” she asks.
“It’s all in the report. A chambermaid, a bartender, and a dockhand who took care of the doctor’s boat.” Fernandez pulls out that folder he carried in with him. “This is a closed case. Otherwise, I couldn’t share the file with you. You may not want to look at the photos,” he says to Marie. “These copies are for Kai.”
He hands me the folder. I open it a crack and peek in. The photos are of Beatrice Ho. Bloated, bruised, and cut.
“She was in the water by midnight, maybe earlier,” Frank says. “That’s the closest our medical examiner could come. Her body was found early the next morning. We pulled her out about 7:30 am. She didn’t die from drowning. She struck the ridge a few times on the way down.”
Marie reaches for the folder. “I want to see.” She scans the photos. Instead of tearing up, her face becomes tight.
“So she could have died anytime midnight or before?” I ask Frank.
“Right.”
“That gives Dr. Grimes time to make his way from Moloka‘i, if he didn’t have an alibi.”
“Yeah, technically he could,” Frank says, “but not likely. Dr. Grimes is disabled. He has a limp and walks with a cane.”
“He’s not as disabled as he lets on,” Marie says. “He secretly delights in snagging those special parking spots from people who truly need them.”
Frank raises his brows. “Anyway, after a thorough investigation we dropped Dr. Grimes as a person of interest. Finally, all available evidence pointed to an accident or suicide. Since there were no witnesses and no note, her case was ruled an unattended death.”
“What about Grimes’ boat?” I ask.
“We know he took his boat out early that morning, per his usual weekend routine. He didn’t deny that.”
“And the night before—when she died?”
“Think about it, Kai. He can maybe get the boat over to O‘ahu in the dark of night—though the Moloka‘i Channel is no picnic—but where would he dock and what would he use for ground transportation? The bus?”
I shrug.
"We can trace those things. There was nothing to trace. Plus we found Mrs. Ho’s car parked near where she plunged from the cliff, as we expected. If he drove her there, how would Dr. Grimes get back to his boat?”
“An accomplice?” I suggest. “Or maybe she drove herself there first and he drove another car later and surprised her? After all, he knew his wife might be there.”
Then Marie says, “Or he put his mountain bike in the trunk of her car and then he pedaled back from the cliffs to his boat.”
“It’s plausible,” I reply. My phone chimes. I silence it.
Then Frank says, “It has to be painful to lose your mother at your young age, Marie. You may not know that she had reasons to be despondent besides the losses of your father and brother.”
“So you think she jumped?” I ask.
“I didn’t say that,” Fernandez replies. “I’m just saying that if she did she had reasons.”
“What reasons?” Marie asks.
“One was Davidson Loretta, a young lawyer she was very fond of.”
“Dave Loretta?” Marie asks. “Her former trust attorney?”
“Right. Loretta came to see her, at her request, on the day she died to discuss changes to her will. When Loretta arrived Mrs. Ho was very upset. She had just found out that he had been skimming funds to cover his gambling losses. Whether she threatened to turn him in, we don’t know. Loretta said not. He told us he promised to pay back every penny and she seemed satisfied. We had no way to verify that. Main thing, it was a major betrayal of your mother by a man she thought of as almost family.”
“Did you consider him a suspect?” I ask.
Fernandez scratches his head. “Loretta had an alibi—a late dinner that night at the Halekūlani with a friend. We interviewed the friend and he verified.”
“Why did Mrs. Ho want to change her will?”
“We don’t know. And if Loretta knew he didn’t tell.”
Marie nudges me and whispers, “I know.”
I ask Fernandez, “What other reasons?”
He turns to Marie, frowns apologetically, and says, “Mrs. Ho’s second husband had a lover. The family dog-walker. A fortyish blonde named Krystal.”
“My stepfather and Krystal?” Marie’s face reddens.
“Did you know her?” Fernandez asks.
“Krystal helped with our two poodles,” Marie explains. “She seemed nice. Was I ever wrong!”
“Apparently, your mother fired her after figuring out something was going on between the dog walker and your stepfather,” Fernandez continues. “What I didn’t know until I met Krystal in person was that she’s a former body builder. Still had muscles, despite not being in her prime. We dug a little deeper and found an assault conviction. She whacked another woman pretty badly and got herself a long probation. I guess your family didn’t do a background check on her?”
“Was Krystal a suspect in Mrs. Ho’s death?” I ask.
“The night she died, the dog walker had an alibi. She was at a rock concert at the Blaisdell Arena. Ticket stub to prove it. Her friends verified.”
“What concert?” I ask.
“Yes.” Fernandez says.
“Yes, what?” I ask.
“You know—Yes—the British band.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t believe Dave Loretta or Krystal killed my mother,” Marie says. “My stepfather did. I want Kai to prove it.”
“It’s your money,” Fernandez says. “You can spend it however you like.”
“If Kai traces my stepfather’s movements on that night and his alibis fall apart, then we’ll know. We’ll put him on O‘ahu and we’ll have our killer.”
“We already covered that territory,” Fernandez says. “If you want Kai to go over it again, like I said, it’s your money. But in the end I think you’re going to find that your mother’s death was unattended, just as our investigation found.”
“No way,” she says defiantly.
I step in. “Good of you, Frank, to take us into your confidence like this.”
The tab for lunch comes just as Fernandez is rising to leave.
“Thanks,” he says. “They grill a nice piece of fish here.”
five
After lunch when I 'm walking with Marie to my car I un-silence my cell phone. It chimes again.
A text from Dr. Grimes: "Must see you immediately when you return from Paris. Urgent. GJG."
I show the message to Marie.
“What are you going to tell him?”
“Nothing now. If I was still in Paris it would be after midnight. He can’t expect to hear from me right away. “He doesn’t know I’m here.”
“I definitely don’t want him to know I’m in Hawai‘i,” Marie says. “The thought is chilling.”
"No worries,” I say. “What did you want to tell me at The Wharf about your mother’s will?”
“I’m sure she intended to cut my stepfather out completely—after she confronted him about what he did to me.”
“An
even stronger motive for murder?”
“Exactly. But I guess she felt so disgusted by Dave Loretta’s betrayal that she decided to find another attorney to change her will. She never got the chance. She died that night.”
On the drive back over the Pali Highway to Kailua we talk more about what we learned from Fernandez.
“Could Loretta’s betrayal,” I ask Marie, “have caused your mother to jump?
“She was fond of him. But he didn’t mean that much to her.”
“And what about Krystal, the dog walker?”
“I’m blown away she had a criminal record.”
“Would she have been strong enough to push your mother off a cliff?”
“Maybe. But she didn’t. My stepfather did.”
“Ordinarily I would investigate Krystal and Loretta, just to remove them from our list.”
“You only need to investigate my stepfather.”
“If that’s what you want,” I say. “But if HPD turned up nothing to implicate him, I may turn up nothing too.”
“It was convenient for the police to rule my mother’s murder an unattended death.”
“Frank Fernandez is no slouch. He may not always get it right, but he does more often than not. He’s been at this for years and, I have to admit, he’s good at it.”
“He doesn’t know my stepfather like I do.” She smiles sarcastically.
“Okay, we’ll presume Dr. Grimes pushed your mother and we’ll try to find evidence that he did.”
“I’m as sure about her end as I am about Pierre’s.”
“We’ll see,” I say.
When I drop Marie in Kailua, Kula is wild to see us. I walk him to the beach and let him swim. He's soaked and sandy and calm when we return. I rinse him with a garden hose and dry him with some beach towels I find in a bin by Vivienne's pool. He seems content to stay with Marie when I drive to my office.
Chinatown is quiet this afternoon. The usual odors from sidewalks and gutters along Maunakea Street are tempered by the waning April sun. Inside the flower shop Mrs. Fujiyama stands at the cash register with a customer purchasing three orchid lei. At the work table Blossom and Joon are stringing pink plumeria. Their perfume takes me back to Paris. I think of Vivienne, but try not to dwell. The wait until May will be hard enough.
I head up the orange shag stairs and walk past the psychedelic bead curtain of our resident psychic, Madame Zenobia. Shirley—her real name—has a client. I’m home free. Less than a week ago she foretold my unplanned trip to Paris. Did she really see France in her crystal ball? Whatevahs. I brought her a postcard from the Eiffel Tower. It can wait.
In my office I’m about to drop off from colossal jet lag but manage to do something I’d like to avoid even more than figuring my taxes, postponed by my Paris trip. I reach over the pile of forms and receipts on my desk for my phone and punch in the pet detective’s number. I’m several hours late returning Kula already and she’s probably worrying.
The first thing she says is, “Where’s Kula?”
“In a safe place,” I respond. “Away from Blitz.”
“You have no right, Kai.” She wastes no words. “You’re breaking my heart.”
I remind her that I was entrusted with Kula’s care by his previous owner. I thank her for giving Kula a safe and comfortable home. Up to now.
“What do you mean, ‘up to now’?” she asks.
“There’s no safety or comfort in your cottage for Kula as long as Blitz is there.”
“Where’s Kula?” she asks again.
“With a trusted friend, a few blocks from the beach.” I don’t say which friend or which beach. I’ll be dropping in on him every day—and taking him surfing regularly.”
“If this is a ploy to win me back from Frank,” she says, “it’s so cynical and cruel. To hold Kula hostage like this, Kai—I can’t believe you’d do it.”
“It’s not a ploy.”
“I believed you when you said you were okay with my marrying Frank. But obviously you’re not okay.”
“I wish you both well. I’m already moving on.”
“That’s not how you’re behaving.”
The conversation goes on like this. Then things get worse. She starts crying and through her tears says, “I thought you were my friend!” She hangs up.
I feel like a heel.
I look at the clock. Four in the afternoon in Honolulu. Four in the morning in Paris. I drive to the Waikīkī Edgewater and crash on my bed. And I don’t get up again until early the next morning.
six
Wednesday, April 10. I’m one of about four dozen passengers aboard a 9:05 am flight to the Friendly Isle. My boarding pass lists my destination as (MKK) Moloka‘i – Ho‘olehua, the name of the tiny airport there. Back when I did my first investigation on Moloka‘i I flew on an eighteen-seat Twin-Otter, operated by Island Hopper airlines. Today's twin turbo-prop commuter planes are roomier, quieter, and smoother, making the journey to Moloka'i a little less, well, thrilling.
As the airplane taxis to the runway I start to see similarities between this new case and the one I worked back then. In both there was a death from a fall. Sara Ridgely-Parke, the victim in the murder on Moloka‘i, plunged from the cliffs at Kalaupapa and Mrs. Beatrice Ho from the cliffs at Makapu‘u. The first death was ruled an accident, the second unattended. In both cases my clients, Adrienne Ridgley then and Marie Ho now, hired me to prove that the victim’s end did not stem from an accident or suicide, but from murder.
As for the new case, if it weren’t for what I know about Dr. Grimes that Frank Fernandez doesn’t, I might be swayed by the homicide detective’s conclusion. But I’m not being paid to agree with Frank. I’m being paid to prove he was wrong. To find anything he and his crew missed, however, will be a challenge. I can’t kid myself about that.
When the airplane hums down the runway and climbs over the white sands of Waikīkī Beach, I'm wishing I was down there carving frothy trails in the turquoise surf. But at least up here I’m getting paid. I think so, anyway.
Should I have taken those euros? Then I reassure myself. She’s an heiress—she’s good for it.
Leaving O‘ahu behind, the airliner crosses the wind-whipped Ka‘iwi Channel—twenty-five miles of whitecaps between O‘ahu and Moloka‘i. If Marie is right and her stepfather pushed her mother, Dr. Grimes would have had to pilot his boat in darkness across this wild channel, do the deed, and then return again before first light.
Very difficult. But not impossible.
I’ve already checked conditions for the crossing from Moloka‘i to O‘ahu on the night Beatrice Ho died.
Calm. One night past a full moon.
If Dr. Grimes wanted to return secretly to O‘ahu to murder his wife, this would have been the perfect night. He’d really have to scoot both ways for the timing to work out. And he could in his speedboat.
I peer out the window at the dark sea below. It’s amazing how the milky turquoise reef waters near shore around our islands so suddenly turn blue-black as India ink in our deeper channels.
The dark blues lighten again as the airplane descends over Moloka'i's West End—an arid cocoa brown and rust-red plateau of stunted kiawe, grazing cattle, and a two-lane highway with a few rusty side roads. The wheels of the airliner fold down and before long brush the macadam strip at Ho‘olehua Airport.
I disembark, collect my rental car, and turn east onto a narrow blacktop—well, more red than black—that stretches though more of the same terrain to Kaunakakai. Within minutes, I’m there.
Kaunakakai, the Friendly Isle’s main town, seems frozen in time. It’s like I never left. And still not a single stoplight! The three short blocks of tin roofed mom-and-pop stores with hitching posts couldn’t be more familiar.
I drive through town behind a rusty pickup with the bumper sticker: “Don’t Change Molokai; Let Molokai Change You.” That says it all.
On my earlier case I stayed at the ‘Ukulele Inn, whose lively Banyan Tree Bar kept m
e up more nights than I’d like to remember. But the storied old inn with its funky oceanfront cottages has closed down since then. Only one full-service establishment remains near Kaunakakai and the harbor where the doctor kept his boat. The Moloka'i Beach Hotel.
According to the report Fernandez gave me, the doctor’s alibi for the night his wife died was confirmed by a chambermaid who saw him early the next morning, by a bartender who served him on the evening before, and by his boat caretaker who confirmed the doctor’s watercraft was docked in its accustomed place that evening. For the period between the late evening and the early morning HPD apparently relied on the doctor’s word.
Or, to put it another way, Fernandez and his crew could find no evidence that the doctor wasn’t where he said he was.
I made some calls before leaving O'ahu to ensure the chambermaid, bartender, and dockhand would be available. The first two, Moloka‘i Beach Hotel employees, probably don’t know I’m coming. The third, an independent contractor, does. I hope all three can tell me something they didn’t tell HPD.
I drive about two miles outside of Kaunakakai to the Moloka‘i Beach, whose Polynesian thatched cottages and island-style ambience mark a pleasant departure from the typical high-rise hotel. I wander by a few of the outlying cottages on my way to the open-air lobby at the water's edge. A sign by the front desk announces Moloka‘i-style music performed every weekend, with a photo of a group of kupuna, or elders, strumming ukuleles and guitars and singing. Kanekapila.
Pumping through the lobby’s loudspeakers is my favorite song about Moloka‘i, written by Larry Helm and performed by Ehukai:
Take me back . . . take me back . . .
Back to da kine.
All over, mo’ bettah,
Moloka‘i. I will return.
I give a smiling desk attendant my card and ask where I might find Lena, the chambermaid. The attendant tells me Lena is cleaning beachfront cottages and shows me on a hotel map.
As I head for the cottages my phone rings.
Caller ID says HPD. I answer and hear the gravelly voice of Homicide Detective Frank Fernandez. Yesterday his tone was calm and almost sweet. Today more edgy.