The House at Sandalwood

by Virginia Coffman

  A girl loses her father when she is a baby and has an alcoholic mother who prefers her own form of expensive hell... So I am sent to prison because the girl poisons her mother and then ends up with the one man in the world whom I love.

  What made me think that? It was all a lie! I’d never really thought Deirdre killed her mother... Another lie—have I always thought that? And now, was I frantic to cover Deirdre’s tracks because I feared she had murdered her rival, Ingrid Berringer?

  I was sickened with disgust at my own thoughts. I needed a bath, purging and cleansing. I would scrub until there was no skin left—punish myself. I deserved it for such vicious, self-serving thoughts.

  As it happened, that punishment had to be administered in a different way. There was no hot water, so I took a cold shower. By the time I had finished I was so invigorated I began to ridicule myself and ended by going to bed in a much healthier frame of mind. All this flagellation and self-loathing over a simple kiss! I might as well have been fourteen years old.

  How small my personal affairs were, in view of the tragedy to the Moku family! I dreamed vaguely that night, in little snatches of scenes that might have come from a badly edited movie, and I didn’t recall them the next morning, except—was it part of the dream, or in my thoughts while half awake at some time in the night? There was Kekua Moku’s sandal lace in the forbidden grove. But it should not be there. If anything, it ought to be near the edge of the steep path where she had slipped and fallen. Why hadn’t I remembered that scuffed earth around the sandal lace? There was the tiny foot bridge broken by a weight that was very possibly the weight of a human being in a struggle of some kind.

  Had there been a struggle on that spot? And had Kekua run and run and slipped, falling to her hideous death?

  Seventeen

  Mr. Yee was back the next morning, his haughty, dictatorial self and very welcome to all of us. Nelia Perez had hectic tales about her voyage across the bay in his company at the beginning of the storm. Today’s humidity was terrific, but the sun was out again and Ili-Ahi looked once more like an opulent tropic isle full of romance and intrigue, exactly like the travel folders.

  Stephen came in while I was finishing breakfast to tell me that all the invalids were well and accounted for.

  “I checked with Deirdre as soon as the power was on again. She is raring to go and wants to return home as soon as possible. It may be just a matter of days. She was button-holing everyone she met, trying to persuade someone to furnish a magic carpet. But the doctors think, if we are very careful with her, I can take her home sometime this week.”

  “How wonderful! And if the weather is anything like it looks this morning, she can recuperate in no time.”

  He agreed as he stole a half slice of freshly buttered toast from my plate. Grinning with pleasure, he looked very boyish.

  “I think I’ve got some men coming in from Honolulu to help complete the Sandalwood heiau. We’ll lick that kapu yet.”

  I felt that his insistence on fighting against the deepest religious feelings of the Hawaiians on the island was disastrous, but it was obvious I couldn’t tell him so. He took a big bite of the toast and looked down at me.

  “Aren’t you going to ask about your not-so-secret admirer?”

  “Oh! Is that the other invalid? I’m sorry—I was thinking of something else. How is Bill?”

  “Says he’s fine. He and Berringer must have gone over to Kaiana at sunrise. He called from there. Wanted to remind me not to go to the village. I wasn’t wanted—that sort of thing. But it’s my place to visit the family, and I intend to.”

  Stubborn as a Scot, and I should know! I remembered his accusing me of something very like that the first time we met. He meant well toward the Hawaiians in their village, but I felt that he did not know those people as he thought he knew them.

  I said, “I’ll get at the living room and see what can be done. I hope the carpet wasn’t ruined, but I have my doubts. Is it very old?”

  “Too old. Time for a change. Have we nothing in the house but this infernal guava jelly? Isn’t there any grape or currant or whatever?”

  I was amused at his taking over my breakfast, but at his mention of the jellies I was chilled by an old memory.

  “I don’t like dark jellies. They make me think of restaurants and institutions. They always serve dark jellies.”

  He was quick to understand and lightly changed the subject. I soon saw that the return of the normal, perfect weather had an equally cheerful effect on the rest of Stephen’s employees. We had lost Mrs. Mitsushima’s services, but the first boatload of men to cross the bay that morning appeared willing to help Stephen complete the building of the cottage complex and went to work at once, clearing away the storm damage. A glazier and his assistant were in the group, and while I cleaned up the living room, they put in the new window.

  I did notice one difference in Stephen’s new employees. They were all Caucasians. The word had gone out—that was obvious. Because I was worried about the tensions on the island, I found the housework a great relief. When I had the living room fairly clean, there was still the serious matter of the dampness, the stench of wet cloth and soaked wood. I went to the linen closet, looking for a room freshener of some kind, but Nelia Perez had a better idea.

  “Why don’t you hang mokihana around the room. Makes it all smell natural.”

  “What on earth is mokihana? It sounds like a native curse, and we have enough of those already.”

  Nelia explained that berries found on Kaiana Island were strung, along with fragrant maile leaves, to make as good a freshener as could be found.

  “At least, that’s what my family uses. Mrs. Stephen has some in the dresser drawers and in her own closets. We might use them and then I could make some more before she gets back from the hospital.”

  We went up to Deirdre’s bedroom, the large pink one that she apparently did not use, and there were leis of maile leaves and the scented berries hanging in her closet as Nelia predicted. I took them out for immediate use.

  “There are some in her dressing-table drawers,” Nelia called to me as I was leaving. “Fresh ones that Mrs. Nagata brought over a month ago,” she explained. “They’ll do the job.”

  “Fine.” I didn’t want to remain here too long. With Deirdre away I preferred not to be wandering around among her personal things.

  I was out in the hall when Nelia called me back. “Miss Cameron? In the dresser drawer here. A letter. It’s sealed.”

  “Then don’t touch it. Coming?”

  She came along, shaking her head. “It’s addressed to Mrs. Stephen all right, and I know that writing. Why would that girl write to Mrs. Stephen?”

  I scarcely heard her. I had just identified the voices of Michiko and Ito Nagata downstairs and went to meet them. Although they obviously had come here on their way to pay a condolence call in the village, they were excited about something else, some secret. As we went around the house examining the damage done by the storm, Michiko looked at Ito.

  “We should keep it a great mystery. She will appreciate it more.”

  “What mystery? Appreciate what?”

  They wandered around the living room with me, obviously not too impressed by the way I had repaired the damage and refurnished the room. Ito was too polite to be honest, but since decorating was Michiko’s job, she shuffled things around and managed to change the entire look of the room by the most minute details. Meanwhile, I followed, feeling gauche and untalented, and also dying of curiosity.

  “Ito, what is it? Please don’t keep me in suspense.”

  He watched his wife rearrange the hanging of two matted water colors showing Sandalwood in earlier days, and asked me if I knew that I was important enough to be spied upon. I felt a sudden depression.

  “Ito, no! Not the police! I’m on parole. I haven’t done anything. They must know that.”

  While Ito was denying any such idea, Michiko said with amused impatience, “Ito, my love, I hope
you don’t have to convey bad news very often. That was a terrible way to phrase it. No, Judy. It’s something you and we and Steve are all in together. We’ve got a detective watching us.”

  “But that is ridiculous. What could the police possibly—?” Ito put in, “That’s just the thing, Judy. It isn’t the police. It’s a private detective. We are being honored by the attentions of a genuine private eye.”

  “Mr. Moto!”

  They looked at me. Michiko laughed. “Perfect description. So you’ve noticed him too.”

  “He followed William Pelhitt and me when we were at Ka-hala the other day. How did you find out about this business?”

  Ito said proudly, “That was Michiko’s trick. The night I came over to attend the birth of Kamehameha Kalanimoku, Michiko followed me.”

  “But why, for heaven’s sake? Don’t tell me you thought Ito was up to some shenanigans!”

  Michiko gave him one of those sloe-eyed looks, half laughing, half sinister, that I had always admired. “He’d better not try any. The truth is, I saw that creepy little penguin the day we splurged up and down Waikiki. Then, night before last, as Ito drove away from the house, I caught a glimpse of the fellow again in the car lights. He was parked across the street in a little cream-colored Toyota. So I slipped on sandals and took my car and putt-putted off toward the airport. I figured if he followed Ito, he would be there. Sure enough. He missed Ito’s plane by a hair, and I watched him. He telephoned. Then he took the last flight to Kaiana.”

  Ito put in with husbandly pride and some amusement, “She bought a scarf, took off her belt, looked as unlike our Vogue-ish Michiko as you can imagine, and followed my—I think TV calls it a ‘tail’.”

  “Only he was no longer tailing my sinister husband,” Michiko announced, excitement creeping into her calm, self-reliant manner. “He was on his way to meet someone.”

  I almost scared myself by my shout: “The man who hired him! And I know who it was. Berringer said he saw you night before last. He tried to make it sound sinister.” They were properly impressed by my guesswork. I added, “Actually, it was the other way around. You saw Berringer. I should have guessed. The old troublemaker tried to make me believe— God knows what. May I get you some breakfast? Or is it lunch?”

  “Neither, I’m afraid, Judy.” Ito’s suddenly apologetic manner puzzled me until Michiko explained brusquely. “It’s the funeral. Ito thinks we are betraying you and the Giles family, but it isn’t a matter of choice. The Mokus have been friends of my family since the years of Queen Liliuokalani. As a matter of fact, they were very good to us Japanese and Koreans when we came.”

  “Michi—” Ito began, but I said I understood. I had never before heard her speak in such a way about her people, or heard her refer to her ancestors this way, as if she were part of them and they part of her today. She was so very modern in appearance and speech, one was inclined to forget her ancient roots elsewhere.

  “You are sure they would resent me?” I asked as the Nagatas left Sandalwood. But they didn’t even stop to answer me. I did understand, but I was sorry. Sorry most of all for Stephen. I was sure he felt deeply the break between the Hawaiian village and Sandalwood.

  I went out into the clearing after the Nagatas left the house. The men in the sacred grove had finished cleaning up and were beginning to dig out stumps and unwanted tangles of vines and bushes. I heard them talking about the damage to the papaya orchards from the storm, which meant more problems for the islanders, whatever their race. Stephen saw the Nagatas as they were leaving. He said something to the foreman and crossed the grove to the village trail. I knew what he was going to do and that he would be disappointed. It might even be dangerous for him.

  He stopped the Nagatas, and I could see that they were trying to dissuade him. I turned away. It was awful to spy on him. Besides, I was thinking far too much about him. A few minutes later, making the beds with Nelia Perez, I heard Stephen come racing up the stairs two at a time and into his bedroom. Nelia motioned to me.

  “My father says he’s bull-headed. But I like that in a man.”

  “Sometimes it can be troublesome. I’m sure he doesn’t realize how the Mokus feel. It might have been different if the work on the grove hadn’t started again, so soon.”

  Out in the hall Stephen’s voice called my name sharply. “Judith!”

  I dropped a pillow out of its pillowcase and went into the hall, followed by Nelia’s eye-rolling pantomime which said, plainer than words, “Now, you’re in trouble,” or perhaps, more generously, “Now we are in trouble.”

  I approached him and said calmly, “Yes, sir.”

  He had just grabbed up a dark jacket and was putting it on in the hall. The color gave him a strangely subdued look, but there was no mistaking his scowl.

  “Judith, I wish you wouldn’t discuss me with the help.”

  “You must know the help always discusses an employer.”

  “This is something you don’t understand, believe me. The Nagatas may think they are close to the Hawaiians but they haven’t lived with them for a hundred years, as we have. We understand each other.” His brief burst of temper had already faded, and I probably should have left it there. Long ago I had gotten into endless trouble minding other people’s business. But I tried once more.

  “Stephen, you have a moral right. Even a responsibility. I don’t deny that. Only, all this can’t mean much when they don’t want anyone from Sandalwood. They blame the invasion of their sanctuary for Kekua’s death. And you’ve gone back to work on that sanctuary.”

  “My God, Judith! You’ve been through it. That grove is exactly like any other acreage on the island. There isn’t an inch of it that has any sacred importance, except in their superstitions. And when we break for lunch, I intend to go to the village, to make an appearance and show them the Giles family cares about their loss, cares about that poor child who died.” He reached out to touch my hand, a friendly motion to show that all was forgiven. Unfortunately, the whole impact of his argument hit me, and I pointed out, feeling a little sick at the necessity. “Don’t you hear yourself—the enormous gulf between you and they! A minute ago you included the Gileses and the village as we. But every move you make is against their interests and their beliefs.”

  “Their interests! God Almighty! If the Sandalwood heiau isn’t going to bring them prosperity, a chance to sell their handiwork and their fruits and even their beef cattle ... Judith, keep out of this. I know what I am doing. Believe me!”

  I was sure he hadn’t the faintest idea of their real feelings, but I nodded. I felt so shaken I couldn’t speak. I knew he was right in one sense. I had been interfering. But I had an excuse, which was no excuse, under the circumstances. I loved him.

  He went down the stairs. When he reached the landing he slowed, nearly stopped, then went on. I wondered if he was remembering last night when he dropped the candle there and we both fumbled for it. And afterward, when he kissed me.

  No matter. As soon as Deirdre returned, I would find an excuse and leave Sandalwood, eventually leaving the Islands as well. There had to be some legal provision to get me out of here without violating my parole.

  “Well, he’s gone,” Nelia came out into the hall, swinging a pillowcase over one shoulder. “She’s lucky, that niece of yours. In a way.” I must have stiffened, because she added in a slightly flurried voice, “to have Sandalwood and the estate, you know.”

  Having worked with me all morning, she had earned herself a break. She suggested we take our lunch down to a cove west of the river’s outlet. “We can swim in the clearest waters of the Islands. And you know how clear most of the waters are around here!”

  I thought of the burial service that would be taking place at the other end of the island in a few hours. It seemed insensitive for us to be swimming and picnicking at such a time, but the day was hot and muggy. We had been working for some time, and maybe no one at the village would know. I weakened and we sneaked into Mr. Yee’s kitchen whil
e the Gileses’ chef was taking his noon siesta. I found that picnics in Hawaii were a good deal more healthy and less standardized than the sandwich-and-thermos lunches on the mainland.

  We found bananas, brown and huge, but not overripe, and a pineapple already cut into long, delicious sticks. We took two sticks, wrapped them and added a couple of rolls Mr. Yee had just baked. For at least an hour that day I felt free of the pinching, nagging worries which had made my stay at Sandalwood oppressive. The little cove was inside the long coral reef and there was coral underfoot, but at Nelia’s suggestion I borrowed a pair of Deirdre’s old, light beach sandals that she wore when she swam here. By the time I had swum out to the reef and then over to the copper light on the boat landing and back, I felt like a new woman in that buoyant water.

  Nelia and I were eating our lunch under the shade of a thick, twisted Ohia tree that looked a hundred years old, but Nelia laughed when I remarked on its age.

  “They look like that when they’re pups.”

  “Nothing in Hawaii is quite what it seems,” I said, growing philosophical under the spell of the humid air and the incredible aquamarine clarity of the water before it crawled up the beach in its lacey patterns of foam.

  After a little while, Nelia remarked thoughtfully, “I don’t know but what malahinis are wrong when they think we are different. People turn out to be just about what they seem. It’s just that they are trying hard to be something else, maybe. But —take love and hate. My boyfriend says he’s had times when he hated me. After a quarrel, you know. He couldn’t hate me so much though, if he didn’t actually love me just as much. So if you weigh up both sides of people’s actions, you find they pretty well balance. Take poor Kekua. If she’d been having a big love affair, which she wasn’t—I’d know—then it would be logical that the man might have loved her enough to kill her if he couldn’t have her. That’s if he loved her enough. But love isn’t what made Kekua tick.”