The Green Room

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  Right now she needed more caffeine and a stack of Rosie’s maple pecan pancakes. She was halfway through them, enjoying every syrup-soaked bite, with a fresh cup of coffee and the day’s Honolulu Advertiser opened to the police beat. It took her a moment to notice that someone stood by the table.

  “I didn’t want to interrupt you,” Barstow said.

  Storm was irritated. Not only with her own obliviousness, but with the fact that Barstow had stood by her for a few seconds without making his presence known. It made her feel like he enjoyed being sneaky.

  “I’d like to talk to you when you have time,” he said and handed her a business card. It was printed with his name, his company name, and his California address. “I wrote my local contact information on the back.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Storm sat in her car for a few moments and read the back of Barstow’s card. Stephanie was her client, and she wouldn’t talk to him without telling Stephanie first. It might benefit Stephanie, though, if she could get a feeling for what he’d be willing to share with her. How he felt about Stephanie’s participation in setting up his successful commercial real estate business, for example.

  Storm used her mobile phone to call Stephanie, but no one answered and Storm ended up leaving messages. She decided not to initiate a meeting with Barstow. If he wanted to talk to her badly enough, he could make an appointment like everyone else. But then, she hadn’t checked in to the office lately, and two of the missed calls on her cell phone had been from Grace.

  Grace picked up on the first ring. “We’re so sorry to hear about your cousin. It was on the news. How’s that nice boy who was in the office last week?”

  “Ben Barstow? Okay, as far as I know.”

  “Storm, you’ve had some important calls. Just a minute.” Storm could hear Grace ruffling through papers.

  “I’ve got a stack of message slips.” More rustling. “Here we are. Rodney Liu from the Hawaii Building and Construction Trades Council. That’s a big labor union. You better call that guy.”

  “Must be one of Uncle Miles’ old clients.” Storm dug for a pen in the glove box and jotted the number on the back of an old gas receipt, the shiny kind the self-service machines spit at you.

  “That’s what I thought. Okay, and here’s another number.” Grace read it off. “It was hard to understand this woman. I think she said her name was Pia, Puna, something like that.”

  Storm jotted down this number, too, and was filled with an emotion she couldn’t identify. Anxiety, anticipation, a touch of fear. She labored to pay attention to Grace’s next messages, which were from the Public Defender’s office.

  “Thanks, Grace.”

  “You’re getting some good clients. Better get hold of Rodney Liu right away.”

  “I will. You have any idea when Hamlin is planning to drive out here?”

  “He told me to tell you when you called that he’d be on the road by six. He wants you to make dinner reservations somewhere nice.” There was a smile in Grace’s voice. “Get yourself a slinky dress. It’ll cheer you up.”

  “Right.” Storm hung up the phone and sighed. Grace read her like the notes she’d spiked on her desk. The only clothes Storm had with her were the shift she’d worn when she’d visited Mrs. Shirome, now wrinkled and sweaty, two pairs of board shorts, her jeans, and two bikinis.

  She looked around. The parking lot for Rosie’s Diner wasn’t full and no one seemed to be paying any attention to her. She called Rodney Liu’s number and the two numbers for the PD’s office and set up appointments for the following week.

  She eyed the other number Grace had given her, then went into the call log on her mobile. Sure enough, there it was—twice. Grace didn’t give out Storm’s cell phone number to clients. It had to be Pua, Nahoa’s sister, and with her name came a flood of memories.

  Storm laid the phone on the passenger seat, and gazed out the VW’s window into the dense branches of the overhead monkey pod tree. It had been many years and many tears. But she was a big girl now, she could do this.

  Rochelle Pi'ilani, Pua’s and Nahoa’s mother, had been one of Storm’s mother’s best friends. When Storm’s mother had been riding the roller coaster of her sweeping mood swings, Rochelle had been with her. Especially in the high times, the spending sprees to Honolulu, the opera fundraisers, the black tie events Storm’s dad shunned.

  Storm had her own reasons for avoiding Rochelle, who was always perfectly coiffed, and intensely critical of those who weren’t. A stick, Rochelle would shake her head and cluck at Storm’s chunky twelve-year-old physique. Storm never did call her Auntie, the affectionate name for a close family friend.

  Pua had taken after her dad. Sensitive and unpretentious, she and Storm were inseparable. Storm remembered how, only a few weeks after her mother’s suicide, Uncle Bert and Pua had invited her to go canoe surfing. A year before, she would have killed for this adventure, but now, with the whole neighborhood trying to console her, Storm would rather have slipped off to her secret spot in the sugar cane fields to puff stolen cigarettes, maybe even a little pakalolo, and try to sort out how she felt about life—and death.

  That day, the waves turned out to be bigger than anyone expected. Any Hawaiian can tell you how unpredictable the ocean is. Bert, an experienced paddler, knew it as well as any one.

  Storm suspected that at this point, her childhood memories were blurred and distorted. She remembered how the boat plowed through the crest of an overhead wave. It foundered to a halt so abruptly in the oncoming riff of curling water that she shot forward from her seat and banged her knees against the bow.

  A salty deluge stifled her yelp of pain, and then the bow rocketed down the backside of another wave, only to crash into the face of a bigger one. Pua made a mewling noise, then Uncle Bert cried out.

  “Try bail!” His voice was ragged and frantic.

  She grabbed for the plastic bucket as it floated by, and scooped, again and again, until her shoulders burned.

  Then Uncle Bert screamed again. “Jump!”

  One moment, she heard Bert’s frenetic command, and the next she was in the water, watching the red hull of the upturned boat, parallel to the curl of the frothing breaker ten feet above her.

  Then she was in the green room, the ocean’s lesson for ill-fated humans far out of their element. Tumbled like rootless kelp, the water pushed her down until her vision darkened. Without any feel for up or down, her eyes stayed open. It was this image that returned to her in nightmares, the darkening green. Powerless as a mote in space, she rolled through it. On and on, whirling weightless and without direction.

  She would never know why the ocean spit her out a second before her convulsing lungs sucked in sea water. She didn’t even remember how the roiling waters dragged her across a reef, tearing the skin off most of her back and both elbows and knees.

  When the rescue canoe picked her up and took her to shore, she blubbered to a bereft Pua about a wild pig that paced the shore, but she shut up when Rochelle, hysterical, shrieked that the accident was Storm’s fault.

  Aunt Maile and Uncle Keone kept her home from school for the rest of the week. It wasn’t until she went back that she discovered that Bert had drowned, and Rochelle had packed up her entire household, taken her children, and moved to Kaua'i.

  Four years later, when Storm moved to O'ahu, she wrote Pua, but never heard from her. Her own family assured her that she bore no responsibility for Bert Pi'ilani’s death, and she hoped they were right. But the cracked patella she’d sustained from the accident still throbbed from time to time, and reminded her of a deeper ache.

  So why was Pua calling her now? Did she know Nahoa had sent a client to her? She must know they’d been in touch. Why else would she phone?

  Sadly, when Storm thought about what she might say to Pua, the heavy object she’d seen dragged from the surf yesterday came vividly to mind. She also felt a strong surge of regret about the package that had
been delivered to Nahoa. She’d done nothing. She’d known, deep down, that the threat was more serious than a mere warning to stay away from a woman. But she’d rationalized, and ignored the prickling sense of peril that hovered around the lei o manō.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Reluctantly, Storm dialed the number. When Pua’s message, in a voice that still sounded familiar, answered, she hung up. Pua would see the missed call and recognize Storm’s number.

  It was already early afternoon and Storm wanted to see Dede, Jenna, and Sunny. Sad as Sunny was about Nahoa’s death, she and Dede might be up for going to the first round of the surf contest. They had friends participating, and it was scheduled to start mid-afternoon, when the tide went out.

  Storm walked up the stairs to the front door, but jumped back when the door banged open and Ben barged out. She just avoided getting a black eye, because Ben had his head down and didn’t look up at her.

  “Hey there,” Storm said, half in greeting, and half to warn him not to run into her.

  He grunted something and jogged past her to a black Porsche Boxter that she’d passed on the way in. Storm hadn’t recognized it, so she hadn’t looked twice. Now she stared at the brand-new car in surprise. He got in without looking back, and pulled away from the house.

  Storm stepped inside, where Dede greeted her. “Hey, we were just going to call you.”

  “What’s with Ben?” Storm asked.

  “Wait’ll you hear,” Dede whispered.

  “Uh oh,” was all Storm had time to say, because Sunny stomped into the living room.

  “I can’t believe he did this to Ben—or me.” Her eyes were red again and her voice hoarse. “Bad enough that they got together,” she wailed, “but he went back.” Her voice rose through the tirade.

  Storm knew right away to whom Sunny referred. “Wait, I talked to the clerk who saw them,” Storm said. “That’s not exactly what happened.”

  “What?” Dede and Sunny said together, though Sunny still looked angry.

  “It happened four months ago. Before you and Nahoa got together.” Storm directed the last comment to Sunny, who sagged into a chair.

  “He didn’t cheat on you,” Storm added.

  “Are you sure?” Sunny asked suspiciously. “Still, it was stupid. Ben’s mother. I mean, we’re friends with Ben.”

  “It was silly, but not traitorous,” Dede said. She gave her friend a hug.

  Sunny gulped a few times and wiped at her eyes. “Right before he died, a woman called him several times. It worried me.”

  Jenna walked into the room with Charlie on her hip. “He was a guy. Whaddya expect? Anyone want to try my brownies?”

  “Men,” Sunny fumed, but her mood wasn’t nearly as black.

  She regarded Jenna, who leaned against the door frame. Charlie had chocolate all around his mouth.

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I need.” She jumped to her feet and followed Jenna into the kitchen. Now that the immediate trouble had passed, Storm smelled the warm brownies. How could she have missed it before?

  Some time later, Dede, Storm, and Sunny piled into Sunny’s van and headed for Mahina Hou, a clothing store both Dede and Sunny liked. Jenna announced that she would forgo the trip because Charlie “hated shopping.” Storm couldn’t miss the expressions of relief that passed over Sunny’s and Dede’s faces. Charlie had chocolate smeared from his chin to his forehead, and was whining for more.

  In a bit over an hour, Storm had found a dress by a local designer, and Dede had two tiny new bikinis. It was an activity meant to distract, and it worked for Storm and Dede. Sunny, however, meandered around the store, lost in thought except for the times she enthused about Storm’s dress or Dede’s thongs.

  Dede tucked her bathing suits under one arm and marched to the counter, where a rack of lovely and unique earrings were on display. “I’ll take these,” she handed over the bikinis, “and these moonstone earrings.” She pulled a tiny pair of dangling stones from the rack.

  “Those are beautiful,” Storm said.

  Dede winked at Storm and turned to Sunny. “They’re for you. You deserve a pick-me-up.”

  Tears filled Sunny’s eyes. “Thank you. Moonstones are good luck,” she said, and removed one set of her earrings so she could wear the new ones.

  “They’re perfect on you,” Storm said, and they were.

  Dede and Storm paid for their purchases, while Sunny’s face relaxed in a gentle smile. It was an outing all three of them needed, where they could forget their sadness for a while.

  Once on the street, Sunny looked at her watch. “I want to see how Ben does in the first round. He’s paired with Gabe Watson, you know,” Sunny said. “And he’s not in a good frame of mind, as you probably noticed.”

  Storm looked at her. “Are you sure it won’t upset you?”

  “What if you see Ben’s mother there?” Dede asked.

  “It’s okay.” She looked at Storm. “I can handle it.”

  They weren’t the only people driving to Waimea Bay for the first round of the Intrepid. Traffic moved about ten miles per hour along Kamehameha Highway, and came to a complete halt at Lani’s and a couple of the more popular breaks, where drivers were either looking for parking, a nearly impossible quest, or braking for pedestrians and enthusiastic surfers, who were everywhere.

  As they got closer to the winding climb to the Waimea Bay overlook, Dede muttered that they’d move faster if they were on foot. And it was true. Cars were backed up along the road as drivers waited to turn into the Waimea Beach parking lot. Hoping for a space in the small lot was an act of optimism about as realistic as waiting for a lift on the hovering helicopters. Between the roar of the surf and the cacophony of people, vehicles, and helicopters, even speaking was a trial.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Sunny shouted over the din. She pulled into the empty lane for oncoming traffic before either Storm or Dede could protest.

  From the back seat, Storm saw Dede’s eyes grow round, and Dede’s right arm flew out to instinctively brace herself against the dashboard.

  “It’s the only way,” Sunny said, with a sly grin.

  Neither Storm nor Dede responded. An oncoming pickup stopped dead in their path, startled by the van’s appearance in its lane. Sunny swung left, onto the shoulder of the road, and passed four inches from the side of the clean and shiny truck.

  The driver’s mouth hung open and Sunny waved at him. Dede, who had emerged from her startled state, flashed a wide smile and waved, too. “You want me to show some skin?”

  “No need,” Sunny grinned. “He’s too scared to react. Probably spent the last two days detailing that truck.”

  Storm laughed out loud. She used to joke about how some local guys took better care of their cars than their girlfriends. A rusting and dented van in close proximity to their pet would lobotomize a guy like that—especially if a babe was at the wheel. She turned around to watch him. The man was still sitting there, though the car behind him tooted. His gaping face swiveled to follow their progress.

  Sunny ignored the stares of oncoming drivers and stayed on the shoulder for at least fifty yards, until she got to the drive that entered Waimea Falls Park. “I’ve got a friend who works here,” she said.

  “You think he’ll be here today?”

  “It’s Friday, right? He’ll be here.”

  And he was. He asked about Sunny’s welfare and consoled her on Nahoa’s death, then led her to a grassy lawn where a half-dozen park maintenance vehicles were parked. “You can leave it here for as long as you want.”

  Sunny gave him a peck on the cheek and the three women locked the van and made their way down the driveway, retraced their path on the highway, and walked across the street into the beach park.

  Though Sunny looked somewhat nervous about being at the meet, it was obvious to Storm that she and Dede had negotiated crowds at surf contests before. They waved and greeted assorted acquaintances. Some of t
hem sadly commiserated on Nahoa’s death. Sunny gave and received hugs and still led the way to a clearing near the clustered TV cameras.

  There, Sunny and Dede folded their arms and looked around at the gathering. People stood in front of them, but they seemed to be officials: judges, sponsors, and organizers. A few surfers milled nervously and several powerful jet skis sat on the sand nearby.

  “Here, I brought you a pair.” Sunny handed Storm a compact set of Nikon binoculars.

  “Hey, thanks.” Storm followed her friends’ leads and put the glasses to her eyes. “You know who’s out there?”

  “Coupla Australians,” someone near them said. “They’re hot.”

  Dede whispered in her ear, “Look, Ben’s over there. That must be his dad.”

  Storm followed her glance. She recognized Barstow from the restaurant that morning. “It is. I’ve seen him before.”

  “That’s right,” Sunny said. “I kind of forgot you’re his mom’s lawyer.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s she like?” Dede asked.

  Storm thought a moment. “She’s nice, but kind of sad. You’d like her under other circumstances.”

  Storm scanned the crowd, wondering if Stephanie would come see Ben surf. Maybe she was too nervous to watch. The surf report was twelve to fifteen and rising. Not as huge as some tow-ins, but it was going up. Plenty big for disaster, though.

  There was a feel of electricity in the air, which amplified as if transmitted from spectator to spectator. Some of it came from the teams of surfers who milled on the beach next to their powerful watercraft, and some of it came from the elevated voices of media spokespeople. But most came from the escalating crests of waves, which thundered against the lava rock points at each side of the bay. Storm shook her head with wonder. If you came here in the summer, you could let children play in the placid waters of the bay and watch local kids do flips off the big rock that squatted near shore. Now, you wouldn’t even go wading.

  Storm licked the salt that saturated the air from her lips. Television cameras worked nearby, while another reporter, whose hair didn’t move in the brisk wind, made his way toward Ben and his father. She’d seen the same guy at the surf meet last week. He’d been interviewing Nahoa.