Dead at Diamond Head

by Kay Hadashi

  “Not gonna cry.”

  She wiped down the counters with a sponge, not really knowing why.

  “Not a nurse anymore.”

  She wiped down a small island of cabinets.

  “Gotta find something else to earn a living.”

  She rinsed the sponge and set it aside.

  “Not worth crying about. It’s just life, that’s all. No more, no less.”

  Maile let herself into the chapel. Light came in through the stained glass windows. No flowers sat on the altar. That was her mother’s task, to bring flowers every Saturday, the next day. It was a simple church, not big enough for a choir balcony, and had never had enough money to buy a piano or organ. The only music heard was the sound of faithful voices of worshippers singing hymns, and the occasional guitar player with his songs of uplifting lyrics. Those were the times when the elderly minister needed to take a day off from feeding his flock the nutrients their souls needed.

  She walked down one side of the pews and crossed to the other side at the back. She touched each of the wooden pews as she went, feeling the smooth wood that had been polished by the thousands of dark, sturdy, Hawaiian hands that had come to pray in the hundred years since the place was built. Hymnals and Bibles were tucked into cubbies at the back of each pew, waiting to be used two days later.

  Maile sat in the same pew her family had always occupied, a place that had been unofficially reserved for her mother’s family for three generations. She knew every nick and scratch in the dark wood, a few of them put there by her and her brother as kids. She flipped through the same ancient hymnal she’d held hundreds of times before, reading a few of the hymns. Her mother’s dog-eared personal Bible was there, with bookmarks and ribbons marking the most important pages. She left it alone, knowing it was off-limits to everyone but her mother. She'd always wondered which scriptures were marked, what was so important about those particular verses that her mother leaned on so heavily. She knew her brother rarely read the Bible he was given one Christmas as a child. The corners and edges were barely dented, not a wrinkled page in the thing. It looked brand new sitting there next to hers and her mother’s.

  Maile took her personal Bible from the cubby and opened it. The ribbon bookmark was in the Book of Job, the sermon she’d heard the last time she’d been to church.

  And in all this, Job cursed God not.

  Maile put her Bible away again.

  “Good for him. What about those of us that aren’t as strong as him?”

  The chapel was turning dark, the sun going down. Her body still ached from the accident and her muscles were tightening. The idea of taking the bus home, or even walking to her mother’s house, seemed an immense task right then. Once the chapel was cast in darkness, she lay on her side on the pew, curled into a ball, and went to sleep.

  ***

  When Maile woke in the morning, it was to the scent of white cake soap. With half-closed eyes and a pounding headache, she looked at the set of legs of the person seated next to her. With aching muscles, she pushed up to a sitting position.

  “Mom.”

  “Whatchu doing here, Maile girl?”

  “You wanted me to come to church. Well, here I am.”

  “Not to move in. Just to join the rest of us on Sundays.”

  Maile worked her head and neck back and forth, the part of her that was stiffest. “Same god every day of the week.”

  “Church is more fun when there’s other people to share it with.” Kealoha picked at one of the bandages on Maile’s elbow. “You okay? Why you not come to your mother after such a big accident?”

  “How’d you know I was in an accident?”

  “Brock came to the house looking for you. So did that Ota fellow. They say you suffered in the hospital one night, and you don’t come home to me?”

  “It wasn’t that bad. They just wanted to keep me there for observation.”

  “Observating what?” her mother asked, making up a new word.

  “My head. I hit my head pretty hard in the accident. It’s okay, though. Just a little concussion.”

  “Observation of head is by other people, not by God. He watches our souls, you know that. You needed to sleep in a bed, not on a pew,” her mother said. “Not even a blanket to keep warm.”

  Maile worked her head in another circle. “Could’ve used a pillow, too.”

  Kealoha pulled Maile close. She caressed Maile’s head when she set it on her shoulder.

  “Why you take all this trouble on yourself and not share it with me?”

  “There’s no trouble, Mom. Just having a hard time right now.”

  “I heard you quit your tourist job. And then the big accident. You an’ Keneka supposed to come to your mother when times turn hard.”

  “I need to be taking care of you and him. You guys are relying on me for help with money. Your health isn’t so good right now. I need to pay closer attention to that.”

  “Keneka is a big boy. If his tuition doesn’t get paid because he’s too lazy to work for the money, too bad for him. You’re his sister, not his banker, or his parent. Let him get his own money.”

  “You have medical bills, and…”

  “And you’re my daughter, not my accountant. Let me take care of those things. If I need help, I know where to find it.”

  Maile sat up straight again. “I don’t have any money, Mom. I don’t have a job, my rent is due in a few days, and now I have medical bills coming.”

  “Come home with me.”

  “Can’t come home.”

  “For why?” her mother asked.

  “Ultimate failure to move back in with my mother after getting fired and divorced.” Maile took a deep breath to calm her nerves.

  “Can’t live outside.”

  “Might have to. I lost my bag, my keys, wallet, everything in the bus crash. Without IDs, I can’t even apply for a job. I tried to yesterday and got laughed at. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Silly girl if you don’t come home.” Kealoha stood from the pew. “I’m going to vacuum. You figure out what to do next.”

  “Can I use your phone?”

  “It’s in the kitchen.”

  When Maile dug through her mother’s purse, she peeked in her wallet. There were exactly eight dollars in cash, and some coins. She looked at the checkbook and there wasn’t much more there. There were also two bills that needed to be paid. For as hard as Maile had it right then, her mother was in even worse shape.

  She called Detective Ota.

  “Look, I don’t want any lectures or some big run-around,” she said right off. “Where do I go to find my belongings from the bus accident?”

  “If anything had been visible, and if it looked at all valuable, the police at the scene would’ve collected it. Otherwise, everything went with the bus when it was towed away.”

  “That’s what Brock…Officer Turner told me. Where do I go to check if the police have my bag?”

  “Personal property recovery and evidence lockup. You lost your wallet, right?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “You’ll need positive ID to get your things back, if they even have it.”

  “I can’t just describe it? They could look at the picture on the driver’s license and match it to my face.”

  “Afraid not. I could do you a favor and check with them?” he offered.

  “I already owe you enough favors. I can’t afford any more of them.”

  “Just let me call them. What did the bag look like?”

  “Canvas, large, with blue and white vertical stripes, and a long shoulder strap.”

  “Inside?”

  “My wallet, cell phone, that envelope of money, hairbrush, a can of soda, a couple of mini-doughnuts wrapped in waxed paper. And your stupid box.”

  “You don’t travel with much. My wife takes…”

  Maile interrupted. “You gonna call or what?”

  Twenty minutes later, he called her back. “They have it, but no box. It might�
��ve gone with the bus.”

  “Where do I go and how much do I have to pay to get my stuff back?” she asked.

  “Come to the downtown police station. I’ll have it at my desk.”

  On her way out of the church, the elderly minister was coming in. As always, he seemed much older than what she remembered, bent at the waist and hunched in his shoulders. His dark complexion was highlighted by the pale blue aloha shirt and white hair. He moved slower than ever. She went straight to him.

  “Reverend Ka’uhana, aloha.”

  He looked up and smiled. “Kamali’i-wahine Hokuhoku’ikalani, aloha. Maikaʻi loa e ʻike iā ʻoe.”

  Maile stuck with the Hawaiian language he used with her. “It’s nice to see you, too. You come here on Saturdays, also?”

  “My workplace.” He smiled as though there was humor in his statement. “If your mother can be here, so can I.”

  She walked slowly with him toward a small office. “You don’t have to come in just because she’s here.”

  “She makes lunch for us after cleaning. I think that’s why she comes on Saturdays. Place never needs much cleaning otherwise.”

  There was a secret Maile had never known about her mother. She was having secret lunch dates with the neighborhood minister. “Do you have a few minutes to talk with me?”

  “Of course.” It was an endurance test to stick with the man to get to his office. Once they were seated, he started. “Haven’t seen you much lately, Maile.”

  “Yes, I’ve been busy on weekends. I’ll do better in the future.”

  “Something’s on your mind. Or is it weighing on your heart?”

  “More on my heart, Reverend.” Maile explained about her recent divorce, losing her job, lack of money, the anxiety surrounding Prince Aziz’s trial, and the trouble with so many murders that she’d been involved with lately. “And that stupid bus accident the other day.”

  “Now you feel like you’re suffering the life of Job?” he asked.

  “That was the last sermon I heard from you. I’ve been thinking about that story a lot lately. He had it much worse than I do, and I can barely cope.”

  “You will never have more than you can manage.”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself. I’m not so sure I believe me, though.”

  “Why not? You’re the best counsel you could possibly have, when it comes to living your life.”

  Maile offered an insincere smile that she knew he wasn’t buying.

  “Maile, do you remember the proverb that no cliff is so tall it cannot be climbed?”

  “Yes, of course. You’ve talked about it many times in sermon.”

  “What does it mean to you?”

  “It’s the same as Job’s life, that he was able to overcome the trials of God and Satan.”

  “That’s what it meant to him. What does it mean to you?”

  “You tell us in sermon that every problem has a solution.”

  Reverend Ka’uhane shook his head. “That’s what it means to me. What does it mean to you? To Hokuhoku’ikalani?”

  For the longest time, Maile sat quietly, not knowing how to answer. The rest of the world had slipped away, and it wasn’t until the minister cleared his throat that Maile came back to the present moment in the office.

  “Your mother has finished vacuuming. You’re joining us for lunch?” he asked in English.

  She figured the meal shared by old friends was a special time for them, and didn’t want to interrupt. “No, thank you. I have a few things to do this afternoon.”

  ***

  The bus ride to downtown seemed longer than usual, and more nerve-wracking. When she was shown to Detective Ota’s desk in the squad room by a desk clerk, Ota was busy filling out reports. “Detective, thank you very much for getting my things. I guess I owe you another favor.”

  He gave her the bag and pointed for her to sit in the chair next to his desk. “Nobody owes anybody any favors.”

  Maile checked her things and it was all there. Jumbled around, but there. Even the envelope with her rent money, a godsend. “I don’t know anything more about the accident than what I’ve already told Officer Turner.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “I’m sorry I lost the box.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

  “I know how important it is to your case. Turner explained it to me yesterday.”

  “Ms. Spencer, except for a few loose ends, the case is mostly closed.”

  Maile was surprised, and wondered if he’d given up on the murder already. “Oh? Why?”

  “Oscar Swenberg has been arrested for the murder of his brother, Carl, and is sitting in a holding cell. And I have you to thank for it.”

  “Well, that’s great. What happened that you decided to arrest him?”

  “Turner told me what you told him about the oil in Carl’s brain. Good call on that. I ran that past the coroner and he said that’s exactly what happened.” Ota referred to some notes. “There were no signs of allergic reaction at all on his exam, only catastrophic tissue death caused by an oil embolus in the vascular structure of the brain related to external intervention. That intervention was somebody using a syringe in the IV. Even though he had the peanut allergy, the extract hadn’t been in his system long enough to cause a reaction. He died from the embolus too quickly for an allergic reaction to ever start. That’s what he’s putting in his final report.”

  For some reason, Maile felt the need to apologize for something, she wasn’t sure what, but didn’t. “How does that implicate Oscar Swenberg?”

  “On its own, it doesn’t. But I did a credit card search for everything he’s purchased in the last thirty days and I found he bought a bottle of essential oil, more specifically peanut butter extract. I went to the only store on the island that sells the stuff, a small head shop on the North Shore, and asked to see their credit card receipts. They no longer had the receipt for his purchase, and didn’t recognize the picture I showed them of Oscar Swenberg, but they had some of the stuff on a shelf. It’s not an extract at all, just peanut oil that’s been refined to the point that most of the scent has been removed. I bought a bottle for the police lab to compare to the oil that the coroner removed from Carl’s brain, and the residue on the inside of the IV needle it had been injected through. I’m just waiting on those results before I bring formal charges against Oscar and take it to the District Attorney.”

  “That’s enough evidence?” Maile asked.

  “To get the ball rolling, yes. I have a team at the Swenberg house looking for the bottle, along with a syringe or any other medical devices that may have been used to abet the death of Carl Swenberg. Once I have that, it should be easy enough to pry a confession out of him for the murder of the other brother, Frank.”

  “That means you don’t have to wait until next weekend for Swenberg to go yachting to raid his house?”

  “Right. All fair and square, right up front, with no fancy legal maneuvering with warrants to find boxes, ginger ale, or chocolate bars.”

  “And if they don’t find anything in his house today?” she asked.

  “The oil and the receipt should be enough to keep him in jail and the case going. Fingerprints of Carl or Frank in the house or on the boat would be better, but someone was on the Swenberg yacht the other day and wiped down much of it.”

  Maile knew he meant her late-night trespass of the yacht. That had caused more trouble than she ever thought it might. “If I find the box, will that help?”

  “That box would only be potential evidence at best in the Swenberg case.”

  “Only potential evidence?” she asked.

  “Until I can see what’s inside, yes. And that wouldn’t be admissible in court because it wasn’t collected by police officials, and hasn’t been in any chain of custody. Somebody may have opened it by now and removed whatever was inside. But I’d still like to see whatever that is, if it’s still there. Any clues are more clues than what I have right now.”r />
  “But you think Swenberg had something to do with both brothers’ deaths?”

  “I’ll get the evidence I need. Anything else, Ms. Spencer?”

  “Any idea of who I call at the bus company about finding out if they found the box?”

  “Transit lost and found.” He opened a desk drawer for the phone book and dropped it on his desk.

  It took a few minutes of searching to find the number to call. Instead of calling from his desk, she decided to wait until she got outside. “Lost and found is at the Kalihi Transit Center. Wish me luck.”

  “How’re you getting there?” he asked.

  She stood to leave. “I still have my bus pass. I don’t have much else, but I’ve got a bus pass and know how to use it.”

  “Rumor has it you’re sore at me,” he said before she could leave.

  “Sure am.”

  Ota kept filling out the report he was working on. “I’m sorry about last Friday. I didn’t know how important your hearing was.”

  “My life changed that day, Detective, and not for the better.”

  “I wish there was something I could do to make it up to you.”

  “You could start by believing the things I tell you. I’ve never told you a lie, in all the times we’ve talked, I’ve never told you a lie.”

  “You might be the last honest person in Honolulu, Ms. Spencer.”

  “I hope not. But I’ll have to testify in court at Swenberg’s trial?”

  “Not up to me. You should plan on being a witness, though. You won’t be able to talk your way out of it, either.”

  “You just let the DA know that if he tries forcing me into a corner, it won’t be fun for any of us when I claw my way out again.”

  “So I’ve learned.”

  “What about Thérèse Kato, over on Maui? Will she have to come back to Honolulu for Swenberg’s trial?” she asked.

  “With the clout her mother carries, and the legal defense from that Melendez fellow, I doubt it. There’s a lot of power in that family,” Ota said.

  Maile thought of the recent conversation she’d had with David, about his and Kato’s aspirations for higher offices than where they already were. “Sure is.”