“I wish I was there for you,” he says.
“I know you would be if you could—”
Our tiny house now seems to be shaking, and I hear the low voices of adult men. “Wait, let me call you back,” I tell Travis, ending the call before he can even say okay.
When I get to the living room, I see five police officers—Sergeant Toma, Andy, and three others whom I recognize but don’t know by name.
“What’s going on?” I ask, but no one is bothering to reply. Mom’s arms are crisscrossed over her chest, her hands clutching her drooping shoulders.
“We were able to look into your bank records,” Toma says. “Your Killer Wave account isn’t doing that well. And a witness claimed that you were always hitting Luke up for money?”
“Dat’s not true,” my dad responded.
“And we know all about the surfboard. How you sold it to a dealer in Kapa‘a. For $15,000.”
I can’t remain quiet. “No, that was Luke’s surfboard,” I say.
“Yeah, but your father told the dealer to make the check out to him. Really interesting.”
I wait to hear Dad’s protest. That maybe he was acting as Luke’s sales agent or something. And, besides, he’s supposed to have an alibi, right?
Instead, Dad rises from the couch. “Look, I come wid you. Just don’t take me out in handcuffs.”
“No, Daddy, no.” Sophie hangs on to my father’s leg, as if she’s a three-year-old. I hate to see her like this.
Toma relishes what he has come here to say: “Tommy Santiago, you are charged with the murder of Luke Hightower.”
Andy follows up by reciting my father’s rights. His voice is low, barely audible, and Toma admonishes him to speak up.
This is not real, I think. This can’t be happening. I can’t move or speak as the five officers lead my father out of our house, stepping over some overturned green mangoes on our porch and down the stairs.
Sophie, on the other hand, is as fast as lightning. “My father’s not guilty,” she calls out from our porch over the flattened tall grasses in our front yard.
I wish that I could be that sure.
Chapter Six
“I BET THAT THEY WEN TRUMP UP some charges, just cuz they gotta answer to dat haole guy, what, Mr. Hightower,” Kelly says. The tone of his voice was so un-Kelly-like that I had to do a double take to see if somehow Pekelo had entered his younger brother’s body.
Court, who helps Kelly with accounting, remains silent as she goes through some of the Excel files for this month’s rentals.
I place one side of my face on the display table, next to a stack of catalogs. It’s like I can’t hold my head up anymore. We had returned from Dad’s arraignment this morning. The three of us, my mom, D-man, and Baachan. We told Baachan that she didn’t have to come, that it was perfunctory, but she insisted. “Dat’s my boy, my only child.”
Even Rick had showed up from the North Shore. Rick was the one who got Dad an attorney, a chubby haole man from Līhu‘e who didn’t seem stupid yet didn’t look sharp enough. He certainly wasn’t like those legal eagles on Law & Order in their crisp navyblue suits and wingtips. Instead, he wore a wrinkled, wilted brown suit and rubber-soled loafers. And his last name was Brown, no lie.
In the front row sat Mr. and Mrs. Hightower. The mother, whose hair and skin seemed like the same color, clutched at a tissue, which became a tight ball by the end of the proceedings. Mr. Hightower, on the other hand, raised his head high, an alert eagle waiting for a mouse to scurry across his path. He gazed my way a couple of times. The district attorney was a woman who had ordered flowers from Lee’s Leis, but this morning she acted like she lived in a different world from us.
Dad’s lawyer and the district attorney went back and forth on bail. The DA claimed that my father shouldn’t be given bail because he was a flight risk, as he traveled to so many countries for work. Mr. Brown countered that Dad was a family man with four young daughters and a sick wife (yeah, he worked that in) and wouldn’t abandon them. At first, bail was set at $1 million—I almost fainted when I heard that—and somehow Mr. Brown got it down to half a million. I didn’t know how bail works, but after the hearing, D-man told Mom that he would take care of it, somehow.
My phone buzzes and I see that it’s my mother. I’m afraid to see what has happened now.
I put the phone to my ear. “I got a call from Sophie’s school,” she says. “She didn’t show up for class.”
“I walked her there,” I say, but I didn’t actually watch her go in. Her bestie, Ro, was waiting for her outside the school, and I assumed they went in together.
“No worries,” I tell my mother. “I handle.”
“I’ll come in to help Baachan—”
“Nah, you rest. I’m with da gang. I go figure someting out.” I end the call and put my head back on the table.
“Whassup?” Kelly asks.
“Now Sophie’s missing. She didn’t go to school. I have to find her.”
“Maybe Pekelo can help?” Court says while still focusing on the laptop screen.
“He’s still out,” Kelly says. “Went ova to do someting with the Reserves. Said he’d be back later this afternoon.”
“I have to find someone to help Baachan at the shack. Sammie still in class.”
“I go do,” Court says. “No special orders today. Mom and Dad can handle the walk-ins.” Court’s parents were older; they had, in fact, adopted her in their early fifties. I don’t think they would be able to keep the flower shop open without Court being in the driver’s seat.
I mouth “mahalo” and Court nods.
You’d think that we’d have less customers because of Luke’s murder, but its notoriety brought in a new set of curious customers who came to take selfies of themselves with a shave ice in front of our sign. There was even a hashtag #lukehightowermurderspot on Instagram that was trending on Kaua‘i. I was really starting to lose hope in humankind.
I get into the Ford. A familiar weight presses down on my chest and tightens around my neck. Why am I getting a panic attack now? Not when I discovered Luke on the floor of Santiago’s, and not when my father was arrested, and not at his arraignment? I sit still in the driver’s seat and take two deep breaths, the calming technique I learned from Travis, who learned it from his mother.
Luckily, Waimea Middle School is just around the corner, and I don’t have to travel too far. It’s the same school that I attended, and I don’t have the best memories. My mind couldn’t focus on books and paper; I was always looking out the window, envious of the seabirds and bugs flying around so free.
Many of the office people were working there when I was going to school and let me in on campus without reservations. Nobody worries about school shootings here on Kaua‘i. That’s a Mainland problem, or maybe even a Honolulu one. Not here in Waimea.
Sophie’s teacher, Mrs. Ikkanda, who was my teacher as well, stands on the playground, a whistle around her neck. It’s recess, and she scans students running around until her gaze refocuses on me. She seems embarrassed to see me. Or maybe embarrassed for me.
“No sign of Sophie?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Do you have any idea why she didn’t show up?”
“She’s been upset about your dad, of course. She was asking me about ‘circumstantial evidence.’”
Ohmylord. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a thin figure leaning against the chain-link fence. It’s Sophie’s BFF, Ro.
I excuse myself and go over to Ro. “Howzit.”
She nods, just a little. She’s all skin and bones. We know that Sophie has been sharing half of her lunch with Ro; Mom makes sure to pack four onigiri instead of two.
“Sophie’s gone missin’.”
Ro doesn’t respond. She’s definitely not surprised.
“Did someting happen dis mornin’?”
Ro slowly opens up. Some of the other kids came around and showed them a Facebook Live video. It was of the beautiful Celia Johnson, claimi
ng that our father was a killer.
Whatthehell. I hate social media and try to stay off of it for reasons like this.
“Do you have any idea where Sophie could have gone?”
“She was plenty huhu.”
It was no surprise that Sophie was pissed off. She’s not the type to hide when she feels wronged. She faces her enemies straight on. Which means she probably went to Bamboo Royal to confront Celia.
I have no idea how she would get up there with no money. But Sophie can be very persuasive. And she also had an usually large thumb, which she undoubtedly used to hitch a ride, or maybe multiple rides, to the North Shore.
I thank Ro and wish I had rice balls to give her, but all I have is a smile.
I get back in the Ford and drive as fast as I can, mindful that getting pulled over for speeding wouldn’t be my smartest move, in light of my father’s arrest. Driving, though, actually makes me feel better. As if I am actually accomplishing something to change our circumstances.
I make it over to Bamboo Royal in record time. It’s even more beautiful in the morning light, but after I park and get out of the car, I feel a weird coolness in the breeze. The radio announcer had mentioned something about a storm reaching the island tomorrow.
Nobody is downstairs, but through the full-length windows in the back, I see Celia in a bikini sunning herself next to a pristine rectangular swimming pool. In the distance is a thicket of bamboo, probably inspiring the name of the estate.
There’s an open sliding-glass door that leads outside. “So this is what a girlfriend in mourning looks like,” I say when I’m a few feet away from her.
Celia turns, her wavy golden-streaked hair bouncing over her tanned shoulders. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for my sister.”
Celia pulls a white towel around her exposed body and tucks it around her breastbone. “Why would she be here?”
“To get your cheating ass to stop putting things up on social media. You didn’t care about Luke.” Luke, in fact, sought a stranger, Sammie, to talk about Celia’s infidelities. If only he had had an opportunity to have that conversation with Sammie, he might be alive right now.
Celia’s eyes widen and her mouth twists into a sneer. She shoots out words like flying daggers. “You bitch.”
“You the bitch.”
Like a roaring tiger, she comes after me. I dodge her and slide my right ankle in back of her feet, causing her to lose her balance. The rest goes slow motion—the flailing arms and hands as she falls back-first into the pool with a big splash. I guess those early years of Dad forcing me to go to judo classes are finally good for something.
Rex and Nori, holding a joint, appear on the back deck. “What the hell—” Rex says.
“Get her out of here.” Celia’s wet hair sticks to her head, making her look like a pissed-off seal. Her white towel is soaked, and she frees it from her body as she walks up the pool stairs to the deck. Her tight butt is hardly covered in her thread of a bikini bottom.
“Why did you post that live feed about my father being arrested for Luke’s death?” I’m not going to give up so easily.
“Because it is fact.”
“You cryin’ about your boyfriend but don’t show up at the arraignment.”
“That would have been too much for me.” She puts her dripping head down in mock distress. You ain’t foolin’ anyone, honey.
“Yeah, right,” I say, and she bares her perfect white teeth at me.
“Uh, Celia, why don’t you pack or something?” Rex suggests, handing her a fresh white towel.
Celia hesitates but accepts the towel and flips me off before finally going inside. Nice. Showing your true color, sistah.
Rex seems nonplussed by Celia’s actions, as if she’s like this all the time. “So are you guys leaving?” I ask.
“Hoping to. There’s no reason for us to be here now.”
“You and Celia are pretty tight.”
“What?”
“Traveling together.”
“Nori’s with us, too.” Rex frowns, a line deepens over the bridge of his nose. “I don’t mess around with my best friend’s girlfriend. Especially when he’s dead.”
Best friend? Really? I think. Wouldn’t a best friend be at the arraignment as well? I don’t get surfer culture, obviously. I know that my father would say the ocean is his best friend. It’s always there for him, and he for it. But the ocean is powerful and doesn’t have favorites. He told me once that you can only trust the sea, but I thought at the time that it could as easily kill you as bring you back to shore.
I have nothing more to say to Rex. I walk back into the house and through the front door back to my car. I hear rustling and a familiar high-pitched voice coming from the wild sugarcane field on the other side of the dirt parking lot. The grass is about ten feet tall with white fluffy tops. I cautiously approach the grass to see where the human sound is coming from.
I push away some tall grass to reveal the person I’ve been looking for. “Sophie! What are you doing here?”
“I have a new friend, Jimin.” She holds out a hideous-looking feral rooster, its orange and green feathers matted together. “I think he’s kind of sick.”
Indeed, there were white spots and scabs on the rooster’s red comb. “Put him down, Sophie.” All I need is for her to contract bird flu or something like that.
“No, he helped me, Leilani. He showed me where to hide in his hangout.” She goes deeper into the grass, and I struggle to keep up with her. Finally we are in a small clearing.
I let out a big breath. “We are not taking him home. Why you wen ditch school?”
“I was going come here to talk to Luke’s girlfriend. To tell her to stop spreading lies about Dad. Only I nevah get one chance to say anything to her. I was waiting to talk to her and this car comes around. I know that car. It’s Kelly’s Toyota.”
“Kelly was here?”
“No, his brother, Pekelo. I thought maybe you sent him to find me. So I looked around for a place to hide, and then the rooster led me into these tall grasses.…”
“What was Pekelo doing here?” Didn’t Kelly say that he had to do some military business with the Reserves?
“Yah, he was smokin’ and these haole guys came. They were all serious. Talking in big words.”
“Did they seem like soldiers?”
Sophie shrugs her shoulders. “They were wearing aloha shirts. One was telling him to be quiet. Quiet this, quiet that. Pretty boring.”
What would Pekelo have to be quiet about? I wrap my loose hair with my index fingers. Nothing was making sense. What was drawing so many people to Bamboo Royal?
“Ah, Leilani.…” Sophie’s eyes widen as she focuses on something behind me.
Appearing from the tall grasses is about the largest woman I have ever seen in person. She must be almost seven feet tall, with flesh that hangs from her jaw and her underarms like slabs of porterhouse steaks. She seems like she’s expanding out of her clothes, which are literally torn-up T-shirts and rags pieced together with thread and shoelaces. (Her boobs are covered up, thank God.) Her graying hair is twisted into tight cornrows against her head and long braids down her back. She looks like a sumo wrestler who has gone jungle rogue. “You trespassin’ here,” she says.
“I thought this was part of Bamboo Royal.”
“You tink wrong.”
“Eh, sorry.”
“I’m not interested in sellin’. Don’t bother us anymore!” She takes a few steps forward, and I notice a long wooden staff in her right hand.
“Sophie, run!”
With the rooster under her arm, Sophie whips through the grasses while I have a harder time finding an opening. I trip and land on my okole, pain shooting down to my ankle. I let out five f-bombs in a row and try to stand up. It’s my bad foot, the one I had injured my senior year of high school volleyball.
“Leilani, you okay?”
I’m able to get up, but my ankle is s
ore. The giant has receded in the grasses. I’m not sure about what just happened, but I’m not inclined to hang around to find out. I hop on my right foot until I reach the car. Sophie trails behind with her silly rooster. I don’t have the heart or energy to make her abandon the bird right at this moment. “I tink dat’s the lady I saw da first time we come here,” Sophie tells me.
I remember the sign about protecting the land against outsiders. She must be connected to the movement to protect the land of native Hawaiians. “Look, Uncle Rick and Auntie Barbara not far from here. I think I can drive to their house and ice my ankle. And Auntie can take a look at the rooster.”
“Jimin!” Sophie insists. I recognize the name as one of the heartthrobs of her favorite K-Pop band.
I call them and Uncle Rick answers. As I expected, the door is wide open to us.
Traffic is light up here, and it only takes me about fifteen minutes to get to their house. It’s small like ours, but they’ve taken better care of the landscaping. Also, there are only two of them—not counting all of their animals—versus sometimes seven of us when Emily is home from law school.
Uncle Rick is out on the porch waiting for us with Duke, the Labrador. We park in the driveway and walk past their small blue SUV, which has a huge gash on its passenger side. I don’t mention anything about it, because I can guess what happened.
A bag of ice is placed around my ankle, and my affected leg is elevated onto pillows on the couch in the living room. Uncle Rick knows how to take good care of me.
“Where’s Auntie?” I ask.
“She comin’ out. Not feelin’ good these past coupla days.” He sits in a wicker chair, his loyal Duke by his side. “Whatchu doin’ up here?”
“Long story.” I don’t want to get into all the details right now in front of Sophie.
“We saw a giant woman in the hills,” Sophie declares, still clutching Jimin.
“Might be some squatter. There’s a lot of people livin’ off the grid.”
Iced in Paradise Page 7