by Toby Neal
“Probably my son-in-law, Michael Stevens.” Wayne set the bag down, knuckling his sore back in a stretch. “He’s a good man and a good cop. He’ll find the truth.”
“I hope so.” Teo frowned, gazing around at the sunlit field. “This is bad for me. I have all that lettuce they usually buy, and much more. I can’t believe Noriega would kill Métier. Noriega’s a hothead, but he’d never endanger his restaurant that way.”
“People can surprise you. I’ll take more produce,” Wayne said. “All your peppers, and some lettuce. And help you get the word out about your extra.”
“Thanks.” Teo bent, picking peppers rapidly and slipping them into Wayne’s other bag. “If anyone killed Métier, it was Noriega’s wife, Elena. She was having an affair with the sous-chef that got killed.”
“Really?” Wayne’s attention sharpened. “How do you know that?”
“Oh, I took a delivery to the restaurant during the day. Caught them . . . ” Teo made a graphic gesture with his hands. “In the office. And François, he was a player. She wasn’t the only one he was with.”
“Interesting.” Wayne kept his face neutral as he filed away this tidbit to tell Stevens later. He hated gossiping, but he was pretty sure Teo wasn’t someone the cops would think of interviewing, and he seemed to know a lot about what was going on at Feast. “But why would Mrs. Noriega kill her lover?”
“She a proud woman. She was always . . . ” Teo lifted his chin and thumbed his nose to show Elena’s snooty attitude.
“So if it wasn’t either of the Noriegas, who else could it be?” Wayne squatted down beside Teo, blatantly fishing.
“I liked Métier, but he was a slippery one. He was going to open his own restaurant.” Teo glanced sidewise at Wayne, slipping an especially large, bright bell pepper into the bag. “He promised to pay me extra if I supplied his kitchen and cut off Feast.”
“Not good,” Wayne said. “That’s some motive for Chef or Elena right there. Was he ripping off anything else from the restaurant?”
“Don’t know.” Teo’s weathered mouth tightened. “But if he was willing to steal Feast’s suppliers, what else might he have tried to steal?”
“And what did you tell him about growing for him exclusively?”
“Show me the money.” Teo shrugged. “I gotta stay in business. And farming is a tough business.”
“Amen to that.” Wayne straightened up again to ease his sore back. “Now I need a minute to make a phone call.” He left Teo, moving his way down the aisle of plants. Once out of hearing, he called his son-in-law’s cell phone.
Wayne wasn’t surprised when Stevens didn’t pick up—he was probably in the middle of the investigation. He kept his words short, leaving a voice mail with the tip that Teo had passed to him and Teo’s contact number to reach him for an interview. “I thought you should know that Teo’s familiar with a lot of what goes on behind the scenes at Feast. See you at dinner tomorrow.”
Wayne ended the call and tipped his head back to breathe in the warm, mulch-scented air and feel the sun on his face. Then he rolled his shoulders and walked back to join his friend, glad he’d done what little he could to help find the killer at Feast.
Esther
Esther Ka`awai sat in her teaching room, supporting herself on a small, round pillow in order to sit cross-legged in spite of arthritis in her knees and hips. She held the large ipu gourd poised in front of her, ready to begin the oli, the opening chant of the dance.
Three of her best dancers, dressed simply for practice in pareus knotted above their breasts, held the opening pose of this dance: one knee cocked, arm held high and extended, pointing upward with fingers flat, the other hand on hip.
Esther opened her mouth and called the chant, her voice vibrating with the powerful Hawaiian words. Beginning the song, she brought the large, seasoned gourd down with a sharp reverberation and beat the strong percussive rhythm that animated the dancers like an electric current bringing them to life.
Esther’s whole body was suffused with energy as the dancers dipped, spun, turned, and stamped, their feet striking the floor with the firm crisp steps characteristic of the ai kahiko, the ancient style of hula that was all she taught in her halau. As Esther continued the mele, keeping tempo with the ipu, she pictured the costumes she’d dress them in for the famous Merrie Monarch hula contest on the Big Island: stripped ti leaves with bright yellow and red fabric underneath, traditional chief’s colors to highlight her halau’s elite standing.
Esther felt a sudden shiver, as of a cold wind passing over her. It raised the tiny hairs on her arms in “chicken skin.” A “knowing” was coming.
She steeled herself to receive it.
Her mind’s eye filled with a picture of bent-over, lashing palms. Waves pounded the land, and a boat heeled over and swamped in her vision.
Esther stopped the chant and set the ipu on the floor. She closed her eyes and lifted a hand to rub them. “Take a break.”
Esther would never forget that other great storm, Hurricane Iniki, which she’d known would come many years ago—her foreknowledge had been unable to help so many who were affected by it. Her “gift” of knowledge still often felt like a curse.
Her alaka`i, leader of the dancers, dropped to her knees in front of Esther. “Are you all right, Mama?”
Esther sighed and opened her eyes to smile at her daughter’s concerned face. Lehua was aging gracefully, keeping her slim figure, and her thick waist-length black hair was threaded with only a few strands of silver. Esther could still see the beautiful girl she’d been, even though Lehua was the mother of a grown son.
“I will be. Give me a moment. I have to pray.”
“You have a knowing?” Lehua still looked worried. She laid the back of her cool hand on Esther’s sweating forehead. “Is it bad?”
“Leave me alone, and I’ll know soon enough.” Esther’s tone was harsher than she meant it to be.
Lehua rose quickly and clapped her hands to the other dancers. “Come. We’ll get Kumu some nice cool lilikoi juice.” The women exited her teaching room, and Lehua shut the door behind her.
Esther comforted herself with a long look around the cool, dim studio. The walls were lined with hand-woven lauhala matting, providing a layer of both insulation and decoration here in damp, cool Wainiha Valley on Kaua`i, where Esther had lived her whole life.
The floors were smooth and springy for the dancers, recently refinished in light bamboo flooring by her grandson Alika and clear of any covering so as not to impede their movement. The floors glowed golden in natural light falling through high, narrow louvered windows.
One whole wall was lined with instruments of music and dance and formed an arrangement pleasing to Esther’s eye: poi balls in a row, uli uli rattles with their bright yellow and red feathers, bamboo pu`ili sticks, a graduated row of ipu, and a shallow shelf lined with large spotted cowries and smooth black ili ili lava stones used for percussion.
On the opposite wall was a long piece of tapa cloth she’d made with her students, hand-stamping patterns with traditional inks they’d made together.
As always, the reverent, peaceful environment of her teaching space calmed Esther. She smoothed the folds of her daily muumuu, a simple garment she’d made herself in a cheerful red aloha print, and set her hands on her knees.
“I am yours, Lord,” she said aloud. “Speak to your servant as you see fit.”
Esther shut her eyes.
At first there was nothing, and she felt relieved—just the warm red of the inside of her own eyelids, the soft sensation of her breath. But then she felt the knowing again, a certainty of approaching danger that tightened her chest with anxiety. That sensation was followed by flashes of vision: whipping palm trees, bolts of lightning, a power pole going down in a flurry of sparks—and then Lei’s face, contorted with pain.
The perspective pulled back, and she could see that Lei was hunched over, arms encircling her round, tight belly. She was sweating, her mouth
drawn. Outside the window of the room she was in, the storm broke like a horror movie with the sound turned off.
Esther gasped, opening her eyes. “Oh, no!”
Esther scrambled up off the pillow and staggered as she felt a wave of dizziness. These spells had been happening more and more when she forgot to take her time and mind her balance. She stumbled toward the old-fashioned dial phone in the corner of the room and fumbled for the small, spiral-sided black address book beside the phone, flipping the pages to Lei’s number.
Esther found the number, and then her finger paused. What would she say to the young woman God had brought into her life, given her to watch over, so many years ago? That Lei would go into labor in a storm? What did the vision really mean?
More importantly, Esther had been praying for weeks for Lei and Michael’s child’s Hawaiian name, an important gift they’d asked her for as the baby’s godmother. So far no name had come. The couple didn’t know if the baby was a boy or a girl, and Esther didn’t, either, though she often did by now.
The Holy Spirit simply hadn’t revealed it yet. It didn’t necessarily mean anything bad was going to happen. Sometimes she didn’t receive a child’s name for days after its birth.
Esther needed more information before she alarmed Lei and Stevens unnecessarily. The fact that she still didn’t have the name didn’t mean there was a problem with the baby.
Did it?
“Please, Lord. Protect them. These children don’t need any more trouble.”
She’d call Lei later, when she knew more. There were still three weeks until the baby was due. When she felt calm again, Esther turned away from the phone and went to the doorway of the studio, calling up the stairs and clapping her hands. “Hele mai! We practice!”
Chapter Three
Stevens
Stevens dismissed the cruiser holding Chef Noriega with a pat on the hood and the vehicle took off, taking the volatile restaurateur to the station for questioning. Stevens had instructed the officers to put Noriega in an interrogation room but to allow his lawyer to meet him if the man turned up.
Stevens took a minute to calm his adrenaline-charged pulse after the confrontation with Noriega. The man had kept going after his wife even when Stevens had thrown him off. His level of violence alone was enough to have him brought in for this murder.
He rubbed his aching temples. The head injury he’d sustained months ago seemed to act up whenever he got too agitated. Pain clouded his thoughts.
“You okay, LT?” Mahoe had come up behind him.
“Yeah, fine.” Stevens turned with an abrupt movement. “We have a lot of folks to question. How many statements did you get?”
“Five, so far.” The two moved into the shade of a spreading rainbow shower tree that contrasted vividly with, and sheltered, the elegant black-lacquered doors of the restaurant, where F E A S T was picked out in tall gold lettering on a red background above the entrance. “I’m picking up some really interesting rumors. Métier was a ladies’ man.” The young detective scrolled to his notes feature on the phone. “Three of the kitchen staff confirmed that he was sleeping with multiple women, both at the restaurant and outside.”
Stevens fiddled with the steel watch at his wrist. “Dr. Gregory confirmed that the stab wound that killed him, while deep, could have been administered by a woman. And then there was that ring in his hand.”
“Let’s talk with Elena Noriega next. Since we need to interview her about her husband’s attack anyway.”
“Sounds good.” Stevens’s cell phone buzzed as Mahoe pushed one side of the glossy front door open, so they could enter. He checked the caller—Kathy Fraser, his ex-partner. He pushed the Silence button on the phone with a jab of guilt.
Kathy didn’t deserve the way he’d been blowing her off since he’d returned from Honduras, but it was what it was. He didn’t want any mixed messages with her. He and Lei were solid since his return, and the complication of his relationship with Kathy was something he hoped would disappear if he ignored it long enough.
Looking at the phone, he noticed a message flashing from his father-in-law. He listened to it as he walked through the dim interior of the restaurant.
“This is Wayne. I’ve got a tip from my friend Teo Benitez. He got a call from a friend who works in the kitchens where the sous-chef was murdered. Anyway, Teo farms produce for Feast, and he witnessed Elena Noriega and the victim having relations in the restaurant. Not only that, Métier was planning to open his own restaurant and steal suppliers and possibly more from Chef Noriega. I thought you should know that Teo’s familiar with a lot of what goes on behind the scenes at Feast. See you at dinner tomorrow.”
Stevens put his phone away thoughtfully. He’d often received good intel from his father-in-law, who, in spite of his relatively recent arrival on Maui, had quickly embedded himself in the culture of the island and was connected all over the state through his bistro.
The fact that Elena had been having an affair with Métier was big, and along with the circumstantial evidence of the ring, it could point to some jealousy-related motive. That affair, along with the French chef’s plan to undercut Noriega, also provided motive for the restaurant’s owner. Stevens was glad he had the explosive chef in custody at the moment.
Stevens and Mahoe walked through the main eating area, a large space with long tables already set for the restaurant’s community-style dining. Spots of warm, colored light from hand-blown Venetian light fixtures created dramatic spots on plank tables, illuminating Mexican mouth-blown glassware, folded white napkins, and hand-forged steel flatware. The whole space had the feeling of a medieval dining hall, with brick surrounding the open kitchen area like a huge fireplace and antique coats of arms embellishing distressed stucco walls.
Elena Noriega had seated herself at the desk across from her husband’s in their shared office. She’d tied a filmy scarf around her neck, hiding the marks of his hands, and she was tap-tapping at her laptop. She looked up at their appearance. Her eyes were puffy, her face tear-stained. “Our lawyer is going to meet Winston at the police station.”
“Would you also like counsel?” Mahoe asked politely.
Stevens wished Mahoe hadn’t said that. Waiting for another lawyer for Mrs. Noriega would take time they didn’t have. He made a mental note to remind the junior detective of that. But Elena shook her head, then winced, touching her throat.
“No. I can make a statement on my own. But I prefer to wait until my friend Kathy Fraser is here.”
So that’s what Kathy had been calling about. Stevens drew out a folding chair and sat down facing Elena. “Would you mind shutting down that laptop? We’re going to need to take a look at it, as well as your husband’s computer.”
Elena frowned, but turned off the laptop and closed it, handing it to him with poor grace. “I don’t see why you need mine.”
Stevens ignored that, handing the laptop to Mahoe who slid it into a large paper evidence bag. “Why don’t we begin with some background questions?”
Elena folded her lips. She tweaked a tissue from a nearby box and blotted her eyes, visibly pulling herself together. “I’m waiting until Kathy gets here.”
Stevens frowned. “How do you know Kathy?”
“She’s one of my best friends. She did a semester abroad in college in Spain, and I met her in Barcelona, where I’m from.”
“Is that also where you and Winston met?”
“Yes. He came to Barcelona to study Spanish cuisine. My father is a chef. We met through my father’s kitchen.”
“So how long have you been married?”
“Ten years. We moved to Maui right after we married, and started Feast.”
Stevens made a couple of notes on his battered spiral pad. He needed to do a thorough background on the restaurant. “And when did your husband begin abusing you?”
Elena jerked as if she’d been slapped, then shot to her feet. Stevens’s impression of her as an elegant woman was confirmed: she wore tai
lored black trousers and a matching scoop-neck top, with a red belt accenting her slim waist. A lush fall of curly black hair was held back from her face by a red headband. If Stevens hadn’t seen her neck, he’d never believe she hadn’t always been wearing the scarf she’d put on to hide the bruising. He wondered how often she’d needed such disguises.
“I—I want to wait for Kathy,” she repeated. “I need a glass of water.” She hurried out of the room on a waft of perfume.
“We have lots of other people to talk to.” Mahoe consulted his notes. “We might as well get started. Weird that she knows your ex-partner. Small island.”
“I’m sure Kathy will be a help getting Mrs. Noriega to talk,” Stevens said as they left the office to interview the other staffers. But he didn’t know that for sure—Kathy could be stubbornly idealistic, and her loyalties might be divided.
Jared
Jared Stevens walked up the beach at Ho`okipa, his surfboard under his arm. He shook the water out of his hair and eyes briskly. Glancing back, he grinned at one of his firefighter buddies, just taking off on a big macker of a set. Pete made the drop and pulled into the barrel, getting a good ride before the wave closed out. That had been Jared for two hours already this morning, and he enjoyed the pleasant burn of tiredness in his muscles as he roused himself to trot up the sloping yellow sand to the shower under a beach heliotrope tree.
Jared rinsed off in the cool water, aware of a couple of surfer chicks checking him out. He pretended he didn’t notice. The last thing he needed was another random hookup—they never seemed to work out, ending in annoying drama. Dating on Maui was getting old after five years—the women he met were either party girls on their way to somewhere else, or older divorcées with baggage he didn’t want to carry.