JoAnn Bassett - Islands of Aloha 07 - Moloka'i Lullaby (6 page)

“I see. So George named his beach house, ‘Beach House’ in Hawaiian,” I said. “Not very original of him.”

“You speak our language?” she said.

“I’m island-born and raised.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Your name: Polly. It sounded to me like an English name.” She looked downright mortified. As if mistaking a local for a tourist was an unpardonable sin.

“It’s spelled P-A-L-I. But, no worries,” I said. “I appreciate your
kokua
.”

She smiled. “My pleasure. You have a good day, eh?”

“You too,” I said, as I waved good-bye with a
shaka.

***

I pushed the little Geo to its maximum speed, forty-eight, making it down the winding road to Hale Kahakai in about ten minutes. The place was hidden behind a fortress-like lava rock wall at least eight feet high. There was a formidable metal gate across the entrance to the driveway, so I parked on the street and approached on foot. At the
mauka
, or inland, corner of the wall was a three-foot gap opening to a sidewalk that allowed pedestrian access, probably for the hired help or perhaps the occasional UPS delivery guy.

Once I’d gotten past the wall I could see why Bustamante had sealed off his property. The place was incredible. It was more of a compound than simply a house, with two or three
ohana
, or guest houses, and at least three large outbuildings that looked like either garages or barns. At the far end of the property was an enormous swimming pool with views to the beach below.

I made my way toward a majestic main residence with a soaring pitched roof and what appeared to be an entire wall of glass facing the sea. It sat up high, like a mighty ship’s bow, with a wraparound
lanai.
From where I was standing, I could count more furniture on the
lanai
than I had in my entire house.

The sidewalk was festooned on each side with lush ferns interspersed with orchids of all shapes, sizes and colors. I’m kind of a nut for orchids, so I took a minute to really inspect an especially interesting one with stalks of yellow blooms. The blooms had dark purple markings that made them look like tiny human faces. I didn’t know what the horticultural name might be, but I dubbed it the “smiley face” orchid and vowed to keep an eye out for one at my local nursery.

I knocked on the door. No answer. I looked for a doorbell, but didn’t see one, so I knocked again. Louder. Still, no answer.

I backtracked, taking the sidewalk in the other direction, down toward the beach. As I got closer to the swimming pool I could see it’d been lined in crystalline blue tiles that rivaled the lapis blue of the sky above. Everything was clean, tidy, and perfectly manicured. And silent. Unnervingly silent. Even the low-tide waves washing ashore seemed hushed and hesitant.

When I got to the wall on the property line, I looked back at the magnificent house looming above me. I’d never seen anything like it. I’d once done a wedding for the spoiled daughter of a mainland “garbage king” who’d built a beachfront house in Olu’olu, a very exclusive area of West Maui. His home was beautiful. This one was spectacular.

I surveyed the length of the wall and calculated how much beach frontage the property was sitting on. Although no one in Hawaii can ever technically own the beach from the water line to the highest water mark on the shore, it’s still pretty darn private when you’ve erected a behemoth house that looks down on the beach below.

I wondered if Amanda and Richard were planning on getting married on the beach, but then I remembered the wheelchair. If my hunch was right, and he wasn’t totally dependent on the wheelchair, maybe he’d be willing to forego it for a few minutes so he could look into her eyes when they took their vows. One more detail I’d need to clarify.

I headed back toward the house, glancing left and right in hope of finding at least one member of the apparent army of landscapers, pool cleaners, and window washers it must take to keep a huge property like Hale Kahakai in such top notch condition. I wanted to introduce myself and hopefully gain access to the house so I could get an idea of the space I’d be working with.

I’d gone back up the sidewalk and had nearly made it back to the gap in the wall when I heard rustling. I looked around, but the lush foliage was so thick I couldn’t see anything—in front or behind me.

“Stop!” said a voice.

I halted, delighted I’d finally found someone to talk to.

A scowling guy stepped out of the greenery no more than five feet behind me. He definitely looked like a local. Dark skin, bare-chested, with formidable musculature and a face streaming with sweat.

It was surprising I noticed the sweat, because by now my attention was focused elsewhere. Mainly, on the thick blade of the three-foot long machete he held gripped in his massive brown hands.

CHAPTER 8

Machete Man growled, “This is private property. You got no business being here.” His pronunciation of the word
business
made it sound more like
bidness
, but I was in no position to offer an elocution lesson. I raised my open palms to shoulder height in an effort to appear cooperative.

“
Aloha
,” I said. My voice quavered. Even though I’d offered no resistance, he still hadn’t relaxed his grasp on the menacing blade. “I’ve come from Maui to check out Mr. Bustamante’s property. A business associate of his is getting married here in a couple of weeks.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I didn’ hear nuthin’ about no wedding.”

I wanted to point out that I doubted if the wealthy property owner felt obliged to disclose the social happenings on his private estate to his gardener, or security guy, or whatever this guy’s job was. But, once again, I took the high road and kept my mouth shut.

“It’s true. Mr. Bustamante’s colleague, Mr. Richard Atkinson, is getting married here on the twenty-seventh. It won’t be a large affair, maybe fifteen to twenty people, tops. They’re keeping it casual, you know, buffet dinner, open bar—”

“Stop,” the guy roared. “I tol’ you I never heard nuthin’ about it.”

Well,
I thought,
I’m not surprised. You’re not an easy guy to talk to.

We stood there, facing each other, him flexing his fingers on the machete handle, me wondering if I was wearing Emergency Room-worthy underwear. Wouldn’t you know, at that moment my cell phone went off.

“That’s my phone,” I said. “Can I answer it?”

He glared at me as if accusing me of telepathically arranging to receive a phone call just to complicate things for him.

“It’s probably just my fiancé calling to check up on me. He’ll get worried if I don’t answer. And then he’ll come looking for me, or call the police or something.” I didn’t think it wise to mention that my fiancé didn’t have a car, and had no real knowledge of where I was. I hoped the thought of a worried guy calling the cops might give Machete Man something to think about.

And, apparently, he was thinking. He stayed silent while the phone continued to chime. Then it stopped. About ten seconds later, the phone chirped a bright
ping,
indicating the caller had left a message.

“How’d you get back here?” Machete Man finally said.

“I walked through the opening in the wall over there in the corner. I thought that’s what it was there for: people coming in on foot.” I turned and nodded toward the wall behind me. “Look, I appreciate you being so attentive to private property rights and all. But seriously, I’m simply here to see where the wedding will take place and to get a few ideas on how we can set things up. I’m the wedding planner.”

“You’re a wedding planner?” he said in a perky voice that was light years removed from his previous growl. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t already mentioned the wedding at least twice before. Maybe the guy was slow on the uptake.

“Yes,” I said. “From Maui. And I’m here to check out the venue.”

“Why didn’ you tell me that before?” he said. Now, he was all smiles. He transferred the machete to one hand, bringing the point down and shoving it into the dirt like a conquistador claiming territory.

“Ya know, my mom does weddings, birthday parties, stuff like that. She’s good at it, too. You should call her. She can pro’bly hook you up with everyt’ing you need.”

I slowly lowered my hands, sticking my right paw out for a handshake.

“Pali Moon,” I said. “From ‘Let’s Get Maui’d.”

He allowed that to roll around in his cavernous skull for a few seconds, and then said, “Oh, I get it. Yeah. I’m Lono. I work here. I live here, too, but mostly I’m here working.”

“Nice to meet you, Lono.”

“You come wit’ me,” he said. “I’ll get you my mom’s numba. Right now she’s over at my sista’s place on O’ahu, but she’ll be back by Monday.”

I followed him to his caretaker bungalow. I had a hunch that after talking to Lono’s mother, my anxiety about being able to get what I needed on Moloka’i was either gonna get a whole lot better or a whole lot worse.

***

His mother’s name was Malama. I never did get her full name, but I had her phone number so that was enough. I jogged back to the car while listening to Hatch’s voicemail message on my phone.

“Pali, it’s me,” he said. “I’m starting to get a little worried about you. Call when you get this.”

I called and offered a thumbnail version of the events of the last hour. I promised I’d be back within a half-hour, and so, once again I pushed the decades-old Geo to its limits all the way back to the condo.

Hatch met me at the door.

“Are you okay?” he said. “You looked spooked.”

I filled him in on my encounter with Lono, aka Machete Man, but told him it had ended amicably.

“I had a great time surfing,” he said. “Empty beaches and nobody in my way on the good waves. We should come over here more often.”

That night, Hatch grilled the fish we’d picked up at the market, and I made a salad. Afterwards, we sat outside watching the moon edge its way across a star-flecked sky.

“It sure is quiet here,” Hatch said.

“Yeah. Almost
too
quiet.”

“So, the place where they’re having the wedding is nice?”

“It’s fantastic. It’s even more la-di-dah than your Australian movie maker’s spread in Sprecklesville.”

“Oh yeah? How so?” He sounded a little put off; as if I’d dissed him personally by saying his landlord’s fancy compound on Maui had been one-upped by George Bustamante’s swanky beach house.

“Well, first of all, it’s directly on the beach. I bet there’s at least a football field of totally secluded beach right in front of the property. The house itself is huge, along with
ohana
cottages, and barns, and three or four huge garages. I’d say the estate takes up a good four or five acres.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I’ll tell you what: I know you want to go to Kaulapapa tomorrow, but let’s leave a little early and I’ll take you by there. You can’t imagine how beautiful it is.”

Hatch folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair. His facial expression was almost brooding in the gathering darkness.

“Are you okay?” I said.

“Yeah, I was just thinking. Do you ever regret saying, ‘yes’?”

“What are you talking about?

“I had to practically hog-tie you to get you to say ‘yes’ to marrying me,” he said in a low voice. “I’m just wondering if on days like this—you know, when you see how the one-percenters live—if you have second thoughts about hooking up with a humble smoke-eater like me.”

I went over and sat in his lap. I leaned in and gave him a kiss. “You know,” I said. “I was a one-percenter for a little while, remember? It didn’t suit me, so I got rid of it. You suit me. I never want to get rid of you.”

“You promise?” he said.

“Isn’t that what marriage is? A promise.”

***

The next morning we asked about going to the Kaluapapa Settlement, but the woman who ran the condo office said it was closed on Sundays.

“You know, there are still Hansen’s Disease patients living there,” she said. “They’re cured now, but they still have the scars. Tours go down there every day, so Sunday’s the only day the residents have the place to themselves.”

“
Mahalo,
” I said. “I guess we’ll have to check out Kalaupapa another time.”

We walked out to the Geo and I offered to drive. The car was stifling inside. Hatch cranked on the A/C, but all the little blower could do was simply move the hot stale air around, no sign of cooling.

“Since we can’t go down to Kalaupapa, what would you like to do today?” I said. I felt a trickle of sweat creeping down my spine.

“Why don’t we go to the beach out by your swanky wedding place?” said Hatch. “When I was surfing yesterday I ran into a guy who told me Papohaku Beach is over three miles long and three-hundred feet wide. The locals claim it’s the biggest white sand beach in Hawaii.”

“I thought Waikiki was the biggest,” I said.

“Nope. The dude said the Hawaii PR machine likes the tourists to think that, so they can keep them corralled on O’ahu. But he swore this one’s bigger. And it’s no doubt cleaner. Did I ever tell you about what a tourist brought in to the station when I was still with HPD? He claimed he’d found it on Waikiki Beach.”

“I have a hunch it’s gonna be something disgusting.”

“You got that right. It was a finger. A human pinkie finger. Cut cleanly at the first joint. We ran the print but didn’t get a match.”

“
Mahal
o for that visual, Hatch.”

“Oh, come on. You’ve seen way worse stuff than that.”

“True.”

As we drove past the verdant green fields of rural Moloka’i under a wide sapphire-blue sky dotted with towering white clouds, it was hard to imagine the pain and misery people inflicted on each other. I’d certainly seen my share. But I felt a sea change coming, and things were looking up. I’d spent quite enough of the past few years immersed in the sticky drama of other people’s lives. It felt good to be finally coming up for air.