Pleasing the Dead (8 page)

Chapter Twelve

Stella unloaded the take-out from Ono Saimin onto the kitchen table in the apartment she and Keiko shared. The smell made her mouth water, and had drawn Keiko from her slump on the battered living room sofa, where she'd been since Stella dropped her off.

“Got plenty char siu?” Keiko asked, and Stella beamed. Success.

“Yours does. I have high cholesterol, remember? No pork for me. I got Pono's veggie special.”

Keiko peered into Stella's bowl. “I see fish cake and egg.”

Stella put her hands on her hips. “I can cheat a little.”

Keiko actually smiled, which made Stella happier. The phone rang and Stella rolled her eyes with mock exasperation.

“Hello? Hey, Pauline. What's up?” Stella handed Keiko a flat-bottomed Japanese spoon and motioned for her to begin. “It's Auntie Piko,” she whispered to Keiko.

“You hear about that explosion yesterday?” Pauline warbled with excitement. She could hardly wait to pass the news.

“Who didn't?”

“My son was supposed to be there. His associate went instead at the last minute, and he was killed.”

“God, Pauline. I'm sorry to hear that.” Stella was sorry for Pauline, though she didn't care for Wayne Harding. He had a smarmy smile and eyes that never settled on a face.

“You talked to Ichiru Tagama lately?” Pauline asked.

“No. Why are you asking?”

Keiko put down her spoon. Stella made a placating motion and walked around the corner, out of the kitchen.

“He met with Obake.”

“He doesn't work for Obake anymore.” If voices had temperatures, Stella's dropped thirty degrees. “Pauline, you know you can't always believe Yasuko. She has to say whatever Obake tells her to say.”

“Hey, she didn't have to call.”

Stella made a snorting noise.

“You forget, she helped Keiko.”

Stella peeked around the corner at the young woman, who sat in a chair, twisted the cuffs of her sleeves around her wrists, and stared into her lap. She hadn't touched her soup since the phone rang.

“She had to. It was damage control.”

Pauline didn't respond. They'd been down this road before.

Stella spoke first. “Hey, Pauline. Sorry I take it out on you.”

“S'okay.” Pauline's voice was soft. “But keep in mind, Yasuko didn't have to call you.” She paused. “And there wasn't nothing you could do before.”

When Stella answered, her voice was a hoarse whisper. “You're wrong. I should have helped Angela. I should have been there for her.”

“You going to live your whole life with regret? It wasn't fair of Barb to lay that responsibility on you.”

“Barb couldn't do anything. I let Angela down, and I have to live with that.”

Pauline sighed. “Yeah, well. That's why I called. I wanted to let you know Obake was in town. Keiko's going to hear about it.”

“How do you know he wasn't behind that explosion?”

“How can you say that? It was an attempt on his life. His body-guards barely got him out in time.”

“Yasuko told you that?”

“No, Wayne did. You know what a softie my son is. He was pretty upset.”

Sure, Wayne was soft and cozy as lava rock.

“Thanks for calling, Pauline.” Stella hung up the phone and dragged herself back to the kitchen. She sat down in the chair opposite Keiko and propped her head, which felt as heavy as an iron skillet, in her hands. She should have known. Keiko met her gaze with brimming eyes.

“You knew, didn't you? Why didn't you tell me Obake was in town?”

“It would just worry you.” Keiko grasped her own wrists and twisted as if she were trying to unscrew her hands from her arms.

Stella reached out and pulled Keiko's sleeve up. Vertical scars ran the length of her arms. Some of them were thickened and distorted by keloids.

“You're making the scars angrier.” Stella stroked Keiko's arms. “Just tell me. You get one of your funny feelings, you
got
to tell me.”

Stella waited until Keiko's breathing had calmed. “How did you know Obake was here?” she asked.

“I guessed because of those little girls and their father.”

Stella's gaze sharpened. “What do you mean?”

“My father should have done the same thing.”

Stella drew a sharp breath, but waited a beat so her voice wouldn't reflect her alarm. Keiko had avoided talking about how she'd gone to work for Obake, though Stella knew enough about the business to draw conclusions.

She took Keiko's cold hand in hers. “Did your father owe him money?”

Keiko whispered a word that Stella couldn't hear, but Stella saw the dark head nod. It was a common story. Most of the women who worked for him had been forced by one means or another.

“It's not your fault,” Stella whispered to her. “Not your fault. And it's over. You run your life now. Only you.” She smiled. “Your friends are here to help you.”

Keiko nodded and twisted again at her arms.

“Stop doing that and eat,” Stella commanded. “You're getting healthy. You're gaining weight and you got your period back. It's your life—don't give him control.”

Keiko picked up her spoon and chopsticks and took a delicate bite.

Stella piled noodles onto her spoon and slurped in a mouthful. “I'm glad you told me what you were thinking.”

“What about the little girl? Carmen?”

“She's safe in the hospital.”

Keiko wasn't reassured, and her face showed it.

“Eat, you need to get stronger.”

Keiko put a spoonful of noodles in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. The women ate in silence for a moment.

“Good for you,” Stella said, and made a show of slurping a large mouthful. “No need to be sad.”

Then Keiko did something unusual. She met Stella's eyes with a stare that didn't slide away, though when she spoke, her voice was soft and gentle. “Look who's talking about being sad.”

Stella's hand stopped midair on the way to her mouth and stayed there. After a long moment, she gave Keiko a small smile. “You're right.”

Chapter Thirteen

“I have some information,” Tagama said.

“Sit.” Obake gestured at the chair across the bar table. At nine in the morning, they were alone in the hostess bar. Yasuko had unlocked the entrance for Tagama, then disappeared.

“Yasuko will bring us some tea. Or would you like a whiskey?”

“Tea will be excellent, thank you.”

“How is your son? He's a handsome boy,” Obake said.

“He is slow to learn the business.” Tagama practiced the Asian custom of disparaging that which he was most proud. To do otherwise would bring misfortune.

Obake lowered his head in approval. “My son will never run a business.” He shook his head, as if in despair. “He will stay a body guard.”

Tagama knew Obake was doing more than playing down his son's worth. He was sending a layered message, which emphasized his strength and the depth of his knowledge.

Tagama had discovered that Obake, a word that referred to a faceless ghost in local Japanese folklore, was a pseudonym for Akira Kudo. Akira Kudo had a wife and three daughters in Japan, aged thirteen to nineteen.

Steven Kudo, the bodyguard son to whom Obake referred, was the son of one of Obake's mistresses. Tagama had hit a wall when he'd tried to track the woman down; she'd disappeared. Steven had been born and raised on Maui, and had a rap sheet long as a roll of toilet paper. Among his transgressions were aggravated assault, gambling, and cockfighting.

“Sons are difficult to rear. They take longer to mature than daughters. You have a daughter?” Tagama's voice oozed innocence.

Tagama knew that he wasn't the only one gathering information. For that reason, Tagama was glad Ryan's attempt at the gelato business had been a flop, as failure was apt to relax Obake's attention. Even Ryan's mother, though she'd remarried five or six years ago, could be vulnerable. Her new husband was a dot-com success story who'd sold his software company at the right time and retired to sail up and down the coast of California, doting on his new wife. She was probably out of reach, which relieved Tagama.

Age and experience had mellowed Tagama's feelings for his ex. For years after she left him, when Ryan was small, he'd had her followed. Now her happiness pleased Ryan, which enhanced his relationship with his father. The down side of this, however, meant that if Obake wanted leverage, she could be a weak link in Tagama's armor.

Obake replied, with a proper amount of ruefulness, that he had no daughter. It was time for Tagama to share his information.

“I have asked about the leak you suspected.”

Obake merely raised a tiny teacup to his lips.

“The word on the street is that Tom Peters, the Deputy Director of Liquor Control, was the only target. The people who set the bomb eliminated the person they wanted.”

Obake raised one thin eyebrow to show his skepticism. In his suntanned face, the white creases that radiated from Obake's eyes looked like a child's drawing of black suns. They annoyed Tagama, perhaps of their false sense of jollity, but it could be because the man was nut brown from his twice-daily swims. Obake wasn't good looking, but he cultivated a façade of virility, and he preened before women.

Tagama had to remind himself that some of his disgruntlement came from the fact that his own skin was white and his arms puny.

“Why would anyone care about Tom Peters?” Obake asked. “And what else do your spies tell you?”

Tagama took a sip of his tea. He would ask the same questions in Obake's position. “They tell me the bomber is an independent.”

“Who?”

“People suspect the husband of the woman he was having an affair with,” Tagama said.

“Go on.” Obake's voice was like gravel.

Tagama watched him carefully. Had Obake relaxed an iota? “Information was leaked to your secretary, Noboru. You were meant to escape.”

Obake's thick fingers played with his tiny teacup. The severed pinkies stuck out like Vienna sausages. “Peters was a liquor commissioner and also served on the Maui Restaurant Association board.”

Tagama nodded. “The special breakfast meeting was to assure that bars and restaurants operated by Paradise Consortium had unimpeded access to liquor licenses. Commissioners would overlook past legal problems, yes?”

Obake's eyes narrowed. “So? Peters was helping my interests. Yours, too. He was a small part of a big plan.”

Tagama knew Obake saw himself as the center of his universe. No one else was as important; why would anyone else be the target of an assassination attempt?

“An intricate watch stops operating when a tiny wheel breaks,” Tagama maintained the deference in his tone.

Obake's voice was like gravel. “Who told my enemies that I'd be there?”

“So far, no one seems to know. Not even rumors are floating around. Perhaps you have some insight?”

Tagama stared into Obake's eyes and waited. This was a small but significant test. It was Obake's chance to tell Tagama that Steven had worked at Blue Marine. He'd quit when his father flew in from Japan, about a week before the explosion. Tagama found the connection suspicious.

Obake's face darkened. “You and I have history, Tagama.”

Tagama had wanted to push the man, but he might have gone too far. “I have never forgotten, Obake-san.”

“Your past can be used against you.”

“Of course,” Tagama said, and rose to leave.

“I want more information.”

“Yes, Obake-san.”

“One more thing.”

Tagama turned.

“Your daughter-in-law wants ownership of the land under her shop.” Obake's brown face widened in a sneer.

Someone close to Tagama had talked. Funny thing was, he was thinking about giving it to her and Ryan as a wedding present. But now Tagama knew he had a rat in his own camp, and Obake had access to him—or her.

Chapter Fourteen

Keiko didn't want to come in. She preferred sitting in the car, though they couldn't find parking in the shade. Stella told her the faded blue Toyota was going to get damned steamy.

Despite the air-conditioning vents that were aimed right at her face, sweat was already beading on Keiko's forehead. Stella rolled down the windows and turned off the car.

“You sure about this?” Stella asked. “There's a lobby where you can wait. No one will bother you.”

Keiko only grabbed her wrists and twisted her hands, winding her long sleeves into a mummy's wrap.

“Okay, okay. I won't be long.”

She didn't add that how long she would visit depended on Barb's state of mind. Some days there was a light in Barb's eyes and she knew where she was and to whom she was talking. Other days, Barb's entire demeanor sagged. In her mid-fifties, she looked at least twenty years older. Her once-lustrous black hair hung lank and stringy, and the eyes that gazed at Stella could be as blank as a doll's.

A doll with thinning hair and sagging jowls, Stella thought. Nobody made dolls like that. Just syrupy babies or the ones with huge tits and tiny feet. She wondered what would happen if someone made a sweet-faced grandma doll. Would anyone tuck her into bed at night?

Stella blinked hard and passed through the wide double doors that opened at her approach. It was a decent place; there were a lot worse, she knew. Lara was taking the best care of her mom that she could. Stella signed the visitor registry and followed the nurse down the halls. She tried to ignore the odors that clung to the back of her throat. Disinfectant, overlaid with smells of illness and incontinence.

Barb sat in a wing chair and gazed at the blaring television set. Her roommate was on her side in bed, snoring softly. The nurse adjusted the shawl around Barb's thin shoulders and turned down the volume.

“Barb, your friend is here.” She took Barb's hand in hers and smoothed her hair.

“She's having a good day,” she said to Stella.

Stella swallowed hard. “Hey, Boomer. I brought you something.”

Stella handed Barb a pot of cattleya orchids. Purple, a color she knew Barb loved.

Barb made a little gasp and reached for them. Her lips parted in a smile and her teeth, as always, were white and unblemished. Stella ran her tongue over her bridge, which rubbed sores on her gums from time to time. Better her mind than her teeth, but what a choice.

“Like our prom corsages,” Barb said.

Stella felt a pang. Memories of high school had not been what she'd wanted to evoke. Though Barb had been a popular cheerleader before they both got kicked out for—what was it back then?—moral laxity?

The scandal had spread through the small town of Wailuku like a brush fire, but Barb had always longed to return to their Catholic girls' school. Not Stella, who wasn't the type to turn her anger inward. St. Mark's, whose motto was Forgiveness, Charity, and Hope. Yeah, sure.

“We screwed up, didn't we?” Barb's voice was sad.

“We made a bad choice,” Stella said slowly. Barb hadn't spoken of this for decades. It was a big step to recognize Stella, let alone to bring up the past. Maybe Barb was on some kind of new medicine. Stella looked for the nurse, but the woman had slipped out of the room.

“We danced.” Barb giggled.

“That's right.”

A cloud passed through Barb's eyes. “The old man didn't speak any English.”

Stella's pulse rate increased. She didn't want to disagree, but she also didn't want to go in this direction. “You're right, he didn't.” She forced a smile. “We drank too many screwdrivers. Remember?”

“Remember the young guy?”

This conversation was definitely going in the wrong direction. “Do you remember your date for the prom?”

“Missing fingers.” Barb's eyes looked far into the past. “He paid us a lot of money.”

Stella remembered. He'd given them each a hundred dollar bill. Neither of the girls had seen one before. That was the first time, when they'd been invited to come in their St. Mark's uniforms, pleated navy skirts and sailor blouses with a long tie. That day, they'd worn panty hose, partly to see if the nuns would notice and make them take the stockings off. They hadn't, and the girls were still wearing them when they got to hostess bar. They'd thought it was pretty funny when the head hostess asked them to replace the stockings with knee socks and high-heeled pumps. Barb's shoes had been too big, which had prompted lots of giggles. Too bad the giggles didn't last. So much for the girls' wild streak. They were trapped, and their next visit was no fun at all.

A cloud passed through Barb's eyes. “The ghost. He hurt me.” She dropped the orchid pot on the floor. The pot was plastic, but cinders scattered and a blossom broke off.

“I know.” Stella did her best to scoop up the dirt. “Tell me a cheer. You remember, don't you?”

Barb stared for several long moments.

Stella put her hand on top of her friend's, which was cold and damp. “Barb, you're safe. You're with me.”

“Angela?” Barb's voice was a whisper.

“I'm Stella.” Her voice quavered.

“Angela, why did you stay away so long?”

Stella didn't hear the footsteps until Lara came through the door.

“Stella, what are you doing here? Who's at the shop?” Lara asked. “Hi Mom,” she added in the same breath, and gave her mother a kiss on the cheek. She set down a pot of gardenias and pinned two blossoms in her mother's hair.

Barb smiled at her, reached up and touched the fragrant flowers.

“Ken and Damon are there,” Stella said. “Keiko and I were getting lunch, and I wanted to visit.”

“You can't leave those guys alone. Damon's wearing ear plugs and Ken probably won't bother to answer the phone.”

“It'll be okay for a half hour or so.”

“Mom, I brought you something else.” Lara handed her mother a can of cold guava juice. Barb reached for it and took a swallow.

Lara patted Barb's hand and gave her mother a bland smile, but the words that came out of her mouth were aimed at Stella and had an edge. “You didn't have to blab to Storm about Greg Wilson. She may be my lawyer, but she doesn't have to know my life history.”

“She doesn't. Believe me.”

Lara glared at her, her lips pressed into a tight line. “Just because you're my godmother, it doesn't give you rights.”

“It gives me the right to do what I can to protect you. Barb asked me to.”

Both women looked at Barb, who had finished the can of juice. She was pale and looked up at Lara as if their mother-daughter roles were reversed. “Angela, do you still have that land Daddy and I gave you?” she asked.

“Yes,” Lara said, and she sounded both tired and sad. “Mom, I'm Lara.”