Aloha Betrayed (6 page)

‘O Wai Kou Inoa?
—
What Is Your Name?

J
ack was no longer at the front desk when I returned to my hotel, but Eileen was.

“I’m interested in taking tonight’s sunset dinner cruise on the
Maui Ocean Star
,” I told her.

“Do you have a reservation, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“No, but I’m hoping they can accommodate one person at the last minute.”

“Would you like me to call and try to reserve a space for you?”

“I would appreciate that very much. I’ll also need a taxi to get to Lahaina.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

While Eileen called the cruise company, I went back to my room to change and to check my e-mail. I opened my laptop and paused. I needed to notify Seth Hazlitt of Mala’s death. Over the years Barrett Kapule had written so glowingly of his niece that I was certain Seth felt that he knew her, too. But that news would be better delivered by telephone than in an e-mail, and it was already close to midnight in Maine, too late to call.

Instead, taking the advice I’d given my students that morning, I looked to see whether the local newspaper already had a story about Mala’s death and what, if any, reader comments might have been left. I logged onto the
Maui News
site. There was a headline in the local news section, “Woman’s Body Found off Wailea Coastal Walk.” When I clicked on it, a short article came up:

A 32-year-old woman, a possible drowning victim, was found unresponsive at the base of a cliff off the makai side of the Wailea Coastal Walk this morning. Kihei firefighters responded to the call at 7:25 a.m. Air One was called in to confirm the location. Rescuers borrowed a private kayak to reach the woman. She was transported to shore, where medics pronounced her dead. The woman’s name was not released.

There was a link to share the story on social media but no place to put in comments.
Got that one wrong, Jessica,
I told myself. The newspaper’s blogs and columns online did have links for comments, but no one had written about Mala so far, not surprising given how recently she had died and that she hadn’t been named in the article.

The phone rang as I slipped a sweater over my shoulders in anticipation of cooler nighttime temperatures. It was Eileen from the front desk.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Fletcher. I was unable to make a reservation for you. The sunset cruise is fully booked. However, the lady who answered the phone said that occasionally there were no-shows and that if you wanted to stop by, there might be an extra seat at the last minute. No guarantee, though.”

“Oh, dear,” I said, wondering if I was going on a fool’s errand in choosing to put in an appearance without a reservation. On the other hand, if my powers of persuasion were sharp, I might be able to talk myself onto the boat. At worst, I could have dinner in Lahaina, wait for the cruise to return, and hopefully get to speak with Mala’s former beau Carson Nihipali. Of course, this was assuming that he was working this night. If he wasn’t . . . well, I didn’t have other plans anyway.

“I think I’ll take that chance,” I told Eileen.

“In that case, the cab is here and is available whenever you are.”

I thanked her, checked my shoulder bag for necessities in the event I was marooned in Lahaina for the evening, and walked to the hotel lobby.

The cab waiting for me was an older-vintage white sedan with a detachable lighted sign on the roof that read
AAA TAXI
and a slightly askew sign on the door bearing the same name and a phone number. The bellman held the door for me and I slid onto the cracked red leather bench seat in the back. A pine-tree-shaped air freshener dangled from the rearview mirror and filled the cab with a medicinal aroma. The driver’s taxi license, which hung from his headrest, was laminated in plastic so scratched it was difficult to read. But the picture showing the gap-toothed smile of the driver matched the face of the man sitting behind the wheel.

“Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher,” the driver said, tugging on the peak of his ball cap. “I’m Elijah. I’ll be your chauffeur tonight. Would you like a bottle of water?” He lifted a cardboard soda carrier holding two bottles of water. Tucked into other spaces were bags of macadamia nuts and three granola bars.

“No, thank you,” I said, “but it’s kind of you to offer.”

“Not kind,” he said, shrugging. “The water is two dollars a bottle, the nuts are five, and the granola bars are three apiece.”

“Since I’m going to dinner, I think I’ll skip a snack right now,” I said.

“Sure thing. I’m driving you to Lahaina Harbor, the Banyon Tree Park, right?”

“I’m taking a sunset dinner cruise,” I said. “Does it leave from the park?”

“From the harbor right behind it. Which one you on?”

“The
Maui Ocean Star
.”

“Very nice. You will enjoy it. Going to be a clear night. Bright moon.”

After our initial conversation, Elijah concentrated on his driving, while I relaxed in my seat, buckled in, and watched the scenery pass by as we made our way to the west coast. Once we were out of town, the storefronts and strip malls were replaced by fields of sugarcane and other vegetation that bordered the highway. On my right, the flatland rose to become the sharp outlines and brown peaks of the West Maui Mountains. Across the valley was the broad flank of the volcano Haleakala. On top, I knew, was the high-altitude observatory about which Mala had been so concerned. I sighed. It would be terrible if her passion to preserve such an ecologically and culturally important site had somehow brought about her death. But I knew that the politics of academia that Grace had referred to paled in comparison with the partisan battles that took place when valuable land and millions of dollars were in the balance. When the stakes grew that high, anyone seen as trying to impede “progress,” no matter how legitimate their cause or how valid their arguments, might get crushed in the process—or in Mala’s case, get pushed out of the way.

At Ma‘alaea, the road curved around to the north, revealing a spectacular expanse of water that had been only a distant view earlier. Marching up the mountain to my right was a line of wind turbines, their huge sails slowly twisting in the winds that swooped in from the sea and cut up the valley to Maui’s north coast.

Since he’d been silent for so long, I was surprised when Elijah asked me a question.

I leaned forward. “I beg your pardon?”

“See our wind farm there?”

“Yes, I was just noticing it.”

“They’re trying to figure out a way to cut back on the oil that has to be brought in. Gas is very expensive here, you know.”

“And will the wind energy be able to replace it?”

Elijah shrugged. “The wind maybe covers ten percent of the island’s needs. Me, I have solar panels on my house, but they don’t help fill the gas tank.”

“I guess not.”

“You here on vacation, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Actually, I’m here to teach a class,” I said, “but I’m hoping to fit in some recreation time.”

“A class? Where are you teaching?”

“Our classroom is on the Maui College campus, but the course is part of training for police recruits.”

“No kidding? Maui College, huh? Any chance you know my cousin? She teaches there—or she did.”

“Who is your cousin?” I asked as my eyes again took in the plastic-covered license affixed to his headrest. I reached out and tilted it to read his name through the scratches.
ELIJAH KAPULE.
“Are you related to
Mala
Kapule?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. Mala was a teacher at the college. She taught about plants and stuff like that. Very sad news about her today. They said she fell off a cliff this morning trying to pick a flower.”

“You’re Mala’s cousin?”

“You know her? I mean, you knew her?”

“Not well, but yes, I knew her. We had coffee together yesterday. I’m so sorry for your loss. She was a lovely young woman. Now that I think about it, she mentioned that she had a cousin who drove a cab.”

“Several cousins, actually. Me and my two brothers. We are Triple-A Taxi. It’s not our initials or anything. We thought up the name so we’d come first in the phone list. Clever, huh? Works, too. We got a good business.”

“Was Barrett Kapule your father?”

“You knew Uncle Barrett, too?”

“I didn’t know him personally,” I said, “but he was a longtime friend of a close friend of mine.”

“Uncle Barrett, he was an old man when he died. It was sad, but he had a good long life. But Mala, she was too young to be taken. We have a phrase in Hawaiian.
‘Oia la he koa no ke ano ahiahi; ‘oia nei no ke ano kakahiaka.
It means, ‘He is a warrior of the evening hours; but this person here is of the morning hours.’ She had much more to do, more things to accomplish. It is a terrible loss, not just for our
‘ohana
but for all Maui, even all Hawaii.” Elijah fell silent again. Was he wiping away a tear?

I wanted to ask him more about Mala, about her friends he might have known and perhaps others who didn’t hold her in such high regard. But I held back. I didn’t want to intrude on his grief. Instead, I asked, “Do you know when her funeral will be?”

He shook his head. “Probably next week sometime. The plans haven’t been finalized yet.”

“Did Mala live with family?”

“Not for some time now. She was independent, you know. But I know Auntie Edie will want to have a celebration of her life. The celebration takes a little time to prepare. They need to make a lot of leis for the family and people who come. And there’s always a big table of food. It’s not like a
haole
funeral, all somber. In a Hawaiian funeral, we have music, hula, singing, maybe a video of her. We have so many cultures, so many religions, we mix them up. We take what we like from each one.”

“Do you think it would it be all right for me to attend?”

“If you knew Mala, you should come. She would want you to. She loved the old ways, the traditions. Only thing is . . .” He paused. “Can I tell you something?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Please don’t wear black. In Hawaii we don’t wear black to funerals. White is okay. Aloha clothing is better.”

While we were speaking, Elijah had driven through the beginnings of the city of Lahaina. We moved slightly inland away from the chain of beaches and I began to see strip malls and storefronts again. Elijah turned left and then right onto Front Street, which was crowded with automobiles and tourists. We inched forward until a huge banyan tree came into sight; a group of children played tag around its many low branches and hid behind the ropes of aerial roots reaching to the ground.

He pulled to the curb and pointed. “There’s too much traffic to get you right in front, but if you go around the park, there will be a row of kiosks along the harbor. The one you want has a little red awning.”

I thanked him and held out my credit card.

He shook his head. “No money,” he said. “Not from you. It’s a gift from Mala.”

I tried to object, but he was adamant. “I’m living the aloha spirit today,” he said, tapping a button on his lapel that echoed that sentiment. “You enjoy your cruise, and call me if you need a ride back to the hotel.” He handed me his card. “If I don’t see you again tonight, I hope I see you at my cousin’s celebration.”

“I’ll make certain to be there.”

“Good. Have a nice cruise, Mrs. Fletcher, and take care. You are in our
‘ohana
now.”

Okole Maluna!
—Bottoms Up!

T
he
Maui Ocean Star
kiosk was unattended, but the crew of the catamaran was escorting passengers aboard. Two young women—one blond, one brunette, both with deep tans—held clipboards and checked off the names of paying guests as they arrived.

I walked down the wooden gangway and drew near the brunette. Her badge read,
BITSY
.

“Name, please,” she said with a bright smile.

“I’m Jessica Fletcher, but you won’t find my name on your list,” I said.

Bitsy cocked her head and looked at me with a disappointed expression. “I’m afraid we’re fully booked, Ms. Fletcher.”

“Yes, I know. The desk clerk at my hotel in Kahului told me, but she also suggested that if I stopped by in person, you might be able to accommodate one more.”

“That’s a long way to come,” Bitsy said, sighing. “You’re sure you’re by yourself? No one else is going to show up at the last minute?”

“All alone,” I said. “And I promise I won’t eat much.”

She laughed. “If you can wait while I finish with those who have reservations, I’ll go check with the captain. I’m pretty sure I can convince him to fit you in.”

“I’ll count on your charm,” I said.

I walked back up the gangway and perched on a bench near the kiosk, watching the preparations being made to ready the ship for the evening’s sail. As Bitsy and her blond colleague continued to check in passengers, my attention was drawn to their male counterparts as they geared up to cast off. There were three of them in my line of sight, all in dark green polo shirts and khaki slacks, the same uniform worn by the young women. They bustled about the large two-hulled boat, untying ropes, carrying supplies inside, and ushering guests along the slippery decks. I had no way of knowing whether one of them was Mala’s former boyfriend Carson Nihipali but hoped that he was there that night. Grace Latimer had called Carson a “surfer dude.” Was that the same as “beach bum”? She hadn’t said it in a kindly way, although maybe I was reading something into her comment. I try not to do that, but sometimes I fail.

I wondered at the sort of life these men led on Maui. It was clearly a healthy way to live, being physically active and out on the water in the fresh air. Of course, the Hawaiian sun could do damage, but I assumed that they protected themselves from its most harmful effects. The sun and my fair skin have never been on especially friendly terms.

A taxi pulled up and a couple got out, arguing. “We’re going to miss the boat; I just know it.” I’d heard that woman’s voice before. I strained to get a better look at them. The familiar voice was one half of the older couple from Michigan, Bob and Elaine Lowell, who’d been at my table at the luau. I stood to greet them as they headed toward the catamaran.

“Hello there,” I said.

It took a moment before they recognized me.

“Jessica, right?” Bob said, snapping his fingers. “Now, this is a pleasant surprise, indeed, isn’t it, Elaine?”

“It’s good seeing you again,” I said. “Are you going out on the sunset cruise?”

“If we’re not too late,” Elaine replied. “Bob is such a dawdler. Are you on the cruise, too, Jessica?”

“I’m hoping to be. I just showed up but don’t have a reservation. They’re trying to accommodate me.”

“Heck, there’s got to be at least one extra space,” Bob said. “Don’t you worry. I’ll make sure that you’re on the cruise. It’d be great to have
two
lovely ladies on my arm.”

“Oh, Bob!”

“Please,” I said, “you two get on board and don’t worry about me. I’m sure they’ll take good care of me. Go ahead, now. I’ll catch up with you later.”

Bitsy had disappeared onto the catamaran. When she returned, she checked in the Lowells and waved for me to join her.

“The captain said okay,” she announced. “I told him your name and he asked whether you were the famous Jessica Fletcher who writes mystery novels. If you are, he’d like you to be his guest.”

“That’s very generous of him,” I said, embarrassed. “I do write mysteries, but as for being famous, I don’t know about that . . .”

A short, wiry man yelled from the deck, “Hey, Bitsy, let’s move it. It’s supposed to be a sunset cruise, not a sunrise trip.”

“Better get on board,” Bitsy told me, laughing. “Never pays to get the captain mad.”

I crossed the gangway onto the catamaran and noticed a row of shoes lined up on the deck. One of the young deckhands met me and said, “Rules, ma’am. Shoes and socks off. Safer for you and less wear and tear on the decks.”

Barefooted, I gingerly made my way along one of the side decks to the front of the vessel, where the other guests had gathered. A young couple took turns photographing each other with a cell phone. Two middle-aged gentlemen leaned on the railing observing activity on other docks that serviced the cove. A couple with a daughter whom I pegged at about twelve years old tried to cajole their child not to pout and to enjoy the evening. The Lowells stood talking to the man who’d called out to Bitsy and whom I assumed was the captain, although he wasn’t dressed like one, no jaunty white hat with a peak or blue blazer with gold bars on the shoulders or sleeves. Instead, he was in the same green and khaki as his crew. He broke away from the Michigan couple and came to me.

“Mrs. Fletcher?” he said, shaking my hand.

“Please call me Jessica.”

“I’m Charlie Reed, owner and captain of the
Maui Ocean Star
. Welcome aboard.”

“It’s nice to meet you. Thank you so much for agreeing to take me on at the last minute.”

“You’re very welcome. It’s a pleasure to have you as my guest, Jessica. I read lots of murder mysteries, and yours are some of my favorites. Recognized you right away from your picture on the covers.”

“I’m flattered,” I said. “This is a magnificent boat, if that’s the proper description.”

“Thank you. There’s nothing else like it on Maui. I have to admit, it’s my baby. I had a hand in designing every inch and personally sailed her back here to Maui from the California shipyard where she was built.”

“I’ll look forward to exploring your baby,” I said.

He laughed. “You do that,” he said pleasantly. “She has quite a lot to show you. I’m honored to have you on board. I’m sure my crew will see to your every need.”

“Hey, Charlie,” one of the hands called out.

“Please excuse me now,” he said to me. “We’re about to set sail.”

Most people moved downstairs to the large covered cabin, in which eight tables were set up with napkins and bowls of nibbles. As the Lowells passed, they urged me to come along. Bob said, “Don’t miss out on the free food, Jessica.”

I laughed and said, “Save some for me. I’ll be there shortly.”

I remained on the catamaran’s bow and observed the deckhands smoothly carrying out their tasks as Captain Reed used the engines to back away from the pier, turn, and head for open water where he could unfurl the sails. I tried to decide which of the crew was Mala Kapule’s former beau Carson Nihipali and used my imaginary powers to envision each of them with her. I finally settled on the tallest of the three. He was a handsome fellow, tanned and trim and with broad shoulders and a shock of unruly dirty-blond hair that rested on his ears and neck. A bit older than the others, he had light blue eyes with fine lines radiating out from the corners, a result perhaps from squinting into the sun—or maybe from smiling. He was busy curling a length of rope and getting things shipshape, as they say.

I debated how to approach him. He’d finished his chore, tucking the last loop of the line in place, and walked toward the stern. I wasn’t sure what to say. Did he know of Mala’s death? If so, would he resent my bringing it up to him? Since they were an ex-couple, it was possible that he hadn’t been informed of her passing. If he had, he obviously hadn’t gone into a grieving shell; he was here working.

“Good evening,” I said as he reached me.

“Hi,” he said, flashing me a boyish grin. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Very much. It’s a beautiful night for a sail.”

As he started to walk away, I said, “Excuse me, but are you Carson Nihipali?”

He turned and gave me a strange look. “Yeah,” he said, drawing the word out.

“I apologize if I’ve mispronounced your name,” I said, “but I’m still trying to get the hang of the Hawaiian language.”

He cocked his head. “You said it just fine. Do I know you?” he asked, a smile still playing on his lips.

“No. We’ve never met, but I was a friend of Mala Kapule.”

“Mala?” He shook his head, his smile gone. “You knew her?”

“Not well, but we did strike up a friendship. I was saddened by her sudden death. I understand that you and she were close.”

His face mirrored the debate he was going through.

“I only mention it,” I said, “because someone told me about your relationship with Mala and that you worked here on the
Ocean Star
. You know about the . . . about the accident?”

“I heard,” he said shaking his head. “I couldn’t believe it.”

“It’s hard to accept. Had you seen her recently?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Why would you ask?”

“Because someone thought they saw you with her last night.”

“Yeah, well, they were wrong. Look, I’m sorry about what happened, but I have to get back to work.”

His comment struck me as oddly cold.

“Hey, Carson, Charlie needs another bag of ice for the bar,” Bitsy called to him.

“Could we find some time to talk?” I asked. “I’d really appreciate it.”

“I can’t. Sorry. You can see I’m busy.”

“It doesn’t have to be now. Perhaps after we get back to the dock? I’d be happy to buy you a drink.”

“I don’t know.” He hesitated, then changed his mind. “No, I don’t think so. I have to go.”

I watched him disappear down into the cabin and tried to sort out my initial reaction to him.

I’d obviously taken him by surprise, and his hesitancy to talk about Mala was understandable considering the circumstances. Still, there was something off-putting about him that stayed with me as the cruise progressed. Not that those thoughts were all consuming. It was a magnificent night on the water. Bitsy’s coworker brought me a mai tai, an island specialty, which I sipped while watching the sun sink below the horizon, turning the sky and Pacific Ocean into a rainbow of colors that can be enjoyed only in tropical paradises like Maui.

I decided to join the others in the cabin and found that most of the people were crowded around the bar enjoying what seemed like a never-ending supply of drinks served up by members of the crew, including Bitsy and Carson. The array of appetizers on the bar and tables was impressive—cheese and crackers, vegetable crudités, prawns with cocktail sauce, California rolls, pork sliders with mango sauce, mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat, and teriyaki chicken skewers—enough to constitute a meal in itself, but we were told that a full dinner would follow.

The Lowells insisted that I join them at their table. Bob was in an expansive mood, becoming more so with each successive drink. He took to telling jokes, some bordering on the risqué, which brought forth an “Oh, Bob!” from Elaine. I enjoyed their company but had trouble focusing on the conversation. My attention kept shifting to Carson, who passed through the cabin numerous times. When he took over behind the bar, he engaged the passengers in lighthearted banter, with which he seemed comfortable, but each time I saw him, his eyes avoided mine.

The boat anchored in waters close to a rock cliff, the crevices of which hosted nesting petrels. Belowdecks, a lavish buffet was laid out on the counter together with a selection of wines. We queued up to fill our plates and glasses. I wasn’t hungry anymore, so I went easy on my selections, grateful to find a tub of ice with water bottles at the end of the line. Not wishing to be rude, I rejoined the Lowells at their table.

The passengers scattered once dinner was served, most of them going topside to eat and enjoy the evening breeze. When dessert was served, Bob came back from the bar with a second helping of chocolate chip cookies and vanilla ice cream and almost sent the plate flying into Elaine and me when he tripped and stubbed his big toe. Apologizing for the colorful language that spilled from his mouth, he hopped to his seat and examined his foot.

I noticed that Carson was alone at the bar and took advantage of the opportunity.

“Delicious dinner,” I said.

“Oh, thanks,” he said as he busied himself placing used glasses into a dishwasher rack.

“I really would appreciate having some time to speak with you,” I said. “The offer still holds to buy you a drink when we’re back in port.”

“It’s kind of you,” he said, “but I don’t think so. Thanks anyway.”

I knew that I had limited time before others came to the bar.

“It was such a surprise the way Mala died,” I said, keeping my tone pleasant and nonconfrontational.

He adopted a thoughtful expression. “I couldn’t believe it,” he said, “although Mala was—well, she was a real free spirit.” He shook his head, summoning up his smile again. “Climbing down a rock ledge to grab a plant. That’s Mala.”

“Is that what you’ve heard about how she died?”

“Yeah, sure. Isn’t that what happened?”

“There’s some question about it.”

“Really?” His voice reflected his skepticism. “What question?”

“Well, Mala was a somewhat controversial figure, wasn’t she?”

“You mean about plants?”

“Actually I was thinking more about the telescope up on Haleakala. She told me that it’s a contentious issue on the island.”

“That’s for sure,” he said. “Charlie—the guy who owns this ship—he’s always talking about it.” He lifted the full rack of dirty glasses and added it to a stack of crates.

“Does he agree with Mala that putting the telescope on the volcano is a bad idea?”

“Just the opposite,” he said, laughing. He concentrated on filling another rack with dishes and flatware, perhaps hoping I would take the hint and leave. When I didn’t, he said, “I heard them say that you write mystery novels.”

“That’s right.”