Aloha Betrayed (7 page)

“Are you going to write a book about the telescope and the volcano?”

“Goodness, no. I’m here on Maui to teach a class to police recruits. I just happened to be at the luau the night Mala died. She was there, too.”

“Was she? Since we broke up we didn’t talk much.”

“I thought you might have been there, too. It seemed as though everyone on Maui was.”

“Nope! I was working. No time for luaus.” He turned his back to me as he added the rack to the pile.

“I looked for her, but we never connected,” I said. “I should be honest with you. I’m asking about her because I wonder whether Mala really died as the result of an accident.”

He spun around and started to respond, but we were joined by others at the bar, and I knew it was time to end the conversation.

“Look,” he said in a low voice, and leaned toward me. “I don’t know anything about how she died. Maybe you can make it up in a book. All I know is that we had a great relationship while it lasted and I’m sorry that she’s dead. Now, excuse me. We’re on our way back, and I have responsibilities up on deck.”

I went back to the Lowells’ table, where Bob had gathered a few other passengers and was entertaining them with stories. His wife, Elaine, looked at me and winked. “He is a handsome devil, isn’t he?” she said.

“Who?”

“That young crew member you were talking to at the bar. I think he has eyes for you.”

Her husband heard the comment and said, “He’s too young for women your age.” He directed it at his wife, but I knew that he’d included me in his comment.

“As though all those young cuties in bikinis walking around the beach don’t catch your eye, Bob.”

“Different for a man,” he said. “Nothing wrong with an older guy taking up with a younger gal.”

Elaine rolled her eyes and said to me, “I noticed him at the luau. All the women were looking at those big shoulders and blue eyes.”

“He was at the luau?”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure. Couldn’t help but notice him. You didn’t?”

I shook my head.

“Well, I could see that you were tired last night. A bit of jet lag, I guess. I was, too. Of course, Bob was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, like he always is. Wanted to party into the wee hours. I don’t know where he gets his energy. Me? I was asleep two minutes after the luau.”

She continued talking about him, but her words went by me as I wondered why Carson Nihipali had insisted that he hadn’t seen Mala lately and was adamant that he hadn’t been at the luau.

Determined to enjoy the sail back to the dock at Lahaina, I tried to put aside what I’d learned from Elaine Lowell. It was possible that she’d been mistaken about him. Perhaps it was another handsome blond surfer who had caught her eye. Not that it meant anything in and of itself. Mala’s death was thought to have occurred later that night. But what nagged at me was his denial. Professor Luzon’s assistant, Grace, had also identified Carson as the man she thought she’d seen talking with Mala. Was she wrong, too? If it had been Carson, why wouldn’t he admit it? Why had he said he’d been working?

I was the last passenger to gather my shoes before disembarking and getting into vans that would take us back to our hotels, a nice bonus offered to guests by Charlie Reed. I’d hoped to travel in the van driven by Carson Nihipali, but it wasn’t to be. I did stop to chat with the skipper of the
Ocean Star
before leaving.

“You have such a wonderful crew,” I said, “so pleasant and accommodating.”

“They’d better be that and more,” Charlie said, holding my elbow as he escorted me down the gangway. “I only hire men and women who enjoy being with people.”

“That hiring philosophy certainly pays off,” I said. “I was especially impressed with a young man named Carson.”

Charlie laughed. “Everybody loves Carson,” he said, “especially the ladies. He’s older than he looks, you know. He must be pushing thirty. My other deckhands are just out of college. I figured Carson would add a little maturity to the staff, but he’s just as flaky as the rest of them. If the surf is up, I can’t always count on a full crew. Now, let me make sure you don’t miss your ride.”

I was about to ask the skipper if Carson had worked the previous evening’s cruise when he changed the subject. “It was a pleasure having you aboard, Jessica. Would you sign a book for me if I got it to you at your hotel?”

“I’d be delighted,” I said, and told him where I was staying.

He repeated it to the driver as he helped me into the van.

The Lowells were in the same vehicle that would take me back to my hotel. Bob Lowell sat between his wife and me and draped his arms over our shoulders. Although it made me uncomfortable, I decided not to say anything.

“Everybody have a good time?” he asked.

“It was lovely,” I said.

“That is some boat,” he said. “Could probably sail it around the world. Reminds me of a joke. This sailor comes into a bar and . . .”

Fortunately, the hotel where the Lowells were staying was the first drop-off. It was situated on a vast expanse of land that sloped down to the ocean and was where the luau the previous night had been held.

“How’s this for an idea?” Bob said as he and Elaine climbed over me to get to the door that the driver slid open. “We have dinner together tomorrow night, my treat, and then we find some show to take in, maybe a hula-dancing show. You can show off your stuff again. That was some demonstration. They can’t only have hula-dancing at luaus, right?” He asked our driver, who nodded. “See? They do have other hula shows. Are you up for it, Jessica?”

“I’m afraid I have another engagement,” I said, feeling that my little white lie was justified.

“How about the next night?” he called out as the driver started to slide the door closed.

“Sorry,” I said, “but I can’t think that far ahead. Too many mai tais.”

Another white lie.

“Well,” Lowell said cheerfully, “you know where we’re staying. Give us a jingle.”

I nodded and waved good night as the van pulled away, and was glad when we reached my hotel. As I walked to my room I found myself mumbling, “Oh, Bob! Oh, Bob,” and had to smile. They were nice people, but as my dear friend Seth Hazlitt might say, “I’d hate to be seated next to him on a long flight.”

Seth! He didn’t know about Mala yet. That was a call I’d have to make tomorrow.

He Ali‘i Ka ‘Āina. He Kauwā Ke Kanaka
—
Ancient Hawaiian Saying Meaning: The Land Is a Chief, Man Its Servant

M
y intention upon returning to the hotel was to climb into bed and get a good night’s sleep. But it wasn’t to be. Mike Kane and I had to teach another class in the morning even though it was Sunday. The police department hadn’t wanted to take our students away from the more hands-on training that was conducted during the week.

I’d prepared a lesson plan I would use during the class and spent time going over my notes, jotting down additional ideas on a lined pad of paper. The problem was that my attention kept shifting from the material at hand to Mala Kapule.

While the consensus seemed to be—at least at that juncture—that she’d been victim of an unfortunate accident, Mike Kane had questioned the finding. The instincts of a man of his caliber and experience—a highly respected detective who was still revered by members of the Maui Police Department after having retired—were not to be ignored. Nor, to my mind, were my own reservations, despite my brief acquaintance with Mala. Over the years, I’d learned to give more credence to my intuition; call it a hunch. Of course I believe in facts and evidence, and there was nothing to prove that Mala had died at someone else’s hand—at least not yet. I’ve always enjoyed a statement that former New York senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan once addressed to a colleague who was spewing erroneous information: “You’re entitled to your own opinions, sir,” the eloquent senator had said, “but not to your own facts.” Facts are always to be respected; however, one’s inner feelings were to be heeded, too.

I wrote down the word “Motivation” on a fresh page and underlined it twice.

One of the subjects I intended to introduce at the Sunday class was the question of motive in a murder investigation. Not that Maui had many murders to solve. In fact, there were few, if any, in recent history. Nevertheless, a police department has to prepare for all eventualities, and with that logic, I could reasonably raise the topic. Then, too, motive applied to every crime; my counsel on why a town’s rumor mill merited attention was still valid. I had examples from my own life that had too often transported me from the writer of murder mysteries to an active participant in the solving of real murders. I wouldn’t mention to the class that one of my good friends back home in Cabot Cove often chides me about becoming entangled in real crime. Of course, Seth Hazlitt knows that it was never my intention to become involved. It just seems to happen. He would say it again, I was sure, if I let him know my suspicions about Mala’s fall. Better to simply tell him the official police version—as of now—rather than upset him with unsubstantiated innuendo, no matter how earnestly I believed it. I made a mental note to call him in the morning. I couldn’t put it off any longer.

I jotted down a number one next to “Motivation” and wrote “Relationships” on the next line.

Relationships between a victim and a murderer often aren’t obvious. What might have seemed to be a healthy and positive association—even a loving one—could be cast in a very different light by a careless comment from someone who knew both parties. In Cabot Cove, a small town growing larger with each passing year, casual conversations at Sassi’s Bakery, Mara’s Luncheonette on the dock, or the bar at Peppino’s Restaurant could be a rich vein of useful observations for someone engaged in solving a murder, if that someone was tuned in to what was being said. Did the victim owe money to another person? Was he or she involved in a business deal gone bad? Was the wife or husband in what appeared to be a picture-perfect marriage entangled in a secret love affair that was discovered by the spouse? A suspect who claims never even to have met the victim can be shown to be a liar by a friend who in an off-the-cuff remark over a drink reveals that she’d seen them together.

Of course, I wasn’t in Cabot Cove, where I might overhear a comment that would shed light on Mala’s death. I knew only what I’d been told and what she’d said.

I hadn’t looked at the packet of materials she’d given me over coffee on the day we’d first met. She’d certainly been passionate about the cause she espoused concerning the construction project atop Haleakala.

I put my pad down and began perusing the clippings and position papers contained in the envelope.

The telescope was a $300 million venture, with most of the funds coming from the United States government. Hawaii’s two senators had done a good job of lobbying for the money. A number of lawsuits had been filed by Mala’s group and another that opposed the telescope, and these had caused repeated construction delays. The contractor, Cale Witherspoon, the lowest bidder, whose company was based in Los Angeles, claimed that the holdups were costing taxpayers $750,000 a month. He also stated that unless construction was resumed soon, $146 million in federal stimulus funds would be withdrawn.

Money! There was a lot at stake financially, especially for Mr. Witherspoon’s construction firm. He was quoted as saying, “I have dozens of people sitting on their hands doing nothing—and being paid, I might add—while this pathetic group of do-gooders stands in the way of scientific progress. They ought to be ashamed of themselves. What’s more important: advancing scientific knowledge and creating well-educated men and women, or protecting pretty flowers and cuddly little animals? As for violating Hawaiian myths and sacred grounds, Maui isn’t your great-grandfather’s Hawaii. This is the twenty-first century.” A photo of him accompanied the article. He was a big, rawboned man wearing a white ten-gallon cowboy hat and fringed deerskin jacket, someone whose physical presence warned that he was not a man to be trifled with, a my-way-or-the-highway kind of guy.

His statement had been unnecessarily harsh, and I wondered whether he’d crossed the line and had insulted men and women of Maui who might be on the fence about the project.

There were statements from representatives of the University of Hawai‘i, who also criticized citizens like Mala for standing in the way of science and education. One such spokeswoman cited a special grant of $20 million attached to the telescope project from the federal government to train Hawaiians in what was termed STEM: science, technology, engineering, and mathematics. In fact, that was the focus of the new science building on the college campus, the one where Mala had an appointment, and where I had found Grace Latimer working in the lab.

From what I read, the telescope would be the largest solar telescope in the world, fourteen stories high and five stories deep, requiring a forty-foot excavation. Its purpose was to enable astrophysicists to study solar wind and solar flares and how they influence the earth’s climate, an impressive undertaking to be sure.

The final item I pulled from the envelope was a long interview with Mala in the
Maui
News
. A wave of sadness swept over me as I saw her photo, her large, beautiful brown eyes reflecting the sort of grit she demonstrated in leading the protest against the solar telescope. During the interview she said:

Haleakala is a precious site for all Hawaiians. It is known as the House of the Sun, or
Ala hea ka la
, the path to call the sun. For many Hawaiians Haleakala is the physical manifestation of the goddess Pele, and there was a time when only priests were allowed to set foot in the crater. The land belongs to the Hawaiian people and hosts a trove of biodiversity they have protected for centuries. No one, not even our government, has a right to build on it without their permission. Maui has already accommodated the scientific community with the high-altitude observatory currently installed on the summit. Now this sacred temple will be further trampled by men and women for whom the site is meaningless, except for their own selfish interests. There comes a time when we must say “Enough!” The telescope must be stopped at all costs for the sake of the Hawaiian people.

A spokesman for the University of Hawai‘i was quoted at the end of the piece: “I find it ironic that Ms. Kapule, herself a scientist and academician, would take such a vehement stand against the pursuit of knowledge.”

By midnight the day had caught up with me, and I undressed and got ready for bed. But I continued to think of Mala and her demise and found myself hoping that she had indeed died in an accident brought about by her interest in the flora of Maui. But that was purely a selfish desire on my part. If she had slipped and fallen, I could mourn her death, celebrate her life, and get on with my own.

But if she’d died at someone’s hands, it meant spending what time I had on Maui going through the painful process of trying to understand why she’d been killed and who’d killed her.

If Mala had been murdered, the pain for her family and friends was compounded by another perspective: It was a betrayal of the aloha spirit, that yearning to dwell in harmony and love that Hawaiians strive to live by.