Murder at Makapu'u Read online

  Table of Contents

  Critical Acclaim for Surfing Detective Series

  MURDER AT MAKAPU‘U | A Surfing Detective Novella | Chip Hughes | SLATE RIDGE PRESS

  Other Surfing Detective books by Chip Hughes

  Acknowledgments

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Critical Acclaim for Surfing Detective Series

  “Chip Hughes has captured the semi-hardboiled vernacular of the classic gumshoe novel, and given us an authentic Hawai‘i, believable surfing scenes, good pidgin, and realistic local characters. Like a session in smooth blue water.” Ka Palapala Po’okela Excellence in Literature Award

  Murder on Moloka‘i: “Hughes’s pastiche of hard-boiled noir and the zen goofiness of surfing bliss is effortless and entertaining.” Honolulu Star-Bulletin

  Wipeout!: “Just right for the flight to the islands. Hughes's prose flows easily, slipping into Hawaiian pidgin when needed. His series remind[s] readers of a charming new Magnum, PI.” Library Journal

  Kula: “Zips right along . . . pacing is first-rate . . . dialogue is snappy . . . strikes a nice balance between the Hawaii of today and the film noir memes of yesterday.” Honolulu Star-Advertiser

  Murder at Volcano House: “Glides along at a satisfying clip. The landscape and characters are consistently colorful. Hughes effectively uses the native Hawaiian language throughout and provides vivid descriptions of the legendary island scenery. Entertaining Hawaiian whodunit.” Kirkus Review

  MURDER AT MAKAPU‘U

  A Surfing Detective Novella

  Chip Hughes

  SLATE RIDGE PRESS

  Other Surfing Detective books by Chip Hughes

  MURDER ON MOLOKA‘I

  WIPEOUT! & HANGING TEN IN PARIS

  KULA

  MURDER AT VOLCANO HOUSE

  SURFING DETECTIVE DOUBLE FEATURE

  VOLS. 1 & 2

  SLATE RIDGE PRESS

  P.O. Box 1886

  Kailua, HI 96734

  [email protected]

  © Chip Hughes 2017 All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part in any form or by any means without prior written permission from Slate Ridge Press

  Publisher’s note: “Another Problem in Paris” is the second of three linked cases from the Hanging Ten in Paris Trilogy. The three cases may be read separately or together as one longer narrative in three parts. The trilogy begins with “Hanging Ten in Paris” and ends with “Murder at Makapu‘u.”

  Cover design: John Michener, Mediaspring

  Cover photo: Austin Reed Clouse

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks once again to my wife Charlene for reading and commenting on some many Surfing Detective drafts and for being my partner on life’s many journeys. To Stu Hilt, the generous, humble, and brilliant Honolulu private detective who has guided me through every Surfing Detective mystery, this one included. And to Deborah L. Ross, Laurie Tomchak, and Nathan Avallone for providing invaluable editorial advice. Special thanks to Lorna Hershinow for her superb copy-editing and for resetting the moral compass of both the PI and his creator. And to Cinda Inman for her eagle-eye proofreading. Finally, mahalo to Miriam Fuchs and Alan Holzman, without whom these Surfing Detective mysteries would not have been written.

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  The cliffs of Makapu'u soar over the southern tip of O'ahu, sheer and craggy and brooding. Visitors hike the popular Makapu'u Lighthouse Trail to see the beacon and the panoramic views of the distant islands of Moloka'i and Maui and Lana'i. But not everyone comes for the views or comes home to tell of them.

  Tumbling down, bouncing off rocks and spinning like a ragdoll, a body plunges from the cliffs into the roiling surf far below. A little avalanche of pebbles and shards follows. Floating face down—lifeless—the fallen one, living and breathing only moments before, now resembles a mere speck on the deep blue sea.

  one

  Monday, April 8. My phone’s alarm wakes me at six. Why do I have to rise this early to catch a ten o'clock flight?

  I'm not in Honolulu. I'm in Paris. And I’ve been warned that traffic from the Left Bank to Charles de Gaulle Airport on Monday morning can be horrendous.

  My last day in Paris and my only sightseeing will consist of a gridlocked expressway.

  I shower, dress, pack my bag, and wait by the curb on Rue des Écoles for the taxi I ordered last night. Amber beams in the east signal the rising sun. It’s almost warm—even at this hour. Not like the early April chill I’ve just endured. Figures, since I’m leaving today.

  I gaze across the street at the iron gates of the Collège de France, just a stone's throw from the Sorbonne. I know my way around the Latin Quarter now, after wandering lost more than once. The aroma of coffee and baking bread from the nearby boulangerie fills the morning air. I resist. Good thing—because the taxi pulls in front of the college at six-thirty sharp, pointed in the direction of Rue du Cardinal Lemoine where I'm to pick up Marie Ho.

  When I step into street with my bag a black Mercedes screeches toward the curb and almost hits me. This happens too fast to make out the driver or the license plate. I can’t tell if it’s just a random careless Parisian motorist or someone trying to hit me.

  The Mercedes roars away. I slink across the street, slip into the taxi, and almost ask the driver, “Did you see that?” I’m sure he did, but he probably wouldn’t understand me anyway.

  On the short ride to Rue du Cardinal Lemoine I try to uncoil and consider what just happened. The job I completed here only yesterday—I hesitate to call it a case—involved my flying from Honolulu to Paris at the behest of Paradise College and Marie Ho’s stepfather to deliver an envelope to her. But Marie, and her boyfriend Pierre, didn’t want to be found. So I walked Paris neighborhoods searching for them, all the while being followed by a grey Citroën. Not a black Mercedes.

  That doesn't stop me from wondering. For when I finally found Marie and delivered the envelope, Pierre was run down that night by, I suspect, the same Citroën. The next morning Marie told me she had discarded the envelope unopened. Hmmm.

  This is the second problem in Paris I’ve worked on for the college. Both involved Marie. The first concerned the death of her classmate Ryan Song found hanging over her photo. Ryan was, until Pierre, Marie’s boyfriend. She has bad luck with boyfriends. They keep turning up dead in Paris.

  The taxi veers right onto Rue Monge, skirts the belatedly blossoming chestnuts in Square Paul Langevin and then heads up Rue de Cardinal Lemoine. Why Marie asked to fly with me to Honolulu is unclear. She said we have a lot to talk about. I’ll bring a sympathetic ear. For an heiress, she’s had it rough—not just her two dead boyfriends. Her mother plunged from a cliff at Makapu‘u near where Marie’s only brother perished in a surfing accident. And that was after her father died. Her only remaining family is her stepfather, my client Dr. Gordon Grimes. And she’s not wild about him.

  The taxi climbs Rue du Cardinal Lemoine and pulls to the curb in front of two familiar faces. The island girl with bobbed hair and bright sad eyes nonchalantly smoking is Marie; the willowy redhead is her former French professor and was until yesterday my Paris guide, Vivienne Stone. Uh, Vivienne Duvane.

  Marie snuffs out her cigarette, leaves her luggage by the curb, and climbs into the taxi. To my surprise—I thought this was goodbye—Vivienne climbs in too. I'm sandwiched between them, the f
aint whiff of tobacco from Marie's trench coat softened by the floral scent of Vivienne's perfume. I see again the empty spot on Vivienne’s ring finger. Still not used to that. Viv and I dated years ago in Honolulu before her marriage—that just ended.

  "Thought I'd ride along with you to the airport," Vivienne explains. "It'll give us another hour together before the long goodbye."

  "I'm in," I reply. "Not for the long goodbye, but for the hour before."

  Marie turns to us with a knowing look, as if she’s just discovering the secret life of her former French professor.

  The driver loads Marie’s luggage into the trunk with mine. I'm still a little wobbly from that near miss on Rue des Écoles, but imagine I'm masking it well.

  As the taxi starts rolling Vivienne says, “Kai, you’re shivering!”

  “April in Paris feels like January to me,” I say.

  “On this balmy morning?” Vivienne shakes her head, as if to say there’s no use trying to talk to a man about feelings.

  Traffic leaving central Paris, it turns out, is not nearly so heavy as traffic coming in. The taxi hums along the A3 airport expressway into the climbing sun. We arrive at the Charles de Gaulle international terminal a good half hour early. I hop out and collect our bags.

  And now comes the hard part. I can see the strain in Vivienne’s eyes. And I feel an ache in my gut.

  She whispers, "I'm ready now."

  Is she finally over her ex-husband? "And I'm about to fly half way around the world," I reply

  "Good things are worth waiting for," Viv says. "I'll be back in the islands in early May."

  It’s not a long goodbye. She hugs Marie and then hugs me. Vivienne climbs back in, eyes moist, and waves as the taxi pulls away. I wave back and pull out my handkerchief. Just in case.

  The taxi disappears up the ramp to the expressway. As Marie and I wheel our bags toward the terminal, she says, “So—you and Vivienne?”

  “It’s complicated.” I say.

  Before we reach the terminal doors Marie stops. “Do you mind?” She pulls out a cigarette.

  “Meet you inside,” I say.

  She lights up and I step in and check my phone. No messages. I guess my client, Marie's stepfather, is done with me.

  I file into the back of a long line under a sign that says Economy—Check in. Marie catches up with me in a few minutes and says, “Not this line.” She leads me to a much shorter line that says First Class.

  I give Marie a look. Her own travel agent rebooked my ticket.

  “I took the liberty of having Celeste upgrade you so we can sit together and talk. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind? Are you kidding?” Then I almost say, This must have cost you a small fortune. But what’s a small fortune to Marie Ho?

  We check in, pass through expedited security, and head to the first-class lounge, which resembles a posh private club with a bountiful breakfast buffet. I get myself my last Parisian croissant and settle into a comfy chair.

  When our flight to San Francisco is called, we amble down the jet-way into the spacious first-class cabin where our fellow passengers are sipping champagne and lounging in wide leather sleeper seats. Ours are in row two. Once we settle in I glance back into the economy cabin. But for the grace of God. And of Marie Ho.

  A flight attendant asks if we’d like champagne. Marie declines. I accept. How often do I fly first class?

  I sip my bubbly to the bottom. Before long my champagne flute is collected and the big Boeing taxis for what seems like a mile, roars down the runway, and climbs over the outskirts of Paris. Soon I’m looking down on the same storybook farms and villages I saw a few days ago coming in. Green pastures glow like velvet in the morning sun. A bank of clouds suddenly cuts off the view.

  Marie turns to me. “Now that we’re in the air we can talk.”

  “Okay,” I reply. “Let’s talk,”

  “I know who ran down Pierre—and tried to run me down. I’ve known all along.”

  “Did you tell the Paris Police?”

  “No. If I told them they might not let me leave. Anyway, I want to handle this myself—with your help.”

  “To investigate your boyfriend's death shouldn’t we have stayed in Paris?”

  “The man responsible is in Honolulu.”

  I think I know where she’s going. So I say, “Pierre's sister, Nicole, has a different theory.”

  “I’ve heard her theory many times,” Marie says. “She believes a Frenchman named Gustave Beauchamp hired agents in Paris to take revenge on Pierre’s father by killing his only son, since Monsieur Beauchamp’s only son was killed in an accident in Lyon involving one of Monsieur Garneaux’s wine delivery vans. But it wasn’t Beauchamp who hired those agents. Or who killed Pierre.”

  "How can you be so sure?" I ask.

  Before she can reply we're interrupted by an announcement. It’s the First Officer. We’ve reached cruising altitude and he invites us to sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight. I’m usually cynical about such announcements when I’m shoehorned into an economy seat, but up here in roomy first class relaxing could be a definite possibility.

  Marie says, "It's not Pierre's death I want you to investigate, anyway."

  I'm hoping the First Officer comes on again, because already she’s losing me. Reluctantly I ask, “Then what do you want me to investigate?”

  “My mother’s death,” Marie says. “She didn’t fall from the cliffs at Makapu‘u. She was pushed.”

  two

  Before I can wrap my mind around that, our flight attendant brings us warm nuts and asks what we’d like to drink. Marie orders a Pinot Noir. I order a beer.

  I sink my teeth into a salty cashew and ask, “You’re convinced your mother didn’t slip or maybe jump?”

  “My mother wasn’t careless and she wouldn’t deliberately leave me alone in the world. It’s unimaginable.”

  “I’ve heard only good things about her,” I say.

  “I’m prejudiced, of course, but she was a great woman. And you’ve no doubt heard about her giving?”

  “To Paradise College, yes.” I recall the underlying reason for my trip to Paris—to keep her mother’s legacy flowing. “A great woman.” I echo Marie

  “Then there’s my stepfather,” she replies. “A despicable man. He’s a psychiatrist, you know, and has access to all kinds of drugs. I believe he drugged my mother and drove her to Makapu‘u.”

  "Drugs would probably show up in an autopsy,” I respond. “Anyway your stepfather told me when your mother died he got nothing but the right to remain in your family home. So what would be his motive to kill her?"

  “I know his motive. I told my mother something horrid about him. She found it hard to believe at first, but then she confronted him. However he answered—whether he lied or admitted it—made her decide to expose him and file for divorce. That meant my stepfather might lose his practice and maybe end up in prison.”

  "If he killed your mother, then why years later kill Pierre? What's the connection?"

  "My stepfather wasn't trying to kill Pierre," she says. "He was trying to kill me. Why do you think he hired you to deliver that envelope?"

  "I assumed to send you a message."

  "No. To find me and run me down."

  I try not to look skeptical. And apparently fail.

  “You’ll see,” she says. "We have two long flights ahead of us. I will tell all."

  Before she can begin our beverages arrive and there’s a break in the clouds. I look out the window. A receding shoreline below suggests we’re leaving France behind.

  “That’s the Normandy coast.” Marie points. “Ahead is the English Channel. Keep watching and you’ll see the white cliffs of Dover.”

  Across the channel I spot a cream-colored ribbon rippling along the bright blue coastline of what must be Britain. I take a good long look. It’s beautiful. Once the white cliffs disappear beneath the airplane’s wings I turn back to Marie. What she has to tell me, I expect, wo
n’t be so beautiful.

  “One day when I was high school,” she says matter-of-factly, “my stepfather came into my bedroom when my mother was away and asked me in his creepy voice why I’d been flirting with him. I didn’t know what to say. I felt guilty. I was a teenager, after all, and I probably was a little flirty. But I never intended . . .”

  “You don’t have to tell me every detail,” I say as gently as I can. “I get the picture.”

  She carries on. “He said he knew why I’d been flirting. And he was going to give me what I wanted. I’d been brought up to respect and obey my parents. And here was this man who was now my father, and a doctor, telling me these crazy things. Can you imagine how confused I was?”

  “I’m very sorry,” I say, recalling allegations of sexual assault by the doctor’s own patients. A pattern?

  “That was the first time. There were other times. Always when my mother was away. He told me to keep it between us. He told me I shouldn’t tell anyone, especially my mother. I felt shamed. And I thought it was my fault. So I didn’t tell.”

  “That must have been very painful,” I say, “to hold it inside and to have nowhere to turn.”

  “Let me tell you what finally made him stop,” Marie continues. “Eventually I confided in an older friend. She insisted it wasn’t my fault and she encouraged me to tell my mother. So against his orders, I did."

  “And you think that’s when he decided to kill her? When your mother confronted him and asked for a divorce?”

  She nods. “On the weekend my mother died he claimed he was on Moloka‘i. And he had alibis—witnesses who saw him there. But he could have slipped away during the night and piloted his speedboat to O‘ahu.”

  “So you believe he returned to your family home, drugged your mother, and took her to Makapu‘u?”

  She nods again. “He deserves to die.”

  “Life in prison is the maximum sentence under Hawai‘i law."

  “That’s not enough.” Marie sips her Pinot. “Not nearly enough.”