Kula (Surfing Detective Mystery Series) Page 13

  By the end of the meal—a little late—I finally got around to toasting her.

  “Of your many talents, this one I like best.” I hoisted my wine glass. “Here’s to Maile Ohara.”

  “Barnes,” she said.

  “Sorry. It just shows you,” I said, feeling the wine, “we never know how things will turn out.”

  She reached both hands across the table, candlelight flickering in her eyes, and took mine. “You weren’t here, Kai. You were on the mainland.”

  “I’d rather have been here. But it’s not like I had any say.”

  “I’m so sorry about your mom and dad. They were such good people. And I know they both adored you.”

  “I have my memories of them. But I’ve got to believe my life would have turned out different had they lived.”

  “How?”

  “Well, maybe I’d have stayed in the islands. And maybe the guy you dated in high school would have been me.”

  “Maybe.” She stood and abruptly began clearing the table. “Dessert?”

  “If it’s half as good as dinner.” I followed her into the kitchen.

  Maile opened the freezer, removed a stainless container covered with frost, and set it on the counter. Inside, a pale yellow ice gave off a sweet citrus fragrance that stopped me in my tracks.

  “Lemon,” she said. “Homemade.”

  That did it. I put my arms around her.

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” She looked into my eyes.

  “Ever since that summer,” I said.

  What came next started off shy and innocent, a high school kiss, and slowly grew warmer and more passionate, like the kiss of long-lost lovers.

  Next thing I knew, we were in her bed and I was gazing at her naked body. She was just as gorgeous as in her younger photo with her late husband. Slipping off my shirt, I saw the expression on her face. To my surprise, it wasn’t shock, but curiosity.

  “How’d that happen?” She pointed to the teeth marks on my chest.

  “I never told you?”

  She shook her head. “I can see we have a lot to catch up on.”

  “Laniākea.” I said. “Probably a tiger shark. But we didn’t get well acquainted. He took one bite and swam away.”

  “Oh,” she said and continued to kiss me. “I think I’ll have to sample you myself.”

  thirty-three

  Tuesday morning Maile and I flew to Maui wearing sleepy, satisfied smiles. Some passengers aboard the Hawaiian jet may have mistaken us for newlyweds on an island-hopping honeymoon. To be so lucky.

  What I felt being with Maile couldn’t compare with my experiences with Madison. Nights with her always ended in dark, lonely drives home. With Maile, the sun was always shining.

  The airplane’s cargo hold carried an extra-large portable kennel for Kula and a small duffle containing the tools of Maile’s trade—leashes of various lengths, collars, pet chews and treats, a whistle and clicker, binoculars, pepper spray. I didn’t figure we’d need the pepper spray, but Maile said she took it on every case. I had booked a return flight that would give us about three hours on the ground in Lahaina.

  * * *

  At Kahului Airport we rented a minivan roomy enough for the kennel and headed up the coast highway to Lahaina. As the island of lāna‘i rose on the horizon, Maile turned to me: “Kai, I’ve recovered a few pets in my time. And I’ve resorted to some unconventional tactics. There’s no predicting how a case will go. We’ll just deal with what we find.”

  “Pet cases and people cases don’t sound much different,” I said.

  “In pet cases, the animals aren’t usually the problem. People are.”

  “Mrs. Varda doesn’t strike me as the type,” I said. “I wonder if she even knows Kula was stolen.”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” Maile replied. “She can’t be that naïve. But I don’t think we should confront her. It wouldn’t guarantee she’d release Kula to us.”

  “Then why bring his papers?”

  “For airport security.”

  * * *

  We parked a few doors from the oceanfront home of Mrs. Varda, our minivan pointing toward Kahului Airport. I led Maile down the beach access to the secluded white sand beach and seaside palaces.

  We hid behind some coconut palms in front of the property next to Mrs. Varda’s, watching and waiting. A few beach walkers ambled by. No Mrs. Varda. No Kula.

  As we sat on the sand under the palms, I noticed our conversation was different now than before last night. Not the words we spoke, but how we spoke them. We weren’t the same two people anymore. We had crossed an invisible boundary together from which there was no return. And when our eyes met, they remembered. No matter how hard we tried to go on like nothing had happened.

  Then Maile said something that caught me by surprise.

  “Kai, I’ve been with only one other man since Nestor died. The relationship ended when I found out he was seeing someone else.” She looked away. “Nobody will ever do that to me again. Even an old friend.”

  I nodded, having already decided to break it off with Madison. There was no reason Maile would find out about her. And no reason to bring her up now. I don’t know much about women, but I do know that a woman expects to be number one in her man’s life, with no rival. Introduce a rival, and you introduce trouble. No, I’d remain silent about Madison. Why jinx a promising relationship for one that should have never been?

  * * *

  By one o’clock nothing had changed at Mrs. Varda’s. With barely an hour left before we had to head back, I looked again into her windows. Finally I saw Mrs. Varda herself walking to one of her glass doors. She slid it open. And from a couch, where he had apparently been napping and hidden from our view, Kula ambled behind her onto the pool deck and yawned. The golden retriever’s coat lit up in the sun.

  “He’s beautiful.” Maile whispered, her eyes glued to him.

  The famous surfing dog circled the swimming pool, sniffing the laua‘e ferns and red ginger on its borders. Mrs. Varda lumbered across the deck and planted her imposing figure in a patio chair.

  “What do we do with her?” I asked.

  “Got her phone number?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll call to lure her back into the house. Then we’ll take Kula.”

  Maile flipped open her cell phone.

  “Wait,” I said. “Shouldn’t you take Kula? You’re the dog expert. Plus you’ve got no license to lose if you get caught.”

  “Kula’s met you. He hasn’t met me,” said Maile. “All you’ll need is a plan to get his attention.”

  “I’ve got one.” I reached into my khakis and pulled out a spanking-new yellow tennis ball.

  Maile smiled. “You’re a natural, Kai. Now give me her number.”

  “How will you keep her talking? What if she hangs up?”

  “Trust me.”

  That’s why I don’t work with a partner. Each of us had a job to do that directly affected the other’s and neither of us knew for sure if the other could deliver. I had no choice but to trust Maile would.

  She dialed Mrs. Varda’s number and took a deep breath. Within seconds we heard the faint ringing of a telephone in the distance. The large woman rose slowly from her deck chair and stepped not into her house, but to a cordless phone on a lānai table a few feet away.

  “Oh, sh—” I said. “She’s not going inside. What’ll we do now?”

  thirty-four

  Kula’s new mistress picked up her phone.

  “Hello, Mrs. Varda?” said Maile. “I’m calling from Maui Home magazine. We’re planning a special photo feature on Lahaina oceanfront homes next month and we couldn’t help noticing that yours is especially charming . . .”

  Clever woman.

  “Stick to the plan,” Maile whispered to me. “This could be our only shot.” She signaled to move out.

  “Yes, everyone on our staff agrees that your home should be our cover story . . .” she said into her cell phone.


  I stepped up to the hedge. “Kula,” I called in a whisper. “Kula, come.”

  The golden retriever tilted his head to one side and looked puzzled.

  “Kula, come!” I called him again, louder this time.

  He trotted toward the gate. Mrs. Varda meanwhile kept talking on her phone, making sweeping gestures, as if giving a grand tour of her home. When Kula reached the gate, he barked.

  If his mistress couldn’t hear that, she was deaf.

  I opened the gate and pulled the tennis ball from my pocket. The retriever stopped barking instantly and stuck his nose so close to the yellow ball I could feel his warm breath on my hand. He eyed it intently. I faced the ocean and cocked my arm. Kula’s gaze followed the ball as if he were stalking a yellow bird. He crouched low. His whole body tensed.

  When Mrs. Varda looked up from the phone and saw me with her Boomer, her expression changed. She shouted: “Don’t let the dog out, please!”

  I pitched the ball in one swift arc over the beach, past the shore break, and into the calmer water beyond. Kula bolted across the sand and dove into the surf. He paddled furiously like a blond otter.

  Mrs. Varda hung up and hurried to the gate. “Stop!”

  I ran down to the water just as Kula caught up with the ball, grasping it in his teeth. Then he turned back to me with a look of pride in his eyes. His birddog genes apparently couldn’t care less if it was a yellow bird or yellow ball.

  “Kula, come!” I called.

  He began paddling back to shore, kicking up a wake behind him. As he stepped dripping onto the sand, Maile appeared with a leather leash and looped it around Kula’s neck. “Let’s go for a run, boy,” she coaxed him, but he’d already started off at a brisk pace.

  Mrs. Varda was huffing across the sand now toward us. “Stop! I’ll call the police!”

  “This is a stolen dog,” I shouted to her. “We’re returning him to his owner.”

  “Stolen?” she huffed. “That can’t—”

  We didn’t hear the rest. Maile and I ran up the beach access with Kula in the lead, tennis ball still in his teeth looking like a big goofy yellow smile. I popped open the back hatch of the van and the retriever hopped in. We were his kind of folks, I guess. I jumped behind the wheel, Maile took shotgun, and we squealed away. No Mrs. Varda in the rearview mirror.

  “She’s probably dialing nine-one-one right now,” I said. “We better keep Kula down and out of sight.”

  Maile climbed into the back and coaxed the soggy dog into the kennel. I aimed the van through Lahaina town and then onto the highway back to Kahului. After all the excitement, Kula lay down inside the crate to rest. Maile stayed with him all the way to the airport, her soothing voice reassuring the dog—and me—that we had done the right thing.

  * * *

  A few minutes before we pulled into Kahului Airport, my cell phone rang. I made a right turn with one hand, and with the other flipped open the phone, too preoccupied with driving to check caller ID.

  “Darling, where are you? I’ve been calling your apartment and your office all afternoon.” Madison.

  “I’m on a case.” I spoke softly. “What’s the problem?”

  “Conrad’s gone back to L.A. I thought you’d want to know.”

  “So there’s no problem?”

  “Well, there might be,” she replied. “Something strange happened to me today.”

  “Like what?” I glanced back at Maile. I hoped Madison would be quick.

  “I sent a check to Barry Buckingham.”

  “Really?” Bad idea, I thought. But it’s her money.

  “Then this afternoon driving home from Gucci I tuned in Barry’s show, but it wasn’t on. The station was playing elevator music.”

  Uh-oh.

  “I started to worry, since I had just sent him a check,” Madison went on. “So I called the radio station. The receptionist said the show had been cancelled. She wouldn’t say why.”

  “Hmmm.” I couldn’t begin to tell her the whole Barry Buckingham story. Not now.

  “Then I called Barry’s offices and left a message. Well, I left three messages. He hasn’t returned any of them.”

  “When did you mail your check?”

  “Saturday.”

  “Today’s Tuesday. It may be too late.”

  “For what?” Madison sounded worried.

  “To put a stop payment on it.”

  “You think it’s that serious?”

  “If it is, you’ll lose every penny. If it’s not, you can always send him another one.”

  “No wonder Conrad always handles the money,” Madison said. “I’ve made a mess of this!” She hung up, without saying goodbye.

  “What was that about?” Maile asked from the back of the van.

  “My client’s radio program has been yanked off the air. And he’s not returning calls.”

  “What does that mean for Kula?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  thirty-five

  At Kahului Airport a skycap helped us load Kula’s kennel onto a dolly. Maile stayed with the damp retriever while I returned the van. By the time I made my way to the ticket counter, the two of them were near the front of the line. Inside the kennel Kula hunkered down and glanced at me through the side grates with a bewildered look in his eyes. I felt for him. But I knew we’d have him home in no time.

  * * *

  It was nearly 5:30 when we claimed Kula at the inter-island terminal in Honolulu. Maile released him in baggage claim and the sunny retriever stepped stiffly from the kennel and then made a beeline for the nearest pillar and lifted his leg.

  “Kula!” It was too late.

  A yellow stream poured down the pillar and formed a puddle on the tile floor. Maile and I looked at one another. She corralled Kula and slipped on his gold-embossed collar and led him quickly out the door. We walked to the parking garage.

  The surfing dog hopped into the back of my Impala where, instead of a seat, my surfboard stretched into the trunk. Kula pressed his nose against the rear window on the driver’s side, smeared it, and barked. I cranked down the window. Maile sat in front with me, my board’s nose resting on the seat between us. As I pulled from the garage, Kula stuck his head out the window and sniffed the breeze. Maile glanced back at him.

  “We should rinse the saltwater off his coat,” she said.

  “We’re going to Wonderview,” I said. “Lehua may want to do it herself. She hasn’t seen him for a week.”

  Soon we were climbing Tantalus. Kula grew restless when he saw the familiar winding road. He stuck his head way out the window. His mouth gaped into a big smile. As we pulled up to the white wall surrounding the mansion, Kula’s energy rose to a crescendo. He barked and squirmed and tried to jump through the window.

  Maile put him on leash and walked him along the white wall where he sniffed and lifted his leg in familiar places. They stopped at the copper gate. Kula barked and Maile attempted to let him in, but the gate was locked. Kula barked again. I tried the gate myself, with no luck. Then I buzzed the intercom.

  Silence.

  I buzzed again.

  I pushed the buzzer one more time and then climbed over the wall. I hiked up the granite steps to the koa doors and knocked.

  No answer.

  I twisted the knob. It wasn’t locked. I stepped inside. The entry hall lights were on.

  “Hello? Mr. Buckingham? Lehua?” I said.

  The only sound was the echoing of my own voice.

  I wandered down the hallway. “Mr. Buckingham?”

  In a bedroom plastered with surfing posters that I assumed was Lehua’s, clothing was scattered on the floor. It looked like the teenager had dressed haphazardly and left in a hurry. I walked to the end of the hallway and opened a door that led to the garage. There sat Lehua’s green Mini, but not her father’s Rolls. It appeared they were gone.

  I walked back into the house. On the opposite side of Lehua’s bedroom overlooking the blue sea I found Buckingha
m’s office and his master bedroom. The office appeared untouched—except for a wall safe. It was wide open and empty. No cash. No gold. No sign of the pitchman’s pistol.

  In his mammoth bedroom I found a walk-in closet, bigger than my apartment, that looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. An antique dresser and chest were heaped with clothing and there was another pile on the white carpet. A half-full overnight bag lay next to it. It appeared that Buckingham, like his daughter, had grabbed whatever he could carry and ran.

  Lying in the open top drawer was a velvet jewelry case. Empty. I slid open the next drawer: Calvin Klein boxers and undershirts. Then the next: button down Oxford shirts in pastel colors. The bottom drawer appeared to be empty. I looked more closely.

  Back in a dark corner, where Buckingham had apparently forgotten it, lay a shark’s tooth on a broken black cord. Not the sort of jewelry Buckingham wore. I checked out the necklace. The tooth was engraved in scrimshaw with the letter M.

  Moku Taliaferro.

  It could mean only one thing. Buckingham was involved in Moku’s murder.

  I stuffed the necklace into my pants pocket and called Detective Fernandez, hoping he’d believe me. I got his voicemail.

  “I think I’ve found the man who crushed Moku’s skull, Frank. Barry Buckingham. I’ll deliver the evidence to you, but first I’m going after him.” I paused and thought. “He probably killed Reiko Infante too. And maybe his own wife. I’m heading down to Ala Moana Yacht Club, where he keeps his boat. It’s called the Golden Hinde.”

  Climbing back over the wall I found Maile still walking Kula outside the grounds. The retriever’s tail was wagging. He looked happy to be almost home.

  “Buckingham left,” I said, “in a rush. But he forgot this.” I showed her the broken necklace.

  “So?”