Kula (Surfing Detective Mystery Series) Page 15

  It was no mystery to me. One of two things had happened. Either Scanlon had slunk away to parts unknown without paying his hotel bill, or Buckingham got to him first.

  thirty-eight

  Late the next morning after I managed to drive myself—against doctor’s orders—to my office, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to a statuesque Chinese woman in her late forties, in an elegant silk dress.

  Next to her was Kula.

  The golden retriever looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him. He bounded to my desk, barking and wagging his tail.

  “Kula,” said the woman. “Come.”

  “He’s alright,” I said and petted him. “And you are—”

  But before I could even finish my sentence, I knew the answer. The exotic elegance, the faint Australian accent, she had to be Cheyenne Sin. So then I said, “You’re Barry Buckingham’s wife.”

  “Soon to be ex-wife.” She glided into the office, her dress clinging to every hill and valley of her picturesque terrain. A few years earlier and she could have stepped off the pages of Glamour.

  As she sat in my client’s chair, I settled behind my desk and Kula followed me. He sat and I stroked his soft fur.

  “I’m taking Lehua away from here, Mr. Cooke. I can’t say where, but I’m sure you understand why.” She spoke as elegantly as she dressed. “The recriminations against Barry are going to rebound on us. There will be no place safe in Hawai‘i for Lehua and me. Not only that, Barry could drag me into his troubles and our daughter might end up with neither parent to care for her.”

  I patted the dog and nodded. “How did you find her at Maile’s?”

  “I called Lehua’s cell phone when I heard of Barry’s arrest. I picked her up—and Kula—this morning.” She rolled on. “Lehua can’t part with him, of course. But we leave tonight and we simply don’t have time to get him the necessary inoculations and documentation. He’s got to remain in Hawai‘i until those things can be obtained.”

  “I see,” I said, wondering what all this had to do with me.

  “Lehua trusts you, Mr. Cooke. She trusts you so much, she’s going to leave her dog with you.”

  “But . . .”

  “Just temporarily. And if you wouldn’t mind taking him surfing now and then, he’d be in seventh heaven.”

  My face must have registered my astonishment.

  “Of course, we’re going to compensate you,” she quickly added. She took an envelope from her purse and dropped it on my desk. “One thousand dollars—in cash. For your trouble and for Kula’s upkeep until he joins us.”

  “Wait a minute,” I stopped her. I needed to make sense of the strange direction the case was taking—and had come from. “Have you been hiding this whole time?”

  “Yes, from Barry . . . Well, from Abe too.”

  “Hiding from both of them?”

  “Yes. I never divorced Abe. When he found me in Honolulu, he threatened to kill me. At the time, Barry was blaming me for all our money troubles.” She sighed. “Our fights escalated to the point that I decided to disappear. But I couldn’t be far from Lehua.”

  “Mrs. Gum . . .”

  “Yes, Mrs. Gum was kind enough to take me in, even making up that story about Barry feeding me to the sharks. I thought he had hired you to find me.”

  “And you’re who I saw in the upstairs window?”

  Cheyenne Sin nodded. “Sometimes I snuck out at night and peeked into my daughter’s bedroom window to reassure myself she was alright. I felt so terrible, watching her cry over my being gone. But I started fearing for my own life and just bolted. I tried to get a message to her, without her father knowing. I almost got caught, though. I even once set off the alarms.”

  “So you were the prowler your husband thought was casing his property?”

  She nodded again. “When we first met in Sydney, Barry was solicitous of my every need. But as time wore on, he changed. You know what they say—all that glitters isn’t gold.”

  I leaned farther back in my chair. Kula had found a comfortable position resting against my leg, his head in my lap. “Well, I appreciate the trust you and Lehua have put in me,” I said, “and I appreciate the money, but I can’t—”

  “We know you’ll take good care of Kula.” Cheyenne Sin stood and headed for the door. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Kula watched his mistress leave. To my surprise, he didn’t move a muscle. I patted him again, but he needed no reassurance.

  * * *

  Within minutes I had loaded the golden retriever into my Impala and was driving to Mānoa. I didn’t call first. I didn’t even consider how Maile would respond to see Kula again so soon.

  I knocked on the door of her cottage and she came in shorts and a t-shirt, her brown hair down. Maile looked at Kula and me standing there. Before she could get a word out, the three cats scattered.

  “Coconut! Peppah! Lolo!” she shouted after their disappearing tails. “You remember Kula.” Then to me: “I don’t know what’s wrong with them. They got on well with him before. C’mon in.”

  “I’m sure they’ll get used to him again,” I said as I walked inside, the dog leading the way. “At least I hope they will.”

  “So how are you, Kai?” Maile looked me up and down. “How’s your head?”

  “Okay.”

  “Let me see.” She put her hand on my shoulder, looked at the bandage on the back of my head, and then kissed me.

  “I feel much better now,” I said, whiffing her loamy fragrance.

  “And your stitches?”

  “All good . . .” I said as I wondered how to approach her about Kula.

  “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “Tell you?”

  “Well, here you are unannounced with this beautiful animal . . . I was just wondering what’s going on.”

  “The strangest thing happened today,” I said as we sat down. “You wouldn’t believe. Well, I wouldn’t have believed it if it hadn’t happened in my office.” I paused. “You met Buckingham’s wife this morning?”

  “Yes, go on . . .”

  So I told her about Cheyenne Sin showing up with Kula and telling me the story she did and then leaving him behind with me. I went into detail. Maile latched onto every word, as if the story involved her own best friend. I worked up slowly to the point, trying to come up with a graceful lead-in to the huge favor I was about to ask. But there was no way to soft peddle it. So I just popped the question.

  “Maile, would you mind keeping Kula for a few days?” I had no idea how many, but days sounded better than weeks or months. “I’d take him myself, but I’ve got nowhere to keep him.”

  “Me? Take Kula?” Maile looked slightly bewildered. She bent down and ran her fingers through his golden fur. She didn’t say anything for a while. Then softly: “No, I don’t mind . . .”

  “Are you sure?” I said. It wasn’t like Maile to be any way but direct. She usually said what was on her mind—like when she told me not to be a jerk about taking my painkillers.

  “It’s fine, really.” Kula’s tail was waving like a victory flag. “I just haven’t had a dog in the house since Rusty—”

  “Thanks,” I said, relieved. “Thanks a lot.”

  She crouched down and put her arms around the dog. I thought I saw tears in her eyes. She buried her face in his fur.

  Kula had found himself a new home. At least for now.

  In a minute Maile looked up. Her face was streamed with tears. I didn’t know what to say. I handed her two of the hundreds Cheyenne Sin had given me. Maile shook her head, as if to say it wasn’t necessary.

  “There’s more where that came from.” I walked silently to the door and let myself out. Seemed to me, she and the dog needed to be alone.

  thirty-nine

  Wednesday’s Star-Advertiser detailed the wreck of the Golden Hinde, with photos of the capsized boat in shallow water off Point Panic. There was also a file photo of me, and one of Buckingham in his three-piece
suit. Buckingham was the prime suspect in the murders of Moku Taliaferro and Reiko Infante, not to mention multiple counts of fraud and theft and tax evasion. The story said his radio program had been cancelled. Buckingham owed Honolulu station KGHO an unspecified sum for unpaid air time. Two investors were interviewed who had purchased gold from Buckingham and received worthless certificates in return. He claimed he held the gold in his personal vaults, saving clients the expense of secure storage. But he never made good on his claim.

  The story did not make a connection between Buckingham and the disappearance of Abe Scanlon from the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. Whether Buckingham had killed the old Aussie or he was wandering loose on the island, I would have liked to know. Also the whereabouts of his lieutenant, Spyder Silva. I don’t take threats lightly.

  * * *

  In the next morning’s mail I received a check from Highcamp Hotels and Resorts corporate headquarters in Los Angeles. Twenty-five hundred dollars for “services rendered to Mrs. Highcamp.” There was no note. Subtracting about five hundred for unrecovered expenses from the Buckingham case, I was now two grand ahead. I didn’t count the one thousand from Cheyenne Sin for Kula’s care, since Maile already had two hundred of it. And I would no doubt be giving her more.

  I saw Maile later that afternoon. Kula was lounging on her rattan sofa like a crown prince. He didn’t even bother to bark when he saw me. He just waved his tail. An assortment of raw-hide chews, three new tennis balls, and a braided tug rope were scattered about the room. Peppah and Coconut sat on nearby chairs, keeping their envious eyes on the returned prince.

  “Kula isn’t putting you out, is he?” I asked Maile.

  “He’s no bother,” she said nonchalantly. “I don’t mind him hanging around . . .” She paused and thought for a moment. “When do you think they’ll want him back?”

  “I haven’t heard a word from Lehua or her mother,” I said. “But Kula couldn’t have found a better home.”

  I suddenly felt a stab of guilt. The haunting eyes and skeletal forms of Sammy Bob Picket’s captives contrasted starkly to the comfort and pampering Kula was enjoying. “Remember that Big Island hoarder I told you about,” I said, “the one who sold Kula to the woman on Maui?”

  Maile nodded.

  “We should turn him in.”

  “Trouble is,” she said, “any seized animals that are sick or can’t be adopted might be euthanized.”

  “Not good.”

  “I’m sure the Humane Society would do everything it could to place the dogs. I mean the only other way is kind of radical.”

  “How radical?” I asked.

  “We could free the dogs ourselves and place them in a private animal sanctuary.”

  “We did manage to get Kula out,” I said, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to try again with dozens of dogs.

  “I don’t think there are any suitable sanctuaries on the Big Island,” she said. “But I can find out.”

  We left it at that.

  * * *

  Heading back out of the Mānoa valley, I remembered puppy mill Lou, whose animal abuse was nearly as horrific as Picket’s. But she was small time and here on O‘ahu. Through Maile’s local contacts, I didn’t doubt we could take Lou down once we returned from the Big Island.

  I’d barely gotten to the valley’s mouth when my phone rang.

  “We can go tomorrow,” Maile said.

  “Go where?”

  “To the Big Island. I called Utah after you left and explained the situation. Turns out, some people there know of a woman who’s starting up a ‘no kill’ shelter near Hilo. She’s an ex-ALF member.”

  “Ex-what?”

  “ALF—Animal Liberation Front. You know, the ones who wear ski masks and break into labs that experiment on animals. Their detractors call them terrorists.”

  “I’ve heard of ALF, but not around here.”

  “Her name is Deirdre. She’s Canadian,” Maile continued. “We can stop by and see her shelter tomorrow, then check out your hoarder.”

  “You don’t mind? You don’t have a case?”

  “Not at the moment,” she said.

  “OK, but we better go to Sammy Bob’s place after dark. If he knows Kula was stolen from Maui, he also knows who did it.”

  forty

  The next afternoon, a Friday, I arrived at the Waikīkī Canoe Club for lunch with a potential client. I wore my best aloha shirt—it was Rayon but looked like silk—and my newest khakis that still had a crease in the legs. I had reserved a 3:05 p.m. flight to Hilo for Maile and me. We planned to drop by the ex-ALF’s animal sanctuary, then drive up to Laupāhoehoe in the evening and case Picket’s canine prison after dark.

  My potential client, a pale and balding accountant named Martin Fix, was looking for someone to investigate his young second wife. Mr. Fix wanted evidence of her infidelity, photos of the Mrs. in bed with the other man. Not my favorite kind of case. But it was all I had going at the moment. And I wasn’t taking any more cases involving pets, despite phone messages daily offering me work in that line.

  I explained to Mr. Fix that Hawai‘i is a no-fault divorce state. Photos of his wife would not be admissible in court, nor would they be necessary. He didn’t care. He intended to confront her with the evidence, for whatever reason.

  As the soft-spoken Mr. Fix told me his tale of woe, I couldn’t help noticing the contrast between his frail arms and those of a tanned and brawny canoe club paddler sitting nearby. Mr. Fix appeared to be a nice and decent man. But apparently being nice and decent hadn’t kept his wife from straying. The more I listened to him, the more I could imagine the shoals upon which his marriage had foundered. I knew this pattern all too well: Younger woman. Older man. A third party. Just fill in the blanks.

  During lunch, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Madison Highcamp at an oceanfront table with her usual martini, cigarette, and cell phone. She was alone—except for Twinkie. I hadn’t talked to Madison since her frantic call about the gold dealer. It had been a few days. Not hearing from her made me wonder if she was turning over a new leaf after her husband’s surprise visit.

  Mr. Fix saw her and raised his brows. “If my wife’s affairs were as notorious as that Highcamp woman’s, I wouldn’t need to hire you.”

  Madison noticed me just then. She made a little come hither gesture with her head.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Mr. Fix. “Her husband”—I pointed to Madison—“is a client of mine.”

  “Conrad Highcamp?” he said, sounding impressed, “The hotel tycoon?”

  “Afraid so,” I replied.

  Madison stood when I approached and kissed my cheek. “Where have you been, darling?” She then retrieved Twinkie, who was already climbing my leg.

  “I’ve been on a case,” I said, wondering how she could have missed the news stories that would have answered her question. “Anyway, you were with your husband.”

  “That was days ago.” She sounded miffed.

  “He paid me, you know.” I tried to change the subject. “I got a check in the mail.”

  “Conrad told me,” she said. “And I stopped my check to Barry Buckingham. My money is safe.”

  “I’m glad.” I didn’t bother to tell her the gold dealer was at Queens Hospital under guard.

  “I like the way you look out for me, Kai.” She smiled. “Thank you, darling.”

  I stood there awkwardly as Mr. Fix gawked at us. “Listen, Madison, I’ve got a new client over there and I can’t afford to keep him waiting.”

  “Call me, Kai. I have something to tell you. After Conrad left I thought about what you said. I’ve made a decision.”

  That worried me. I’d said a lot of foolish things when we were together, most of them forgettable.

  “You know Mrs. Highcamp well?” Mr. Fix asked when I returned. “Though I guess all those wealthy society women kiss when they greet you, don’t they?”

  “Mrs. Highcamp is out of my league,” I said casually.

  “It’s pro
bably better that way,” he said. “The stories I’ve heard . . .”

  forty-one

  When I picked up Maile for our flight to Hilo, she carried a duffle filled with the tools of her trade. But I wasn’t prepared for the rifle case tucked under her arm.

  “You’re bringing your Remington?”

  “Picket pointed a shotgun at you, Kai.”

  “Look. If it would make you feel better, I can pack my Smith & Wesson,” I said. “And I’ll deal with the red tape at check in.”

  Maile gave me stink-eye. “Kai, in fifteen years on the force I qualified with a half dozen firearms and I medaled with this one. We are going up against an armed criminal. I’ve seen what they can do. It’s too close to home.”

  “OK, Maile, bring your rifle.” I relented.

  She walked past me to my car.

  * * *

  At the Honolulu Airport Maile filled out the appropriate forms and checked through her Remington, scope, and ammo. By four that afternoon we landed in Hilo and were driving north in a white van to the coastal town of Pāpa‘ikou. We turned mauka on a narrow strip called Ka‘ie‘ie Homestead Road and drove for what seemed like miles. The road rose slowly into the foothills of Mauna Kea. Soon the pavement ended.

  “What do we do now?” I said.

  Maile glanced at her handwritten directions. “Keep going on this dirt road.”

  It was just a Jeep path, really, that zigzagged through hills and woods, reminding me of Picket’s haunt. Finally we reached a dry creek bed and the road ran out.

  “This must be it,” Maile said.

  “What? There’s nothing here.”

  But I was wrong. A small cottage, that could barely be seen, stood in the distance with a rusting VW Golf parked out front. As we hiked toward the cottage, Maile explained that Deirdre was just getting started with her animal shelter. The sun was still overhead and it was hot. Very hot. After only a few steps I could feel sweat forming on my forehead.