1 Murder on Moloka'i Read online

  Once in my rented car, I turned east onto a two-lane blacktop that wandered over terrain as red and rugged as I had seen from the air. With a blood-orange sun sinking behind me, I headed toward my motel in Kaunakakai and continued wrestling with the case.

  I tried to imagine a disgruntled ex-husband wanting to kill his former wife, a wealthy developer who felt cheated out of more money than I could make in a lifetime. But J. Gregory Parke had far more to lose than money if he got caught as a murderer. And surely he could not hope to get away with murder when he and Sara were so in the public eye. Unless he could make murder look like an accident.

  But how could even a millionaire arrange for a mule to break its leg halfway up the Kalaupapa trail?

  I suspected Adrienne Ridgely was grasping at straws. She was grieving the loss of her sister and needed to do something to make herself feel that justice had been served. It was unlikely that the facts I had would add up to murder, but I planned to work hard to earn her retainer. I would follow every lead until either the trail turned cold or her money ran out. Then it dawned on me. With Adrienne’s sizable inheritance, her money would never run out.

  On the way to my motel, I drove through Moloka‘i’s commercial hub, Kaunakakai–three short blocks of ramshackle shops with tin roofs and hitching posts for horses and mules. The familiar signs rolled by: Kanemitsu Bakery (“Home of Moloka‘i sweet bread”), Friendly Isle Market, Moloka‘i Fish and Dive, Sun Whole Foods.

  An old yellow dog with a hoary white muzzle ambled in front of my car. I braked. Though I should have expected him. This ghost-like retriever has been hanging out by the pumps at Kalama’s service station for years. His slow gait takes him across the main street each day, to the lawn of the public library, where he curls up in the shade for a snooze. The fact that this old yellow dog has survived so long says volumes about Kaunakakai.

  One block makai, on the ocean side of town, I checked into my “deluxe” oceanfront cottage, more expensive than the ‘Ukulele Inn’s other rooms because it was farthest from the notoriously lively Banyan Tree Bar. But my digs were still rustic– a shack really, without TV or phone, but with a beachside lānai just wide enough for two plastic lawn chairs.

  At sunset I sat in one of these chairs and peered across the mango-tinted water at the humpbacked island of Lāna‘i. Farther in the amber distance lay Maui, whose twin peaks resembled the sea-kissed breasts of a reclining goddess.

  As night fell, I decided to investigate the sweet strains of Hawaiian music coming from the Banyan Tree Bar. A three-piece band was crowded onto the tiny stage, strumming and singing my favorite song about Moloka‘i:

  Take me back … take me back …

  Back to da kine.

  All over, mo’ bettah,

  Moloka‘i. I will return.1

  I stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer. The bartender, a Hawaiian guy about my age, mid-thirties, turned out to be a surfer. We hit it off right away. As he pulled the tap, then slid a frothy mug across the bar, we began “talking story” above the sweet sounds coming from the band.

  I’m not Hawaiian, but I can talk like one local when the situation calls for it. I was hānaied, or adopted, when I was eight by the Kealoha ‘ohana, a Hawaiian family related to me through my aunt’s marriage. Because of that, most Hawaiians

  I meet don’t consider me haole, but just another guy who loves the beauty of the ‘āina and the surf as much as they do.

  The bartender and I talked about Moloka‘i’s uncrowded breaks and the effects of commercialization on surfing. From my wallet I reached for a ten, setting it on the bar under my two-dollar mug. My newfound friend glanced at the green bill.

  “Heard anyt’ing ‘bout dat haole lady,” I asked off-handedly, “who wen’ fall off da Kalaupapa cliff one mont’ ago?”

  “She one lawyer or somet’ing?” he replied.

  “Dat’s her.”

  “Nah,” the bartender said. “At first ev’rybody talk–‘good-looking wahine’–and dat kine stuffs, but aftah da accident I nevah hear nut’ing.”

  “Da Hawai‘i Tourism Board like hush ‘um up? Bad fo’ business, eh?”

  “Dunno, brah. Maybe dey t’ink so.”

  I stood up to go, leaving my ten on the bar.

  “T’anks, eh?” the bartender again eyed the bill.

  “No mention.” I started for my room. “Maybe see you laytah.”

  The Hawaiian music faded as I walked across the grass lawn. This conversation had cost me a few bucks and yielded little of immediate value. But that wasn’t the point. If ever I needed information on anyone at the ‘Ukulele Inn, or anywhere on Moloka‘i, I felt sure I could count on my new bruddah.

  Later that evening, I climbed into bed and reviewed the medical examiner’s report again. Cut and dried. Sara had the fractures and internal injuries anyone might receive from a long fall. No sign of foul play. No traces of drugs or medications.

  I needed more to go on. Maybe tomorrow’s mule ride would reveal something I was overlooking, something to give me reason to believe that Adrienne Ridgely was not deluding herself. I listened to the faint sounds of the Hawaiian band as I switched off the light.

  1 Song lyrics from “Moloka’i Slide” written by Larry Helm and first recorded in 1997 by Ehukai.

  three

  “Errr-Errr-Eroooo! Errr-Eroooooo!”

  A rooster strutting the grounds of the ‘Ukulele Inn jolted me awake the next morning before dawn.

  I slipped on some makeshift hiking clothes and drove into Kaunakakai. At Kanemitsu Bakery I ate some Moloka‘i French toast and ordered a take-out coffee before heading for the cliffs of Kalaupapa.

  The narrow highway hugged the arid shoreline, then climbed north through miles of open land. The rugged desertlike plateau of the West End soon transformed into upland mountains and emerald forests. The air grew cool. The higher the curving road climbed, the lusher the canopy of green.

  At the highway’s summit, my windshield clouded with mist. I cranked on the wipers, but the mist kept obscuring the glass like steam on a shower door.

  Across from the ridge overlooking the former leper colony, I spotted the mule pack station. Guided Mule Tours read the sign. The Western-style lettering above the red clapboards and a rusty tin roof looked right out of a cowboy movie. An empty corral choked with grass suggested no mules had been there for a while.

  I pulled up in front of the barn and went in search of the guide I was supposed to meet. Inside was a small office with not much more than a water cooler, Coke machine, and display of T-shirts for sale that said: “I’d Rather Be Riding a Mule on Moloka‘i.” Beyond the office was a tack room and stable containing wooden feeding troughs, rubbed smooth and shiny by the mules’ muzzles. But no animals.

  “Johnny Kaluna?” My voice echoed off the clapboards.

  My watch said seven thirty. The time of our appointment. Maybe he operated on Hawaiian time–that leisurely island pace that pays little attention to the hands of a clock? Then I heard the approach of a rattling vehicle. An old Jeep pickup appeared on the ridge, bed piled high with yellow bales of hay.

  A wiry hapa-Hawaiian in a black felt cowboy hat climbed down from the truck. His mustache was flecked with silver and his face tanned reddish-brown like koa. The fine lines around his eyes and deep creases of his smile suggested he was more than sixty. His jeans were worn white at the thighs–not fashionably faded, but really worn. A pair of scuffed and muddied boots and a red palaka, or checkered Western shirt, rounded out his rugged appearance.

  This man was a paniolo–a Hawaiian cowboy.

  We stood in the mist and introduced ourselves. The guide’s deeply tanned face wore an expression of dignity, softened somewhat by his easy smile.

  “Call me Kaluna, eh?” He spoke in pidgin, extending his right hand. “Eve’body does.”

  “Kaluna, where da mules?” I replied in kind and shook his hand by hooking thumbs, island style.

  “West Moloka‘i Ranch, waiting fo’ lawyers to
draw up new papahs.”

  “What papahs?” I studied the paniolo’s lively brown eyes.

  “New liability waiver for customahs to sign. Eva since da accident we suspend da tour.” The guide eyed me warily. “Kai, you one lawyer?”

  “Private investigator.” I handed him my card.

  “Detective, eh?” He eyed the full-color wave rider. “And surfah too?”

  I nodded. “No worry, my client no like sue da tour company.”

  “Hū!” Kaluna let out a big breath. “Not much work while da stable shut down, except driving to da ranch and feeding da mules.”

  “Kaluna, you like tell me ‘bout da accident?”

  The mule guide’s smile faded. “Was worst day of my life.” He paused to reflect, his expression turning more somber. “Da wahine, Sara, she wen’ fall ‘bout one t’ousand feet down da pali. Was one doctor in da party, but he no could do nut’ing–fo’ da wahine or fo’ Coco.”

  “Who Coco?”

  “Da mule, bruddah.” Kaluna’s brown eyes glistened. “Good mule. Not like Coco fo’ stumble. I bury him wit’ one backhoe by da trailhead. You see da grave when we hike down.”

  “You bury da mule yourself?” I wondered at such trouble and expense for a pack animal.

  “Was my favorite.” The guide spoke slowly, holding back emotion. “I had one tour helicopter hoist ‘em up da trail.” Kaluna motioned me toward the barn. “Ovah hea. I get you da doctor’s name and da oddahs.”

  We walked into the office. From a drawer behind the counter Kaluna pulled a guest book of black leatherette with silver trim. He opened to Wednesday, September 6.

  “Dis’ da day. Slow day. Was only four riders besides da wahine, Sara. All come separate. One was da doctor. And two more kāne and anoddah wahine.”

  “Three men and one woman?”

  He nodded.

  “O.K. if I take picture of da four names?”

  “Whatevahs.” He handed me the dusty black book. The doctor, Benjamin Goto, lived in Honolulu. The second man, Milton Yu, gave an address on the Hāmākua Coast of the Big Island. The third, Emery Archibald, listed only “Island Fantasy Holidays, Glendale, CA.” And the woman, Heather Linborg, lived on Maui. With the 35-millimeter camera I always carry along on cases, an old but dependable Olympus, I photographed the relevant pages of the book.

  “What you remembah ‘bout da four people?” I asked.

  “Was one mont’ ago,” Kaluna replied. “Usually forget after dat long, but da accident, you know, stay pa‘a in my mind.”

  “No can blame you, bruddah.” I encouraged him.

  “Da oddah wahine, Heather–hū!–was one nice-looking pua. Young flower, yeah? Blonde kine.” He winked. “If only I one handsome young kāne again!”

  “Da blonde wahine wen’ talk with Sara?”

  “Nah, Heather wen’ talk mo’ wit’ da local Pākē guy, Milton Yu.”

  “How ‘bout dis Archibald? He wen’ talk with Sara or act funny kine around her?”

  “He talk wit’ her. But no diff’rent from anybody else. Jus’, you know, talk story kine.”

  “And da doctor?”

  “Same t’ing. Dat doctor was momona. Fat, plenny fat. I give him my biggest mule, Ikaika. Means strong, you know.”

  “Did da doctor help Sara when she wen’ fall?”

  “No use,” the mule guide continued. “Da pali too steep. No can reach her.”

  I pulled out the photo Adrienne had given me of Parke and showed it to Kaluna. “Evah see dis guy?”

  Kaluna’s brown eyes squinted. He twitched his silvery mustache. “‘Ae, I seen him.”

  “You have?” I tried not to show my surprise.

  “On da mule ride to Kalaupapa–one, maybe two days befo’ da accident.”

  “Can prove dat?”

  “By da guest book.” He turned the dusty book back one page to the day before Sara’s fatal ride. Sure enough, on the list was “J. G. Parke.” Could Adrienne be right after all?

  “You remembah anyt’ing ‘bout Parke?”

  “Not much. Was quiet. He nevah take no interest in da tour.”

  I put away the photo, still trying to cover my surprise. “O.K. We hike down da trail now to see where da wahine fall?”

  He nodded and took out a cash box. “You wanna pay now or laytah?”

  “Now is fine.” From my wallet I handed him some bills.

  “I no like ask, but no paying customahs since da accident.”

  “Nah, no worry.”

  We trekked on foot toward the cliffs. Although I was still unsure what I was hoping to find, Kaluna’s registry with Parke’s name in it had made me hyper-alert.

  To reach the trailhead, we hiked through some ironwoods, then down a curving path sprinkled with mule droppings and rotting guava, whose pink meat lured clouds of fruit flies. The air was ripe. All along the path were warning signs: Kapu: Unauthorized Persons Keep Out.

  The mist that had fogged my windshield suddenly descended, as we approached the trailhead. Wind whistled through a stand of ironwoods at the cliff’s edge. On the precipice overlooking Kalaupapa stood a crude wooden cross inscribed, “Coco.”

  “Carve dat myself …” Kaluna said softly.

  “Coco’ one special mule.” I consoled the paniolo as I glanced down toward the peninsula below–a steep fall indeed, and one from which not even a veteran horse rider could expect to survive.

  four

  The Kaluapapa trail began like a stroll in the park, wide and gently sloping. But soon the path narrowed, descending over rain-slick boulders, potholes dug by mule hoofs, and red mud.

  At the first opportunity, I peeked over the pali and gazed down again nearly two thousand feet to Kalaupapa. Wild seas from the north pounded its craggy shore. Wind-whipped mists drove slantwise across the salt-bitten land, gathering like gauze against the towering sea cliffs. Their rocky faces rose like prison walls from the boiling surf.

  Awesome beauty. Stark desolation. Fierce, unforgiving nature. No wonder this forbidding peninsula had once been called a living tomb. No wonder I suddenly felt bleak again about my long shot case.

  We passed a gate posted with a more severe warning than the first Kapu signs: Hawai‘i Law Forbids Entry Beyond This Point Without Written Permission.

  Kaluna explained that access to the colony had been strictly controlled before sulfone drugs rendered leprosy, known today as Hansen’s disease, non-contagious. The pali trail first opened in 1889, the year the colony’s most celebrated savior, Father Damien, died. For many years after, the three miles and twenty-six switchbacks were traversed mostly by pack mules ferrying supplies to the victims below. The savvy mules could pick their own way down the sixteen-hundred-foot cliff without a human guide, and likewise return. So it was nothing for mules in modern times to carry tourists safely on thousands of trips. That is, until Sara Ridgely-Parke’s fall.

  Why had Sara come here? Was her trip connected in some way to her ecological passion, or her desire to evade her ex-husband’s constant hounding? Did she perhaps feel affinity for the sufferers of Kalaupapa–victims of rape and sodomy and murder, not to mention starvation?

  ‘A‘ole kānā wai ma kēia wahi had been the cry of leprosy victims. “In this place there is no law.”

  The first official switchback in the trail–marked by a big red “1”–brought a cool, shady corner canopied by trees. No slippery rocks. No outrageous drop. Not even a view. Therefore, not likely the turn where Sara had fallen.

  Before reaching the second switchback we passed yet another warning: Stop! Go Back Unless You Have Written Permit. We hiked on.

  The red numeral announcing switchback three brought a dramatic view of Kalaupapa, and a difficult section of trail. Kaluna picked up the pace. I kept my eyes glued to my feet.

  Halfway down the pali, at switchback thirteen, we heard the first faint rumblings of surf. Beyond this hairpin turn, boulders lay in the trail above a sheer drop. Kaluna stopped suddenly and glanced up.

  “Wis
h I had da money Chancellor Trust gonna make on dat development.” He pointed to a ridge towering over us.

  “Development?” I said. “But dis national park land, yeah?”

  “‘Ae, jus’ to da pali, but Chancellor own da conservation lan’ beyond dat.” Kaluna scratched his silver-flecked mustache. “Dey own da lan’ and da politicians too!”

  “What Chancellor going to build up there?”

  “‘Kalaupapa Cliffs’–hotel, condos, spas. All dat kine stuffs.”

  “Now I remembah.” I linked the development to yesterday’s Star-Bulletin.

  “When da last leprosy patient pass on, Kalaupapa be one busy kine national park. Da tourist flock hea …” Kaluna paused. “Chancellor make plenny kālā–plenny money.”

  “Good fo’ your business? More mule riders?”

  “Maybe, but I no like condos up on da cliff.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  “Anyway, jus’ ‘round da next bend where da wahine fall.”

  We turned a sharp left at switchback fifteen and gazed down the pocked, boulder-strewn track–a treacherous-looking patch. The wicked combination of jagged boulders and pitched steps was apparently the best the trailblazers who chiseled this rocky path could do. My knees involuntarily trembled as I listened to the waves lapping the shore a thousand feet below. We could see the beach clearly now: milk-chocolate sand, ultramarine swells, sparkling white foam. No guard rails obstructed the view.

  If a four-hoofed animal were prone to stumble anywhere on the trail, this would be the place. Kaluna must have read my mind.

  “Da wahine ride Coco up da trail toward da bend.” He pointed to the red “15.” “I take da lead and she ride near da back.” Kaluna paused. “Den hear Coco bray and da wahine scream. Dat’s all. I no can see her fall.”

  “You spot her down below? Or hear more screams?”

  “Nah.” Kaluna shook his head, a tortured look on his face. “No can do nut’ing. I call to her. Da oddahs do too. But no use.”

  “What happen’ den?”