1 Murder on Moloka'i Page 3

  “Since no can do nut’ing, I took da oddahs to da top and call da police. They wen’ send one helicopter. Meantime, I take my rifle back down to Coco. He still lying dere on da path, peaceful kine. Look at me wit’ big brown eyes and I say, ‘You been one good mule, Coco.’ Den I do what I gotta do.”

  “Sorry, bruddah.”

  “T’anks. Den da helicopter pick da wahine off da pali, fly her to O’ahu. But too late.”

  “About dis Parke guy.” I tried to make a connection. “He ‘round here da day of da accident?”

  “I no remembah seeing him.” The mule guide shrugged.

  I took some photos, then searched around the site for evidence but found nothing. During the month since Sara’s death the trail had been washed by rains, blown by gusty trade winds, and scorched by the sun. The winds alone would have carried away anything not bolted down.

  If Parke was behind Sara’s fall, he had left no evidence here. But that probably wasn’t going to change my client’s mind. Adrienne seemed hell-bent on her murder theory and might never stop believing it–unless my investigation proved otherwise.

  five

  Just before switchback sixteen, a sharp jackknife turn, I noticed a flat-topped boulder beside the trail. On top of it stood a makeshift shrine of religious figurines–Madonna, baby Jesus, turbaned wise men–encircled by a dried maile lei and rosary beads. A wilted red rose lay beside this somber, huddled group. And a fresh rose lay next to it. The roses struck me as odd amidst these rugged surroundings.

  Had some adoring admirer fondly remembered Sara Ridgely-Parke on this remote stretch of trail? Someone who was feeling pain at her loss? Red roses, I imagined, were not that easy to come by in this remote part of Moloka‘i. Who cared that much for Sara?

  As we passed, Kaluna quickly crossed himself, making me wonder how long the shrine had been here. Before I could ask, the old paniolo abruptly launched into a homespun speech about Kalaupapa, sounding like he’d given it hundreds of times before.

  The peninsula, he began in a tour guide voice, was first settled by Hawaiians in about 1000 AD. The small spit of land had been a fishing and agricultural village until 1868, when King Kamehameha V sent the first boatload of leprosy patients to be quarantined there.

  Leprosy at the time was misunderstood and greatly feared, much as AIDS is today. Boat captains tossed helpless victims overboard to swim ashore. Those who drowned were the lucky ones. Those who didn’t had to fend for themselves on the isolated peninsula. Their average survival rate was about two years.

  Kaluna explained that there was little to support patients here: no dependable food supply, shelter, clothing, or medicine. Helpers called kōkua were permitted at first, but soon forbidden. Victims remained utterly alone, without family or friends. Kalaupapa became known as “the place where one is buried alive.” No wonder people dreaded being diagnosed and sent here.

  I wasn’t surprised that Father Damien, now a candidate for sainthood, was not uniformly appreciated during his life, especially by the State Board of Health. He took under his care seven to eight hundred leprosy patients, whose number eventually grew to as many as thirteen hundred. Now, Kaluna said, only about fifty residents remained–of their own free will– and most were growing old. He said they stayed for various reasons, some from their attachment to the only home they have ever known.

  At nine that morning we finally reached sea level. The quiet village of Kalaupapa lay another quarter mile to the east. The path to the village wove above the deserted beach we had seen from the cliffs, a gorgeous, wide beach lined with stately ironwoods whose needles padded the trail. No one swam. No one surfed. No one beach walked. It seemed a shame. As we drew nearer, we saw the expected warning: Stop! Entry Pass Violators Subject to Citation.

  In the village, a young woman in a park service uniform introduced herself as our official guide. Haunani offered us a tour in her Jeep, and I began to wonder what I was looking for here as we passed Kalaupapa’s simple amenities: a one-pump gas station, a small general store, a souvenir shop in a converted Buddhist temple, a carpenter’s shop, a government motor pool, an invitation-only guest house dubbed the “Kalaupapa Sheraton,” a pier for the biannual barges that ferried heavy supplies, three churches, and seven thousand graves. Mostly unmarked.

  If Kaunakakai was a slow town, Kalaupapa was frozen in time. I watched as a half dozen axis deer roamed the village like pets, grazing on cottage lawns. The cottages looked empty, but Haunani explained that residents seldom showed themselves among strangers. There was a deafening silence to Kalauapapa. The only sound beyond the surf was the whispering fronds of lonely palms.

  Haunani said she remembered Sara’s striking appearance from her visit to the colony. And when I showed our guide the photo of Parke, she recognized him as well. After a full month she still recalled his grim, determined face, so unlike other visitors’ expressions of curiosity and wonder. What had Parke had on his mind?

  The return hike up the pali to “topside” Moloka‘i took about an hour and a quarter. We didn’t push. Kaluna let me lead. I’m fairly sure I slowed him down. But he patiently stayed behind me, step for step. Despite my conditioning from surfing, my chest heaved and my heart drummed. Sweat stung my eyes. My thighs burned. At least the steady climb allowed me to comb the trail again for clues to Sara’s mysterious death. But no clues did I find.

  We finally reached the top at half past eleven. As I drove back to the ‘Ukulele Inn, I reluctantly admitted to myself that Adrienne’s hunch about Parke might have some basis in fact. His mere presence at Kalaupapa near the time of Sara’s death seemed more than a coincidence. I itched to interview Parke immediately upon return to Honolulu. But those were my emotions talking, not my head. I knew the best course would be to gather information about him first, since he might not consent to see me more than once, if at all.

  I collected my things from the beach cottage and checked out at quarter to one–nearly an hour late, but still in time to catch my flight. Before long another Twin-Otter was winging me back to O‘ahu. I was too preoccupied with questions about the case to pay much attention to the bumpy ride.

  My trip to Moloka’i had served more to increase the mystery surrounding Sara’s death rather than to solve it.

  six

  The flower lei shop beneath my office is the perfect buffer between me and the pungent aromas of Chinatown below. And it offers my clients a degree of anonymity. They can linger among the perfumy lei, then slip unnoticed up the orange shag stairs. Even if detected, they can pretend to be patronizing one of the four other tenants of Mrs. Fujiyama’s building, a decaying pre-war specimen ornamented with two-headed dragons, serpents, wild boars, and Chinese characters in red.

  Inside the flower shop today, Mrs. Fujiyama was ringing up a customer with a ginger lei. The ginger’s sweet, pungent odor raised the hair on the back of my neck.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fujiyama.” I said as the customer departed.

  Mrs. Fujiyama peered up at me knowingly over her half-glasses. “Ah, Mr. Cooke. One pretty young lady come see you. Bought tuberose and orchid lei.”

  “Adrienne?”

  “Upstairs now. Haole lady. Very pretty!”

  “Thanks for the tip.” I smiled.

  “Nice young lady for Mr. Cooke.” Mrs. Fujiyama bowed graciously.

  I climbed the stairs to the musty second floor and peered down the hallway toward the surfer airbrushed on my office door. Adrienne Ridgely stood by him statuesquely, clutching a lei. She looked transformed. The tropic sun had deepened the color in her cheeks and highlighted the reds and golds in her chestnut hair.

  As I approached, Adrienne stretched her arms toward me and placed the lei around my neck. Her perfume, mixed with the intoxicating odor of the tuberose, drew me nearer. We touched. She abruptly stepped back. The blush heightened in her cheeks.

  “Ah, what a surprise,” I said, searching for more intelligent words. “Why the lei?”

  “For taking my case.” She qu
ickly regained her composure. “My sister is finally going to get the justice she deserves.”

  “I’m not sure we have a case yet,” I admitted. “Although I did discover something on Moloka‘i yesterday.”

  I unlocked the two dead bolts and swung open the thick mahogany door. The tuberose lei instantly revived the stale air in my office. I opened my window and couldn’t help but notice how gracefully Adrienne slid into my client chair. She glanced atop my filing cabinet at the tarnished trophy teetering there– Classic Longboard–Mākaha–Third Place–then turned her cool gaze back to me.

  “So the big news is,” I started, “your former brother-in-law rode to Kalaupapa the day before Sara died.”

  “He did?” Adrienne’s eyes widened. She seemed even more surprised than I had been.

  “The guide doesn’t remember seeing Parke on the day of the accident, but said he acted preoccupied when he took the tour the previous day. His mind was apparently elsewhere.”

  “I know where it was,” Adrienne said almost to herself, her expressive brow working again.

  “It’s going to take more than his mule ride to build a case against him,” I said, trying to give her a sense of the magnitude of evidence needed to convict a man of murder. “We have a long way to go. But, fortunately, there were four witnesses besides the guide, Kaluna. I plan to interview each in person before confronting Parke. Their testimonies may give us more leverage against him.”

  “When will you start?” She looked at me hopefully.

  “Today,” I said. “The first witness is a doctor named Benjamin Goto who practices here in Honolulu. I lined up an interview for eleven o’clock. It should require little time and expense.”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  “Interviewing the other three may be more challenging. One lives on Maui, another on the rural Hāmākua Coast of the Big Island, and the last in a Los Angeles suburb. If you want to cut costs, I can try phone interviews, though I don’t think they’re nearly as effective.”

  “No,” Adrienne agreed. “Interview each in person.”

  “Your retainer should still cover the trip to Maui. But I’ll need another two thousand for travel to the Big Island and Los Angeles.”

  “Why don’t I just write you a check now?” Adrienne reached into her calfskin purse. She was determined.

  I took the crisp Boston check and tucked it into my top desk drawer. “I’ll call you after the interview with Dr. Goto then.”

  Adrienne rose. The highlights in her hair caught the sunlight filtering through my window. “If anyone can undercover my sister’s murder, I trust it’s you.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said, the intoxicating scent of the tuberose mixed with her fruity perfume starting to make me dizzy. “And for the lei.”

  She nodded and turned to go. I took the opportunity to escort her down the orange shag stairs. Mrs. Fujiyama smiled when she saw us together.

  Outside the flower shop, Adrienne climbed into her waiting cab. The yellow sedan swept down Maunakea, past the lurid neon signs that glow day and night on Hotel Street.

  seven

  Before my meeting with Dr. Goto, I made some telephone inquiries about him. Benjamin Goto had practiced medicine on Kapi‘olani Boulevard for twelve years, I learned. His license was in good standing and only one minor complaint had been filed against him by a patient. Goto’s field was infectious diseases. He had earned his medical degree in the Virgin Islands and spent one undergraduate year at the University of Hawai‘i, where, before her untimely death, Sara had taught in the law school.

  On my way to Dr. Goto’s office, my Impala growled along Kapi‘olani, turning a few heads. I bought the teal blue ‘69 Chevy with only fifty-two-thousand original miles. Its big V-8 engine was what hooked me, but equally important, the backseat was removable, so my longboard could slide right in.

  The doctor’s office was in a mirrored tower at 1555 Kapi‘olani near Ala Moana Shopping Center. Its lobby glinted with enough marble to sink the proverbial battleship. I rode the elevator to the eighteenth floor. A few minutes before eleven, I found a door with a polished brass plate: Benjamin Goto, M.D.

  The posh waiting room contained the usual ferns, seascapes, and recent issues of People, Good Housekeeping, Sports Illustrated, Honolulu, and Hawaii Business News. A receptionist with a professional smile asked me to take a seat. Twenty minutes later–not bad for the medical profession–she sent me in.

  Dr. Goto didn’t appear at all like the rugged outdoor type, as I had expected, but was a paunchy and affable man, probably in his forties. His ample jowls and rounded belly reminded me of a contented Buddha. He greeted me with smiling dark eyes.

  “Please be seated, Mr. Cooke.” The doctor made a sweeping gesture with great formality.

  “Call me Kai.” I wanted to put us on more friendly terms.

  “Ben Goto.” He offered me his hand and we shook.

  The doctor moved behind his spacious teak desk and directed me toward a matching chair. His medical degrees and certificates hung on the wall, along with a photo of Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas–a slimmer Dr. Goto standing proudly before the glittering casino with a black-suited man in dark glasses.

  “That’s a handsome picture of you.” I pointed to the Vegas photo.

  Dr. Goto grinned. “Ah, yes, my salad days,” he quipped. “Shakespeare, don’t you know?”

  I wondered why the younger Goto would be in Nevada with a character dressed like a mafioso.

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Goto. My client appreciates your willingness to talk about Sara Ridgely-Parke’s death.”

  “Such a pity.” The doctor rocked back, his belly protruding from his white coat. He spoke in precise, proper English. “She seemed a remarkably intelligent woman.”

  “Apparently she was.”

  “I regret that I could not render medical treatment, but she was simply inaccessible.”

  “The mule guide confirms that. Neither he nor the police fault you.”

  “Still, it was most vexing.” He frowned. “I could do nothing, don’t you see. Absolutely nothing.”

  “May I ask where you were when Sara fell?”

  “Certainly …” Dr. Goto paused to gather his thoughts. “I rode at the front of the party, immediately behind the guide. Ms. Ridgely-Parke rode near the back.”

  “Did you see her fall?”

  “I am afraid not. Though her scream was chilling enough.”

  “You saw nothing?”

  “The accident happened quite quickly, Mr. Cooke. By the time I turned around, it was over.”

  “Was there any warning, any indication of something wrong before she fell?”

  “Not that I recall. It was a tricky section of trail–steep and rocky–but other sections had also been rough.”

  “Did you know the victim before that day on Moloka‘i?”

  “I had heard of her, of course. During the Save Coconut Beach initiative one could hardly pick up a newspaper or turn on the television without seeing her youthful face.”

  “Did you have any particular opinion about her? Or about her political activities?”

  “I admired her. That’s why it is such a pity to lose her. Legions of people mouth pieties about protecting the environment, but how many willingly endanger themselves to further the cause?”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you go to Kalaupapa?”

  “I don’t mind at all.” Dr. Goto smiled with Buddha-like serenity. “I am a specialist in infectious diseases. Kalaupapa offers a rare opportunity to study Hansen’s disease patients. They could come to my Honolulu office, of course. But I wanted to see them first in their own habitat.”

  “Had you been to Kalaupapa before?”

  “Actually, no.” He gazed at me placidly. “But I had always desired to go.”

  “Why didn’t you before?”

  “One thing leads to another. Time goes by.” He managed two clichés in one breath.


  “Did you study any patients at Kalaupapa?” I asked.

  “This first time I merely toured the colony. When I return again I will make arrangements to meet with several patients.”

  “When will that be?” I couldn’t help wondering, given his vague excuse for putting off a first trip.

  “Next month, if I can manage,” Goto said.

  “One final question.” I studied his dark eyes. “Was there anything to suggest to you that Sara’s death was not an accident?”

  “Not an accident?” Dr. Goto shook his head slowly in apparent disbelief. “How could it be anything else?”

  “I’m not sure, doctor. That’s why I’m asking you.”

  “Highly unlikely, unless someone stepped up behind her and …”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “But if that were so, how would one account for the mule’s broken leg?”

  “Good question.” I handed him the photo of Parke. “Have you ever seen this man?”

  He glanced at the snapshot. “I do not believe so.”

  “You didn’t see him on Moloka‘i the day of Sara’s death?”

  Dr. Goto peered at the photograph again. He turned it so the fluorescent lights would illuminate the snapshot from different angles. Finally he shrugged his sloping shoulders. “No, I did not see him on Moloka‘i.” He returned the photo.

  “Here’s my card.” I handed it to him. “If you remember anything more about the incident, would you please call me?”

  “I will be delighted to help in any way.”

  I rose and thanked him. “You go much to Las Vegas?” I gestured again to the Caesar’s Palace photo on his wall.

  “Las Vegas is a fool’s paradise,” he pontificated. “I avoid it like the plague.”

  “You’ll hang onto more of your money that way.” I winked, noting two more clichés.

  He smiled his amiable smile as I walked out.

  eight

  Later that afternoon I called Adrienne to report on the interview with Dr. Goto. I told her that if I had read the doctor right, he honestly didn’t know Parke. I was still skeptical, though, about his reasons for taking so long to visit a place so important to his work.