1 Murder on Moloka'i Page 4

  Why would a well-paid physician delay for a dozen years an inexpensive neighbor-island trip? Also suspect was his means of transportation. If Goto were initiating a new research project, wouldn’t he have flown to the tiny airstrip that serves Kalaupapa’s medical staff, rather than squander time riding a mule like a leisurely tourist?

  These things might have nothing to do with the case, but they struck me as odd. Nonetheless, Goto lacked plausible means of murdering Sara and, to all appearances, he lacked a motive as well.

  I then called the next two witnesses: Heather Linborg, a masseuse employed by the Wailea Princess Resort on Maui, and Milton Yu, who grew orchids on the Hāmākua Coast of the Big Island. Fortunately, both agreed to see me on short notice. Unfortunately, the two appointments could be arranged only on the same day, Saturday, and just a few hours apart.

  By the time I returned to my apartment, I was ready to surf. My answering machine was blinking, but could wait. I changed quickly into my board shorts.

  Surfing relieves the stresses of my detective work and even helps me solve cases. Sherlock Holmes had his pipe–I have my surfboard. Floating on the glassy sea, scanning the blue horizon for the perfect wave, sometimes I drift into a kind of trance. From there I can disentangle the most intricate web.

  When my wave finally rolls in, instinct takes over. In one motion I swing the board around, stroke, and rise. Slip-sliding down the thundering cascade, perched on a thin slice of balsa and foam, I find a precarious balance.

  That’s what surfing and my job are all about: balance.

  I grabbed my keys and was heading out the door when my conscience nagged me. The answering machine. I stepped back in, one hand still on the handle, and pressed Play.

  “Hi there,” said the coy, sexy voice. “How’s my surfer boy?”

  My girlfriend, Niki, calling from California.

  “I’ve got some bad news …” She made a little pouting sound. “My flight schedule the next few weeks is murder. Afraid I can’t come and see you, baby. I really want to, but I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

  Niki was a Los Angeles-based flight attendant who popped into Honolulu once or twice a month. She was a true California girl: blunt-cut blonde, twenty-seven, and ever ready for fun. Her photo in a string bikini and beaming a heartbreaking smile sits on my nightstand. My cousin Matthew had once called Niki a “fox”–he meant, I assumed, “good looking,” rather than “cunning” and “sly,” but he didn’t say which.

  Niki had requested a home base change, from Los Angeles to Honolulu, so we could spend more time together. Until then, she continued to fly between the West Coast and Denver and Indianapolis. Our relationship was intense but sporadic, like a night of fireworks followed by a month of rain.

  I felt sorrier than she did–for myself anyway. I wandered into the kitchen to warm up some Chinese leftovers, and carried them to my lānai. On the forty-fifth floor of the Waikīkī Edgewater, you can see for miles. “Edgewater” is a misnomer, since this tower sits nearly a half mile inland from the beach– unless you count the polluted Ala Wai Canal, which the building does indeed border.

  My place resembles a Waikīkī hotel room, with kitchen and bath at one end and lānai at the other. All that’s missing to round out the hotel effect are those tiny complimentary bottles of shampoo, aftershave, and mouthwash. I haven’t always lived in Waikīkī. I came here only about a year ago from a cottage in the lush Nu‘uanu Valley, just off the Pali Highway. The landlord wouldn’t renew my lease–too many broken windows, he had said. And bullet holes in the clapboards. I tried to tell him the damage wasn’t my fault, exactly. The friends of a scam artist I had helped to convict decided to get even. Their shots had missed me, but riddled the cottage.

  After the landlord booted me I decided to seek the anonymity and round-the-clock security of a Waikīkī condo. Equally compelling were close proximity to O‘ahu’s most consistent breaks and easy access for Niki. Her airline provided free transportation between the airport and Waikīkī, dropping her a half block from my building. Since Niki’s visits were typically brief–less than twenty-four hours–my new location meant more time together. That is, when she was in town, which was becoming less often.

  Picking at the lukewarm lemon chicken with my chopsticks, I opened Friday’s Advertiser to the surf forecast, which promised two-to-four-foot waves on the south shore. That was all the motivation I needed. On my way out the door, I picked up the phone and, against my better judgment, called Niki back.

  Her phone rang and rang. Then a sleepy-sounding man with a gruff voice answered, saying that I had the wrong number. I could have sworn I dialed correctly.

  I phoned her again. This time I got Niki’s answering machine. I told her I missed her and asked when I would see her again.

  After hanging up I had a sinking feeling. Niki was indeed a fox–maybe both kinds. I imagined love-hungry corporation men aboard her flights to Denver and Indianapolis, drooling over my California girl.

  I didn’t often think about what Niki did when we were apart. I didn’t let myself. Now I began to wonder.

  Within minutes I was paddling my surfboard to my favorite spot in Waikīkī called Populars, a quarter mile offshore of the Sheraton. I navigated the crowded shore break. In Waikīkī, local surfers have to compete for waves with tourists swimming and cavorting on various watercraft. But farther offshore the crowd thins.

  I paddled by the crowd toward the long, hollow, fast-breaking rights of Pops. Out here the water is a deep green and the swells come sweeping in. I rode the chest-high waves until it was almost too dark to see, reinvigorating my travel-numbed body and reviving my dampened spirits.

  But the surfing brought no new insights into my case. The one revelation of my Moloka‘i trip–J. Gregory Parke’s appearance at Kalaupapa the day before Sara’s death–had yet to be explained. Even if I accepted Adrienne’s questionable premise that he had killed Sara, the tougher question still remained: How could he have done it?

  When Sara’s mule had stumbled, catapulting her down the pali to her death, Parke was not among her fellow riders. Could he have enlisted one or more of them to push, trip, or spook the mule in Kaluna’s presence? Dr. Goto was an unlikely accomplice, even if his motives for going to Kaluapapa were questionable. The other three witnesses remained to been seen.

  nine

  Early Saturday morning I flew to Maui. At Kahului Airport I picked up a car and headed south to the sun-splashed resorts of Wailea. Heather Linborg was to meet me at the Wailea Princess at ten o’clock.

  Several cases have brought me to Maui before, the most memorable a still-unsolved cane field murder. Actually, it wasn’t the investigation that I recalled, but the evening that I wandered into one of Lahaina’s jumping oceanfront bars. Two gorgeous flight attendants were sitting at the bar sipping Mai Tais in the sunset, one with a blonde pageboy and quick, wandering eyes.

  I don’t exactly remember how Niki and I connected. We drank some Mai Tais. Her friend obligingly disappeared. The next thing I knew I woke up staring at the ceiling fan in Niki’s hotel room, my body tingling with love’s afterglow. She lay naked beside me, dewy and laughing like I had just told a fantastic joke.

  “You’re fun!” She gave me an open-mouthed kiss that seemed to last forever, then breathlessly whispered into my ear: “What was your name?”

  That’s how we got started–and never looked back. Though that trip to Maui had failed to turn up a cane field murderer, I did uncover one ‘ono wahine.

  Today, however, there was no time for carousing in the Front Street bars. I hoped my interview with Heather Linborg wouldn’t leave as many loose ends as the last one with Dr. Goto had. She said she would be waiting in the Royal Spa, where she worked, near the pool. When I arrived at the immense resort, I realized I should have gotten better directions.

  Sprawling over forty acres, the Wailea Princess was one of those magnificent, world-class resorts with every conceivable luxury. A soaring marble foyer, misted by mur
muring waterfalls, commanded a breathtaking view of the stunning grounds and white sand beach beyond. The pool was more of a series of pools, meandering through a dazzling tropical landscape with vibrant orchids, anthuriums, proteas, and birds of paradise that put Mrs. Fujiyama’s wares to shame. As our appointment neared and the Maui sun blazed overhead, I decided to ask the advice of a groundskeeper who pointed me to the Royal Spa.

  I stepped inside the cool marble palace. State-of-the-art saunas, green papaya and tropical enzyme baths, and ocean-view massage rooms dazzled the eye. Patrons roamed the marble aisles in fluffy terry robes. I approached an attendant, a pumped-up bodybuilder who could have stepped off the cover of Muscle magazine, and asked for Heather Linborg.

  “Heather’s sunning.” He pointed with an athletic pose to one of the rapids in the swimming pool. His torso glistened. “Look for the gold bikini.”

  Around the pool I saw several women in bikinis sunning, but only one glinted like a newly minted coin. It was a brilliant, mirror-like suit designed for show, rather than for swimming. This woman had plenty to show: the breasts of a porn star, barely contained by her string bikini, and long, silky-looking legs.

  “Heather Linborg?” I asked hopefully.

  She put down her paperback book, The Bridges of Madison County.

  “This is such a good book. I’ve been crying all the way through,” she said in a shrill little voice that set me on edge. I noticed a small birthmark on her face resembling a dark heart– the only visible flaw to her otherwise calendar-girl looks.

  I handed her my card. She glanced at it and raised her two perfectly penciled eyebrows. “You’re a surfing detective?”

  I nodded and sat on the edge of the lounge chair next to hers. “I just have some routine questions. Your recollections about the accident could be helpful.”

  “It was awful,” Heather replied, instantly transported to that day. “I wish I’d never taken that mule ride.”

  “Do you mind my asking why you visited Kalaupapa?”

  “I wanted to see the leper colony before it gets overrun by tourists.” Heather crossed her tanned-to-perfection legs.

  “And you’re afraid it will be overrun soon?”

  “Isn’t that what’s happening on all the islands?”

  “This place isn’t exactly the outback.” I gestured to the Royal Spa, which was crawling with terry-clad patrons.

  “I also do freelance jobs,” she said, then frowned, as if she’d revealed a trade secret.

  “About the accident, could you describe to me what happened?”

  “I’m probably not the best one to ask. I rode up front near the guide. Sara was behind me. I didn’t see her fall.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Well, she screamed, so I turned. I saw the mule collapsed on the trail. One of its legs was apparently broken.”

  “Kaluna, the guide, was pretty shook up about that mule,” I said. “Coco was his favorite.”

  “You know, the mule didn’t seem to suffer. It just lay there with a calm look in its eyes.”

  “Had you met Sara before the mule tour?”

  “I’d heard of her, of course. But I’d never met her before.”

  “What was your opinion of her?”

  “I liked her. She was real and personable and very bright.”

  I pulled out the photo of Parke. “Have you ever seen this man?”

  Heather winced. Then she composed herself. “No, I’ve never seen him.” I noticed a drip of perspiration trickling down her forehead.

  “Never? Not at Kalaupapa? Not anywhere?”

  “No …” She wiped her brow. “I never saw him at Kalaupapa or anywhere else.”

  I tried to mask my disbelief with a faint smile. Check for connections between Parke and Linborg, I entered into my mental notebook.

  She abruptly handed me the photo. “Got to run. Massage appointment in five minutes.”

  Heather rose, clutching The Bridges of Madison County. I watched the dancing glint of her gold bikini in the Maui sun as she walked away.

  ten

  Why had Heather Linborg lied? She obviously knew Parke. But in what capacity, I wanted to know.

  People are like waves, I thought as my Hilo-bound plane rumbled over Kahului Bay. On the surface they may sparkle and gleam, but what really matters lies below. The most glassy tube can be the most dangerous. Under its luminous green barrel may hide a jagged reef–one heartbeat beneath the rushing foam.

  Whether surfing or working a case, I’ve learned to keep my eyes open. Otherwise, I’d be a dead surfer by now. And a dead detective.

  Below the climbing jet, the fabled Hāna Highway twisted and curved along the coastline. Inland, emerald canyons of bamboo, breadfruit, and flowering ‘ōhi‘ā were pierced by silver waterfalls. As we glided over this craggy coast with majestic Haleakalā towering in the distance, I wondered if Heather had served Parke as a masseuse. And had she given him a mere rubdown? Or something more personal? That she knew him at all seemed ominous.

  Soon the Big Island came into view. As the jet descended down the Hāmākua Coast, I saw lime green kukui and the fire orange flowers of African tulip dotting the landscape in brilliant contrast. Above these flamboyant trees rose Mauna Kea, Hawai‘i’s tallest mountain, cloud shrouded and dominating.

  By one o’clock I had picked up my second rental car of the day and was driving north on Bayfront Highway. Milton Yu, the orchid grower, lived thirty miles north of Hilo, mauka of the old plantation town of Pa‘auilo. I would make our two o’clock appointment in good time.

  My hasty background check on Yu had turned up his former occupation as a computer consultant, and his arrest for possession of marijuana. Apparently, the quantity of pakalōlō had been small or the evidence circumstantial, because the case was promptly dropped and just as promptly Yu left O‘ahu for the Big Island. He was either very lucky or very well connected.

  Pa‘auilo turned out to be a sleepy village whose decaying sugar mill, like others on this depressed coast, stood abandoned. Following Yu’s directions, I turned onto a narrow paved road, climbing past rotting plantation houses and a small farm or two. As the road rose higher through fallow cane fields, the air cooled and brought fog. In a few miles, the pavement ended and the path turned red. My car kept climbing.

  Beneath mist-shrouded Mauna Kea, on a plateau surrounded by jungle, sat Yu’s redwood cottage. The soaring A-frame and encircling lānai suggested money–on a clear day, it would command an incredible view of the Hāmākua Coast. Behind the cottage stood a huge greenhouse. And beyond that, acres of jungle and rain forest.

  As I pulled into the gravel drive, a local Chinese man in faded jeans, a Grateful Dead sweatshirt, and rubber slippers emerged from the cottage. He was slim and looked to be in his early forties. His raven hair, prematurely grey, hung in a ponytail.

  “Milton?” I stepped from my car into the cool mountain air and shook his hand.

  Up close, Yu’s shy, dark eyes had a deer-in-the-headlights look and were riddled with tiny red veins. I noticed his sweatshirt smelled faintly of smoke–though not tobacco and not wood.

  Yu motioned me to follow him to his lānai, which was lined with a variety of colorful orchids–lavender, cream, yellow, deep purple. We sat in his two rattan chairs. The vista took in miles of sloping fields blanketed by fog. After some preliminaries in pidgin about his retirement from the computer business, I turned our discussion to the case.

  “Milton, why you like go to Kalaupapa?”

  “Da rare plants,” Yu replied in a voice as shy as his eyes. “Kalaupapa get some you nevah see on da Big Island.”

  “Fo’ real? You wen’ find rare kine dere?”

  “Some.” Yu averted his eyes. “But on da tour dere’s nevah time fo’ collecting, yeah?” He glanced at his watch.

  “On da ride up da pali, you wen’ see Sara fall?”

  “No, was behind me. Heard one loud scream, brah–really loud–den rustle in da bushes down below …”
He paused. “Den nut’ing. The haole guy wen’ ride behind her saw da whole t’ing.”

  “Archibald, da travel agent?”

  “From da mainland, I t’ink.”

  “What Archibald do aftah da accident?”

  “He stare ovah da cliff. He nevah do nut’ing. Jus’ stare.”

  “You t’ink he involved?”

  “In da accident?” Yu’s eyes suddenly looked confused.

  “Maybe he wen’ push her or somet’ing li’ dat?”

  “Why ask me? I no can see nut’ing.”

  “But you wen’ talk wit’ her during da ride, eh?”

  “Yeah, we wen’ talk. Shoots, she one foxy babe–an’ akamai.”

  “Akamai how?”

  “Smart, you know. Like one professor or somet’ing. She say she give one lecture, brah, dat night.”

  “Lecture? She say where?”

  “In Kaunakakai. At one health food store.”

  “I hearing dis right? She say she goin’ talk at one health food store?”

  He nodded and looked again at his watch.

  “What she wen’ talk about?”

  “I dunno.” He shrugged, warping the smile of the late, greybearded Grateful Dead bandleader. “Maybe she one vegetarian or somet’ing.”

  I pulled out the photo of J. Gregory Parke. “Evah see dis guy?”

  Yu glanced at the photo and nodded. “Used to come into da computah store. He rich. He buy computahs like dey bin toys.”

  “You see dis guy Parke at Kalaupapa when Sara fall?”

  “Nah.” Yu rose abruptly.

  “Thanks, eh?” Before he disappeared, I added, “Befo’ I go, you like show me da kine rare orchid?”

  A cloud crossed Yu’s face, making him appear reluctant rather than proud to display his gems. He led me slowly into the redwood cottage. The rancid, musty odor of pakalōlō– literally “numbing tobacco”–filled the main room. Only about a half dozen orchids stood near his makai windows.