1 Murder on Moloka'i (2 page)

two

Later that day I flew to Moloka‘i. It was Wednesday and turbulent for early October. Squeezed into a propeller-driven Twin-Otter airplane, slightly larger than my car, I had my first leisure to think about the bizarre events that had sent me on this impromptu jaunt.

So far there were only questions and none of them added up to what I’d call a case. Instead, there was a death by falling from a mule, which could be nothing more than an accident. But the victim’s sister was crying murder. And she had pointed the finger at Sara’s ex-husband–J. Gregory Parke. This seemed unlikely. Unless media accounts of the accident had been totally wrong.

Was I bound for Moloka‘i on a fool’s errand? Maybe. But at least I was getting paid.

I tried to get comfortable in my tiny seat and opened up the afternoon
Star-Bulletin.
On the front page of the business section was an artist’s sketch of a proposed Moloka‘i resort called Kalaupapa Cliffs. Brainchild of Umbro Zia, a shadowy Indonesian developer, and the islands’ largest private landholder, Chancellor Trust, Kalaupapa Cliffs promised to loom grand and blindingly white. It resembled an art deco Taj Mahal with marble spas and meandering pools and hundreds of ocean-view suites–another luxury palace for the super rich.

Evidently, a technicality concerning the building site was holding up construction. Its fate awaited a vote of the Land Zoning Board. Considering the clout of the Chancellor Trust, the outcome was hardly in doubt.

The Twin-Otter rattled along, barely above the Honolulu skyline. The Aloha Tower drifted by, then the ivory crescent of Waikīkī Beach. Longboards floated below on the turquoise sea like pastel toothpicks. Outrigger canoes etched frothy trails through the rolling surf.

Soon we left O‘ahu behind and below us lay wind-whipped Ka‘iwi Channel–the twenty-five miles of whitecaps between O‘ahu and Moloka‘i. The tiny plane bumped along as if plowing through the choppy swells beneath us. Between jolts I folded my newspaper and took out some clippings I had gathered on the subject of my dubious case.

The obituary photo showed Sara Ridgely-Parke to be the striking, youthful woman I remembered so vividly from the rally. Her eyes had the same flinty quality as Adrienne’s, though with an emerald tint.

A Harvard-trained attorney who taught environmental law at the University of Hawai‘i, Sara had crusaded for affordable housing and “green” stewardship of the islands. Her greatest victory had been the Save Coconut Beach initiative, in which she and other activists saved the pristine windward surfing spot from development.

From the news coverage at the time, I remembered that developers and conservative politicians alike despised Sara’s “ecofeminist” views. Being both an environmentalist and a feminist put her at the very radical end of the spectrum in their eyes. The article went on with lavish praise from Professor Rush McWhorter, Sara’s law school adversary and legal counsel for the Chancellor Trust. “A tragic loss to the people of Hawai‘i,” his quote read, which seemed at odds with the public rancor between the two during her life.

Another jolt of turbulence shook the Twin-Otter. I set down the obituary and picked up a wedding clipping.

After her Coconut Beach victory, Sara had become the darling of local environmentalists. Yet she then married developer J. Gregory Parke, a bald blimp of a man twenty years her senior, and lived with him in the ritziest neighborhood in the Hawaiian Islands.

What an odd couple! Their contentious divorce seemed predictable given their strange conflict of interests. I tucked the clips back into my briefcase and peered down at the inky whitecaps below. Sara’s short and admirable life had had its contradictions, as I suppose all lives do. But could these contradictions have any bearing on the fatal stumble of a mule?

It was a stretch to think so. A long stretch.

Our first sighting of Moloka‘i revealed the West End’s —pristine Pāpōhaku Beach, a three-mile ribbon of frothing surf and golden sand. One of the longest, most stunning beaches in the islands, it’s remote and often deserted. I saw not one surfer, swimmer, or sunbather.

This dramatic beach, and most of Moloka‘i, has escaped the urban sprawl so prevalent on the other islands because residents here, primarily Hawaiian, have rallied repeatedly against unwanted development. Though jobs have been scarce since Moloka‘i’s pineapple plantations closed, forcing more and more
kama‘aina
to scramble for a living, few long-time residents see waikīkī-style resorts on their unspoiled island as the answer.

The Twin-Otter angled and crossed over the island’s arid West End. From previous visits, I recognized the rugged terrain. Sloping plateaus painted the west in cocoa brown and rust red; sheer sea cliffs in the east soared in moss green. The thirty-eight-mile island pointed east like an index finger with one small irregularity–a bump on the north side where the middle knuckle would be. This knuckle was my ultimate destination: Kalaupapa. The once-infamous leper colony, now a national park, sat on a small peninsula beneath the world’s tallest sea cliffs. It was from these cliffs that Sara Ridgely-Parke had plunged.

In Honolulu, I had obtained the medical examiner’s report on Sara’s autopsy. It offered little new information. I had also phoned the mule tour company and learned there was a log of all riders, including the four others in Sara’s party. A guide named Johnny Kaluna had agreed to walk me down the cliff trail to the site of the accident, then on to Kalaupapa. I arranged to meet him at seven thirty the next morning.

The Twin-Otter began its bumpy descent as we passed over red dirt fields, inhabited by stunted
kiawe
and grazing cattle. Only one thread-thin highway, devoid of cars, gave evidence of civilization. A few other rusty side roads branched off from the highway. But I saw no vehicles there either.

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.