Dying for a Daiquiri (7 page)

“Great idea,” Stan said. “That beach is loaded with
honu
, huge green sea turtles. I’d love to get a photo of them sunning themselves.”

“We can also squeeze in a stop at the Punalu’u Bake Shop,” Liz added. “I’ve been dying to sample their
malasadas
.”

“What are
malasadas
?” I asked.

“Very sweet, light and airy pastries. Similar to doughnuts but better. Full of custard or fruit. Some are even stuffed with chocolate cream.”

Forget the giant turtles and the volcano.

Liz had me at the chocolate cream-filled doughnuts.

By eight o’clock, we’d all gathered in the lobby. Despite Mother’s objections, I skipped my heart-and-colon-healthy oatmeal breakfast. My daily calories were reserved for delicious fried carbs. The sugar-filled pastries might sweeten the grumpy mood brought on by two voicemails I’d just played back.

Last night I’d turned my phone to silent for the luau performance and missed a call from Tom. I couldn’t decide if I should be pleased or annoyed that he’d finally phoned. His brief message said he hoped we were all having a great time.

No mention that he missed me. Or longed for my return. Or that he wished he could have joined me at this beautiful tropical resort. My fingers hovered over the phone itching to send an equally curt text message, but I decided to wait. Maybe the magic of this island would restore my spirits.

Jenna, my sixteen-year-old, had also left a message. Though her voice mail kept cutting in and out, I heard her mention something that cost “only two hundred dollars.” I texted and asked her to elaborate. With my new stepfather, a retired detective babysitting both kids, I wasn’t worried about either of them getting into trouble. The request for something that cost
only
two hundred dollars was more troubling.

But I’d worry about that later. Today I was on vacation.

Three hours and three thousand calories later, with my body stretched out on an inadequately sized beach towel, I attempted to keep the broiling black sand from turning the soles of my feet to burnt charcoal.

My towel rested twenty feet away from some sunbathing sea turtles. After practically inhaling three of the cream-filled pastries at the southernmost bakery in the United States, my body felt bloated. I bet the turtles could move faster than I could. Every now and then, one of the placid creatures would poke his or her head out, gaze at the crowd of tourists and withdraw back into its shell.

I wished I had a cool shell to hide my own sweaty body. The palm trees that lined the Punalu’u Black Sand Beach made for a postcard photo op, but the black sand formed from the lava flowing into the sea had created a molten hot playground for beachgoers.

Mother lay next to me on an oversized hot pink beach towel. She’d rearranged it at least ten times until it sat perfectly perpendicular to the ocean. Her thick-soled flip-flops, a lovely shade of raspberry edged in rhinestones, shimmered in the noon sun.

She rolled over to face me. “This vacation probably isn’t what you expected, is it?”

What I’d expected was some quality bonding with the brother and sister-in-law I rarely saw. Not intervening in a domestic dispute that may have turned deadly. I’d also anticipated private time alone with Tom.

I swiped at tiny grains of sand on my legs. “It’s not exactly the romantic vacation I envisioned when we initially planned this trip.”

“You know how I hate to pry…” I stifled a snort, but my mother has excellent hearing. She sniffed, but continued. “Detective Hunter is a fine man, but maybe he has too much responsibility with his new position to be in a relationship with you. Or with any woman.”

“You’re probably right. It was silly to get my hopes up for this trip. I kept imagining the two of us sharing romantic evenings––walking the beach together and later making––” My face turned the color of my mother’s beach towel when I realized I was about to discuss my sex life with her.

Or my hope that I would finally
have
a sex life once Tom and I vacationed together in Hawaii.

She chuckled. “It’s okay, honey. You’ve been single for a few years now, although not nearly as long as I was alone after your father passed away. Try not having a sex life for almost thirty years.”

Talk about TMI! That was way too much information.

After my Dad died, I’d never seen my mother with another man until she started dating Detective Bradford the previous fall. I’d always wondered if she’d squeezed any dating into her busy life once my brother and I moved out. No need to wonder any more.

“How could you tell Bradford was the man for you?” The question had nagged at me since their initial meeting, but I’d never had the nerve to ask, even after they married.

She rolled over on her back and rested her hands on her stomach. “Timing had a lot to do with it. Robert and I are both sixty-two. He was contemplating retirement from the sheriff’s department. I was wondering if I’d still be selling real estate and showing houses twenty years from now. I’ve enjoyed my career, but I haven’t had much of a life of my own, other than raising you and your brother.”

She sat up and smiled. “I doubt any Realtor on their death bed ever said they wished they’d gotten one more listing.”

My turn to chuckle. My mother had been a workaholic all of her life. In the beginning, she had no choice because she needed to support her young family. Once she became the top agent in her office, her competitive nature wouldn’t allow her to drop back to number two in sales.

It looked like the new Mrs. Barbara Bradford would finally bring some balance into her life.

“Plus Robert is terrific in bed.”

Oh ick! That made for more than enough mother/daughter bonding for me. I leaped off my towel and hotfooted it down to the water where Stan was cooling his heels.

Stan glanced at me as I splashed noisily beside him. “Did those big old turtles scare you?”

Nope, but my mother sure did. Our conversation reminded me of my brother and Regan’s strained relationship. The couple had married after a brief courtship and I felt like I barely knew my sister-in-law. I’d looked forward to getting to know her better on this trip but bonding over a dead body was not what I’d had in mind.

After a quick dip in the ocean, we decided to head to the volcano. I tried to clean the sand off my calves with a wet wipe. Dark streaks ran up and down my legs leaving me even stickier. As I reached into my straw tote for a clean towel, I noticed a missed call on my cell.

My brother had phoned but left no message. I tried calling him back, but there was no reception. Maybe I’d have more bars once we climbed higher up. I’d feel more relaxed once we learned more about what happened to Keiki.

At the visitor’s center inside the Hawaii Volcanoes Park, we wandered around the displays and watched a mesmerizing and scary film. Kilauea is frequently referred to as a drive-in volcano since it’s one of the few spots where tourists can drive past steaming beds of lava. According to Hawaiian folk lore, Pele, the volcano goddess is very unpredictable. The current eruption could go on for another one hundred years or stop tomorrow.

After pondering my most recent conversation with my mother, I decided that Pele and Mom had a lot in common.

After our drive around the crater, we tried to check into the Volcano Village. We discovered there was no room at the inn. Who knew the volcano was a hot destination for celebrating Valentine’s Day? None of us wanted to drive the three-plus hours back to our resort in Waikaloa. We piled in the car and headed down to Hilo, a thirty-minute drive.

Liz Googled a discount travel website on her smart phone and booked two rooms at a decent hotel. The honeymooners snapped up a room with a king-size bed. The three of us decided to save money and take a double-bedded room. My mother and I could share a bed and Stan could have the other.

Stan had been my confidant for so long, I often thought of him as the sister I’d always wanted.

My cell rang just as we entered our hotel room. Speaking of siblings…

“Dave, finally. How did Regan’s meeting with the police go?”

“She spent almost three hours there, and they took a DNA swab, but she didn’t seem too concerned.” He paused for a few seconds. “Although that’s odd since my wife normally worries about everything. Her staff claims she angsts over every unaccounted for coffee bean.”

Hmm. I was surprised they’d taken a sample of Regan’s DNA, but maybe the Hawaiian police just believed in being thorough. “Did the police mention when you can re-open the restaurant?”

“They’re supposed to remove the crime scene tape early tomorrow. Our insurance agent will meet me at the restaurant around noon. I need to know if…” Dave’s voice faltered, “if I was responsible in some way for Keiki’s fall.”

My heart broke for my brother who had to worry if negligence made him inadvertently responsible for a woman’s death.

I tried to boost his morale. “C’mon, Dave, think positive. What are you and Regan doing tonight?”

“She’s packing right now. She stays in one of Koffee Land’s guest cabins when she needs to be in Hilo overnight. For business.” His voice dropped and it almost sounded like he muttered “supposedly.”

He coughed. “Anyway, Regan said it would be easier to spend the night there to prepare for your tour tomorrow. She’s leaving here in a few minutes.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I’m going to grab a six-pack, sit on our lanai and contemplate the meaning of life.”

Torrents of rain pelted our balcony screen door and woke us early the next morning. According to our guidebook, the eastern side of the island could receive as much as 150 inches of rain per year. No wonder everything was so lush and green. I just hoped all 150 inches didn’t fall today.

The group vetoed Liz’s plan to pay an early morning visit to a botanical garden. The gang opted for a leisurely breakfast of sweet potato rolls, macadamia nut pancakes and a hearty portion of local bacon. Liz reluctantly acquiesced once I promised we’d return on a sunny day and I’d zip-line through the botanical garden with her.

Luckily for me, the odds of the sun shining in Hilo before we flew home were about as high as the odds of me snapping onto a flimsy rope hundreds of feet above terra firma.

Once we escaped Hilo, the rain magically disappeared and the sun popped out, creating an enormous arched rainbow against the blue sky. We stopped at the Punalu’u Bake Shop on our way to the coffee farm. I managed to make a quick pit stop without succumbing to the purchase of any more pastries.

At the rate I was eating my way across Hawaii, I would need to jog around all 266 miles of the Big Island to work the calories off.

Koffee Land occupied five hundred acres near the quaint town of Honaunau, at the southern end of the Kona coffee district. Regan’s employer was one of Kona’s largest coffee farms. Most of the eight hundred growers on the island cultivated far smaller holdings, anywhere from one to five acres.

A brilliant lime green sign adorned with bright violet letters announced our approach to Koffee Land. Even the lava rock entry bore the KL logo. A long, winding paved road ended at a modern-looking building, the impressive visitors’ center. Covered lanais on three sides allowed tourists to sit and enjoy distant ocean views while they sipped their coffee.

As our group ambled up the sidewalk, we admired the brilliant red blossoms of the bougainvillea bushes planted along the walkway. I pushed open the heavy Koa wood door and my nose led the way into the coffee-scented gift shop.

Welcome to Starbucks on steroids.

A young girl dressed in shorts, a lime green polo shirt with KL embroidered on the pocket, and a name badge that read Tiffany, smiled at us.

“Welcome to Koffee Land. Is this your first visit?”

“Yes,” said Mother. “My daughter-in-law, Regan Bingham, is supposed to show us around.”

“I’ll let her know you’re here. Would you like to sample some of our award-winning coffee while you wait?” She pointed to a beige granite-topped counter across the room bearing seven large carafes and a variety of condiments.

Silly question. Liz and Brian were already pouring coffee into paper cups before the young woman could finish her sentence. The rest of us followed suit. Labels on the tall silver carafes told which beans had been ground to make the coffee inside. Small bowls in front of each silver cylinder displayed the actual Koffee Land beans: Standard medium and French roast, Gold label premium versions of each roast, and something called Peaberry. Plus toasted coconut and chocolate macadamia nut.

Yum yum. By the time I’d tasted all the versions, I’d have so much energy I probably
could
run all the way back to the hotel. We jostled each other as we sampled small cups of the steaming liquid.

“Aloha, everyone.” Regan joined us, her arms spread in welcome, but her smile seemed strained, and she looked exhausted. Her lime-green shirt hung on her petite frame and emphasized her pallor. It wouldn’t surprise me if Regan had dropped a few pounds in the last couple of days.

Criminal investigations can do that to people. In fact, being a murder suspect is the only weight loss program that ever worked for
me
.

“There are so many choices,” Mother said. “Can you explain the difference between the assorted roasts?”

Regan pointed to the bowls. “See the difference in the color, size and shape of the various beans? The lightest beans are our medium roast, which technically produces the purest tasting Kona coffee. Many people, especially Starbucks regulars, prefer the darker French roast. The higher temperatures required for their roasting removes some of the natural flavor though.”

I mulled that over. “So if I prefer a light roast, I’m not a coffee weenie. I’m really a coffee connoisseur?”

“That’s correct.” Regan reached into one of the bowls, grabbed a small round bean and passed it around. “Now the Peaberry is our most robust bean.”