The Flaming Luau of Death (8 page)

I turned the frame around and showed her the picture. Liz let out a strangled little yelp.

“Liz, do you remem—”

“Oh my God, Maddie!” Holly screeched, her voice much louder than spa courtesy might dictate.
“Catch her! Catch Liz!”

It must have been too much for Liz, the shock of seeing the hotel-room guy again. Damn. Just as Liz Mooney started to swoon, I managed to get my arms around her. Off balance, I began to topple myself, but then Holly got her arms around me. Still, gravity had its way.

“Oh my goodness!” murmured one of the waiting women seated nearby, her copy of
Town & Country
slipping.

“Dear God!” said another one sharply.

The three of us—Holly, me, and an unconscious Liz—landed in a dog pile on the center of the light-green carpeting, a most unexpected lady wrestlers–style floorshow for the waiting spa-sters.

From the bottom of the dog pile I quietly announced: “Got her.”

And Holly just giggled uncontrollably on the floor.

I
pushed on the heavy doors of the spa facility and stepped out into a perfectly gorgeous island day, feeling better the moment I emerged from the darkened building into the bright daylight. The Hawaiian sun warmed my skin.

Liz had already recovered a bit, ministered to by Holly and several spa attendants. The young woman with the coiled braid had taken charge, bringing ice water, calling an ambulance. I waited to make sure Liz was really all right and then I slipped out. I longed to breathe fresh, un-candle-scented air. As I left, I heard Liz protesting she didn’t need to go to the emergency room, and Holly gently insisting,
no, she really did.

Each step I took away from the spa building gave me that much more resolve to take action. I now had two tasks this weekend, and I didn’t see why I couldn’t succeed at both. I would continue hosting Holly’s party extravaganza, of course, but at the same time, I would get to the bottom of what had happened to Kelly Imo.

My plan was to return to my room and pick up the keys to the Mustang and then sort out all the new and disturbing information during the drive out of town on my way to pay my call on Keniki Hicks. Driving helped
me think straight. And then, from Keniki, I was pretty sure I’d be able to uncover the answers to much more.

I turned right at the path to the beach bungalows and went over the odd events again. None of it made sense. Just what had Kelly been doing in Holly’s room? Was he a disturbed young man, a sexual predator? I looked across the beach, my view filled with the gentle blue of the sky, the gentle aqua of the ocean, the palm fronds barely swaying in the slight breeze. A man filled with dark intentions in such a beautiful paradise? Was it possible?

Whirls of new questions washed over me. Had his death really been an accident? If Kelly Imo fell off a cliff in the middle of the night and died in the surf, had somebody pushed him? And really, how the hell did Kelly connect to us?

A family with two small children passed me on the path. The mom, her oversize plastic tote filled with beach toys, waved. The dad, his exposed white gut betraying a certain desk-bound mainland existence, said hello. They were here looking for fun; I was looking for telling details. I smiled a busy, distracted, I’ve-got-work-to-do smile. We were headed in different directions, and for me the beach could wait. Relaxation, frankly, is overrated. I would much rather solve a puzzle than doze.

The family turned back and looked at me, their faces showing surprise—or was it concern that I wasn’t wearing a resort-mandated laid-back expression?—and then walked on. But really, I wanted to tell them, I felt energized by all the things I planned to do. Workaholism gets a bad rap.

I still had a few questions that needed answers. Important questions. I stopped walking, pulled the framed photograph out of the shopping bag, and studied the
two happy faces. Keniki Hicks, our hula instructor, was wearing a sarong, pale yellow with pink and blue orchids in the print, smiling at the camera. The young man with his arm across her shoulder was athletic looking, clean-shaven, his features handsome. There was no mistaking the wire-rimmed spectacles he was wearing. I had held them in my hand last night. Studied them. I clearly remembered their unique nose bridge, an odd retro style. So what had Kelly Imo been doing in Holly’s room?

His face shined up at me from the photo.

Perhaps he was connected to some illegal schemes on the island. Burglaries at the Four Heavens, for instance. Maybe he had taken his girlfriend’s resort master key and made a copy.

The whole idea got me irritated. It seemed completely unfair that there should be crooks and con men in Hawaii. It was positively un-state-like. This wasn’t California, for heaven’s sake, where a person must wear daily her skepticism like armor against all the genial liars and scam artists and fakes. This was Hawaii. The Aloha State, for pity’s sake. Sure, back in L.A., I’m prepared for deceptions. It’s a town where “reality” is produced and edited. It’s a town where everything and everyone must be suspected of being artificial until you can prove otherwise.

But here in Hawaii, couldn’t a con man thrive just as well? I traced the outline of Kelly Imo on the eight-by-ten photo. That clean-cut exterior could be just the image he wanted to project, the good-looking camouflage to cover up a heart filled with schemes.

So what the hell was Kelly doing in Holly’s room? And how had he gotten mixed up with the people who had sent Holly the nasty e-mail, the ones looking for Marvin Dubinsky?

I put the framed photo back into the bright green shopping bag and began walking again. I would think it over later. Driving around the Big Island with the top down on the Mustang would blow some new ideas my way, get things straightened out. I realized just then, walking next to that pristine sandy beach, that I missed the traffic in West Hollywood. Six lanes across on Santa Monica Boulevard. Stopped at red lights, waiting for the left-turn arrow, I seemed to get my best inspirations. How about that?

The neat path was lined with leafy bushes abloom with perfect yellow hibiscus, and I followed it to our row of hotel rooms. As I approached our bungalow, I suddenly remembered Holly’s two sleepy sisters, Daisy and Marigold, and wondered if they had ever managed to get out of bed. It was almost ten-thirty, which—not to sugarcoat it—was actually one-thirty in the afternoon, West Coast time. And with that realization I instantly snapped right back into my party-planner mode. The girls might sleep away this golden day and miss the fun.

Marigold had room 1025. I turned up the little walkway and noticed the door was not fully closed. That was odd. As I got closer, I realized Marigold had stuck a small trash can in the doorway to keep the door ajar, perhaps to encourage breezes. She must still be inside.

Or maybe she had gone next door to room 1027, visiting her other late-rising sister, half of the twin-set, Daisy. I stopped for a second, wondering if I should go to Daisy’s room first, when the sound of a female voice caught my attention. It was coming from Marigold’s room. She was there after all. I was just about to call her name when her words began to register.

“…never again. That’s Holly! I mean I love her to death and all, but she doesn’t deserve the attention, Daisy.”

Well, well, well. It appeared that Marigold was gossiping—maybe on the hotel telephone?—to her sister Daisy, next door.

“Why did he fall all over himself?” Marigold’s voice sulked.

Was this sibling jealousy I had inadvertently (I swear!) eavesdropped upon? Was Marigold dissing Holly’s fiancé? Holly and Donald seemed like a pretty cool couple to me.

I should have called out to Marigold right then. I should have said, “Yoo-hoo! Marigold!” or in some other way made my presence known. I realize that. But before I could, Marigold’s voice piped up again from inside the room, sounding defensive and a little whiny. “But what about me? He never knew I was even alive. I’ve waited and suffered, Daisy.”

What was this about, then?
Marigold
suffered and waited? For whom? Holly’s Donald? No way. That just wasn’t right. I was struck with a sudden thought: how lucky I was that I didn’t have any sisters. How could five sisters ever get through life without invading one another’s most private feelings?

“Hello!” I called out before another secret could be spilled. “Are you here, Marigold?”

“Who is that?” she asked, and then, a second or two later, her blond head appeared in the open doorway. “Mad? Omigod! You scared me! What’s up?” She cradled the phone between her ear and her shoulder, the trick of a habitual phone marathoner, as she opened the door all the way.

“Hey, there,” I said, all smiles.

“Come on in. I’m just talking to Daisy. We’re always on the phone. She’s taking forever to get dressed,” Marigold complained. “Normally, I wouldn’t mind waiting
a couple more hours for Daisy to get ready,” she continued, her humor always taking an affectionate potshot when it could, “but today we’re going down to the spa, where she’ll just have to get undressed again.”

We both laughed. Marigold was dressed and ready. She was wearing a lime-green T-shirt and very short shorts in the same hue, and her makeup was perfectly done.

“Wait a minute, Daze,” she said into the phone. “I’m asking Maddie about the spa.” Then, without taking a breath, she asked me, “Did you get a massage? Was it
très
cool?”

“I loved it.” I did. And the party planner in me wanted to shield my guests from any hint of unpleasantness, so I stuck to that.

“Daisy,” Marigold scolded into the phone, “Maddie’s here checking up on us, for goodness’ sakes! She thinks we’re the worst sort of slackers. Listen to me, now. Wear the tangerine tank, the shorts with the word
HELLCAT
on the butt, and come on over here. Right away.” Marigold hung up on Daisy and giggled at me. “Little sisters.”

Looking at Marigold, away from the pack of Nichols sisters, I had to say that aside from the blond thing and the height thing shared by all the girls, she didn’t really look like Holly at all. While Holly has a delicate pointy chin and tiny nose, Marigold was all about big strong features. If Holly was the ballerina of the family, Marigold was the linebacker.

“It’s exciting to think about your sister getting married, isn’t it?” I asked. I mean, what’s the use of eavesdropping if you can’t press your advantage?

“The wedding?” Marigold said, raising an eyebrow. “You mean
if
Holly actually goes through with it.”

Marigold was jealous. Holly’s Donald was a nice-looking
guy, in that sort of corn-fed from the Midwest, great cleft in his chin, hunky in a pair of Levi’s way. And certainly he had achieved fast success in Hollywood. His first screenplay had been a wild hit. But gosh, there were other attractive men in Los Angeles besides just Donald Lake, so did Marigold have to go pining away for the one guy in the big city who was soon to be married to her sister?

“I’m just saying,” she said coyly, “it’s not that Holly is all that predictable when it comes to men, you know? I sure hope she gets married. Mom and Dad have spent a fortune on the wedding, so it would be really nice if she goes through with it.”

Hm. What was she really saying? Interpretation of sister-speak was an art perhaps best practiced from within the family.

“You two talking about Holly and Donald?” asked Daisy, pushing open the door and entering Marigold’s messy room. The beds were a jumble of fine sheets and fluffy comforters, with several pillows tossed here and there on the floor. Marigold and the absent Gladiola had apparently just opened their suitcases and goody bags any old where, and seemed to be grabbing clothes as needed.

“What else?” Marigold smiled a tight-lipped smile.

“I think they are a cute couple,” Daisy said. “I really do. And if Donald can put up with Holly and all her scattering around, they should be very happy.”

“I was just telling Maddie that. But you know our Holly. She is so all over the map when it comes to men.”

Sisters.

“Like you’re any better,” Daisy teased.

“Shut up,” Marigold said, tossing a stray pillow across the room at Daisy’s head and missing. “We’re late, as usual.”

I ducked, just avoiding a goose-down whap in the mouth, and followed the girls out of the room.

“You coming?” Marigold asked me.

“I can’t right now,” I said. “I’m taking off for a while, but you two go and enjoy!”

I could multitask better than anyone I knew. I had gathered the last of my tardy guests and was herding them off to the day’s activities. Now it was time for me to go after some answers, and I knew the place I had to start.

A visit to Keniki Hicks.

T
he address I had been given was about a thirty-minute drive from the Four Heavens Resort. Keniki Hicks lived in a rented house that was located outside the old sugar town of Hawi, at the northernmost tip of the Big Island, near the spot where the Kohala Coast turns the corner onto the Hamakua Coast.

Out on Highway 250, I left the ranch town of Waimea behind and steered the Mustang convertible—top down, baby—through lush jungles north to Hawi, which I soon learned was pronounced
Hahvee
by the instructive locals I stopped to ask for directions, probably retired grammar teachers, all of them.

I looked around as I drove, spotting historic markers hidden here and there among the thick foliage, marking remnants of the island’s exotic past. While the Hawaiian Islands are the textbook example of natural beauty, their history is less than lovely, steeped in island-againstisland warfare and blood and kapu. Even before the Europeans and Americans began to covet this land, the island people fought and battled among themselves. And then, of course, the missionaries arrived in 1820. Had I traveled straight up the Kohala Coast, on Highway 270, I’d have been tempted to stop and visit the
Kalahikiola Church in North Kohala, founded in 1855 by an old Maine missionary, Reverend Elias Bond.

I had studied Hawaii’s past while planning our trip. In addition to the inter-island skirmishes and wars, the islanders’ interactions with their earliest outside visitors was at best ambivalent. As a prime example, there’s Captain Cook. In 1779, an English captain named James Cook sailed along the Kona Coast, where today the best resorts, including the Four Heavens, were located. As it happened, Cook anchored there during an island festival, one that was ruled by the god Lono, and the islanders mistook the sails of Cook’s ships for the banner of Lono. Stories about parties naturally capture my attention, so I remembered the details of this one quite well. It is recorded that the Hawaiians mistook Cook for the deity. So far, this was a fairly typical tale—simple, trusting native people; weird white dude with strange technology. But the story goes on.

After a pleasant visit—hey, they treated the guy like he was Lono—Captain Cook sailed north, where, alas, he encountered trouble. A severe storm broke the mast on one of his ships. Limping back to the bay, Cook returned to his new friends, expecting a reverent welcome once again. But this time the Hawaiians were suddenly skeptical. Big storm. Wrecked ship. What kind of god couldn’t control a few waves? Of course they now questioned his godliness.

Small items began disappearing from his ships, and when a skiff was stolen, Cook got fed up. He took a local chief as hostage, setting off a skirmish in which Captain Cook, ultimately, was killed. So the moral of the story: Just because the island people are gracious at their luaus, don’t assume they cannot add two plus two, especially once they have sobered up the next day.

A local guidebook describes a white obelisk at the north end of Kealakekua Bay that marks the spot where Cook is believed to be buried. A pointed reminder indeed for anyone visiting from L.A., where we can take ourselves a little too seriously.

Before long, I had reached the town of Hawi, and soon I found the turnoff to Kamakana Place, Keniki’s street. Just one block from the main road, I spotted her house.

Everywhere I looked, up one street and down another, was landscaping so lush it could bring tears to the eyes of a mainland gardener. The grass was incredibly emerald here and seemed to shimmer a brighter green than was altogether natural. In front of Keniki’s small home, a splashy carpet of bright green rushed up to the deep pink stucco of the house. Three stubby sago palms hugged the home’s walkway while two coconut palms stood tall out by the driveway, shaggy fronds scraping the light blue sky.

I pulled my Mustang up to the curb across the street from Keniki’s house, not wanting to take up prime parking space; her relatives and friends would probably be arriving throughout the day. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. After all, we hardly knew each other well. And yet, perhaps there was something I could do to help. And, equally urgent, perhaps Keniki could answer some of my questions.

At the front door, I rang the bell, and in the seconds that followed had a brief moment to reconsider. Who knew how Keniki would be taking the news of her fiancé’s death? And yet I was certain she held keys to the puzzle.

After about a minute, a young woman opened the door. Very long dark hair. Slender build. She looked so
much like Keniki I almost thought it was her, but when the woman didn’t recognize me, I started to notice small differences. This woman was taller. And her eyes were smaller, rounder. At the door, beside her, squirmed a yellow lab, his tail wagging, his head pushing her aside to sniff the new visitor.

“Aloha,” said the young woman pleasantly, greeting me at the door. “You must be a friend of Keni’s. How good of you to come.”

“Thanks. We haven’t met. My name is Madeline.”

“Oh, hi.” She stood there, lost in thought for a moment. “I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m Cynthia Hicks, Keniki’s sister.”

“I heard about Kelly and…” I started over. “I wanted to check with Keniki to see if I might help out, if I could.”

As we stood there at the open doorway, I patted the lab’s head, and he gave my legs a frenzy of good, strong sniffs.

“Who’s this fellow?”

“Let me introduce you to Dr. Margolis,” she said, smiling at the dog.

“Hey, Doc.” His nostrils quivered. He was in love with my scent. I wondered if he could pick up any remnants of Dead Sea Mud. Just then a white van pulled up in front of Keniki’s house and stopped, half in the driveway, half out in the street, rap music spilling out of the open windows. On the side of the van,
Best Coast Florist
was written in green script under a picture of purple orchids.

The driver of the van, a kid in jeans and an OutKast T-shirt, hopped out and went to the back of his vehicle, soon coming up the walk with a large arrangement of tall, stalky birds of paradise amid a lush tangle of greens.

“More flowers,” said Cynthia, reaching down for her dog’s collar as his curiosity transferred from me to the new guy and he strained to get some new whiffs.

“Why don’t I take these for you?” I asked, holding my arms out to the flower van driver, a skinny guy with braces.

“Hey, I’ve got two more,” he said, relinquishing the flowers to me.

“Thanks,” Cynthia said vaguely. “But what do we do with all these plants?” She held the screen door open, and I walked into a bright living room, decorated in vintage bamboo furniture and 1950s-style prints. Wesley would love this place.

I set the flowers down on a low table, next to two smaller arrangements that must have arrived recently, just as the kid from the florist’s van came to the door with two more. Dr. Margolis had trailed the driver from house to van to house again. There was some jockeying of bowls and vases, but we managed to situate the gifts, creating a small jungle of indoor flora. I noticed many of the arrangements featured native plants.

“Keniki has been resting, lying down in her room,” Cynthia said after the young man had left us.

“I don’t want to disturb her.”

“It’s okay. Just a second. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

Dr. Margolis sat down so close to me he actually sat on my right foot. And he rested his chin on my bare knee. “Hi, guy,” I said, rubbing his forehead. “Are things kind of sad around here today?”

While I waited, I stood up and looked about the room. A painting of two young Hawaiian girls dressed in hula costumes, flowers circling their bare feet, was hanging over the sofa. It had been painted in an artful primitive
style, which I liked, and I wondered if it might possibly be of Keniki and Cynthia as children.

“My mother painted that one,” said a soft voice. I turned to see Keniki, still wearing her resort uniform, a sarong with the Four Heavens’ hibiscus print, her long hair hanging on both sides of her face.

“It’s really beautiful.”

“Forgive me,” she said, “but I’m surprised to see you…here. Was there a problem with last night’s luau?”

“No, no. Everything about the luau was just perfect. I brought some of your things from the Four Heavens.”

She noticed the bag I had carried into the house and nodded.

I continued, “I hope you don’t mind that I came to see you. I just wanted to offer my support.”

“Have you heard about what happened?” Her eyes were wide, but little comprehension could be observed in them.

“I did. I felt—”

“The luau last night
was
wonderful, wasn’t it?” she asked brightly, cutting me off. I was a little surprised she was holding herself together so extremely well. “You’re sure you were happy with everything?”

“At Holly’s luau? Of course. It was amazing. Thanks to you.”

“It was my pleasure. Come and sit down,” she said, gesturing to the sofa and a matching bamboo armchair. So calm. Dr. Margolis stood up and walked in a complete circle, then laid down at Keniki’s feet.

I checked her out. “How are you doing?”

“Fine. Really.” She smiled at me.

I tried to smile back.

She must have read my thoughts because she said, “It’s probably odd, I know. But…”

“Who can say what’s the right way to react? Whatever way you feel is right.”

“I just keep asking myself, how can this have happened? Kelly and I were engaged, you know? We hadn’t set our wedding date, but we were waiting for him to save enough money to…” Her voice trailed off.

We sat there as the silence stretched out. I had so many questions to ask her about Kelly, but I wanted to be sure she was comfortable.

“Look,” I said, “about the luau, I know we arranged to pay you the balance at the end of the month, but I want you to have all your money right now. There are sure to be expenses.” I rummaged in my bag and came up with the check.

She looked at the crisp rectangle of pale blue paper. “This is too much,” Keniki said, handing it back to me.

“No. This is fine. You have enough to deal with right now, Keniki. Bills need to be paid, right? And if there is anything else I can do to help you, please just let me know.”

“You are truly a kind person,” she said, her eyes dreamy.

I noticed her sister, Cynthia, was standing in the hallway, listening to us but not joining us in the living room.

“We’re a little lost,” Keniki said, apologetic. “We aren’t sure what to do. Kelly’s family is in California. They were called by the police or someone. His dad is flying in to take care of everything. I think they plan to take him back to Oakland.”

“Oh.”

“But all his friends are here,” Cynthia said, coming a step into the room, into the conversation.

An opening. I asked my first question gently. “How long has Kelly lived on the Big Island?”

Keniki answered immediately. “Two years. But we only started seeing each other about six months ago.”

I noticed she held a fresh tissue in her hand, but she didn’t seem to need it. She must still be in shock. Or perhaps she had been given a pill and it was working.

“Do you feel like talking about him?”

“I don’t mind,” Keniki said, meeting my eyes. “Everyone is so upset. Everyone else seems afraid to talk about Kelly now.”

Cynthia shed a tear. “I’m sorry, Keni. I’m not sure what is right and what is wrong.”

“This is a hard time,” I said, and then turned back to Keniki and tried another question. “I don’t think I heard how you two met.”

“At a party,” Keniki said, and she smiled a shy smile. “Kelly was there with a guy that he works with. I went with Cynthia. It was a very posh party, but I took one look at Kelly and he looked at me. We knew. Neither one of us belonged at that party, but we knew we belonged together.”

“Where did he work?” I asked.

She looked at me and blinked. Her boyfriend would now and forever be referred to in the past tense. “Over at a horticulture center,” she said. “He was in love with plants. That’s why people are sending us all of these. And these.” She gestured to the forest of shoots and stalks erupting in pots in front of us. “This one is
B. nutans.
And here is a
T. siamensis.
Kelly taught me all the plant names.”

“Kelly could grow anything,” Cynthia said softly.

“It’s true,” Keniki agreed. “He could. But these plants are just for show, Cyn. These people weren’t his friends.
Not his real friends. They are all such…” She took a deep breath. “They’re hypocrites.”

“I know,” murmured her sister.

I looked up. “What do you mean?”

Keniki plucked the card from the tallest green arrangement and read it aloud. “We will miss our brother, Kelly. From The Bamboo Four. Can you believe their nerve?”

“Kelly had enemies,” Cynthia explained to me quickly.

“What sort of enemies?”

“He was very political. And there were factions that were working against him—like those four. I guess he was threatening the wrong people, and they were not too happy.”

I paid very close attention. Were Keniki and Cynthia implying Kelly Imo’s death was tied in some way with politics? But they sounded so calm. “Can you tell me what sort of politics?”

“Oh, Kelly had radical ideas,” Keniki said, smiling at the thought. “And not everyone here on the island was too happy with that. Still, they all sent gifts, didn’t they? The Four! The jerks.”

“The jerks,” Cynthia agreed, her soft voice bitter. “I hate them.”

And then Keniki’s head fell into her hands. That eerie force, which had somehow managed to restrain the terrible storm of emotions up to this point, could hold it back no more. Anger set it free. And a primitive moan racked her slender body. Then another. And there were tears. Tears came pouring, torrents of tears. Dr. Margolis stood up but stayed close to her as the tempest of sorrow and anger was finally unleashed in that small living room.

“Oh, Keni.” Cynthia, her own tears flowing once more, sank down on her knees on the floor in front of
her sister. Their graceful arms entwined around each other. “That’s okay. That’s okay.”