The Green Room (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

The rumble of huge surf fills one's subconscious with an atavistic wariness before the conscious mind can identify the noise. It's like hearing distant thunder; a frisson of vigilance passes through a person.

Storm awoke to the pounding of waves and no sense of where she was. The bedside clock wasn't the one she was used to, though it was familiar, and it read 6:15, which was when she normally got up for work. It was the crash of surf and the smell of the ocean that reminded her she was at the beach cottage. Her head felt as if it was stuffed with steel wool, and she had a nagging feeling that she was forgetting something important.

Staggering into the bathroom, she groped for her toothbrush, and nearly yelped at her reflection over the sink. Dark-circled puffy eyes and hair that would send the bride of Frankenstein over the edge. Damn, now she remembered. She was supposed to go to that dojo this morning to talk to the fellow who thought he'd seen the
ka‛ane
. Some of Buster DeSilva's theories had bordered on nutty—even Aunt Maile would agree. Storm hoped the trip to town was worth her time.

The warm yellow glow of the overhead light made last night's ominous thoughts seem much less threatening. But Nahoa's death was real. And the whole missing teeth issue tied in too well with the lore of
lua
and its weaponry.

It was now 6:30 and she didn't have time to lose. Even in the bathroom, she could hear waves pound the shore. It was going to be huge, and on big days it would often wash over the only road that led from the beach cottage into Haleiwa, causing traffic to inch along. Not only would the driving be slow, but people would be swarming in from the east, west, and south shores of O‛ahu to see it. A traffic jam on what was essentially a two-lane country highway could mean a half-hour drive or more, and Buster DeSilva had asked her to be early.

Storm pulled her hair back with two combs and a big rubber band, threw on a cotton sweater, jeans, and rubber slippers, and dashed through the mist, a combination of a soft winter rainfall and salt spray from the high surf. Traffic wasn't as bad as she'd feared, and at five till seven she pulled into the dojo parking lot, a rutted patch of gravel next to a simple frame building that looked like termites had been snacking on it since World War II.

When she opened the double door, she was immediately in a small vestibule, which let into a large room. The vestibule held a couple of benches and its floor was littered with footwear. Storm kicked off her own slippers and stepped into the large one-room interior of the building, which was covered with tatami mats.

Mirrors lined the far wall and a cluster of people dressed in traditional white gi knelt in two even lines in front of Buster DeSilva, who stood next to a young man. They both wore black. Buster caught her eye and bowed in her direction. Without saying a word, he nodded to the fellow next to him, who bowed also.

Storm returned their bows. Buster proceeded to lead the class in a series of breathing exercises while the young man jogged over to her and stuck out his hand.

“Thank you for coming. I'm Warren Yee.”

Storm shook his hand. “Thanks for seeing me. I hoped I'd get here sooner.”

Warren's grin revealed a dimple in one cheek, and his black eyes playfully reflected the overhead lights. “I'll bet the roads are busy. I'm going up to Waimea as soon as I'm finished here. I heard they're going to hold the first round of the Intrepid this afternoon.”

“It's a pretty big deal, isn't it?”

“Yeah.” His voice resonated with enthusiasm.

“Are you in it?”

“I wish. I have some friends in it.” His face grew more somber. “But you're not here to talk about the tow-in contest, are you?”

“First I want to hear about the dog leash that Ken Matsumoto found. Where was it?”

“Hanging on the knob to the front door of our house. But it wasn't a dog leash.”

“You're sure?”

“My grandparents used to have a trunk full of Hawaiian relics. I remember the
ka‛ane
. My
popo
told me what it was.”

Storm believed him. Some of Aunt Maile's and Uncle Keone's friends kept relics from the old times. That's how she'd recognized the
lei o manō
.

“Ken was one of your roommates? How many people live with you?”

Warren cracked his knuckles and shifted his feet. “There are just two of us, now. We need someone to share expenses.” Warren looked hopefully at Storm.

“I live in Honolulu, but I'll keep my ears open for you. Did Ken know what the cord was?”

“No, I think I was the only one. And I didn't say anything, though now I wish I had. It just seemed too strange at the time.”

“Right, you wouldn't necessarily think of it as a threat.”

“Well, I didn't like it.” Warren looked down at his bare feet, then up at Storm. “Actually, I thought it might be directed at me.” He made a motion toward the class. “You know, because I'm into martial arts.”

“Why? Does Buster teach
lua
?”

“No, of course not.” Warren looked over his shoulder at the class, at Buster, whose voice was louder than it had been a few moments ago. The students were doing stretching exercises.

Storm thought he answered a bit quickly. She regarded him out of the corner of her eye, but Warren was still looking toward Buster, who had begun to break the class into sparring pairs.

“One last question,” she said. “What was Ken like? Did he have a lot of friends?”

“That's two questions.” But Warren smiled as he said it.

“Right. I meant, was he a nice guy?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he was. Generous, too.”

Warren's response again seemed somewhat automatic, which made Storm think she should ask the same question of a few more people, and find out if others' impressions were the same.

She stuck out her hand. “Thanks for talking to me.”

Warren grasped it and turned to face her, his back to Buster and the class. “The spirits of Nahoa Pi‛ilani and Ken Matsumoto will be watching over the competitors today,” he said quietly. “Come to my house if you have more questions.”

Storm exited the dojo. Warren's friendliness had cooled a bit when she asked if Buster taught
lua
. Perhaps that was because the class was starting, and as Buster's assistant, he felt a responsibility to his job. It could also mean that Warren didn't want to answer her question, especially if he'd worried the
ka‛ane
had been left for him. Uncle Keone had said that it was
kapu
for a non-Hawaiian to teach
lua
, and Storm wasn't sure whether Buster had Hawaiian blood. It didn't make any difference to her, but some Hawaiians took it very seriously.

Then again, Warren had offered to talk to Storm at home. She should take him up on that offer and talk to him away from the influence of the dojo. Away from any other ears.

Her stomach was now growling audibly and the aroma of a coffee-toting pedestrian's take-away cup was so enticing she felt like stalking the guy. The mist had increased to a drizzle, and clouds wafted in from the ocean. She knew if she licked the back of her hand, she would taste salt. Storm shivered in the damp, cool air.

Rosie's Diner, a popular spot known among locals for a great breakfast, was a half-block away, and Storm was as close to it as she was to her car. The door banged loudly behind her and the couple at the hostess' podium turned to see who had entered. They nodded a greeting and turned back to the hostess, who gathered a couple of menus and gestured for them to follow. Storm stepped up to wait her turn and noticed a man on the far side of the dining room look up at her. Their eyes met, and he quickly returned his attention to the woman he faced. The two appeared to be deep in conversation.

Storm hoped that her face didn't telegraph her surprise. She forced herself to calmly pick up a menu from a stack on the hostess stand and run her eyes over it. The woman hadn't turned around, but Storm recognized her from the back of her head. Even if she hadn't, she knew the Kate Spade handbag on the back of her chair belonged to Stephanie Barstow.

And the man with her was the wiry fellow she'd seen at the surf contest last week. So that was Marty Barstow, Stephanie's ex. His mirrored shades sat on the table next to his coffee mug, and his eyes bored into Stephanie's face. His right hand gestured fervently, as if he had to convince her of something.

Why was she meeting with him? Storm thought she'd always acted a bit afraid of him. Storm let her eyes slide over to the pair, then back to her menu. Marty was doing most of the talking, while Stephanie wasn't moving much. In fact, she sat with rounded shoulders, almost subdued.

“One?” The hostess broke into her thoughts.

“Yes, please.”

The hostess took Storm around the corner to a side room. “Coffee?”

“You bet,” Storm said. “I'll be right back.” She draped her napkin across her seat and walked across the room to greet Stephanie.

When Storm appeared at her side, Stephanie lurched as if she'd been caught pocketing lipsticks at Macy's.

“Hi, Stephanie.”

“Hi, Storm.” Stephanie's tired eyes flicked from Storm to Marty, then back to Storm. “This is Marty Barstow.”

Barstow got up and reached across the table to shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Uh, it's my day off.” Stephanie sounded as if she might be arrested for eating in a competitor's restaurant.

“This is a great place to have breakfast.” Storm smiled at the two of them. She could see now that instead of providing the support she'd aimed for, she was making her client more uncomfortable. “Just thought I'd say hello. I've got to get back to my table before they give it to someone else.”

“Nice to meet you, Storm.” Barstow was repeating himself, but this had been anything but a scintillating conversation.

“See you later.” Stephanie seemed to shrink.

Storm went back to her seat and poured herself a mug of the restaurant's good brewed coffee. She wondered what Barstow was telling Stephanie that unsettled her. Maybe he knew about the affair with Nahoa. But so what? In Hawaii and California, divorce was no-fault, so an affair shouldn't affect a financial settlement. Sometimes an affair could be used against a partner in a custody battle, but Ben was nineteen; he could choose where to live.

Storm took a deep swallow of coffee. She'd always had the feeling Stephanie kept aspects of the relationship to herself. For all she knew, Stephanie might be tired of trying to make it on her own and was begging Barstow to give the marriage another chance. Probably not, but Storm admitted that she knew little about the woman and her past relationship.

She still needed information about Barstow's business associates and partners. It would be a great excuse to have another friendly, woman-to-woman talk with Stephanie. Maybe Stephanie would tell Storm what this morning's meeting with Barstow was about, maybe not. But Ben's mother had asked Storm to protect her interests, and that's what Storm wanted to do. At least until her client told her to stop.

Right now she needed more caffeine and a stack of Rosie's maple pecan pancakes. She was halfway through them, enjoying every syrup-soaked bite, with a fresh cup of coffee and the day's
Honolulu Advertiser
opened to the police beat. It took her a moment to notice that someone stood by the table.

“I didn't want to interrupt you,” Barstow said.

Storm was irritated. Not only with her own obliviousness, but with the fact that Barstow had stood by her for a few seconds without making his presence known. It made her feel like he enjoyed being sneaky.

“I'd like to talk to you when you have time,” he said and handed her a business card. It was printed with his name, his company name, and his California address. “I wrote my local contact information on the back.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Storm sat in her car for a few moments and read the back of Barstow's card. Stephanie was her client, and she wouldn't talk to him without telling Stephanie first. It might benefit Stephanie, though, if she could get a feeling for what he'd be willing to share with her. How he felt about Stephanie's participation in setting up his successful commercial real estate business, for example.

Storm used her mobile phone to call Stephanie, but no one answered and Storm ended up leaving messages. She decided not to initiate a meeting with Barstow. If he wanted to talk to her badly enough, he could make an appointment like everyone else. But then, she hadn't checked in to the office lately, and two of the missed calls on her cell phone had been from Grace.

Grace picked up on the first ring. “We're so sorry to hear about your cousin. It was on the news. How's that nice boy who was in the office last week?”

“Ben Barstow? Okay, as far as I know.”

“Storm, you've had some important calls. Just a minute.” Storm could hear Grace ruffling through papers.

“I've got a stack of message slips.” More rustling. “Here we are. Rodney Liu from the Hawaii Building and Construction Trades Council. That's a big labor union. You better call that guy.”

“Must be one of Uncle Miles' old clients.” Storm dug for a pen in the glove box and jotted the number on the back of an old gas receipt, the shiny kind the self-service machines spit at you.

“That's what I thought. Okay, and here's another number.” Grace read it off. “It was hard to understand this woman. I think she said her name was Pia, Puna, something like that.”

Storm jotted down this number, too, and was filled with an emotion she couldn't identify. Anxiety, anticipation, a touch of fear. She labored to pay attention to Grace's next messages, which were from the Public Defender's office.

“Thanks, Grace.”

“You're getting some good clients. Better get hold of Rodney Liu right away.”

“I will. You have any idea when Hamlin is planning to drive out here?”

“He told me to tell you when you called that he'd be on the road by six. He wants you to make dinner reservations somewhere nice.” There was a smile in Grace's voice. “Get yourself a slinky dress. It'll cheer you up.”

“Right.” Storm hung up the phone and sighed. Grace read her like the notes she'd spiked on her desk. The only clothes Storm had with her were the shift she'd worn when she'd visited Mrs. Shirome, now wrinkled and sweaty, two pairs of board shorts, her jeans, and two bikinis.

She looked around. The parking lot for Rosie's Diner wasn't full and no one seemed to be paying any attention to her. She called Rodney Liu's number and the two numbers for the PD's office and set up appointments for the following week.

She eyed the other number Grace had given her, then went into the call log on her mobile. Sure enough, there it was—twice. Grace didn't give out Storm's cell phone number to clients. It had to be Pua, Nahoa's sister, and with her name came a flood of memories.

Storm laid the phone on the passenger seat, and gazed out the VW's window into the dense branches of the overhead monkey pod tree. It had been many years and many tears. But she was a big girl now, she could do this.

Rochelle Pi‛ilani, Pua's and Nahoa's mother, had been one of Storm's mother's best friends. When Storm's mother had been riding the roller coaster of her sweeping mood swings, Rochelle had been with her. Especially in the high times, the spending sprees to Honolulu, the opera fundraisers, the black tie events Storm's dad shunned.

Storm had her own reasons for avoiding Rochelle, who was always perfectly coiffed, and intensely critical of those who weren't. A stick, Rochelle would shake her head and cluck at Storm's chunky twelve-year-old physique. Storm never did call her Auntie, the affectionate name for a close family friend.

Pua had taken after her dad. Sensitive and unpretentious, she and Storm were inseparable. Storm remembered how, only a few weeks after her mother's suicide, Uncle Bert and Pua had invited her to go canoe surfing. A year before, she would have killed for this adventure, but now, with the whole neighborhood trying to console her, Storm would rather have slipped off to her secret spot in the sugar cane fields to puff stolen cigarettes, maybe even a little
pakalolo
, and try to sort out how she felt about life—and death.

That day, the waves turned out to be bigger than anyone expected. Any Hawaiian can tell you how unpredictable the ocean is. Bert, an experienced paddler, knew it as well as any one.

Storm suspected that at this point, her childhood memories were blurred and distorted. She remembered how the boat plowed through the crest of an overhead wave. It foundered to a halt so abruptly in the oncoming riff of curling water that she shot forward from her seat and banged her knees against the bow.

A salty deluge stifled her yelp of pain, and then the bow rocketed down the backside of another wave, only to crash into the face of a bigger one. Pua made a mewling noise, then Uncle Bert cried out.

“Try bail!” His voice was ragged and frantic.

She grabbed for the plastic bucket as it floated by, and scooped, again and again, until her shoulders burned.

Then Uncle Bert screamed again. “Jump!”

One moment, she heard Bert's frenetic command, and the next she was in the water, watching the red hull of the upturned boat, parallel to the curl of the frothing breaker ten feet above her.

Then she was in the green room, the ocean's lesson for ill-fated humans far out of their element. Tumbled like rootless kelp, the water pushed her down until her vision darkened. Without any feel for up or down, her eyes stayed open. It was this image that returned to her in nightmares, the darkening green. Powerless as a mote in space, she rolled through it. On and on, whirling weightless and without direction.

She would never know why the ocean spit her out a second before her convulsing lungs sucked in sea water. She didn't even remember how the roiling waters dragged her across a reef, tearing the skin off most of her back and both elbows and knees.

When the rescue canoe picked her up and took her to shore, she blubbered to a bereft Pua about a wild pig that paced the shore, but she shut up when Rochelle, hysterical, shrieked that the accident was Storm's fault.

Aunt Maile and Uncle Keone kept her home from school for the rest of the week. It wasn't until she went back that she discovered that Bert had drowned, and Rochelle had packed up her entire household, taken her children, and moved to Kaua‛i.

Four years later, when Storm moved to O‛ahu, she wrote Pua, but never heard from her. Her own family assured her that she bore no responsibility for Bert Pi‛ilani's death, and she hoped they were right. But the cracked patella she'd sustained from the accident still throbbed from time to time, and reminded her of a deeper ache.

So why was Pua calling her now? Did she know Nahoa had sent a client to her? She must know they'd been in touch. Why else would she phone?

Sadly, when Storm thought about what she might say to Pua, the heavy object she'd seen dragged from the surf yesterday came vividly to mind. She also felt a strong surge of regret about the package that had been delivered to Nahoa. She'd done nothing. She'd known, deep down, that the threat was more serious than a mere warning to stay away from a woman. But she'd rationalized, and ignored the prickling sense of peril that hovered around the
lei o manō
.