Aloha Betrayed (11 page)

“Okay,” I said. “Tell you what. This team member wants to go back to talk to Koko. Nothing may come of it, but I want to try. I can do that in the morning. If the weather is good—and I can’t imagine that it won’t be—I’ll bicycle over there.”

“That’s a pretty long ride.”

“Not as long as the ride down Haleakala after the sunrise.”

“True. You planning to do that?”

“Not tomorrow, but maybe one day. I may also go back to the campus to speak with her colleagues. The head of the department was in competition with her for the position. Of course, he had won the position before she died. Then, I—”

“Whoa! Pretty ambitious day you have planned, Jessica.”

“What’s the alternative, sit by the pool and get sunburned?”

“That’s an appealing alternative to me, but I get your point. How about I pick you up tomorrow sometime after lunch. I’ll call you with a specific time.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

“Good. Get yourself some rest. Looks to me like you’re in training.”

I entered my room, flipped on the lights, closed the drapes, and got into my pajamas and the robe provided by the hotel. I opened a novel I’d started and read a few pages, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept seeing Koko’s face in the window, looking passively down at me, and wondered what secrets his mind harbored.

“That boy knows something,” I said aloud to myself, “and I want to know what it is. I
have
to know what it is.”

E Kala Mai Ia‘u!
—
Excuse Me!

I
awoke the next morning to the ping of raindrops against the sliding glass doors. So much for riding my bike. I padded across the room and parted the drapes. Although it was raining, the sun shone brightly. Within minutes the rain stopped and a lovely rainbow arched across the horizon, a positive sign for the new day.

On my way to the hotel restaurant I stopped in the gift shop and bought a colorful blouse to augment my Hawaiian wardrobe, tucking it in my shoulder bag. I was seated at a table overlooking the bay. I had a busy day planned and ordered a big breakfast—pancakes, bacon, orange juice, and coffee—to fortify myself for the ride ahead. The dinner with Mike the previous night had done what big dinners always do to me—left me feeling famished the next day. The pancakes were delicious, but I still rank the blueberry version at Mara’s Luncheonette in Cabot Cove to be superior, maybe out of simple loyalty to my hometown establishments.

My hunger sated, I reserved a bicycle at the front desk and strolled toward my room, intent on changing into my new purchase, when I felt an odd prickle, as if there was someone watching me. I looked around but didn’t see any faces turned in my direction. The hotel lobby was crowded. Local artists had set up displays of their works, and I joined the crowd perusing the tables of jewelry,
kapa
cloth scarves, and other artistic creations. I was particularly charmed by a series of color photographs of underwater creatures taken by a pleasant fellow named Scott Mead. One work really caught my eye. It was of a giant sea turtle, a magnificent specimen, just like the one the little girl had pointed out prior to the start of the luau. Was that only three days ago?

The photograph was made even more lifelike because it was printed on aluminum, which altered the look of the piece as the light source changed. The artist took great pains to explain this unusual method of printing, a technique he’d learned while working with aluminum in the aerospace industry. He moved an overhead spot, showing me how the appearance of the water and the animal changed depending upon the angle of the light striking the metal. Intrigued, I handed him my credit card and arranged to have the framed photograph sent to my home in Cabot Cove, where I had the perfect spot for it in my office. I felt good after making my purchase. For the first time since arriving on Maui, I’d partaken in something pleasant and unique to the island that didn’t involve the controversy over Mala’s death.

As I headed back to my room in preparation for my bike ride to Wailea and my hoped-for interview with Koko, I passed a heavyset man, his face buried in a newspaper, standing next to an events board. “Excuse me,” I said, stepping closer. “I just want to read this.” Without a word, he turned and walked away.

There were three items listed: The Rotary club’s luncheon would be held in the restaurant at noon; a Maui produce company was sponsoring its annual conference over the next few days; and a press conference was scheduled at nine thirty that morning in one of the public rooms, hosted by the Witherspoon Construction Company. That morning’s rainbow had indeed been a good omen. I had intended to seek out Cale Witherspoon, who’d delivered what I considered unnecessarily insensitive comments in the newspaper article that Mala had included in my packet of materials. Instead of having to go to him, he was coming to me. That rainbow was prescient.

I changed into my new aloha shirt and killed time before the start of the conference by checking the Internet to see if Mala’s family had posted a date for her celebration of life. I didn’t find that, but I did see an article in which she had been identified by name as the victim of a tragic fall. Several comments below the article, bylined by Joe Luckey, were from bereaved students, mourning the loss of their beloved professor. One comment labeled “Anonymous” wrote: “The committee will be real happy that she’s no longer around for them to trip over. Speaking of trips . . .” Another reader chastised Anonymous: “Nice comment, you no-name chicken. Her death is not funny. She was a true champion of Hawaii and what the Aloha Spirit really means.” Anonymous responded: “Aznuts! Science is more important than legend. She was babelicious, I’ll give you dat.” The remaining comments were reciprocal insults, and I was disappointed not to see anything that Mike and I could follow up on.

I closed the computer and took out the papers Mala had given me, refreshing my knowledge of the controversy. Confident that I had a passing familiarity with the subject, I found the room where the conference was being held and took a seat in the back row. A TV crew and a local radio station had arrived earlier and positioned their microphones at a podium along with the hotel’s mike. A smattering of men and women, who I assumed were reporters, had taken seats in the front, while a hotel staff member busied himself making last-minute adjustments to the podium and chairs behind it. A table with breakfast pastries, sliced fruit, pitchers of orange and pineapple juice, and a coffee urn had been set up against a wall.

I’d been there only a few minutes when Cale Witherspoon arrived, flanked by two younger men, both wearing suits and ties and sunglasses, which struck me as pretentious considering they were indoors. If Witherspoon had been the president of the United States, I would have pegged his colleagues as Secret Service. They had that fierce protective look about them. One was tall and carried himself like an athlete. The other was shorter; his suit looked too small on what appeared to be a weightlifter’s body. The taller one looked familiar, although I couldn’t peg where I’d seen him before. A middle-aged woman clutching a clipboard trailed behind them and took the aisle seat in the front row, putting her bag on the seat to her left, effectively signaling that she didn’t want anyone to sit beside her.

Witherspoon, dressed in the same outfit he’d worn in the photograph that accompanied the article about him—large white cowboy hat, fringed tan deerskin jacket—took his place in the front of the room and looked around. He might have been handsome in his youth, but his features were now coarse from age and perhaps overindulgence.

Apart from the reporters and broadcast crews, only a few other people were present when the shorter man who’d accompanied Witherspoon stepped to the podium. “Thank you for being here,” he said in a surprisingly high voice. “What we have to say today is important for every citizen of Maui. Without further ado, Mr. Cale Witherspoon has an announcement to make.”

Witherspoon, who was even larger than he appeared in his photograph, took the podium, smiled, and said, “I hope y’all treat yourselves to the goodies over there on that table. Somebody told me that if you want to get the press to cover something, you’ve got to feed ’em.” His laugh at his comment was a lonely one in the otherwise silent room.

“All right,” he said after some throat clearing, “I’ve asked y’all here today because, as the head of the company charged with building the solar telescope up on Haleakala, it’s my pleasure to announce that it looks like the Court of Appeals is about to grant the most recent motion our lawyers have filed to lift the existing restrictions on the construction and allow this great project to go forward. This is good news not only for Witherspoon Construction; it’s good news for the people of Maui. Let’s hear it for Maui!”

If Witherspoon had been expecting a cheer, he was disappointed. He continued, “As y’all know, there have been objections. A small group of misguided people have stood in the way of progress. They didn’t understand the importance . . .” His voice had taken on an angry tone. He glanced down at the woman with the clipboard in the aisle seat; she shook her head very slightly. Witherspoon coughed into his fist. “Now, I have the greatest respect for the Hawaiian native people and certainly support anyone’s right to voice their opinions. This is America, after all. But I believe this project will benefit everyone in the state—in the country for that matter—and especially the native people of Hawaii. I’m hoping they’ll come to see that in time. Anyone is welcome to talk with me about this. My door is always open. I listen to all views.” He checked his associate in the front row again, and this time she was nodding.

“I’d like to take this moment to extend my sympathies to the family and friends of Miss Mala Kapule, who died in a tragic accident this past weekend. She was a worthy opponent, and a fine representative of the Hawaiian natives. I didn’t agree with her views, it’s true.” He chuckled at his own admission. “Y’all know that. But I hold no grudge, and feel real bad about what happened to her. All of us at Witherspoon Construction join me in sending our condolences. Terrible thing. Terrible thing when a young person dies. If y’all have any questions, I’ll be happy to answer them.”

It seemed to me that he was making an effort to be charming in his comments about Mala’s death. At least he didn’t say anything insensitive or mean-spirited, but I couldn’t help feeling that he was elated that a major obstacle was now out of the way. It was as if Mala had been a piece of statuary standing between Witherspoon and Haleakala and had been bulldozed into dust, paving the way for Witherspoon to proceed. I tried hard to give him the benefit of the doubt—I don’t like to judge people’s motives harshly—but my dislike of the man was instantaneous.

The few reporters at the front of the room vied for his attention and asked their questions about what the court ruling meant and what timetable was now in place for proceeding with construction. Witherspoon answered them smoothly, although he had to ask one of the men who’d arrived with him about some technical issues.

A young woman, who was not part of the press contingent, raised her hand. “What about Haleakala?” she asked. “It’s a sacred site. What are you doing to protect it? I read that this project isn’t good for the land and the ecology.”

Witherspoon laughed as he said, “You really shouldn’t believe everything you read, ma’am.” He looked at the reporters in the front row and added as an aside, “Not meaning what you good folks write, of course,” before going back to the woman’s question. “There’s already a development on top of Haleakala. And there’s been no grievous damage to the crater. People can still visit this dramatic and important site. There’s hundreds of tourists coming up every week, maybe even every day. I’d worry more about litter and pollution from all those cars than about a bunch of scientists going about their business. Looks like the judges agree with me, which is why we are close to saying we’re ready to roll. The sacred ground up around the volcano will be just as sacred after the telescope is built and operating. Having it there to contribute to our understanding of the solar system and its effect on our weather means human progress. That’s good for Maui. That’s good for all of Hawaii.”

He fielded a few more questions before thanking everyone for coming and reminding them to enjoy the food spread. Flanked by his colleagues, Witherspoon was first at the table, where he picked up a piece of pastry and was chomping on it when I joined him.

“Mr. Witherspoon?” I said.

He covered his mouth with his hand to keep crumbs from falling as he finished the Danish. “Yes, ma’am.”

“My name is Jessica Fletcher.”

“Well, hello there, Miss Fletcher. Glad you were able to be here this morning.”

“I was a friend of Mala Kapule.”

“Were you now?” His face took on a somber expression. “Real sorry about what happened to your friend.”

“Thank you. You mentioned that her death was a tragic accident.”

He nodded at me, his head going up and down continuously like a bobblehead doll’s.

“You stated this as a fact. How can you be so sure—”

“That’s not my judgment, you know. It’s in the police report, public record. So I’m only repeating what the police have said, and I trust their expertise.”

“You don’t find it strange that the person who was most active in opposing your project turns up dead just as a court is about to make a ruling in the case?”

“I hope you’re not thinking that I had anything to do with her demise. The police have said it was an accident. Therefore, it was an accident.”

“That’s a preliminary finding,” I retorted.

“And you expect it to change? I’ve heard the rumors, Miss Fletcher. There’s always some paranoid folks who’ll see things that aren’t there, like those conspiracy buffs who think every assassination was some sort of plot.”

“Well, I’m not a conspiracy buff, Mr. Witherspoon, but the theory that Mala’s fall might not have been an accident is held by some very substantial people.”

“Including you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“And why are you tellin’
me
this?”

“As a key figure in the debate over the future of Haleakala—”

“There’s no debate over the future of Haleakala, Miss Fletcher, only the delaying tactics of those who want to throw a wrench in the works. What does it concern you?”

“I don’t like to see young people die.”

“Who does?”

“You should know, Mr. Witherspoon, that while I’m here on Maui, I’m determined to get to the bottom of Mala’s death.”

“Then maybe it’s time for you to go home, Miss Fletcher. This is not your business.”

“I’m not planning to go home, Mr. Witherspoon. You can insist this death was an accident, but I believe it to be suspicious, and I’m not the only one.” I debated using Mike Kane’s name, but given Mike’s position as a former police officer, I didn’t want to get him in trouble with the department. Our “investigation” wasn’t official. Also, it wasn’t my place to speak for him.

“Look, you’re not with the police. What’s your position here?”

“I’m a writer.”

“A newspaper? What newspaper?”

“I’m not with a newspaper. I write books.”

“And you’re writing a book about this?” He was incredulous.

“That’s not my intention. I’m simply a private citizen who wants to know what happened to a friend.”

The taller of Witherspoon’s colleagues who’d overheard our conversation said to the contractor, “We have to go, Cale. The meeting.”

“Right, right,” Witherspoon said. To me, he said, “I’ve enjoyed our little chat, Miss Fletcher, and I wish you all the best in looking into your friend’s death.”