Aloha Betrayed (17 page)

Mike returned while I went through the process and sat silently as I scrolled through one page after the other, finishing one file and going on to the next. After I’d gone through them, I exhaled and shook my head. “No,” I said, “I don’t recognize any of these faces.”

“This was just a start,” Tahaki said. “We’ll broaden the description and see if we can get you a hit.”

While he looked for additional files for my perusal, I asked Mike whether he’d been successful in checking on Douglas Fir Engineering.

He nodded.

“And?”

“Interesting, Jessica. You’d said that you assumed it would be a company engaged in some sort of horticultural business.”

“A reasonable assumption.”

“Reasonable assumptions aren’t always the right ones,” he said. “Douglas Fir is a construction company.”

“Construction? What sort of construction?”

“Well, its last major construction project was a large telescope installation in Arizona.”

I’d grown sleepy looking at the photos, but I snapped wide-awake. “Douglas Fir builds large telescopes?”

“Not the scopes themselves, but they build all the supporting facilities—buildings, housing for the scientists, parking lots, that sort of thing.”

“Mike,” I said, “do you think that—?”

“Douglas Fir must have been in competition with Witherspoon’s company for the Haleakala job,” he said.

“Oh, my goodness! I hope Mala wasn’t being paid to cause delays.”

“If she was, she may have been trying to cost Witherspoon a fortune in hopes that he would drop out and the project would go back to bid.”

Oh, no!
I slumped back in my chair. Could it be that Mala’s zeal for halting the construction of the telescope on Haleakala wasn’t a passion to defend the rights of the Hawaiian people after all? I prayed that what this revelation suggested wasn’t true. I couldn’t bear to think that Mala wasn’t really working to preserve Haleakala as a sacred Hawaiian site, that her motive instead was to stall it long enough for Witherspoon to give up thoughts of making a profit on the job, leaving it open for Douglas Fir Engineering to move in. I hated to think that her battle against the telescope was inspired by money rather than conviction.

The contemplation that Mala Kapule possibly wasn’t everything I thought she was took all the starch out of me. I knew I couldn’t rely on a day’s acquaintance to judge her character entirely. But to think I might have found myself so far from the mark was disheartening.

“I really don’t want to go through more mug-shot files,” I told Mike and Detective Tahaki. “Can I come back at another time?”

“Sure,” Tahaki said. He turned to Mike and added, “Better see your partner gets some rest.”

I asked Mike to drive me back to my hotel.

“You’ll be okay by yourself?” he asked as he parked in the lot. “You’ve been through a tough ordeal.”

“I’ll be all right,” I said. “I’m tired, that’s all. It was an early start this morning. Thanks for being here for me.”

“What’s a partner for?” He grinned. “I’m tied up again tomorrow at the hotel.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I need a more leisurely day anyway.”

“I’ll call you,” he said.

“Good. Thanks again, Mike. And thank Lani for me, too.”

It was after I’d gotten into my room, perched my stone with its image of Uli—my “protection”—on the nightstand, stripped off the clothing that reminded me of what had happened that day, and taken a hot shower that I remembered that Mala’s funeral was the next morning.

So much for a leisurely day.

My stomach reminded me I was hungry. I debated calling for room service but decided against it. A bag of macadamia nuts provided by the hotel and a bottle of club soda from the minifridge took the edge off. I climbed into bed and was asleep in minutes. But in my dreams I flew miles above the dormant Haleakala on a bicycle, then suddenly fell thousands of feet into the crater, which erupted angrily and buried me in molten lava. Hardly the recipe for a restful sleep.

A Hui Hou
—Until
We Meet Again

M
ala’s funeral was held at Big Beach at Makena State Park on Maui’s south shore, only a few miles from where she’d fallen to her death. I had hoped that Elijah Kapule would be my taxi driver, but he was probably busy helping set up the park for the event. The driver this day was a heavyset woman with a deep, raspy voice and a no-nonsense demeanor. There was no conversation while she drove, her only lapses of attention to the road when she honked and gave passing motorists what had now become a familiar Hawaiian signal, her fist raised with thumb and pinkie extended.

“Mahalo,”
I said after paying the fare.

She grunted something in return as she shoved the bills I’d handed her into the front of her red-and-white flowered blouse and pulled away. Her brusque manner was annoying, but I reminded myself that she was a glaring exception to the unfailing friendliness of the Hawaiian people, in particular those in the hospitality industry, many of whom wore buttons proclaiming
LIVE THE ALOHA SPIRIT
.

The beach where the park was situated was no wider than a hundred feet but appeared to be almost a mile long. Protected from the winds by a large outcropping of lava rock, it was likely one of Maui’s more secluded places. But this day a large crowd had gathered for a celebration of Mala Kapule’s life. Elijah had certainly been right. There wasn’t a single item of solid black clothing to be seen. Instead those milling about the myriad picnic tables and barbecue grills wore a spectrum of colors befitting a rainbow, interspersed with white. This would not be a somber grieving of Mala’s death. It looked more as though another luau was being prepared, and the colorful clothing better suited the festive mood. I’d opted for white slacks, a yellow-and-green flowered blouse I’d recently purchased, and a white cap with a narrow brim to shield me from the sun. I fit right in.

I stepped onto the sand. In front of me were two young women dressed in traditional hula skirts, and three musicians, two holding ukuleles, the third an electric bass attached to an amplifier tethered to an electrical outlet on a post in the ground. A four-man outrigger canoe painted with vivid slashes of red, blue, and gold rested at the shoreline, bobbing in the gentle swells of the sea. A half dozen smaller canoes flanked it, along with a few colorful surfboards standing nose down in the sand.

One of the hula dancers carrying dozens of yellow and red leis extended one to me.

“Mahalo,”
I said, lowering my head so that she could slip it onto my neck.

Elijah stood with several other cousins whom I’d met at Mala’s house, forming an informal reception line, greeting those who came for the funeral. I took my place at the end of the queue of people waiting to see them. Up ahead I spotted Mala’s former beau Carson Nihipali among the mourners.

I didn’t count the number of people, but a quick, rough estimate was forty or fifty. Given that this was a Wednesday, a workday and a school day, I was pleased that so many people had come to pay their respects. Despite the fact that the more I learned about Mala, the more I realized how little I actually knew about her, I couldn’t help maintaining my affection for this young woman whose uncle viewed her so proudly and whose
‘ohana
admired and loved her.

One of Mala’s cousins, whom I’d met at her house, crossed the sand and welcomed me.
“Aloha,”
Joshua said. “It’s wonderful that you are here.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it.”

“My brother Elijah noticed you’re limping. Are you all right?”

“I had an accident on the bike ride down from Haleakala.”

“Oh, no. Not too serious, I hope.”

“Bumps and bruises, but nothing terminal. I’ll be fine.”

“Let me make it easier for you,” he said taking my arm. He led me to where his aunt sat in a folding red beach chair, a glass in her hand.

“Auntie Edie, see who’s here,” Joshua said. “It’s Mrs. Fletcher.”

She looked up at me, smiled, and extended a gnarled hand. “Mala’s friend Jessica,” she said.

“Hello, Auntie Edie.”

She nodded approvingly and fingered the lei she wore, a bright orange version of my yellow one. “You wear the
hala lei
. It is right for today.”

“These leis are special,” Joshua put in. “
Hala leis
are given to mark a passage, for the end of a venture or the start of a new one.” He cocked his head at me. “An appropriate symbol for a funeral, don’t you think?”

Auntie Edie squeezed my hand. “Mala is happy that you are here.”

“I’m sure that she’s happy that everyone is here to celebrate her life.”

The musical trio began playing Hawaiian melodies, and Auntie Edie turned her attention to them.

Joshua, having appointed himself my informal escort, led me to a long table covered with a white cloth on which floral petals had been scattered. Along with tall, frosty pitchers of drinks, there were small framed photos of Mala, and a laptop computer set to a slideshow of family pictures in which Mala aged from infant to toddler to schoolgirl to graduate student and finally to adult. I paused to watch as the images slid sideways across the screen.

“She was beautiful,” I said.

“Very beautiful,” he agreed. “And generous with her cousins. She recently bought us some fancy management software for our taxi business. May I get you some pineapple iced tea?”

“I’d love some.”

“We have other beverages as well, but we don’t serve alcohol at funerals.”

“A prudent rule,” I said.

He poured me a glass.

“I’ve developed quite a fondness for this,” I said.

“Many people do.” He looked over my shoulder. “More guests are arriving. Please excuse me.”

A line of cars was pulling into the small parking lot. Their passengers traipsed through the trees to get to the beach, many carrying folding chairs. Among the newcomers were Professor Abbott Luzon and his graduate assistant, Grace Latimer, attired in a black sheath under a yellow sweater. I looked for Luzon’s wife, Honi, but didn’t see her. Maybe she was planning to come later. Then again, based upon the angry words they’d exchanged, it wouldn’t have surprised me if the Luzons often went their separate ways.

Grace was smiling as she took Luzon’s arm to navigate the soft sand. I supposed it was a relief to be out from under Honi’s accusations. Was she the “other woman” to whom Honi Luzon had been referring during their argument? Although Honi hadn’t identified Grace by name, I had assumed Abbott’s graduate assistant was the object of his wife’s jealous rage. She certainly had been the object of Honi’s sarcasm at the luau. Honi had displayed overt hostility toward Grace all evening.

However, after our tense meeting with Luzon, Mike Kane and I had speculated as to whether Mala herself may have entered into an intimate relationship with her colleague. I had trouble picturing Mala with Abbott Luzon, even though they had a great deal in common regarding their chosen professional path and the focus of their advanced education. For some reason, I’d had no difficulty at all imagining her with her former beau Carson Nihipali. But there’s no accounting for attraction, and I reserved judgment as to whether the two professors might have been an item. After all, I may have been wrong about Mala before.

At this juncture, Mike and I were left with two motives for her murder: a crime of passion or a crime fueled by money.

Both rank high on the list of age-old reasons for homicide. But which one was it?

By the time the service was about to begin, the crowd had swelled by half and included Mala’s angry but love-struck student, Dale, who stood alone in white shorts and shirt on the perimeter of the gathering, a scowl on his face. His gaze was directed at the crewman of the
Maui Ocean Star
Carson Nihipali.

Fragrant smoke from the barbecue grills filled the air as the band continued playing, and the hula dancers began to gyrate. I strolled to where a small table held a basket wrapped in a colorful scarf and topped with flowers. A woman behind the table greeted me.

“Aloha,”
she said, and asked how I knew Mala.

I explained our brief time together.

“Have you been to a Hawaiian funeral before?”

“No. This is my first.”

“I saw you were interested in this basket. It’s the
pu‘olu
, a traditional basket woven of ti leaves. Mala’s ashes are in it.”

She smiled at my raised eyebrows.

“Sometimes we sprinkle the ashes in the sea, and sometimes we enclose them in a
pu‘olu
like this one. Her ashes are in a biodegradable bag and will eventually be set free in the ocean.”

“Somehow I’d thought Mala’s ashes would be brought to the volcano, given that it was a special interest of hers.”

“It would have been nice.” She gently touched the basket as if caressing its contents. “Many families have done so in the past, but there has been a recent prohibition against it. Too bad. Everyone knew that Haleakala was Mala’s first love.”

Was it, though? I thought of what I’d recently learned about Mala’s consulting contract with the Oregon construction company. Mike and I had speculated that Douglas Fir Engineering could have paid her to delay the telescope project, at least until the Witherspoon company gave up and pulled out. Had Mala’s “love” for Haleakala been based on its importance and meaning to the Hawaiian people, or had her zeal to protect it been based, at least in part, on the money she was receiving? Could we ever be certain now that Mala was no longer alive to explain herself?

As I walked away from the basket holding Mala’s ashes, I pondered whether Cale Witherspoon knew of her connection to the rival construction company. If so, would that have given him a motive to remove her from the picture? And who else had a motive?

Professor Luzon and Grace Latimer were approaching the table as I left, and our paths crossed.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Mrs. Fletcher,” Luzon said stiffly.

“Why is it so surprising?”

“I wasn’t aware that you were close to Professor Kapule.”

“Don’t you remember, Abbott?” Grace said. “Mrs. Fletcher was looking for her friend all night long at the luau. That friend was Mala.”

“I guess I wasn’t paying close attention.”

“Can you believe that was the night Mala fell to her death? Oh, my goodness, Mrs. Fletcher, if you had found her, Mala might never have gone on that walk, and we wouldn’t be here mourning her passing.”

I didn’t think Grace was mourning anyone’s passing, although she certainly seemed to enjoy exaggerating a story.

Luzon adopted his best professorial expression and addressed me as if I were an inferior student: “Are you still pursuing the silly idea that Mala was murdered?”

“I don’t think I’d term it silly, Professor Luzon.”

“Mala was a passionate woman,” he said, emphasizing
passionate
and drawing a startled glance from Grace. “If she was determined to retrieve some bit of intriguing flora under dangerous circumstances, I do not find it out of character. It fits right in with her unconventional persona.”

I could almost hear Grace heave a sigh of relief.

“Hawaiian funerals are meant to celebrate the life of the deceased, not sully it,” Luzon continued. “Mala accidently died in pursuit of something she cared about. To suggest that murder was behind her demise is to cheapen both her life and her death.”

“I hardly think I’m sullying her reputation if I’m trying to determine who might have killed her,” I said. “It’s the person responsible for pushing her off that cliff whose reputation is in jeopardy.”

He directed a patronizing smile at me. “Suit yourself.”

Despite my best intentions, I felt the urge to argue my case.

“You know, she was a flake,” Grace put in. “A nice flake, but a flake all the same. People like that take all sorts of chances. Dangerous chances.”

“In the meantime, the ceremony is about to begin,” Luzon said. “This discussion is over.” He pulled on Grace’s arm, leaving me alone with my irritation at myself for allowing him to provoke me.

While I’d been biting my tongue to keep from quarrelling with Professor Luzon, the members of the group Mala had led opposing construction on Haleakala had arrived. I went to greet James Feary, Mala’s attorney, feeling the need for more simpatico company as the service began.

The funeral was led by a man wearing a flowing Hawaiian shirt, slacks, sandals, and a wide-brimmed straw hat.

“Do you know who that is?” I asked Feary.

“A priest,” he said, nodding.

“Was Mala a religious person?”

“Doesn’t matter. The priest won’t be invoking any gods you’ve heard of in mainstream religions. Here in Hawaii we offer up the deceased to the
akua
, all the gods. The spirit of the deceased will watch over us, especially the
kūpuna
.”

“Kūpuna?”

“The elderly. They’re the ones who are closest to getting ready to join the one who has already passed, and they’re treated with special reverence. Mala’s auntie Edie is the oldest of her remaining family. She’ll receive the most attention from Pele, the goddess of fire.”

“I have a lot to learn,” I said.

“Just enjoy it.” He smiled. “Allow the spirits to flow through you.”

And that was what I did. The priest led the ceremony, which included music. The hula dancers performed their art as they circled the basket containing Mala’s ashes. Much of what the priest said was in Hawaiian, but some was in English, which made understanding what was happening a little easier for me. The musicians were joined by three bare-chested young men wearing loincloths who played various-sized drums that ramped up the tempo and had people tapping their feet. Some danced solo, eyes closed, as though one with the spirit of the music and with other spirits that only they could see. In between musical interludes, the priest recited Hawaiian legends and called people up to read some of Mala’s favorite poems. I’d never attended a funeral anything like this and found myself immersed in the joy of the event as speaker after speaker praised Mala and sent her off to a prized place in heaven.