Aloha Betrayed (18 page)

At the end of the ceremony, the priest carried the basket holding Mala’s ashes to the outrigger canoe, where four young men accepted it. They placed it in the center of the canoe, laying floral wreaths others had brought to the funeral across the bow and stern, then pushed off into the water, followed by a convoy of smaller craft. People in canoes and kayaks paddled alongside the larger boat. Two young men used the surfboards to accompany the outrigger.

Carson Nihipali had stripped off his shirt, revealing a tattoo of Mala’s face on his left shoulder. He was pushing off in a kayak to accompany the little flotilla surrounding the outrigger, when Dale waded into the water. He caught the kayak by its gunwale, upending the small craft and dumping the “surfer dude,” as Grace had termed him, into the sea.

“She was too good for you,” Dale shouted as he tried to step around the kayak, fists ready to take on Carson. “How dare you claim her for yourself?”

Carson attempted to scramble to his feet, but a wave hit him in the chest, knocking him back. Dale splashed over to him, trying a last-minute leap onto his rival, only to catch an armful of water as Carson backpedaled away. The two men managed to stand upright, but the action of the water kept them from gaining a steady foothold, and they rose and fell as the waves pressed them toward shore.

“She didn’t want me either, man,” Carson yelled to Dale. His voice was hoarse. “I tried to convince her to come back to me the night she died. She turned me down. She was just wasting her time with both of us. Besides, what difference does it make now?” He ran the fingers of both hands through his hair, slicking it back from his forehead. I couldn’t tell if the moisture beneath his eyes was from tears or his dunk in the sea.

Dale appeared to have received a blow. He leaned over in the water, hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

Carson caught the line of his kayak and waded to shore, dragging the lightweight craft behind him. He leaned down and swiped up his shirt from the sand without missing a step and trudged off the beach.

Witnesses to the brief confrontation turned their attention back to the little fleet of boats, which were arrayed in a circle around the outrigger.

“What’s happening now?” I asked Feary.

“The ceremony of releasing Mala to the sea,” he said. “At some funerals, the whole body is given over to the ocean in expectation that sharks will consume the dead.”

“That sounds rather gruesome.”

“Not at all,” said Feary. “Any sharks that have feasted on the deceased will never again attack a human being. The human spirit that lives within them will see to that.”

It was a lovely thought.

We joined a line of mourners at the shoreline as we watched the ceremonial burial at sea, listening to the chanting as the basket was released into the waters. Others in the accompanying canoes surrounded the bobbing basket with hundreds of flower blossoms of every color. Soon, the basket disappeared from our view. Mala Kapule had gone to her final resting place.

With the ceremony concluded, the celebration continued with a feast. There was chicken in lauhala leaves, roast pork, beef on skewers, poi of course, and platters of fresh vegetables and fruits, some of which I didn’t recognize. I tried to sample everything without putting too much on my plate. The atmosphere was festive, a joyous send-off to Mala.

It had been four hours since I’d arrived at the park, and I was ready to leave. My knees ached, as did my back, and I felt the trace of a headache coming on. As I pondered whom to approach to call a cab, I caught sight of Dale standing to the side, watching the festivities but declining to participate. We hadn’t spoken for the entire event, and I wondered what had been going through his mind when he tried to take revenge on Carson while the woman he claimed to love was buried at sea.

“Hello, Dale,” I said. “You must be uncomfortable in those wet clothes.”

“She’s gone,” he said absently.

“Yes. It was a beautiful ceremony.”

He snorted. “If you don’t mind the hypocrisy behind it.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” I said.

“Some of these people shedding tears over her death couldn’t care less.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “It seemed to me that the outpouring of sorrow and the celebration of her life was genuine.”

“For some, perhaps.”

“Who are the exceptions?” I asked, hoping my questioning wouldn’t bring a halt to our conversation.

Dale looked past me to where Luzon and Grace stood talking with other attendees. “He’s the worst. He would egg her on and then sit back and let her take the flack for opposing the telescope.”

“Professor Luzon?”

He nodded.

“Why do you think he would do that?”

“Isn’t it obvious? The more she bucked the system, the better his chances at getting the chairmanship. Luzon is nothing if not ambitious.”

“I understand Mala was pretty ambitious herself.”

He shrugged and glanced down at his cell phone. He tapped the screen for several moments, but I don’t imagine it was working if it had been in his pocket when he tried to tackle Carson in the water.

“I wonder whether you would do me a favor,” I said.

“Maybe. What favor?”

“I need a ride back to my hotel. The only number I have for a cab service is Mala’s cousin Elijah.” I held up the business card Elijah had given me. “I can hardly ask him to leave his family’s service to drive me across the island.”

“Sure, I’ll drive you.” He dropped his dead phone into the pocket of his shorts. “I’ve got nothing else to do today.”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

“No, no trouble.”

As we walked to the parking lot he noticed my limp. “You got hurt?” he asked.

I told him about my accident biking down from Haleakala.

“Riding bikes down from the volcano is stupid.”

“In my case ‘foolhardy’ might be a more apt term.” I could have said that fighting over a dead woman at her funeral was not the smartest move he had ever made, but I resisted. I needed a ride, and it didn’t pay to antagonize the driver.

Dale’s car was a battered older silver two-door coupe with a few dents in the fender and scrapes along the side. “Welcome to my Maui cruiser,” he said with a smirk.

“Is that a brand of car?”

“Almost. It’s what we call a car that doesn’t have much life left. Dented, rusted, horn doesn’t work. You get the picture. Still runs, though.”

I got in the passenger side. Dale took a towel from the trunk and laid it across the driver’s seat, got behind the wheel, pulled a cigarette from a pack on the dashboard, and lit it, not bothering to ask whether I minded. I rolled down my window, and he did the same. The engine came to life with a loud, hesitant rumble.

“Where to?” he asked.

I gave him the name of my hotel in Kahului.

“I know it,” he said. “I sometimes work as a waiter at catered events. I’ve worked there.”

We said nothing as we drove away, Dale puffing on his cigarette until it was down to its filter. He casually tossed it out the window.

“I don’t know your last name,” I said.

“Mossman. My father was Jewish, my mother Hawaiian.”

“You grew up here on Maui?”

“Yup. Lived here through high school until I joined the army. Did two tours in Afghanistan.”

“And now you’re getting your college education. Why horticulture?”

My question brought forth his first smile. “Not very macho, huh?”

“I wasn’t implying that.”

“My mother loved plants and flowers. She spent most of her time tending to our gardens. I guess it rubbed off on her only son.”

“It’s certainly a worthwhile field of study.” I let a few seconds pass before saying, “You’ve said that you were in love with Mala Kapule.”

He pressed his lips together and nodded.

“Did she—well, did she reciprocate?”

“Do you mean did we have an affair? In a manner of speaking, I suppose you could say that we did. We had a couple of dates, had to keep it hush-hush. Professors aren’t supposed to go out with their students.”

“But you’re older than the typical student.”

“I’m twenty-seven, Mrs. Fletcher. There were only five or six years between us, although to hear her tell it, we were a May-December romance.” He adopted a singsong voice. “Women mature much faster than men.”

“That’s what she would say?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think she really believed it. It was just an excuse to push me off. It may be true when you’re a teenager, but by the time we’re in our late twenties, early thirties, I figure we guys have caught up. Besides, a tour in the service will grow you up pretty fast.”

He turned down a road leading to my hotel and stopped in front of a small food shack.

“Feel like a cold drink?” he asked.

“I—sure. That sounds good.”

We took our drinks to a picnic table at the side of the establishment, a strawberry milk shake for him, a glass of POG for me. He stepped over the bench and lowered himself wearily onto its seat. It appeared to me that time and heat had dried out his white shirt and shorts. The only evidence of his dip in the ocean was his nonworking cell phone.

“I’ll try burying it in a bowl of raw rice tonight,” he said after unsuccessfully trying to resurrect its signal. “If that doesn’t work, I’ll have to get a new one.”

“I don’t know if you’re aware that I’m working with a retired Maui homicide detective, Mike Kane, to clear up questions about how Mala died.”

His surprised expression indicated that he wasn’t aware of it.

“I know that the official reason for her death is an accident, but there are circumstances that might refute that finding.”

“You think someone pushed her?”

“Possibly.”

“Why? What makes you think that?”

“An accumulation of small things, none of which in and of themselves prove that her death wasn’t an accident. But I’m determined to find out the truth, and I’m sure that someone like you would want that, too.”

“Someone like me?”

“Someone who loved her.”

He pressed his lips together, and I wondered whether he was holding back tears. I didn’t know to what extent his personal relationship with Mala had progressed, but I sensed that whatever affection existed was more on his side than on hers.

“Dale,” I said as he lit a cigarette, “I’m not interested in probing into your personal life, but since you and Mala were close, maybe you know something that will help me and Detective Kane find the answers we’re seeking.”

“Well, if you look anywhere, make sure you look down the hall.”

“That’s a little cryptic. I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“Down the hall in the ‘Ike Le‘a building. You know what that means? It means ‘to see clearly.’ Ironic, isn’t it? If ever there was a place that covered up the truth, it’s his office.”

“Whose office?”

“Luzon’s, of course.”

“Why Professor Luzon?”

“She would have been the chair of the department if he hadn’t gone behind her back and bought off the administration.”

“That’s a serious charge,” I said. “Also, I don’t see how it sheds light on her death. Professor Luzon’s graduate assistant, Grace Latimer, hypothesized that Mala might have been so upset at not being tapped to chair the department that she took her own life.”

“That’s a hoot,” he said, although there was no humor in his voice.

“I agree that it’s a ridiculous notion.”

“He used Mala.”

“In what way?”

“He led her on.”

I sat back and took a sip of my drink to gather my thoughts. “Care to elaborate?” I said.

“Luzon is on the make for every good-looking young woman. Why do you think Grace hangs on his every word? He’s probably promising her the same thing he promised Mala.”

“Which was?”

“To leave his wife and marry her.”

“How do you know that Luzon and Mala had an affair, Dale?”

“I saw what he wrote to her.”

“E-mails?”

“Yeah. Mala paid me to help her do some administrative work in her office. It wasn’t much, but I would have done anything to be close to her. When she was out of the office, I took a look at the e-mail on her computer and dug around in her desk.” I started to say something, but he stopped me with his upheld hand. “I know, I know. I shouldn’t have done that, but I was jealous as hell, Mrs. Fletcher. Jealousy will sometimes make a guy do dumb things.”

“I’m not judging you,” I said. “What did the e-mails say?”

“They were from Luzon, love letters I guess you could call them, mushy notes about how much he loved her and how once his divorce came through, he’d be free to court her properly. It made me sick.”

“I understand,” I said. “And did she reply to his messages?”

“I don’t know. She came back into the lab before I had a chance to look at her sent folder.” He put his cigarette out on the ground and finished his shake. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll take you to your hotel. Thanks for listening. I’ve wanted to get it off my chest for a long time.”

“I appreciate you having confidence in me,” I said.

He pulled up in front of the hotel and I got out.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” he said through his open window.

“Yes?”

“I really did love Mala.”

Aia Nō Iā
‘Oe
—Whatever You Want to Do

D
ale’s parting words stayed with me as I crossed the lobby and headed for my room.

My reaction to him was conflicted. I admired him for serving in the military and now pursuing his college education. While he was younger than Mala, his four years in the army, including time in a war zone, had matured him beyond most of his classmates. Perhaps Mala had found his wartime experiences to be appealing. But I had to wonder whether he was exaggerating the extent to which their relationship had progressed—provided it
had
progressed beyond his infatuation with her. Too, his demeanor was disconcerting. He was consistently pessimistic, always wearing an angry expression. It’s hard to warm up to someone who sees only the negative side of life. He didn’t appear to be a drug or alcohol abuser, but then again, I might not recognize the symptoms; my life has brought me into contact with few addicts.

I thought back to that morning when I sat in the rear of Mala’s class and observed her dismiss him when he’d tried to capture her attention. Had they had a relationship that she’d broken off? Men who’ve been cast aside by a lover sometimes become angry enough to physically strike out at the woman who rejected them.

These and other questions occupied my mind as I opened the door to my room to the sound of a ringing phone.

“Jessica, Mike Kane.”

“Hello, Mike.”

“How was the funeral?”

“It was a wonderful experience. That may sound strange, but it was so unlike funerals we have back home in Maine.”

“Burial at sea, the whole ritual?”

“Yes. It was much more of a celebration of her life than a mourning of her death.”

“The Hawaiian way. Jessica, I got a call from Henry Tahaki, the detective who showed you the mug shots. He said that you agreed to come back to look at more of them.”

I sighed. “Yes, he’s right, Mike. I did say that I’d do that.”

“How about this afternoon?”

“That will be fine. I have nothing planned.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up in a half hour.”

“Aren’t you working?”

“My assistant will hold down the fort. Nothing happening here at the resort, no male guest claiming that a housekeeper is taking nips from his flask or female guest claiming that someone is up in a tree and peeking in on her.”

I laughed.

“Hey! Laugh if you like, but it happened just last week. Turned out she was right. A Peeping Tom climbed up the tree and was snapping pictures of her with his cell phone. I called the police, and they hauled him away. Seems he had a long record of peeping through windows. See you in the lobby.”

During the ride to police headquarters, I gave Mike a detailed description of Mala’s funeral, ending with my conversation with Dale.

“You don’t sound very impressed with him,” Mike said as he pulled into a parking space.

“I don’t know what to think,” I said. “He has such a downbeat personality. I wish I had a better handle on him.”

Mike and I were seated in the same room I’d been in previously when looking at mug shots. Had I been honest, I would have admitted that I didn’t have any hope of seeing the man who’d forced me off the road on my bike and almost sent me to my death. But I went along with the process because it was expected.

When Detective Tahaki greeted us, he started by handing me a folder containing a series of photographs. They were of me following the incident, sprawled on the roadway, my helmet on, then shots of me sitting with my helmet off.

“Where did you get these?” I asked.

“A man who was there shot them and thought we’d like to have them.”

“That was good of him,” I said, “although I hope none of them ended up on Facebook.”

“Not as far as we know,” Tahaki said. “He was just another public-spirited citizen. We’ve got lots of them on Maui.”

He set up the computer containing mug shots on the desktop. I was on my second file when my cynicism was proved wrong. There was my assailant staring at me, the same man who’d been my fellow passenger in the van going to the summit of Haleakala and who’d selected a bike for me and then used his own to attack me.

“That’s him,” I said.

“You sure, Mrs. Fletcher?” Tahaki asked.

“I’m positive.”

He looked at me from the screen, shaved head, downturned mouth, whiskered jowls.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Let’s print it out,” the detective said and left the room.

He returned a few minutes later and handed me a sheet of paper. At the top was the same photo of the man that I’d seen in the mug shot. His name was Christian Barlow, age forty-six, divorced, two children, occupation: maritime mechanic. His rap sheet was long—arrests for assault, nonpayment of child support, possession of an unlicensed handgun; three convictions for driving while intoxicated, and car theft (charges dropped).

“Not a very savory record,” I commented.

“I know the
hūpō
,” Mike Kane said. “Had a run-in with him before I retired. Comes off like a tough guy, but he’s really just a loser.”

“Look at this,” I said, pointing to more information on the sheet. “His last known employment was with Maui Ocean Star Corp. That’s the company that runs the sunset cruise I went on. It’s owned by Charlie Reed.”

“We pulled Reed in concerning Ms. Kapule’s death,” Tahaki said.

“On what basis?” Mike asked.

“We considered her death an accident,” the detective said, “but there was some pressure to keep the case open.” He looked askance at Mike.

“Hey, I’m not official anymore.”

“Your definition of ‘retired’ isn’t my definition,” Tahaki said. “Because Ms. Kapule was so active in that organization trying to kill the telescope project on Haleakala, we figured that anybody with a lot to lose was worth talking to. You know Reed. Likes to think of himself as a mover and shaker. He’s head of the committee that’s been fighting Ms. Kapule’s efforts tooth and nail.”

“I spoke with Charlie Reed at your family picnic, Mike. Remember? He told me that he’d been brought in for questioning. He wasn’t happy about it.”

The detective shrugged and smiled. “Men like Reed like to toss around their money and influence. I was the one who questioned him. I justified having him come in by saying that we needed him to help us come up with a possible suspect in the lady’s death, you know, reaching out to community leaders and all that. He complained about having to take time off from his business but didn’t make too much of a stink.”

“Was he any help?” I asked.

“No. He kept saying that everyone on his committee were upstanding, law-abiding citizens, which, I should add, is undoubtedly true.”

“But Barlow works for Reed,” I offered. “Or he did.”

Tahaki laughed. “I don’t think he had Barlow in mind when he was talking about upstanding citizens. You want to file a complaint against Barlow, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I do,” I said. “After all, he almost killed me, and it was deliberate.”

He picked up a phone and called in two uniformed officers, handed them Barlow’s rap sheet, which had his current address, and told them to bring him in.

“No need for you to wait around,” he told Mike and me. “He may have gone off island after the incident.”

“I’d like to stay for a while,” I said, “but maybe you’d like to leave, Mike.”

“No, I’ll hang in. Your officers will call when they’ve located Barlow?”

“They’d better.”

Mike suggested that we go to a small restaurant not far from police headquarters and get something to eat while we waited. I gave Tahaki my cell phone number—he already had Mike’s—and we drove to a food truck parked on the Kahului Beach Road.

“I wouldn’t exactly call this a restaurant, Mike.”

“You can get some of the best food on the island from these trucks.”

Mike ordered a scampi and hot dog combination platter and a Coke. I was content, having eaten enough at Mala’s funeral, and settled for what had become my favorite drink, pineapple iced tea.

“Glad you decided to stay a while,” he said. “They’ll want you to ID Barlow if he’s the one who assaulted you.”

“You heard the detective. They may not be able to find him today,” I said.

“Let’s give it an hour,” he suggested. “If they haven’t picked him up by then, we’ll take off. They can hold him overnight based on you picking him out of the file, and you can come back tomorrow morning.”

It sounded like a good suggestion, and we bided our time on a bench overlooking the harbor. Almost an hour had passed when Mike’s cell phone sounded.

“Kane here . . . Great . . . We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Mr. Barlow is on his way,” Mike told me as he closed the plastic foam container his food had come in and tossed it in a garbage can.

Christian Barlow sat alone in an interrogation room when we returned to headquarters. Detective Tahaki pulled aside a curtain, which allowed me to observe my attacker through a one-way mirror.

“That’s him,” I said.

“He put up a fight?” Mike asked.

“No,” Tahaki said. “Mumbled something about his rights but other than that was a pussycat. He’s a little tipsy. They found him sacked out in front of the TV at the apartment he rents.”

“Will he have to have a lawyer present before you question him?” I asked.

“Negative,” said the detective. “We’re not charging him with anything, just asking him a few questions about what happened to you on the trip down from Haleakala. I won’t mention that you’re here, Mrs. Fletcher. Looking forward to seeing his expression when he finds out.”

Mike Kane and I watched and listened as the detective went into the interrogation room. His arrival caused Barlow to jump up and ask why he was there.

“We’ve had an incident, Mr. Barlow, and want to see whether you can help us sort it out.”

“What incident? I don’t know nothing about any incident.” His words were slurred.

“Sit down, Mr. Barlow, and take a look at these.” Tahaki slid the folder containing the photographs taken by a witness to the event across the table.

Barlow eyed the folder suspiciously.

“Go on,” he was urged. “Just some pictures.”

Barlow opened the folder and took a photo from it.

“Ring any bells, Mr. Barlow?”

He shrugged and tossed the picture on the table. “This has got nothing to do with me.”

“Look at the others.”

Barlow did as he was told. After perusing the folder’s contents, he sat back, a smug smile on his face. “These pictures mean nothing to me. Who’s the woman? You drag me in to look at pictures of some old dame? Business must be slow around here.”

Mike looked at me and raised his sizable eyebrows.

“I hope he gets life,” I quipped, smiling.

“Where were you yesterday, Mr. Barlow?” Detective Tahaki asked.

“Hmmm, let’s see. I was working, like I always do.”

“Didn’t take a day off and head up to Haleakala?”

“What, to see some dumb volcano? I got better things to do.”

“You were working at Maui Ocean Star?”

“Right. That’s right.”

“Your boss, Mr. Reed, will testify to that?”

“Charlie? Yeah, he’ll straighten you out.”

“Would it surprise you that a dozen people who took the bike excursion to Haleakala will say that you were with them on the trip, and that the tour operator will testify to the same thing?”

The detective’s words erased the smile from Barlow’s lips. “I got nothing to say,” he said. “You want to charge me with something, call my lawyer.”

“You have a lawyer, Mr. Barlow?”

“No. You get one assigned to me.”

Tahaki leaned closer to Barlow. “Mr. Barlow,” he said, “we know that you tried to run the woman in those photos off the road on the way down from Haleakala. How would you like us to charge you with attempted murder?”

Barlow jumped up. “Attempted murder? What are you, crazy? All I did was—”

Mike Kane and I looked at each other.

“All you did was
what
, Mr. Barlow?”

“I got nothing to say.”

“Maybe you’d like to say
nothing
to the woman in the photos.”

The detective waved at the mirror.

Barlow’s eyes widened before he twisted in his chair and turned away. “She’s there?” he said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.

“Right next door. She’s watching as we speak,” Detective Tahaki said. “Mrs. Jessica Fletcher, the woman you tried to kill.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t try to kill nobody,” Barlow said. “Hey, if she’s there, she’s alive, huh? I never tried to kill nobody.”

“Then why did you try to run her off the road?” Tahaki asked.

“It was an accident. I—I lost control of my bike.”

“It was
not
an accident,” I said to Mike. “He deliberately caused me to fall, and I almost went over the edge.”

Tahaki echoed what I’d said to Mike. “Mrs. Fletcher says you pushed her. If her bike had skidded a few inches more, she would have tumbled to her death. That would have been murder. As it is, it’s attempted murder.”

Barlow’s previous bravado melted. He looked toward the mirror through bloodshot, watery eyes, extended his hand, and raised his voice, “I’m sorry for your troubles, lady. Really I am.”

“You don’t have to shout. She can hear you just fine.”

Barlow hung his head.

“Who told you to do it?” Tahaki asked.

“Nobody.”

The detective let Barlow’s answer hang in the air for several moments, saying nothing. Barlow coughed and added, “Charlie was upset, that’s all.”

“Good going, Henry,” Mike muttered.

I raised my brows at him.

“If you let some silence follow a perp’s answer, he usually adds more information. I taught him that technique.” Mike winked at me.

“Is Charlie Reed your boss?” Tahaki asked.

Barlow solemnly nodded.

“Is that a yes? Speak up!”

“Yeah.”

“How upset was he?”

“Pretty damned upset,” was Barlow’s reply. “Pardon my French,” he said, glancing at the mirror.

“He was upset that Mrs. Fletcher was looking into how Mala Kapule died?”

“I don’t know nothing about that,” Barlow said quickly.