I'm Kona Love You Forever (Islands of Aloha Mystery Series Book 6) (2 page)

That night
I was anxious to get Steve’s take on the birth certificate situation. I brought home a heat ‘n eat veggie pasta dish and a bag of salad from the Gadda da Vida Grocery next door to my shop. We sat down to eat and I let out a big sigh.

“Uh-oh.
That doesn’t sound good,” he said. “Is your spoiled little Hawaiian princess turning Hawaii Five-O kick ass on you? You know, Bridezillas are like Barbie dolls; they come in a rainbow of colors.”

“
No, it’s not that. I’m having a problem getting the marriage license,” I said. I told him how the bride’s birth certificate information had led to a literal dead end. “The girl on the birth certificate died four days after she was born. How weird is that?”

“It sounds like
maybe somebody pulled an ‘Obama born in Kenya’ with the birth certificate.”

“
Oh, please.”

“No, seriously.
Maybe she’s illegitimate and her birth wasn’t recorded,” he said.

“Why? It’s not a
s if out-of-wedlock births are shameful in the Hawaiian community. In fact, in ancient times, Polynesian women were supposed to pop out a kid before they got married—to prove they weren’t barren.”

“
Barren? Did you seriously just use the word, ‘barren?’ That’s it. I’m not letting you read any more of those ‘Outlander’ books.”

“You know what I mean
,” I said. “The women had to show they could make babies so the husband’s family line would continue.”

“I thought Hawaiian
families were matriarchal,” he said. “Wouldn’t that make it the mother’s family line?”

“It’s complicated.”

“So, now what?” he said.

“I
’m going to go to the Big Island to see what I can dig up.”

“Why?”

“Because I can.”

Steve folded his arms across his chest. “Spare me the
Zen rejoinders. Why are you really going?”

“Okay. I’ve got t
wo good reasons. One, I deserve a weekend off. I haven’t been anywhere since that crazy trip to O’ahu last fall. Hatch and I could use a romantic weekend off-island. And two, I want to help these kids. Ever since I inherited the money and paid off this house I don’t get a rush anymore just doing weddings. I think maybe tracking down what happened to this girl’s birth certificate will be fun; it’ll give me a rush.”

“You want a rush? Try sky diving.
Or bungee jumping.”

“Too dangerous.”

“Dangerous? You must be kidding,” he said. “Nothing’s more dangerous than poking your nose in family secrets. After the family mess you stepped in on Kaua'i last summer I’m amazed I have to remind you.”

“
Yeah, but this is different. It’s probably nothing more than a paperwork snafu. I’m guessing somebody misfiled something or made a typo and didn’t bother to correct it. I’ll get Lili’s birth record set straight and these kids will be able to get on with their lives. ”

“You better hope that’s all it is,” he said.

CHAPTER 3

The next morning I got a call from my best friend, Farrah Milton. No, make that Farrah Kingston. I have to keep reminding myself she’s married now. She and I go way back; all the way to grade school, what we call our “
keiki
times.” She’s more like a sister than a friend, and under normal circumstances I usually see her every day. She runs the Gadda da Vida Grocery next door to my shop, but for the past two months she’s been on her honeymoon sailing the South Seas with her new husband.

“Hey, girl,” she said. “You
still missin’ me?”

“More with e
very passing day.”

The line crackled and I thought maybe we’d lost our connection.

“Farrah? Are you there?”

“
Yep,” she said. “And I’m calling to tell you to dig out your party pants, ‘cuz we’re bookin’ for home.”

“When?”

“Tonight. Ono says we’ll be docking in Lahaina around nightfall.”

“
I can’t wait to see you,” I said.

“Me
too. I’ll call when we’re in cell range.”

Our normally long-winded conversations had been reduced to less-than-a-minute check
-ins because Farrah had to use an expensive satellite phone rather than a cell phone. There’s not much chance of “Can you hear me now?” working when the caller’s surrounded by a thousand miles of open ocean.

I called Steve.

“Farrah and Ono are coming home tonight,” I said.

“Seriously?
When?”

“She said
they’d be back by nightfall.”

“
I’m on it,” he said.

Next, I called my boyfriend of almost two years, Hatch Decker. Hatch
is a firefighter with Maui Fire and Rescue. He was on duty Tuesday and didn’t answer his cell. I left a message telling him Farrah and Ono were coming home and asked him to call back.

I raced down to the Palace of Pain to get in a quick workout. I knew if I waited until the news of Farrah’s return sunk in, I’d find a thousand excuses to not go. My
sifu
, Doug, was teaching a
tai chi
class to five senior citizens. Two men and three women with salt-and-pepper hair, and faces scrunched in concentration, mimicked his deliberate stances and postures. To me,
tai chi
looks like a leisurely download on an ultra-sluggish Internet connection, but it’s a genuine form of martial arts. And, with its slower, more precise moves it’s a life-saver to folks with creaky knees and Medicare cards.
The Ghost of Christmas Future
, I said to myself as I caught my
sifu’s
eye. I gave him a quick bow of respect and headed for the locker room.

I changed into my workout clothes and took a spot
facing a far corner. After twenty minutes of warm-up and thirty minutes of hard-charging effort with the long staff I’d gotten my heart rate up and silenced my head chatter.

“You got a minute?” Doug said
as he came up behind me. He’d stealthily approached, but instead of being spooked I simply turned to face him. One of the upsides of attaining black belt status was a physical self-confidence that kept the bogey-man in his place. Too bad my emotional self-confidence hadn’t followed suit.

“Sure. Can it wait until I grab a
fast rinse-off?”

“No problem.”

I took a quick shower and dressed in my business “uniform”—white cropped pants and a cheery pink tee-shirt sporting a sparkly palm tree. I’m not really a “pink” kind of gal, let alone sparkly, but it’s kind of expected in my line of work.

I went into Sifu Doug’s
bare-bones office. The Palace of Pain was doing quite well financially, but you’d never know it from looking at the tiny office. Doug still worked off a chipped Costco folding table and sat on a wheeled chair he’d picked up off the street. It’s a custom in Maui neighborhoods to place discarded but still usable items like lamps, chairs and even pillows next to a Dumpster or garbage can to signal the stuff is up for grabs. I’m pretty sure they don’t follow this custom in Sprecklesville or Wailea—tony areas that no doubt have strict rules against “public dumping”—but in more downscale places it’s common.

He pointed to a white plastic chair and asked me to sit. I had to move an assortment of headgear,
multi-colored fabric belts and something that appeared to be a greying stretched-out jock strap off the seat before I could sit down.

“Sorry about that,” Doug said. “That’s
my lost and found. I’ve got to remember to send an email to the parents to get down here and pick up their kids’ stuff.”

“What
’d you want to see me about?” I said.

“
I’ve got a problem and I’m hoping you’ll be willing to help.”

“Of course.”
Martial arts teaches discipline. One of the first things you learn is to respect your
sifu
. There was no way I’d question whether I was the best person for the job, or offer excuses about why now wasn’t a good time. If Sifu Doug says, “Jump,” the only acceptable answer is “How high,
Sifu?
”

“My niece is coming over from Honolulu for a visit and when I mentioned you and your wedding business she got very excited. I was wondering if you’d
be willing to take on an unpaid assistant for the rest of the week.”

“Unpaid? That s
eems kind of wrong. Don’t you think if this girl works for me she should get paid?”

“Believe me, you’ll pay,” he said. “But not in the normal sense of the word.”

Uh-oh.

“Tell me a little about her,” I said. I tried to keep the panic out of my voice.
I was used to working alone. While I had all the self-confidence in the world when it came to defending myself in an alley fight, I wasn’t so self-assured when it came to promoting teamwork or bossing around underlings.

“Her name’s Kaili. She’s sixteen. Her mo
m is Lani’s sister but they couldn’t be more opposite. As you know, Lani’s pretty strict with our kids, but Kaili’s mom is—well, let me just say the word ‘n-o’ isn’t in her vocabulary. I think one of the reasons Lani’s pushing for this girl to work at your shop is to cut the time she’ll be at our house with our kids. My oldest is only twelve, you know. She thinks since Kaili’s from the big city everything she says or does is ‘cool.’ Last time Kaili was here it took Lani two weeks to get the kids back under control.”

“Uh-huh.
So, when will Kaili get here?”

“She’s
coming over tonight. We’re hoping she can start at your place tomorrow. What time do you open your shop?”

I was silent for a moment. I believe in
showing respect to my
sifu
, but I’m not stupid. This was my one chance to throw up a boundary.

“I usually get in kind of late since I
check on vendors and run errands after I leave here every morning. How about you bring her in around ten-thirty?”

Doug
glared at me with his Army Ranger eyes. One look from those eyes could strip the paint from a car parked in his reserved spot.

“Let’s make it ten.
My kids are up at seven. That gives Kaili almost three hours. It’ll take Lani the rest of the day to undo the damage.”

“C’mon, Sifu, she can’t be that bad.”

He tossed his head like a guy who’d just slugged down a straight shot of tequila. “Nah, you’re right. I’m sure the two of you will hit it off just fine.”

CHAPTER
4

By four-thirty
, Steve had called or emailed at least two dozen friends to storm the ramparts to welcome Farrah and Ono back from their honeymoon. The plan was to carpool down to Lahaina and wait for Ono’s catamaran, the “Maui Happy Returns,” to sail into the harbor. Then we’d board the vessel like a marauding band of pirates and relieve the happy couple of any remaining food or drink aboard.

Unfortunately,
Steve had failed to alert everyone that Ono is a chip-carrying member of Alcoholics Anonymous. Therefore, the boat wouldn’t be carrying any drink more ribald than Gatorade. And Farrah, my dear sweet friend born about forty years too late for her counter-culture lifestyle, had no doubt stocked the galley with fun foods like quinoa, dried kelp flakes, and carob-covered pomegranate seeds. There’d be nary a sign of the kettle chips, ranch dip, and beef jerky the ersatz pirates would be looking for.

We arrived at
ten to seven. The sun hovered at the horizon as we unloaded everyone and made our way down to the dock. I squinted at the far side of the harbor and saw a boat bobbing in the slip normally assigned to the “Maui Happy Returns.” Ono wouldn’t be pleased someone had poached his slip while he’d been away. Those tie-ups cost something close to a mortgage payment, and even though Ono didn’t actually pay it himself—the catamaran was owned by his boss, a very sweet, very rich, widow in Honolulu—he was fiercely protective of all things related to the boat.

Steve and I led the small army of well-wishers down the splintery wooden dock. When we got within t
wenty yards of the slip, the truth came out. They’d already arrived. The gleaming white hull was not only familiar, there was a life ring emblazoned with “Maui Happy Returns” at the bow.

The
cat’s sails were buttoned down and no lights were showing. More importantly, I saw no one on deck.

“They must’ve come in early,” Steve said.

I shot him my “
ya think
?” look and he scowled.

“You
said nightfall,” he said. “Look, the sun’s still up.”

We both looked to the east. And,
blink
, the sun slipped below the rolling hills of the island of Lana’i.

“It was there a second ago,” he said.

I called Farrah’s cell. She answered on the second ring. “Did you forget we were coming home today?” she said.