Livin' Lahaina Loca (2 page)

My
wedding planning shop—‘Let’s Get Maui’d’—is officially based in Pa’ia, on the
main drag next to a hippie-style grocery store. But earlier that year we’d had
a serious fire in the building and the do-gooder historical group that was
rehabbing the structure was adamant about allowing only “historically
significant” tenants back in once they’d finished. So the hundred-year-old
grocery store was welcomed back with open arms, but my wedding shop and the
upstairs apartment previously occupied by the store’s owner had both been
denied occupancy permits. To keep my business afloat, I’d taken up a friend’s
offer to sublet a dingy space above a four-star restaurant in Lahaina. The shop
space was only accessible from the alley. The smell of raw fish every morning
was enough to turn anyone vegan, but the rent was dirt cheap. Since moving in,
I’d acquired an impressive collection of scented candles, air fresheners, and
potpourri in an effort to make it smell less like a fish market and more like
an orchid garden. But after eight months I was still pleading my case to the
historicals to allow me to come back to my old shop in Pa’ia. In Hawaii,
patience and personal connections are highly prized. I had both, and the
olfactory challenge I faced every day in Lahaina made me even more determined.

On
the long drive home I felt like I was whistling in a graveyard with that
hacked-off ponytail following me three feet behind. Once or twice I tried to
catch a glimpse of it in my rearview mirror, but I couldn’t see it; it was
below the reflection. At the stoplight at Ma’alaea Harbor I turned and looked
into the backseat, hoping I’d made an error. Maybe because I’d been so fixated
on the missing bridesmaid’s hair color, I’d mistaken a rust-colored sweater or
a brown feather boa for a coil of hair. I checked. No such luck. It was
definitely human hair, and it was still there.

 The
porch light was on when I pulled into my driveway in Hali’imaile. My roommate,
Steve, had gone out partying and there was no way he’d be back this early.
Steve’s much more than just a roommate, but not in the way you might think.
He’s a topnotch photographer as well as a superb cook, and he’s got a great eye
for style. Since his skills dovetail nicely with my profession, I figured it
was kismet when he answered my ad offering a room for rent. But we aren’t, by
any stretch of the imagination, an item. To put it delicately, we both like
men. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Only occasionally have we been
attracted to the
same
man, and in those rare cases we settled it in a
democratic fashion, allowing the object of our desire to cast the deciding
vote. Thankfully, so far we haven’t run into any undecided voters or hanging
chads.

I
got out, leaving the hair right where it was, and went in and called my best
friend.

“I’m
so
glad you’re home,” I said.

“Hey,”
said Farrah. “What’s up? You sound like you’ve seen a ghost. Dig it?
Seen a
ghost
, on Halloween.”

“Very
clever. Actually, I’m calling because I’ve got something I need to show you.
Can I come down?”

“No
problemo. I turned off the outside lights, but only a few kids bothered to hike
it up the stairs anyway. We can pig out on all the leftover Snickers I’ve got.”

Farrah
Milton lives secretly above the Gadda da Vida Grocery, the plantation-era
grocery store she runs in Pa’ia. Her apartment sustained minor smoke damage in
the fire but was left intact, so when the historical society refused her an
occupancy permit she stayed with me until after the blessing party for the
refurbished store and then she quietly moved back into her former digs. She
left the
Do Not Enter
signs and the yellow
Caution
tape right
where they were and bartered with one of her customers to sneak over at night
and replace the blackened and warped treads on the back stairs. Since her store
is vital to life in Pa’ia Town no local would dream of ratting her out to the
Maui Mo’olelo Society, the politically-connected historical people who now own
the land and the building. 

I
took the stairs two at a time even though it was pitch black in the alley. I’d
raised my hand to knock when Farrah pulled the door open. Soft pink light from
the living room beckoned me inside.

“Whatcha
got?” She looked down at my empty hands.

“It’s
in the car.”

“Too
heavy to haul up here?”

“It’s
heavy
in the way you’d use the word.”

“Whaddaya
mean?”

“You’ll
see.”

We
clomped down the stairs and I opened the rear door of the Geo and pointed to
the dimly lit back seat.

She
squinted her eyes. “What
is
that?”

“It’s
hair.”

“Whoa,
you’re right—that
is
heavy. Looks like the dreads off Rasta Ronald
McDonald.”

“I
think it’s the hair of that bridesmaid I told you about. The one nobody’s seen
or heard from since the bachelorette party last night.”

“Bummer.
We’d better contact the authorities.”

I’d
known her long enough to know she wasn’t suggesting we dial 9-1-1.

When
we got back upstairs, Farrah pulled out a worn deck of tarot cards and laid
them on her madras-cloth covered table. She used that same table to eat her
meals, to groom her hyperactive Jack Russell, and to do covert psychic readings
for tourists she solicited in the store below. As she laid out the array, she
didn’t slap the cards down like a poker dealer; nor did she speak. The cards
slipped fluidly from her hands like water flowing over a rock in a stream. With
every card she’d nod or widen her eyes but I knew better than to ask questions.
She’d speak when she was ready and then it’d come out in a pithy statement that
often took me hours to decipher. When she first claimed she had clairvoyant talents
I’d scoffed, but time and time again she’d proven her ‘third eye’ had
twenty/twenty vision.

“
Da
kine
,” she said finally. “Here’s what’s I see.” She passed a hand, palm
down, over the line of upturned cards. “What’s happening here is strangely
cool. I don’t think I’ve ever had this grouping before. You see the Tower card?
It signals greed and destruction making way for better things. The High
Priestess here symbolizes inner strength and knowing. When these two come forth
side-by-side, we’re looking at helter-skelter—you know, a clash. Although the
Priestess is powerful, the lightning bolt from the Tower seeks to destroy her
and she must yield or be doomed.”

 “In
English?”

“There’s
a ton of weird vibes around that hair. In Hawaiian, we’re talking heavy
pilikia
—trouble.
I’d say if this hair is from your missing girl, she’s in deep doo-doo.”

“That’s
what I was afraid of.”

“You
know I’m no fan of the establishment, but I think you need to call in The Man
on this one.”

“Should
I mention the tarot turned up the Tower and the High Priestess?” I was only
half-joking.

“Hey,
don’t knock it ‘til you rock it. Remember, the cops came to
me
to find
that dude who tried to swim to Moloka’i.”

“They
only called you because his auntie was a mucky-muck assistant to a county
councilman and she insisted they try every angle. But I gotta admit, everybody
was pretty stunned when you nailed his exact location.
The Maui News
even managed to spelled ‘Ouija’ right.”

“No
biggie. Basic CSI.”

I
squinted.

“Channeling
Spirit Images.”

I
drove back to my house chewing on how I’d file a police report about a severed
ponytail showing up on the back seat of my car on Halloween night. I mentally
rehearsed the call.

I’d like to report some minor vandalism. My car got
keyed last night in Lahaina. Oh, and while I’ve got you on the line, somebody
left a creepy hank of red hair on the back seat. My psychic friend says it’s
full of bad juju.

By
the time I got home, I’d decided the police probably had their hands full
clearing the streets of the hardcore party animals. It was already past
midnight; time to get to bed. I had a nine o’clock meeting with the bridal
couple in the morning. Maybe they’d come bearing good news about their friend.
Nothing would have made me happier than dumping the severed tresses from my
back seat into the garbage and chalking the whole thing up to an ill-advised
haircut after too much Halloween hooch.

CHAPTER 3

Nicole
Johnson and Keith Lewis clomped up the stairs to my temporary shop just as I
was lighting a third gardenia-scented candle. The garbage truck had been a
half-hour late and my shop still reeked of yesterday’s catch-of-the-day. 

As
I welcomed them in, my greeting sounded less than heartfelt, but it was
probably just envy. They were both buffed beachy-looking blonds from Southern
California, with sprayed-on tans and laser-whitened smiles. They were such a
matched set it was kind of creepy—like fraternal twins separated at birth.
Besides their good genes, it was hard not to resent their seemingly unlimited
money supply. As usual, they showed up wearing yet another pricy gal-guy
outfit—a Ralph Lauren mix and match that included front-pleated twill shorts
and deeply-hued polo shirts. His was a vivid jungle green and hers an energetic
hibiscus yellow.

“Hey,
did you check out Halloween last night?” Keith lifted a fist but I avoided the
bump-back by turning toward Nicole at just the right moment.

“Yeah,
it was so
amazing
.” Nicole stretched the word out to about five
syllables.

“They
call it the Mardi Gras of the Pacific,” I said. “It’s rumored to be the largest
outdoor Halloween celebration in the world.”

“Well,
it was f—uh, freaking fantastic.” Keith grinned at Nicole. She patted him on
the arm and I gathered he’d been making an effort to substitute his favorite
f-word for something she found more acceptable.

Although
they’d been to my shop once before when we signed the original contract, I
noticed Keith’s eyes narrowing as he took in the tiny space. The sublet was
roughly a fifteen by twelve room with a battered Balinese desk with a chair
behind it and two chairs on the opposite side. In the far corner I had a
curtained-off area I used for dress fittings. My shop space in Pa’ia was more
than twice as big but not, unfortunately, much more elegant. The first time
they’d come in I’d explained my current funky digs by briefly describing the
fire and the hassle over getting the occupancy permit. But even with my sparse
quarters in Pa’ia I prefer a simple workplace. I tell my clients that by
spending less on overhead I’m able to offer them more free services than the
costly foo-foo wedding planners who have shops resembling Marie Antoinette’s
boudoir.

“You
ready to look at some cakes?”

Nicole
gripped Keith’s brawny upper arm and leaned into him. “I can’t believe we’re
actually doing this, baby. We’ve been talking about getting married for so
long—and now we’re looking at wedding cakes!”

“Yeah,
great. Say, do you two girls really need me to hang around? I mean, I like cake
as much as the next guy, but the World Poker Challenge Final is on TV right
now.”

Nicole
let go of his arm. Her eyes narrowed; her lips disappeared into a tight line.

“This
isn’t
my
wedding cake, Keith. It’s
our
wedding cake. It’s the
most major decision we’ll ever make as a married couple.”

So
,
I thought,
I guess
having children, buying a house, living within
your budget, and negotiating your sex life fall somewhere short of the cake
decision. If so, good luck with that.
But I’ve learned in delicate
situations it’s best to keep the smile going and the mouth shut.

“Hey,
sweetcakes. I’m here, aren’t I?” Keith put his arm around Nicole’s waist and
pulled her tight against his crotch. “I’ll call the hotel and see if they’ll
DVR the first part of it for me. How long can it take to pick out a cake?”

“Well,”
I said, “I don’t want to drag this out or anything, but traditionally there are
two cakes: the bride’s cake and the groom’s cake. The bride’s cake is the big
one—usually a multi-layer creation decorated with flowers and fancy icing. The
groom’s cake is smaller. It’s usually done up in a way that has a special
meaning to the groom.”

“Two
different cakes?” Keith winced as if he had a hemorrhoid acting up. “Great.
We’ll probably be here all day.”

“No,
it shouldn’t take long,” I said. “I’ve got a nice photo album that shows what’s
available.”

I
pulled a three-inch binder from my bookshelf. Keith eyed the heavy volume and
groaned.

“You’re
inviting about forty people, right?” I sat down behind my desk and gestured for
the two of them to sit on the other side. I opened the binder and flipped to
the section on mid-size bridal cakes.

“We
hope that many will come,” said Nicole. “We haven’t gotten all the RSVP’s back.
Can you believe it? We’re paying for everything—airfare and all their expenses
and still people are too lazy to even send back the stupid little card. The
wedding’s in ten days. I want to call all the deadbeats up and say, ‘Hey
people, put the damn little card in the mail or don’t you dare show up,’ but
Keith said that would be rude.”