by Debra Bokur
Jack waited a moment to see if there were any volunteers. When no one else made a move, he raised his hand. “I’ll give it a try,” he said.
The young man gestured to Jack to come stand beside him. He demonstrated the proper technique, then handed Jack the two sticks he’d been working with. Jack took a deep breath and began rubbing, his face creased in concentration, the muscles in his neck and shoulders engaged. In a few short minutes, his face was red from the exertion. He paused and examined the sticks.
The small crowd began clapping, urging him on. He took another breath and resumed the rubbing motion. Smoke began to curl upward. In a moment, there was a sudden spark. The Samoan presenter leaned forward and blew gently on the smoking wood, and a small flame burst forth. The onlookers cheered, and Jack looked up triumphantly, catching Kali’s eye.
“Are you going to tell me that’s pretty good for a mainlander?” he asked her, smiling.
Kali shook her head. “No. I was going to tell you that if I get stranded on a desert island without a lighter, I hope you show up so that I don’t have to live off raw fish.”
He laughed and pushed his hair away from his brow, perspiring from the exertion of rubbing the wood together in the hot, humid air. They left the Samoan hut and wandered through the rest of the exhibits, pausing to watch demonstrations of stick games played by New Zealand’s Maori, Tahitian lei weaving, and Tongan spear throwing.
Soon enough, it was time to gather for the luau. As they made their way with the flow of the crowd toward the theater seating, Kali explained the historic cooking method of the underground oven, used to slowly roast the kalua pig, which was central to the feast.
“The base of the oven—called an imu oven—is made of hot stones,” she told him. “Hot stones are also stuffed inside the pig, and layers of shredded plants are used to create the steam that actually cooks the food. The whole thing gets covered with thick woven mats, and then dirt is shoveled on top. The trick is to cook everything very, very slowly, which is what makes the pork especially tender.”
“Very impressive,” he said. “So, if I show up on this desert island with my fire skills, you’ll offer to do the cooking?”
“I’m afraid we might starve,” she said, thinking wryly of her refrigerator, with its bowls of leftover rice, take-out containers, and old fruit.
“Listen,” he said, interrupting her train of thought. “I hear drums.”
He turned along the pathway, where a line of performers had begun to pound passionately on huge carved drums. Jack stood, transfixed, as the sound reverberated throughout the space. It seemed as though the very air were pulsing with the raw beat of the massive instruments.
Kali closed her eyes. Yes, this was Hawaii. This was the heartbeat of the islands that she loved so deeply. She felt her pulse quicken, and a sudden sense that she was part of the music overwhelmed her.
They found their seats as the show began. Night had settled around them, and Kali was content to let the dancers, singers, and actors carry her from one island to the next as they traced out the history of Polynesia through song and dance. This, she thought, was a true performance, not the sad effort made by the actors at the Wailea Palm Harbor Resort.
By the time the final performers came onstage, the entire crowd was caught up in the drama. A group of skilled fire dancers wielded lit spears, which they moved in intricate patterns through the darkness. Even Kali was exhilarated by the sheer magic of it all.
One of the dancers was carrying a traditional war club in each hand and was moving them in an elaborate choreography that was nearly impossible to follow. Kali watched as the glow from the fire flickered off something embedded along the edges of the clubs. She sat bolt upright, struck suddenly by a thought that she knew instinctively was correct.
She leaned over to Jack, then whispered in his ear. “I’ll be right back,” she said, her voice distracted. She pushed herself out of her seat and nudged her way down the row, past the seated spectators, most of whom were clearly annoyed that this sudden exodus was interrupting the grand finale.
Kali made her way to an area away from the music, where it was relatively quiet. She pulled her phone out and dialed Walter’s home number, then waited impatiently as each ring went unanswered. Finally, Walter’s voice came over the line.
“Alaka’i here,” he said, sounding less than enthusiastic.
“I know what the murder weapon was.”
“Kali? Where the hell are you? Is that drumming I hear?”
“It was a war club. With shark’s teeth embedded along the edges. And if the lab got the age right on the wood fragment, there’s a good chance it will be an authentic collector’s item. Not a replica.”
There was silence on the line, then a long whistle.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Walter finally asked.
“Well, it’s not as though you see a lot of people walking around these days carrying ancient weapons, is it?”
“Why was Kekipi Smith in the company of someone holding a war club, for crying out loud?”
Kali was growing impatient. “I don’t know, Walter. But it narrows things a bit, doesn’t it? Find out if there are any collectors or any collections missing a club. And then find out if there’s anyone in or around Hana, including his school and surfing friends, or friends of the family, who might have something like that in their possession.”
“You still haven’t said where you are.”
“O‘ahu still. At a show with Jack, which is how I figured this out. I’ll be back tomorrow, midday.”
“At a what? With who?”
She disconnected without bothering to answer and made her way back toward the theater. The crowd was already dispersing, and she waited until she saw Jack stand up and look around, slightly lost. She waved to get his attention and stood out of the way of the other guests until he’d made his way to her side. He looked at her enquiringly.
“Is everything okay?”
“Sorry about that,” she said. “It’s one of the cases I’ve been working on. Suspicious deaths of a teenage boy and an elderly lady. I had an idea and needed to call it in.”
“Oh,” he said, watching her. “That’s a good thing, right?”
“It is,” she agreed. She tried to focus on Jack, but her mind was miles away, turning over a million different scenarios, none of which made any sense at all.
They drove back to Honolulu in near silence, and it wasn’t until Kali had collapsed into bed that it occurred to her that she probably had offended Jack with her preoccupation.
* * *
On Maui, Walter was also still awake, but he wasn’t thinking about the war club. He was trying to decide if he’d heard Kali correctly on the phone. It had sounded like she said she was at a show with someone named Jack. To him, it had sounded like she was describing a date. Walter rolled over in the dark, mentally shaking his head. Either it had been a bad connection or there was something seriously wrong with his hearing.
CHAPTER 29
The flight back to Maui was unpleasant. The weather had taken a turn for the worse during the night, and rain pelted the small plane for the entire trip, which was slowed considerably by a buffeting wind that never seemed to be blowing in a favorable direction. The plane rocked back and forth, dropped suddenly, and pitched from one side to the other while Kali gripped the edge of her seat and swore, trying not to let Larry see how terrified she was. By the time he’d eased the Cessna to a stop on the runway, close to the private plane hangars, she had resolved never to fly anywhere ever again, for any reason.
She had tried to distract herself by thinking about work and about the farewell at the hotel with Jack. He had mentioned again the strong possibility of his transfer to the Big Island’s volcano research facility, and they’d agreed that if that proved to be the case, there would be another dinner to share. But not, Kali had thought to herself, if I have to fly to get there.
She drove from the airport to the police station, feeling queasy. H
er mood wasn’t improved by Walter’s greeting. It was clear that he’d been awaiting her arrival, as he didn’t waste any time saying hello or asking how the flight had gone.
“Did you tell me you were on a date?”
Kali gave an exaggerated sigh and sat down at Walter’s desk, then tucked her feet beneath her. When she gave no response, he continued to question her.
“With a man, right? Not some oversize, homeless hound dog that you rescued and took out for a burger? And get your filthy feet off my chair. Hara just cleaned the upholstery.”
Kali swung her feet onto the floor and tried to look nonchalant. “Abusing the trainees? And yes, I was with a man. A source for the investigation, that’s all. But he does happen to like dogs.”
“Explains what he was doing in your company, I suppose.”
“Oh, that’s hilarious. Men don’t hate me.”
Walter snorted. “Yeah, I know. Mysterious tattooed tribal babe. Irresistible. You and Hara should open a dating service.” He looked up, not even close to being through. “He have a name? An arrest record? Any connection at all to the work you were sent over there to do?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Kali, “he was one of the speakers at that renewable-energy conference.”
“And a name?”
“Dr. Jack Bader,” Kali said, emphasizing the academic title.
Walter raised his brow. “Well, la di da,” he said. “That should last all of two minutes. I suppose you corralled him into dinner as part of the investigation so you can write it off as an expense.”
“Yes,” said Kali. “And also because he’s got the most stunning red hair I’ve ever seen. Like a burst of lava.”
“Great,” said Walter. “Moving on to things that actually matter, I talked to Stitches first thing this morning about the autopsy results for Grace Sawyer. Death was caused by a blow to the skull from a heavy object, which may or may not be the same weapon used to kill Kekipi. Regarding the wood splinter and your war club theory, she says it’s completely consistent with the boy’s wound, and that if the club was old and a bit unstable, a forcible blow to the skull could certainly have dislodged one of the shark’s teeth and left it in the wound.”
“And?”
“She’s running some additional tests to determine the precise type of tropical wood. I don’t know exactly how we can leverage this information, unless, of course, we can come up with a collector or a dealer who’s missing a specific piece. We don’t have any theft reports for anything resembling a club. Hara checked back over a ten-year period island-wide, but there’s nothing even close.”
Kali got up and walked toward the window. From here, she could see the stretch of ocean close to where Kekipi had been discovered. So many secrets would always be hidden by the dead, she thought. She turned back to Walter.
“There could be dozens of clubs like this in people’s homes, hanging on walls,” she said.
“True dat,” Walter agreed, “but here’s the good news, if you can call it that. There are only two actual collectors in Hawaii who specialize in ancient weapons. That includes the buying and selling of. And, as good fortune would have it, both collectors are located on Maui.”
He reached across his desk and retrieved a single-page printout showing two names and addresses. “This is them. One’s a retired professor from the University of Hawaii who has a pretty well-respected collection. He guest curates a lot of the historic exhibits that get loaned out to major museums in Asia and on the mainland. Name’s Kinard, and he lives alone over in Lahaina. The other guy is Franklin Josephs, and he’s in Kahana, north of Lahaina. So you should be able to get to both of them today.”
“What’s the background on Josephs?” asked Kali.
“Seems to be more of a dealer than a dedicated collector. Acquires pieces from estate sales and the like. Probably reads the obits religiously and approaches the families of multigenerational locals to sift through their leavings. He’s on our books because a complaint was made against him by a seller a few years back, an older woman who claimed she’d been bullied into selling.”
“Or was pissed off when she realized that she should have held out for more,” said Kali sardonically.
“That’s what we figured at the time. She dropped the charges, so it never got to court, but we still have the record of the complaint. And I did you a favor . . . We’ve got a search warrant for both properties already. Hara will meet you later on at the Josephs residence. Just give him a call when you’re through talking to the professor.”
Kali took the copies of the search warrants and the paper with the names and addresses from Walter and moved toward the door. “Okay. On my way.”
“While you’re taking care of that, I’m heading back out to do another door-to-door,” he said. “Unlikely that any of the locals saw anything and haven’t stepped forward, but there aren’t a lot of options. We’re also re-questioning Kekipi’s friends about war clubs and historic Hawaiian artifacts. His mother says she never heard mention of anyone having one, but you never know whose granddad might have one in a closet somewhere. If they were playing warriors on the beach, no one’s likely to admit they took a swing at Kekipi.”
Kali agreed. She tried not to let herself feel too hopeful. The possibility that they’d at last come up with a plausible theory regarding the murder weapon didn’t mean they’d necessarily find it or the person who’d used it.
She drove by her house to retrieve Hilo from Elvar and Birta. She planned to use the less busy southern Pi‘ilani Highway later on. Part of that road was a glorified dirt track that led to the western area of the island and the towns of Lahaina and Kahana. It was one of the reasons she was so attached to her battered Jeep, which never seemed to mind the unfinished surfaces, some filled with potholes that were difficult to negotiate following heavy rains.
As she pulled into the yard, Hilo, alerted by the familiar sound of the engine, came galloping through the path opening in the trees in greeting. As she climbed from the Jeep, he jumped up on his hind legs and knocked her to the ground.
“I think he missed you,” said a voice. Turning, Kali saw Elvar sprinting along the path, in pursuit.
“I missed him, too,” said Kali, laughing.
“How was O‘ahu?” Elvar asked, helping her up. “Did you have a chance to enjoy yourself at all?”
She turned her head slightly, feeling her face flush. She clapped her hands and pointed to the Jeep. Hilo, understanding, sprang instantly into the passenger seat.
“It was mostly work,” she said. “Lots of traffic. The usual mass of tourists.”
Elvar smiled. “Well, we’re all glad you’re home, safe and sound. Birta says to come by later if you like. She’s making up a batch of that seafood stew from that recipe you gave her a while ago. And I can show you the sandalwood knife handle with the awapuhi flower we hunted on our hike. It turned out pretty well. I’ve also got a couple of weapons finished for the film people. I wouldn’t mind getting your opinion on their authenticity. I even managed to get hold of some really old wood.”
She nodded slowly. “That’d be nice.” She took a small step away, feeling a chill along her spine, like icy fingers tracing a path. “It might be late when I get back, though. Right now, I’ve got to go to the other side of the island to do some interviews.”
“Well, no one here’s in any hurry. Stop over when you get home.”
He waved and turned back down the path, then faded into the shadows. She watched him as he disappeared, then turned slowly toward the Jeep. Hilo barked in encouragement, and she slid behind the wheel and absently scratched the dog’s head.
She turned the key and headed down the driveway. Surely not, she thought. Of course he was concerned about creating the most authentic weapons possible. She pushed the thought out of her mind, concentrating on the road. Maybe she was completely wrong about the significance of the war club and its possible connection to the island’s legends. Even as the thought flitted through her mind, s
he felt the skin on her arms prickle, as if in warning.
The drive to Lahaina took the better part of two hours. It had once ranked as an important fishing port, but the small town now served as a tourist magnet, with rows of shops, art galleries, and restaurants. She checked the directions that were printed next to the addresses and found her way to 21 Beach Lane. The house turned out to be a small bungalow with a wide shaded porch. She parked and warned Hilo to stay put, then made her way up the shallow set of steps onto the porch and to the front door.
A surprisingly fit elderly man wearing wire-rimmed glasses and an old Rolling Stones T-shirt over faded black jeans answered her knock.
“Aloha. Professor Kinard?”
The man nodded, smiling in a friendly manner. “One and the same,” he said. “Can I help you?”
Kali smiled in return. “Kali Mhoe. I’m a detective with the Maui Police Department. Do you have a few moments? I have some questions about traditional Hawaiian weapons, and I’m told you’re the man to talk to.”
Kinard’s gaze swept over Kali, and he took in the tattoo visible beneath the edge of her sleeve. “My. Detective. That’s interesting,” he said, standing back and holding the door open. “Come in, come in. I’d be pleased to talk story with you.”
Kali noted with approval the older man’s use of the Hawaiian phrase “talk story,” which meant to have a relaxed, respectful conversation.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, entering the coolness of the house. Kinard’s interest in Hawaiiana was evidenced in the decor of the living room. Bamboo floors were covered with woven mats, and a number of old framed kapa cloths were displayed on the walls.
“May I offer you something cold to drink?” Kinard asked politely.
“I’m fine. Thanks,” said Kali.
“Then please . . . sit down and make yourself comfortable.”
She sat down in one of two wide bamboo chairs that faced each other near the front windows. The light was good, and Kali imagined the professor sitting here, reading and enjoying the sunshine. He chose the chair across from her and nodded gravely.
