Kauai Temptations

by Terry Ambrose

  Common sense also said there were holes in the case against Morah. First off, she was dead, which made it unlikely she’d known how to cook meth. Second, the meth conclusion seemed far from complete. If she’d purchased the ingredients, why would she pay for them herself? The woman had scored big off my bank account. Suddenly she decided to take her drug costs out of her own pocket? Why hadn’t she written checks for those items? If she had, why hadn’t the bank told me about the checks? Sure, she’d have to cook the highly explosive concoction herself, but the stuff produced toxic fumes. If she was a big drug dealer, why had no one reported odors prior to that night?

  I thumbed through the phone book. I wasn’t going to be satisfied until I had some answers. I found a listing for an M. Wilkerson. No one was going to leave two holes in my damn dam. With address in hand, I called CJ for directions. She told me that the apartment was in the Kapa’a area, which was consistent with the news story and what the librarian had said. It was time for a real field trip.

  On the other side of Lihue’s downtown, I passed the Red Dirt Shirt Store and then another sign of supposed progress, Walmart. How many existing businesses had been displaced by the big box store? Had Morah purchased some of her ingredients there? She’d be one of hundreds or thousands who shopped the store daily—no clerk would ever remember her.

  Further along my route, cross streets with the types of names that drive most mainlanders crazy cropped up—Kapaia, Laukona, and Laulima. Thank goodness I wasn’t on Wheel of Fortune. Win money for two consonants, then buy six vowels? I don’t think so.

  In Hanamaulu town, elevated older homes lined the right side of the roadway, then gave way to a small commercial center on the left, a school on the right. The road ended at Kuhio Highway; my direction was to the left, north. I recalled CJ’s first driving instruction about Kauai. I was driving what she’d called “that way.” Supposedly, I only had to go a few miles up the road. With luck, I wouldn’t miss the turn and wind up going the whole 35 miles to the end. I checked the odometer. When the sucker hit ten more miles, I was turning around.

  Even though traffic into Kapa'a was the pits, the views along the way—lush green mountains to my left and stunning coastline to my right—took my breath away. As I approached Kapa’a, traffic slowed to a halt, then moved slowly. We stopped, we started. It was a mini version of Honolulu rush hour. I found my left turn a little over seven miles from the point where I’d checked mileage. I had three to spare.

  I waited while the line of cars heading the opposite direction inched past me. Whether you were going to work in Lihue, to surf or snorkel at Poipu, or to Mount Waialeale to see the wettest spot on earth, you came past this point and would pass Buster and me. Logically, I knew that was a massive exaggeration, but as the line of cars streamed past it certainly felt that way.

  Finally, a blue sedan stopped. I almost missed the opportunity, but caught on when the driver waved frantically. I gave him the shaka sign. In the islands, we use the shaka sign to say thanks, but this guy didn’t respond. Maybe he was a mainlander who didn’t know how to hang loose yet. If he didn’t have time to get into the island groove, chances were he’d go back wound as tight as the day he’d arrived. With the left turn behind me, I headed mauka—toward the mountains. The apartment building and its parking lot were no more than a half mile from the turn.

  The lot was almost empty. Even with the addition of Buster, you could count the number of parked cars on one hand. That shouldn’t be much of a shocker . . . most of the people who lived here were probably working one job, maybe two, just to stay on-island. As a landlord who had my own tenants to worry about, along with my own frequently empty parking lot, the lack of vehicles seemed normal to me.

  The surrounding grounds were well-manicured. Palms of various sizes, shapes and shades of green swayed in the mild trade winds. Below the tropical canopy, plumeria and hibiscus hedges lined the concrete walks. Stunted grass, its coverage periodically broken by red dirt patches, carpeted the areas between the walkways. Ahead of me, the blackened skeleton of an end-unit apartment marred the otherwise serene interior courtyard.

  The front window of the unit had been blown out; the exterior walls looked like cheddar cheese covered in soot. Smoke residue strayed up the building in random waves of black. Yellow Crime Scene tape cautioned would-be snoopers to stay out.

  I stared at the destruction, wondering again how, in an apartment complex this dense, not one neighbor had complained. Perhaps this had been the first time Morah tried to cook her own meth? How long would the apartment be a toxic wasteland? What would it take to make it available for rent once again? I had no intention of going near a unit loaded with chemicals, but I did want to see if there were neighbors who knew something. I decided the best place to start was with the manager. Maybe professional courtesy would get me somewhere.

  The apartment complex itself was painted a grayish-blue with white trim. Most of the doors were a slate gray with tarnished-brass numbers that had been painted around, some none too carefully. The complex was laid out in a two-story U shape—a small pool and courtyard served as common ground for the tenants in the center. It was a peaceful microcosm. Even the water in the pool seemed calm despite small ripples riding its surface. The reflected image of the sky took on a hypnotic texture and movement, beckoning for all to watch, but not touch, dare they break the spell.

  Like any gathering place, though, even Oahu, the spell hadn’t always been so serene. What had happened the night Morah’s apartment exploded? I glanced at the pool every now and again as I went in search of the manager’s apartment. Had the flames reflected on the water’s surface?

  Three doors down on the first floor, I found the manager’s apartment. I knocked, waited the requisite time, then knocked again, this time, louder. Inside, people screamed at each other. An argument? No, the conversation flowed too smoothly—it was a TV show. It took nearly another minute, but the argument ended with some sort of catastrophic declaration, then there was the voice of an obnoxious salesman yelling out the attributes of his favorite new product. “I want to tell you about—” The TV went silent; a few seconds later, the door opened.

  “Yes?” A small woman dressed in a red hibiscus-flowered blouse and tan cropped pants gazed at me. She had deep-set eyes that spoke of hard times somewhere in her past. Her dark hair was streaked with gray, it hung limply past her shoulders. In the background, I saw the TV sales guy shouting in silence. The camera was on him, and for all I knew, he was pushing a new super-duper product called “Meth-Away.” Spray it on, meth all gone.

  “My name is McKenna. I’m doing a piece for the Honolulu Star-Advertiser. I’m trying to get some background on Morah Wilkerson. I wondered if you might be able to tell me what you know about her?”

  From deep within their sockets, her eyes, a dark brown, almost like chocolate, seemed to do an MRI-full-body scan. She was so thorough I almost expected her to make some dire medical prognosis about my liver or my prostate or something else capable of sending me running to the nearest hospital. But, she wasn’t a machine, so she parried my thrust with a shoulder shrug. “Didn’t know her. She seemed nice enough. Terrible thing that happened. Why’s a Honolulu paper interested in her?”

  Uh-oh, nosey. “Well, I can’t really say, we’re in the middle of the investigation. Maybe there’s someone else in the complex she was friends with?”

  Instead of getting all stiff and nasty because I’d rebuffed her question, she glanced over her shoulder. I followed her gaze to a couch, which was worn through in a couple of spots, and a coffee table, where I spotted a half-eaten sandwich and a small opened bag of potato chips. “A working lunch?” I asked.

  She ignored my question and said, “Wouldn’t know. They mostly stick to themselves.”

  Get along well with your tenants, do you? That’s what I should have said, but I was polite. “What happened with the units around Ms. Wilkerson’s?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, t
here was an explosion. You must have contamination issues to deal with.”

  “I thought you said you were here about Morah. Owners don’t want me talking about the cleanup. You’d have to talk to the state about that. Department of Health.”

  What else could she, would she, tell me? “The state?” I asked.

  She shrugged, then rubbed her neck with one hand. Her jaw worked in small circles while reddish blotches colored her cheeks. “Those . . . bureaucrats. You know, the . . . Response Office, whatever they are.”

  I knew. “They making you do cleanup?”

  “This off the record?”

  “Sure.” Why did people always think the reporter wouldn’t do anything with information they wanted to divulge “off the record”? We might not print it, but we sure as hell would follow up.

  “They said it’s too dangerous. We have to do some sort of special cleanup to get rid of all the chemicals. It’s gonna cost the owners a bunch of money. They even scared a couple of the tenants out with all their talk.” She glanced over her shoulder, then stiffened when she saw her show had returned. “I ain’t got nothing else to say.”

  “Thanks for your time. You don’t mind if I ask around the complex do you?”

  She began edging backwards, inching the door closed. She waved her left hand in a wide circle. “Who am I to stand in the way of the press? Try fourteen, six, and seven. All the rest have day jobs. Stay away from Morah’s.” She rolled her eyes while slowly shaking her head. Her voice quavered like a bad Halloween voiceover. “It’s dangerous.” Obviously, she’d already disconnected from the conversation. The door closed; the TV blared again seconds later. This time, it was louder.

  I found apartment number fourteen on the second floor. I knocked twice, then a third time. No answer. The window was open but the blinds were down with the slats tilted up enough to let fresh air pass through while keeping prying eyes from peering in. With no answer, I decided to move on.

  Units six and seven were on the opposite side of the complex on the first floor. Seven was closest, so I stopped there first. Nothing. No one home. At least at six, a man answered the door. He wore no shirt, a pair of baggy shorts unbuttoned at the top, and rubbed sleep from his eyes as he stood before me.

  “Hi, my name is McKenna,” I said. “I’m sorry if I woke you. I’m trying to get some background information on one of your neighbors, Morah Wilkerson.”

  He stared at me with bleary eyes. “What?”

  “My name is McKenna. I’m here about Morah.”

  “I heard you, man. I just—hey, I can’t do this now. I work nights and need to get back to sleep. Try Kari in three, they hung together.”

  He closed the door in my face, which left me staring at the brass numbers with the sloppy trim job. Why had the manager sent me to the dead ends and not mentioned Apt. 3? Given the TV queen’s attitude, I wondered if she’d deliberately misled me.

  I could canvass all of the apartments, but I might as well try Apt. 3 first. The front window, like the other apartments, was open. This time, the blinds were up. White, lacy curtains danced in the breeze to the background sounds of Kenny G’s sax. When I knocked, a young woman answered the door almost immediately. She wasn’t half asleep. She wasn’t stoned. I did wonder, however, if she might be color blind. She wore a purple bikini top and blue capris, which even I, as a card-carrying member of a male demographic group known for massive fashion screw ups, considered a major faux paux. The color-blind old guys typically accessorized with black socks. Thank goodness there were none of those here; Miss Purple Top was barefoot. My pulse quickened as I fought to keep my eyes where they belonged—on her face, and not, yeah, on the purple top.

  She smiled, probably at my momentary stupidity. “Hey.” A pause.

  Her eyes were blue like the morning sky and her hair slightly tangled with a just-got-back-from-the-beach look. I gulped. Maybe it was genetic, maybe it was my age, but I was predisposed to high blood pressure around hot women. And right now, I knew exactly how a bottle of champagne felt in the sun.

  “Can I help you?”

  Oh, yeah, could you ever, I thought. I almost muttered, “Shut up, Smart ass,” but didn’t. I struggled with my best good-reporter behavior. “I—I’m trying to, um, get some information about one of your neighbors, M—Morah Wilkerson.” Smooth, McKenna, really smooth. What was I, 14 again?

  Her eyes, which had seemed bright and happy only a moment before, saddened. She fingered a pendant hanging from a gold chain around her neck. Her smile faded while she shook her head. “I’m gonna miss her. Who are you, anyway?”

  “My name’s McKenna. I work for the Honolulu Star-Advertiser.”

  Her jaw dropped, then a bit of a smile returned. “You did that series on the murders in Honolulu. I followed that, it was great. I never thought I’d meet a real newspaper writer. Wow, how cool.”

  Okay, I admit it, my chest puffed up. And, I even momentarily considered using my apparent celebrity status to impress the blue pants off of Miss Purple Top. Then, the reality of why I was here—and the fact that Miss Purple Top was a hot twenty-something while I was—never mind, it smacked me in the head. Really hard. “Thanks. As it turns out, I’m doing a similar piece—this one may include Morah.”

  “I knew it.”

  Huh? Blonde. Skimpy top—purple, no less. No black socks. I had to pull this together. Fast. What did she mean, I knew it? I needed a mental reboot. Time to stall. “Knew what?”

  “That Morah was murdered. She couldn’t boil water, let alone cook something like meth. Somebody wanted to get rid of her.”

  I stared at her, the blood pounding in my temples. For a moment, I thought I was hearing things. Murder? Not again. Detective Najar had made a comment about unsuccessfully investigating the gang for a year. Pieces of the puzzle began dropping into place. Was Najar’s investigation taking so long because leads were dying off? What about the photo of Morah from the Island Electronics video? My gut instinct had been that she was nervous. The feeling had bothered me. Still did.

  What had I uncovered? Something bigger than my identity theft story? The reality of what I had to do next gripped me. No more incongruity. No more uncertainty. I had to follow the story. If Miss Purple Top was right, Morah Wilkerson’s death made perfect sense. If she had overstepped her bounds—if she’d made a mistake—a serious one, someone might have eliminated her from the game.

  Kari said, “You’re gonna find out who killed her, right?”

  A smart guy would wink, give her a peck on the cheek, then hop the next plane back to Honolulu. He’d forget Morah Wilkerson, Miss Purple Top, and the time spent here.

  But, not me. I wasn’t smart. My blood pressure was up. The champagne cork popped all on its own. My brain had stopped working. Control had been handed over to the lower extremities. The words just popped right out. “You bet.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  My zipper had spoken. Those blue eyes, the purple top, what was I thinking? I’d loved being a skip tracer. Finding people used to be a challenge. A rush I’d never grown tired of. Then along came computers and it all became routine. Was I doing this because of a pretty face or for the rush I missed?

  My palms felt sweaty. In a way, I hated to admit it, but I was hooked. It really didn’t matter how good looking Miss Purple Top was, she was a lead. I couldn’t call her Purple Top or even PT. It was time to imprint her name on my psyche so I didn’t slip up.

  “You’re Kari, yah? And you told this to the police.” My words came out with a sharp edge.

  She took a half-step back. “Hey, I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not mad at you. So?”

  She nodded tentatively. “They didn’t want to listen. They were all focused on the explosion.”

  “And you really believe she was murdered.”

  A sun-bleached strand of hair fell into Kari’s face, she pushed it back in a smooth, unthinking motion—I doubted if she realized she’d even done it. “Don’t
you? Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “I haven’t decided anything yet.” It was a lie. I had decided. What I didn’t know was whether I should tell her about the identity theft. No, not until I knew she wasn’t somehow involved.

  Sadness crept back into her eyes. “Oh. I thought you’d want to, you know, maybe look into it.”

  “I will.” Who was I kidding, I still wanted revenge on someone. But, it was tough to get revenge on a dead someone. I winked at her. “I need to keep an open mind until all the facts are in.” The words almost caught in my throat. Open mind? Me? Sure, why not? “What else can you tell me about Morah?”

  Kari smiled and waved at someone behind me. She lowered her voice, which sent my pulse into triple digits at the thought of sharing what would be “our little secret.” She leaned forward a bit. Maybe we should pinky-swear our loyalty and friendship forever? “Manager’s such a busybody.”

  Oh, that. Pfft. Like that was a secret.

  She nodded her head toward the interior of her apartment. “C’mon in. This could take some time.” She stepped to one side, then opened the door the rest of the way.

  I glanced down. Shoes right inside the door. I started to slip off my sandals.

  “It keeps the dirt and sand out,” she said.

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

  “Local customs are funny, don’t you think?”

  “You adapt after a while. Personally, I like the idea of people doing little things to be nice. Besides, the dirt here’s atrocious.”

  She nodded. “Man, is that ever true. When I moved into this apartment, they had to replace all the carpet. It was like brown nature trails around the furniture. I felt like I was in a forest or something.”