Kauai Temptations

by Terry Ambrose

  “Morah sounds like a hurricane to me.”

  Kari chuckled. “In some ways. I heard the last big one left the island devastated.” She grimaced, then continued. “That’s so how I feel.”

  “Iniki was one of the most expensive U.S. hurricanes in history. Maybe Hurricane Morah will rank up there.”

  “Don’t say that! Morah was a really nice person, just all screwed up.”

  “How many guys did you see around lately?”

  Kari planted her elbows on the table, then buried her face in her hands. “None since Kong. Maybe I’m totally wrong about her.” She massaged her forehead with her fingers, then faced me, guilt painted on her face. “I’m, like, not even positive she was seeing other guys.”

  “But you said she did.”

  “I know, I know. It’s not like I actually saw her. I could have this all wrong. Maybe all she wanted was a massage, or a friend to talk to.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Kari took a heavy breath and let it out. “I’d like to.”

  I stared at the golden surfboard pendant, then around the room. The little piece of jewelry was the only extravagance I could see. Maybe it really was a cheap thing made in China, or maybe not. The furniture was nice, but not expensive. I glanced past Kari at the kitchen countertops. In addition to a standard old white refrigerator and stove, there was a toaster and a vertical paper towel holder. Nothing else.

  The blue Berber carpet was spotless. From the shoes inside the door to the lack of clutter, everything told me Kari was diligent. Definitely not one to trash her new carpet. In my book, she’d be a perfect tenant. She’d put a couple of posters on the wall, nothing expensive. She was probably like most locals, living from paycheck to paycheck, one job to another. I’d bet the rent on these apartments was low. I glanced at the pendant again. One of the checks had been to a jewelry store.

  “Kari, who gave you the necklace?”

  “Huh?”

  “Who gave you the surfboard necklace? It’s very nice.”

  “Oh, Morah. She gave it to me last week.”

  Crap, now I had to tell her. “Morah wrote a bad check to a jewelry store. For several hundred bucks.”

  “What are you saying?” The color drained from Kari’s face.

  “I don’t know. But I’ve got a copy of the returned check. I can look up the store, call them. I’ll find out what she bought there.” I hoped Morah bought herself something at the jewelry store and the pendant really was a cheap imitation.

  Moisture brimmed in Kari’s eyes again. “It’s the only thing I’ve got from her.”

  Sheesh, McKenna, good job. Now she’s gonna cry. “Maybe that’s not it. Maybe she bought it herself—I mean, with her own money. She gave it to you—like an inducement to go with her?”

  “More like to make up. She said she was sorry for almost screwing up our friendship.”

  “So you two fought about that weekend?”

  She gazed past me toward the window, nodded absently, then blinked back tears.

  “At least she got that right,” I said.

  “Maybe. But she was determined to have one last fling, then she was gonna marry Kong.”

  “You said she went with some guy, do you know who he was?”

  Kari leaned back in her chair. She glanced at the ceiling fan, then shrugged. “He’s tall, kind of lanky, has dark hair that’s got some gray up here.” She stroked her temples. He drives a fancy car, you know, new. Typical skirt chaser.” She laughed, then fluffed her hair.

  “You’re being nice.”

  “He looks like a nerd, but he’s supposed to be some hotshot attorney.”

  “Please tell me he wasn’t her attorney. I think that’s sort of against the rules.”

  “It’s, like, totally against the rules.”

  “You’re right. So, was he?”

  “She never said how they met. For a while, Morah slept with so many guys he could be anybody.”

  “Do you think Kong knew what she was up to?”

  “He knew her pretty well. But he loved her anyway. Love is blind.”

  And sometimes unforgiving.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Back in the days when I was skip tracing, I played hunches all the time. One of my favorites was the time I found a guy who was cross-dressing, pretending to be his own girlfriend. The idiot had the gumption to dress up as a woman so he could convince me “she” was my skip’s twin sister when I showed up on his door. She told me my guy was on a business trip.

  Unfortunately for my skip, his credit card purchases had already revealed that the “he” side of this equation had been making lots of purchases at an oversized-women’s store. When I asked why the sister hadn’t been listed on the credit application, “she” got indignant. I followed that up with an insult of my skip’s intelligence. “Sis” made the mistake of defending her “brother.” Things went downhill from there, but I learned a valuable lesson. I never again wanted to have a 300-pound man dressed as a woman humping me on the ground.

  From the moment I’d seen the Island Electronics security camera photo of Morah Wilkerson, I felt that something was bothering her. My subconscious toyed with possible causes, from the sensible to the ridiculous. Maybe she was desperate for money? Maybe it was for the thrill? Maybe a family of sand flies swarmed her moral fiber? The flies could have nipped away until she was just a mixed-up young woman who fell victim to her own desires. No matter what the cops said, she didn’t seem like a calculating crook. It was possible that the police were right; maybe she got what she deserved. It was also possible she’d wound up dead for the wrong reason.

  Little evil McKenna, the voice who usually gave me most of the juicy ideas and who, more often than not, got me into trouble, was also the one responsible for setting me on the path to finding my quarry. Apparently, now, he had something to say about my course of action. He chirped, “Love or money, dumb ass. She had too much of the former and too little of the latter.” Maybe the little devil was right? Did this have more to do with the “too much” and less to do with the “too little”?

  By now, it was obvious Kari’s landlady had rattled off numbers to get rid of me, so that meant visiting the rest of the apartments was almost mandatory. The results were less than encouraging. There were only two other tenants around. The first one, a young guy, seemed preoccupied as he stood before me in his board shorts and no shirt.

  “I just, like, moved in, dude. Rumor has it that Morah was a slut, man.”

  “Who said that?”

  “All the dudes knew her, man. I mean, like, knew her. I’m totally bummed she’s gone.”

  “But, you never met her.”

  He nodded. “Exactly. Anything else, dude? I hear the surf’s awesome down at Nukoli’i.”

  “No. Nothing else.” Moron.

  The second was a woman with a clipped British accent who told me she worked three jobs and had no time for niceties with neighbors—or for people who wanted to know about her neighbors. I kind of liked the old bag—her directness, that is, even though she told me to bugger off.

  The story I’d come to Kauai to write, about the theft of my identity, looked like it was over, kaput, finished. Maybe I was reconciling my failure with reality. But my original anger about my own losses was being replaced by curiosity about Morah’s death.

  My boss hadn’t liked the idea of me finding the guy who’d stolen my identity. She’d really bitch and moan about me tracking down a killer—if she knew about it. If I was right, after the requisite tantrum was over, the story about Morah’s death would put me back on the front page. As long as I kept the idea to myself, it would only be my time I was wasting. It also meant I could avoid the indignity of being, well, wrong.

  The bottom line was, Melanie would love the story. She’d bought my last series because of the details, yah? I shrugged. The thrill of the hunt. It’s what had driven me in the old days and had dragged me out of my five-year sabbatical from life. Besides, the little guy
on my shoulder was saying, “Go for it.” Right, like he was a reliable guide.

  My next step was to find out who went to the resort with Morah. How many nerdy attorneys could this island support? How many of those could Morah have known? According to Kari, quite a few. One way to start was with her last known attorney. The court records would give me a name. Maybe the one Morah went with was a friend? I didn’t particularly want to go all the way back to CJ’s to get an internet connection. That meant another trip to the library or the courthouse. The court clerk would probably tell me to fill out a form or go online. The library had computers and a friendly librarian. I hoped Big Mouth was gone.

  The traffic getting out of Kapa’a was marginally better than the traffic coming in, so by the time I saw the Coconut Marketplace on my left and was doing my second rendition of the Gotta-pee-pee Two Step, the mall became a no-brainer. I made a hasty exit from the mini-gridlock and hopscotched my way to the nearest restroom.

  Hopping back into the traffic mess right away was low on my “McKenna Wants” list, so I took a stroll around. While Kukui Grove Mall’s layout and architecture closely resembled a standard mainland-style mall, lots of concrete, anchor stores on either end and generally more modern styling, Coconut Marketplace had an entirely different feel to it. For one thing, it was far smaller and didn’t have a large anchor tenant, just a Whaler’s General Store. The construction used more wood and shingles than concrete and steel, and the landscaping felt more Hawaiian than mainland. Little kiosks filled the center of the mall. In a large open area, a colorful water feature complete with old pipes painted in bright red, green and yellow attracted tourists, where they took pictures. A sign indicated there would be a free hula show at 5:00 p.m. on Wednesday. Even though the center has only about 60 shops, someone on a quick, one-time shopping spree could still do lots of damage in short order. Now, I was wondering if Morah had been here.

  The fabulous sorbets at a Lappert’s Ice Cream on my right tempted me, but I resisted because I hadn’t had lunch yet. Shoppers, mostly couples and families dressed in aloha prints, wandered in and out of stores. While they were cute in their matching outfits and a pleasant distraction from my rumbling stomach, I wanted to stretch my legs around this collection of shops with a distinctly local flavor. I’d made it about halfway around the circuit of outdoor restaurants, clothing stores, T-shirt shops, and jewelry stores when I saw the overhead sign for Carson Jewelers directly in front of me. I didn’t need to look at the checks, this was it. The image of the loopy writing on the check was crystal clear in my mind. Carson’s had been one of the victims in Morah’s little spending spree. They might have other stores on the island, but the only way to find out if this was the location she’d hit was to go inside.

  This time, there would be no screw up, no lying about who I was or why I was there. Avoiding another visit from Detective Najar was uppermost in my mind. If the pendant had been purchased with my bad check—I’d think about that later. Right now, I needed to make a good impression on the store owner.

  Playing Robin Hood by returning things Morah had purchased using my identity hadn’t been in the game plan, but having stumbled across Kari’s necklace, I felt obligated. Isn’t that what an honest person would do? Return the merchandise? It made no sense to let Morah’s actions turn Kari’s morals upside down. I didn’t like what Morah had done to me; I couldn’t imagine Kari liking it either. Since the cops would view her surfboard pendant as stolen property, my goal was to right the wrong before things got out of hand.

  I gripped my portfolio like a child clutching a security blanket as I entered the store. Those documents could save me a lot of grief if the owner wanted proof. Inside, spotless glass display cases filled with jewels and watches reflected the light streaming through the plate glass windows at the front of the store. Spot lighting added even more dollar signs to the glitz. The entire store reeked of marketing brilliance. From the sprawling W configuration with those immaculate glass countertops inviting customers to dream, but not touch. To me, the place screamed, “Buy, don’t whine.”

  Technically I wasn’t in the market for jewelry. And, based on the shininess of the trinkets in the cases, even if I were in the market, I wouldn’t be in a store where customers spent more on a watch than I made in a month. Here, there were no cheap, sparkly doodads hanging on countertop racks. Here, they sold the serious stuff. No single-digit price tags. No trinkets. This was how the rich spent money.

  The girl behind the counter, whose name was Gloria, wore an expensive-looking white blouse and a black skirt. Her dark hair was up, leaving her neck appearing bare without one of those gleaming little diamonds on a gold chain. If I had an extra few million bucks, I’d seriously consider buying one for her so she could look more fully dressed. On the other hand, I knew my place in life—I bought quantity, not quality.

  She smiled politely as I approached; I assumed she already had me pegged as no more than a browser. “May I help you?”

  Her arms were slim and well-tanned, just like Kari’s. I saw a gold chain on her left wrist. It could be a marketing tool, or maybe she bought her jewelry where I’d go for mine—the island Walmart—assuming I would even be in the market for jewelry.

  “I’d like to speak to the manager.” I smiled, hoping she’d realize I wasn’t here to complain.

  Her eyes darted past me, toward the outside. “I’m sorry, but he’s out to lunch. I’m Gloria, is there something I can help you with?”

  Even though I intended to be completely honest, the less I gave away, the better. “What’s his, or is it her, name?”

  “Richard. Richard Carson. Give him maybe another half hour.”

  “So, this really is a family store?” Richard Carson could be out for as long as he desired.

  “Yes, it is. He’s at lunch.”

  “Maybe I’ll grab something myself. Any recommendations?”

  As I said, she probably had me pegged as a pauper from the moment I walked in, so she didn’t really seem disappointed to send me packing. “I like TC’s. Out the door, take a right. The price is good. So are the sandwiches—and the cat’s friendly.”

  “The cat?”

  She smiled. “There’s a tabby hanging around most of the time.”

  Right. Of course, the restaurant cat. Didn’t every restaurant have one? “He got a name?”

  “Who?”

  “The cat. Has he got a name?”

  “I, um, don’t know. Maybe you should ask him.”

  Right. Ask the cat. I found TC’s quickly enough. It was an outdoor restaurant with seating on a covered lanai. I sat at the last empty table, ordered a glass of water and one of their lunch plates, making sure to explain how they could keep me, their customer, from getting very ill. She seemed to take my special needs in stride and put in the order at a small window, much like one you might have seen at an old drive-in. At the same time, she grabbed a couple of plates and delivered them to a table a few feet away.

  Gloria had been right, the restaurant’s tubby tabby was friendly. I didn’t catch his name, but he did a great job of trolling for food, never appearing like a beggar, but always getting handouts. Make people think you’re cute, but not pathetic, they’ll reward you with chow. This guy had no interest in the birds hanging around. Why chase dinner when you can roll over on your back and get fed like a king?

  Lunch arrived shortly. I had the mahi mahi plate, which included the grilled fish, some white rice and a small salad with no dressing. It wasn’t exotic, but the fish was good and the salad fresh. The rice was, well, rice. I paid for my lunch in cash, just in case there might be some name recognition, then strolled around the mall, but eventually gravitated to Lapperts to eye the collection of oh-so-tempting ice creams and sorbets. Somehow, I summoned the willpower to wave off the friendly girl behind the counter and returned to Carson’s.

  Inside the store, Gloria had been replaced by a man in an aloha shirt and khaki slacks. His hair was graying at the temples and he was clean
-shaven. I’d be willing to bet fifty cents the watch he wore cost more than my first car.

  We went through the greeting process before I got down to business. I reached into my portfolio and pulled out the copy of the police report and the returned check. “My name is Wilson McKenna. My identity was stolen recently.”

  The shock on his face told me right away he remembered Morah. “I know.”

  I quickly added, “I’m a victim here, just like you. I also work for the Honolulu Star-Advertiser. I’m doing a story on identity theft. I’ll be using my case as a starting point.”

  He scanned the police report, then gave the check a cursory once over. “That check was written by a young woman. Have you spoken to our attorney?”

  “Did he try to contact me?”

  “Of course. I’m surprised he hasn’t reached you.”

  “I’ve been here for a few days. I live in Honolulu, so I haven’t seen my mail lately. The reason I’m here is to offer you a little help. If you can tell me what this woman bought, I can be on the lookout for it.”

  “We filed a police report. We do whenever there’s fraud.”

  “So you’ve told Detective Najar what the woman bought?”

  He seemed relieved that I knew Najar. “You’ve met the detective? Yes, I suppose you would, being on-island.” He grimaced, then continued. “The pendant was her only purchase.”

  Five hundred bucks. For something so small? “What was the pendant?”

  “Solid gold. A surfboard. Handmade by a local craftsman. She should have picked a better chain, but she said that was her budget.” He glanced down at the papers. “Can I have a copy of these? I’ll forward them to our attorney.”