Kauai Temptations

by Terry Ambrose

  My heart sank. Kari would be devastated. “Sure, as long as I get my originals back.” He stepped behind a low partition, a copier revved up, then clackety-clacked a couple of times. No matter how I felt about Kari, I now felt obligated to see her pendant returned. Maybe it didn’t have to happen immediately.

  Richard Carson handed my originals back to me. “So you’re talking to a lot of people?”

  “Frankly, it’s a limited list. But, yeah. Whoever I can find.”

  “If you find it, will you get it back to me?”

  “The pendant?”

  He nodded.

  “Of course.” But, could I? Would Kari be honest and return it willingly? Could I even return it without getting her in trouble? Or was she willing to sell her integrity for a bit of gold? I remembered how she’d fingered it while we talked. It was a tough call.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The trip to the jewelry store left me feeling deflated. I was doing things that could change people’s lives, not necessarily for the better, either. It wasn’t really my problem if Kari didn’t want to return the pendant, but it was starting to feel that way.

  I reversed my course for the return trip to the library. On the way, I considered calling Detective Najar, but for what purpose? To rat out Kari? For some inexplicable reason, I knew I wouldn’t betray her. The only other leads I had were the attorney and Mr. Red Dirt Shirt, whom I’d secretly nicknamed Mr. Dirtbag. The guy had been thrown in jail a few times, presumably for violating Morah’s restraining order, so chances were good he no longer had that job. He probably hadn’t left a forwarding address with the store. In my experience, deadbeats had to be pretty stupid to make that mistake more than once. My guess was the same thing applied to stalkers, unless they had a parole officer. Nope, not going there; not yet anyway. A connection between Mr. Dirtbag and Morah’s death seemed remote, but tracking him down might provide a lead.

  Once I found something on him, how would I know what was true and what wasn’t? My only hope was to follow some twisty little path, taking it one step at a time. The first step was going to involve checking out the store to find out if the Red Dirt folks would give me a different picture of what he was like or not. Were they his friends? I’d know once we talked.

  As Buster and I made the right turn onto Kuhio Highway from Kapule Highway, I considered my predicament. Should I approach Kari about the necklace or lie to Richard Carson? I really didn’t want to make Kari sad, but I’m no crook and so Option No. 2 was out of the question. Telling her she had to give up that necklace would break her heart, but logically, the only solution was to call her up and tell her the truth. That meant actually doing something, like picking up the phone, giving her the bad news, waiting for the crying to stop.

  A sign ahead of me flashed a warning: “Your speed is 39.” Crap. I was headed downhill and Buster wanted to run—and there was a 25 mph speed limit sign ahead. I hit the brakes and the car behind me slammed on his horn. We crawled down the hill at 28, cars piling up behind Buster. By the time we hit a section where there were two lanes, drivers zoomed past me, each glaring in my direction. I flashed the last one, a young man with long curly hair, the shaka sign as a way of apologizing for my slow driving. He laughed and signed me back. Thank goodness the aloha spirit was alive and well.

  Who was I kidding? I was caught in No Man’s Land. I didn’t have the heart to tell Kari her necklace had been obtained through fraud and I was too chicken to lie to the cops about what I knew. One of the best tools in my handy-dandy, skip-tracer tool belt had been my ability to lie. I’d been a much better liar than a procrastinator—and recently I’d realized my lying skills were way too rusty. So where did that leave me? Next thing you know, I’d have no skills left at all.

  I saw Walmart on the left and a block later, the T-shirt store. Go to the library or visit the store? The debate was on. At the last second, I wrenched the steering wheel to the right and jounced into the parking lot. Buster must not have liked the treatment he was getting because his power steering went AWOL as I was pulling into a parking space.

  My arms strained against the wheel; it was man against machine. I wrestled him into his spot. “Damn you, Buster. Stop that!”

  I gave the gas pedal a little tap and the car jumped forward. The steering wheel loosened up. The brakes grabbed when I jammed my foot down. I got out of the car, planted my hands on the roof in preparation for a chat with the car, and jerked away from the scorching metal. “Bad Buster!” Why hadn’t CJ warned me, no sudden moves around him?

  Letting Buster stew out here in the sun while I went into a cool store seemed like great payback, so I entered, convinced that Buster would get me back on his terms, at the most inopportune time. Inside, a young girl wearing horn-rimmed glasses and sporting a mole on her left cheek greeted me.

  “Aloha, welcome to the Red Dirt Shirt Store. Is there something I can help you find? You look like a medium, yah?” Her T-shirt had a small outline of the island in the typical spot, upper left chest. The shirt had been dyed reddish brown, the same color as the dirt on this island.

  Racks and tables filled with tees, tank tops and shorts surrounded me. “I’m looking for someone, not something.” I was after a stalker, not a tee. “A guy used to work here, maybe he still does for that matter; all I really know about him is that he dated a girl named Morah Wilkerson.”

  Her grayish-green eyes glazed over behind the big glasses. “I’m kinda new.”

  “So you don’t know him?”

  Her lower lip scrunched up as she moved her head in a slow side-to-side motion. She glanced away, presumably in search of important T-shirt business unrelated to my question, then raised her eyebrows in sudden recognition. “Wait, maybe my manager would know.”

  She spun on her heel and began weaving through the displays. Her dark silky hair bounced as though we were filming a slow-motion shampoo commercial. Not sure if I should follow, I hung out where I was.

  When she reached the sales counter, she called out, “Hey Glen, someone needs to talk to you.” She faced me, smiled, and said, “It’ll be just a minute.”

  Oh, good, “Glen.” That sounded like an authority figure, a man who knew how to handle unusual requests. I strolled around the store, once again pretending to be interested in the merchandise while I waited for a contact. The reality was that I had no desire to add any weight to my suitcase, nor subtract any cash from my wallet, and I certainly didn’t trust using credit. Poor, uninterested, and driving a borrowed beater like Buster, I was the ultimate definition of a “browser.”

  Another young woman emerged from the back room. She exchanged glances with the girl who’d helped me earlier, but I turned my attention back to the table before me to avoid appearing rude. The new girl didn’t have the commercial-quality hair, but carried herself with far more confidence as she zigzagged toward me through the clothing displays.

  Her chirpy voice broke my feigned concentration. “May I help you?”

  I shook my head. “I’m waiting for the manager. Glen.”

  “I’m Glen. Glenda, actually.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Happens all the time.” She coughed and cleared her throat. “Ugh, allergies. Tam says you’re looking for a guy who used to work here.”

  “Right. He dated a woman, Morah Wilkerson. He brought her T-shirts all the time, was very persistent.”

  She smiled and nodded. “I think I met her once when she tried to return a shirt. Stan, right?” She held her hand over her mouth as if to suppress another cough.

  “I don’t know his name. It was a friend who told me about him. Morah’s dead.”

  Glen winced and put a hand to her chest.

  I felt sorry for Glen. It seemed to me she should be home in bed resting and not here spreading germs. “Her friend told me this guy was hanging around a lot, then he just disappeared.”

  “That would be Stan. Stan Jones. One day he was here, next day, he wasn’t.” Her nose wrinkled up in disgust. �
��You said her name was Morah? We were never introduced, but she seemed nice enough. He didn’t kill her, did he?” Her voice reminded me of a mynah bird with emphysema.

  “Why would you say that? I think he loved Morah. In his own way, if you know what I mean.”

  “Stan was overboard on everything. I mean everything. Ask him to straighten up a counter and he had to have every single item in the perfect place.”

  “So he was a perfectionist.”

  Her brow wrinkled for a second. “I suspected more, maybe even OCD. He was the only guy I’ve ever met who ironed his T-shirts. He always looked like he was ready for some big photo shoot. You know, every hair in place. That kinda guy.”

  “I had no idea.” And I hadn’t. But now, I wanted to know more about Mr. Dirtbag. “So he fixated on Morah?”

  “I never saw them together, so I have no idea. He liked to whittle.”

  “Whittle? Like wood?”

  “Yeah. He said it was his outlet.” She made one of those “I don’t get it” kinds of faces, then continued. “You should see some of his work. It was awesome. He does details like you couldn’t believe.”

  “Did he ever get violent? Angry?”

  “Frustrated. If the guy couldn’t get something right, he’d get frustrated with himself. He wasn’t good with people. I can’t count the times he’d take a shirt right out of a customer’s hands and refold it.”

  “How’d that work out here in the store?”

  She gave me a blank stare for the longest time. “You’re kidding, right?” She shook her head. “He wasn’t a people person.”

  “So why’d you keep him around?”

  “Because, he kept the place spotless.”

  “Got it. Do you guys get a discount?”

  “You mean like an employee discount? We’re not hiring right now.”

  “No, no. I mean did Stan pay for the stuff he gave to Morah? Or did he steal it?”

  She shook her head and hacked up something truly gross into a tissue. She winced. “Sorry.”

  “Pretty bad for allergies.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder.” She crossed her arms and rubbed her hands over her bare skin. “I can’t answer your question.”

  Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t? What had Stan done? “I’m not asking if you fired him or anything. But his disappearance might somehow be connected to Morah’s death. I’m not saying he killed her.”

  “I get it, I watch TV.”

  Hollywood-style law wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but in this type of situation, you’ve got to play the cards you’re dealt. “Right. So you know we might need to bring that into the open.”

  “You don’t understand. I mean, I can’t answer that. I don’t know. There’s like, lunch hours, breaks, a lot of times someone could run out to their car, toss in a shirt and who would know? All I know for sure is that he didn’t show up for work one day and we never saw him again. And the girlfriend? That Morah? She didn’t have a receipt because it was a gift. Maybe his cousin sold some of his art work. I dunno.”

  “He has a cousin? Here?”

  “Yeah, Jake, I think. Bartends at the Tropical Breeze.”

  Why did that name sound familiar? “Where’s that located?”

  “This side of Kapa'a Town? Not sure. Never been there.”

  I said my thanks and started toward the door, the name of the bar resonating in my mind. Where had I heard that name before? I was at the threshold when it hit me. I did a quick turn. Glen and Tam stood, heads together, whispering.

  I called out across the room. “That’s the bar where Morah worked.”

  Tam glanced at Glen, Glen blinked, then shrugged. “Guess so. I didn’t keep track of Stan outside of work.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  More than anything, I wanted to delay my reunion with Buster. I was convinced he had some devious payback planned. Fear of his wrath for violating the “sudden move” rule, combined with his other idiosyncrasies, kept me right where I was. Today, his AC was only blowing a weak stream of half-cool air. I was driving a sauna on wheels.

  I took a step in Glen’s direction, knowing that if she hadn’t socialized with Stan outside of work, pressing the point wouldn’t gain me anything. If Buster was going to blow hot air, why shouldn’t I? “Glen, you said Stan was here one day, gone the next. Did he ever call? Contact you?”

  She sighed, “No, I wish he had. He was a good worker. I think he really liked what he did.” She gave me a sly smile, then shot a pointed look in Tam’s direction.

  Tam rolled her eyes before she stomped away.

  I watched Tam make her dramatic exit, then said, “Not real big on that part of the job?”

  She shook her head. “She’ll get over it. Or leave.”

  That seemed cold, but Kauai employers had a ready supply of prospective employees. “Did you report Stan’s disappearance?”

  “Just cause someone drops their job doesn’t mean something bad happened to them.” She laughed out loud. “Happens all the time. Well, it happens.”

  That’s true. I’d had tenants move out overnight and it had never occurred to me to report a missing person. “Thanks for your time.”

  “If you find Stan, let him know I said ‘Hi.’ The place never looked better than when he was working. I kind of miss him, even though he was a major pain in the ass.”

  I was out of questions. If I stayed here much longer, they’d expect me to buy something. I’d left Buster’s driver’s window all the way down, the rear windows at their kiddie stops, and the passenger’s window down as far as it would go, a scant four inches. The brown leather seats had gone from uncomfortably warm to scorching hot. The car started right up, but hot air blasted out of the AC vents. Any hopes of cooling off died when I flipped the switch to “Hi Cool” and nothing happened.

  The air stayed hot; the blast faded to a trickle. I stared at the vent. “You’re a funny guy, Buster.” What else did he have in store for me?

  Drops of sweat beaded up on my forehead. It was time to move before Buster turned me into kalua pork. The Hawaiians believe in mana, the concept of divine power. I had no idea whether the concept applied to cars, but I didn’t really want to take chances. Maybe Buster was upset with me. He’d already proven his independence. This car had a mind of its own. I planted both hands gently on the wheel. “I’m sorry. You win. Which way?”

  Procrastinating on getting Kari to return the necklace was a sure-fire way to expose her to trouble. I’d been asking questions that might cause others, like the cops, to look closer at Kari and her relationship with Morah. I didn’t think she’d lied to me, but wondered if there was something else. I felt an obligation to guide her. But, there were other tasks like following up on Stan, going to the library, and checking court records for Morah’s attorney. The Marriott Resort was also on my list; maybe someone would remember Morah’s visit.

  It was time to inject a little efficiency into my investigation. All this driving around was taking up a lot of time, not to mention the fact that Buster’s gas gauge was creeping toward the big “E.” Sooner or later I’d be on the hook for a tank of gas and with the price of fuel in the islands, that scared me to death. I shuddered to think how big Buster’s tank might be. Kari would have to meet me somewhere; I wasn’t driving back to her place. If she didn’t want to meet and turn over the necklace, so be it. I turned off the key, got out, then found a shady spot under a nearby palm. It wasn’t much, but it was better than baking in the car. I dialed Kari’s number and she picked up on the second ring.

  “Kari, this is McKenna. I’ve been to Carson Jewelers.” I heard her suck in a breath. “I told you Morah paid for the necklace with a bad check. It was mine.”

  She groaned. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “What am I gonna do? I can’t just—like, take it back.”

  “Why not?” There was a long period of silence. Finally, I said, “Kari? Why can’t you return it?”

  “Because I’m on pro
bation for shoplifting. It was stupid. I didn’t even do anything. I was with this guy in Honolulu and he took me to the mall and the next thing I knew the cops were searching my bag. They found stuff from two different stores I thought he’d bought.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “A Rolex was the big one. There was a bikini, too. He said it was all my idea. McKenna, I’d never do that. That’s not me. I’m an honest person.”

  “You told me you had bad taste in men. I guess you were right.”

  There was more silence; I thought I heard Kari sniffling.

  “Will you entrust it to me?”

  There was a long pause. “How do I know you won’t keep it?”

  “I guess we have to trust each other. I don’t want the cops to know about the necklace. I don’t think you do either.”

  “But I didn’t do anything. Nobody believed me before, why would they believe me now?”

  “I know. Look, why don’t you hand it off to me tomorrow at Morah’s funeral. I’ll give you a receipt. How’s that sound?” I listened to the traffic pass on Kuhio Highway while Kari thought about my idea. Would she go for it?

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you then.” But, would she bring the necklace?

  The Tropical Breeze would be open this evening, but the library closed in a couple of hours. That meant my research on the lawyer should come first. Buster and I got there without incident. Or A/C. The same nice lady still worked the desk and she waved at me as I passed, most likely wondering who the new homeless guy was. I sat down at a computer to search for “Kauai court records.” That got me to a page with more ads than a newspaper.

  According to the ads, I could find out anything about anybody for a fee. Scratch that, there were other ways to get information. I went to the State of Hawaii’s website. Once there, I did a search for the term “court records.” This time, the results page gave me a link to what I wanted. For free.

  I clicked the link to search, then, on the next page, found another link to the Ho’oiki search engine. Thanks to my work on the Willows’ case, I knew I could gain access to civil and criminal case files. I found the usual Terms and Conditions disclaimer and agreed to whatever they wanted without reading it. Maybe it was a fool’s choice, but I just didn’t appreciate the fine points of ten pages of rules. Besides, did I have another option? It wasn’t as if someone could say they didn’t like Section 14, Part B, Subpart 6.