by Debra Bokur
They rode in silence for a minute. Then Tomas turned to Kali. “Can you think of any reason someone would replace a head with a wooden hala kahiki?”
She considered his question. “Well . . . it’s an obvious way to conceal the victim’s identity, at least in the short term,” she offered. “But I think it’s more likely there was something significant about the choice. Why not a real hala kahiki? It’s not as though there’s a pineapple shortage here. Market shelves are full of them.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Seems like someone went through considerable effort to find a wooden one.”
Not if the person’s death had been planned in advance, and the carved pineapple had been conveniently at hand, she thought. That scenario suggested a premeditation that might somehow tie to the image of this particular fruit. “I don’t love these cold cases,” she said instead. “It’s bad enough when we know who the victim is to begin with, but when we have to figure out who it is before we can hunt for a reason, I start losing sleep.”
“Maybe,” Tomas responded, his voice thoughtful, “it was a natural death, or an accidental one, and the pineapple was an afterthought.”
She looked at him sideways. “Natural death by decapitation?”
Tomas shrugged. “Yeah, it does sound a little crazy, doesn’t it? What about an accident, maybe with some of the equipment, and someone wanted to hide it?”
It was Kali’s turn to shrug. “I’m sure stranger things have happened. But in all likelihood this wasn’t just an accident.”
They drove the rest of the short distance in silence. Darkness had almost completely fallen as Tomas pulled the car up in front of the entrance of the Hotel Lna‘i in Lna‘i City.
She unclipped her seat belt and opened the car door, already anticipating the magic of a long shower and late dinner.
“Mahalo for the ride,” she said, climbing out. “I’m heading back to Maui early, but I’ll be in touch before I leave.”
“Pomaika’i,” called Tomas, using the Hawaiian word for “good luck.” He gave a wave as he pulled back out into the street, taillights fading as the road curved away into the night.
Kali turned, gazing at the small plantation-style building that housed the hotel. It was painted a soft yellow and surrounded by blooming foliage. She climbed the front steps, stopping halfway with her hand on the rail, scanning the tranquil setting in appreciation. The designation of “city” was stretching things more than a little bit, she thought. The tiny town was hardly more than a pretty square bordered by a few shops and restaurants, with beautiful residential neighborhoods spreading out beyond.
Never the tourist magnet that continuously drew hordes of visitors to Maui and O‘ahu, the island of Lna‘i had become identified with the sweet, prickly crops of fruit growing in orderly rows across its face. The small hotel had once served as private lodging, and was modest in comparison to the two enormous resorts located in other parts of the island.
While the nickname Pineapple Island had eventually become popular, promoted in newspapers, magazines, movies, and television, Kali knew that the island’s dark history had little to offer in the way of sweetness. Lna‘i, so green and peaceful, was steeped in dark myth and violent legends that whispered of man-eating spirits that stalked the living.
“I wonder how many of the tourists who make their way across the channel know about the Lna‘i monsters?” murmured Kali, half to herself.
“Probably none of them,” answered a male voice.
Kali started, surprised that anyone had heard her. A very old man was standing on the porch above her, partly in the shadows near the rail, looking out toward the dangling moon, which was surrounded by faint, glittering stars. She halted her ascent up the stairs just before the stranger.
“Do you think it would make a difference to them if they did know?” she asked.
The old man shrugged. “I doubt it,” he said. “Just fodder for T-shirt slogans, I would think. No one believes in anything anymore unless they can see or taste it.”
She mused over his words, and the abundant truth in them. “Or unless it touches their own life directly,” she added.
“Exactly so,” he said. He bowed slightly in her direction, then turned back to the rail, resuming his observance of the moon’s widening glow. “You must excuse me. I have an agreement with Hina, you see, that I will, whenever possible, greet her as she arrives to light the night.”
Kali was surprised to hear him speak the name of Hina. The Hawaiian goddess of the moon.
“That’s quite an honorable agreement,” she said, her voice carrying a genuine respect. “I’m sure, Grandfather, that she looks forward to seeing you each evening.”
The man smiled broadly, evidently finding her use of the title grandfather friendly. They stood together in companionable silence for several minutes, looking at the sky as the cool night breeze whispered across their faces. As she turned toward the door, she noticed the deep lines around his eyes; there was old grief written there, but laugh lines as well, deep crevices that came from a lifetime of many smiles. For a fleeting moment she wondered what her own face revealed, and if others might someday look at her and see nothing but regret or the disillusionment that regularly arose from constantly dealing with the results of the cruelty and selfishness of her fellow humans.
“Aloha ahiahi,” she said softly to the man, nodding her head. As he returned the gesture, she opened the door quietly and passed into the hotel foyer, imagining the imminent comfort of climbing beneath the fresh, cool sheets of her temporary bed, where she might dream, all the while bathed in Hina’s silvery light.
CHAPTER 3
In the morning after coffee, Kali checked with Tomas by phone to see if anything useful had been uncovered at the pineapple field. Nothing had, so she climbed into a golf cart taxi waiting by the hotel’s front steps, ready to transport her to the dock at Manele Harbor. The police launch was already there, waiting in a slip, and the trip across the channel—a short, pleasant journey—delivered her to the parking lot at the port in Lahaina on Maui, where she’d left her ragged, army-issue Jeep in the parking lot.
The Jeep was a relic from the years following the attack on Pearl Harbor, when squadrons of US military had been stationed throughout the islands, and the sturdy workhorse vehicle became ubiquitous on the tropical landscape. While the deteriorating condition of Kali’s Jeep had become an increasing concern, she wasn’t yet ready to part with it. A newer model would serve the same purpose of negotiating the rough, uneven back roads found on the island’s southeast coast where she lived, but a new vehicle would be devoid of the memories carried in the patched seats and scratched paint of her current car.
She inserted the key into the ignition, but before she turned it, she patted the dashboard superstitiously as she’d recently begun to do whenever it had been left untended for any notable length of time. The tension in her face dissipated when the engine turned over. She eased out slowly from her parking space and drove to the lot exit. Instead of joining the flow of traffic heading south on Highway 30, she turned north, then followed the road along the coast until it joined Highway 340, eventually crossing the narrow isthmus connecting Maui’s two sides.
From here, she chose the inland road that allowed her to avoid the unpredictable, bumper-to-bumper tourist traffic along the legendary Hana Highway. The roads she followed had no coastal views, but she loved driving through the island’s lush interior landscape, where every possible shade of green could be discerned among the trees and foliage. This route option was exactly why her Jeep was so necessary—the paved road devolved at the far end into a rough track that was unlikely to be tolerated by a fancy sports car.
By the time she pulled into the driveway of her small house near the village of Nu‘u, not far from Hana, she was ready for something to eat. She cut the engine, and the silence was filled almost immediately with the sound of mournful howling. The deep, resonant sound emanated from the property next door, and was soon follo
wed by the noise of galloping feet. An enormous gray dog was making a beeline for the Jeep, hurtling through the opening of a pathway in the thick forest that began at the edge of Kali’s overgrown lawn. She slipped from her seat to the ground, and was met by the dog, who threw himself onto the grass at her feet in a frenzy of unfiltered joy.
Then Kali heard a series of heavy footfalls. As she knelt to rub the dog’s belly, a tall, muscled man appeared on the same pathway at the edge of the lawn. He was also heading for the Jeep, but unlike the dog, he was moving in a steady, athletic lope, his long blond hair caught up in an untidy ponytail that swung against his shoulders as he ran. Cheeks creased in a wide smile, he waved.
“Welcome home!” he called, slowing his pace as he drew near. He gestured to the dog. “Hilo missed you. He seemed to think you might never come back.”
She smiled in return.
“Thanks for watching him, Elvar.” She braced herself as the 130-pound animal—a cross between a Weimaraner and a Great Dane—climbed to his feet, leaning his considerable weight against her thigh. His long tail thumped against her leg. She stroked his head affectionately as she turned to Elvar. “I don’t know why he has to be so dramatic about everything, but I hope you know how much I appreciate the babysitting.”
“It’s no problem. He’s good company. He’s been supervising me while I repair my forge.”
She noticed the faint “vee” sound when he said the word forge; a subtle reminder that Icelandic was his native language, though his English was nearly flawless.
“Did something happen?” she asked, curious. Elvar Ellinsson was a highly regarded bladesmith, and she knew that forge trouble would pose a significant hindrance to his knife-making business.
Elvar looked rueful. “Well, it got knocked over.”
Kali felt her heart sink.
“By a giant dog?”
Elvar threw back his head, laughing. “No, Hilo is completely innocent. It was Birta. She was moving some furniture from the terrace into the storage shed, and she accidentally swung a lounge chair into it. The chair leg caught the edge of the forge just at the right angle and tipped it over.”
Kali felt a mixture of relief and mild horror. Elvar’s older sister, Birta Ellinsdóttir, wasn’t the sort of person who was prone to accidents. Overly sensible, at least in Kali’s opinion, Birta ran a tight ship. The house she and her brother shared was always spotless and tidy. Nothing was out of the way, and a mishap resulting from furniture reorganizing had likely sent her into a tailspin.
“Oh dear,” she said. “Is Birta okay?”
“Oh sure, she’s fine. Berating herself, of course. And annoyed at the mess. But I’ve just finished cleaning it up. I’ll have the forge back up and running in no time.”
“You’re lucky nothing caught on fire.”
“The forge was cold. But it would have been safe. The reason I extended the brick terrace as far as I did is so that the forge and any hot tools would always be resting on a surface impervious to the heat.”
Kali looked up at the sky. The mares’ tails above drifted in wisps through the wide blue expanse, shifted by air currents moving far beyond them. Fixed on the clouds, she felt a profound stillness sweep over her.
“Anyway,” said Elvar, watching her, “I suppose I should get back to work.” He paused almost long enough for her to intervene with an alternative suggestion.
Kali felt it, but hesitated too long, searching for something to say. As the moment passed unfulfilled, Elvar turned and headed for the path leading to his house through the trees and shrubs that separated Kali’s home from his own. He waved, a friendly gesture, uncomplicated.
“Well,” he said, stopping under the trees. “Glad to know you’re home safe and sound.”
Then he was gone, his figure blending into the shadows. Hilo stirred, whimpering softly. Kali reached down, stroking the dog’s head. She exhaled, the sigh laden with regret.
“What’s wrong with me, Hilo?” She looked again toward the spot where Elvar had disappeared. “The least I could have done was invite him in for something cold to drink.” She tugged at one of Hilo’s floppy ears. “I’ll bet he earned it.”
* * *
That night, Kali slept deeply, grateful to be home. She’d slept in her bed instead of the sofa where she usually fell asleep, and admitted to herself that her back was the better for it, despite the fact that Hilo was taking up an inordinate amount of the available space at the foot of the mattress.
She woke as the sun’s beams stretched through the open window of her room and across her pillow. A glance at the clock on the small wooden table beside her bed showed that it was far too early to call Walter, so she got up and walked into the living room, retrieving her worn blue yoga mat from the corner behind the sofa. Hilo followed her as she went outside, across the lanai, and down the steps that led to a wide, flat lawn. She spread her mat on the grass and stepped onto it. Bending down, she turned first to the left, then to the right, loosening her muscles.
Her mind was racing. She lowered herself to the mat and made herself sit still, breathing in and out deeply, savoring the salt-laced air, counting each inhalation and exhalation in an effort to concentrate. But it was no good. Instead of rising to test her thigh muscles in warrior pose, she found herself slumping slightly on the mat, staring blindly ahead to where the land sloped gradually down toward the sea in one direction, and abruptly to a deep cove in the other. Walter’s ramshackle fishing boat, the Gingerfish, was moored there, rocking slightly with the current. She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, letting her eyes follow the movement of the boat.
Hilo flopped down on the ground beside her. She stroked his head absently, her thoughts filled with images of the small, forlorn skeleton in the abandoned refrigerator, left to face eternity from the dubious vantage point of a pineapple field long starved of fruit. Why is his head missing, and where on earth is it? Who was he? Who placed his body in a kitchen appliance, and why?
The questions ran in an endless loop through her mind. “I think this is pointless, big guy,” she finally said aloud. Hilo whined softly in response, his tail thumping against the ground. “Let’s go make some coffee.”
She got up, rolling the mat and tucking it under her arm. Hilo padded along beside her and up the steps. She opened the screen door and let him in, leaving the mat next to the door. Her small kitchen was flooded with sunlight, which played against the cream-and-dark-green-patterned ceramic backsplash behind the countertop. Every other tile was decorated with the familiar Hawaiian motif of a honu, or sea turtle. Some of the tiles were cracked, and the grout had begun to wear away between them, but she loved the design, remembering fondly how pleased her grandmother, who’d lived in this house for most of her life, had been to have the tiles installed. Kali smiled to herself. That memory alone was enough to keep her from ever replacing them.
She made herself a carafe of coffee in the glass press that had been so treasured by her late fiancé, Mike Shirai. This small morning ritual of measuring the coffee beans into the heavy steel grinder, transferring them to the press, heating water in the electric kettle, and pouring the steaming water over the ground beans evoked a different set of memories than the ceramic tiles; memories that still carried a sense of grief—and a silent fury that Mike’s life had been cut short during a police raid and a frenzied volley of gunfire directed at him by a crew of meth dealers.
As she finished making the coffee, she poured herself a large mug, carrying it to the kitchen table where her computer was set up. Mike would have laced his coffee with a flavored cream, but she preferred hers unadorned, except for an occasional spoonful of sugar. For the next two hours and over the course of two more mugs, she did Internet searches on pineapples and what they represented, looking up what she could find about the pineapple industry on Lna‘i Island.
By the time her phone rang just before eight thirty, the pad beside her keyboard was covered with notes, many followed by question
marks. She glanced at the phone screen before she answered.
“Aloha, Walter. You calling to share any good news?”
“I am not.” His voice sounded weary. “Stitches wants us to take a road trip to her office in Wailuku. I’ll pick you up in about twenty minutes. I missed breakfast. If you make me a sandwich, I’ll leave you something in my will.”
“You don’t have anything I need. Actually, you don’t have anything at all, do you?”
He grunted. “Boat.”
She laughed. “Yeah. Threatening me with your creaky old fishing boat isn’t going to motivate me to make you a sandwich.”
“How about this, then: Bring me something to eat, pretty please, or I’ll definitely leave her to you.”
He rang off before she could respond. She went to the table and collected her notes, stuffing them into her day bag, and checked Hilo’s bowls for food and water. The dog, recognizing all of the signs of Kali’s imminent departure, parked himself across the floorboards at the threshold of the front door.
By the time the police cruiser pulled into her driveway, she was already waiting on the steps of her lanai, holding a fried egg and Spam sandwich, topped with a slice of Maui onion and slathered with sweet mustard.
Walter parked in the limited shade offered by a stand of tall palms. He got out to join her, carrying an insulated travel mug. His face lit up when he saw the sandwich.
“I knew you’d do the right thing,” he said, reaching for it.
Kali raised her eyebrows. “I was only looking out for myself. The last thing I need is to be trapped in a car for however long it takes us to get to the morgue with you grumbling the whole way about how hungry you are.”
“Fair enough,” he said. He shook the travel mug. “Got any coffee made?”
