Paradise, Passion, Murder

by Terry Ambrose

  On the other hand, I’d made a new friend with Val. I’d come to realize she had feelings, too. It saddened me to have taken away her husband. And, what about Magda? I hoped we’d given her the strength to escape her situation. That decision, however, would be up to her. I’d also gotten an answer to my question in the church. Yes, I should pop the question to Benni.

  The even better news was, with a potential PR nightmare facing the tour company, I was pretty sure they’d agree to refunds for all.

  Terry Ambrose

  I started out skip tracing and collecting money from deadbeats and quickly learned that liars come from all walks of life. I never actually stole a car, but sometimes hired big guys with tow trucks and a penchant for working in the dark to “help” when negotiations failed.

  A resident of Southern California, I love spending time in Hawai‘i, especially on the Garden Island of Kaua‘i, where I invent lies for others to read. My years of chasing deadbeats taught me many valuable life lessons such as—always keep your car in the garage.

  Find me on the web at terryambrose.com and follow me on Facebook.

  Lei, Lady, Lei

  JoAnn Bassett

  As engagement rings go, it was no Hope Diamond, but it certainly wasn’t charity either. My name’s Pali Moon, and I’m a Maui wedding planner, so I’ve seen my fair share of bridal jewelry. I estimated the ring on bride-to-be Stacy Wilmot’s fourth finger to be somewhere in the neighborhood of two-and half-carats, maybe three.

  “That’s a gorgeous ring,” I said.

  “Thanks,” Stacy smiled as she looked at the rock. “It was Justin’s grandmother’s.” She turned to her intended groom. “Was she your grandmother on your mom’s side or your dad’s?”

  “Uh, my mom’s. She gave it to me when I graduated from Stanford before I moved to the U of O. She told me to hang on to it until the right girl came along.”

  “And lucky for you, the right girl certainly did,” I beamed at Stacy. I’ve gotten pretty good at flattery in the four years I’ve owned “Let’s Get Maui’d,” in Pā‘ia. It hasn’t been easy. In the early days it seemed I had nearly daily bouts of “foot-in-mouth” disease. Now, I’m down to just the occasional minor faux pas, and I’m usually quick to cover it up.

  “Are we almost finished here, babe?” said Justin. “I’d like to make a few calls to the States before it gets too late back there.”

  I’d grown weary of explaining to prospective couples who come to Maui for a destination wedding that Hawai‘i is a state. It’s been one for more than fifty years. The reference to the mainland as “the States” grates on me, but I let it slide. After all, Justin and Stacy had hired me for a simple beachside wedding, not a history lesson. The services I’d render were the matrimonial equivalent of a “Happy Meal”: a quick ten-minute ceremony, a couple of Costco leis, and a few photos with the witnesses. The State of Hawai‘i would mail the newlyweds their official marriage certificate after they returned home to Oregon.

  “You’ve got your marriage license, right?” I asked.

  “Yep, it’s right here.” Justin pulled out a folded paper and slapped it down on my desk.

  “How about witnesses?”

  “Got those too. Stacy’s sister is coming on Wednesday, and my best man, Brandon, gets in the next day.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have their cell numbers. Sometimes I have to get in touch with the wedding party members for one reason or another.”

  Stacy carefully inked in the cell numbers on the lines for “maid of honor” and “best man.”

  “Then we’re all set,” I said. “I’ll see you both next Saturday. I’ve got a permit for Baldwin Beach Park, and the officiant’s all lined up. Let’s meet in the parking lot at, say, five o’clock?”

  “That’s it?” Stacy’s troubled look signaled she was disappointed there wasn’t more to fuss over.

  “Unless you have questions,” I looked from one to the other.

  “We’re good,” said Justin. “Babe, I really need to get to those calls.”

  Stacy stood, a shy smile on her face. “Oh, of course, darling. Thank you, Pali, for everything. This was sort of a quick decision on our part. Kind of like eloping. But when it’s right, it’s right. Don’t you think?”

  “I do.”

  The following Thursday, my cell phone went off while I was getting ready for bed. I checked the caller ID. It was Justin. I usually don’t take late night calls, especially from a prospective groom a couple of nights before the wedding. While I may have trained myself to spout “make nice” noises, I still try to avoid anything to do with cold feet, bachelor parties, or prenuptial confessions.

  But after three rings, I caved.

  “This is Pali Moon.”

  “Pali, it’s me, Justin.”

  “Yes?”

  “Stacy’s missing.”

  “What do you mean, ‘missing’?”

  “I went to pick up Brandon at the airport, and when I got back Stacy wasn’t here.”

  “Could she have gone to visit someone? Maybe her sister? Is she staying nearby?”

  “She’s supposed to be staying just a few doors down, but we haven’t seen her yet. Pali, this place looks like it’s been tossed, and, oh my God, it looks like there’s blood…” He didn’t finish.

  “Justin, you need to call the police. It’s 9-1-1, just like the rest of the United States.” I couldn’t help myself, I had to throw in the jab.

  I heard a garbled noise, but couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  “Call the police. Right now, Justin.”

  The call went dead.

  I waited a couple of minutes, then called him back, hoping he’d hung up on me to summon help. He didn’t answer. After leaving three voice messages, I stopped calling.

  I tried to sleep, but a parade of grisly images played “peek-a-boo” with my melatonin. Since the night was shot anyway, I got up and drove down to my shop. I pulled Justin and Stacy’s wedding planner file and jotted down the name of the condo where they were staying. I didn’t write down the address and unit number, because I didn’t think I’d need it. Lower Honoapi‘ilani Road has dozens of small condos planted cheek-to-jowl along the two-lane road. All I’d have to do was look for the flashing lights on the cop cars to locate their property.

  With no traffic it takes about forty minutes to drive from my house in Hāli‘imaile to the turn-off from the Honoapi‘ilani Highway to the Lower Road. I marveled at how dark and quiet it was, even though it was peak tourist season. The beaches may have been rockin’ at four that afternoon, but at three in the morning, the only sounds I heard were the faint hush of waves lapping the shoreline and the hum of the sodium streetlights.

  I crept along the Lower Road with my windows down, actually going slower than the posted twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit. As I passed property after property, with names like “Maui Shores,” “Maui Sunset,” and “Sands of Maui,” I wondered how tourists managed to find their assigned slot. The uniformity of the properties: low-rise buildings, each with a small roadside parking lot and an obligatory coconut palm or two, made it appear as if the same condominium plan had been replicated over and over again—like an image reflected to infinity in a fun-house mirror.

  I drove all the way to Nāpili and there was no sign of police activity, so I pulled over and called Justin’s number one more time. Again, no answer.

  I left yet another message, trying hard to use my well-trained “suck up” voice instead of the strident “Where the hell are you?” voice I heard in my head.

  As I slowly retraced my way down the Lower Road, I wondered if maybe Justin had had too much to drink and had mistakenly wandered into the wrong unit. It was possible, since most of the older condos don’t have air conditioning and visitors leave doors open to allow the breeze to blow through.

  Or,
maybe Stacy had been mistaken when she’d mentioned they were staying near Kā‘anapali Beach. Maybe the condo in question was, in fact, in Kīhei, or even out by Mā‘aelea Harbor. There are hundreds of rental places there, too. But I remembered Justin saying it had taken them almost an hour to drive to their place, and Kīhei and Mā‘aelea were much closer to the airport so it wouldn’t have taken so long.

  I got home at nearly four a.m. on Friday morning. I wasn’t any closer to finding out what happened, but I felt a whole lot sleepier. I hit the pillow, fully dressed, but woke up two hours later. I tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t.

  I went into work and time dragged. I jumped every time my cell phone pinged, and when the mail carrier came in, she told me I looked “spooked.” I glanced at the clock after what seemed like a full day’s work, but it wasn’t even ten o’clock. I’d texted, called, and emailed both Stacy and Justin numerous times, but still no response. I considered calling the police, but what would I say? Tourists are notorious for going dark for days on end once they kick into vacation mode.

  Besides, I’ve had a few go-arounds with the local police and didn’t need another incident. It’s not like I’ve done any serious crimes. My run-ins with Maui’s finest have mostly been minor slap-downs for sticking my nose where it didn’t belong.

  When I get stressed, my go-to activity is an hour of martial arts practice at a local kung fu studio. I like to kid myself that it’s the kicking and screaming that calms me down, but in fact I know it’s talking to Doug Kanekoa the sifu, or chief instructor, there.

  I trotted down to the appropriately-named, “Palace of Pain” and it cheered me to see his ancient black Jeep Wrangler parked out back. I went in through the back door, savoring the lingering smell of sweaty feet and Pine-Sol that permeates the air like a welcome-back hug.

  “Aloha, Sifu,” I said.

  Doug leaned against the doorjamb to his office as a smattering of grade-school age keiki packed up from an intermediate class. From the look on Doug’s face, he must’ve overheard some after-class trash talk and he was standing sentinel to make sure no one threw one last punch just for the heck of it.

  “Aloha, Pali.”

  “Tough class?” I said as I got within earshot.

  “They always are. I can’t remember ever being so rowdy in front of my sifu when I was a kid.” He slowly shook his head as he watched the last student leave.

  “Are we really getting so old that we’re already waxing poetic about the ‘good old days’?”

  He laughed. “Nah, I guess I’m just feeling my age. You know my own boy will be in middle school next year. Can’t hardly believe it.”

  “I’ll bet he doesn’t give you any lip.”

  “Damn straight. I got the look down pat. You know what I’m sayin’?” He fixed his Army Ranger stare on me and I felt the urge to take a step back. I couldn’t imagine the look was any less intimidating to the kids in his classes, but kids these days know corporal punishment is frowned on, if not outright illegal, so it’s probably not as effective as it used to be when instructors taught classes with a thick bamboo pole resting on their shoulder.

  “Have you got a minute?” I said.

  “Sure. I don’t have another class until three. I’ll make us some tea.”

  While Doug filled the hot pot and measured out the loose tea, I told him about the strange call I’d gotten from Justin the night before.

  “Huh. And you haven’t been able to reach him this morning?”

  “No. I’ve left like a dozen messages.”

  “You’ve got the address, though, right?”

  “Yeah. You think I should run back over there and see what’s going on?”

  He shrugged and handed me a small handle-less Japanese teacup. The warmth of the cup contrasted with the chilliness of my hands.

  “Why is it I always seem to get in the middle of this stuff?” I sipped the scalding tea.

  “Good question. Seems the universe has a lot of faith in you.”

  “Well, I’d like the universe to pick on someone else for a while.”

  “Maybe if you mess up a time or two, it’ll move on to a more competent person,” he said.

  He started laughing and I joined in. We both knew neither of us was willing to “mess up” on purpose no matter how annoying the circumstances. It’s one of the downsides of having a competitive streak a mile wide.

  “I guess I should take off.” I drained my cup and thanked my sifu for the tea. The stuff tastes more medicinal than common green tea should, but it always relaxes me. I can’t help but wonder if Doug laces the concoction with an ingredient he cultivates under grow lamps in a back room of his house, but there’s no way I’d ask.

  “You’re not going to stay and work out?”

  “Not now, sifu. Maybe I’ll come back later.”

  We bowed to each other and then I loped back up to my shop. Within minutes I was driving back to the West Side with Justin and Stacy’s full address on a Post-it note stuck to my dash. I figured I had a much better chance of finding the place since it was now light outside, but I was surprised when I pulled up and saw a phalanx of emergency vehicles blocking the entry to the Hale Maui Kai parking lot.

  I left my car on the street under a sign that read, “No Parking—All times, All days.” Since it looked like every cop on this side of the island was already busy, I figured my chances of getting a ticket were minimal.

  “What’s happening?” I asked an old guy in a so-new-it-was-stiff aloha shirt.

  “Some guy drowned or something.” He shook his head. “Real sad. My wife’s inside crying. We’re here celebrating our thirtieth anniversary, and she says this has wrecked the whole vacation.”

  I murmured my condolences for his distraught wife, and bobbed and weaved through cop cruisers, ambulances and knots of worried-looking condo guests until I found the unit number of the condo Stacy and Justin were staying in: 201. I knocked, but no one answered. That was understandable since it appeared nearly everyone was outside in the parking lot.

  I leaned over the railing, searching the crowd for a familiar face, but came up empty. I walked downstairs and found a uniformed cop standing sentry on the sidewalk leading to the ocean side of the property.

  “What’s going on?”

  “You’ll have to step back.” He held up a hand. “No one allowed past here.”

  “Is that Detective Glen Wong?” I pointed to a guy standing by the breakwater at the edge of the property. I’d had a few dealings with Wong over the past few years—some good, some not-so-good—and I wasn’t sure how he’d view my arrival, but it was worth a shot.

  The cop turned and looked. “Yeah, that’s Wong.”

  “I’m here to see him.”

  The cop squinted at me. “Huh. Did he call you in on this?”

  I nodded. I’ve always been a lousy liar, although I’m getting better at it all the time.

  The cop stepped back and allowed me to pass. “You better not be messin’ with me,” he said. “I don’t need no detective chewing my ass.”

  I put up a hand in reassurance. “Don’t worry. He’s expecting me.”

  I crossed the lawn which separated the condo building from the oceanfront. There was no beach here. The waves crashed against a riprap breakwater on the other side of a low stone wall. Paramedics had trundled a gurney down to the edge of the breakwater and as I came closer, I saw they’d loaded someone onto it. They hastily tucked a black body bag around the form on the gurney, then zipped it up tight leaving no question about the victim’s condition.

  Detective Glen Wong crossed his arms as he saw me approach, but his facial expression remained inscrutable.

  “Aloha, Detective,” I said in my most toadying voice. “You’re just the man I was looking for.”

  “Let me guess,” he sighed. “You’re smack dab in the middle o
f this somehow.”

  “Uh, I’m not sure about that, but I’m worried about two guests who are staying at this condo. I thought I should tell you about it.”

  “Oh, really? What’s the problem?”

  “A groom I’m working with called me late last night and said his fiancée had gone missing, and their place had been torn up. I told him to call the police and, right afterward, the line went dead. I tried calling a little later and he didn’t answer. This morning, I’ve called both him and his bride-to-be again and again and still no answer. I came over here to check if everything was okay.”

  “What’s the groom’s name?”

  “Justin DeWilde.”

  “And the bride’s name?”

  “Stacy. Stacy Wilmot.”

  “I see. Do you know what unit they’re in?”

  “Two-oh-one.” I pointed to the corner condo on the second floor.

  “Huh. Well, as you can see, I’m kind of busy here.”

  “What’s that mean? Don’t you think it’s strange that two people have gone missing from here and now you’ve got a drowning at the same place?”

  He came over and stood close enough to speak in a low voice. “Look, Pali, we’re on it. I appreciate you letting me know about the phone call, but we’ll take it from here.”

  “Who’s the vic, Detective Wong? Is it my bride?”

  He shook his head. “You know I can’t say anything until the next of kin has been notified.”

  “What’s going on? Don’t make me ask the reporters out in the parking lot. You really don’t want me telling them about getting that call, do you?”

  Wong scowled at me. Then he began walking back toward the condo building. He motioned for me to come along.

  “Against my better judgment I’m going to let you in on what we know so far, if only to assure you we’ve got things under control. I’m afraid your male client who called you last night is our victim. And, from the looks of things, he didn’t drown. It looks like suicide.”