Paradise, Passion, Murder

by Terry Ambrose

  Louie had no idea how to reach Chuckie, but as far as he knew, Jack’s fishing boat was still moored in the bay. If he went down to Black Pot, surely he could get someone to take him out to the Nanilani.

  Within an hour and a half, thanks to Shelby Brown’s Black Pot connections, Louie was on a skiff crossing Hanalei Bay headed for the Nanilani. John and Eddie, two fishermen from Mad Dog Fishing, were headed out to their Hatteras and happy to give him a ride.

  “Want us to wait?” Eddie asked as he maneuvered the small skiff up to the stern of the catamaran.

  “That’d be great, if you don’t mind. Let me just make sure Chuckie’s here,” Louie said.

  “We haven’t seen him since Jack died. Probably soaking up a lot of rum someplace,” John said.

  Louie heard something making a clanking sound as he called out, “Whoo-ee,” a couple of times and studied the navy awning shading the bridge above the captain’s chair. Then he grabbed the ladder and climbed aboard the catamaran.

  “Chuckie?”

  Louie saw the body as soon as he stepped onto the deck. Chuckie Robbins was lying face down on the fiberglass deck, his head haloed in a pool of his own blood. There was a lump the size of a fat taro root on the back of his head. An empty rum bottle rolled back and forth and clanked against the deck. Bloody footprints were tracked all over the deck around the body. Louie staggered back and grabbed the stainless steel rail.

  “You okay, Uncle?” John called up to him.

  “I’m okay,” Louie hollered, “but you better call 911. I’m pretty damn sure Chuckie’s dead.”

  Authorities on shore notified the Coast Guard, which had jurisdiction over commercial vessel injuries and death. Chuckie Robbins was indeed dead and had been for quite a while. Not only were there footprints near the body, but the Nanilani appeared to have been ransacked. Louie and the two fishermen were taken aboard the Coast Guard cutter and interviewed.

  Louie was in shock, but still able to think on his feet when asked what business he had aboard the Nanilani.

  “Captain Jack, the boat’s owner, was a friend of mine. He died a couple days ago, so I got a lift and came out to check on his hand, Chuckie. They’d worked together for years. I was sure Chuckie had to be pretty torn up about Jack’s death. I wanted to give my condolences.”

  He got the feeling the Coast Guard officials dismissed him as a suspect on the spot but they asked him, John, and Eddie to stay on island in case they had more questions. The men all agreed, and then the fishermen ferried Louie back to the beach.

  He wasn’t two steps away from the boat when he saw Roland Sharpe step out of an unmarked KPD vehicle parked on the hard sand near the river mouth. The detective headed his way.

  “Uncle Louie.” Roland nodded. He held a small spiral notebook in his hand.

  “Hey, Roland.” Obviously, the fire-dancing detective had been waiting for him.

  Roland said, “I headed up here as soon as the 911 call came in. Found out you were on the boat when I got to the beach. You okay to drive back to the Goddess?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  Roland shrugged.

  “You asking because I’m old?” Louie lifted his hat and ran his hand through his hair. “I’ll admit it was a shock seeing Chuckie like that, but I’m okay.” He could still hear the sound of the rolling rum bottle in his head.

  “Most people would be a little shook up,” Roland said. “Em called and asked me to check on you if I was on the scene.”

  “Well, after I drive off you can call and tell her I’m just fine and on my way back.” Louie fished around in his pocket for the keys to his truck.

  “Before you go, you mind if I ask a couple of questions?”

  “Course not.”

  “Why did you go out to Jack Parsons’ boat this morning?”

  He told Roland what he’d told the Coast Guard officials. “To see how Chuckie was doing. He worked for Jack for years, and I figured he had to be messed up about the captain’s death.”

  Roland’s notebook was little bigger than his palm. Louie noticed the detective was jotting down notes.

  “Did you call to let him know you were coming?”

  Louie shrugged. “Heck, I don’t even have a number for him. Couldn’t have called if I wanted to. Just thought I’d show up.”

  “Em said Captain Parsons was in the Goddess the day before he washed up on the beach. Is that true?”

  “It’s true. Why would Em make that up?”

  Roland jotted and then stared at him.

  “Sorry,” Louie said. “This has all been a little much.”

  “You called me asking for information about cause of death for Parsons. Since you were one of the last people to talk to him, did he give you any cause to think he might have met with foul play?”

  “You mean that cursed tiki story?”

  “No, but did he tell you he was in danger?”

  Two men were dead. Chuckie might very well have seen and even laid hands on the tiki, if Jack had found it. Louie knew if he told Roland Jack had sworn him to secrecy about the bag he’d buried in the garden, the detective would demand they dig it up and open it.

  Until he knew exactly what he was dealing with there was no way on earth Louie wanted anyone else involved. Until he knew what was going on, he had to keep Roland and everyone else safe without lying.

  Louie chose his words carefully. “Jack never said he was in danger. Do you think he might have been?”

  If Roland doubted his word, he didn’t say so.

  He did say, “I think if Parsons told anyone about finding a lost artifact, that there are enough people around here who might just want to get their hands on it. If it’s from the eighteen hundreds, it could be worth a fortune to the right buyer.”

  “So are you thinking that’s what happened on the boat? Someone who heard the tiki rumors, went aboard and killed Chuckie, then ransacked the boat looking for whatever Jack may have found?”

  “I’m thinking that’s a strong possibility,” Roland said. “I don’t believe in curses, but I do believe greed drives some people to do terrible things.”

  “I hate to think somebody killed Jack over a ridiculous story like that.” Louie hoped he sounded sincere because at this point he had no idea what to believe. “I’d better get back to the bar,” he added. “If that’s all you need...”

  “For now,” Roland said.

  “If you hear anything from the Coast Guard, will you let me know?”

  The detective nodded. “Seeing as how Parsons drowned and now this, we’ll be taking a closer look at the captain’s death. It might not be so open and shut. If I get any new information that won’t jeopardize the case to tell you about, I’ll let you know. But you’ll have to do something for me, Louie.”

  “Sure. What?”

  “Keep the damn Hula Maidens from going into sleuth mode.”

  By the time Louie returned to the bar, the place was suffering from late afternoon slows. The stifling weather accounted for the lack of patrons. It was almost too hot to move. Most of the locals were no doubt at home in front of fans praying the trades would return while the tourists were sequestered in their air-conditioned hotel rooms.

  He was still in shock, his mind reeling. Someone, not something, had killed Chuckie. The bloody footprints on the deck were real, not something a cursed tiki would leave behind. Unable to focus, Louie headed into his office and pulled out his Booze Bible. The three ring binder was filled with his original tropical beverage recipes, the legend he’d written for each one, and doodles and sketches in the margins. He paged through the binder lethargically but couldn’t blame his malaise on the heat.

  A quick knock on the door gave him a start.

  “Come on in,” he called out.

  Em stepped inside and left the door open behind her. “How are you doing?”
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  “As well as can be expected after Jack and now this,” he said.

  “Roland assured me that he’d let you know whatever he can.”

  Sophie walked in behind Em. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a local guy here who wants to see Louie. Says he needs to ask a favor.”

  “Thanks,” Louie said. “Tell him I’ll be right out.”

  Louie stood up. Em was still standing by the door. He could tell she had something to say.

  “What?” He asked.

  “No more loans, Uncle Louie. You promised.”

  He knew she was only trying to keep the business in the black, but he missed being able to ease folks’ minds by loaning them whatever they needed. Whether or not they could pay him back never entered his mind.

  Em was waiting for his promise.

  “Okay. No loans,” he agreed, but only half-heartedly.

  He walked into the bar and recognized the man waiting for him at a table near the front door. Louie knew his first name was Dane and that he was a North Shore activist for all things Hawaiian.

  “Aloha, Uncle Louie,” the man said without smiling.

  “Dane, is it?”

  “Dane Naupaka.”

  Louie offered his hand. “Long time since you’ve been in.”

  They shook hands. Dane said, “I come to ask a favor.”

  “Sure. I’ll do what I can.”

  “You say that and I haven’t even asked.”

  “You’re a neighbor. I’ll help if I can.”

  “I’d like to hold a community meeting here at the Goddess.”

  “When are you thinking?”

  “Sooner the better. You know about the two dead haole. You heard the rumor about a lost tiki being found?”

  “I’ve heard, but I’m having a hard time believing in a cursed tiki.”

  “We want to get the word out to the community, let them know that whoever has the tiki needs to put it in the rightful hands.”

  “And whose hands would that be?”

  “Hawaiian hands. My family’s. The Naupakas will see to it. The old timers say our land out in Hā‘ena is where the ancestors buried the thing in the first place. This has to be handled in the proper way. Protocol, you know. This has to be pono. The right thing has to be done so the curse will end.”

  “What’s the right thing?”

  “The tiki must be put back into the land in a secret spot far from everything and everyone.”

  “What makes you think you and your family will be safe? If the legend is true, you may be putting your whole family at risk. Supposedly plenty of Hawaiians died last time the tiki surfaced.”

  “We’ll honor it, bury it with ceremony and keep it out of the wrong hands.”

  “If the story is true, and I’m not saying I believe it, then what makes you think anyone is safe while it’s on the island?”

  Dane frowned. “It’s our kuleana, our responsibility, no matter what happens. We believe the tiki was created by our ancestors. It should be in Hawaiian hands.” Dane was getting steamed up.

  Louie debated how to answer. What if Dane was wrong, and his family wasn’t safe? The last thing he wanted was for anyone else to die. If the thing buried in his garden was responsible, he didn’t want it to strike again.

  “Can we hold the meeting here or not?” Dane demanded.

  As much as he wanted to say no to protect Dane and his family, Louie nodded in agreement.

  “Of course. Let’s go tell Em to put it on the calendar.”

  The night of the North Shore community meeting at the Goddess, Hurricane Enrique was two days closer to Kaua‘i. Meteorologists were predicting a direct hit in the next thirty-six hours unless the storm took a miraculous turn and changed course. Record high temperatures and humidity had everyone crankier than usual. Every seat in the room was taken. Folks were standing around the edges of the room two and three deep. The front lānai was filling up as well.

  On stage, the Hula Maidens were decked out in bright green-and-white mu‘umu‘us and jaunty straw hats. They’d pinned huge anthurium blossoms on the sides of their heads beneath their tilted hat brims. According to Kiki, one can never wear too many adornments.

  All went well with the Maidens’ performance until they tried to execute a simple line switch maneuver. Two of the front row dancers, Precious Cottrell, a Little Person, and Lillian Smith, a nervous Midwestern transplant, danced backward when they should have stayed in place, which threw everyone else out of step. Chaos ensued. Big Estelle stormed off the stage along with two other back row dancers. Lillian burst into tears. One by one, the Maidens fled.

  The band forged on until Kiki was the only one left on stage. She made a dramatic, sweeping bow at the end of her number and toddled over to the bar.

  Louie had volunteered to act as emcee for the evening, so as soon as Kiki left the stage he thanked the band and welcomed everyone.

  “We’re here at the request of Dane Naupaka and his ‘ohana. It’s great to see such a wonderful turnout. Before I hand the mic over to Dane, I have a couple of requests. First, as you probably know by now, tonight we’re only serving water, sodas, and juices until the meeting ends. Second, please remember to keep your cool and speak with aloha and respect. You’ve all got opinions and tonight we’re going to hear all sides.”

  He and Em agreed they didn’t want anyone to get drunk and overheated causing fights to break out on the premises. In the two days since Louie agreed to hold the meeting in the bar, Hurricane Enrique wasn’t the only thing to heat up. There were now three solid factions in contention for possession of the lost tiki—a tiki no one could actually prove existed.

  Not only did the Naupaka family want it, but so did the Smithsonian Institute, and also representatives for Fredrico Quintana, a billionaire developer and owner of the Quintana Corporation who planned to develop a five-star hotel up the hill past Princeville.

  Louie scanned the crowd until he spotted Roland standing beside Em near the far end of the bar.

  “Now Detective Roland Sharpe wants to say a few words.” Louie waved Roland forward.

  Roland walked up, and Louie handed him the mic.

  “Aloha. We’re not expecting any trouble, but I’m here tonight with two of my fellow KPD officers to make sure all voices are heard. I’m also here to let you know the Coast Guard investigation found that Chuckie Robbins was not murdered. Blood and hair samples found on board show he died at some point during the night. Chuckie was so drunk, he either slipped or passed out and hit his head on a railing aboard the Nanilani. Whoever went aboard, presumably looking for the legendary lost tiki, walked through Chuckie’s blood and tracked it around while ransacking the boat after his death.”

  Roland paused and studied the crowd. “So as far as Chuckie being murdered, or Captain Parsons for that matter, we have no evidence to support either theory. They died of natural and accidental causes. There is no proof Parsons ever found a lost tiki, and no proof anyone stole it off the Nanilani.” He reminded everyone to stay cool, handed the mic back to Louie, and left the stage.

  “You all know Dane Naupaka, who called this meeting,” Louie said. He handed the mic over.

  Dane had walked on stage surrounded by a contingent of angry-looking Hawaiian men in matching black T-shirts. Barbed wire designs were printed around the neckline and down the sleeves.

  “By now everybody knows what I’m going to say, so I’ll make it short. Two men are dead. No matter how they died, they’re dead. We believe the captain found the tiki and the curse is still very powerful. The tiki belongs on Naupaka ‘āina. My family has owned the land for centuries, so we are the rightful owners. If some no-name chief hadn’t tried to take our land in the eighteen hundreds, if his workers hadn’t dug it up in the first place, a lot of lives would have been spared back then and now.” He looked around slowly, eying them all.<
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  “Whoever has the idol is not gonna last long. If you have it, bring it to me. If you don’t, but you know who has it, let me know, and we’ll get it back. Me and my ‘ohana will take care of it in the most pono way.”

  Someone yelled from the back, “How you know you not going to die, too? How you know we not all going to die if that thing stays on Kaua‘i? It’s gotta be put back in the ocean, back in the water where it can’t hurt anybody else.”

  “He don’t know,” another man called out.

  Dane’s burly entourage glared around the room, effectively silencing the crowd.

  Louie took the mic. “Mahalo, Dane. Mahalo for being concise. I’m sure we all heard Dane’s message loud and clear. Now I’d like to introduce a representative from the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, D.C.”

  The men in black accompanied Dane off the stage as a clean-cut, middle-aged haole wearing a powder blue Polo shirt, gray slacks and carrying a brief case took Dane’s place. His assistant, in a nearly identical outfit, passed out flyers as he moved through the crowd.

  “This is Dr. Timothy Bleumenthal from the Smithsonian.” Louie handed him the mic.

  “Alooooooha!” The museum official shouted as enthusiastically as an emcee at a hotel luau.

  The audience stared back in silence. The man cleared his throat, and then introduced himself and listed his many credentials.

  “As you probably all know, the Smithsonian was founded in 1846. It’s the world’s largest museum and research complex and consists of nineteen museums and galleries, the National Zoological Park, and nine research facilities. There are one hundred thirty eight million artifacts, works of art, and specimens in our collection. The information sheet my assistant is passing out now gives an overview of how we professionally and carefully store these national and world treasures and also how we use radiocarbon and thermoluminescense dating techniques to determine exactly how old an archeological treasure might be. In the case of the idol, which was supposedly unearthed in the early eighteen hundreds, we intend to date, catalogue, and protect it while in our possession, and then eventually return it to the Kaua‘i Museum.