Not the most romantic assessment of her sister.
But she was hot on her topic now and continued. “Now the one I am most intrigued by is Liz.”
Our Diet Cokes were delivered, and we both took deep sips. “Liz,” I said, taking another sip, “intrigues me too.”
“Liz is a thirteen-lined ground squirrel.”
I giggled.
“Hear me out,” Marigold said. “The female thirteen-lined ground squirrel is a little uptight.”
“An uptight squirrel?”
“She avoids sex. Almost completely.”
I knew Liz kept a very quiet profile—the shy accountant—but I now had proof positive that she was not entirely abstinent. Marigold looked at my expression and read the skepticism.
“Wait!” She held up a hand. “Except for one afternoon a year.”
“Really?”
“For that entire afternoon the female thirteen-lined ground squirrel just whoops it up and has nothing but sex, sex, sex.”
“And you think that’s Liz?”
“Well, she has never had a real boyfriend. Not really. Holly and Liz are a strange pair of friends, aren’t they? Holly dates about a hundred guys a year, and Liz is always alone on Saturday nights. But about once a year, just when we are least expecting it, Liz brings a guy around to a party. We’re always so shocked and hopeful. But then she never mentions the guy again, and she comes to parties alone the rest of the time. So I figure…thirteen-lined ground squirrel.”
“You remember the last guy she brought around?”
“Of course, silly,” Marigold said, putting down her empty glass. “It was Donald.”
I looked up, startled down to my flip-flops.
“Donald,” she repeated. “Donald Lake.”
“Holly’s Donald?”
“Yes. Didn’t you know? That’s how Holly and Donald met for the first time. He came to a party with Liz.”
Now I was completely confused. Earlier in the day, I had thought I heard Marigold saying she was in love with Donald. Yet by her tone of voice, it didn’t seem like that was so. “What about you, Marigold?” I asked. “I thought you were interested in Donald.”
“Me? Good grief, no! He’s not my type at all. Too tall, for one thing. I like the short ones. And I’ve never been into all that movie business nonsense. I like the very intellectual, scientific guys. Big brains turn me on.”
“But you’re sure that Liz used to like Donald?”
“Yep.”
Donald Lake? My goodness. I’d had no idea Liz Mooney had at one point in time dated Holly’s fiancé. And now one had to ask: had the thirteen-lined ground squirrel remained attached to her once-a-year flame?
My head began to swim. If Liz was pregnant and if Holly heard the news and fled, did that have something to do with Donald?
Makana
(A Gift)
Back in our original room at the Four Heavens, I showered quickly and put on the dressiest outfit I’d packed: navy blue linen pants and a little white top with spaghetti straps. Then I stepped into high-heeled sandals and was ready to walk out the door, all in a matter of fifteen minutes. My makeup kit, cell phone, jewelry, all got tossed into a large navy shoulder bag. I opened our little refrigerator, looking for the last can of Diet Coke, hoping to keep my caffeine high going a little longer, and noticed the white-paper-wrapped box I’d picked up from the front desk earlier in the day and had completely forgotten about. Might as well take that along and give it to Wes now. And while I was at it, I decided to wear my orchid lei while it was still fresh and beautiful.
The soft evening air began to dry my damp curls as soon as I stepped outside our room, and I hurried over to the Presidential Bungalow, my heels clicking on the sidewalks, to meet up with Wesley. While I had been getting ready, Wes had packed up the food supplies, wok, and serving platters, and loaded them all into our second rented Mustang, the black one. We decided to leave the red Mustang, the one I’d been driving around in all day, behind in case one of the girls might want to use it later.
Wes was already outside, waiting for me in the private driveway of the Presidential Bungalow, standing next to the Mustang, its top down, its rear seat filled with the accoutrements of our cooking project. His black jeans and black button-down shirt actually looked pressed, quite a remarkable sartorial feat in this island humidity, but Wesley had a way with his wardrobe. He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a quick head-to-toe appraisal. “You look wonderful. Like you got some sun. How were the dolphins?”
“They were amazing,” I said, smiling at him. “Amazing and incredibly strange. I’ve got so much to tell you about, Wes, you have no idea. Just don’t ask me about my past love affair with Little Willie because frankly I forgot to ask him what species we were at the time.”
Wes raised an eyebrow and then backed the Mustang out of its parking spot. “We’re going to the Pele Helicopter Tours Heliport, right?”
“Right. You know how to find it?”
“No problem,” he said and changed gears, leaving the fabulous Presidential Bungalow behind as he drove slowly through the maze of small streets on the Four Heavens property.
“Oh, and I forgot to show you this,” I said, dipping down into my navy bag and coming up with the box wrapped in white paper. “It came this morning. The guy at the front desk said to keep it refrigerated.”
“What’s that?” he asked, steering the car past the front entrance of the resort.
I tugged off the white string and unfolded the wrapping paper. “Hey.” There was a message written on the inside of the paper. “Look at this,” I said, turning the paper upside down and reading: “‘To my new friends with very good taste.’” I smiled. “It’s from Mori. The sushi chef from our luau.”
“I hope that isn’t some leftover sushi,” Wes said.
“No.” I had opened the cardboard box and found a water-filled plastic Tupperware container inside, about three inches high and wide by eight inches long. And inside that was a six-inch-long, bumpy, ugly, raw, greenishblackish pickle-shaped object. “How, um, phallic,” I commented.
Wes took a quick look and said, “Whoa! That’s honwasabi. True raw wasabi, I think.”
Using my thumbnail, I scraped a tiny bit off the side of the root and tasted it. The complex sweet/hot flavor I remembered from last night spread over my tongue. “You’re right.”
Wes looked extremely perplexed. “They do not grow wasabi outside of Japan. Not anything of this quality. Where did Mori come up with it?”
“Maybe he imports it?” I guessed, putting the slightly obscene-looking rhizome back in its Tupperware home.
“No one ships whole rhizomes from Japan that I’ve heard of. And if they did, do you have any idea what one that size would cost?”
I shook my head.
“A lot. They cost about seventy dollars a kilo in Japan. So that little fellow would go for about thirty dollars here. If you could get it, which you can’t. Nice gift from Mr. Mori. We need to find him and thank him.”
“Oh, Wes,” I said, looking around as we turned onto the main highway. “Look at that.” Along the road here were miles of bumpy black volcanic rocks as far as one could see. “This island is so eerie. In one section it’s a rain forest with waterfalls that fall straight into the ocean, in another it’s like the surface of the moon.”
“Hey, look there,” Wes said. He slowed the car down so I could read what he was pointing at. Not only was the Kona highway bordered by these striking black lava beds, but these flat, plant-free fields had also attracted hundreds of graffiti writers. Instead of using spray paint, however, they were much more Hawaiian about it. They used pure white coral rocks, lining them up neatly and spelling out their messages, white against black, all along the side of the road. “Can you read that one?”
The white stones were formed into the words: “David Voron 2004.” I read them aloud.
“No, Mad.” Wes stopped the car alongside the road. “Right above that one, over
there.”
There were dozens of messages neatly written out of stones right here. I followed his finger, looking where he was pointing. “Doc Robin Loves Cake.” Oh.
“And that one,” he pointed out, chuckling. “And that one!”
“Karen D Loves Cake.” “Corkie Loves Cake.” “Ann Theis Loves Cake.”
“And there’s another one,” Wes said, laughing out loud.
“Joseph Loves Cake.”
“Very funny,” I said, smiling graciously in defeat. “Maybe they’re from a sect of dessert lovers, did you think of that?”
Wes took his foot off the brake and eased back into traffic, laughing his damned head off.
“Never mind. I have more important things to worry about than him,” I said.
“Good for you,” said Wes, unable to let it go. “Let them all eat Cake, eh?”
I didn’t even dignify that with a reaction. I’d get him. Sooner or later I’d get him back. Instead, I launched into a quick review of what had been going on that afternoon since I’d left him. I told Wes about Liz Mooney and Donald. About Marigold and animal sex. And about the men who were trying to grab me—well, Holly—in order to find Marvin Dubinsky. He was just as worried about that one as I was.
Wes said, “The good news is, I did finally find Holly.”
“You did?”
“Yep. She and some of the sisters have been taking the afternoon to the limit, tourist-wise.”
“And she’s okay?” I asked, suddenly more relieved than I realized.
“Perfectly,” he said as we passed a large billboard planted in the black lava rocks beside the road that promised Pele Helicopter Tours Heliport was coming up one-half mile ahead on the left.
“You saw that sign?” I asked, making sure Wes was on track.
“You mean the one that said the entire University of Wisconsin Class of 2001 Loves Cake?” he asked innocently.
“Okay. Shut up. Tell me about Holly.”
Turns out, Holly had been out and about. She left the Medical Center early in the afternoon and decided to cruise around some of the other resorts nearby and sightsee. She went snorkeling and ended up swimming with a pair of sea turtles. Meanwhile, the twins, Daisy and Azalea, went into Kona, shopping for crystals and hula skirts and estate-grown coffee. And Gladdie signed herself up for surfing lessons and hit the waves. Liz, apparently, had come back and taken a nap.
“Well, at least they are all having a good time,” I said, my event-planner hat on once again. “And what have you been doing?”
“I’ve been up to my eyebrows dealing with the neighbor from hell.”
“Elmer. What’s up with that?”
“I got a call from Rachel. She got an offer on the Hightower house. The guy who wants it directed all these old sci-fifilms from the sixties. Blake Witherspoon, do you remember that name?”
I nodded. It sounded vaguely familiar.
“He’s a single guy, and Rachel says he loves the house to death. The only thing he’d like to do is move the entry gate.”
“That’s what Elmer didn’t care for,” I said, getting excited.
“I know. And he wants everything, all the furniture, the works.”
“Really?”
“And his offer is…”
I looked at Wes, excited.
“…incredible. Huge. I don’t even want to think about that much money.”
“Oh, Wes. Are you going to sell?”
“I have to think about Elmer. So I just called him.”
“How’d he take it?”
“He didn’t pick up, but I know he was home. Hell, he never goes anywhere. So I just left my nicest, most polite message. We’ll see what happens.”
“You are incredibly sweet, Wesley.”
“I don’t want Elmer to have a stroke. I want everyone to be happy.”
“That’s all either of us wants,” I agreed.
“Here we are,” said Wes, turning off the highway into the driveway of Pele Helicopter Tours. Off on the tarmac beyond the fence were three helicopters, and Wes pointed out to me that they were the new superluxurious Eco-Star models. He had been excited all afternoon about this helicopter ride. There were three or four cars parked over on the far side of the lot. “Thought there might be more people. Maybe we’re early.”
It was seven forty-five. Right on time, I thought. We pulled up next to one of the parked cars.
“Aloha, folks.” A cute guy in his late thirties holding a clipboard approached us.
“Hey,” said Wes, opening the door.
“You here for Kelly’s luau?” The guy wore his blond hair short, and like everyone on the island had a killer tan.
“I’m Wes and this is Madeline.” He stepped out of the Mustang and the guys shook hands.
“Hi. I’m Vance. Good to meet you. Roddy just stepped away,” he said, “but I’m here to let everyone know we’ve had a change in plans.”
“What’s up?” Wes asked.
“The luau has been moved to a different site. We’re not going to Hilo anymore.”
I looked at Wes. I knew he was disappointed.
“What was going to be a small luau has turned into a much bigger deal,” Vance explained. “It just kept growing, you know? Keniki is now expecting over two hundred guests. So there was no way Roddy and Tom and I could ferry that many guests over to the other side of the island and back. We were thinking we could do maybe twenty, you know?”
“Of course,” I said.
“And another friend of Kelly’s has a huge ranch not too far from here. He’s offered to have the luau there. And this guy has bucks, so there is no problem there. Much better for Keniki, you know?”
“So no Eco-Star?” Wes was having a hard time with this one.
“You like the Eco-Star?” Vance asked Wes, lighting up. “Man, aren’t they awesome?”
“Amazing,” Wes said, a trace of wistfulness in his voice. “I had been hoping we might see some live lava flow, but that’s probably too much to have expected. I know the volcano has been active, but you don’t always see the flow activity on the surface, do you?”
“Oh, you won’t believe this,” Vance said, getting into it. “We’ve had the most spectacular live sightings today, better than we’ve seen in weeks. There’s fiery lava flow at one location. I mean, not just the smoke and areas of tubing under the surface, but the real deal, man. I’ve been taking tours up all day, and it’s been breathtaking.”
Wes smiled. “I should have made a reservation for the tour. I’ll remember that, next time.”
“Come on,” Vance said, looking deep into Wesley’s eyes. “You never know about tomorrow, right? Let’s go up tonight. I’ll take you for a private ride.”
“Wow,” I said. It seemed like Wes had made a new friend.
“I’ve got to help Maddie set up some food at the luau,” Wes said, “But thanks anyway. Very nice of you.”
“I’ll be here all night, Wes,” Vance said. “Come on back and I’ll take you up for thirty minutes. Just over to the flow and back again. It’s the best at night. You won’t believe it.”
“I’ll see how it goes,” Wes said. “Thanks.”
Vance handed Wesley a map with the directions to the new location of Kelly’s memorial luau. “Come on back, okay?” he asked. “I’ll be looking for you.”
Kekahi Lu-’au
(Another Lu-’au)
Wes and I were back on the highway, continuing south.
“Mad, look at the size of these estates. This is the pricey side of the island.” By this point in the terrain, the eerie lava fields had given way to bushy coconut palms and tall grass. “The Kohala Coast is not cheap. But wouldn’t it be a lark to have your own house here? The weather is the best on the island. There!” he said, getting animated. “That one looks like me.” He was pointing off to a run-down old house on a large overgrown piece of land.
I tried to keep up with Wesley’s real estate tour, but I was busy looking for landmarks in the dark.
“This must be it up here,” I said, checking back with the map on my lap. “Turn here, Wes.”
Wes took the turn toward the Pacific Ocean, and we followed a small road almost all the way to the beach. Ahead of us was a long row of brake lights, as many other cars had arrived here for Kelly’s luau just ahead of us.
“They have parking attendants,” I said, checking out the scene up ahead. With the top down it was easy to see the entire property. Off another few hundred yards closer to the ocean was a large house several stories high, built in the old Hawaiian plantation style with deep porches.
“Hi, folks,” said an enormous Hawaiian man, built like a Volkswagen Beetle. “Your name needs to be on da list, bra.”
“Madeline Bean,” Wes said.
The big fellow took a long time getting through the list and then grunted. “Yep. Okay. We’re taking cars here, Madeline,” he said to Wes. We both kept straight faces. “I’m gonna park it off the property. You can get out here, okay, and walk down to da house.” He gestured the way, and I could see two other big guys giving the same directions to the people in the cars ahead of ours.
I looked around. Bright security lights were blazing all the way to the house. Tall fences surrounded the property for as far off as we could see, and they were topped with a particularly hideous-looking razor wire. “Is that fence to keep cattle in?” I whispered to Wes.
“Hardly,” he said. “That’s the sort of fence they use in prisons or mental hospitals. And that’s an electrified gate,” Wes pointed out ahead.
“Nice touch,” I said, looking at the forbidding fencing.
“You can leave it right here,” said the giant.
“We need to drive up to the house,” Wes said pleasantly.
“No way, no how,” said the man without a smile. “Absolutely no one drives up onto the property. Orders of the owner. Now give me da keys.”
“We’ve got food,” I said, gesturing to the backseat. “For the luau.”
He noticed the seat filled with coolers and platters and a three-gallon jug of peanut oil. He stared at Wes in his button-down shirt. “You da caterers?” he asked.
We both nodded. Why annoy this three-hundred-pound lug with the literal truth when our tried-and-true methods always worked?
The Flaming Luau of Death Page 17
