Pleasing the Dead

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  Storm was surprised when her heart leaped. “That’s nice to hear.”

  “I have a lot to talk to you about.”

  “Are you coming home?”

  “Soon. Do you have a minute now?”

  “I’m meeting an old friend for dinner.”

  “How long are you going to stay on Maui? Grace told me you left yesterday.”

  “I thought I’d stay through the weekend.”

  Storm’s secretary Grace, who wore a voluminous mu‘u mu‘u and an array of fresh flowers in her hair every day, was a romantic. She also was efficient and watched Storm like a brood mare watches her colt.

  “I don’t blame you.” Hamlin sounded wistful.

  “When will you be back?” Storm asked.

  “Next week, if all goes well.”

  “Good, I should be back by then, too.”

  “I can’t wait to see you.” His words were soft.

  “I’ll call you.” Storm slowly put the phone back in her purse. None of the old anger had been in his voice.

  He’d gone to the Mainland for a few weeks and stayed two months. Part of the delay was due to the death of his mother, whose estate he’d needed to settle. After that, he’d had an excellent offer on a special project with a law firm in California.

  Storm was no longer certain how he felt about her. Though they talked a couple times a week, reserve hovered between them like a screen.

  Hamlin had been injured trying to protect Storm. When she was looking into the death of her uncle, the killer injected him with succinylcholine, a curare-like agent, and he nearly died. Another time, he’d fallen off a horse on Moloka‘i and injured his shoulder. That time they’d been working cases that coincided eerily, but the horseback ride had been all her idea.

  Hamlin told her he couldn’t bear to watch her wander into life-threatening situations. But she sensed anger, and believed his reservations about their relationship went beyond concern for her welfare.

  She wondered if he felt their backgrounds were too different. She’d known since she was twelve and her mother took an overdose of sleeping pills that her welfare was her own responsibility. She couldn’t rely on other people to protect her if her own mother would not.

  Eme Kayama, who suffered from depression, had planned her suicide for weeks. It was a form of desertion, and Storm had grown up with the belief that people couldn’t rescue one another. She had never asked Hamlin to be her white knight. Lover, partner, friend, yes. Protector, no.

  His voice had brought a surge of warmth and hope, but by the time she’d walked to her car, her throat had tightened with anger and sorrow, feelings she still had trouble separating. She tried to shake off the negative emotions. Upsetting her was the last thing Hamlin wanted to do. He’d told her he missed her, and that was what she needed to think about.

  ***

  It was a few minutes before seven when Storm reached The Fiddler Crab, and found she’d arrived before Damon. The hostess told her their table would take a few minutes to prepare and directed her to the bar, which overlooked the beach.

  She sat on a stool with an unimpeded view of the fading day. The bartender brought a glass of wine, and she watched the eastern sky glow indigo, while gentle Venus climbed the darkening vastness. How appropriate, Storm thought, that the Greeks believed this mistress of sensuality sprang from the foam of the sea.

  “Storm?”

  She jerked around. “Damon, hi.”

  “You were far away.”

  She had been. “The view is wonderful.”

  “That it is.” He sat down next to her, ordered a draught, and looked out at the water.

  The bartender served his beer just as the hostess appeared to tell them their table was ready. They followed her to an outside table.

  Damon studied Storm’s face. “Life agrees with you.” He looked tired and older than she’d remembered.

  “Thanks. I had time for a long, hot shower after the swim.”

  “Lara didn’t look as relaxed as you do.”

  “She came by the shop?” Storm asked. “Then she was probably late for her dinner with Ryan.”

  Damon sat back in his chair. “She’s got a lot on her mind.”

  “How’s the construction project going?”

  “It’s fine. We’re on schedule.” But his expression belied his words.

  “So what’s wrong?” Storm asked.

  Damon gave a shrug and drained his beer.

  “Planning the wedding is probably getting to her,” Storm said. “People tell me they’re stressful.”

  Damon tried to smile, but it didn’t work. “That and her mom.”

  “Because the dog died?”

  Damon looked confused. “I didn’t know about that. I was talking about the new home. She hasn’t adjusted.”

  “Lara’s parents moved?”

  “Her dad died a few years ago, and her mom’s health went down hill.” He waved down the waitress and ordered another beer. “Maybe I shouldn’t talk about this.”

  Storm had the feeling he wanted to share his concerns, though. Whatever pressures were mounting in the dive shop seemed to be taking their toll on him, too. She sat back in her chair and took a slow sip from her wine glass.

  After a moment, Damon filled the silence. “Her mom’s in one of those assisted living places. Way I hear it, Barb doesn’t always recognize Lara. She thinks Lara is her sister.”

  “Lara resembles her aunt?”

  “No, Lara’s younger sister. I don’t know if they looked alike, but from what I’ve heard, their personalities were quite different.”

  Storm leaned toward him. “You’re speaking of her in the past.”

  Damon set his beer down gently. “Angela died about five years ago.”

  “That’s awful,” Storm said. “Poor Lara.” She remembered how quickly Lara changed the subject when Storm had suggested getting the mother a new dog. She felt a wave of embarrassment for the glibness of the comment.

  “No kidding.” He wiped condensation from his beer glass. “Her mom is lost in the past. This is when your mother is supposed to help you buy a dress and bug you about the guest list, isn’t it?”

  “From what I’ve heard.” Storm pushed back a lock of wayward hair. “Does Lara’s mom realize she’s getting married?”

  “I don’t know.” He raised his eyes to Storm’s. “So what’s your secret to happiness? You look great.”

  Storm gave a snort of laughter. “Nice stab at changing the subject.”

  “C’mon. Who’s the love of your life?”

  “Damon, please. You haven’t seen me for years. Why are you asking?” She squinted at him. “I heard you got married.”

  “Yeah.” He took a long swallow from his beer glass, and then centered it on its coaster without looking up at her. “I did. Then she left. Took our two daughters with her.”

  “That has to be tough. Do you get to see them?”

  “She moved to Kauai. I get to see them once a month and they spend summers with me.” He showed his teeth in a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “This wasn’t an amicable split, I gather. What happened?”

  “The usual.” He heaved a sigh. “I was working too hard and staying out late. She fell in love with her doctor.” He winced. “Her gynecologist.”

  “Oof.” In the candlelight, Storm could see the reddened capillaries in his nose and remembered the way he’d given the hung-over carpenter at Lara’s shop another chance. Damon may have faced some demons in the bottle, too. Which could be another reason for the marriage breaking up.

  “How old are your daughters?”

  He smiled. “Maile’s nine and Emily is twelve.” He extracted his wallet and dug out two pictures, which he handed to Storm.

  “They’re adorable. What grades are they in?”

  After the waiter took their orders, Damon launched into stories about their school exploits, sports events, and
how much he looked forward to the summer soccer league. As he related his experiences, his eyes brightened and he straightened in his chair. He loved talking about his kids, just like most of the good dads she knew.

  Over dinner, she found herself talking about Hamlin and how he’d dislocated his shoulder falling from a horse during her last case, when a high school friend living on Moloka‘i asked for her help. The friend had neglected to tell her about a smoldering feud that involved betrayal and death.

  “He thinks the accident was your fault?”

  “He thinks I take unnecessary risks.”

  “Do you?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. I do what I have to do. It’s a matter of perception.” She searched his face. “Isn’t it?”

  “It sounds like something only the two of you would know.”

  A disturbance from the bar distracted them. A dozen or so people had clustered around one of the televisions on the wall. Instead of sports, a local news program was broadcasting live. The bartender turned up the volume just as one of the patrons approached Damon.

  “Hey, Damon. Isn’t that one of your guys?” He pointed to the TV screen.

  “Huh?” Damon squinted at the distant television and the agitated reporter who dominated the screen. “That guy?”

  “No, your new employee.”

  Damon and Storm stared at the television. A wailing police car added to the confusion on the screen. Over the commotion, the reporter blurted the names Hiroki Yoshinaka and Lloyd Construction Enterprises. The camera panned out to show a small, dilapidated frame house. The front door gaped like an open mouth.

  “Jesus.” Damon shot to his feet and threw money on the table. He grabbed Storm’s arm. “Come with me. Please?”

  No one noticed their exit. Everyone was looking at the TV.

  They jumped in Damon’s pickup truck. “He lives nearby,” Damon said, and accelerated out of the restaurant parking lot.

  An ambulance wailed behind them. Damon cursed and pulled over to let it pass. A few minutes later, he drove onto the dry front lawn of a small home. Both he and Storm jumped from the truck. The ambulance had arrived a minute ahead of them, and the policeman on the scene waved the attendants into the house. He held up his hand to stop Storm and Damon from going any farther, and then turned on the reporter. “Out by the street. Now.”

  “C’mon, Sarge. I called it in.”

  “Now!” the cop roared, and the news crew backed up.

  Storm leaned against the truck, self-conscious. The name Hiroki Yoshinaka had come to her; it was the carpenter with the hangover. Why in the world had she come with Damon? It was an impulse she wished she’d ignored.

  She looked down at her feet, at the patchy, dry grass. A doll, whose long blond hair tangled in the weeds, lay near her foot. Its staring blue eyes caught the glare of headlights. Storm picked it up and smoothed the toy’s hair. Yoshinaka had two young daughters, didn’t he? A wave of dread washed through her.

  The cop spoke into a radio and turned to Damon, who stood about six feet away. “Hey man, this isn’t a good time.”

  “Yoshinaka works for me. You know his girls play with mine. Can I help?”

  “It looks bad, buddy.” The cop spoke into his radio, turned back to Damon. “Hang on, okay?”

  Two ambulance attendants burst from the front door carrying a gurney. As it passed, Storm saw a web of black hair against a face so white it was almost lost against the sheets. A third attendant kept the small form in place, and held his hand firmly over a spreading red stain on the white cover.

  The cop walked over to Damon, his eyes on Storm. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Storm Kayama. Storm, this is my friend Carl Moana. Our girls play soccer together.” Damon shot a nervous glance at Storm and turned to Moana. “I hope she’ll be Hiroki’s lawyer.”

  The cop looked between the two of them. “Hiroki won’t need a lawyer.” He rubbed his face as if he wanted to erase the words. Storm noticed the tremble in his hand.

  “Carl, what happened in there?” Damon asked.

  “Hiroki’s dead. So is the younger daughter.” He covered a break in his voice by clearing his throat. “Don’t know how bad the older one is yet.”

  “Jesus,” Damon’s broken whisper carried above the sound of the disappearing siren.

  “Damon, we might need to talk to you about Hiroki. He was holding the gun.”

  Damon didn’t react right away. His eyes tracked the arrival of another ambulance and three more police vehicles. When he met Sergeant Moana’s gaze, the confusion on his face was being replaced by anger.

  “No, he wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t. He loved his girls, and he was getting better at work. It’s just not possible.”

  Chapter Eight

  The police insisted on talking to Damon about his employee, and Storm sat in the truck, miserable and unable to forget the image of the little girl being loaded, bleeding and alone, into the ambulance. Did she know her father and sister were dead? Where was the mother? What demons possessed a man to make him kill his children?

  Damon came back looking as if he’d been gutted. The cop friend was with him and opened the truck door. Storm was about ready to offer to drive, but Damon glared ahead through the windshield. He turned the key and peered, red-eyed, at Sergeant Moana. “I can’t believe it.”

  “I know.” Moana kicked at a clump of dry grass. “But it’s the way it looks. And we’ve seen it before, guys who get depressed, drink too much, get hopeless.”

  “She’s Maile’s age.” Damon’s voice broke.

  “You don’t have to tell your daughters yet,” Moana said.

  “What about Carmen?” Damon rubbed his face. “She gonna be okay?”

  “Don’t know yet.” Moana looked almost as sad as Damon.

  Storm watched the devastation on the faces of both men. They knew these girls. Damon had mentioned a summer soccer league; the girls probably all played together.

  Moana looked around for his colleagues, and then said softly, “I’ll call you tomorrow. Get a good night’s sleep. We’re all going to need it.”

  Damon backed out of the yard, drove down the street to the stop sign.

  “You want me to drive?” Storm asked. “I’ll buy you a drink and take you home.”

  Damon sat for a moment. They were alone at the stop sign, though people had gathered in the street in front of the small, neglected house. Blue police lights pulsed through the dark.

  “I’m okay to drive—it’s not far, but I’d like to sit down for a while. We’ve got to pick up your car anyway.”

  There was little conversation the rest of the drive. When they got to the restaurant, Damon pulled in next to Storm’s car. “People in there are going to ask me stuff, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You want to go somewhere else?”

  “Yeah, there’s a quiet place a couple blocks from here.”

  “I’ll follow you.” Storm got into her own car. Damon waited until she turned around, and then headed down Front Street to a narrow side road and a municipal parking lot. They parked and Damon led the way to a small bar called The Surf Line.

  The place was busy. Damon and Storm drew only brief glances from the patrons and sat at the last empty table under a big screen showing non-stop surfing movies. Damon’s face flickered in the blue light, and when the waitress came to take their order, her short white apron fluoresced above long brown legs.

  “Gordon Biersch pale ale,” Damon said.

  “I’ll have one, too,” Storm said.

  Damon slumped back in his chair and heaved a sigh. The waitress came back right away with their order.

  “I’m sorry—”they both said, as soon as she was out of earshot.

  “I shouldn’t have gone with you,” Storm said. She had felt like a voyeur, an unwelcome crasher witnessing a stranger’s dire misfortune.

  “I asked you to go, and now I’m sorry you had to see i
t.” Damon rubbed at the condensation on his glass. “But I’m glad you were there. I might have yelled at Carl or something. Just the idea that Hiroki could actually—” Damon drank half his beer.

  Murder his daughters? Storm understood Damon’s disbelief, but she knew that Hiroki, if he’d done it, hadn’t been the first. For Damon, the idea was unthinkable, but Sergeant Moana, who looked as miserable as Damon, had to consider it.

  “Did he talk to you this afternoon?” Storm asked.

  “He didn’t talk much. Language barrier.” His lips twisted as if his drink was bitter. “Crystal did a lot of interpreting for him.”

  He drained the rest of his beer, caught the eye of their waitress, and gestured for a refill. Storm had only taken a few swallows of her ale. The waitress anticipated it, and only brought one.

  “Where’s the mother?”

  “Dead. I think she had cancer.” He took a long swallow. “But, like I said, it was hard to get Hiroki to talk.”

  Damon ran a finger along initials carved in the wood table top. For several minutes, he was lost in thought. His face was pale and blue semicircles underscored his eyes.

  Storm wasn’t sure how to alleviate his distress. “You knew the girls pretty well.”

  “Yeah, they’re good friends with my daughters. I don’t know how I can tell Maile that Crystal…that she’s dead.” His voice broke on the little girl’s name, Crystal.

  “You think it will be in the paper?”

  “Oh, shit.” Damon set his glass down with a crack. “I have to tell her tomorrow, don’t I?”

  “Probably. Will their mother tell them?” Storm finished her beer and the waitress brought another before she looked up.

  “She will or someone else. People know my girls are from Maui.” He rubbed his eyes. “This really sucks.”

  “Yeah.”

  Long minutes passed before Storm broke into his thoughts again. He’d almost finished his third—fourth?—beer. She’d lost track of her own, let alone his, but she knew her eyes were starting to droop.

  “Damon, remember what Moana told you. You need to get a good rest tonight if you can. Can I drive you home?”

  “I’m not ready to go yet.”