Two To Mango

by Jill Marie Landis

  “I think she would be pleased. Besides, it’s not that upscale. The artist is a guy from over on the Po’ipu side who sculpts body parts out of bread dough.”

  Louie threw back his head and laughed. “Body parts? Is the show x-rated?”

  Em frowned. “I hope not. I looked him up online. Most of the pieces were arms and legs and feet. Elbows. That kind of thing. Really lifelike. The heads have faces.”

  “Bread dough. Who knew?”

  “Right.”

  “I hope no one ends up taking a bite out of an exhibit. Better keep an eye on Buzzy.”

  “Good idea,” Em agreed.

  Louie stood and shifted the bag of mangos.

  “I’d better start experimenting with the new cocktail before the lunch rush starts.” He headed for the door to the main barroom.

  “I hope you’re planning to take samples over to David Letterman. I think he’s having the DT’s.”

  “Yeah. He nearly bit my hand off this morning when I reached into his cage to refill his water dispenser.”

  “Do you have a name for the new cocktail?”

  “Sure do. Two to Mango.”

  12

  Mitchell’s Big Send Off

  Aloha Mitchell. We (heart) You Mitchell.

  Handmade signs lined both sides of the highway. Weathered scraps of plywood, old surfboards, anything that could be painted had been lettered and propped up against telephone poles or fence posts by the locals to bid aloha to the revered kumu.

  The number of signs multiplied until there was one every few feet as Em drove through Kapa’a and across the Wailua River Bridge. Balloons and bunches of ti leaves marked the entrance of the road to Lydgate Park where signs announced Mitchell’s memorial luau.

  Em turned left and wound her way along the road. She wasn’t anywhere near the event pavilion yet, but she pulled in beside the car in front of her when it suddenly stopped. Better to take a space further back than be bogged in and have to make a U-turn in a crowd.

  Like the parking area, the pavilion was jam-packed when she walked in. The din of five hundred voices resonated off the cement floor and the tin roof of the open air structure. One end was bordered by a tall lava rock wall and wide stage where a troupe of hula dancers swayed to the smooth sounds of a steel guitar accompanied by a dozen ukuleles and guitars.

  Lovely in their matching muumuus and subtle floral hairpieces of waxy red anthuriums and vibrant green fern, the dancers seemed to float across the stage in perfect time to the music. They were definitely not the Hula Maidens.

  Em got in line at a table set up near the entrance. It was customary to bring a card with money tucked inside for the family for occasions and celebrations of this sort. Em reached the table where a line of Hawaiian women of gracious ages lovingly called “aunties” nodded and smiled in thanks and welcome as she expressed her condolences, signed a guest book, and dropped her envelope into a wooden calabash filled with other donations.

  At the end of the table, draped in leis made of precious maile vines from the forest high up on the mountains of Kokee on the West side of Kauai, sat a hand carved koa wood box that had to be two feet wide and a foot high. Em watched as the guest in front of her paused, laid a hand on the lid of the box, bowed his head and closed his eyes. The nearly three hundred pound kumu had been reduced to ash and poured into the koa box.

  Em paused before it when her turn came. She had no idea what to say. She hadn’t known the man. She was here at Roland’s urging. She sighed, closed her eyes and thought of Mitchell Chambers appearing in one last big gig in the sky. Before she moved on she whispered, “Break a leg, Mitchell.”

  Shuffling along with the newcomers around her, Em paused beside the last table in a long line of picnic tables running end to end down the length of a pavilion as long as half a football field. There were five identical rows set up to accommodate the huge crowd. She looked around and spotted Kimo at the back wall near the serving tables. He reached into an ice chest big enough to hold a dead elephant and then popped the ring on a cold Budweiser as she joined him.

  “What a crowd.” Em leaned close so he could hear her over the din.

  “Plenty people here to honor da guy alright.” Kimo took a long chug and drained half the can.

  “Where are the girls?”

  He nodded toward the stage. “Lined up on da right side.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t miss them.”

  “They been standing there thirty minutes already. I hope they go on before I gotta get back and start the prep for dinner.”

  “I told Sophie to close up right after lunch if things got slow.” Sophie and Tiny, Kimo’s part time assistant chef, were the only ones holding down the fort.

  Kiki had the Maidens assembled next to the steps to the right of the stage. For once they were modestly dressed in white ruffled muumuus with sprays of green ferns and white spider lilies in their hair. At least Kiki realized this wasn’t the time or place to risk another wardrobe malfunction.

  The dancers already performing completed their number with a lovely bow, turned as one and filed down the left stairway. Sparky Cloud, local radio personality and politician, was the volunteer emcee.

  “Sparky is Mitchell’s brother-in-law by his third wife’s cousin,” Kimo said.

  “Ah.” Em pretended to understand. Lineage on Kauai was always as complicated as a spider web. When she first arrived she’d tried keeping notes of who was related to who and how, but keeping everybody straight was impossible. She gave up early on.

  Sparky, smooth as a game show host, thanked the retreating dancers and then started in on how Mitchell came from a long line of well-respected kumu. As Sparky went on, the musicians on stage waited patiently, some sipping beer, others staring off into space.

  Em watched Kiki walk along the line of Maidens like a commander reviewing his troops, no doubt issuing orders to stand up straight and smile. When Sparky’s rendition of Mitchell’s qualifications finally ended, the emcee ignored the Maidens and announced Mitchell’s own halau. The dancers had somehow managed to quietly slip up onto the opposite side of the stage and line up. Kiki and the Maidens watched in frustrated silence.

  Under the direction of Kawika Palikekua, dancers dressed in traditional pau skirts, pantaloons, and strapless tops were ushered onto the stage. Kawika preened as proud as a peacock before he sat down cross-legged behind a tall ipu heke, the native double gourd drum used for chanting.

  Even though Kiki was at the opposite end of the pavilion, Em could see the woman was livid. Lillian was ready to cry. Trish was busy snapping photos while diminutive Suzi Matamoto tried to hide her embarrassment. Flora was sipping on her Gatorade bottle.

  The hypnotic beat of the ipu heke filled the pavilion with sound that harkened back to ancient times. Kawika began to chant, and then the dancers joined in. The air in the pavilion reverberated with the sound of his voice.

  Apparently the Maidens weren’t going to perform any time soon, so Em decided to go through the buffet line and then look for Louie. When she reached the serving table crowded with huge aluminum pans filled with familiar luau favorites, she noticed Marilyn was there dishing up rice.

  Watching her plate fill with food as she passed by each server, Em finally reached Louie’s fiancée. Marilyn smiled.

  “Why hello, Em. Rice?” She gestured with the scoop in her hand.

  Em shook her head. “No, thanks. There’s already enough on this plate to fill a cargo plane. I’ll save room for the good stuff.”

  The tall local woman beside Marilyn gave Em a look that clearly said stupid haole. Who didn’t want rice? Em ignored her.

  “Congratulations,” Em told Marilyn. “I haven’t seen you since the big announcement.”

  “Thank you, honey. I hope you’re pleased.”

 
Pleased for Louie, Em thought. “My uncle’s really thrilled.” She changed the subject. “It’s nice of you to help out,” she added.

  Marilyn’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s the least I can do. I so loved the way Mitchell taught hula. He was so kind to me.”

  Em was holding everyone up. A young man in line beside her was shooting daggers.

  “Where is my uncle?” Em asked Marilyn.

  She scooted down to the next server and stared down into an aluminum pan the size of a swimming pool. It was full of chicken lu’au, a dish that looked like a cross between creamed spinach and something that had already been eaten. Em nodded to the server that she’d have some. The mix of chicken pieces, taro leaves and coconut milk tasted a lot better than it looked.

  “Louie is in the middle of the center table. You’ll see his hat,” Marilyn said.

  Em made her way through the line, grabbed some chocolate cake and rice pudding off the dessert table and then spotted Louie right where Marilyn had said he’d be. He saw her too and waved her over to the empty spot beside him.

  She maneuvered her leg over a long picnic bench—no small feat in a sundress while balancing a paper luau tray of food and a plastic cup of passion-orange-guava juice better known as POG. Her paper tray was so full it sagged on both sides.

  Louie pulled chopsticks out of their paper wrapper, snapped them apart and rubbed them together to ward off stray splinters. Em had opted for a plastic fork. He stabbed the chopsticks into the massive pile of traditional luau food, took a big bite of the pork and then smiled.

  “Delish. Dig in.”

  Em learned early on that Hawaiians really knew how to eat. They celebrated every occasion—births, deaths, anniversaries, weddings, birthdays, graduations, funerals, canoe races, rodeos and car wash openings—with mountains of food.

  She’d just taken a bite of slippery chicken long rice when Louie partially rose off the bench to wave at someone.

  “There she is.” He sat back down. “Finally caught her eye.”

  “Marilyn?” Em looked around. Marilyn was still dipping up rice.

  “No, Tiko Scott. We’ve been wanting you to meet her.” Louie nodded toward a petite Asian woman with long dark hair that hung past her waist. She had lovely clear skin and bright black eyes. She was short, no older than early thirties, and very thin.

  No wonder, Em thought. The woman was carrying a plate that only contained green salad.

  Louie introduced them and scooted closer to Em so that Tiko could slip into a sliver of space on the bench beside him. She made the awkward squat and leg lift over the picnic bench appear graceful.

  “Marilyn introduced us,” Louie explained. “Tiki is the owner of Tiko’s Tastee Tropicals.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Em said. “Where’s your place located?”

  Tiko ignored her food and leaned across Louie to be heard over the chanting. “I don’t really have shop yet. I’ve been selling my smoothies at craft fairs and festivals. I make all natural ingredients into powders to add to juices for organic smoothies and drinks. I’m hoping to eventually buy a cart or a wagon so I can be mobile.”

  “Marilyn turned me on to Tiko’s smoothies. They’re great, especially the Kauai Coffee and chocolate chip combo.”

  “I actually use carob instead of chocolate. I’m still trying to decide on a name for that one. Marilyn told me Louie is an expert at inventing names for drinks.”

  “And legends to go with them.” He turned his megawatt smile Em’s way. “I was thinking that it would be great to offer some of Tiko’s drinks at the Goddess. Smoothies are big sellers and we’ve got blenders.” Louie laughed. “I could come up with some socko descriptions.”

  Tiko’s smile was hard to resist. She reminded Em of an exotic jungle fairy. She had the healthy glow of a vegetarian and seemed like a sweet person. But experience warned Em to be wary—and Marilyn had introduced Tiko to Louie.

  The Goddess was a potential gold mine, and Marilyn was smart enough to see that. Em was inclined to heed Kiki’s warnings and be wary of the black widow.

  “How do you know Marilyn?” Em ate a forkful of chicken lu’au.

  “I used to dance with Mitchell’s halau,” Tiko’s smile faded. “I met her there. But since I grow all organic ingredients, I needed to devote more time to my garden and getting the business off the ground. So I quit hula six months ago. Being in a serious halau takes a huge time commitment. It’s a way of life, not just dancing. I really miss it, though.”

  A glance at the stage confirmed as much. The men and women under Kawika’s direction were still chanting and were seated on their knees performing near impossible backbends. Their heads touched the floor behind them as their arms waved in the air.

  Waiting on the floor beside the stage, the Maidens stared in awe. Em hoped Kiki wouldn’t get it in her head to have the women try squatting or backbends or they’d have to call in a backhoe operator to get them up off the floor.

  Tiko toyed with her lettuce as Louie demolished most of the pile on his plate. Em dug into the huge glob of sugary rice pudding and promised herself she would swim an extra twenty minutes tomorrow.

  “Marilyn has been so supportive,” Tiko said. “She’s always buying my mixes. Even though she’s not dancing with them anymore, she makes shakes for the halau when she’s in town on class day.”

  “So what do you think?” Louie leaned closer to Em. “I’d like to buy a couple of cartons of Tiko’s mixes and feature them on the Goddess menu for kids and non-drinkers.”

  “We can certainly think about it.”

  She’d also been thinking about Louie copyrighting his drink menu because, according to their new next door neighbor, a television script writer, Louie’s recipes were original, inventive, and worthy of publication. Tropical drink recipe books were popular staples for tourists to take back to the mainland. If he planned to write descriptions for the smoothies, she’d have to look into the rights to them, and she reminded herself to see about copyrighting the Goddess drink menu.

  “I’ll have a booth at the Kukui Nut Festival,” Tiko said. “Stop by and sample some of the smoothies if you’re there.”

  “Sounds good,” Em nodded, anxious to talk to Tiko a bit longer. Though Tiko had left Mitchell’s halau months before Shari Kaui died, she might have some insight into what—if anything—was going on.

  Wild applause filled the pavilion. Em couldn’t decide whether the audience was truly appreciative or just thankful Mitchell’s former halau was finally finished.

  Louie excused himself, gathered up Em and Tiko’s empty plates and headed for the trash cans surrounding the pavilion. The jovial Sparky was at the mic again.

  “Mahalo, mahalo, Kawika. What a tribute to Mitchell, to know that his dances and choreography will live on under your guidance and aloha.”

  There was more clapping and hooting and shouts of “Hana hou!” a complimentary ovation from the audience for the performers to “work harder” and do another number. A smiling Kawika took the mic from the emcee.

  He waited until there was complete silence before he spoke. Even from across the huge venue, she could see the tears welling in his eyes. “I am so honored to teach this fine group of dancers. Of course, I wish Mitchell were still here. And we all know that our beloved Shari Kaui is the one who really should be standing here before you accepting all this applause. She’s the one who should be kumu now, but Ke Auka has seen fit to take them both . . .”

  With a dramatic pause, Kawika mournfully swung his gaze heavenward for a moment. When he looked out at the crowd again, he appeared to have to force himself to smile through his sorrow. “But . . . the show must go on, and so I vow to do my very best to live up to the standards Mitchell instilled in us. Mahalo again, and again, and again for your support. Oh, and anyone who cares to donate to our halau fund for the per
petuation of hula just go to our website, dubya dubya dubya dot hulahalauolalaula dot org. We’ve got photos and calendars and handmade hula implements for sale too. Just click on gift shop.” He started to hand the mic back to Sparky, stopped and added one more, “Mahalo again.”

  Beside Em, Tiko wiped away tears.

  “This must be hard for you,” Em whispered.

  Tiko nodded. “My heart will always be with my hula brothers and sisters. Mitchell was a wonderful man and a gifted teacher.”

  Em waited a moment before she made like a curious haole. “The Shari that Kawika just mentioned? Who was she?”

  Tiko sighed. “Shari should have been the next kumu, but she was very ill and passed a few months ago. So terrible.”

  Em fished for a way to work Jackie Loo Tong into the conversation and get Tiko’s take on the man. Was Tiko at all suspicious of the two deaths so close together?

  13

  The Honk-In

  Before Em figured out how to bring up the rival kumu’s name, Kawika’s dancers began to leave the stage.

  Kiki and the Maidens perked up expectantly. Most of them anyway. The chanting had put Flora in a hula coma, face down, butt up, draped over the edge of the stage. Trish handed her camera off to someone sitting in front then shook Flora on the shoulder and roused her. Suzi waved at someone in the crowd. Big Estelle stood at the end of the line glaring down at Little Estelle, who’d parked her scooter next to the stage. Mother and daughter were arguing as usual. Flora finally stood up, yanked on the neckline of her muumuu, blinking around in a daze.

  Em suddenly noticed another halau was slipping into position near the stairs across the stage from the Maidens. She held her breath and watched Kiki’s face go from painted on blush to livid purple.

  “And now,” Sparky Cloud shouted into the mic, “the reknowned Oahu halau from Kaimuki would like to . . .”

  Em expected Kiki to rush the emcee, but before Kiki could move, Little Estelle laid on the horn on her Gad-About. The shrill toot toot toooooooooooot echoed around the pavilion.