Wang stood, motioned Storm and a couple of the associates into chairs, then began the meeting. He told the group that a formal reading of Hamasaki’s will would be done with the family the next morning, but that Hamasaki had written certain stipulations for the benefit of the firm, in addition to the formal partnership agreement, to be read in the event of his death.
Wang’s face was smooth as an eggshell. He read paragraphs that ensured Storm’s position as a law clerk until she had passed the bar. At that time, the firm was to consider her employment as an associate. Nice try, Uncle Miles, she thought. Except that no one here is bound legally by this document and you, my main defender, are gone.
Lorraine was to stay employed until her seventieth birthday or until she wanted to retire, whichever came first. Certain cases, procedures, and employment details were discussed. He even recommended a system of checks and balances among the partners. At the conclusion, everyone in the room seemed thoughtful. They went back to their offices with little interaction.
Storm waited for Wang. “When did he write this?”
Wang looked down at the cover sheet. “About two months ago. Not long after you were hired as a full-time clerk.” He put the papers into a file folder. “He has, I mean had, some good ideas.”
“Yes, he understood a lot about people’s needs.”
Wang’s hands stopped and he looked carefully at Storm’s face. “I agree.”
Storm dragged her feet down the corridor to her office. For the last couple of years, she had worked part-time at the firm to defray law school expenses. She was the gopher, paper-filer, copier, and firm librarian. Two months ago, she had begun to work full-time, with real benefits like health insurance. Yet Uncle Miles had thought it necessary to issue a directive protecting her and Lorraine, and implementing certain procedures at the firm. Storm had never seen any interpersonal fireworks at the firm, but now she wondered if Hamasaki had known about competition and insecurities among the partners that were hidden from the staff.
Do lawyers learn to anticipate the unexpected, cover themselves for contingencies? Maybe the elderly begin to prepare for their absence as if they were putting the dog at the vet’s for a long vacation. Or had Hamasaki known, somehow, that his days were limited?
Chapter 7
Storm was buried in files when the phone jerked her attention to the present. She nearly knocked over a cup of cold coffee in her grab for the offending receiver.
It was only Martin’s voice on the line that kept her from barking with impatience at the interruption. “I’m calling to remind you of your dinner date.”
“Would you think I was a rat if I begged off tonight? I’m still full from lunch and if I don’t get in touch with my boyfriend, he’ll forget my name.”
“He’s not worth your time if he does,” Martin said. “But okay. Mom’s pretty tired. I think it’ll be a quick bite.”
“You know Cunningham is going to read the will tomorrow?” Storm asked.
“Right. We’ll see you at ten-thirty, then?”
“You bet.” Storm hung up and looked at her watch. It was five-fifteen and her eyes burned from reading and fatigue. She picked up the phone and dialed Rick’s number. His answering machine picked up again and she told it that she’d be there around six-thirty. All he needed to do was heat up the grill.
Storm looked out her small window toward the Waianae mountain range, where the sun flamed vermilion and lavender in its descent to the ocean. She’d see the Hamasaki family in the morning. It would be nice to see Rick, get away from the office reminders of Hamasaki’s death.
Storm stuffed papers into her computer case, hit the lights, and paused in the hallway. The light was on under Meredith Wo’s door and Hamlin’s. Hamlin emerged from his office and waved to her, then turned in the opposite direction toward Wo’s office. He had the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up and the collar unbuttoned. Storm watched the door close on his tailored behind. Not bad. She snorted softly at her own reaction. Driving home, she reflected, not for the first time, on how a brush with death forged attachments to the basic functions of life. The sight of a nice okole, like Hamlin’s backside disappearing into Wo’s office, could give a soul an infusion of juice.
Storm picked her footing along the flagstones to the cottage and watched Fang trot toward her. She grinned at the cat. Having a warm fuzzy greet her after work was pretty nice, even if it was hungry. “Hey, girl.” Storm leaned down to stroke the purring creature.
The cat followed her into the house and headed directly for the kitchen. Storm stopped in the sitting room, where she dumped her laptop and satchel on the sofa and noted with relief that Uncle Miles’ folder sat on the floor by her reading chair.
She hustled into the kitchen, where the cat stood, meowing in front of the refrigerator door. “Good grief, I’m coming.” Storm swung open the refrigerator door. The half-full milk carton definitely smelled funky, but behind it hid a chunk of cheddar. Except for one cracked and dry side, it was in pretty good shape. “You’ll have to work on this until I get home with some real food.” She put it down in front of the cat.
“Mrrowww.” Fang picked up the cheese and walked off to a corner of the kitchen, where she lay down with the orange cube between her paws and began to gnaw. Crumbs scattered around her.
“Out.” Storm held open the front door. The cat, cheese morsel clamped between her teeth and drool seeping down her lower jaw, ambled outside.
Storm changed into a dark red silk tank top and a pair of black jeans. She looped a jade pendant on a black silk cord around her neck and seized her purse. When the phone rang, she considered letting her answering machine get it, then picked it up. “Hello?”
No answer. Probably someone on a cell phone who forgot that Diamond Head blocked transmission of radio waves. Storm grabbed her keys and headed for the car. Whoever it was could try again and leave a message.
At the grocery, Storm picked up a chocolate dobash cake, put it at the far end of the cart where she wouldn’t be tempted to sample the frosting, then headed for the fresh fish counter. A big chunk of ahi sat on ice. She had the butcher cut two filets, then picked up a bottle of Yoshida’s Teriyaki sauce on the way to the produce section. Rick would have rice; all she needed to get were green onions and sesame seeds for the teriyaki sauce, arugula and avocado for a fresh salad. Oh yeah, that would be good with some mandarin orange slices and she’d better get some sesame oil and balsamic vinegar for the dressing. Her own vinaigrette would be better than the three bottles of Ranch that Rick usually had in his fridge.
She went to the wine section of the store and faltered. She wasn’t confident in choosing wine and didn’t have time to call Leila. With a touch of frustration, she put a bottle of Chardonnay and a Merlot in her basket and walked away. Almost at the checkout stand, Storm made a U-turn and headed for the pet aisle. She had nearly forgotten Fang.
Fifteen minutes later, Storm was climbing the stairs to Rick’s house in upper Makiki, arms laden with dinner supplies. He shared the house with a couple and their young daughter; they had the lower floor and he had the upper, complete with a small kitchen of his own. She had been a little worried that he had not retrieved her message after work, but his car was sitting out front.
When Storm knocked at the door, all was still. She waited a moment, knocked again, then opened the door and walked inside to the kitchen. “Rick?” she called out. Maybe he’d lain down for a nap. No answer, but there was a big pot of chili simmering on the stove. It smelled great, and Storm set her groceries down and peered at it, momentarily disappointed. Oh well. Chili was better the next day. They could still cook the filets.
“Rick? Hello?” she said. She wandered a few steps into the hallway and heard the sound of the shower.
When she heard a high-pitched giggle, Storm stopped dead. There must be some explanation. Maybe the family below was having a plumbing problem and borrowed Rick’s facili
ties. She walked six more feet to the bedroom, nearly tripping over lacy underwear lying on top of some flowered garment and a man’s shirt just outside the door.
Storm peeked inside, then stopped. She felt as if someone had hit her in the chest with a bag of hot charcoal. The king-sized bed was unmade, blankets were strewn to the floor, and twisted sheets formed a rumpled playground. Sweat and sex perfumed the air.
Storm ran back to the kitchen and braced herself against the counter. Her shaking elbow knocked the grocery bag against the hot chili pot. The merlot bottle bounced to the floor and its long neck broke off at the shoulders. Red wine bled across the linoleum.
Storm pushed the remaining groceries across the counter, away from the stove, and looked at the chili pot with narrowed eyes. She clenched her teeth and pulled the ladle out of the pan. Some of the hot sauce dribbled across her left arm, and she flung the ladle toward the sink with a yelp. Beans scattered along the path of the clattering utensil. Sauce splattered as high as the white cabinets.
Fury blotted out all thought except confronting the self-serving, two-timing, lie-spewing boob she’d called a boyfriend. She picked up two oven mitts from beside the stove and grabbed the handles of the big kettle. The mitts were a bit thin and the heat from the pot stung, but the pain was just bearable and it drove her on, down the hall, past the noisy, steam-filled bathroom, to the bedroom.
Her hands were shaking so badly that when she paused in the doorway, chili slopped over the side of the kettle onto the lovers’ underwear and onto a corner of the trailing sheet. Until that moment, she was mad as a screaming teakettle, but without a plan. She’d had some vague concept about announcing to Rick that she’d come to dinner, also.
The chunky blotch on the sheet triggered a notion. She marched to the bed and upended the chili over the middle of the mattress. Lumpy sauce dribbled across the clothes and continued to the bedding on the floor. With a final burst of wrath, she flung the pot onto the mess and hurled the mitts on top of the steaming pile.
“Take that, you red-hot asshole!” She stomped down the hall. At the door, her hands trembled so badly that she required three slippery tries at the doorknob. A couple of kidney beans stuck, crushed, on the white paint of the door. Halfway down the stairs, she turned and stormed back into the ravaged kitchen, gathered the remains of her groceries, and slammed out again.
Two miles and ten minutes later, stuck in rush hour traffic on H-1, Storm burst into tears. She cried all the way to the Koko Head exit, barely keeping her eyelids apart so she could see the line of red-starred brake lights in front of her.
This was too much on top of Uncle Miles’ death. How could Rick betray her on the heels of Uncle Miles’ desertion? Desertion? A whiff of self-knowledge brushed her. The raging tears were more for Uncle Miles than for Rick. And they came from even deeper, from when her mother had left.
Lani Kayama’s desperate, tear-spotted note of explanation to a twelve-year-old Storm couldn’t wring understanding from a forsaken adolescent. Storm, the adult, still felt the wounds and anger of abandonment.
From Twelfth Avenue to Diamond Head Road, Storm drew deep, shuddering breaths. When her eyes stopped streaming, she clenched the steering wheel and forced herself to count twelve more deep breaths.
What was commitment, anyway? Hadn’t Rick deserved that mess? Was it just her idealistic fancy that once you slept with someone, you were faithful until at least telling the other person otherwise? And what was the commitment of a parent to a child?
Her mind skittered around that thought and she gladly steered the car to the curb in front of her home. Maybe she had been too buried in law books to keep abreast of social conventions among the single crowd.
She was feeling a touch of remorse about the chili. Maybe it would have been better to fling open the bathroom door and watch them cope with her contemptuous glare. Some choice expressions flitted through her mind. She could always think of something she should have said after the moment. In fact, she could be brilliant a day later.
Storm was stumbling along the flagstones to her door when Fang met her halfway, wailing. “Oh, yeah, the groceries. I promised you cat food for dinner.” Storm plodded back to her car, opened the passenger’s door, and rummaged around in the front seat. In her anger, she had thrown the grocery bags on top of one another and items now rolled around on the floor of the car. Storm dug out the food and carefully stacked everything into the bags so the greens wouldn’t be any more crushed than they already were. The cake box had frosting stuck all over the cellophane lid. Maybe she’d just eat the bloody cake for dinner, her hips be damned.
Rational behavior was returning in sporadic bursts, although she stamped up the walk with anger toward Rick in every footfall. Behind her, in the jungle of plumeria and papaya trees that made up her front yard, she heard a door slam. The neighbors traveled so much, she never could keep track of their comings and goings. Fang followed about six feet behind. As Storm made her way to the door, the cat bawled again, louder.
“Don’t be pushy. I’m not in the mood.” Hands loaded, she swiped at her cheek with a shoulder to satisfy the itch of a droplet of sweat running down the side of her face.
The cat turned and trotted away from the house, looked back, and jogged back to Storm. She meowed again, drawing out the noise like an alley cat.
“I told you, stop scolding.” Storm felt around for her house keys, glad that she’d stopped earlier to change her clothes and get out of her heeled pumps. The silk of her shirt clung to her back and sides.
The cat got on the front step and wailed. Storm set down one bag and opened the outside screen door. It wasn’t until she had the keys pointed toward the lock of the inside door that she realized it already stood ajar.
She froze, trying to recall what she’d done when she’d left. She’d locked the door. Fang was quiet, now, and looked up at her with eyes that glowed yellow in the fading light.
Chapter 8
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Storm said to the cat. She set the grocery bags down next to the front door and jogged back to the car.
She drove straight to Leila’s house, where Robbie gleefully called 911. Leila insisted on going back with Storm to meet the police.
Two cops arrived and asked Storm, Leila, and Robbie to wait outside for a few moments. After about five minutes, they called for Storm. “He’s gone. Take a look around and see if anything is missing. We’ll dust for prints, but unless the kid’s got a record, it won’t do us much good,” the younger man told her.
“Kid?”
“Yeah, break-ins like these, it’s usually kids lookin’ for money, jewelry, something they can sell quick.”
Storm stared at him. She’d mentioned the mugging yesterday, but neither cop seemed to think this event was related to it. “Have there been other burglaries on my block?”
“We’ll check, ma’am.” He turned to one of the uniforms that had just arrived and sent her off to poll the neighbors. “Ask if they saw any unfamiliar cars or kids wandering around.”
Storm walked around her living room in a daze. The emotional slam of the last hour made it hard for her to see details. What she felt most strongly was that the safe ambiance of her home had been defiled. Furniture still sat where it should, but the room was growing dark and though the temperature was near eighty, the place felt chilled.
The police began to pack up their tools and fingerprint powder. They told Storm that the burglar had picked the lock, a bit unusual for kids, but these things were happening more these days. The older policeman, who talked a stream while he filled out his report, expounded on the availability of catalogues and websites that sold lock picks, night scopes, and whatever espionage gear your everyday maniac desired. He clucked his tongue and wagged his head from side to side, then pushed his glasses up on his nose and recorded a few more notes. A few minutes later, the police left with a promise to call Storm if they got any fingerpr
int matches or leads. She was to call them if she noticed anything missing.
Storm and Leila looked at each other across the violated living room. “Leila, I don’t like this. Not after yesterday.”
“You’re going to spend the night with us,” Leila said. “Robbie, wait.” He was heading down the short hall to the bathroom.
“No one’s here, Leila. The police checked everywhere.” Storm’s voice was a monotone and she stood unmoving by the sofa. “I think I will spend the night with you guys, though.”
“Let’s see if anything’s missing, then we’ll go,” Leila said.
Storm walked back to her bedroom. Drawers were dumped on the floor and her jewelry box was upended so that her little pile of costume jewelry looked like a tray at the Salvation Army thrift shop.
She felt the need to make noise and shouted back to Leila. “Take a look around the living room again, will you? Is the VCR still there? It’s brand new.”
Robbie came out of the bathroom, the toilet flushing behind him. “No one was in there. You left the top off your toothpaste.”
When Storm came out of the bedroom, Leila was standing in the living room again. “Nothing missing in the kitchen and your VCR is right where it should be. Looks like you scared him off.”
Storm stood next to her friend, frowning. “Yeah, maybe. The three twenties I left on the dresser are gone, but I dropped my work clothes in kind of a heap on the floor and my good pearls are still at the bottom of the pile.” She looked around. “I left my laptop in the car and…Hey! The file’s gone!”
“What?” Leila and Robbie looked at her with wide eyes.
“I brought home some of Uncle Miles’s papers. They were lying on the floor in a folder.” She pointed to the spot on the sisal rug next to her reading chair.
“You sure?” Robbie asked.
“Positive. I saw them when I came home from work earlier.” Storm dropped to the floor, cross-legged, and sank her head between her hands. “Wang is going to fire my ass.”
Primitive Secrets Page 4
