Primitive Secrets

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  The glow of kitchen lights beckoned. A yellow rectangle widened as the front door opened and a broad silhouette passed through it. By the time Storm was abreast of the house and had turned off the engine, Aunt Maile was beside the car. In the light that reached from the windows, her white teeth gleamed and her dark eyes sparked merriment.

  The moment Storm’s feet hit the gravel of the drive, the women had their arms around each other. Storm leaned against Aunt Maile. She inhaled the sweet aroma of puakenikeni growing on shrubs beside the house. Maile probably had blossoms in her hair.

  “Where have you been, child? We were almost ready to send out a search party.”

  “I’ll tell you when we get inside,” Storm said. She took another grateful breath of blossom-scented air.

  The inside of the house looked exactly the same. Uncle Keone’s worn cowboy boots sat on a colorful braided rug by the door. His newspaper had dropped from his hand and drifted across the floor from his favorite reading chair. He awoke with a few snorts when the women came through the door. Storm reached him halfway across the room and they clasped each other in a tight embrace.

  “Kid, you wait too long fo’ come visit,” he said when he released her. His face creased into deep squint and laugh lines, carved by years of riding the range of Parker Ranch. Uncle Keone, like the other paniolo who rode the thousands of acres that reached from the sea up the slopes of Mauna Kea, was proud of the fact that it was one of the largest privately owned cattle ranches in the United States.

  Maile gave him a swat with part of the paper that she’d picked up from the koa-planked flooring. “Hey, gotta use bettah English—no pidgin. Practice, you.”

  She peered at Storm and frowned. “You look tired and pale, almost like one haole.” She swayed her wide muumuu into the kitchen. “Storm, you want cuppa tea or one beer? Sit and tell us everything.”

  Storm had only enough energy to follow obediently. Uncle Keone was used to following Maile’s directions. He grinned at Storm and they both dropped into chairs at the kitchen table. “Beer, please,” Keone said.

  Maile cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “I’m thirsty,” he explained and shrugged at Storm.

  “I’ll have one too,” Storm said.

  Maile set two longnecks on the table, then plopped a tea bag into a mug. She lowered her voluminous flowered dress into the chair. “’Bout time you’re here. Poor Miles Hamasaki. How he wen’ make, anyway? A heart attack? Tell the whole story.” She slurped her tea, ignored Uncle Keone’s glare at her own pidgin for the word “die,” and focused her keen black eyes on Storm.

  Storm took a long pull on her beer and noted with satisfaction that her hands were no longer trembling. She gave her head a shake to unjumble her exhausted thoughts and looked into their wise, weathered faces. “Someone followed me from Hilo. He ran into the back of my car, then I think he went off the cliff at the turn before Laupahoehoe.”

  “Lord, honey! Was he drunk?” Maile asked. Uncle Keone set his beer down with a thud and sat up straighter in his chair.

  Storm nodded. “I thought so at first, but he wasn’t. He was trying to force me off the road.”

  “He’d have to be lolo, crazy screw-loose.” Maile sat back in her chair, aghast. “Why would someone do that?”

  “I think someone believes I have information they either need or want to hide.” Storm gulped from her beer, took a deep breath, then told them about finding Hamasaki’s briefcase and the burglary of her home.

  “What do the police say?”

  “The Honolulu police don’t know about the car that followed me tonight. So far, most of them think I’ve been a victim of random crime.”

  Both Maile and Keone stared at her. “What’s the world comin’ to?” Maile whispered.

  Storm frowned into her beer. “One detective might be starting to wonder.”

  “Did you call the police about the accident tonight?” Keone asked.

  “Yes, I called 911, but I got tired of waiting.”

  “Storm, they’ll want to talk to you,” Keone said.

  Aunt Maile squinted at her. “That call will have gone to the Kamuela police. It’ll be a while before the Big Island cops and the Honolulu cops put the situations together.”

  “We gotta talk to them, tell ‘em the whole story,” Keone said.

  “I don’t know anything about the guy that was following me. I couldn’t even see his license plates. And even you thought at first that he was some drunk.”

  “You act jus’ like city folk. They never want to get involved.” Keone shook his head, disgruntled. “You need to be here, where people take care of each other.”

  Storm’s chest burned with fear, frustration, and loneliness. This was the end of a trying day. “I get here often enough. You sent me away, remember?” She had had no intention of bringing up the past, but the words bubbled out of her mouth, unbidden. She stuck the rim of the sweating Budweiser bottle in her mouth and took a deep swallow.

  Aunt Maile looked at her without flinching, her eyes dark and moist with emotion. Storm had the feeling she’d anticipated this for a long time.

  Exhausted, Storm’s emotions rose to the surface and pricked through the half-healed scars of loss. “Why did you send me off with Uncle Miles in the middle of my sophomore year of high school?” she asked, her throat tight.

  Uncle Keone snorted. “That gang you ran with and those pakalõlõpl…” He grabbed for his shin under the table.

  Storm stared. Oh. They’d known all along about her patch of marijuana plants, ten feet high, covered with sensimilla, tenderly cultivated with Parker Ranch’s finest manure. They’d never said a word. She had been going to put a down payment on an old Harley one of the guys in Honoka’a had for sale. Talk about counting your chickens.

  Aunt Maile took a sip of tea. “Ah, darlin’. You were one angry wahine those days.” She set her mug down as if it were the finest porcelain. “Remember the leather jacket you got for Christmas that year, right before your dad died?”

  Storm nodded. She had loved it, almost as much as the motorcycle she had her eye on. Maybe more. The bike was a bit scary. “Well, Miles Hamasaki gave that to you,” Maile said. “He’d been sending gifts ever since your dad’s health really went down hill. Acted like they were from your dad and always said not to tell you.”

  “Why?” Storm asked, frowning. So they hadn’t been from her dad. She didn’t feel that gut-wrench of surprise, only an eddy of melancholy acceptance.

  “He said you wouldn’t like it. You reminded him of himself at sixteen.”

  Storm took a gulp of beer. He was right. She would have hated it. She had hated most adult attention those days, unless the person had some high-quality blow and a fast bike. She’d hated Hamasaki for taking her away from Pa’auilo, but she’d seen his good intentions in about six months. Plus, by that time she and Martin had established rapport as mutual hell-raisers. And, one more thing. Hamasaki was helping her with her arguments for the debate team at the new school, and they were kicking ass. That’s when some of her classmates started to call her “pit bull.” And contrary to the core, she loved it. But mostly, she loved arguing and winning.

  Aunt Maile sighed softly. “We missed you terribly.”

  Storm picked at the label on her bottle. “Even after ten years on O’ahu, this is still home.”

  Maile’s eyes filled with tears and Uncle Keone stared at the tabletop while he cleared his throat a few times. Storm reached across the table and took their hands in each of hers. “Look, we’ll get to the bottom of this accident. I don’t want you to worry too much.”

  “The police here may not be too sympathetic.” Maile’s expression was a warning.

  Storm sighed. She knew Maile didn’t want to bring up Storm’s colorful past again. “I know. I’m a little worried about that.”

  “You’ll go talk to them first thing tomorrow?” Keone asked. />
  “Yeah, I can barely hold my head up now.”

  The kitchen clock said almost one o’clock. Aunt Maile and Uncle Keone looked exhausted, too.

  When Storm woke up, her blinds were drawn and she was sleeping in her underpants and the tee-shirt she’d been wearing last night. Although she had no memory of undressing, her jeans were planted by the bed as if she’d peeled them off and fallen face forward. Aunt Maile must have tiptoed in this morning and pulled the window shades so she’d sleep in. Storm peered at her watch, then looked again. She hadn’t slept till eleven o’clock since her late-partying school days. She felt about as bad, too. A headache lingered behind her eyeballs, warning against any quick movements.

  A shower and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee improved Storm’s energy level. Aunt Maile must have heard her rummaging around, because when Storm made her beeline to the kitchen, her aunt pointed to a mug of strong brew in front of the chair opposite her own. The older woman sat with her own cup and the morning paper propped at arm’s length.

  “Good morning, dear. Just poured it.” She shoved the paper toward Storm and went to the stove. “I don’t know how this story got to the press in time for the morning paper. Of course, this is pretty exciting news around here.”

  Kwi Choy of Honolulu, 20, died when the Chevrolet Impala he drove smashed through the guardrail on the Mimalahoa Highwaye Ocean currents carried Choy, still inside the car, to Waipuna Stream, where he was discovered early this morninge Hilo resident Tong Choy reported the car stolen at two aeme from the street in front of his homee Police are seeting more information regarding the accidente

  Storm skimmed the top story on the front page, then looked up at her aunt. “This guy Choy reported his car missing long after the accident. He noticed in the middle of the night?”

  “Maybe he had insomnia.” “Right.” Aunt Maile peered over her reading glasses at Storm and shrugged. “Just trying to be the devil’s advocate.” “Yeah, or maybe he gets up to walk the dog.” “What?” Aunt Maile looked at her and frowned. “These guys have the same last name. It’s a common one, but I don’t like the coincidence. You know many people in Hilo?” “Some. I’ll ask around.”

  Storm propped her chin in one hand and siphoned off a noisy swallow of coffee. “I told you about Tom Sakai last night, didn’t I?”

  “Tom Sakai? No, but I know that name. Bebe Fernandez asked me for some special herbs for him a couple weeks ago. They only grow here, high on the slopes of Mauna Kea.” Aunt Maile put a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Storm. “Since we learned lapa‘aa from the same kapana, we share ideas on treatment.”

  “So she’s on O’ahu?” Storm set her fork down with a click.

  “Sure, in Waianae. She’s the best healer in the islands.”

  “How’s Tom doing?”

  “He’s pretty sick. Doing chemotherapy, too.”

  Storm knew better than to get into a discussion comparing traditional Hawaiian healing to Western medical techniques. “I found Sakai’s file in Hamasaki’s briefcase, but he never handled medical cases.”

  “Maybe he was going to hand the case over to his partner but never got the chance.”

  Storm nodded. “That’s possible. But I don’t think he would talk about either Sakai or O’Toole’s problems without asking them first.”

  Maile sat down at the table with a grunt. She picked up her tea without looking at Storm.

  “Do you think I could talk to Tom?” Storm asked.

  “I wondered if that’s what you were getting at.” Maile thought for a moment. “Bebe needs those herbs and I could send them with you. It’s the safest, fastest way of getting them there.” She peered at her niece. “Do you really believe that a sick man can give you any useful information? Enough to warrant disturbing him and his family?”

  “I’ll be very careful when I tell him about the file. I’ll just ask him if he knew Hamasaki.”

  Maile frowned. “You take those herbs to Bebe, then let her decide.” She pointed to the newspaper. “Meanwhile, you’d better go to the police before they come to you.”

  “Right.” Storm ate the rest of her eggs. She would never cook them for herself and they tasted wonderful. After the last bite, she tried to help clean up the kitchen, but Aunt Maile shooed her out.

  Storm drove into Waimea, where the principal police station for this side of the island was located. A dark-haired woman in the familiar blue uniform smiled up at her from a desk. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, could I talk to you about the accident that happened last night?”

  The woman put down her pen. “You need to talk to Chief Mendoza. Let me check if he’s free. What’s your name, please?” She picked up her phone and pushed a button.

  Chief? Shit.

  Mendoza stood behind the woman’s desk by the time she’d placed her receiver back in the cradle. “Kayama. You’re back.” His hair was still slicked straight back, but its raven sheen was silvery gray and he’d gained fifty pounds.

  “Nice to see you, too, Chief Mendoza.” Well, what else could she say?

  He exhaled through his nose with a puff that reminded Storm of a Percheron and caused the woman cop’s smile to diminish a watt or two. “Let’s talk in my office.”

  The office was bigger than Storm remembered, and the walls were covered with pictures. Mendoza with the mayor of Hawai’i, the mayor of Honolulu, and Jack Lord of “Hawaii Five-O.” That one was from the days Storm lived on the Big Island and Mendoza was still a sergeant.

  “Have a seat.” Mendoza pointed to a chair, then perched his substantial behind on the edge of the desk. He glared down at her and folded his arms. She looked up and noticed that her neck was stiff from the ordeal last night.

  “We got your call. Why didn’t you stay at the scene?” he said.

  “Chief Mendoza, I was so upset, it was all I could do to dial the number. I grew too tired to wait.”

  “Did you stop when you heard the crash?”

  “Yes, but I couldn’t see anything. So I drove to Laupahoehoe, where I could safely pull off the road and call.”

  “The car Kwi was driving was white. It had metallic blue paint on the front bumper. If I look at your car, will I find that it matches?”

  “Of course. He rammed me from behind.”

  “And you fled the scene of a fatal accident, which is a felony.”

  Ten years ago, Mendoza’s bullying would have terrified her. This morning, it made her mad. She stood up and looked down at Mendoza’s seated bulk and folded her arms like his. “Chief Mendoza, I reported the accident. He rammed me, dropped back, rammed me again, and went over the side. The marks on both cars will corroborate my story.”

  Mendoza narrowed his little black eyes. “We’ll see. Why would he do that?”

  “Chief Mendoza, I’m reporting not only an accident, but an assault. The why part is your job.”

  Mendoza stood up. “You have your car outside? I want to see it.” He opened the door. “Hamasaki can’t get you out of trouble anymore. If you’re involved in any of your old shenanigans, I’ll bust you flatter’n a cockroach.”

  Mendoza looked at the rental’s crumpled fenders. He walked around the car twice, opened the doors, looked under the front seat, and sniffed around the dashboard, punctuating his search with grunts and snorts. He slammed the driver’s side door so hard the car rocked. “Watch yourself,” he said and went back in the station house.

  Carefully obeying the speed limit while her blood pressure threatened to blow the top of her head off, Storm drove north to her aunt’s and uncle’s home. No one appeared to follow her. It was hard to know which sight would have upset her more in the rearview mirror, a police car or an anonymous sedan.

  Twenty minutes later, she found a note from Aunt Maile on the kitchen counter saying that she was doing errands and would be back in an hour; when the day cooled off, they would go pick herbs. Storm stil
l seethed at the confrontation with Mendoza, but now she realized that what upset her most was the memory of her past put on display. She paced the floor for a few minutes and mentally reviewed the conversation. Mendoza was a jerk, but he was right about her leaving the scene of the accident. Still, she didn’t feel that she could ask him for help if she needed it. What she needed was to go for a run, burn off the frustration, and think about the situation.

  The gravel roads around Pa’auilo were wonderful for running. There was very little traffic and the few drivers who passed waved with big grins on their faces. The air was humid, cool, and smelled of sweet grass and the faint perfume of, well, cow manure.

  Storm found her rhythm in ten minutes, then jogged without fatigue. When she turned around in the middle of the dirt road to head back, she was inhaling deep, cleansing breaths and she had left the conflict of the morning in the dust of the road.

  Clearheaded, she reviewed the events of the drive from Hilo last night. When she left the house this morning, dreading the visit to the police, she had the feeling that she’d left something undone. With a jolt, Storm realized that she had intended to call Lorraine. If the whole thing with Kwi Choy hadn’t been just a crazy accident, then someone believed Storm knew something damaging. That person might figure Lorraine knew it, too.

  Maile was in the kitchen, chopping the tops off carrots and stowing them in the refrigerator when Storm came in sweaty from her run. Maile watched with a wide-eyed, bemused expression when Storm burst into the kitchen and grabbed the phone.

  Storm shifted her weight from one foot to the other and counted the rings. From past conversations, Storm knew that Lorraine and her husband went to the farmer’s market and Chinatown on Saturdays for their weekly vegetable shopping. It was an activity they enjoyed together and Lorraine frequently related the bargains they found to colleagues at the office. Storm left a message for Lorraine to call her immediately and hung up the phone. “I’ll try again later.”