Murder at Makapu'u

by Chip Hughes

  “You still might be able to bring charges against him for molestation. He could be tried for both,” I say. “That way, he might never get out.”

  “I’ve thought about that. But after all these years it wouldn’t change anything for me and only bring shame on my family.”

  Her recital of abuse continues. Even if I already didn’t have my own suspicions about her stepfather, even if I weren’t inclined to take a case like this, how could I refuse her? It looked like a lost cause from the get-go—trying to turn an accident or a suicide into a homicide. But lost causes are one of my specialties.

  The pleasant amenities of flying first class keep coming, despite Marie’s dark revelations. If only a scented steaming towel could wipe them away. Lunch is soon served: squash ratatouille for Marie and tenderloin of beef for me, followed by hot fudge sundaes prepared to order. Hearing out Marie doesn’t leave me much appetite, but I sample everything. I may never fly this high again.

  After eleven hours in the air we finally touch down at one in the afternoon in San Francisco. My body thinks it’s bedtime. And it is, in Paris.

  We clear customs, recheck our luggage, and prepare to lay over until our Honolulu flight. Marie waves a blue card that gets us into the airline’s elite flyers lounge where we wait in relative comfort. She excuses herself to have another cigarette.

  “A bad habit Pierre taught me,” she says when she returns.

  “He wasn’t such a prince after all?”

  “He was fine,” Marie says. “I miss him. But smoking wasn’t his only vice. Pierre had other women.”

  “So he was a philanderer, like your stepfather said?”

  “Pierre wasn’t devious. In fact, I wish he would have been a little less open about it. You saw some of his women.”

  “I did?”

  “The nude paintings in our Rue Saint-Dominique bedroom.”

  “All of them?”

  “Well, probably not all.”

  “And you were okay with that?”

  “Actually, no. I was seriously thinking of leaving Pierre and coming back home to Hawai‘i. But I didn’t want to be anywhere near my stepfather.”

  “You’re coming home now.”

  “Yes, to confront him. If all goes well, he’ll finally pay for what he’s done.”

  “That’s a big ‘if,’” I reply.

  “I’ll take that chance,” she says.

  Soon we board our flight to Honolulu. We’re in first class again. Domestic first class. Not international. No sleeper seats. No champagne. I hardly care. I look at all the fresh faces aboard primed for their Hawaiian vacations. All I want is sleep.

  After takeoff, I keep awake long enough to ask Marie where she’s staying on O‘ahu.

  “In Kailua,” she says. “At Vivienne’s house. She’s so lovely. She’s letting me use her car, too. Her caretaker will meet me in Kailua this evening.”

  “Once you’re settled you may want to see friends you haven’t seen for a while. That’s natural. And I wouldn’t think any of your friends would tell your stepfather you’re back. But word gets around.”

  “I’m not planning to stay long—just long enough for you to complete your investigation. When can you get started? I can drive to your office tomorrow.”

  “Why don’t I come to you?” I say. “The less you travel around the island the better. And I can check out the security of your accommodation.”

  “That would be easier for me.” Marie gives me her cell number and the address of Vivienne’s home in Kailua. We agree to meet there tomorrow morning at eleven, giving us a bit of time to recover. Then a flight attendant arrives with hot towels.

  I don’t remember much after this—except planting that steamy towel on my face—until the flight attendant awakens me to put my seatback forward for landing.

  It’s six in the evening in Honolulu. Six in the morning in Paris. No wonder I can’t keep my eyes open.

  three

  Tuesday, April 9. I’m still floating over the white cliffs of Dover in my dreams when the chime of my cell phone awakens me.

  A text from Kula’s foster mom. “Can you stop by my cottage?” asks Maile Barnes. “We need to talk."

  I can't imagine why the pet detective and I suddenly need to talk. We’re old friends—well, we’re more than that—but we haven’t talked for weeks except to about Kula.

  Maile is fostering the golden retriever because the Waikīkī Edgewater where I live doesn’t allow pets. I adopted Kula from a client who has since taken up residence at Halawa Correctional Facility. Maile, a former K9 officer, was perfect for the job, especially when we were dating. Lately she’s been seeing more of my old buddy in homicide, Frank Fernandez, than of me. She and Frank knew each other on the force, back when both of them were married. To other people, that is.

  I struggle out of bed. I’m in that zombie-like state that descends on me after long-distance airline travel. This one is worse than usual—twelve time zones. I check my watch. Almost eight. I reply, “How about nine?”

  “Fine,” she texts back.

  I shower, dress, grab a bowl of cereal, retrieve my car and head into Mānoa Valley. Pulling up in front of Maile’s cottage I can tell right away something has changed. I can’t put my finger on it. Then I hear growling—not one dog growling, but two. When I step from my car to her screen door I see Kula and another dog, a Rottweiler, going at it.

  I don’t bother to knock. I storm in and grab Kula by his collar, pull him away, and then stand between the golden retriever and the foaming Rottweiler. Maile rushes in, grabs the other dog, and says, “Blitz, no!”

  Blood drips from my right hand. Did the rottie get me? I check. No, it’s not me. It’s Kula. His right ear is bleeding.

  “Whose dog is this?” I ask Maile. “And why is he beefing with Kula?”

  “They’re usually okay together,” she says.

  “They’re not okay,” I say. “Not when Kula ends up bleeding.”

  “You know I’d never do anything to endanger Kula,” she says a little defensively.

  I check his ear more carefully. Just a nick. He probably doesn’t need stitches. But he seems stunned. He sits silent and unmoving. “I’ve known some sweetheart Rottweilers. What’s wrong with this one?”

  Maile shrugs. “Playing for Blitz means nipping—and after a while Kula gets annoyed.”

  “I don’t blame Kula. I’d get annoyed too,” I say. “What is Blitz doing here?”

  Maile gives me a look. "That's what I wanted to talk with you about, Kai. Frank and I are getting married."

  It takes a moment for that sink in. Then I say, “Blitz is Frank’s dog?”

  She nods.

  I glance into Maile’s bedroom and see evidence of male clutter—cardboard boxes piled with a man’s clothing and pairs of shoes and slippers under the bed.

  Then I survey the living room. Kula’s toys—rawhide chews, yellow-green tennis balls and braided tug ropes that are usually scattered about artfully—are ravaged and in disarray. It looks like a hurricane has hit. Kula used to live here like a prince. No more.

  “Is Blitz staying?”

  “That’s the plan,” Maile responds. “This doesn’t happen very often. Kula and Blitz are still getting used to each other.” The pet detective drags the growling Rottweiler outside.

  I’m not convinced. I notice a dark red spot on Kula’s other ear. This isn’t the first time. No wonder the golden retriever doesn’t seem his usually sunny self.

  “Now that the skirmish is over,” Maile says when she returns without the Rottweiler, “sit down, Kai, and let’s talk.”

  Soon we are occupying her two rattan chairs opposite one another. The retriever curls up on a throw rug by my feet. Kula’s ear has stopped bleeding, but bright red drips still dot his coat. I turn to Maile, whose spunky independent nature I’ve always admired and sometimes run afoul of. I remember how her face used to light up when she saw me.

  Maile now looks me up and down dispassiona
tely and says, “Are you okay?”

  “As okay as anybody could be after spending twenty-four hours in airplanes and airports.”

  “I mean are you okay about Frank and me getting married?"

  “No worries,” I say. “You have to do what’s right for you.” I gaze under her bed again at Frank’s slippers.

  “I care about you, Kai,” she says. “You know I do. But we could never quite work things out.”

  “My fault,” I say.

  “Not you,” Maile replies. “Us. We just didn’t click.”

  “So you and Frank . . . you click?”

  She nods. “I think so. Frank and I are a couple of veteran cops who see things pretty much the same way. You’d never guess it. I mean, we seem so different on the surface.”

  “You do,” I say. “I’d never have put the two of you together. But whatever makes you happy.”

  The conversation goes on like this, Maile trying her best not to hurt my feelings and also blaming herself more than she should. I’m grateful, whatever her motive. But my thoughts return to Kula and how to get him away from Blitz. I believe Maile when she says she’d never intentionally endanger Kula, but her pending marriage to Frank seems to have clouded her vision.

  When we finally wrap up I say, “How about the golden boy and I hit the waves today?”

  “That’ll be great,” she says. “And give him a break from Blitz.”

  I reach down and stroke the sunny retriever who is still curled up by my feet. “Kula, wanna go surfing?”

  He perks up. Before long I’m gathering cousin Alika’s tandem board from Maile’s garage and Kula is hopping into my car.

  Driving down the valley, I glance over at the retriever, his head out the window and flashing his goofy smile. He’s happy again. I see once more those red spots on his coat.

  That decides it. Kula’s not returning to Maile’s cottage.

  I check my watch. Before it gets any later in the morning I’ve got to make a difficult phone call. Not about Kula. About my client’s deceased mother. I pull over and punch in the familiar number. The phone rings three times and then I hear his deep, gravelly voice: “Fernandez, Homicide.”

  “Hi Frank. It’s Kai Cooke.”

  There’s a long pause.

  “Congratulations.” I fill the silence. “I hear you and Maile are getting married.”

  “That’s big of you, Kai.” Frank sounds impatient. “So what can I do for you?”

  “You investigated the death of Mrs. Beatrice Ho at Makapu‘u?”

  “Right,” he says. “Nice lady. What a shame.”

  “I’m representing a Ho family member. She’s an attractive twenty-something”—I try to entice him without using Marie’s name—“who wants to hear about the investigation. It would be doing me a big favor, Frank, if you would meet with us, maybe this afternoon?”

  “Kind of busy, Kai.”

  “How about lunch? The meal is on me. Where would you like to eat?”

  “The Wharf is good.” He’s referring to a seafood restaurant on the waterfront near Ward Avenue, not far from HPD headquarters on Beretania Street.

  “The Wharf it is, Frank.” I say. “We’ll meet you there at noon.”

  I’m surprised, once I hang up, that Frank agreed. Maybe he feels guilty about marrying Maile? I recall the last time I saw Fernandez, nearly a year ago, when he was interviewing two suspects from my investigation of Ryan Song’s hanging in Paris. Their names were Scooter and Brad—a couple of fine young lads. Not.

  I aim my old Chevy over the Pali Highway. Rolling into Kailua town a few minutes later I check the address my new client gave me. It’s in a quiet, secluded beachside neighborhood of coconut palms and putting-green lawns. Vivienne’s rambling ranch home in a shady cul-de-sac is large by O‘ahu standards with a tropically landscaped yard. She did well in her divorce.

  I pull into a circular driveway. On the front lānai Marie is reclining in a lounge chair, smoking. She rises and waves, looking amazingly fresh considering the journey we both just endured. She’s young.

  I open the car door and Kula jumps out. First thing he does is water the perfectly clipped grass. Then he rolls on that manicured green, moaning in ecstasy, sunshine flooding his golden coat. When I walk toward the house he snaps to his feet and follows me.

  Marie snuffs out her cigarette and she says, “Oh, what a gorgeous retriever!”

  Kula prances onto the porch and makes a beeline for Marie. He sits in front of her and gives her that melting brown-eyed retriever look that says, “How can you resist me?”

  Truth is, she can’t. Marie hugs him and plants her nose against his.

  “Where did you get this beautiful boy?” she asks.

  “Long story,” I reply. "I didn't know you were a dog person."

  "We had two poodles before my mother died. My stepfather packed them off while I was at college. I can never forgive him for that, either."

  While she's stroking Kula I eye the smoldering butt of her cigarette.

  Marie sees me and says, “I haven’t smoked in the house. I just assumed Vivienne preferred I didn’t.”

  “Safe assumption,” I say. And then: “Nice place, huh?”

  “It’s really cute,” Marie replies. “Let me show you around.” She leads me in the front door.

  A cool breeze wafts through open jalousies over comfy furnishings and gleaming hardwood floors. In the cozy den I see evidence of her Sadie that Vivienne lost to divorce—a tartan plaid dog bed, stainless food and water dishes, assorted stuffed animals, chews, and toys, and even a doggie door leading to a backyard swimming pool. Hanging on the wall is the framed photo of the chocolate Labrador.

  Kula takes a stuffed Mallard duck that once was Sadie’s into his mouth and curls up on her tartan bed.

  “Your dog really knows how to make himself at home,” Marie says.

  “He’s good at that,” I say. “Speaking of Kula, would you mind him staying with you for a few days?” I explain why Kula can’t stay with me at the Edgewater.

  “That would be super,” Marie responds.

  “Great.” I snap a photo of Kula on Sadie’s bed and text it to Vivienne in Paris, where it’s closing in on eleven at night. “Okay if my dog Kula stays in your home for a while with Marie?”

  Less than a minute later my phone chimes: “I love him already! Will he be there when I return?”

  “Could be arranged,” I text back.

  That problem solved, Marie and I sit in the den while Kula snoozes. I explain to Marie that we have a lunch appointment with Homicide Detective Frank Fernandez this afternoon and if we’re lucky he might share with us details from his investigation into her mother’s death.

  I tell Marie about the usual terms for my investigations, but I defer the retainer for now. I know she’s good for it. Plus she’s agreed to keep Kula.

  Marie tries to give me, as her stepfather did, a bundle of euros. I wave her off.

  “My first-class ticket from Paris alone must have cost you more than my usual retainer,” I say.

  “You’re sure?” she asks.

  I nod but then wonder if I’ll later regret not taking those euros.

  four

  Soon we’re heading over the Pali into Honolulu to meet Frank Fernandez, leaving Kula lounging in Vivienne’s den. When we arrive at The Wharf the harbor is calm as glass. There’s barely a breeze.

  Marie and I are led to a booth overlooking the water. The Wharf’s ambience is seashore and maritime. Our spar-varnished table looks right out of a ship’s galley. A waitress leaves three menus. I gaze at the placid harbor, reflecting the perfect circle of the April sun. Will Frank be half this placid? Maybe, now that he’s engaged to the pet detective.

  Before he arrives I ask Marie not to mention Kula. She agrees.

  At about ten minutes after noon—not especially late for Fernandez—the big man lumbers in, his huge frame filling the doorway. Even seeing him at this distance reminds me, if I need reminding, you do
n’t want to mess with Frank Fernandez.

  As he approaches I notice a folder in his hands—hopefully pertaining to the investigation of Mrs. Ho’s death. His usual scowl has been replaced by a faint smile. He checks out the young woman sitting next to me at the table and his smile deepens. He likes what he sees.

  “Howzit, Kai?” he asks as he lowers himself into the booth next to Marie. He’s got to be twice her size. The contrast is almost comical. Almost. Frank can be a grizzly bear or a teddy bear, depending on his mood. Today he seems to be feeling warm and cuddly.

  “Fine,” I respond, whiffing his spicy aftershave. “Frank Fernandez, meet Marie Ho.”

  He turns toward her and stretches out his huge mitt, though he doesn’t offer it to me. Her hand disappears into his momentarily and then reappears. “Very sorry about your mother,” he says. “I investigated her death at Makapu‘u. But I guess Kai told you that already.”

  “Thank you for seeing us,” Marie responds. “I’d be grateful for anything you can tell me.”

  “Glad to,” Frank responds, in the spirit of cooperation I hoped for. “But it looks like we’re going to order lunch first.”

  He’s right. The waitress is back and we quickly scan our menus.

  Frank already knows what he wants—the most expensive entrée, seared ahi. And a draft beer. He must be off duty. Marie orders a watercress salad and iced tea. Can she live on that? And I order a mahi sandwich and fries.

  The waitress departs and returns before long with our drinks. Frank gets right into his beer, sipping the foam off the head. He catches a bit of foam on his upper lip. I motion to him and he wipes and seems grateful.

  “I remember the investigation all too well.” Frank sips his beer. “I was going through my divorce and was in misery. Anyway, everyone knows your mother was a fine and generous lady, Marie. But few people know what you probably do, that she suffered bouts of depression after your father and brother died, which led to her becoming your stepfather’s patient. We learned from Dr. Grimes that she often visited Makapu‘u near where your brother lost his life in that surfing accident. Bereaved people often do. They sometimes hold vigils and build informal shrines.”