Sadie heard a warning of caution coming and hurried to cut Gayle off. “I know that, based on my history and what’s going on with me right now, it might not seem like the smartest thing to do, but I just . . . I have to make sure Charlie’s okay. I have to answer those questions about his mom.”
“No, I get it,” Gayle said, and her voice was calm, sweet and sincere.
Did she get it? Sadie wondered. Could she?
“I can be your wingman, okay? I’m not going to get in the way, I promise.”
“I can’t wait to see you,” Sadie said, feeling a smile pulling at her cheeks. “It’s so beautiful here. Thank you, Gayle.”
“Thank you,” Gayle said quickly. “You haven’t met Barb and you haven’t seen George’s toupee so you can’t adequately appreciate what you’re saving me from. I’ll let you know the details as I get them worked out, okay?”
Sadie said good-bye and hung up, her stomach churning with emotion. Guilt? Fear? Vulnerability? She didn’t know what it stemmed from, but it wasn’t any more uncomfortable than her usual discomfort. And then she smiled. Gayle was coming! Discomfort aside, she would have a friend here. Not just any friend—her best friend who understood, at least to an extent, what Sadie was dealing with. Maybe Gayle could help her connect back to the Sadie she’d been when she left Garrison. What would it be like to not be alone anymore? It had been so long that she wasn’t sure she knew how to feel about having companionship, but it did feel good, and good was . . . good.
Less than fifteen minutes later, she received a text message from Pete with the name and phone number of the social worker based in Lihue who had been assigned to Charlie’s case: Tate Olie. After the contact information, Pete had added a note:
I’ll call when I have some time. Good luck.
She’d need it. Things were coming together faster than she expected, and she feared that at some point it would all crash over her like a wave in the impact zone—lethal to many an unsuspecting surfer who was unfamiliar with what lurked beneath the waves. For now, though, she was still paddling out to sea, in hopes of finding that perfect wave that would bring her in unscathed.
Chapter 11
Sadie paced back and forth for ten full minutes, trying to work up the confidence to contact Charlie’s caseworker at the Department of Human Services. This was going to be a long journey if she had to put so much thought into every single thing she did. She read Charlie’s list again before folding it back up and stuffing it in her shoulder bag. Then she sat down at the kitchen table, took a breath, and called Mr. Olie’s office.
When the receptionist answered, Sadie asked for Mr. Olie and was immediately transferred to his voice mail. She left a message, saying it was urgent, then hung up and stared at her phone, willing it to ring before she lost her nerve. The seconds ticked by. Pete’s comment about her having one day to figure this out echoed louder and louder in her head.
She mopped the floor, which took all of eight minutes—making it a total of twenty minutes since she’d left her voice mail.
She called the office a second time and was, again, sent to his voice mail, which she hung up on before calling the office again, knowing she was making a pest of herself. “I need to talk to Mr. Olie,” she said when the receptionist answered for the third time.
“I can transfer you to—”
“I’m sorry,” Sadie said, surprised with the snappy tone she managed despite feeling bad for being difficult. “I already left a message, and he hasn’t called me back. I really need to talk to him.”
“Mr. Olie is in meetings this morning,” the receptionist said, sounding annoyed instead of sympathetic. “I’m sure he’ll return your call as soon as he can.”
Sadie pursed her lips, trying to think of what she could say to make this woman understand.
“Aloha,” the woman said curtly and hung up before Sadie came up with anything. She didn’t know all the rules, but she was pretty sure “Aloha” wasn’t supposed to be said like that.
Sadie closed her eyes and took a breath, telling herself that she wasn’t out of line. Once Mr. Olie and the receptionist knew what she was calling about, they would understand. The next logical step hovered in her brain for a moment before she acknowledged it—go to his office.
Even though she’d considered the possibility of having to meet with the social worker in person, going to his office uninvited was something she’d rather avoid. Yet, she knew from experience that meetings were almost always more effective face-to-face than over the phone. And she didn’t have time to wait for him to call her back. The receptionist said he had meetings; what if Sadie was waiting for him when he got out of them?
Sadie went to her computer, squared her shoulders, and set about figuring out how to get to Lihue—she didn’t have a car here. She’d taken the bus into town a few times when she first arrived in Puhi, but it had been weeks since she’d done it, and she’d thrown away the bus schedule. The tightness in her chest grew incrementally as she looked up the bus routes online and mapped out the closest stop to the Department of Human Services office.
Taking the bus. Finding the office. Meeting with a stranger. Putting her nose into business that wasn’t her own. It all felt like too much and she had to take a break, choosing to walk around the pool a few times to calm herself down. Even after that, it took the promise to herself that she’d get a shave ice—not shaved like she’d called it the first time; for whatever reason, Hawaiians dropped the “d” on the end of the word—as a reward for being brave. She’d had the tasty treat during one of the outings with Konnie and the Blue Muumuus where she’d learned that the best shave ice had ice cream on the bottom and sweetened condensed milk drizzled on top. The promise of enjoying another shave ice got her out the door and down the block to the bus stop with almost fifteen minutes to spare. That, and she was worried that if she missed this bus, she wouldn’t have the courage to try again.
By the time the bus arrived, tiny gray hairs that had been tight against her head had begun to pop up like daisies. The morning cool had vanished. She was sweaty and chanting “I can do this, I can do this, I can do this,” under her breath even though she knew it made her look like a crazy person hanging around a bus stop. Not that she wasn’t crazy, but it was too bad she couldn’t pretend otherwise anymore. All she had to do was give her information to the social worker, and then she could wash her hands of it completely. Right?
If only she believed it could possibly be that easy.
The bus ride was uneventful, and when she arrived at the address Pete had texted her, she asked to speak to Mr. Olie without telling the receptionist she’d already called that morning. She was told to take a seat in the waiting room. She did so and listened to the hum of office machinery and muted conversations as people came and went, busy and necessary. The sound of purpose.
Despite being in an air-conditioned office, Sadie continued to sweat as her stress level kept rising. The tiny Asian receptionist with turquoise feather earrings that matched her eye shadow left the desk several times, and each time she returned, Sadie was hopeful she’d have an answer but the receptionist never even looked in her direction.
A heavyset, older Hawaiian man came toward her at one point when the receptionist had stepped away from her desk, and Sadie straightened, hoping he was Mr. Olie coming out to greet her, but he barely glanced at her before pushing through the doors.
After fifteen minutes, Sadie approached the desk again to remind the receptionist she was still waiting. “It’s really important,” Sadie said.
“I’ll call his office again,” the receptionist said, then looked pointedly at Sadie.
Sadie returned to her seat, completely intimidated by the tiny woman. Only when Sadie was out of earshot did the receptionist dial a number on the phone. A moment later, the receptionist left her desk and moved down one of the hallways. When she returned, she motioned for Sadie to come forward, which Sadie did, perhaps a little too eagerly.
“I guess Mr. Olie a
lready left,” the receptionist told her.
“For lunch?” Sadie asked, disappointed. “When will he be back?”
“He’s pau.”
“Pau?” Sadie had heard the word before, but wasn’t sure what it meant.
“Finished. Done. Gone for the day,” the receptionist said, seemingly irritated that Sadie didn’t understand pidgin. “Mr. Olie is only in the office half a day a few times a week. Shall I take a message for him?”
“I already left a message on his voice mail,” Sadie said, feeling confused and unable to adjust her plans as quickly as she should. “He didn’t call me back, and so I came down to talk to him.”
The receptionist looked at Sadie appraisingly and narrowed her eyes slightly. “You called earlier, didn’t you?”
Sadie nodded and hated that it made her feel as though she were confessing to something she’d done wrong. She was trying to do something right, and it wasn’t going very well. “I really needed to talk to him. It’s important.”
“I can make you an appointment for tomorrow,” the receptionist said, looking at the computer in front of her which, presumably, held a calendar. She clicked a few keys. “Oh, wait, I guess he’s not back until Friday.”
Sadie shook her head. That wouldn’t work. She only had today. “I’ll have to think about it,” she said, not sure how to proceed.
The receptionist gave Sadie an exasperated look and blinked once, slowly. “He only has a few possible appointment times, and he likes to have his schedule first thing in the morning. Even if he was coming back this afternoon, he probably wouldn’t see you.”
“I’m sorry,” Sadie said. “I’m just . . . I just need to think.”
She returned to her chair, leaned her elbows on her knees, and put her head in her hands, trying to think of her options. She could go to Officer Wington instead of Mr. Olie, but then she’d have to explain why she didn’t tell him about Charlie when they had spoken on the phone that morning.
She could make an appointment with Mr. Olie for Friday and beg Pete for another two days, but that would put Pete in a difficult position, not to mention that it could keep Charlie in danger for two more days.
Sadie knew the chances of finding Mr. Olie’s home number was slim; most social workers and therapists weren’t listed in local directories. She had access to different databanks of information thanks to her private investigation business and could probably track Mr. Olie down at home. How would he respond to that, though?
There was the tiniest spark of excitement when she thought about the investigative techniques she already knew and the subsequent thrill of discovery that would follow if she used them, but the fear that wrapped around that excitement was something she’d never felt when she was doing her PI work back in Colorado. Things had changed so much since then.
She was plotting out her strategy, wishing she’d brought a notebook so she could organize her thoughts, when a hippie-looking woman with long brown hair and a flowing purple skirt came out of one of the offices and approached the receptionist. Her blue top did not match her skirt. She wore a flower behind her right ear, which traditionally meant she was single, but Sadie knew not all women paid attention to tradition.
“Tate didn’t leave already, did he?” the hippie-looking woman asked.
Tate? Wasn’t that Mr. Olie’s first name? Sadie double-checked Pete’s text message. Yep, his first name was Tate.
The receptionist flicked a look at Sadie, who studied her phone intently so it wouldn’t seem as though she was eavesdropping. “Yes, just a bit ago,” the receptionist said.
“How long?” the woman asked, looking at her watch. “I told him I needed him to sign this petition before he left so I can submit it to Judge Hander today.”
“He’s been gone at least ten minutes,” the receptionist said, but she’d lowered her voice as though not wanting Sadie to overhear. The only man Sadie had seen leave the office was the Hawaiian man. Was that Mr. Olie? Olie didn’t sound very Hawaiian, but it was probably short for Oliewaikiakahakoo.
The woman let out a heavy sigh. “I swear he leaves just as I get going for the day. Did he say if he was stopping at Poko’s for lunch today? Maybe I can catch up with him and—”
“Um, I don’t know where he was going,” the receptionist cut in. She flicked another telling look in Sadie’s direction.
Sadie kept her expression blank, but smiled inside as she felt old instincts kicking in. She knew she was making the receptionist nervous, so instead of hanging around for details, she left the office and leaned against the wall outside the main doors. If the hippie woman didn’t try to catch up with Tate, Sadie would be no worse off than she already was. But if she did decide to hunt him down, Sadie would have an unsuspecting guide.
Her instincts weren’t as rusty as she feared. Within a minute, the hippie woman came out of the building, not even looking at Sadie as she passed her by. Sadie waited a few seconds and then followed after her. On the street, the woman waved at someone she knew, then jaywalked. Sadie followed at a discreet distance as the woman turned one corner and then the next, before cutting through an alley and ending at an outdoor restaurant. Sadie would never have known it existed if she hadn’t been led there. It was as though the thatch-covered pavilion had been built in someone’s backyard. The hand-carved sign under the thatched roof said “Poko’s” but it couldn’t have been seen from either of the nearby streets, which seemed like a poor marketing plan for any business. That said, the ten or so tables were at least half full at 11:30 on a Wednesday, so people obviously knew how to find it, probably locals. Maybe that was the point.
Sadie hung back as the hippie woman walked through the gap in the split-rail gate surrounding the cement pad that made up the floor of the restaurant, but kept her view clear as the woman approached the same Hawaiian man Sadie had seen leaving the office earlier. He sat alone at a table on the far side of the restaurant, away from the other occupied tables. A few plates of food were laid out in front of him.
As the woman slid into a seat across from him, she moved one of his plates away in order to put the papers she’d brought in front of him. She was talking fast, but Sadie wasn’t close enough to hear what she was saying. The man hadn’t smiled at Sadie when he had passed her in the waiting area, and he wasn’t smiling now as he wiped his hands on his shorts and used the woman’s proffered pen to sign the papers. When he finished, he nodded at her, swapping the papers for his plate and returning his attention to his food.
The hippie woman stood and hurried out the way she’d come in, looking pleased with herself. Sadie admired her confidence; she didn’t seem the least bit bothered that Mr. Olie hadn’t said a single word. Sadie would have felt horrible about that, like she’d done something wrong even though he was the one who’d left the office without signing the paperwork.
Sadie waited until the purple skirt disappeared around the corner before entering the open-air restaurant. Ceiling fans spun overhead, providing a hint of a breeze while tiny birds hopped between the chairs, foraging for crumbs. A young, petite waitress was flirting with the cook on the other side of the counter, laughing coyly and not paying attention to her new customer, which was fine with Sadie. IZ’s song “Kaleohano” played over the speakers. Sadie liked that one and hoped it was a sign of good luck for her upcoming interaction with this man she found wholly intimidating.
Interrupting someone while they were eating was never a good idea, and yet Sadie didn’t feel she had much of a choice. Mr. Olie’s unwelcoming energy certainly didn’t help her nerves as she approached the table. What if he berated her? What if he wasn’t someone she should trust after all? Then she remembered her call to Officer Wington. He’d responded because she’d claimed to be looking for closure—which wasn’t necessarily an untruth—and she wondered if perhaps Mr. Olie would be more open to helping her if she used the same approach.
She stood by his table, waiting for him to look up at her. He didn’t. Instead he took a few bites of wh
at looked like mashed sweet potatoes.
“Are you Mr. Olie?” she asked after a few more seconds, and bites.
He didn’t answer her, just glanced up with an expression that told her he did not appreciate the interruption.
She wished she had another option. She didn’t sit, but took a breath and laid out her purpose for being here—to get closure on the death of Noelani Pouhu.
Not one part of her explanation caused any kind of reaction from the man eating at the table. He pushed away the plate of sweet potatoes and pulled another plate in front of him, picking up a corn tortilla out of a covered dish and using the other ingredients on the plate—fish, lettuce, tomatoes, and mangoes—to make a taco. After adding the toppings, he squeezed a quarter of a lime over the finished taco. Sadie hadn’t ever eaten fish tacos—they sounded strange compared to the ground beef with taco seasoning she was familiar with—but it looked delicious, and she felt the stirrings of the old Sadie’s habit of recreating recipes roll over in its sleep.
Banana Split Page 8
