I hope, as I drift off to sleep, that Leilani got eaten by a shark after all. At least there'd be some poetic justice in that. Again, I feel a little sorry for the shark as I finally fall asleep.
The next morning I call Alohalani's office at the community college and make an appointment for 9:30. To my surprise, I'm patched through to Alohalani himself.
"Nani?" he asks as he comes on the line. "I was planning on calling you."
He was? "Oh? Why is that?"
"I have a theory on Kua and Leilani's murders, and I'd like to talk to you about it."
"Great," I say, a little confused. "I'll see you in a bit."
"Mahalo," the man says before hanging up.
This is very interesting. He wants to talk to me. Granted, it's about the murders, but that's okay because that's what I was going to talk to him about. This could be the beginning of a good relationship with the best musician on the island.
"Where were you all weekend?" Mom stands in the doorway, watching me brush my teeth. She's wearing her bright-pink muumuu—the one covered in green palm trees. In her right hand is a spoon. There's no plate, nothing she'd be using a spoon for. She's just standing there, holding it as if I were a cup of soup.
"Out with Nick and Binny." I mangle the words through a sudsy mouth. "We went to Princeville and Lihue."
A smile spreads across my mother's face. She kind of looks like a crocodile sneaking up on prey. Only the prey in this instance is poor Nick Woodfield and a wedding ceremony.
"Oh? You've been seeing a lot of him lately." Mom grins smugly.
"Yup. He's a great guy." I spit and rinse, then head to my bedroom to find my sport sandals. Mom follows.
"Why did you take Binny with you? You two should be alone." There's that grin again.
"I wanted her to meet him. It's important that she like him." Found the shoes, now to braid my hair.
"And does she?" Mom asks.
"Of course. We get along great."
My long brown hair properly plaited, I throw on some mascara and lip balm. I'm hoping khaki shorts and a nice T-shirt will be all right. Things are so casual here. I remember my surprise at seeing a group of lawyers in a meeting at the resort—all dressed like it was casual Friday at a strip mall. No one wears a suit unless it's a funeral or wedding…and even that's iffy.
"Are you meeting him today?" Mom asks a little too hopefully.
I'm sure she's already set the date and reserved the chapel. She's probably planning for all of us to live together at the Woodfield mansion. I wouldn't be surprised if she's already picked out her bedroom. I'm not sure Vera would approve of Mom's decorating habits. Somehow I can't picture forty coconuts in hula skirts appealing to the Woodfields.
I shake my head, disappointing her. "No. He's working. I'm going to meet someone at the community college."
"Oh?" is all she has to say. One word speaks volumes from Mom.
"I'm looking into teaching a class or two there," I lie. She shouldn't know about our little investigation. Mom has a tendency to say the wrong things to the wrong people at the wrong times.
But my mother is no longer there. I hear the blender going in the kitchen. Great. She's hitting the mai tais early today. I don't want to have to worry about her, but if she's imbibing this early, she'll be napping on the lanai by eleven.
I slip past her into the living room to grab my briefcase. The coconuts are gone. Now, a couple dozen pink flamingos are suspended from the ceiling. Someone (meaning Mom) has taken a sharpie to draw little black masks around their eyes. She tried to make little sunglasses for them. I worry that I know this without having to ask her. Is this what I have to look forward to when I'm her age? Maybe I should make a reservation for a senior living condo now.
It's a short drive to the college, and I try to think of what Alohalani wants to tell me and what I'm going to ask him. I have to be careful. While the man doesn't seem to hate me like the other two, he certainly isn't anything I'd call a friend. Maybe that will change with Kua and Leilani gone. Dare I hope?
The car behind me rushes past on a two-lane road, flashing me the chaka sign—thumb and pinkie extended, middle fingers folded into the palm. It doesn't bother me. People drive like this all the time. I look in the rearview mirror.
Two cars back is a nondescript white sedan. Something about the car nips at my memory, but I draw a blank. It's not surprising. A lot of people here buy white cars to cut down on the heat absorption. I shake the feeling something is off as I pull into the parking lot of building number two. I look for the car as I get out, but it's gone. I'm really starting to get paranoid. I wish this case was over. I'd like to go back to my normal self now, please.
The secretary for the music department is a bored-looking student in a tank-top dress and a messy topknot. She snaps her gum before giving me directions to Alohalani's office, then goes back to playing some game on her cell phone.
The teacher's door is covered with pictures of Alohalani through the years at various gigs. I can't help but grin at a photo of him with The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain from their last tour here. And is that Jake Shimabukuro? Wow! I have a little fan-girl moment as I raise my fist and knock.
"Come in," a voice calls, and I open the door.
Alohalani Kealoha waves me in. His office is amazing. The walls are covered with every kind of ukulele imaginable, from pocket ukes to cigar-box instruments. Where there aren't instruments, there are shelves filled with books on Polynesian music, composition, history, and instruments. A single open window looks out onto a vast expanse of green landscaping and large jungle plants. Breezes blow the scent of jasmine into the room. Sheet music of ancient Hawaiian songs are stacked in tidy piles on his desk. It's no wonder he's so proud of his heritage.
The office is pretty large. On his desk in front of him is a textbook on music theory. It occurs to me that I should take one of his courses someday. I suddenly feel very unqualified to even be on the island.
"Miss Johnson, aloha," Alohalani says genially. He's still smiling, and I realize it's sincere. Maybe outside of the mad competitiveness of performing, he's just a nice guy. Or he thinks (like everyone else) that I killed Kua and Leilani, and he doesn't want to make me angry.
"Mahalo," I reply as humbly as possible. "I appreciate you taking the time to see me, and I'm curious as to what you want to tell me."
He motions me to sit, and I do. My eyes skirt the perimeter of the room. There's so much history here—I could spend months in just this room.
"First of all, why did you call to make an appointment?" Alohalani asks. He's still polite, but now there's a bluntness I can't ignore. Is the nice guy gone?
Okay, I'll just dig in. "I know you've heard about Kua and Leilani." I leave the sentence hanging there to see how he takes it.
The man shakes his head, but I can't determine if it's sadly or not. "I've heard."
That is all he says. I'm just going to have to be up front with the whole thing.
"Do you have any idea who killed them?" I ask. It's a risk. He could throw me out. He could yell at me for being insensitive.
"The police seem interested in you," he says. No expression. None at all. Is this his idea about the murders? That I'm the killer? That kind of sucks.
"I have no idea why," I blurt out. "I barely knew them. I can't understand why this is happening."
"The police," he repeats, "seem to think you have motive. That you wanted them out of the way to get rid of the competition."
I shake my head vigorously. "Not true. I would never do that."
"And they believe that you fought with Kua and Leilani every time you were in the same room as them."
Okay, well, that's true. I can't deny it.
"Detective Ray warned me that I might be next."
My heart actually feels like it's stopped. "You're joking. They think I'm the killer and that I'm going to kill you? You can't believe that." Please tell me he doesn't believe that.
The older man looks at m
e in silence for a very long time. I'm desperate to know what he's thinking, but I feel like asking him directly would be the wrong move. The clock on the wall—a hula girl whose hips swing back and forth in keeping with the time—ticks so loudly it's making my head hurt.
"I don't think you killed them," Alohalani says at long last. "I don't think you will kill me. Or I wouldn't have allowed the appointment."
I sigh with relief. "You may be the only one who thinks so."
"At first," he says, "I didn't think the two murders were related. Now I do. I think the murders were committed by the same person."
Now we're talking. He's going to get to the reason he wanted to meet me.
I lean forward. "Really? Do you know who?"
"I have an idea," he says. "But I'm not sure of it yet. I didn't tell the detective my theory, and I'm not going to tell you until I know for sure."
What? He thinks he knows the identity of the murderer and won't tell me? That's how you get murdered in the TV shows! The victim confronts the murderer alone, with no back up, and the killer kills her or him.
"You won't tell me? You have to tell someone! What if you're next?"
He nods. "I've thought of that."
"And…"
"And I'm not ready to say."
"But," I say, "you wanted to talk to me about your suspicions. Right?"
He gives no reply. There's something in Hawaii called "island time." Things just move slower. People don't do stuff before they're ready. I've always admired island time. Until right now.
I sit there, gaping at the man. "Do you have it written down somewhere, or can you give me a clue? It's dangerous for you to play cat and mouse with a killer."
Alohalani considers this. He's a thoughtful man, I realize. Everything is perfectly thought out before spoken. The Hawaiian culture is big on saving face. You don't cause conflict. You don't accuse anyone of anything before you know for sure. There's a saying that the best way to save face is to keep part of it shut. And yes, that's a nice sentiment. But it doesn't fly in the face of murder. And apparently, Kua and Leilani thought this didn’t apply to them, judging by their behavior.
"If you won't tell me your suspicions," I say, "you have to tell the police. They're this close to arresting me." I pinch my fingers together for emphasis. "And keeping it to yourself only helps the killer."
It's quiet for a long time. Is he thinking about it? What if he decides to keep it secret? I understand that revealing it is at war with one of the main tenets of his culture and upbringing, but what if it saves his life?
"Okay," Alohalani says at long last. "I'll give you a clue. And I will call the police after you leave, and tell them what I think has happened. I originally wanted to let you know I don't think you did it. And I have written down my thoughts on the matter. In fact, I'm pretty sure I know what really happened."
"Thank you for being one of only three people who thinks it's not me." I relax a little. "And you should call Detective Ray with your findings immediately. I don't want you to end up a victim."
"I am not worried about myself," he says. "I'm worried about you."
"Y…you're worried? About me?" I stammer in shock.
He nods. "You are not so bad. You are a decent musician, and I could maybe mentor you. Make you better."
I'm so startled that I don't know what to say. These are huge compliments from him. And a real acknowledgement of my talent. Okay, so it's a weak acknowledgement, but I'll take it! I'm finally on the inside. No longer an outsider. I imagine sharing the stage with Alohalani and Jake Shimabukuro. Things might actually be looking up for me! Granted, it's on the backs of two murdered musicians—which is sad, of course. But hey, I'll take anything.
"I'd love that," I gush. "I was thinking of taking one of your classes on the history of Polynesian music or something anyway."
Alohalani smiles cautiously. "Okay, I'll tell you what"—he reaches across the desk and grabs his calendar—"how about a week from now, same time and place, to discuss your future?"
My head spins with joy. "Yes! That's perfect! I'll be here!"
"It won't be easy," he cautions. "Bring a soprano ukulele with you, and I'll see what I have to work with."
Okay, I know this is a backhanded compliment. I mean, I went to Julliard—I'm not exactly a hobbyist. But instead of being outraged, I nod so hard my head's in danger of becoming unfastened.
"Absolutely! Thank you!"
He writes down the appointment in the book, one week exactly from right now, where he has my name for today. I'm in his book twice. This is huge! This is progress.
"So what's the clue?" I finally ask as he puts his calendar away.
"It's not what you think," the man says. "If you're looking at strangers, you're looking in the wrong place."
The office phone rings loudly, making me jump. As he answers it, I digest what he's just told me—turning the words over in hopes of finding some meaning there. It's not what you think…if you're looking at strangers, you're looking in the wrong place. What is he saying?
"Can you give me anything else?" I ask.
He waves me off. "I've got to run down the hall for a moment. One of my students dropped off her term paper in the wrong slot. I'll be right back."
I nod as he exits, wondering what he means by the clue. It's not a stranger. But does that mean a stranger to me, him, or the two murdered people? I'm definitely going to need more information. Somehow, when he gets back, I'll have to convince him to tell me more. How hard can it be? I talked him into taking me on as a mentee.
The trick will be to make sure he knows that this is for his own good. I have to make him understand that the killer is still out there and could strike one of us at any second. The thought makes me shiver. I stand up and go to the open window to get a little fresh air.
The view is marvelous. But it's not perfect. Now that I'm closer, I realize I can see the parking lot—including my car. Next to it is a white sedan. I feel a little chill in spite of the warm breeze. Is that the same car that was following me earlier? Oh wow! Am I being followed?
Yeesh, Nani. Get a grip. Now you're seeing killers behind every corner. It's just a white car. Like so many others here. Stop being so jumpy! Alohalani will be back any minute. I'll get his theory out of him, and the case will be closed.
To distract myself, I turn to look at all of his books. He has an amazing assortment of out-of-print music. I've never seen some of these before. I gently run my hands over the well-worn spines of compilations of hula music. Perhaps he'll let me borrow one of them next week. I love traditional music. There wasn't much available at Julliard.
I'm so excited about the possibility of working with this man. At long last, I'm getting some recognition here. I've worked hard and proven myself. Now I'll at last be in the "in crowd."
Ugh. That's awful. What am I? Fifteen?
There's a noise in the hallway. Alohalani must be coming back. I don't want him to see me drooling over his collection. Quickly, I take my seat and look hopefully at the door.
He appears with a large knife sticking out of his throat, eyes wide and bulging. The dying man reaches for me before stumbling backward against the wall.
"Oh my God!" I shout as I run to him.
Alohalani collapses to the floor, and I fumble with my cell, attempting to dial 9-1-1.
"9-1-1. What's your emergency?" a female voice answers.
"Help! A man's been stabbed!" I shout into the phone. I give the address and beg them to come quickly. I'm shaking all over. Is the killer in the hallway? Am I next? What should I do?
Alohalani gurgles, bleeding from his mouth and throat. It only takes a second for his eyes to go glassy. He's gone. All that talent and musical history. Gone forever.
The bored student comes running down the hallway. She stops when she sees me leaning over her dead professor and lets out a horrific scream.
"What did you do?" she asks.
I think about telling her I was in the wrong plac
e at the wrong time. I think about this, but I know this won't do any good. Because I look like a murderer. It definitely appears that I've killed Alohalani.
I'm now the last uke standing.
CHAPTER TWELVE
There's blood on my shirt. Everything sounds like it's far away. But it's not. It's right in my face. All around me. I'm sitting where the student assistant was earlier. She's standing in the corner with a blanket around her, sobbing. A policeman is trying to take her statement, but she's too upset.
I've already given my statement—through numb lips and deaf ears. It's so quiet and noisy at the same time. I watch as the body is wheeled out of the room. I want to scream. I want to cry. But I can't.
How could this happen? He just walked down the hallway. The man was gone for, like, 30 seconds before he returned with a knife in his neck. I'd heard nothing to indicate a stabbing was taking place. Shouldn't I have heard something like that?
What does a stabbing sound like? I'm losing it. And I'm probably going to jail. The police all keep giving me surreptitious looks. It's like being in a room full of flounder fish, all gaping at me.
Think, Nani! What did you hear? What did you see? I have to pull myself together. Detective Ray is in the other room with the coroner. I have to be in my right mind when he questions me. I have to make him see that Alohalani didn't suspect me.
This is just perfect, isn't it? I'm the main suspect, I go to see the last living potential victim, and he's murdered while I'm there. No one sees it happen, but I'm in the same room, looming sinisterly over the dead body. I'm so screwed.
Okay, so what did I see? Alohalani walked out of his office because he got a call from a student who said she needed him to pick up a term paper. Okay. He left the office and walked into the hallway. I was at the window, then at the bookshelf, checking out his music. I heard a noise, and Alohalani came back.
The fog starts to dissipate in my brain. I have something to hold on to. What was the noise I heard? I strain to remember, but I can't. Was it a scuffle? Was it Alohalani struggling with his killer? It had to be.
Ukulele Murder: A Nani Johnson Aloha Lagoon Mystery (Aloha Lagoon Mysteries Book 1) Page 12
