"Drake?" I interrupted an instrumental rendition of "Can't Buy Me Love."
"How far are we from the Hanakapiai Valley?"
"When we get to the end of the road, it's not far at all. I can show you."
Ten or fifteen minutes later, we were there. The end of the road spread out to form a small parking lot. Perhaps two dozen cars, all rentals, were parked on both sides of the last stretch of pavement. There weren't many people in evidence, though.
We cruised slowly through the lot.
One young couple, wearing matching neon pink baseball caps, stood at the trunk of their car. They were apparently having a heated discussion over who would be in charge of the camera. After a short bout of verbal back-and-forth, the girl grabbed the camera and slammed the trunk closed. We watched him follow timidly as she stomped toward the woods.
Their matching shirts which said "Just Maui'd."
A gray-haired sixty-ish couple emerged near the spot where the young couple had just disappeared. They walked slowly back toward their car, from the direction of the beach. He went about elaborate detours to avoid getting his sparkling white canvas shoes near mud puddles, while she chose the direct route, arriving at the car well ahead of him.
"Where are all the other people?" I asked Drake, looking around at the number of unoccupied cars in the lot.
"Probably hiking the trail," he replied. "This is the head of the only trail that leads up the Na Pali coast. Remember, I pointed it out on the tour?"
Now that he mentioned it, I did. It looked different from this end, though.
He pulled the bike into a relatively protected spot. The clouds overhead had begun to look threatening, so he chose a place under the trees. We dismounted, and he showed me the way.
The well worn path was strewn with leaves, brown and soggy now, trampled into a sort of mushy carpet. Three beer cans and a plastic grocery sack had been tossed to the side. The remains of a campfire on the beach lay scattered over a wide area.
Once we stepped out into the open, the view up the coast was incredible. The wind blew fresh off the sea, the air laden with moisture. There ahead of us, enshrouded in mist, stood row after row of razor-like peaks, like the stand-up plates on the back of a Stegosaurus. I felt a little breathless.
"They look so much bigger from ground level," I told Drake. "Even for a kid raised in the Rockies, I have to say, this is spectacular."
"Hanakapiai Valley is the first one," he said, pointing. "Right between those two ridges."
I turned to look all around me. If a person rented one of those Zodiac boats with a motor, they could easily pull it up out of the water around here somewhere. Then, they might drive back later, maybe with a body in the trunk, retrieve the boat, and buzz over to that valley.
This knowledge didn't exactly help me zero in on a suspect. Any of them could have managed it quite easily.
I decided a visit to the boat rental places would be in order.
I asked Drake if he would mind stopping on the way back. The shop I remembered seeing might be a good possibility. In order for the killer to have used the boat overnight, they'd just about have to rent it for longer than a day. Otherwise, the rental shop would expect it back the same afternoon it was taken out.
The breeze off the ocean had turned chill, the clouds dark overhead. We walked a short way up the trail but soon turned back, coated with goose bumps. Drake slipped his arm around my shoulders, chafing at my upper arm to warm it. We dashed for the Honda just as the first few raindrops spattered us.
A half-mile down the road, we were soaked. Frigid wind and water pasted my t-shirt to my skin. I clung even closer to Drake’s hunched back.
Abruptly, the rain ended and within minutes we had slipped out from under the clouds and into the sunshine. By the time we neared the boat rental shop the wind had whipped our shirts dry. I didn’t want to think about how I looked; at least my nipples weren’t standing straight out anymore.
Drake slowed to watch for the place.
Their sign was the color of a taxi cab, with letters of process blue. Easy to spot. The business was situated in a little wooden shack, which had presumably been a plantation cottage in the old days. We pulled up beside it, parking the bike on the grass. I could practically hear the termites chewing away at the short wood pilings on which the small building stood.
A layer of dried red mud coated its steps, porch, and floor. Bright neon boogie boards leaned against the walls outside. The door stood open, so we walked in.
A wooden counter divided the tiny room in half. Our side had additional boards stacked against the exterior walls, but nothing else in the way of furnishings. The counter top held two brochure racks, which carried a variety of folders describing the activities one could partake of here. Helicopter tours, fishing charters, and luaus seemed to top the list.
A young man stood behind the counter, ruffling through a bunch of notices tacked to a bulletin board behind him. The notices looked like the neighborhood answer to a penny shopper newspaper. The ones I could read at a distance appeared to list various items for sale, including one "not very rusty" refrigerator.
The guy had shoulder length blond hair, bleached by the sun, and looking like he'd come out of the sea without bothering to comb through it. He wore a pair of baggy shorts that rode so low on his skinny hips, I found it embarrassing. No shirt. He flipped long strands of bangs out of his face as he turned to face us. I caught a whiff of pot.
"Howzit?" he greeted. I guessed it was the island version of "May I help you?"
"Yeah," I said, "I'd like some information about the boats you rent. You have some with motors?" Given the distance involved, and the strength of the waves I'd seen, I couldn't imagine any one managing it with a paddle.
"Sure do," he answered proudly. "The only place on the north shore that has 'em. All the others are kayaks and boogie boards."
Good. This was going to cut my search time by quite a bit.
"I need to know if someone rented one within the last week, and kept it overnight."
"Nope."
"Are you sure? I mean, maybe you should check your rental receipts, or something."
"I know we didn't." His sureness irritated me.
I pulled out my card. "It pertains to a murder investigation. I would appreciate it if you would double check."
He pulled out a cardboard box with frayed edges, about four by six inches big, two inches deep. He drew out all the receipts that were in it, a stack about a half inch thick.
"Kayak, kayak, boogie board..." He read off the rental item from each one, as he pointedly slapped it down on the counter.
There was only one Zodiac rental for the week, and it had been returned by five o'clock on the same day it was rented. I hated the smug look he flashed at me when he was through.
"And there are no others still out?"
This time, when he said no, I didn't push it.
Once we were on the road again, I asked Drake: "Where else could a person get their hands on one of those boats?"
"You might check the yellow pages when we get back," he said. "Business is so competitive here, these guys will all tell you they're the only one that provides a service. I have to say, though, I don't know of any others myself."
He had paperwork to do that afternoon, so he took me back to the hotel. We made plans to see each other again that night.
I went to my room to make phone calls, but didn't get much in the way of results.
Several companies were listed who gave boat tours along the coast using Zodiac boats, but none of them rented their boats out to individuals. Our stringy-haired friend was apparently correct again when he told me that they were the only one who provided motorized rentals.
After a half-dozen calls, I gave up, frustrated that my theory hadn’t worked out.
I sat at the table, staring at the silent phone and tapping my mails on the wooden surface. I needed to ask one more favor of Morton, my friendly concierge. I hoped I could get this o
ne for less than twenty bucks.
I picked up the receiver once again and dialed his extension.
"Hi, Morton. Charlie Parker." My voice sounded saccharin, even to me. I hate sucking up, although it is an efficient means of getting information.
"Hello, Ms. Parker." His tone was equally sickening.
"I need one teensy favor, if you could."
"Certainly," he gushed, "whatever I can do."
"Mr. Page, who was registered in ten-fifty-nine, received a call last Friday night. Would your computers show what number the call came from?"
"An incoming call? Afraid not. We only have records of outgoing numbers."
Rats. I was afraid of this.
"Oh, one other thing," I persisted. "What time of day did Mrs. Page check in?"
I waited on hold while he went to a terminal and signed on. He was back a moment later.
"Ten a.m. on Sunday."
Wow. She must have been at the airport within minutes after receiving the news of her recent widowhood. I wondered if there was a way to find out when her ticket had been booked. There was the possibility that she'd flown to the island a day earlier, say, right after the telephone argument. Or, what if the phone argument had been staged? Maybe the call didn't come from California at all.
All this ran through my mind as I thanked Morton, and hung up. I calculated the time on the west coast. Late afternoon already. I wondered if I'd reach anyone in the phone company's business office. It was worth a shot.
After dialing Information for the number, I got a perky sounding girl named Pamela on the line.
"Yes, Pamela, this is Catherine Page. Mrs. Gilbert Page." I gave the Page's home phone number. "I need to find out whether a call was placed from my home last Friday night to this number in Hawaii." I gave her the number at the Westin.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Page," she said, "I only have access to billing records during normal business hours, eight to five, Monday through Friday."
"Oh, dear," I said, sounding as put-out as I could.
"Wouldn't it just be simpler to wait until your bill comes? If you are charged incorrectly for a call, we'll be happy to credit you."
"Oh, it's not that. Actually, I hope there was a call, and I need to know today. See, my son is home alone. My husband and I are on vacation in Hawaii. Jason says he was home, and in fact called us from there, but I suspect he's been staying with that girlfriend of his. She's a little tart, you know."
I could practically hear Pamela's eyes roll back. God, what a bitch, she was thinking.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. Tomorrow morning would be the soonest I could find out. I could call you then."
Great. That's all I needed. She'd ask for Catherine Page's room, and feed her the information. How do I get myself into these things?
"Let me call you back," I suggested. "We're checking out early."
She seemed glad to get rid of me.
Next, I put in a call to Catherine Page. I was curious whether the police had also asked her to stick around for awhile. The desk told me she had not checked out, but she wasn't in her room, either.
There was still no one among the people I'd interviewed who had seen Gil Page alive after the alleged argument with Mack. I needed to find such a witness, if there was one. I also thought it would be nice to find someone else who could verify either Mack's or Joe's version of that exchange. Maybe another trip out to the airport was in order.
I retrieved the rental from the hotel lot, started it and allowed it to idle for a couple of minutes, since it hadn’t been driven in more than a day. Traffic was light—I arrived at the airport in less than ten minutes.
The maintenance area was beginning to feel like a second home to me. I whipped into the parking lot like a regular, taking the third space from the end.
The little three-sided wooden structure was occupied, this time by a man. He was seventy if he was a day, standing approximately five foot two, weighing in at close to a hundred pounds. One sure bet, if the Iraqis decided this was the airport they wanted to invade, this guy would not pose a formidable threat.
He rose from the four legged metal stool the state had provided for his comfort, and held his ground, awaiting my approach. I didn't make any sudden moves. Although it probably would have taken him a good four or five minutes to wrestle his gun from its holster, once he did, that trigger finger didn't look any too steady.
"Hi," I said tentatively.
"Where's your badge?" His sharp black eyes scanned me, as he growled the words.
"I don't want in," I assured him. "I just need to ask a question."
He continued to regard me with suspicion until I reached the fence. A jet took off on the nearest runway just then, so I waited until the noise had subsided.
"Were you on duty here last Friday night, about ten o'clock?" I asked.
"Friday night." He rubbed his gums together for a couple of very long minutes. "Nope."
He turned away from me, like he was going back to his comfy seat. I guess he took me literally when I said I wanted to ask a question.
"Wait. Do you know who was on duty that night?"
"Nope."
This guy was just a wealth of information, I must say.
"Can you tell me where I can find out?" I hate to be pushy, especially with our senior citizens, but really.
"Head of security. Over't the security office." He waved vaguely in the direction of the airport terminal building.
I smiled as large a smile as I could muster and thanked him. I don't know whether he noticed or not. He seemed intent on getting off his feet as soon as he could.
I had no idea where I was going, but it seemed like the main terminal building would be a good starting place. Leaving the parking lot by the maintenance hangars, I had to drive past the helipads. Mack's helicopter was gone. Instinctively, I glanced at my watch. It was almost three. Drake had told me their last flight was usually at four.
Without too much difficulty, I managed to follow the loop around that led me to the main airport parking area. A flimsy yellow automatic arm stopped me from entering the lot. I pulled a ticket from the machine, and the arm obligingly raised to admit me.
I parked three rows in, and found my way to the crosswalk which was supposed to get me safely across four lanes of traffic. Luck was with me, and I spotted a traffic officer who was wearing the same HPA uniform as the gate guards.
He was considerably more on the ball than his senior counterpart, and directed me to the security office.
Inside, a pear-shaped female officer sat behind a scuffed metal desk. The back legs of her metal chair were firmly planted on the linoleum floor, the chair back resting against the wall. I could see a long metal-colored mark on the paint indicating that this was a common position here. My sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Singer, would have rapped her knuckles with a ruler for that.
Her blue and gray uniform might have fit correctly once, about three children ago. Now it was stretched across her bulging mid-section in imminent danger of splitting at the seams. Her body tapered inward at the top, making her average sized breasts appear proportionately small.
Her long dark hair had been pulled back from her face, and twisted into an elaborate knot on top of her head. Two lacquered chopsticks skewered the knot in place somehow. I puzzled over this for a minute, wondering if it was painful. Three plumeria flowers stuck out from behind her right ear, perfuming the air in the small office.
I had caught her in the middle of a phone conversation, but she didn't let it bother her. I stood at the counter while she continued to commiserate with someone named Tessie whose husband, Keoki, slapped her around from time to time. Neither of them appeared to regard this as particularly critical. It was just something that Tessie didn't like very much.
I eavesdropped shamelessly while I checked out the surroundings.
The room was about fifteen feet wide by maybe twenty-five deep. A formica counter split the space, and there were two metal desks behind it. The unoccupied one was p
iled high with folders and a scattering of loose memos. A short stack of unopened mail sat precisely in the center. The name plate facing me indicated Mr. Keala occupied this desk. Two gray file cabinets behind the desk had the locks pressed in.
Apparently, he was the busier of the two.
By contrast, the desk occupied by the woman was almost clear. A coffee cup with red waxy smears around the rim, and a pack of Virginia Slims were the only evidence I could see of work in progress. Her stapler, tape dispenser, calculator, and phone were all neatly aligned around the edges of the desktop.
Posters on the walls behind her conspicuously detailed her rights under the Federal Wage and Hour Law and OSHA safety standards. On my side of the room, the posters were meant to inspire, with slogans such as "Security is Everybody's Business."
After ten minutes, I was tired of hearing Tessie's woes. I cleared my throat and glanced at my watch.
"Hold on a minute, Tess," the officer told her friend. She held the phone against her shoulder, and raised her eyes to me.
"Can I help you?" she asked, in a tone that said my business better be urgent.
I was beginning to see why Drake said most people moving here from the mainland soon go nuts or go back. These people had no concept that a fast lane even exists, much less what it might be like to live there. Trying to accomplish even the simplest tasks felt like living in one of those slow moving dreams where you're walking through an atmosphere as thick as gel.
"I need to know some information about the guard's work schedule," I told her. "Specifically, which guard was working the gate near the helicopter maintenance hangars last Friday night around ten p.m."
"Who's asking?" She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
I opened my wallet, flashing my driver's license toward her. If she wanted to question it, she was going to have to move her fat ass out of the chair.
"Tess, I'll call you back," she said to the phone.
Tipping her chair down in slow motion, she rose to approach the counter. Her name tag told me she was Beatrice.
"Now, what exactly is it you want?" she asked.
I thought I had been fairly specific, but I repeated the request.
Vacations Can Be Murder: The Second Charlie Parker Mystery Page 12
