The small, squat building appeared to be more than a house, however. On the front porch was a big cardboard sign reading OPEN. Beyond it, covering the hillside, stretched rows of lush trees that told me Aloha Farm really was just that: a farm.
I checked my notes. Or, to be more accurate, Marnie’s notes.
“Makiko and Peter Cooper,” I read aloud. “Aloha Farm, two and a quarter acres.” In the margin right next to it, Marnie had scrawled the word YES.
Not much to go on. Then again, I told myself resolutely as I swung open the car door, learning something about this place is why you’re here.
Tentatively, I opened the front door, still not completely convinced that the OPEN sign meant it was okay to walk right in. I found myself in a small room that was set up like a café, complete with sunshine-yellow tablecloths printed with a whimsical coffee-cup design. Curtains made from the same cheerful fabric framed the large picture window that looked out onto the sloping fields. Three serious-looking glass cases containing displays on the history and processing of coffee lined the other walls.
So Aloha Farm is a coffee plantation, I thought, still not quite knowing what to make of that fact.
I glanced down as I felt something silky brush against my leg. A sweet-faced gray cat gazed up at me, uttering a quizzical, “Meow?”
“Hello, you precious thing,” I cooed, lifting her up and cuddling her in my arms. Her fur was thick and soft, and her appreciative purrs reverberated through my chest. I nuzzled her against my cheek, suddenly reminded of how much I missed my own gray cat, Catherine the Great, as well as my tiger kitten, Tinkerbell. In fact, my heart began to ache as I thought about how much I also missed my Westie Max and my Dalmatian Lou, as well as my parrot Prometheus and my Jackson’s chameleon Leilani—
“Can I help you?” The sound of a friendly female voice interrupted my unexpected bout of homesickness.
I whirled around, surprised that I wasn’t alone at all. A small, slender woman about my age stood in the doorway that led into the house, smiling. She was dressed casually in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, and her straight, jet-black hair was pulled back into a low ponytail.
“I was driving by and I saw your sign out front,” I said. “I thought I’d stop in and try some of your coffee.”
“Certainly! Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll bring you a small sample of each, if that’s okay.”
As long as there’s caffeine in it, I thought, it’s fine with me. I dropped into the nearest seat with my furry new buddy still in my arms.
“I see you met our official greeter,” the woman commented as she filled no fewer than five small paper cups from five different urns. “Kona is remarkably friendly for a cat. But maybe that’s because she grew up in the family business.”
“Really? You mean you’re the owner?” I asked casually. I hoped she thought I was just another nosy tourist, making conversation.
“My husband and I have owned Aloha Farm for about twelve years. By the way, I’m Makiko Cooper.”
“I’m Jessie Popper,” I replied. “I’m here on Maui for a veterinary conference.”
“You’re a vet? So that explains why you’re so good with Kona. And believe me, she loves the attention.”
She turned her attention to the five cups balanced on the tray she was carrying. “Okay, this should give you a chance to taste a few varieties so you can decide which ones you like best. From left to right, we’ve got one hundred percent Kona Coffee, Kona Vanilla Macadamia Nut, one hundred percent Maui Coffee, and Kona Hula Pie, which is flavored with coconut, macadamia nut, and hazelnut. This last one is Kona Peaberry, which is the crème de la crème of Kona coffee. It’s made with a higher grade of coffee bean.”
“I didn’t even realize coffee was grown on Maui,” I commented. I gently placed Kona the Cat on the ground and reached for the Peaberry, figuring I might as well start at the top.
“We grow a little here on our farm. We also roast Kona coffee that’s grown on the Big Island.”
“Kona coffee is generally considered the best, isn’t it?”
Makiko smiled. “We get a little competition from Blue Mountain, which is grown in Jamaica. But Kona coffee is rated number one or number two in the world.”
“Why is that?” I asked. I moved on to the Hula Pie variety, already realizing that picking out one or two favorites wouldn’t be easy. “Or is that some kind of trade secret?”
“It’s no secret,” she replied, “mainly because none of it is in our control. Our coffee is of such high quality because of six factors: soil, altitude, slope, the amount of sunshine, the amount of cloud cover, and the island’s rainfall.” From the way she rattled off the short list, I got the feeling she’d given this explanation before.
“It sounds like a pretty idyllic life,” I commented, finishing that one off and picking up another. “Living on Maui on such an incredibly beautiful piece of property, running your own business…”
“It’s been wonderful,” Makiko said wistfully, glancing around. “I really do love this place. Like you say, it’s beautiful and peaceful, and I always liked the idea of owning a piece of land. It seemed so…substantial. Like we had something that mattered.
“And my husband, Peter, and I always loved running our own business. Especially growing coffee. There were never very many of us on Maui, but we always felt we were producing something really special.”
Is it my imagination? I wondered, or is she using the past tense an awful lot?
I was trying to formulate a tactful way of questioning her when she added, “Which is why it’s so sad that we’re going out of business.”
“Really?” I tried to hide my surprise. “Maybe I’m being too much of a busybody, but why?”
“We sold our land to a big company. They offered us a ridiculously large amount of money. Way more than market value. Peter and I discussed it for days, but in the end there was no way we could say no.” Quickly, she added, “It’s going to be used for a really good purpose, though.”
It was time to ask the $64,000 question. “I don’t suppose the company is FloraTech, is it?”
She looked surprised. “Yes. How did you know?”
“I guessed. I heard the company just came to Maui recently, and I understand they’re planning to grow hibiscus.” Thinking fast, I added, “Some people at the veterinary conference were talking about it because FloraTech has apparently come up with some really exciting developments in the medical field.”
“That’s our understanding too,” Makiko said. Still sounding a bit defensive, she added, “Besides, we’re not the only ones who’ve decided to sell our land to FloraTech. The farmers here on Maui are a pretty tight group—not only the coffee growers but also the people who grow papayas and macadamia nuts and even the flowers that are used for leis. You know, a lot of us own land that’s been in our families for generations. We’ve loved the idea of carrying on a tradition that’s been part of this island for so long. It’s made us feel as if we were part of something much bigger than ourselves.”
Her voice had grown thicker. Glancing up, I saw that her eyes were glassy with tears. She wiped them away, then shrugged. “But I guess it’s time to move on. Progress and all that.”
I tried to think up something reassuring to say. For some strange reason, I couldn’t.
Fortunately, Makiko took over.
“Let me show you around,” she offered. “If you’re done tasting the coffee, I mean.”
“I am done, and it was great. I’m going to buy a few bags to bring home.”
As I followed Makiko outside, I became mesmerized. I inhaled deeply, smelling the rich, damp earth as I took in the dark slopes, the thick cover of coffee trees, and the pale-blue sky dotted with white clouds.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been surrounded by such beauty. Or felt such a sense of serenity. For a few moments, my mind felt totally clear.
“You’re right, Makiko,” I told her, noticing that my voice also sounded s
trained. “This really is a little piece of paradise, right here on earth.”
We stepped back inside long enough for me to buy several pounds of different varieties of coffee for Nick and me, figuring they’d make a great way to bring a little bit of paradise home with us. Still, a wave of sadness came over me as I paid for what I knew were some of the last bags Makiko and her husband would be selling.
As I got back in the car, I felt sobered by what I’d learned.
Maybe that was what Marnie was writing about, I thought. The idea that land that had been in the same families for generations was being sold to a megacorporation, an organization that came to Maui from somewhere else. And the fact that the farmers who had been living off the land and truly valuing the experience, people like Makiko Cooper, now had to switch gears in order to find something new to do while they left behind something they truly loved.
It was certainly a big story. Yet it didn’t strike me as big enough to get Marnie killed.
I was about to beep the remote to unlock my car when I suddenly heard the rustle of leaves. Instinctively I turned. I half-expected to see Makiko’s cat, Kona, emerging from the bushes.
Nothing.
“Hello?” I called, certain of what I’d heard.
There was no response. I hesitated for a few seconds, listening closely, before deciding that I must have imagined it, after all. Or that maybe the island breezes were playing tricks on me.
Still, as I climbed into the Jeep, I couldn’t shake the unpleasant feeling that I was being watched.
You’ve got to rein in that imagination of yours, I told myself resolutely as I turned back onto Kula Highway. No one is following you and no one is watching you. Not out here in the middle of nowhere.
The real culprit, I decided, was too much caffeine.
Even so, there was definitely something to be said for the rush of energy that had come from my mid-morning infusion of coffee. I actually found myself looking forward to my next stop.
Even though the second spot I planned to visit was considerably further down on Marnie’s list, I’d chosen it because it was only a few miles away from Aloha Farm. According to her notes, the Spirit of Pele Plantation was owned by Wesley Nakoa and consisted of 3.75 acres. There was nothing I could see about it that seemed significantly different from Makiko’s property.
One thing that was different, however, was that Marnie had scrawled the word NO in the margin next to this listing. Hopefully, I’d soon find out what separated the YES’s from the NO’s.
The drive to the Spirit of Pele Plantation took me through Makawao. Thanks to Nick’s guidebook, I knew it had begun as a cowboy town that served the cattle ranches surrounding it.
Sure enough, as I drove through town, I felt as if I’d stumbled upon the set for a western. The wooden buildings that lined the main street, Baldwin Avenue, were almost all only one story high, many with wooden facades that jutted up above the flat roofs, Dodge City–style. Several had wooden porches running along the entire front. I even spotted a few hitching posts.
But the quaint village had clearly moved into the twenty-first century. Makawao may have still held a big rodeo and parade every Fourth of July weekend, but it was also the home of galleries, a health-food store, and a visual-arts center.
As I turned down a side road on the outskirts of town, however, I abruptly received a harsh reminder that I hadn’t come to Upcountry Maui to sightsee. Halfway down the dirt road, I was confronted by a large, crude-looking sign posted on a tree. It was made from a jagged-edged piece of corrugated cardboard covered with black handwritten letters: HAWAIIAN LANDS ARE NOT FOR SALE!
Ten feet down the road I spotted a second sign, done in the same artistic style. This one read, KEEP OUT! PROPERTY PROTECTED BY SMITH & WESSON!
A knot the size of a papaya was already forming in my stomach. Anxiously, I checked Marnie’s notes, wanting to be sure this really was the Spirit of Pele Plantation. Sure enough, this was the place.
“You can do this,” I told myself. I only hoped the reason the person who owned this piece of land didn’t exactly welcome visitors wouldn’t turn out to be that he was growing something illegal.
Still, it was a definite possibility. Which explained why I felt even more apprehensive as I reluctantly climbed out of the Jeep.
As I shielded my eyes from the sun and surveyed the property, I could hear the threatening bark of what sounded like a very large dog somewhere on the property. The main house, a good hundred yards back from the road, was half hidden by overgrown bushes and trees. But even the dense tropical growth didn’t hide the fact that it was desperately in need of a paint job. The only other building I could see was a garage with two broken windows and a roof that appeared to be on the verge of caving in.
Spirit of Pele—or Temple of Doom? I thought.
Still, I wasn’t about to let the owner’s obvious need for a few hours in front of the TV, receiving some sorely needed guidance from the experts on the Home and Garden Channel, get in my way. A big, barrel-chested dog didn’t deter me either, since I’d certainly dealt with my share of those. I tugged on the old wooden gate that separated Wesley Nakoa’s property from the road. As I did, a chunk of rotting wood came loose in my hand.
I took a deep breath before stepping onto Mr. Nakoa’s property. I was fully aware that I was violating any trespassing laws the state of Hawaii happened to have in place. If Wesley Nakoa chose to prosecute, he’d have the government on his side.
But I’d come this far, and I wasn’t about to let a fear of spending the rest of my vacation in a Hawaiian jail get in my way. Not with so much at stake, including my own safety.
Cautiously I moved along the path—really a hap-hazard scattering of rocks that was nearly obscured by weeds—taking care not to twist my ankle. The barking continued, resonating louder in my ears with each step I took.
Once I was on the property, I saw that there was a lot more happening on this land than I’d realized. Behind the dilapidated structures were acres of farmland planted with vegetables. The even, carefully planted rows that were obviously tended with meticulous care contrasted sharply with the ramshackle buildings.
My heartbeat quickened when I spotted someone in the distance. Even from this far away, I could see he was probably in his sixties, his face leathery from both age and too much time in the sun. Beside him stood a large mixed-breed dog with matted, dark-brown fur and that big chest I could tell he had from his bark. The man’s clothes reminded me of a scarecrow’s. The cuffs of his loose, ill-fitting khaki pants were caked with mud, and his pale-blue cotton shirt was torn in several places. He wore his big straw hat pulled down low so that it almost covered his eyes. The crown was ripped and the brim hung limply, no doubt from years of wear. His posture was stooped and his hands were gnarled.
“Mr. Nakoa?” I called, trying to sound friendly.
But as I took a few steps closer, I saw that his eyes were filled with fire. I also realized he was pointing a double-barrel shotgun right at me.
Chapter 12
“Some people say man is the most dangerous animal on the planet. Obviously those people have never met an angry cat.”
—Lillian Johnson
Get the hell off my property!” the man demanded in a coarse, gravelly voice.
I swallowed hard. Frankly, I was finding it a little difficult to make conversation while a gun was pointed straight at me. That dog looked and sounded pretty serious too. “I’m looking for Mr. Nakoa,” I finally managed. “Wesley Nakoa.”
“Quiet, Poto!” he snapped at his dog. Surprisingly, the animal obeyed. At least, he did after one more sharp bark, followed by a whimper that made it quite clear he wasn’t happy about doing so. The man turned his focus back to me. “You found him. Whaddya want?”
He’s not really going to shoot you, I told myself. He’s just trying to scare you.
And doing a mighty fine job of it too.
Still, clinging to the idea that this man’s bark was proba
bly worse than his bite, I forced myself to march right up to him. I tried to carry myself with dignity, along with a confidence I didn’t come close to feeling.
As I got nearer, I saw that he was older than I’d first assumed. Seventies, or even eighties. His face was as dry as the arid red dirt of the Haleakala crater and crisscrossed with an even greater number of lines than the desertlike terrain. But his pale hazel eyes were bright and filled with the same fire the dormant volcano had once spewed.
I stuck out my hand. “Hello, Mr. Nakoa. My name is Jessica Popper. I live on the mainland, where I work as a veterinarian.” The words kept flowing, practically out of my control, as I desperately tried to defuse some of the tension hanging in the air, especially in the small amount of space between that gun and me. “I’m here on Maui for just a few days, attending a veterinary conference. But I was wondering if you’d be willing to talk to me about a conversation I believe you recently had with Marnie Burton.”
I don’t know which phrase I used that turned out to contain the magic words, but he finally lowered his gun.
“You mean that reporter, right?” He pulled the brim of his straw hat down further. Not much of his eyes showed, but his scowl sure did.
“Yes. Marnie worked for the Maui Dispatch.” I hesitated. “I don’t know if you heard about what happened to her, but she—”
“She was killed, right? They killed her.”
His words had the same effect on me as if he’d struck me with the barrel of his shotgun.
“What do you mean, ‘they killed her’?” I demanded, feeling my cheeks grow warm. “Who?”
“How do I know you’re not working with them?” he replied angrily, narrowing his eyes.
“Mr. Nakoa, you’ve got to trust me when I tell you I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
Right from the Gecko Page 19
