“I’m not a chai guy. But you should keep working on this one. He’ll come around.” I hooked a thumb at Chance.
Ouch. Nasty scowl. Time to make nice.
“So you two are celebrating your, what? Second anniversary?”
Lexie beamed. “Two months, you remembered.”
“You bring out the best in him, Lexie. I could see he fell for you the moment you two met.”
Chance’s face flushed. “What are you doing, McKenna? Trying to get out of the chai-guy doghouse?”
“Not at all. I just think you’ve matured a lot. Two months is a big deal. Young love. Yada, yada. I cleared my throat. Anyway, you missed seeing your boyfriend in action.”
I filled Lexie in on what she’d missed while Chance contemplated…what? A way to get back at me? I hoped not as I embellished my recitation with another version of my self-defense moves. At least Lexie thought it was funny. Chance had his face buried in his hands, probably to avoid watching my shenanigans.
“I can’t believe it,” she said.
“How come you’re so surprised? You knew Chance was trained. Yah?”
“It’s not that. What surprises me is Ricky Coyne.”
Chance shifted his gaze to Lexie. “His last name’s Coyne? You know him?”
She waved away the question with a backward flip of her delicate hand. “He hits on all the girls. He claims he’s a big Hollywood producer and wants us to audition. He’s a—I won’t say it. It doesn’t surprise me he’s arrogant enough to wear a lei palaoa, but being so stupid as to wear the T-shirt with it? There are a few rabid believers in this neighborhood. He’s begging for a beating.”
“My sentiments, exactly.” I pointed at Lexie. “Listen to this girl. She knows her stuff. How long has your family been here?”
“I’m third generation. My great-grandfather arrived in 1910. He was a laborer in the cane fields. I’m the usual mix, a little Chinese, Japanese, and Filipino blended in with the Caucasian.”
Lexie twirled a lock of her dark hair while gazing at Chance. I could see how he’d fallen for her. She was gorgeous—almond-shaped brown eyes beneath dark brown hair highlighted by the sun. These two made a great couple…I hoped they lasted.
“My dad was the first one in my family to go to college,” Lexie said.
“And now he’s a City Councilman.” I raised my cup and took a sip.
Chance scrunched up his face. “So this lei palaoa thing, it’s a really big deal?”
“It certainly is in my family. When my great-grandfather got here, the sovereign government had just been overthrown seventeen years earlier. The feelings were very strong at the time. Respect for others and their station in life was a big deal back then. My family still has those values. Me and my sister were indoctrinated when we were little. I think that’s why my dad chose politics. As a way to, you know, help others understand the need to respect the past.”
“If Mandy’s family didn’t get here until recently, how’d she become such a fanatic?” Chance asked.
I gazed at him. “Good question, but the fact remains, the lei niho palaoa should only be worn by the Ali‘i. It’s disrespectful for others to wear it.”
“The thing didn’t look very regal to me.”
“It’s a whale’s tooth and some human hair,” I said. “Definitely not something you’d find in Tiffany’s window down on Waikīkī.”
Lexie glared at him. “It’s a symbol, Chance.”
“Do you think this Ricky Coyne could afford the real thing?”
“I don’t know. If he really is a producer—I guess it’s possible.”
Why would Mandy have reacted so strongly if it was a fake? “Chance, the real deal as you call it could cost more than some of the other stuff at Tiffany’s. Does that make you feel better?” It was time for me to leave these two alone. “I’m sure you two have something better to do. We’ll have to come again, without the crazy guy.”
“McKenna,” said Chance. “I have a bit of a problem. I gave Lexie a ride to work this morning. I don’t have room in the Ferrari for three.”
“No worries, buddy. I’m quite capable of finding my way home all on my own. I have a monthly bus pass, two feet, and a mondo caffeine-and-sugar rush going on. I don’t usually do this so late in the day.”
“Are you sure?” Lexie asked. “I can—”
I cut her off. “Shush. I wouldn’t think of it. I’m happy to walk.”
We said our goodbyes to McTaggert, then went outside. Chance and Lexie turned right and headed for the parking lot. Standing alone, I breathed in the moist air. I loved the tropical humidity, the trade winds—our natural air conditioning on most days, and the constant weather-pattern changes during the day. Forget the bus pass. It was a nice day, the trades were rustling the palm leaves above, and it wasn’t much more than a mile home. The walk might help me work off some of my caffeine high.
At the corner, I took a left on Ka‘iulani Avenue to escape the perfectly groomed flagstone sidewalks and rush hour traffic clogging Kalākaua. At the next corner, I turned right and stuck to the Hyatt Regency side of the street. I passed an Asian couple standing in the shade cast by one of the hotel’s high-rise towers. They were obviously waiting for their tour bus.
On this side of the street, buses and utility vehicles predominated. I entered the gauntlet created by the hotel planters and trucks lining the curb. A white delivery truck for a local bakery came out the exit ahead and rumbled down the street. Workers in paradise. Normal people trying to make a living in a place others came to marvel at. Further down the street, a few tourists parked themselves on the pony walls of the planters to wait for their buses.
As is the case so often in the islands, the other side of the street was a complete opposite. White and silver compact cars, some with surfboards strapped to the top, were the norm in front of brightly painted apartments with tropical sounding names like Capri and Koa. The trades whispered through the palm leaves above. Life was good. Finally.
I hummed a few bars of an island melody that had been playing in the Book & a Latte. What was the song’s name? I had to find out because it was cropping up in a lot of places that used canned music. Halfway down the block, a pair of legs jutted out from between a pair of Mediterranean palms.
I sighed and veered into the gutter to give the man a wide berth. Another homeless guy who’d started drinking way too early? No point in disturbing him. What was the point in calling 9-1-1? The cops had better things to do than roust a sleeping drunk.
I rubbernecked it on my way past. Why not? Everyone did it.
The man lay face up in the planter. I stopped and stared. It was him. Mr. Down with Royalty.
I pulled out my phone. Dialed 9-1-1.
“Do you have an emergency?”
“I just came across a dead man in a hotel planter on Koa Street.”
More questions. Answers. I waited. Ricky Coyne was most definitely dead.
He wore the Down with Royalty T-shirt. And, it was soaked in blood.
There was also no sign of what had caused the altercation in the store. His lei niho palaoa was missing.
Chapter 4
I hung around the scene to answer the usual questions from the cops. How did you discover the body? Did you touch anything? Do you know anyone who would want to kill the victim? Blah, blah, all the typical murder stuff. Reluctantly, I told the officer about the Book & a Latte altercation.
When the cops excused me, I headed home. My insides still quivered at the image of so much blood. I needed to unwind. What better than a detour along the water? I turned right at the road into the Natatorium War Memorial. It had been a couple of weeks since I’d come this way. Sadly, even the sight of the four eagles atop the grand entrance, which normally lifted my spirits, had little effect. Instead, they reminded me of strife. There were plenty of people who wanted to demolish this structure, which symbolized the sacrifices Hawai‘i made in World War I. Why was everything in life a struggle?
Ther
e was a path just before the memorial entrance that ran parallel to the water. I turned left into the natural arbor created by banyan trees stretching over the path. Someone had leaned a rickety bicycle against one of the tree trunks. That was the way to enjoy life—ride your bike to the beach and swim.
The walk through windswept coconut palms along the water helped to lift my spirits and quiet my caffeine buzz. The sight of families picnicking on the grass, kids playing catch with a frisbee, and an old couple helping each other hike through the melee reminded me how much of an exception Ricky’s murder really was.
Dinner consisted of leftover chicken, a bit of pineapple, and a glass of wine. A fabulous sunset of crimson, gray, and blue created the perfect accompaniment to dinner. By nine, I was whipped and went to bed.
When Alexander’s family befriended me, I learned the meaning of ohana. I met his immediate family along with his aunties, uncles, and close friends. I also met his Great-grampa Kimu, an avid surfer and supporter of the underdog. Alexander’s ohana told me I must have da kine. Alexander said they meant it as a compliment. But, da kine is a placeholder word much like “thing” in English. It could mean whatever the person saying it wanted, so I was never entirely sure if Alexander’s interpretation was correct or if he was merely being kind.
What really pissed me off was that Kimu had been dead for a dozen years. He’d taken to haunting my dreams for some reason and the only thing I could figure was I’d become his afterlife hobby.
It begins as it always does. With darkness. This time, two men. Shadows, at first. Then crystal clear. Too clear. They wear robes. Feathered. Masks of gold. Between them they hold a man who resembles Ricky Coyne. No, it is Ricky Coyne.
They drag Ricky forward. He kicks. Screams. One of the men nods at someone standing off to the side. Same attire, red and yellow feathered robes, gold mask. He steps forward and cuts out the front of Ricky’s shirt. Stuffs it into Ricky’s mouth.
I mutter, “Thanks. He was beginning to annoy me, too.”
“You do got da kine, McKenna.”
Oh, crap, it’s Kimu. He heard me. I don’t know why I’m surprised. He’s the one controlling this series of events. What will he do next? I say, “Thanks, I think.”
The two men in feathers march Ricky to a large stone. They ignore his writhing and bend him over backwards until his back lies flat on the stone slab. A fourth robed man, a giant who towers over the others, approaches. He holds a kitten in one hand and a stone knife in the other.
One of the men yanks on a gold chain around Ricky’s neck. The chain snaps. He tosses it away.
The knife wielder screams. Loud. Blood-curdling. Raises his weapon. High.
I turn away as he thrusts downwards.
“Cut!”
This is barbaric. My dinner, coffee, and even breakfast from the day churn in my stomach. I sneak a peek at the bloody corpse. It’s gone.
A very alive Ricky is coming this way. A voluptuous young blonde tags along at his side, patting his forehead with a damp towel. “Makeup!” she yells.
“Kimu, baby,” says Ricky, “this whole sacrifice thing’s not working for me. Dude, I’m supposed to be the hero in this pic, not the victim.”
Kimu’s pulled some crazy shit before, but this is…“You’re making a movie? In my dream?”
He points at me. “You gotta talk da director, yah?” Kimu leans back in his canvas stage chair. “He da man. What you say, McKenna?”
All around me, crew members rearrange lighting, change props, attend to the other—what are they, actors? One of the guys in feathered-robe walks off the set, lights a cigarette, and blows a ring of smoke. Mandy appears nearby, dressed as she was in the store. The one difference is she now wears a plumeria lei around her neck. She holds a tray of cups with the Book & a Latte logo in her hands.
“I have a tall Vanilla Latte, a Grande Mocha . . .” Cast and crew members rush forward to grab their orders. When she gets to the last drink, she appears before us.
“Let me guess, tall blonde for me,” I quip.
She shakes her head. “You didn’t order, Mr. McKenna.” She sneers at Ricky. “This is for the double-crossing slime.”
Ricky reaches for the cup, but Mandy throws the steaming liquid into his face. He shrieks as he runs away.
Mandy glances around, then smiles. “I have to get my kitten.”
At the edge of the stage, Ricky slams into the actor with the cigarette. Glowing embers fall into his robes. The robes burst into flames. The men go down near a light standard with high-intensity bulbs attached to the top. The feather guy howling like an injured animal as he rolls to put out the fire. He bumps into the pole. The standard wobbles, then topples. Bulbs explode as they crash on the stage. More sparks jump. Another pocket of flames.
Kimu shakes my arm. “You gotta stop dis. You destroying my set.”
“Your set? I thought you said I was the director.”
“But, I’m da producer. Dis kinda tough on overhead.”
I plant my hand on my forehead. “You and your dreams.”
“It your dream, McKenna. You got all you need. Except dis.” He gestures at Mandy, who removes the lei from her neck and drapes it around mine. She runs away as electrical lines spark, the set bursts into flames, and Ricky Coyne’s body disappears. In its place is Mandy’s kitten.
A moment later, Mandy marches onto the stage. “There you are.” She reaches down. Cuddles the kitten. She’s standing next to me now, holding out the little ball of fur. “Would you like to hold her?”
Chapter 5
The scent of plumeria hung in the air when I awoke the next morning. I sat on the side of the bed for several minutes, my feet resting on the cool tile floor. Nothing in the dream made sense. Did it ever at this point? Kimu’s messages were always abstract. Everything was a metaphor. And, right now I had no clue what the damn images meant.
Kimu and I had a fundamental difference of opinion about these stupid dreams. He claimed they were mine. How could I conjure up anything so…whacko? Besides, if I had so much control, why wouldn’t I simply stage a courtroom drama in which someone, maybe even Kimu, stood in front of the guilty party, pointed an accusing finger, and declared the verdict. For all I cared, Kimu could be the star witness, prosecutor, and judge. Hell, let him play all the roles. Maybe that way I could get some sleep.
I’ve never been able to remember my dreams, so why did I remember these in such vivid detail? They were so…real. Like I was really there, experiencing every detail. But, they were completely impossible.
What I needed was a shower. Maybe that would clear my head. The spray tingled my face, a welcome wakeup call for the morning. However, it brought no answers to my questions. What could Kimu—or my subconscious—have possibly meant by all that weird shit? How did everything connect? These questions and a dozen others would niggle at my thoughts until I had answers. There was only one thing to do. Head downtown. That would be a start. If I got lucky, maybe we’d find some connection. Oh, we. I was thinking of having Chance tag along. Why not? The kid could use the experience.
Shortly after eight, Chance showed up all on his own, looking fresh and relaxed. Without preamble, he said, “We need to check into Ricky Coyne’s death.”
Good grief. Don’t tell me Kimu was visiting Chance, too. Could we possibly be sharing the same afterlife adviser? Would I be jealous if we were? “I had the same thought.”
“Another Kimu dream last night?”
I bit my tongue, unwilling to confess. “What made you decide to take this on?”
“I got a call from Steve. The cops came by the store and he’s worried they may see him as a suspect. That could ruin his business. So, he wants some help.”
“Let me get my wallet.” I suppressed a smile as I turned away, and said a silent thank you to Kimu. It seemed childish, but as much as I bitched about his methods, I would be jealous if I had to share him.
Twenty minutes later, Chance parked his Ferrari on a side street near th
e Book & a Latte. If I had his kind of money, a bright red rocket ship might by my transportation of choice, too. I might never have his trust fund, but my monthly bus pass gave me certain bragging rights. You know, environmentally friendly. Spare the air. Maybe the trees would give me an award before I died.
We spent the next couple of hours revisiting the crime scene, talking to people on the streets, and going from door-to-door playing twenty questions. The bottom line was nobody really knew Ricky, though some recognized him once we mentioned the Kamehameha shirt.
We expanded our search to Prince Edward Street at Chance’s insistence. Halfway down the block, about twenty people stood on the sidewalk near a food truck. The truck took up three spaces in front of a white building with old green shingles. A thatched umbrella shielded two lightweight beach chairs, one bright red, the other an iridescent turquoise. Both chairs were empty.
“I’m surprised the City doesn’t ticket the truck for…triple parking.” I said.
“It’s a new project. They’re trying out the equivalent of a mobile food pantry. Councilman Ashbrook launched it as a pilot.” Chance approached the vehicle and waved at the man taking orders.
“Hey, Chance. Aloha, brah. You here to help?” The man smiled, his teeth bright and straight. Combine his smile with a rock-star haircut and blond accents and we were definitely talking about a guy from Chance’s social strata, not mine.
“Sorry, Homer. I’m working a case. How about Friday morning? That works for me if you need it.”
“Ten-four. I’ll text you with the details.”
“You’re serving meals to the homeless?” Was this another sign of maturity? Or was this a way to please Lexie’s family?
He bit his upper lip and watched the sidewalk to avoid eye contact. “When I can. It’s not a big deal, McKenna.”
“Right, no big deal.” This was awkward. Chance’s Embarrassment Meter was in the red zone thanks to me. Letting him off the hook was the right thing to do. I shrugged. “We’re here to do a job.”
Mystery of the Lei Palaoa Page 2
