Jack did most of his work on the Plantation from this house and left the farm’s office to Keoni, who managed the growing, harvesting, washing, drying, and roasting of coffee beans and the Plantation’s retail sales business.
Jack was trying to develop new markets for his coffee beans. He wanted the finest restaurants on the mainland to serve his coffee, brewed in the French Press fashion at the table, an elegant way to serve coffee that had not yet made it to many restaurants outside Hawaii. Jack wanted to change their menus to include Kona as well as espresso coffee. He had struck a strategic alliance with a glass manufacturer who made excellent French Press beakers and, together, they contacted chefs and restaurant managers on both coasts and in the midwest and sought to persuade them to supplement their current coffee selection with Kailua Plantation beans and French Presses.
After twenty cold calls to restaurants on the mainland, Jack walked back to the farm’s office and told Keoni, “I’m going into town to see that guy who makes hula lamps. Katherine has wanted one ever since she first saw them, and I thought I might bring one back for her tomorrow.”
“Make sure you get the kind whose hips swivel. They’re the real ones,” Keoni said.
“I wouldn’t think of getting any other kind. And Keoni, I’m having dinner with Stanton Char at The Poinciana Hotel tonight.”
“Try the opakapaka, Mr. Sullivan, it’s excellent.”
“It’ll be either opakapaka or ono, Keoni, you know me.”
“You can’t go wrong with either one. By the way, they had some trouble up there over the weekend. Some loudmouth from Los Angeles got out of hand at dinner on Saturday night. The maitre’d is a friend of mine and he thought he was going to have to call the police.”
“I heard about that. The guy was Derek Reynolds, the Hollywood producer. He died today in Honolulu.”
“Did somebody shoot him?” Keoni asked. “With a temper like his, I can see how it could happen.”
“You mean he had a short fuse?”
“He was explosive. The way my friend described it, he just started screaming at this young woman, using language that was way out of order.”
“He made quite a scene at a party in Honolulu last night too,” Jack said.
“My friend will be at the restaurant tonight. His name is Emmett. Ask him about it.”
“Maybe I will, if I get a chance.”
Jack climbed into the 1969 Camaro convertible that he kept on the Plantation and drove out of the farm toward the town of Kailua-Kona. Suddenly, his cell phone erupted with the short ring that signaled receipt of a voicemail message. Jack was wryly mystified at technology that permitted him to receive the message but had not allowed him to receive the actual call, even though his cell phone had been turned on all day and he had earlier received a call from Katherine.
Jack looked at the face of the phone to see the source of the incoming message. It was Dave McNeil’s office at Police Headquarters in Honolulu. A somber-toned McNeil asked Jack to call as soon as possible. Jack was certain of one thing. Dave was not calling to talk about golf or paddling.
Jack immediately pulled onto the shoulder of the road, stopped the car, and called McNeil.
“Dave, Jack,” he said as the familiar voice answered the call on the first ring. “What’s up?”
“I’m not sure yet, Jack, but we got the results of the autopsy. Derek Reynolds didn’t die from a heart attack induced by high living and too many Mai Tai’s.”
“What did the autopsy show?”
“It’s what it didn’t show, Jack. There was no evidence of the kind of damage to the heart muscle that you see after a typical heart attack.”
“So what caused his death?”
“We don’t know. The toxicology results haven’t come back from the lab yet. They’ll tell us what was in Reynolds’ blood, in his stomach, in his bladder, the usual,” Dave explained.
“When will you have them?”
“The lab says we’ll have them first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Have you told Gordon yet?”
“No, I haven’t and that’s why I called. I thought I should wait until I have the toxicology results. I don’t want to flip him out. Do you agree?”
“Yes, I do. He was worried last night. All he could think about was that ciguatera incident on Maui last year.”
“That’s why I called you, Jack. I wanted to see if you agreed with me about waiting to tell Gordon what we know so far.”
“I do agree, Dave,” Jack said. “At this point, you don’t know enough to do anything other than scare the hell out of him.”
“Thanks, old buddy. When do you get back?”
“I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon, but feel free to call me here. It’ll be a pleasant break from arguing with condescending French chefs and know it all restaurant managers about the relative merits of Kona and espresso coffee.”
“I’ll call you when I get the lab results.”
Jack sat in his car, thinking about what Dave had just told him. He wasn’t surprised to learn that Reynolds had not died of a heart attack. He had seen Reynolds collapse and noticed that he didn’t clutch his chest or grab his left arm in pain or even cry out. Reynolds had only hesitated in the middle of his speech, looked puzzled, and then collapsed in a heap. Jack hoped that these were not the symptoms of ciguatera poisoning.
CHAPTER TEN
The artisan who had designed and cast the hula lamps was very happy to see Jack. At $1,000 a lamp, he didn’t sell very many, but he regarded each of them as a work of art. He had performed a valuable service for tourists and Hawaiians alike by bringing these quintessential symbols of Hawaii back to life. Cast in bronze in the shape of a Native Hawaiian woman with a silk-thread skirt hanging on hips that swiveled at the flick of a switch and crowned with hand-painted lampshades depicting scenes in the islands, the lamps brought back Old Hawaii in a way that no modern souvenirs could. Katherine had seen them on their first visit to the Big Island and tracked down the craftsman who made them.
“I’m ready to do it,” Jack said, breaking into a broad grin.
“I knew you’d be back to close the deal,” the craftsman replied with a smile.
With the lamp and shade safely secured inside packing crates, Jack drove back to the Plantation, thinking about his conversation with Dave and wondering what the toxicology analysis would reveal. The lights were still on in the office, and Jack waved to Keoni as he drove past. Some of the farmhands were rolling the drying platforms into the shed that provided cover from the nightly rains so the beans would remain dry until the platforms were rolled back out into the sunshine the next morning.
Jack showered and put on a bright blue Aloha shirt that featured pineapples and the Hawaiian island of Lanai, another of his favorites. He got back into the Camaro and drove north on Queen Kaahumanu Highway toward the luxury hotels of the Kohala Coast, forty-five minutes away. These hotels were worlds in themselves. The tourists who stayed in them rarely left the hotel grounds, which were set back miles from the main highway. Reaching them required a ten-minute drive west through desolate black volcanic rock formations so primitive that first-time visitors were convinced that they had taken a wrong turn. When they finally arrived at the hotel, they were startled by the green grass, vivid tropical flowers, and tall and full palm trees — a tribute to landscape architects and fresh water irrigation systems.
Twenty-five minutes later, as Jack passed the Kona airport on his left, he decided to take an earlier flight back to Honolulu the next morning. He missed Katherine and wanted to be around if the news of Reynolds’ death was bad for Gordon and the Club. Twenty minutes later, he turned left from Queen Kaahumanu Highway and drove west through the moonscape of volcanic rock fields toward the Pacific Ocean and The Poinciana Hotel.
The Poinciana was the Island of Hawaii’s most elegant hotel. Dominated by the warm tones of Koa wood in the furniture, doors, and walls, and accented by oriental carpets, the hotel’s common rooms resembled the
nineteenth century Iolani Palace that Hawaii’s last king, David Kalakaua, had built in Honolulu. The Poinciana Room was widely recognized as the island’s best restaurant and the only one that still required gentlemen to wear sport coats. The result was a dignified, quiet atmosphere that guests invariably wished would spread to other restaurants on the island.
“Good evening, Jack,” Stanton said as Jack approached the maitre’d, “let me introduce you to Emmett, the best maitre’d on the Big Island.”
“And a friend of Keoni Campbell, as I learned today,” Jack added, shaking Emmett’s hand.
“Keoni told me about you, Jack. I’m very glad to meet you.”
“Thank you. Keoni tells me you had quite a dust-up here last Saturday night.”
“Did we ever,” Emmett exclaimed. “I thought I was going to have to call the police to quiet them down.”
“What happened?” Stanton asked.
“Well, it was late and there weren’t many people left in the dining room. There were two women and a man at a table in the corner, and I noticed that the man was arguing with one of the women, the younger one, while the older one kept trying to quiet them down. Suddenly, the man erupted like Kilauea. He turned as red as lava and began screaming obscenities at the younger woman. I only learned later who they were.”
“Did you call the police?” Jack asked.
“No, there was no need to. The older woman calmed them down, and they left the dining room.”
“It must have been a lively bit of entertainment for the Saturday night crowd here,” Jack said.
“Not everyone recognized them at first,” Emmett went on. “But there was a couple from Honolulu seated across the dining room in the alcove that looks out on the ocean and they told their waiter who they were. Then he told me, and I was shocked. Hypatia Adams and Derek Reynolds are famous. I don’t know anything about the younger woman, but she was mad as hell at Reynolds.”
“Well, I hope you don’t lose any customers as a result,” Stanton said with an eye toward the bottom line.
“We were lucky it was late, and we had mostly local regulars and that one couple from Honolulu who come here frequently. You probably know them, Stanton — Sidney and George Lane. I was a little worried about them after I saw them check out on Sunday morning. When they arrived at the dining room on Saturday night, they told me they’d be staying for five days.”
“I do know them,” Stanton replied. “Sidney used to be a Hollywood actress who probably knew Derek Reynolds. I’m surprised they weren’t sitting together.”
“I didn’t even see them speak to each other. Maybe the Lane’s didn’t see the Reynolds party until the shouting started and didn’t want to embarrass them,” Emmett said.
“Probably.” Stanton turned to Jack. “Where would you like to sit, Jack, in the dining room or out on the porch?”
“Let’s sit inside tonight,” Jack replied, “and let the tourists enjoy that view.”
“I agree,” said Stanton, “although I never tire of looking at the Pacific Ocean.”
“Neither do I. That’s one of the reasons we moved out here.”
Emmett led Stanton and Jack to the alcove table where Sidney and George Lane had sat on the previous Saturday evening.
“This table offers the best of both worlds. An inside table with a view of the ocean,” Emmett said as he pulled the table out to allow Stanton to slide in behind it. The alcove had a clear view of the dining room as well as the ocean.
“I can see how the Reynolds party might not have noticed the Lane’s,” Stanton said as he leaned back into the red leather banquette whose wings extended out from either side of the curved seat.
“Yes, but the Lane’s could easily have seen the Reynolds group,” Jack responded.
“Maybe they don’t like each other.”
“That’s probably it. Based on my exposure to him last night, I don’t think many people did like Derek Reynolds,” Jack said.
Emmett returned and introduced their waiter. As Emmett turned back toward his post at the entrance to the dining room, Jack said, “By the way, Emmett, you won’t have to worry about Reynolds coming back and raising hell here again. He died early this morning in Honolulu.”
“How did that happen?”
“I’m not sure. The press reported that he had a heart attack, but the police haven’t announced anything official yet.”
“Well, I’m glad he didn’t die here,” Emmett said. “The last thing a restaurant needs is for someone to die after dinner. Reynolds didn’t die after eating at a restaurant, did he?”
“Actually, he collapsed after a luau at the Diamond Head Canoe Club.”
“I know the chef there. He’s one of the best chefs on Oahu,” Emmett said.
“I agree,” Jack said. “I’m sure Reynolds had some kind of preexisting condition that surfaced and did him in.”
“That’s probably right. Hypertension is the silent killer, isn’t it? He probably had high blood pressure and it finally got to him.”
“Well, enough talk of this,” Stanton said. “Let’s look at the menu. What’ll it be Jack, opakapaka, ono or mahimahi?”
“You mean I’m that predictable, Stanton?”
“Well, even though I see marlin on the menu, my gut tells me that you’re an opakapaka kind of guy tonight.”
“I do love snapper, whether it’s red from the Gulf of Mexico, yellowtail from the Atlantic Ocean, or opakapaka from the Pacific.”
“Snapper is an excellent fish, regardless of its home waters,” Stanton replied. “But I’m having the marlin. I feel the need for a good steak.”
“Do you prefer marlin over ahi?” Jack asked, referring to the Hawaiian name for yellowfin tuna.
“It’s a close call, and the outcome usually depends on what else I’ve had to eat earlier in the day,” Stanton said. I had an ahi sandwich for lunch, so I’ve depleted the tuna stock enough for one day.”
They placed their orders, asked the waiter to choose a bottle of sauvignon blanc that would complement opakapaka and marlin, then turned to fishing, their other mutual interest.
“Jack, I’m building a boat here on the Big Island. I want to be able to come over from Honolulu and, on a moment’s notice, go fishing. And I want to do it from my own boat, with my own tackle.”
“I agree. There’s nothing like having your own boat with your own rods, reels and lures. How big is it?” Jack asked.
“It’s only thirty feet. I don’t want to cruise anywhere. The waters between these islands are too rough for that. I just want to get out to the fishing grounds off Kona and catch a few big ones.”
“The Kona Coast really is one of the world’s great fisheries. What’s the Hawaiian word for it? Is it ‘kai lawai‘a’?” Jack asked.
“Very good, Jack. You’ve been studying our language.”
“Just listening carefully. I took Latin in high school, and my father studied Latin and Greek. Growing up, he was always teaching us the classical origins of the English language. The Hawaiian language is similar. It combines words and makes concepts out of them. ‘Kai’ means the sea and ‘lawai‘a’ means to catch fish. I named our house on the plantation ‘Hale Kai,’ house toward the sea.”
“You’re becoming an incurable Hawaiian, Jack.”
“I hope so. When will your boat be finished?”
“In about six months. I’ll keep chartering boats out of Honokohau Harbor in the meantime.”
“Are you going to keep your boat there?” Jack asked.
“I wouldn’t keep it anywhere else. The fishing grounds off the Kona Coast are so close to shore, just like the Gulf Stream off Boca Raton and Fort Lauderdale. Hell, you go out two miles from Honokohau, and the big fish are right there.”
“I know what you mean. I’ve paddled out there in a canoe, and some very big fish have swum right under me.”
“No question about it. That’s why my new boat’s only thirty feet long. Just long enough to be comfortable for a half day of fi
shing off Kona.”
“That’s enough for me too. If I haven’t caught anything after four hours, I’m usually ready to head for home.”
“Jack, where do you come down on this debate over the legal definition of ‘Kona Blend’ coffee?
“Well, I’m surprised the legislature didn’t raise the Kona content requirement above the current ten per cent level. That seems a bit low to me. I lean toward 30 per cent, which is more in line with the specialty coffee industry standard.”
“This debate that will rage as long as farmers, roasters and blenders are selling Kona coffee. It seems to me that as long as the amount of Kona coffee in the blend is disclosed, there’s no harm to the consumer. But I do worry that the lower content rule could dilute the Kona coffee brand and turn off some consumers who may be disappointed with its taste.”
“Well, Stanton, at the moment I’m resolving that debate by not selling any of my Kona beans for blending with other kinds of coffee beans. I hope the economics of this business let me continue doing that.”
“For the foreseeable future, I think they will, Jack. But those of us who are carrying these larger properties have to sell a significant portion of our Kona coffee for the blend market.”
“I knew there was an advantage to owning a small property.”
Stanton and Jack finished dinner with their usual discussion of soil conditions, rainfall, the market and the new subject of UAV technology, which Jack agreed to try, and walked together from the hotel to their cars.
As Jack drove south toward Kailua Plantation, he reached for his cell phone and called Katherine.
“Hellooo?”
“Hellooo,” Jack mimicked in response. “How was your day?”
“Fine, but I miss you.”
“I miss you too, but I’ve got good news. I’m coming home in the morning.”
“Did you get everything done today?”
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