Haole Wood (16 page)

“Can we take a look at the photos, O’Boyle?” Jac asked.

He lifted his head a fraction of an inch in greeting, wow, he and Jac must be super close, and pulled out a stack of photos from a large manila envelope. I sat in the chair by his desk, next to Jac, who translated the silence. “Don’t worry,” Jac said. There’s no real gore here.” Jac looked at the photos before handing them to me. “He looks like he actually died very peacefully. It appears he ingested a sedative with the poison and just went to sleep.”

I took the photos. The first one showed a wide shot of Mike Hokama, looking like he was asleep on his long black leather designer couch in his living room. I flipped through the pictures quickly, which showed other angles, shots of the floor and the furniture. I came to a photo of the kitchen table. On its shiny lacquer surface sat a basket just like the ones my grandmother had in her kitchen. It was filled with herbs in plastic bags. A white towel, that looked like it had been used, lay tossed next to the basket.

“Who found him?” Jac asked O’Boyle.

“Gardener. Next mornin’.”

I nodded and waved the picture. “The basket and herbs look like they came from my grandmother. She has towels like that too, but who doesn’t have white towels?” Other photos, taken at the police station, showed close-ups of the individual herbs and teas, with identifying labels. I handed the pictures back to O’Boyle. “Why, exactly do they think she killed him? And if she did, wouldn’t she have been smart enough to hide the evidence?”

O’Boyle frowned at me. Or maybe that was his pleasant face.

“She says she went over there with herbs to soothe an upset stomach, and there was nothing poisonous in the mix. You saw the shots. Peppermint, chamomile, ginger. Spearmint.”

I nodded. “We knew that.”

“She says she didn’t take a kukui nut concoction. He told her he had been under a lot of stress. When he started up about trying to buy her property again, she says she left, but gave him the herbs so he could brew them into a tea himself.”

O’Boyle sighed, as if all those pearls of wisdom he was forced to share with me took a toll on his health. “She said, even if he was an
okole
, an ass, she didn’t want him to suffer.”

“From everything I know about my grandmother, that all rings totally true,” I said. “It all makes sense. So, why do the police want to pin this murder on her?”

“Mrs. Park talked to people, and let it be known she was angry with him. She is the resident expert on kukui nut oil, the agent used in Mike Hokama’s death. Kukui nut oil, in an extremely concentrated dosage, mixed with traces of belladonna root, distilled into essential oil drops can be fatal to some people. Especially if they’re allergic, or highly reactive, as Mike Hokama obviously was. Whatever he took caused his heart to stop.”

O’Boyle scooted his chair closer to his desk and folded his hands. He seemed puzzled to find I was waiting for more. Again with the sighing, O’Boyle?

“Your grandmother’s basket puts her at his place of death, even though they haven’t found the poison, or how he drank it. There was no teacup or glass found near the body. They think your grandmother gave him a potion to drink and took the evidence with her. They surmise that she either wanted to make him sick, or else thought they wouldn’t be able to trace the poison. Leaving behind her herb basket would look like a good faith effort that she went there to calm his stress and help ease his stomach problems.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “You met my grandmother. She’s not that vindictive or sneaky enough to pull something like that off.”

“Probably not. But the Maui PD is under a lot of pressure to put this thing to bed. People aren’t comfortable with the idea that a murderer is out there running around. If they can pin it on your grandmother and make it stick, so much the better.”

“Someone else could have known my grandmother was bringing him herbs and just totally set her up, and taken advantage of the opportunity to poison him,” I said.

O’Boyle straightened a stack of papers and put them in a file folder marked Park. “That’s what we have to prove. Unfortunately, no witnesses. No evidence to lead to a new trail.”

I banged my hand on the desk. “This is so unfair. How will they even begin to find the killer if they’ve already given up and decided it’s my grandmother?”

“I am checking Mike’s background. We’re interviewing friends. Family. Mumble-mumble. New leads.” He was sorting through the photos and didn’t look up.

I sure hoped O’Boyle knew what he was doing. I widened my eyes at Jac. My eyebrows were hovering in the who-does-this-guy-think-he-is? stratosphere.

He stood up. “Thanks, O’Boyle. Good luck.” Jac took my arm and as soon as we were out of the office told me to relax.

“I thought the witnesses were supposed to be hostile, not the lawyers.”

“O’Boyle is married to his job, Jaswinder. If anyone can solve this case, he’s the guy.”

This was scary stuff. Poor Halmoni. She was in such trouble, big
pili ‘kia.
There was something strange in my mind, some detail or fragment of a thought I chased, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Was it a clue I wasn’t quite getting, or the unsettling question of what if Halmoni . . .

Bail was set, the paperwork was complete, and I was allowed to spring Halmoni even though neither of us was allowed to leave the island. I hopped out of the jeep and raced behind my grandmother who hurried up the path to her house. In spite of the dark cloud looming over that tiny lady, I was so glad to have her back home. “You have a lot of friends, Halmoni,” I told her. “We’ll clear your name.” My grandmother began making tea and a pot of rice. “Cheers,” I said when she handed me my cup. “To freedom.” Whatever she thought I said must have reminded her of something since she scurried down the hall to the back bedroom.

“Wait, Halmoni, sorry. I left it kind of a mess.” I came into the room and watched her shake out the fabric and fold it. She flipped over a tattered edge and examined the seams I tried to sew. The deep clucking noise in her throat needed no translation. “I’m sorry. I broke your sewing machine. Not that it was going all that well anyway. I tried to sew it by hand. The lady who wants to buy two of these wanted them for this weekend. I tried my best, but it didn’t work out.”

“Not that.” She smiled at me.

“Plus, I have no idea how you did your kukui oil protection potion.”

Halmoni sat in her sewing chair and searched a brightly woven basket for a pair of small scissors. She peered closely at the fabric and snipped each thread, pulling away all of the little fibers. When she was finished, she shook out the fabric and folded it neatly once more. “Elua?” She held up two fingers.

“Yep. She needs two,” I told her, helping get a bolt of fabric out of the closet. My grandmother rolled out the cloth and cut a matching length.

“
E hele mai
,” she said, motioning for me to follow her.

“Right behind you,” I said. This time I watched closely as my grandmother readied the large kettle on her stove, filling it with water and her special brew. To the kukui nut oil she squeezed out several drops from little brown glass bottles of what I guessed were essential oils of some kind. When the mixture began to boil, she placed the material in the pot and swirled it until it was saturated. I watched the clock. She let it simmer for about twenty minutes, long enough to cook hard boiled eggs, I thought. I helped her lift the pot into the sink so Halmoni could get the fabric and roll the pieces dry in a towel before taking them outside to dry.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” I called after her.

The rest of the afternoon, I watched her literally whip up the wraps. She even repaired the ancient machine with a new black rubber belt. My grandmother was a genius. “They’re beautiful, Halmoni. This woman is going to love them. I’ll give her a call and run them up to her tomorrow.” I picked up some of the leftover scraps to give to Jac so he could have them tested for the strength of their sun protection. I also cut a swatch of untreated fabric to see what, if any, SPF the cloth alone provided. As a pale-face myself, I had grown quite attached to my sunshmina and usually had it tossed over my shoulders, as necessary to my well-being as my cell phone. I felt it was doing its duty shading me from burning rays, plus, a couple people even complimented me on it. I hoped the woman and her daughter liked their sunshminas as much as I did.

The next morning, Halmoni folded the two wraps carefully in three sections and wrapped them in tissue paper. I popped a kiss on the top of her head. “Not that,” she said, waving me away. Her brown eyes sparkled.

“Thank you a million times again, Halmoni. Wish me luck!”

I arrived at the Hyatt in no time, my heart pounding as I held the tissue-wrapped package and knocked on the door of Diane Clary’s room.

She opened the door, talking on her cell phone, and motioned me inside her opulent suite which had Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous views overlooking the ocean. Sliding glass doors opened onto the balcony and the breeze toyed with the white sheer curtains, making a frothy frame of the picturesque palm trees down below.

If people had this view as a screen saver on their computers, especially people who worked in newsrooms, the world would be a better place. Diane held up one finger to me. “Yes,” she said into her phone. “He’s dead. I need to know who is continuing on this deal. I put down a lot of money for that property and I aim to close on it, sooner rather than later. You will? Okay, thanks.” She ended the call and turned toward me. “Try to do business on this island,” she said, waving her hand. “I swear they are all smoking Maui Wowie or something. And my broker was just killed. Can you believe that?”

Sorry for your inconvenience, I thought.

“Good lookin’ guy, too,” she widened her heavily mascaraed eyes. “But, life goes on. I need that property.”

“Do you know what happened to him?” I might as well try to get Diane’s side of the story.

“Apparently he was poisoned by some island witch-woman,” Diane said. “I had just seen him, too. He was full of ideas about land and development on this island. There are so many opportunities here. We had a really big deal we were working on. Pity.” She narrowed her eyes and clenched her fists. She shook back her hair. “What have you got for me?” She held her hands out and reached for the sunshminas. She took them and set them on the back of the sofa. She unwrapped the tissue and held up one of the wraps before draping it over her arms. She went to the large mirror in the living room and swirled it over her shoulders. “Lovely. Just lovely.”

“Thank you. You look pretty.”

“Do you know if these, what do you call them? Sunshminas? Provide much protection from the sun?”

“We’re doing research on the actual SPF range of the material right now.” I tried to pretend I was doing a live shot on TV and had only limited information, which always seemed to be the case, and kicked up the BS. “I’ve been wearing mine since I arrived on the island and it really has provided superior protection. It wicks away the heat from your body, and creates a natural shade that keeps your skin cool and comfortable.” This has been Jaswinder Park, reporting live.

“Good, good,” Diane said, nodding. Her fingers stroked the silky lengths as she watched herself in the mirror. “My daughter is almost as fair as I am. She’ll love this. All the resort wear swimsuit cover-ups are crap. The material is either a cheap cotton with colors that bleed or they try to get you into some sarong type deal that you have to look like, who’s that famous local singer, Lana somebody? She’s the only one I know who has the body to wear something like that and keep it on without it falling off. Or, there’s always muumuus, right?”

I nodded. “Yes, I agree. We’re working on more modern and stylish resort wear clothing.”

“Good for you. How would you like to be paid? Is cash alright?”

“That will be fine,” I said. I tried not to smile and show my greedy-looking teeth by thinking of my grandmother having to go back to jail. “Do you need a receipt?”

“Not necessary. But do you have a card? You’re called Hollywood Haute, right?”

“Our marketing department is printing up our cards, but I’ll leave you my number. Please let me know how you like it. And, thank you.”

“Thank you, Jaswinder,” she said. “Hollywood Haute. I like the sound of that.” I thanked her again and as the door of Diane’s room closed I pulled out the wad of money. I began counting. One, two, three, four, five, six hundred dollars. “Whee!” The door flew open and I shoved the bills back into my pocket.

“I had a thought,” Diane said. “I’m friends with the sales manager. You should go talk to her, they let artists set up booths in the hotel and I bet the other resorts do, too. You could show off your line and sell these to other tourists.”

“Thank you, Diane. What a great idea,” I said, wondering how in the world Halmoni could whip up enough sunshminas to sell at a booth.

“I bet you could make a fortune.”

“Yes, you’re right.” I’ll figure out a way.

“Honey, you’d be doing us all a favor. If I have to see one more red-skinned lobster vacationing from the Midwest,” Diane pinched her forefingers and thumbs together imitating a crustacean’s grasping claws, “I swear I’ll scream. You should think about stuff for the guys, too. You’d think their massive amounts of body hair would provide some protection, but no, they get just as red and nasty looking as their wives. Good luck.” The door slammed shut.

I swung by the sales office on my way out, mentioned Diane’s name and showed off my own sunshmina to the sales manager.

“I love it,” she said. “Sure, you can set up shop this weekend. We’ll provide a table, you’ll need to bring a rack or whatever else you show your designs on. We’ll split the profits fifty-fifty.”

“What?”

She nodded. “Keep good records.”

My brain whirred as loudly as the fan belt on my grandmother’s jeep as I headed back to the house. One the one hand, I wanted to do some dirt digging on both Lana and now Diane, two people who had been closer to Mike Hokama than my grandmother. On the other hand, I had to figure out how to convince Halmoni to sew a whole bunch more sunshminas for this weekend. If we could sell ten, at three hundred dollars each, that was still a nice fifteen hundred dollars after the hotel took its cut.