Maui Widow Waltz (Islands of Aloha Mystery Series)

MAUI WIDOW WALTZ

The First in the ‘Islands of Aloha’
Mystery Series

Copyright 2011,
JoAnn Bassett

All rights reserved

Print ISBN:
978-1463606657

E-book ISBN: 978-1465740151

This book is a work
of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this book are purely fictional
and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Discover other
titles by JoAnn Bassett at http://www.joannbassett.com

For Tom Haberer—my
kane
no
ka oi
.

CHAPTER 1

P
eople
marry for two reasons: love or money. So it was pretty clear what was at stake
when she showed up wanting to marry a dead man. I normally run a pretty straight
shop—no mai tai infused “quickies” or Elvis-on-the-beach impersonators—but my
standards had slipped. In late December a line of squalls had parked over Maui
dumping thirteen inches of rain in two weeks. The daily downpours continued
through January, sending visitors fleeing back to the mainland like snorkelers
spotting a dorsal fin. By early February business all over the island had
ground to a halt. My mortgage was in arrears, my day planner was blank, and the
credit card people had revoked my Visa. In other words, desperation was the new
black.   

On Tuesday morning I laid out my
bills, solitaire-style, on my battered Balinese desk. There were supposed to be
three piles—those I could pay right away; those I’d pay by the end of February;
and those that would never get paid unless I won the lottery. Too bad Hawaii
doesn’t have a lottery. Pile number three stood an inch high. The other piles
were bare, with only a Post-it note—a freebie from the real estate office
across the street—marking the spot.

The door to my shop creaked open
and a pale female face peeked around the jamb. In the space above her head I
saw the shimmer of wind-whipped rain.

 “Can I help you?” I said
looking up not expecting much.

“Are you the wedding planner?” she
said in a whisper I associate with people inquiring about illicit drugs.

“I am.” I sprang from behind the
desk and gestured for her to come in. She stepped inside and I pushed the door
closed against the stiff breeze.

I figured her for early-twenties.
She was a pale imitation of me at that age. Shoulder length blunt-cut blond
hair, pale topaz blue eyes, and skin the color of
haupia
—coconut
pudding. I had about ten years on her, and since I live in Hawaii my skin’s
perpetually tanned. My hair’s a few shades darker, and my eyes more hazel than
blue. But in silhouette we shared the same five foot six height, same small
build.

“Wow. What a gorgeous ring,” I said
zeroing in on her left hand. “I’m Pali Moon, the owner here.”

“Polly? Like the parrot?”

“Well, it’s pronounced the same,
but the Hawaiian spelling is P-A-L-I.”

If I’d been more truthful, I’d have
explained that Pali isn’t my legal name, but it’s the one I use in everyday
commerce to avoid dealing with snorts and chuckles.

Her swift glance around the small
room tipped me off this probably wasn’t what she’d imagined when she saw my
yellow pages ad. I had no mannequins dressed in wedding gowns costing as much
as a small car, no displays of Swarovski crystal-encrusted headpieces, no
glossy posters of demure brides and cocky grooms. Just a fifteen by thirty
room, split by a plywood wall with a doorframe hung with a bead curtain. Behind
the bead curtain I had a small dressing room with a carpeted step-up backed by
a three-sided mirror.

“This is ‘Let’s Get Maui’d,’
right?”

“Sure is. And please don’t be put
off by the simple digs. We keep overhead low so your costs aren’t high. We
focus on making each bride’s special day totally unique—completely original.
You bring the dream, we bring the team.” I’d spent the past few weeks brainstorming
business slogans and took the opportunity to try a few out on her.

She lifted a nostril as if
detecting an obnoxious odor, but managed to twist her lips into a thin smile.

I offered her a seat in the rattan
chair across from my desk and she moved toward it, the scent of tuberoses
trailing in her wake. I slipped behind the desk, dumping my bills into the
pencil drawer as I took my seat.

Something about the tug at the
sides of her eyes and her pinched facial expression seemed out of place for a blushing
bride, but I chalked it up to the lousy weather.

“Can you put together a fabulous
wedding by Valentine’s Day?” she said in the same low murmur as before.

“Of course,” I said, my voice too
loud in contrast. “Are you thinking inside or out?”

“Outside. On the beach.”

“No problem. We’ll rent a rain
canopy if we need to. How many guests are you inviting?”

“Only a few friends and family.”

“Good. The smaller the better in
such a short timeframe.”

“It has to be perfect.”

“We specialize in perfect.” I smiled,
but it wasn’t returned.

“No, I mean it. Everything has to
be fabulous because my fiancé might not be there. He may have to watch it later
on the video.”

“Oh. And he won’t be there
because...” I let it trail off—hoping she’d fill in the blank. It’s a common
speech pattern with wedding coordinators.

“Because he’s been missing since
last Thursday.”

Oh great. Just as I was mentally
shifting a few unpaid bills to pile number two, she threw that ringer. I leaned
forward, elbows on the desk, and slipped into high school counselor mode.

 “Let me see if I’ve got this
right: you’re fiancé’s gone missing, but you want to go ahead with the wedding
anyway.”

“I need to. We promised each
other.” She twisted the oversized chunk of emerald-cut diamond around her ring finger.
“And besides, the Coast Guard’s still looking for him.”

I recalled reading something in
The
Maui News
about a mainland guy who’d disappeared in a boating accident.

“Hmm. Well, we may have a problem
with the license. The State of Hawaii requires—”

“I’ve got the license. Brad—he’s my
fiancé—and I applied for it the day after we got here.” She pulled a folded
paper out of her jacket pocket and handed it to me.

“Well, good. But he’ll still need
to be present to sign the marriage certificate at the time of the ceremony.”

She stared down at her clasped
hands for a moment. “Brad and his business partner, Kevin, have a General Power
of Attorney for each other,” she said. “Kevin says that means either of them
can sign anything for the other one. He said he’s willing to stand in and sign
stuff for Brad until he gets back.” She looked up, checking my reaction. I had
the prickly feeling I wasn’t the first wedding planner she’d pitched this to.

 Her revelation of the missing
fiancé called for a diplomatic response, heavy on the tact. Unfortunately, tact
and I have a rather arm’s length relationship. “Yes, but the way I understand
it, a Power of Attorney ceases at death. Kevin’s signature isn’t valid if
Brad’s no longer alive.”

“No problem,” she said, apparently
ignoring my dire implication. “Because even though they’re saying he might be
dead, I know he’s not.” She puffed out a sotto voce sigh. “Look, I know it
isn’t cool they found his empty boat on the beach. But they don’t know Brad.
He’s a fantastic problem solver—and a strong swimmer. In my heart I know he’s
fine.”

She tucked a damp lock of hair
behind her ear and fingered a flashing diamond stud in her earlobe. “When Brad
and I got engaged we agreed on a Valentine’s Day wedding in Maui. Him being
gone sucks, but he’ll be back, bragging about how he could win the million
dollars on ‘Survivor.’ In the meantime, it’s up to me to get everything set up.
The bride usually ends up planning most of the wedding stuff anyway, right?”

I nodded, and glanced at my desk
calendar—February fifth. “Well, in that case, we better get moving. Valentine’s
Day is just nine days away.”

 I took out a crisp white
wedding consultation folder from a lower desk drawer and dug around in my
pencil cup for a pen that worked. “May I have your full name?”

“Lisa Marie Prescott.”

Ah, I thought as I wrote down her
name, like Elvis’ daughter. Michael Jackson’s first wife. But I had personal
experience with parents tagging their kid with a goofy name, so I stifled the
urge to comment. 

Instead, I explained I had a
colleague who was an ordained minister—The Church of Spirit and Light—but she
could opt for another officiate if she’d prefer. My function as wedding
coordinator would be to bring all the pieces together and ensure that everyone
involved showed up as promised. I didn’t mention this was no small feat on Maui
where good surf, a busted carburetor, or Uncle Kimo’s funeral could waylay the
most sincere commitment. I did tell her that for my efforts she’d pay me
fifteen percent of the total cost of the wedding. When she didn’t balk, I slid
the file folder across the desk and asked her to fill out the contact
information—address, telephone numbers and so on. As she worked on it, I
checked over the marriage license and then pulled out a copy of my standard
contract.

“This details the services I’ll
perform, and what you’ll pay me. If you have any questions, now’s a good time
to ask.”

She didn’t even pretend to read the
contract before scribbling a signature at the bottom.

“I need you to promise me it’ll be
perfect,” she said, handing back the paperwork.

“With just over a week we’ll be a
bit rushed, but I can pull together flowers, music, photographer—everything
we’ll need for an unforgettable beachside ceremony.”

“And video. Don’t forget the video.”

“Of course.”

 “Thank you,” she said as she
rubbed a phantom tear from the corner of her eye. “And don’t worry. Brad’ll be
back in time.”

She stood up and snapped open her
jumbo probably-not-a-knock-off Gucci bag. After a bit of rummaging around, she
pulled out a sealed business-size envelope and silently slid it across the
desktop.

 “I brought along a deposit,”
she said. “I hope you don’t mind large bills. The teller at the bank was pretty
snotty about giving me so much cash early in the day.”

My jaw remained dropped in what I’m
sure was an unflattering gape as she got up and headed for the door. I didn’t
recover in time to bid her
aloha
before she quietly pulled the door
closed behind her.

A few minutes later, the door swung
open again. I slipped the envelope into a drawer. She’d have to arm wrestle me
to get it back.

It wasn’t her.

It was Noni Konomanu, a former
friend who’d reportedly gone over to the dark side.

“Hi Pali. I’ve been meaning to drop
by and see you. I finally got the chance.”

“Hey, Noni. What’s up with you? I
heard you moved to Honolulu.”

“Not yet. Although I’ve got a new
job.” She surveyed my sparsely-appointed shop like a tax assessor with a quota
to fill.

“Yeah, people say you’re working
for Tank Sherman.”

“His name is Terrance.”

“Yeah, well, he’ll always be ‘Tank’
to me. Is he still buying up child care centers and old folks’ homes over
there?”

“He’s consolidated his business
interests to include a number of lifestyle verticals. We’re now looking at
expanding into new profit centers on the neighbor islands.”

We locked stares. No way would I
ask what she was dying for me to ask.

“So, how’s business?” she said,
dragging a finger along the window sill. She glanced at her fingertip and then
blew off the dust as if blowing me a kiss.

“Business is great. In fact, when
you came in I thought you were my new client who just left.”

“Thought she was coming back to
cancel?”

“No, I thought she’d decided to
double her guest list.”

“Face it, Pali. You’re broke.
Everyone knows it. Mr. Sherman is willing to help you out by offering five
thousand dollars cash for your shop fixtures, your business name and your
vender contact files. It’s worth half that, but since we all go way back—”

“We don’t go anywhere—forward or
back. You tell Tank Sherman I’ll burn this place to the ground before handing
my business over to him. And while you’re at it, remind him this is Maui, not
Honolulu. Over here we treat each other like
ohana
. My contacts are as
dear to me as aunties and uncles. Family members don’t sell out to Oahu
slumlords who jack up prices and squeeze out mom and pop businesses just to
make a buck.”

 “Mr. Sherman warned me you
might say something like that. Guess what? He’s buying this building, and when
he does, he’s raising your rent. He’s investigated your business and we know
your lease is up next month. You’d be smart to shut your mouth and consider his
offer. Five grand is a
makana
—a gift. You have until the fifteenth of
this month—next Friday—to make up your mind.”

She popped open an umbrella festooned
with plate-sized red and yellow hibiscus flowers and turned to go back outside.
She had to flip the umbrella sideways to get through the doorway.

“It’s bad luck to open an umbrella
inside,” I said, racing around the desk to follow her out. The shrieking wind
swallowed the sound of my voice. I watched as she trotted across the
rain-slicked street to her black BMW sedan. She aimed a remote key at the
driver door and the taillights winked a
welcome back
. Looking back at
me, she smiled and shot me a
shaka—
the “hang loose” sign.

I shot her a different hand gesture
altogether.