Maui Widow Waltz (Islands of Aloha Mystery Series) (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

A
lthough
I’ve lived in Hawaii all my life, I’d only been a wedding coordinator for two
years when the foul weather brought my business to a screeching halt. Before
that, I’d worked at the usual tourist gigs—luaus, restaurants, that sort of
thing. Right out of college I even did a short stint as an air marshal for the
Transportation Security Administration. But after less than a year of
leg-numbing flights to Tokyo and Taipei I actually found myself
hoping
a
passenger would go postal so I could spring into action. Anyone who knows me
will agree: I’m not the poster child for patience. 

What I am is detail-oriented and
punctual. I’m also a devoted student of kung fu. My workouts at the kung fu
school, or
guan
, provide a welcome yin to the yang of whining, bitching,
and hissy fits I deal with in the bridal business.

***

“You’re kidding,” said my roommate,
Steve, as we dug into our thrown-together dinner of stir fry vegetables and
rice. “She’s engaged to that guy who disappeared off Kapalua?” His wrinkled
brow underscored the disapproval in his voice. “So, in other words, your new
client’s doing it ass-backwards—a widow before a bride.”

I shook my head. “Her guy’s only
been missing since last Thursday. He may not be dead, you know. It could turn
out his bachelor party just got a little out of hand. And besides, if I hadn’t
said ‘yes,’ she’d just have found another planner who’d do it.”

“He’s toast, Pali. The Coast
Guard’s been searching nonstop. It’s been all over the news.”

I put my full attention to
shoveling rice into my mouth with my chopsticks.

Steve went on. “You know, it’s
probably illegal to perform a proxy marriage for someone who’s missing. Anyhow,
I sure hope it is. Maybe she’s pulling some kind of tabloid stunt, or a reality
show prank. How can you be sure it isn’t a joke?”

“I’m not sure about much of
anything anymore. But paying the mortgage on this house is no joke, and I
haven’t booked a wedding in weeks. If I hadn’t taken this client, pretty soon
we’d both be looking for new digs.”

Steve and I share the house I
bought in Hali’imaile, a former plantation town on the windward slope of Mt.
Haleakala—Maui’s dormant volcano. As cozy as it sounds to have a male roommate,
Steve and I aren’t a couple. Not now, not ever. When Steve answered my ad for a
roommate I learned he’s a first-rate photographer, a fabulous cook, and he’d
done hair and make-up in Hollywood for both movies and TV. It wasn’t very PC of
me to leap to conclusions about his gender preference when I first met him, but
in my business, a three-in-one guy’s a treasure. I couldn’t care less about his
social proclivities. I offered him the room at rock-bottom rent.

 “What about wedding photos?”
he said, clicking his chopsticks together. I was glad to hear he was already
considering his role in Lisa Marie’s upcoming nuptials. He went on, “There’s
only so much I can do with a camera, you know. The patent on bringing the dead
back to life is still held by the Big Guy.”

“The bride sincerely believes the
groom will show up in time for the wedding.”

“Right,” he said, tossing his head
back and splaying his fingers across his cheek in a theatrical pose. “And I
sincerely
believe I’m the next Leonardo DiCaprio. Maybe I’ll get Marty Scorsese on the
horn and let him know I’m ready for my close-up.”

“Anyway, it’s too soon to plan the
photo shoot,” I said, ignoring the dramatics. “So far all we’ve nailed down is
the date—Valentine’s Day—and that it’s going to be a small beach wedding. She
gave me a thousand dollar deposit, in cash. If it’s a hoax, or he’s a goner,
it’s still a house payment. She signed the contract so no matter what, the
money’s mine.”

***

At seven o’clock the next morning,
the phone rang. Steve picked it up in the kitchen before I’d had a chance to
clear my throat and reach for my bedside extension. I heard his voice through
the wall.

“No problem,” he said. “Yeah, Pali
told me about your situation. I’m Steve Rathburn, the photographer. I’m sure
we’ll be getting together soon.”

There was a pause.

 “No really, no problem. She
usually gets in around nine.”

Another pause.

“Okay, I’ll tell her.” There was a
final pause before his ‘good-bye.’

He tapped on the door before
popping his head into my room.

“You didn’t mention your pal Lisa
Marie’s got a Ph.D. in pushy.”

I groaned and sat up in bed.

“She said to tell you—and I’m
quoting here—‘chop, chop.’ Said she’d meet you at your shop at eight—sharp. And
get this—she told me she takes cream in her coffee. The cow kind. From the
sound of her voice, I’d suggest you not even
dream
of offering her the
fake stuff.”

I stood in the shower letting the
water sluice down my face. How had I gotten to this point, where sucking up to
a spoiled, probably-widowed-before-marriage mainlander was my only hope of
staying in my house, getting my bills paid, and keeping my business out of the
clutches of a shark like Tank Sherman? The thought of handing over my
hard-earned contact files to that slime revved up my survival instinct. In less
than twenty minutes I was showered, dressed and dashing out the door to pick up
a pint of fresh cream.

***

 My friend Farrah waved at me
through the window in the front door of the Gadda-da-Vida Grocery. She unbolted
the lock and pulled hard to open the humidity-warped door. “Hey, girl. You been
hanging out here long?”

“Just a couple of minutes. I have a
client who’s craving fresh cream for her coffee.”

“She toting a coconut?”

“Pregnant? I sure hope not. She’s
the fiancée of that guy who disappeared off Kapalua. You know, the empty
fishing boat that washed up on the beach? It’s been on the news.”

 “Whoa,” she said. “That’s a downer—for
both of you. So the wedding’s off?” She turned and I followed her to the back
of the store.

“No, she wants to go through with
it,” I said. We stopped in front of the humming dairy case.  “She doesn’t
believe he’s dead. And if he doesn’t show up in time for the ceremony, she’s
got a guy who’s offered to stand in for him.”

 “You mean like a body double?
Is that legit?” She handed me a tiny carton marked ‘heavy cream.’ The price
sticker said six dollars.

“Uh-oh, I just remembered I don’t
have anything smaller than a hundred,” I said, glancing down at the fake straw
beach bag that doubled as my purse. Lisa Marie’s ten one-hundred dollar bills
were tucked in my wallet, ready to take to the bank.

She laughed at what she must have
thought was my feeble attempt at humor. “Oh, sure. I bet you’ve got a whole
bagful of Benjamins there. But no worries. I’ll catch you later.” She asked me
if I wanted a paper bag for the cream, but I knew the correct answer—the green
answer—was
mahalo
, but no.  

“So,” she said, “you gonna let me
do the flowers?”

I nodded.

“How about performing the ceremony?
Did you clue her in about me and the Church of S and L?”

“It looks good. I mentioned you
could do it and she didn’t make the sign of the cross or flash me a Star of
David necklace or anything.”

“Good. I think I’ll wear my purple
bat-wing caftan. It rocks in the photos.”

“You look like Glinda the Good
Witch in that thing.”

“Yeah. But brides love it. I make
‘em all look skinny.” 

Farrah Milton’s been my best friend
since third grade. We were inseparable all through school, only parting when I
went off to the University of Hawaii in Honolulu. She stayed back on Maui to
run the funky grocery store she’d inherited when her parents died in a car
accident when she was seventeen. We share a lot in common—we’re both the
offspring of 1970’s flower children who came to Hawaii seeking free love,
top-notch weed, and lax transient laws. She was named for Farrah Fawcett, a
not-so-subtle nod to her dad’s obsession with the original Charlie’s Angels.
She looks nothing like “angel” Jill Monroe, however. Whereas Jill’s hair was
blond, with that signature blow-dry hairstyle, Farrah’s is a waist-length
tumble of tea-colored frizz. Jill had blue eyes, Farrah’s are espresso brown.
All of the Angels had slim leggy bodies, but Farrah’s figure is curvy, with a
bra cup size at least five letters down the alphabet. If she’d been born a
century earlier, she could have passed for
ali’i
—those plump royal
Hawaiian gals who were sexy in a bountiful Mother Earth kind of way.

 “Wish me luck,” I said. I
pulled open the stubborn front door and the annoying tinkle bell attached to
the doorframe seemed to urge me to get moving. “From what I’ve seen so far, I’m
pretty sure her DNA’s sporting a few Bridezilla genes.”

“Hey, don’t sweat the DNA; it’s her
FICO score that counts. With all this wet, it’s a miracle some bummed-out bride
hasn’t hijacked a jet to Tahiti. If we don’t see sun pretty soon we’ll all be
flipping burgers in Honolulu.”

 “True,” I said, recalling
Noni’s face as she delivered Tank Sherman’s ultimatum. I glanced at the Felix
the Cat clock above the cash register. It showed seven-fifty-five. “Oops, gotta
run.
Mahalo
for the cream.”

When I stepped outside, Lisa Marie
was standing next door in front of my shop furiously text-messaging on a fancy
cell phone.

“You’re late,” she said as I
approached, key in hand.

“I am not.” I glanced at my wrist
for the watch that wasn’t there.

“We had an eight o’clock meeting.
You should have been here at least fifteen minutes early to turn on the heat
and get the coffee ready.”

“Coming right up,” I said, hoisting
the cream carton like a trophy. I didn’t think it wise to mention my shop had
no heat.

“I take half and half,” she
sniffed. “If you’re going to work for me, I think you better make an effort to
learn my preferences.”

Luckily, the coffee maker was in
the back dressing room. I took advantage of the brewing time to silently mouth
a few clever comebacks—in both English and Hawaiian.

Once coffee was served and the
wedding planning underway, the chip on her shoulder wobbled a bit.

“I miss Brad. I know he’s all
alone, washed up on some deserted beach. Like the guy in that movie,
Cast
Away
. It was so sad. I got the DVD to watch it again the day after they
found Brad’s boat. Remember the part where Tom Hanks comes home and his
fiancée, Helen Hunt, has gone and married somebody else?”

I nodded. Actually I didn’t
remember, because I’d never seen the movie. But it sounded sad.

“Anyway, I’m not doing that to
Brad. When he’s able to come back to me, I’m going to be there, waiting. Our
reunion will probably be all over the news. I’ll need to remember to cry, but
just a little. Not enough to smudge my make-up.” She dabbed the corners of her
eyes as if rehearsing and then went on. “But in any case, either the wedding
will be all ready to go, or it’ll be over and we’ll get to watch it together on
the video. He’s going to be so proud I went ahead and got us married on
Valentine’s Day just like we planned.”

I took a deep breath. “Lisa Marie,
there aren’t too many deserted beaches on Maui. I think if Brad had washed
ashore, someone would’ve found him by now and called the Coast Guard.”

“Well, what if he has
amnesia
?”
she said with a triumphant tone in her voice. She smiled and nodded her head in
a
gotcha.
Her eyes locked on mine. I was pretty sure she was waiting for
me to slap my forehead and declare myself a dimwit for not considering the
amnesia factor.

Instead, I turned away to conceal
an unavoidable eye roll.

“You know, like on
The Young and
the Restless
?” she said. 

I smiled and shrugged.

“How about
General Hospital
—you
watch that one, right?” Her voice had taken on the tone of a grade school
teacher prompting a student who’d botched an easy subtraction problem. “Well,
believe me, people in tragic accidents get amnesia all the time.”

***

That night Brad Sander’s
disappearance was still the lead story on the local TV news. After six days of
an exhaustive ocean and shoreline search of both Maui and Molokai, the Coast
Guard had found nothing. They vowed to keep looking, but it sounded more like a
formality than a commitment. The TV anchor read a statement from the officer in
charge in which they announced that evidence pointed to the victim falling into
the ocean while trying to bring aboard a ten-pound
ono
fish tied to the
stern. Their theory was supported by the fact that the boat had washed ashore
at Kapalua, the most likely place an unmanned boat would have drifted that
night given the wind and ocean currents.

I looked over at Steve, and he
slashed a finger across his throat.

“She said he’s a strong swimmer,” I
said.

“You think even Michael Phelps can
out-swim a shark?”

CHAPTER 3

K
evin
McGillvary, understudy to the absent bridegroom, arrived right on time at
eleven o’clock the next morning. A thunderous internal combustion engine boomed
in the alley behind my shop and I peeked out half expecting to see Tank Sherman
landing a helicopter in the narrow parking strip. The noise turned out to be an
enormous black Hummer—a vehicle that looks plenty menacing even before you
factor in its ridiculously low gas mileage and the price of fuel on Maui. Lisa
Marie was perched high in the passenger seat and a guy with the proverbial
‘chiseled good looks’ was manning the steering wheel.

They parked in an ‘employee only’
parking space. Actually, the car took up the better part of two parking spaces.
I spied on them as the driver got out and went around the front of the car to
assist the bride-to-be with the long leap back to earth. I wondered if he
carried a stepstool like those shuttle drivers at the airport, but from my
vantage point I couldn’t tell.

The pair came up the three stairs
to the back door and I took a cleansing breath and reached for the doorknob to
let them in. I didn’t like clients parking in the alley or using the back
entrance, but I instinctively knew better than to reprimand Lisa Marie. It had
been only a day since I’d put her cash in my bank account—my first deposit in
almost two months.

“I hope you have the coffee ready,”
said Lisa Marie.

“Freshly brewed.”

“Good. Maybe you’re trainable after
all. Oh, this is Kevin. And this is Pali.” She gestured toward me, thumb
extended as if hitching a ride.

“
Ho’okipa
—welcome. It’s nice
to meet you,” I said, shaking Kevin’s hand while trying to read his eyes.

“Yeah, you too.” The guy’s face was
as closed as a pro poker player wearing mirrored sunglasses. He was tall and
powerfully built, with Calvin Klein model good looks, and dark wavy hair gelled
to perfection. He appeared a bit older than Lisa Marie, maybe late twenties or
early-thirties. He wore a pale blue Nike golf shirt and crisply-pressed khakis.
Clamped to his left wrist was a gaudy gold Rolex.  

I usually size up men relative to
their martial arts potential, and this guy looked like a black belt waiting to
happen. My stomach did a little bump and grind, and I had to bite back the
audible swoon I’d have made if it had been me and Farrah checking out surfers
at the beach. After all, Kevin was a client—sort of. As I ordered my libido
back to its hole, I decided if Brad Sanders ever did show up I might allow
myself the opportunity to reassess the Kevin situation.

Having reined in my lust, it dawned
on me that Kevin’s looks were not only hot, but puzzling. The photo of Brad Sanders
they’d run on TV showed a pale, fleshy-necked guy wearing a rumpled dress shirt
with a button-down collar. He sported a shopping mall haircut, a geek goatee,
and funky wire-rimmed glasses. The photo was a portrait shot, so it didn’t show
his wristwatch or his physique, but judging from what I could
see I
imagined a black plastic Casio and a belly paunch. Physically and sartorially,
the contrast between Kevin and Brad was day and night.

I offered the couple a seat on the
sofa in the front office while I stayed in back to pour the coffee and prepare
the fitting room for Lisa Marie’s try-on session. I sniffed the cream,
determined it free of deadly pathogens, and placed the carton on the tray along
with three brimming Hilo Hattie mugs. I slipped through the bead curtain
beaming like Martha Stewart presenting a flaming dessert, but neither of them
looked up. While we cranked up our caffeine quotient, we made idle chatter
about the ongoing crummy weather. No one mentioned the search for Brad.

There was a lull in the
conversation and Lisa Marie turned to me. “Are there any castles on Maui?”

“Castles?”

“Yeah, you know. Fairytale castles,
with turnips and molts.”

“Turrets and moats?”

“Yeah. And a drawstring bridge and
all that.”

“A drawbridge?”

“Yeah. Why do you keep repeating
everything? Just answer me. Is there a castle over here or not?”

“Not that I know of. Why do you
ask?”

“Well, I was looking through my
celebrity wedding scrapbook and my very, very,
very
favorite wedding was
Tom and Katie’s. You know, at night, in that castle in Italy? Little Suri was
so adorable as flower girl.”

“Ah, yes. That wedding was pretty
spectacular. But Bill Gates chose Hawaii. In the daytime, by the ocean—just
like yours is going to be.”

“Who’s Bill Gates?” said Lisa
Marie.

“Actually,” Kevin chimed in,
“Gates’ wedding was on the island of Lana’i, not Maui. And it was on a golf
course overlooking the ocean, not on the beach.”

Score one for Mr. GQ.

“You’re right. It was on Lana’i at
Manele Bay. But in any case, it wasn’t in a castle.” I turned to Lisa Marie.
“Bill Gates is the richest man in America.”

“He’s rich because he’s an astute
businessman and a software genius,” Kevin said in a voice that let me know he
felt I’d slighted Gates by merely focusing on his wealth.  

“Brad’s a software genius.
Everybody says so.” Lisa Marie said this in a voice so small I thought it might
have come from inside my own head.

A few moments of tight silence
followed.

“And I’m going to be a software
genius’ wife!” she said, perking up as if she’d been hit with a defibrillator.
“Okay. Enough of this sitting around, I want to see some wedding dresses.”

As I led them back into the fitting
room, Kevin’s eyes flicked across the four gowns I’d displayed for Lisa Marie’s
inspection. He frowned as he turned over the first price tag.

“Five thousand bucks? You must be
joking.”

“It’s Vera Wang, Kevin.” Lisa Marie
shot me a sideways glance complete with arched eyebrow.

“Usually the bride brings her gown
with her or she orders one from a local bridal shop at least four months in
advance,” I said. “But since Lisa Marie needs a dress on extremely short
notice, and she said she’d prefer a designer label, I managed to pull together
a few rentals.”

What I didn’t let them in on was
the begging, pleading and bribing I’d done a few hours earlier at a bridal shop
in Kahului. Lucky for me the owner’s daughter had just picked up her high
school senior pictures and she hated them. She claimed the photos, taken by a
local school photographer, made her look fat and cross-eyed. I’d offered
Steve’s services for quick retakes with a money-back guarantee. In return, I’d
received four sample dresses the shop owner was willing to rent. The immediate
problem solved, I knew I faced more begging and pleading with Steve once I got
home.

“How much does it cost to rent one
of these things?” Kevin said, flipping over the tags on the remaining three
gowns.

“They range from a thousand to
eighteen hundred, plus alterations.”

“A thousand bucks to wear a dress
for a couple of hours? I’m obviously in the wrong business.”

“You’re Brad’s business partner,
right?” I said, making an effort to tone down the shrill that had crept into my
voice. “At DigiSystems, a company the news reports refer to as a ‘multi-million
dollar tech company’.”

“Yeah. Actually, I can’t complain.
Brad brought me in during the start up. He’s the hardest working guy I’ve ever
met.” He lowered his eyes and shook his head. “Not the greatest with the
business side of things, but that’s my job. Now, I’m not sure what we’re gonna
do...” He ran a hand through his carefully coifed hair.

“Kevin,” Lisa Marie said. “We’re
going to do what Brad would want us to do. We’re going to focus on getting this
wedding set up. Right here, right now.”

He nodded but didn’t look up.

“Hey,” she continued. “Remember
that time when he didn’t come to his own birthday party?”

“Yeah,” he said. “The guy was a
maniac. We put on this huge bash for his twenty-third birthday but he stayed in
the lab running QC on the beta of version three until one o’clock in the
morning. I’ll say this about Brad: the dude was focused—and
stubborn.”  

 “Shut up, Kevin,” said Lisa
Marie. She had enough steel in her voice to build an aircraft carrier. “You
make it sound like he’s gone forever. He’s not. He’ll be back soon and you’ll
be eating your crows for talking trash about him being dead.”

“Tell you what,” he said. “You
girls knock yourselves out here. I’ll wait for you in the front.” He turned and
parted the beaded curtain to leave. A few seconds later I heard the springs
groan in my old sofa.

For nearly an hour I listened to
Lisa Marie ponder aloud the pros and cons of the four gowns. The neckline on
one was too high; there were too many bows on another; the color of the third
was “icky;” and so on. It was like watching Goldilocks on crack. She tried on
each dress at least three times.

At half-past noon I asked for her
decision.

“I don’t know,” she said. “They all
pretty much suck. Maybe this isn’t going to work out after all.” She plucked
her handbag off the floor and disappeared behind the dressing room curtain. I
heard her rustling around as she put on her street clothes.

“I could have a dress made for
you,” I said in a sprightly
buck up
tone intended to shore up my morale
as much as hers. Gathering steam, I went on, even though she hadn’t made a peep
from behind the curtain. “We could use a local seamstress. It would be a
one-of-a-kind original.”

“And how much would
that
cost?” Kevin growled through the plywood wall. He’d been so quiet the past hour
I thought he’d fallen asleep. I heard the sofa springs retract, and a few
seconds later he poked his head back through the beaded doorway. Strings of
shiny plastic beads draped across his shoulders making him look like a hunky
back-up dancer on a music video.   

“I’d have to check,” I said. “With
only a few days to buy the fabric; take Lisa Marie’s measurements; cut out the
pattern; and then assemble the main pieces for the first fitting it probably
won’t come cheap. But it would be an original gown that could be passed down to
her daughter.”

“Like there’s ever going to
be
a
daughter,” Kevin muttered. I anticipated an outburst from Lisa Marie, but
apparently she didn’t pick up on his cynicism about Brad Sanders ever
contributing to the gene pool.

“You’re right. I deserve an
original
couture
design,” she said. “When can I start interviewing
seamstresses?”

“I don’t think you grasp the
situation here, Lisa. In order to—”

“It’s Lisa
Marie
. Only Brad
gets to call me Lisa.”

“Sorry, Lisa Marie,” I said. “A
wedding gown in less than a week is a minor miracle. Let me call a woman in
Wailuku who does alterations for all the local dress shops. She’s the best on
the island. If she can’t do it, you’ll have to fly over to Honolulu and find an
off-the-rack gown.”

“No. I’ve decided I want an
original. I don’t care how much it costs. And not another word out of you,
buster.”

Kevin stepped all the way into the
dressing room and crossed his arms tightly across his chest. He looked as if he
was dying to say something, but he stayed silent. Then he turned on his heel
and went back out. This time I heard his footsteps cross the floor. I winced as
he slammed the front door and the thin plank walls of the plantation-era
building shuddered in response.

“Don’t mind him,” Lisa Marie said.
“He’s always been a nervous Nelly. Brad told me when they were first getting
the company started Kevin used to freak out all the time about money, patents,
industrial spies, all of it. Now I guess it’s my turn to put up with him while
we try to get this wedding ready. I hope Brad comes back before too long. I
don’t know how much of Kevin’s uptight crap I can take. Especially since I’m
trying to get ready for the biggest day of my entire life.”

My conscience nagged. I asked Lisa
Marie to have a seat on the dainty stool next to the dressing room step-up
while I perched on the bottom step.

 “You know, the Coast Guard’s
pretty sure Brad fell overboard.” I didn’t know how far I could push her, so I
eased into it, trying to remember the high points of the hostage negotiation
class I’d taken during my air marshal training.

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, it’s extremely difficult to
make it back to shore if a person falls into open water during the night.”

“And your point is?”

“Lisa Marie, Brad may not be coming
back. Do you understand that? Are you prepared to accept that?”

“You don’t know Brad. I do. Brad
wants to get married on Valentine’s Day, and so do I. Even putting up with
cranky Kevin is worth it because by next week I’ll be Mrs. Bradley James
Sanders, wife of DigiSystems founder and president.” She narrowed her eyes. “So
tell me, what’s going on with you? It sounds to me like maybe you’re trying to
weasel out of doing this. What is it—do you want more money? Are you afraid you
won’t be able to do what you promised? What?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. I was
just thinking—“

“Well, stop thinking. From the
looks of things, thinking’s not your strong shoot. Just answer me this: Are you
going to do what you said you’d do and put on my perfect Valentine’s Day
wedding or not?”

“Of course. I just—”

“No, stop. No more negative vibes—I
need to stay positive. Don’t talk to me unless you have something cheerful to
say.” She reached into her purse and brought out a hard-sided glasses case.
Flicking it open, she plucked out a pair of Chanel tortoise shell sunglasses
and slipped them on. She stood up and gestured for me to move out of her way. I
watched as she gazed into the full-length mirror, turning her head from side to
side admiring her reflection.

I fantasized shaking her by the
shoulders and yelling,
snap out of it—he’s dead
. But instead, I bent
over and started retrieving the tangle of wardrobe bags she’d tossed across the
fitting room floor. When I straightened up, she’d vanished without so much as a
tah-tah
.