Tuesday, April 9. I’m still floating over the white cliffs of Dover in my dreams when the chime of my cell phone awakens me.
A text from Kula’s foster mom. “Can you stop by my cottage?” asks Maile Barnes. “We need to talk."
I can't imagine why the pet detective and I suddenly need to talk. We’re old friends—well, we’re more than that—but we haven’t talked for weeks except to about Kula.
Maile is fostering the golden retriever because the Waikīkī Edgewater where I live doesn’t allow pets. I adopted Kula from a client who has since taken up residence at Halawa Correctional Facility. Maile, a former K9 officer, was perfect for the job, especially when we were dating. Lately she’s been seeing more of my old buddy in homicide, Frank Fernandez, than of me. She and Frank knew each other on the force, back when both of them were married. To other people, that is.
I struggle out of bed. I’m in that zombie-like state that descends on me after long-distance airline travel. This one is worse than usual—twelve time zones. I check my watch. Almost eight. I reply, “How about nine?”
“Fine,” she texts back.
I shower, dress, grab a bowl of cereal, retrieve my car and head into Mānoa Valley. Pulling up in front of Maile’s cottage I can tell right away something has changed. I can’t put my finger on it. Then I hear growling—not one dog growling, but two. When I step from my car to her screen door I see Kula and another dog, a Rottweiler, going at it.
I don’t bother to knock. I storm in and grab Kula by his collar, pull him away, and then stand between the golden retriever and the foaming Rottweiler. Maile rushes in, grabs the other dog, and says, “Blitz, no!”
Blood drips from my right hand. Did the rottie get me? I check. No, it’s not me. It’s Kula. His right ear is bleeding.
“Whose dog is this?” I ask Maile. “And why is he beefing with Kula?”
“They’re usually okay together,” she says.
“They’re not okay,” I say. “Not when Kula ends up bleeding.”
“You know I’d never do anything to endanger Kula,” she says a little defensively.
I check his ear more carefully. Just a nick. He probably doesn’t need stitches. But he seems stunned. He sits silent and unmoving. “I’ve known some sweetheart Rottweilers. What’s wrong with this one?”
Maile shrugs. “Playing for Blitz means nipping—and after a while Kula gets annoyed.”
“I don’t blame Kula. I’d get annoyed too,” I say. “What is Blitz doing here?”
Maile gives me a look. "That's what I wanted to talk with you about, Kai. Frank and I are getting married."
It takes a moment for that sink in. Then I say, “Blitz is Frank’s dog?”
She nods.
I glance into Maile’s bedroom and see evidence of male clutter—cardboard boxes piled with a man’s clothing and pairs of shoes and slippers under the bed.
Then I survey the living room. Kula’s toys—rawhide chews, yellow-green tennis balls and braided tug ropes that are usually scattered about artfully—are ravaged and in disarray. It looks like a hurricane has hit. Kula used to live here like a prince. No more.
“Is Blitz staying?”
“That’s the plan,” Maile responds. “This doesn’t happen very often. Kula and Blitz are still getting used to each other.” The pet detective drags the growling Rottweiler outside.
I’m not convinced. I notice a dark red spot on Kula’s other ear. This isn’t the first time. No wonder the golden retriever doesn’t seem his usually sunny self.
“Now that the skirmish is over,” Maile says when she returns without the Rottweiler, “sit down, Kai, and let’s talk.”
Soon we are occupying her two rattan chairs opposite one another. The retriever curls up on a throw rug by my feet. Kula’s ear has stopped bleeding, but bright red drips still dot his coat. I turn to Maile, whose spunky independent nature I’ve always admired and sometimes run afoul of. I remember how her face used to light up when she saw me.
Maile now looks me up and down dispassionately and says, “Are you okay?”
“As okay as anybody could be after spending twenty-four hours in airplanes and airports.”
“I mean are you okay about Frank and me getting married?"
“No worries,” I say. “You have to do what’s right for you.” I gaze under her bed again at Frank’s slippers.
“I care about you, Kai,” she says. “You know I do. But we could never quite work things out.”
“My fault,” I say.
“Not you,” Maile replies. “Us. We just didn’t click.”
“So you and Frank . . . you click?”
She nods. “I think so. Frank and I are a couple of veteran cops who see things pretty much the same way. You’d never guess it. I mean, we seem so different on the surface.”
“You do,” I say. “I’d never have put the two of you together. But whatever makes you happy.”
The conversation goes on like this, Maile trying her best not to hurt my feelings and also blaming herself more than she should. I’m grateful, whatever her motive. But my thoughts return to Kula and how to get him away from Blitz. I believe Maile when she says she’d never intentionally endanger Kula, but her pending marriage to Frank seems to have clouded her vision.
When we finally wrap up I say, “How about the golden boy and I hit the waves today?”
“That’ll be great,” she says. “And give him a break from Blitz.”
I reach down and stroke the sunny retriever who is still curled up by my feet. “Kula, wanna go surfing?”
He perks up. Before long I’m gathering cousin Alika’s tandem board from Maile’s garage and Kula is hopping into my car.
Driving down the valley, I glance over at the retriever, his head out the window and flashing his goofy smile. He’s happy again. I see once more those red spots on his coat.
That decides it. Kula’s not returning to Maile’s cottage.
I check my watch. Before it gets any later in the morning I’ve got to make a difficult phone call. Not about Kula. About my client’s deceased mother. I pull over and punch in the familiar number. The phone rings three times and then I hear his deep, gravelly voice: “Fernandez, Homicide.”
“Hi Frank. It’s Kai Cooke.”
There’s a long pause.
“Congratulations.” I fill the silence. “I hear you and Maile are getting married.”
“That’s big of you, Kai.” Frank sounds impatient. “So what can I do for you?”
“You investigated the death of Mrs. Beatrice Ho at Makapu‘u?”
“Right,” he says. “Nice lady. What a shame.”
“I’m representing a Ho family member. She’s an attractive twenty-something”—I try to entice him without using Marie’s name—“who wants to hear about the investigation. It would be doing me a big favor, Frank, if you would meet with us, maybe this afternoon?”
“Kind of busy, Kai.”
“How about lunch? The meal is on me. Where would you like to eat?”
“The Wharf is good.” He’s referring to a seafood restaurant on the waterfront near Ward Avenue, not far from HPD headquarters on Beretania Street.
“The Wharf it is, Frank.” I say. “We’ll meet you there at noon.”
I’m surprised, once I hang up, that Frank agreed. Maybe he feels guilty about marrying Maile? I recall the last time I saw Fernandez, nearly a year ago, when he was interviewing two suspects from my investigation of Ryan Song’s hanging in Paris. Their names were Scooter and Brad—a couple of fine young lads. Not.
I aim my old Chevy over the Pali Highway. Rolling into Kailua town a few minutes later I check the address my new client gave me. It’s in a quiet, secluded beachside neighborhood of coconut palms and putting-green lawns. Vivienne’s rambling ranch home in a shady cul-de-sac is large by O‘ahu standards with a tropically landscaped yard. She did well in her divorce.
I pull into a circular driveway. On the front lānai Marie is reclining in a lounge chair, smoking. She rises and waves, looking amazingly fresh considering the journey we both just endured. She’s young.
I open the car door and Kula jumps out. First thing he does is water the perfectly clipped grass. Then he rolls on that manicured green, moaning in ecstasy, sunshine flooding his golden coat. When I walk toward the house he snaps to his feet and follows me.
Marie snuffs out her cigarette and she says, “Oh, what a gorgeous retriever!”
Kula prances onto the porch and makes a beeline for Marie. He sits in front of her and gives her that melting brown-eyed retriever look that says, “How can you resist me?”
Truth is, she can’t. Marie hugs him and plants her nose against his.
“Where did you get this beautiful boy?” she asks.
“Long story,” I reply. "I didn't know you were a dog person."
"We had two poodles before my mother died. My stepfather packed them off while I was at college. I can never forgive him for that, either."
While she's stroking Kula I eye the smoldering butt of her cigarette.
Marie sees me and says, “I haven’t smoked in the house. I just assumed Vivienne preferred I didn’t.”
“Safe assumption,” I say. And then: “Nice place, huh?”
“It’s really cute,” Marie replies. “Let me show you around.” She leads me in the front door.
A cool breeze wafts through open jalousies over comfy furnishings and gleaming hardwood floors. In the cozy den I see evidence of her Sadie that Vivienne lost to divorce—a tartan plaid dog bed, stainless food and water dishes, assorted stuffed animals, chews, and toys, and even a doggie door leading to a backyard swimming pool. Hanging on the wall is the framed photo of the chocolate Labrador.
Kula takes a stuffed Mallard duck that once was Sadie’s into his mouth and curls up on her tartan bed.
“Your dog really knows how to make himself at home,” Marie says.
“He’s good at that,” I say. “Speaking of Kula, would you mind him staying with you for a few days?” I explain why Kula can’t stay with me at the Edgewater.
“That would be super,” Marie responds.
“Great.” I snap a photo of Kula on Sadie’s bed and text it to Vivienne in Paris, where it’s closing in on eleven at night. “Okay if my dog Kula stays in your home for a while with Marie?”
Less than a minute later my phone chimes: “I love him already! Will he be there when I return?”
“Could be arranged,” I text back.
That problem solved, Marie and I sit in the den while Kula snoozes. I explain to Marie that we have a lunch appointment with Homicide Detective Frank Fernandez this afternoon and if we’re lucky he might share with us details from his investigation into her mother’s death.
I tell Marie about the usual terms for my investigations, but I defer the retainer for now. I know she’s good for it. Plus she’s agreed to keep Kula.
Marie tries to give me, as her stepfather did, a bundle of euros. I wave her off.
“My first-class ticket from Paris alone must have cost you more than my usual retainer,” I say.
“You’re sure?” she asks.
I nod but then wonder if I’ll later regret not taking those euros.