Soon we’re heading over the Pali into Honolulu to meet Frank Fernandez, leaving Kula lounging in Vivienne’s den. When we arrive at The Wharf the harbor is calm as glass. There’s barely a breeze.
Marie and I are led to a booth overlooking the water. The Wharf’s ambience is seashore and maritime. Our spar-varnished table looks right out of a ship’s galley. A waitress leaves three menus. I gaze at the placid harbor, reflecting the perfect circle of the April sun. Will Frank be half this placid? Maybe, now that he’s engaged to the pet detective.
Before he arrives I ask Marie not to mention Kula. She agrees.
At about ten minutes after noon—not especially late for Fernandez—the big man lumbers in, his huge frame filling the doorway. Even seeing him at this distance reminds me, if I need reminding, you don’t want to mess with Frank Fernandez.
As he approaches I notice a folder in his hands—hopefully pertaining to the investigation of Mrs. Ho’s death. His usual scowl has been replaced by a faint smile. He checks out the young woman sitting next to me at the table and his smile deepens. He likes what he sees.
“Howzit, Kai?” he asks as he lowers himself into the booth next to Marie. He’s got to be twice her size. The contrast is almost comical. Almost. Frank can be a grizzly bear or a teddy bear, depending on his mood. Today he seems to be feeling warm and cuddly.
“Fine,” I respond, whiffing his spicy aftershave. “Frank Fernandez, meet Marie Ho.”
He turns toward her and stretches out his huge mitt, though he doesn’t offer it to me. Her hand disappears into his momentarily and then reappears. “Very sorry about your mother,” he says. “I investigated her death at Makapu‘u. But I guess Kai told you that already.”
“Thank you for seeing us,” Marie responds. “I’d be grateful for anything you can tell me.”
“Glad to,” Frank responds, in the spirit of cooperation I hoped for. “But it looks like we’re going to order lunch first.”
He’s right. The waitress is back and we quickly scan our menus.
Frank already knows what he wants—the most expensive entrée, seared ahi. And a draft beer. He must be off duty. Marie orders a watercress salad and iced tea. Can she live on that? And I order a mahi sandwich and fries.
The waitress departs and returns before long with our drinks. Frank gets right into his beer, sipping the foam off the head. He catches a bit of foam on his upper lip. I motion to him and he wipes and seems grateful.
“I remember the investigation all too well.” Frank sips his beer. “I was going through my divorce and was in misery. Anyway, everyone knows your mother was a fine and generous lady, Marie. But few people know what you probably do, that she suffered bouts of depression after your father and brother died, which led to her becoming your stepfather’s patient. We learned from Dr. Grimes that she often visited Makapu‘u near where your brother lost his life in that surfing accident. Bereaved people often do. They sometimes hold vigils and build informal shrines.”
Fernandez’s monologue is interrupted by the return of the waitress laden with three oval platters bearing our lunches. In front of Marie she puts a mound of greenery that would make a bunny’s eyes pop. Next comes Fernandez’s seared ahi and all the trimmings. And my mahi sandwich.
Before Marie takes a first bite of watercress, she says to the homicide detective: “My stepfather had reason to want my mother dead."
Fernandez puts down his ahi. “When a woman dies under questionable circumstances, the first person of interest we interview is her husband or boyfriend. And I can assure you that your stepfather was thoroughly investigated.”
“And what did you find?” I ask.
“Dr. Grimes was on Moloka'i at the time of your mother’s death.” Frank nods to Marie. “He was in the Moloka'i Beach Hotel register. Hotel personnel say they saw him there that night and the next morning.”
“Who are they?” she asks.
“It’s all in the report. A chambermaid, a bartender, and a dockhand who took care of the doctor’s boat.” Fernandez pulls out that folder he carried in with him. “This is a closed case. Otherwise, I couldn’t share the file with you. You may not want to look at the photos,” he says to Marie. “These copies are for Kai.”
He hands me the folder. I open it a crack and peek in. The photos are of Beatrice Ho. Bloated, bruised, and cut.
“She was in the water by midnight, maybe earlier,” Frank says. “That’s the closest our medical examiner could come. Her body was found early the next morning. We pulled her out about 7:30 am. She didn’t die from drowning. She struck the ridge a few times on the way down.”
Marie reaches for the folder. “I want to see.” She scans the photos. Instead of tearing up, her face becomes tight.
“So she could have died anytime midnight or before?” I ask Frank.
“Right.”
“That gives Dr. Grimes time to make his way from Moloka‘i, if he didn’t have an alibi.”
“Yeah, technically he could,” Frank says, “but not likely. Dr. Grimes is disabled. He has a limp and walks with a cane.”
“He’s not as disabled as he lets on,” Marie says. “He secretly delights in snagging those special parking spots from people who truly need them.”
Frank raises his brows. “Anyway, after a thorough investigation we dropped Dr. Grimes as a person of interest. Finally, all available evidence pointed to an accident or suicide. Since there were no witnesses and no note, her case was ruled an unattended death.”
“What about Grimes’ boat?” I ask.
“We know he took his boat out early that morning, per his usual weekend routine. He didn’t deny that.”
“And the night before—when she died?”
“Think about it, Kai. He can maybe get the boat over to O‘ahu in the dark of night—though the Moloka‘i Channel is no picnic—but where would he dock and what would he use for ground transportation? The bus?”
I shrug.
"We can trace those things. There was nothing to trace. Plus we found Mrs. Ho’s car parked near where she plunged from the cliff, as we expected. If he drove her there, how would Dr. Grimes get back to his boat?”
“An accomplice?” I suggest. “Or maybe she drove herself there first and he drove another car later and surprised her? After all, he knew his wife might be there.”
Then Marie says, “Or he put his mountain bike in the trunk of her car and then he pedaled back from the cliffs to his boat.”
“It’s plausible,” I reply. My phone chimes. I silence it.
Then Frank says, “It has to be painful to lose your mother at your young age, Marie. You may not know that she had reasons to be despondent besides the losses of your father and brother.”
“So you think she jumped?” I ask.
“I didn’t say that,” Fernandez replies. “I’m just saying that if she did she had reasons.”
“What reasons?” Marie asks.
“One was Davidson Loretta, a young lawyer she was very fond of.”
“Dave Loretta?” Marie asks. “Her former trust attorney?”
“Right. Loretta came to see her, at her request, on the day she died to discuss changes to her will. When Loretta arrived Mrs. Ho was very upset. She had just found out that he had been skimming funds to cover his gambling losses. Whether she threatened to turn him in, we don’t know. Loretta said not. He told us he promised to pay back every penny and she seemed satisfied. We had no way to verify that. Main thing, it was a major betrayal of your mother by a man she thought of as almost family.”
“Did you consider him a suspect?” I ask.
Fernandez scratches his head. “Loretta had an alibi—a late dinner that night at the Halekūlani with a friend. We interviewed the friend and he verified.”
“Why did Mrs. Ho want to change her will?”
“We don’t know. And if Loretta knew he didn’t tell.”
Marie nudges me and whispers, “I know.”
I ask Fernandez, “What other reasons?”
He turns to Marie, frowns apologetically, and says, “Mrs. Ho’s second husband had a lover. The family dog-walker. A fortyish blonde named Krystal.”
“My stepfather and Krystal?” Marie’s face reddens.
“Did you know her?” Fernandez asks.
“Krystal helped with our two poodles,” Marie explains. “She seemed nice. Was I ever wrong!”
“Apparently, your mother fired her after figuring out something was going on between the dog walker and your stepfather,” Fernandez continues. “What I didn’t know until I met Krystal in person was that she’s a former body builder. Still had muscles, despite not being in her prime. We dug a little deeper and found an assault conviction. She whacked another woman pretty badly and got herself a long probation. I guess your family didn’t do a background check on her?”
“Was Krystal a suspect in Mrs. Ho’s death?” I ask.
“The night she died, the dog walker had an alibi. She was at a rock concert at the Blaisdell Arena. Ticket stub to prove it. Her friends verified.”
“What concert?” I ask.
“Yes.” Fernandez says.
“Yes, what?” I ask.
“You know—Yes—the British band.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t believe Dave Loretta or Krystal killed my mother,” Marie says. “My stepfather did. I want Kai to prove it.”
“It’s your money,” Fernandez says. “You can spend it however you like.”
“If Kai traces my stepfather’s movements on that night and his alibis fall apart, then we’ll know. We’ll put him on O‘ahu and we’ll have our killer.”
“We already covered that territory,” Fernandez says. “If you want Kai to go over it again, like I said, it’s your money. But in the end I think you’re going to find that your mother’s death was unattended, just as our investigation found.”
“No way,” she says defiantly.
I step in. “Good of you, Frank, to take us into your confidence like this.”
The tab for lunch comes just as Fernandez is rising to leave.
“Thanks,” he says. “They grill a nice piece of fish here.”