I follow the hotel map, wander a bit and finally find a cottage with the door open to a housekeeping cart. I knock and walk in. It’s a simple shoebox room, airy and bright, with a sliding glass door to a lānai at the water’s edge. A bone-thin haole woman with a grey bun is mopping the bathroom floor.
“Lena, Detective Fernandez gave me your name,” I say. “I’ve come from Honolulu to ask you just a few questions. Okay?”
She turns to me, surprised. “Questions about what?” Her English sounds more mainland than local.
I pull out a photo of the doctor from the internet. “Dr. Grimes used to be a regular guest here and Detective Fernandez said you knew him.”
“And who are you?”
“I’m a private detective." I show her my card. "I worked on Moloka‘i a few years ago—the case of the woman who fell from the Kalaupapa cliffs."
“Oh, the mule ride accident?” Lena’s expression changes.
"That's the one. It wasn’t an accident."
She puts down her mop and glances at the photo. “Yes, I knew him. I already told the detective everything I could remember.”
I nod. “You told Detective Fernandez Dr. Grimes was in his hotel room the morning after his wife died, is that right?”
“That’s what I told him.”
“How did you know the doctor was here?”
“He hung a Do Not Disturb sign on his door. He said he had taken his boat out early that morning and was catching up on sleep. That’s probably why he was still in his room when I came around ten.”
“So ten in the morning is the first time you saw him?”
“A little after, yes.”
“And you believed he was in his room all night?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“Did you see him here that night?”
“I’m not here at night. Just in the mornings and early afternoons when I clean rooms.”
“Okay,” I say. “Did anything strike you as different about the doctor’s stay on this particular night, on this particular weekend?”
“No—” Lena hesitates. “Well, yes. He was alone.”
“He wasn’t always?”
“It’s none of my business,” she says. “Really.”
“Who was usually with him?”
Lena says nothing.
“On that night he was alone?” I try again. “But on most nights when he stayed here he was not alone?”
Lena slowly nods. She’s saying yes and at the same time she’s saying she feels uncomfortable saying yes.
“Did you mention this to Detective Fernandez?”
“He didn’t ask.”
“Mahalo,” I say. “You’ve been a big help.”
I say goodbye to Lena, wondering why Fernandez didn’t pick up on the fact that Dr. Grimes usually had company during his weekends on Moloka‘i. But not on the weekend his wife died. Then I remember. Fernandez was going through a divorce. He said he was in misery. And maybe drinking more than usual. Frank wasn't at his best.
Now it starts to make sense. Why else would the doctor spend frequent weekends on Moloka‘i? He didn’t fish. He didn’t hunt. He didn’t hula. And there were probably as many opportunities in waters around O‘ahu as around the Friendly Isle to run his speedboat.
Dr. Grimes came here to be with her. The dog walker. The muscular blonde. Krystal was attending a rock concert on the evening Beatrice Ho died. And that left him alone on Moloka‘i. Or so the story went.
It’s lunchtime now. I head not to the hotel’s restaurant but to its oceanfront bar. On the way my phone chimes. A text from Vivienne.
"Hello, Kai. Paris TV news is reporting three persons of interest in the hit-and-run case of Pierre Garneaux. One in Lyon, France, and two in Honolulu, Hawai‘i. Thought you should know. Miss you, Vivienne."
Two in Honolulu? So now I’m on the short list with Dr. Grimes?
What went down in Paris seems worlds away from Moloka‘i. But these two distant worlds are suddenly converging.
I reply to Vivienne, “Thanks. Miss you too.”
I step up to the oceanfront bar overlooking ripples lapping the shore and order a beer. The nametag on the bartender, a local guy about my age, says Elton. Just the man I want to talk to. As he pulls the tap and slides a frothy mug across the bar, we talk story in Pidgin above the lunch-hour bustle of the nearby restaurant.
We’re wrapping up a rundown of surf spots on the Friendly Isle when I show him the photo of Dr. Grimes and ask: “Eh, Elton, you remembah dis’ guy? He come hea on da weekends—regular kine. One haole doctor, mid-fifties. He from O’ahu. Got one fas’ boat, brah, ovah in da harbor.”
The bartender studies the photo. “Yeah, I remembah. Wuz long time ago. Da guy’s wife wen’ fall off one cliff, yeah?”
“Das da guy,” I say. “T’ink he hea in da hotel da night his wife fall?”
“Dunno, brah. I see him dat night in da bar, li’ I tell da police. But how I know where he spend da night? I not hea all night.”
“Das da t’ing,” I say. “Wuz he hea or wuz he dere?”
The bartender shrugs.
“What you t’ink? Maybe da doctor push her off da cliff at Makapu‘u?”
“Not if he on Moloka‘i, brah.”
I change course. “Da doctor get one wahine wit’ him mos’ weekends, yeah?”
“Ho, how can forget!” Elton lights up. “I wen’ see him all da time sitting at da bar wit’ da wahine.”
“You remembah what she look like?”
“Beeg muscles, brah. She one body-builder or somet’ing li’ dat.”
“Was,” I say. “Why you no tell police about da wahine?”
“She not hea dat weekend, brah. Das why.”
“T’anks, eh?” I say, rising from the bar. “If you t’ink of anyt’ing else, try call me, ‘kay?”
From my wallet I hand him my card and then set a twenty on the bar under my frothy mug. He glances at the chiseled face of Andrew Jackson. Elton’s own face brightens. I guess he likes Jackson’s rugged good looks.