On Saturday, April 13, I take the day off. I drop by Vivienne’s home in Kailua in the afternoon, visit with Marie, and then take Kula surfing. Afterward I return him and remind her not to leave the island until Fernandez gives the okay. Then I spend the evening at the Waikīkī Edgewater.
Later that night I receive a voicemail from the pet detective. It may seem callous, but I don’t listen. I know the subject: Kula. And I’ve told her already, I’m going to keep him as long as she keeps Blitz. Once she gets used to the idea, I’m more than willing to let her visit Kula. Without Blitz.
The weekend goes by and first thing on Monday, April 15, I head into Chinatown. I say good morning to Mrs. Fujiyama, who stands in her customary spot by the cash register, and climb the stairs to the second floor. I part Madame Zenobia’s psychedelic bead curtains and peer into the incense haze. Shirley sits in her wicker throne—flaming red hair, thick mascara, beads and bangles jangling—hovering over her crystal ball.
“Here’s your postcard from nowhere.” I hand her the Eiffel Tower card. “Your crystal was right,” I admit. “I did take a long journey.”
“How about another fortune, Kai?” She moves her hands over the glinting orb. “On the house.”
“No time,” I say, my eyes smarting from the incense. “I've got taxes to mail off by the end of the day.”
I slip into my office. As I try to massage the numbers on my returns, my mind wanders back to the cliffs of Makapu‘u. Frank Fernandez had been right. Beatrice Ho did, in fact, slip or jump. She wasn’t pushed by her second husband, or by anyone else.
Fernandez’ investigation had been flawed—he wasn't at his best—but his conclusions were as correct as we are likely to get. I was able to prove that Dr. Grimes brought his boat from Moloka'i to O'ahu on the night his wife died and borrowed his partner's car, both of which Fernandez entirely missed. The doctor's movements on that evening provided strong circumstantial evidence, along with a presumed motive, that he killed his wife.
Had I interviewed his former girlfriend, Krystal, I might have discovered, as Frank belatedly did, that Grimes made the trip to spend the evening with her on her birthday. In my defense, my client insisted I investigate her stepfather only.
My phone chimes.
A text from my client. Marie says she’s on an airliner being pushed back from the gate at Honolulu International Airport. “Pierre’s service is this week in Paris. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Aloha, Marie.”
“Did you tell Fernandez you’re leaving the island?” I text back.
“No time for that,” she replies.
“What about Kula?”
“I hugged him before I left,” she responds. “Key to Vivienne’s house under doormat.”
Before I can reply comes this: “Gotta go. We’re taxiing to the runway.”
That’s the last I hear from her.
I scoop up all my tax forms, get my car, and head over the Pali Highway to Kailua. I pull into the driveway of Vivienne’s home to the gregarious bark of the golden retriever. I step onto the front lānai and find the house key under the mat. I barely open the door and Kula bursts upon me—barking, wagging, his feathers aglow.
“Hey boy!” I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his sunny coat. “I’m here for you.”
I raise my eyes and see the kitchen waste basket tipped on its side and rubbish scattered across the floor. Not like Kula. I investigate. Quickly I understand.
An empty Spam musubi wrapper tells the story. Kula was hungry.
Marie had given him a taste of her musubi on the day her stepfather died. So how can I blame the retriever?
Picking up the musubi wrapper and assorted garbage I find an envelope. It’s damp and stained, but the handwriting on the front is clear. Marie.
The same envelope I delivered to her in Paris that she said she promptly discarded? I look more closely.
Yes, the same.
I recall Dr. Grimes telling me the contents were for Marie’s eyes only. But the doctor is now dead under suspicious circumstances and his stepdaughter Marie, at whose hands he died, has lied to me. I feel no qualms now.
I open the envelope and remove what appears to be three or four folded sheets and a return envelope, with international postage affixed, addressed to Dr. Grimes. The first sheet is a letter from the doctor to his stepdaughter,
Dear Marie,
I have tried to get in touch with you in Paris in every way I know how, but failed. So now I resort to having this letter delivered to you by hand. I would ask you to set aside your past feelings for me, whatever they may be, and to consider carefully what I am about to propose.
You no doubt recall that as a stipulation of your mother's will I was granted the right to occupy your family home for the rest of my life, the only benefit I received when she died. I am willing to waive that right so you can return and reclaim the home for yourself. The enclosed document sets forth the terms and conditions, and the consideration I would ask from you in return. I expect you will find the arrangement fair and equitable, and that it puts no strain on your considerable wealth.
Please sign and return the document in the enclosed envelope and instruct your bankers to render the sum to me.
Papa Gordon
As I'm reading this I'm wondering what sum Grimes is asking of his stepdaughter to reclaim her home. I thumb through the three-page document, which to me looks like legal boilerplate, until I come to the nub. Five hundred thousand dollars. Plus Marie must sign away her right to discuss publically details of this agreement and of her relationship with her stepfather. A gag order, in other words. Marie gets the house back, but it costs her a half million and also the right to expose his abuse.
And I ask myself why a medical doctor, a successful psychiatrist who conceivably makes lots of money, would give up living in such a beautiful oceanfront estate. Even for five hundred thousand bucks? The obvious answer: he needed money.
Then I remember Fernandez mentioning the recent sexual assault allegation against Dr. Grimes by one of his patients, not the first time in his career. I can only imagine that the cash the doctor suddenly needed enough to compel him to vacate the lavish seaside home had to do with that allegation and that patient. Either a pending suit or maybe even blackmail. And that also could be why he sold his beloved speedboat, Sea Ya Later.
The letter and document supply another motive for the doctor’s murder. Instead of paying a half million to regain possession of her family home, Marie gets it for free. Not to mention revenge for his abusing her. I wonder again if the saying “the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree” applies to stepchildren.
“For Marie’s eyes only” is now out the window. It’s time to put this evidence before the eyes of Frank Fernandez.