Storm couldn’t get comfortable. The bed was hard; there was a lump in the center of the mattress. She was hot, she was cold. She should have adjusted the motel’s air conditioner better when she went to bed, but now she couldn’t muster the energy to get up and do it. It hummed and made rattling noises. She drifted into deeper sleep.
An elegant woman touched her shoulder, but Storm couldn’t rouse herself. The woman leaned over her, and Storm shivered. Now the air conditioner was on too high; it was inconsistent. She’d have to tell the management about it.
She was freezing. Not enough blankets. The woman loomed before Storm’s face, but Storm knew it was a dream because somehow she knew her eyes were closed. If she were awake, she’d get up and put on another blanket.
The woman was Japanese, middle-aged, with expressive almond eyes and perfect, rosebud red lips. She wore an elegant suit with a silk flower on the lapel. At some level, Storm knew her mind was unraveling the trauma of last night, when she’d observed the wooden stoicism on the older Tagama’s face.
Storm had never seen Yasuko, but she knew she was the lovely woman in her dream. Storm wondered what Yasuko had really looked like, but she liked the vision she’d imagined. Ryan and Lara were there now, too. Lara’s face so white, it glowed like the light behind her. Ryan’s eyes were wet.
No, no, on the beach, Lara’s eyes had been wet and Ryan’s face was white. But this was a dream, so it didn’t have to make sense.
When a ray of sunlight worked its way through the drapes and scraped against her burning eyelids, Storm felt as if she’d worked all night. It was six-thirty; she was as tired as if she’d had two hours sleep instead of seven. A shower helped a bit, and she was grateful for the motel’s little bottle of shampoo. When she’d bought deodorant the night before, some guardian angel had whispered in her ear that her old toothbrush looked like it had been flattened with a steam iron and her toothpaste tube was nearly as bad. So she was set for the basic morning ablutions, but she’d have to put on the same clothes that she’d worn to dinner. Jeans and a sweatshirt would have been her choice for a trip upcountry, but the dress and sandals would have to do.
Storm knew it could take an hour or more to get to Makawao, which was across the island to Kahului and another eight or ten miles up Haleakala Highway. She had to be back at Lara’s Aquatic Adventures in Kihei by ten-thirty.
She got a large coffee at a Starbucks in Kihei, near the northbound road to Kahului. In Kahului, she pulled into a little mall and picked up another travel cup of Bad Ass coffee. It was the inspiration she was seeking. She was beginning to feel like herself.
She also filled the tank in Damon’s ex’s station wagon, which was running like a dream. A few loose papers—they looked like soccer-signup sheets—fluttered around the back seat, which made Storm feel right at home.
The weather in Kahului was clear and sunny, with trade winds blowing about ten to fifteen knots, and mauka showers. Mauka, in this case, was exactly where Storm was headed: up the mountain called Haleakala, House of the Sun. This was where the Hawaiian god, Māui, had lassoed the sun. After using his grandmother’s magic rope to catch Kalā, Māui then tied him to the roots of the wiliwili tree and chopped off some of his legs with a sacred adze.
Violent tales, Storm reflected as she drove upward, into the clouds. Mist clouded the windshield. A brutal legacy, those Hawaiian tales, like so many other cultures’ birthrights. A shiver passed through her, and Storm felt vulnerable in her sleeveless dress and sandals. Not the clothes for a confrontation, certainly, and she reconsidered her purpose for this drive, which was twofold: to see how Pauline felt about the sale of her shop to Mālua LLC and Paradise Consortium, and to see if Pauline had heard from Keiko and Carmen. The second reason overshadowed the first at this point.
Storm had grown up in small towns like Makawao, and she found the local grocery without any trouble. Inside, she breathed in the aromas of fresh baked goods and the earthy smells of produce. It took her five minutes to fill a small basket with four papayas, limes, a jar of passion fruit butter, and a loaf of fresh Moloka‘i bread.
The clerk rang it up and added a few home-grown mangoes to the bag. “My tree,” she said.
“Thanks, I love them,” Storm said, and sniffed at the sweet fruit. “Do you know Pauline Harding?”
“Where you from?”
“O‘ahu. I’m here for the weekend, doing some work and visiting friends.”
“She lives about a mile from here. Real pretty place with a great view. I heard her son bought it for her.” The clerk gave Storm directions, and even threw in two more mangoes. “Here, she’ll like these. Someone told me she’s got some friends visiting.”
“I’ll tell her they’re from you,” Storm said, and wondered about those visitors. Back in the car, she called Stella’s number. Stella must be sitting on the phone, because it didn’t have time to ring.
“Any word from Keiko?” Storm asked.
“No.” The woman’s voice was ragged. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Call the cops.”
“I have to, don’t I?”
“Yes, and do it now. Have you talked to Pauline since noon yesterday?”
“I called her again last night.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she already told me she’d call if she saw them.” Stella sounded embarrassed. “She told me I’m bugging her.”
“Really,” Storm said. Some friend.
It was easy to follow the clerk’s directions, and Storm marveled at the homes on the mountainside. Elevation was around fourteen hundred feet, and many of the homes had views across miles of velvet green foliage to the sparkling sapphire of the Pacific. They might not be as expensive as ocean front estates, but people paid for vistas like these.
Pauline’s address was easy to find by the number on a lava rock post by the street, but the driveway was long and tree-lined, and anyone watching from the house would see her coming for a quarter of a mile. Storm didn’t want to give Pauline that much time to prepare for a visitor.
When Storm saw the Rainbow Bed and Breakfast only three properties from Pauline’s place, she allowed herself a big smile. To make things better, across the street from the B & B was a turnout. Storm pulled into it, looked around at a scattering of cigarette butts, and surmised that she wouldn’t be the first to stop and enjoy the scenery.
A low lava rock wall ran between Pauline’s property and her neighbor’s, and Storm stayed on the neighbor’s side of it. She walked along and thought up excuses for taking this route if someone asked, but there was a narrow path and she figured she wasn’t the only one to have used the trail. Eucalyptus trees and ironwood provided shade, while Pauline’s side had only a few plumeria trees and some flowering shrubs.
Storm wished she wore sneakers instead of sandals, and she now questioned the wisdom of stopping at the store for omiyage. It was an island tradition to take a host or hostess small gifts when visiting, but Storm had a nagging feeling Pauline wasn’t going to greet her with open arms, especially since Stella said she was annoyed.
As Storm grew parallel to the house, she saw steps incorporated into the wall. They led to a path across Pauline’s lawn. Storm set down the gift bag and climbed over. She picked the bag up again. It gave her a degree of legitimacy.
The view was outstanding, and a wide lanai encircled the house, whose front window panes looked out onto the wide green lawn, flowering plants, and wisps of clouds. The house itself gave off a feeling of self-imposed isolation. It took a minute for Storm to realize that the reason for this was that all the windows were closed. If this were her house, she’d have them all open to the cool, eucalyptus-scented air.
Maybe Pauline had taken her guests to another island or to Hana, a long drive from upcountry Makawao, for a day or two. The quiet, closed house could be entirely innocent.
Storm walked around to the front, climbed the steps to the lanai, and called out. “Hello?”
No answer. She thought she heard a noise from within, but it could have been something in the yard, a branch or a nearby bird. “Hello? Pauline?”
Not a sound this time, so Storm walked toward the carport, which was to her immediate right, on the far side of the house from where she’d climbed the wall. The driveway widened around the structure to include a parking area. Like many of the homes in the area, the carport had walls, but no door. Inside was a late model BMW sedan.
Storm’s feet crunched on the gravel of the drive. “Hello?”
She could see a car parked on the other side of the house, pulled off the gravel of the drive onto the lawn, where it sat in the shelter of a Plumeria tree.
It was a blue Toyota sedan with a dull finish, a few rust spots, and a Save the Whales bumper sticker. It was Stella’s.