Surfing Detective 00 - The Making of Murder on Molokai

me.
What the heck?
I walked back inside and pushed the blinking red light. Two messages:
    “Hey, Kai,” said the wry, sardonic voice, “did you hear the one about the Chinese, Filipino, and Hawaiian astronauts?”
Tommy Woo.
    “You told me that one already, Tommy,” I thought aloud.
    After a punch line
still
too politically incorrect to repeat, Tommy said: “Seriously, how about spaghetti this Monday–same old place?”
    Yes, dinner with Tommy. Long overdue. I would call him back later.
    The second message went like this:
    “Well, hello there . . . ,”
said the coy and sexy voice.
“Guess who?”
    It was Niki–my California girl.
    “Good news!”
She sounded excited. “My request to change flight bases from L.A. to Honolulu was approved . . . .” A pause for effect.
“Isn’t that great!”
    Niki’s prepared little speech went on.
Fun-fun-fun. I
peered at the STOP button on the answering machine that if pushed would kill the message. Then I wondered:
What happened to her airline pilot?
Had Captain Jacoby flown the coop? Had he returned to a wife and kids in some inland suburb far from Marina Del Rey?
    “Anyway . . . ,” Niki hesitated, sounding slightly guilty, “we’ve
really
got to talk. Sorry I’ve been so slow in returning your calls. It’s these damn flights to Indianapolis . . . .”
    I punched STOP. Niki’s voice cut off.
    Within minutes I was paddling out to the fun little breakers at Canoes. My left shoulder throbbed when I stroked and the first splash of salt water stung. Soon the frothing soup from an inside set tore off the bandage. The sun streamed down on the open wound. By the time I had paddled outside to the lineup, my shoulder felt numb.
No fear. No pain.
    Sitting on my longboard waiting for a good set to roll in, my mind roamed. I wondered what I would say to Niki. Actually, I knew
what
I would say to her. How to say it was the question.
    Then I thought about the
hui.
Someday I would no doubt hear again from Manny Lee, if not from his moke pals. But not right away. The
hui,
and Manny especially, was in hiding. Everyone had crawled under a bush, trying to avoid the media and the Feds.
    And I had gone surfing–not to recollect this bizarre case like Sherlock Holmes puffing on his pipe–but to restore the balance in my life. After all, I am the
surfing
detective. I had been a detective, only, for too long.
    It was high time to catch a wave.

XII: Epilogue

    In the following epilogue that was deleted from the
published book, Kai explains the meaning of the figurines he found on the Kalaupapa trail in chapter five and he recounts
his somewhat melancholy last days with Adrienne — and how her image and voice still haunt him. The epilogue may have disappeared because it effectively ends the relationship between the PI and his client, whereas the published version leaves open the possibility of them continuing to see each other.

Epilogue

    Two last points require brief explanation to close the case:
    First: If you are still wondering about those tiny religious figurines by switchback 16 on the Kalaupapa trail, Sara’s lovesick ex-husband, J. Gregory Parke, repeatedly denied putting them there. So did Rush McTower, who surprisingly returned my call. On a hunch I phoned Johnny Kaluna on Moloka‘i and asked if he’d seen anyone hiking down the trail to tend the shrine. There was a long silence. Then the
paniolo
confessed. Kaluna himself had placed the figurines, rosary beads, and
maile lei
there. For Sara or his mule, he didn’t say. The red roses, he claimed, he knew nothing about. They remain a mystery.
    Second: My client remained in the islands nearly a month after her release. Adrienne gave me a bonus for uncovering the
hui
conspiracy behind her sister’s accidental death. On that bonus we spent three long weekends together on Maui, Kaua‘i, and, her favorite, Moloka‘i. Though she thoroughly enjoyed her tropical vacation, as she called it, Adrienne concluded she would always be only a sojourner in the islands. She was a
New Englander
through and through. Boston was her home.
    By the time she left in early November I was impossibly hung on her. We kept in touch for a while by phone and email. But as each month passed, we talked less. The five thousand miles and six time zones that separated us eventually took their toll.
    I still half expect her to knock on my office door one dewy, fragrant morning–glacier eyes beaming–with some new bizarre case for me to solve. Once