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  PARADISE

  PASSION

  MURDER

  10 Tales of Mystery from Hawai‘i

  PARADISE, PASSION, MURDER

  10 Tales of Mystery from Hawai‘i

  Copyright © 2016 by Read Aloud America.

  All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN: 9780985954093

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. No part of this book may be published or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or information storage and retrieval systems without express written permission of Read Aloud America. It is the copyrighted property of Read Aloud America and may not be distributed for any commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy, where they may discover other works by these authors. Thank you for your support and respect for the property of Read Aloud America and the authors.

  The characters and events in this novel are fictional and created out of the imagination of the authors. Certain real locations and institutions are mentioned, but the characters and events depicted are entirely fictional.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Cover photo © Krivosheevv Depositphotos.com.

  Cover design by Kathy Ambrose, Pen 2 Ink Designs.

  Contents

  Foreword

  Editor’s Note

  Introduction

  Murder on the Road to Hana

  Terry Ambrose

  Lei, Lady, Lei

  JoAnn Bassett

  Crime of Dispassion

  Gail M. Baugniet

  Trust Fall

  Frankie Bow

  Thoroughly Dead: A Honolulu Thriller Short Story

  Kay Hadashi

  ‘Ālewa Park: A Louise Golden Mystery

  Laurie Hanan

  Curse of the Lost Tiki

  Jill Marie Landis

  Ke Ahi Pio‘ole: The Fire That Never Burns Out

  A. J. Llewellyn

  Clipped Wings: A Lei Crime Short Story

  Toby Neal

  Danny’s Tale: the Untold Story From the ‘Ohana

  C. W. Schutter

  Acknowledgments

  Foreword

  I was quite determined to be a newspaper reporter at a very young age. When I was growing up during World War II, I thought there could be no more important job than to be a reporter. I saw that the bigger the headline, the more important the story. I thought I would be the next Maggie Higgins. When I grew up, I even had a trench coat and smoked Chesterfields.

  My career in writing began after my new husband and I moved to DC and started a family. I hadn’t written in a while and missed writing. I had read mysteries and saw an ad in a magazine for a contest, so I wrote “Secret of the Cellars,” which was a young adult novel. That one story eventually led to more than fifty other books.

  Had I not been able to read, I would never have known about Maggie Higgins, would never have written “Secret of the Cellars,” nor any of the subsequent books. My career and my life would have been wholly different. It would have been far less rich and I far less informed.

  Because millions learn to read every year, I’ve enjoyed a wonderful career as a writer. I never would have been able to write so many books, however, if it weren’t for those readers. Imagine growing up and never reading Dr. Seuss or Nancy Drew or Sherlock Holmes—not for lack of interest, but because you couldn’t. Reading is fundamental to our lives, yet so many never learn how to do it. Adults who cannot read are plagued by the stigma of illiteracy.

  In Hawai‘i, a state known for its beautiful scenery and weather, the inability to read tarnishes that beauty every day. There’s a saying in Hawai‘i that their best and brightest leave for mainland schools and never return. Unfortunately, this talent migration only worsens the literacy problem.

  The purpose of “Paradise, Passion, Murder” is to raise money to help Read Aloud America, a Hawai‘i 501©(3) organization, promote literacy. One of the things I liked most about this project was that all of the proceeds go directly to Read Aloud America. The proceeds will be used to put on programs designed to help children and adults learn to read—hopefully, together.

  Most of the authors who participated in this anthology have existing mystery series. From funny amateur sleuths to police thrillers, these writers tackle their stories with a love of the islands and an ear for a good tale.

  If you love fiction that shimmers with the lure and fascination of Hawai‘i, grab “Paradise, Passion, Murder” for a Hawaiian revel. This great collection of stories and novels will benefit literacy in the lovely islands while bringing you hours of enjoyment. That’s a winner on all counts.

  Carolyn Hart

  Author of Death in Paradise

  Editor’s Note

  My husband, Larry, and I set our mystery series in Hawai‘i because we love the islands. We try to get back there every year, since Larry is a surfer. When Terry discussed this project with me, the rest of the authors had already had several months to work on their stories. Rather than rush a contribution, I volunteered to put on my editor’s hat. This gave me the chance to preview all the wonderful contributions. I have thoroughly enjoyed working with the authors and feel privileged to have been part of this special project to benefit literacy in Hawai‘i.

  Lorna Collins

  About the Editor

  Lorna Collins and her husband, Larry K. Collins, helped build the Universal Studios Japan theme park in Osaka. Their first book, a memoir of that experience, is 31 Months in Japan: The Building of a Theme Park. They have co-written cozy mysteries set in Hawai‘i as well as a historical novel set in San Juan Capistrano. They are working on sequels to these.

  Lorna also co-authored six sweet romance anthologies set in the fictional town of Aspen Grove, CO. Her fantasy/mystery/romance, Ghost Writer, is set in Laguna Beach, CA. In addition, Lorna is a professional editor.

  You can learn more about her on her website: www.lornalarry.com and follow her on Facebook at facebook.com/lorna.l.collins.

  Introduction

  Read Aloud America promotes the involvement of the whole family in making reading an integral part of a child’s life. The organization designed an early evening program that operates in public schools, offering a series of high-energy, motivational sessions over the course of one school semester. Some (perhaps many) parents and grandparents who attend Read Aloud America’s program do not read themselves. The program motivates families to work and learn together and lessens any feelings of anxiety that may hinder the home learning environment.

  Families receive resources and tips on how to transfer this positive experience into the home. Read Aloud America’s research shows the program leads to more time spent together as a family, increases interest in and time spent reading, and improves work in school.

  Schools have been trying to engage parents for generations. The Read Aloud America program does that. Attendance figures gathered since 1999 show the Read Aloud America Program has served over 334,000 adults and children at 90 Hawai‘i public schools. It has become the largest and most effective family literacy program in America.

  Jed Gaines

  Founder and President

  Read Aloud America

  Murder on the Road to Hana

  Terry Ambrose

  McKenna

  Never could I have predicted the twists of fate that brought me to this nineteenth century Hawaiian church. I hadn’t lost my way in life, though deep down I might feel the need for
guidance. You see, my path had turned bittersweet. My name is McKenna and I’ve become quite adept at stumbling onto murders—and finding killers. And that was part of my problem.

  I’ve long since retired from the field, but I was once a skip tracer—someone who found people not wanting to be found. That was my job. I was a people finder. My employer called me the best. The people I tracked used far different adjectives. Their suggestions of what I should do to myself were invariably rude and focused on acts that were, quite frankly, impossible to perform.

  Four plain white walls surrounded me. They lent an air of simplicity and innocence to the Palapala Ho‘omau Congregational Church. Simplicity had never been an element in my life. Perhaps it never would be. But, in this moment, it felt right.

  We were fifty miles and nine stops from the country club where our Road to Hana Tour had begun. Here, in this sanctuary, in this most remote spot on Maui, killers and criminals felt a lifetime away. Counting our driver, we were a baker’s dozen of curious souls exploring one of the twistiest roads in the world. The architect of that road had either been a diabolical engineering genius or drunk. Perhaps both.

  Forest green pews atop wooden plank flooring. A single, simple chandelier. Even the plain white balusters separating the red-carpeted pulpit from the main body of the church reminded me how simple life had once been. There was a time when I would have been content to be a crack amateur sleuth. Now, life had become more complicated. It was a good complicated, not bad. Somehow, this chapel had maintained its elegance—its simplicity—despite the complicated world around it. Could I do the same?

  You see, Benni Kapono had become the complication in my life. We came to Maui to get a little time away. She’s a good twenty years younger than me and don’t think that hasn’t gotten us our fair share of snide looks and pointing fingers. The biggest issue we face, however, is that we live on different islands. As the cliché goes, it’s complicated.

  I glanced up at the stained glass window depicting Jesus in feathered robes. Those robes were once worn by the ruling class of Hawai‘i. I considered it a compliment that the church builders chose to use them. Of course, there were always the purists on either side of the aisle crying blasphemy and sacrilege. Let the purists make their claims elsewhere. I felt every element complemented the others.

  For the moment I was alone. My tour companions were either exploring the grounds or visiting the grave of Charles Lindbergh, which is the church cemetery’s claim to fame. I took a deep breath. What the heck? This wasn’t my usual thing to do, but my time alone gave me an unexpected opportunity to ask for a little free advice.

  I checked the inside of the church again. Still empty. Clearing my throat, I whispered, “Hey, big guy? Can you hear me? I’m, uh, thinking of asking Benni to marry me. Should I—you know—pop the question?”

  I waited for a sign, any sign.

  One thunderclap for yes, two for no.

  A spider spinning a web to catch a fly.

  The silence in the room overpowered me. I felt stupid. This wasn’t a decision anyone else could make. It was mine and mine alone. The sound of rushing wind drifted in through the open front doors. Turning in my seat, I saw the source. A drone. An all-white, four-propeller, remote-controlled flying camera.

  “Val,” I hissed. The moment I started to stand, the drone rose into the air and disappeared.

  One of our fellow travelers on this tour was Valentine Ilsley, a five-foot-four, dark-eyed beauty who had a nasty habit of asking embarrassing questions. She was the queen when it came to that particular talent. I’d taken somewhat of a dislike to Val when, during our stop at the rugged Ke‘anae Peninsula, she’d shadowed me with the drone for a few seconds. In retrospect, she’d probably done it because we’d exchanged barbs after I made a crack about her profession.

  —So you’re a magazine technical writer, Val? How come you people can’t write in plain English?

  —Gobbledegeek Magazine is targeted at millennials. Why’s someone your age even interested in it?

  —Someone my age? I’m only sixty-five.

  —Oh, then maybe you should stick to AARP’s magazine. That might be more your speed.

  —I’m surprised you can even spell that.

  I’d turned away, not letting her get the better of me. For the most part, I’d almost enjoyed trading little semi-nasties with another smart ass. Val, however, was a true techie and a “Millennial with Money.” That’s what Benni had called her, anyway. I suppose it was true. Val had a real Gucci bag—Benni clued me in on that. She’d also bought the drone for this trip.

  With the flying spy machine gone, I settled back into my pew, but was immediately interrupted by two voices.

  —Did you see? I almost had it.

  —Awesome, Lenny. You could have played pro basketball.

  —C’mon, Judy, you’re not still mad, are you?

  Crap. These two started the day friendly enough. Lenny was one of those guys who could talk your ear off and Judy had a quick wit, which had dulled considerably as the day wore on. For the first time, I suspected I knew the reason she’d become more introspective and the reason appalled me. In her hand she held what looked like a bottle of beer, but the label read “Jim Beam Red Stag.”

  When I glared at them, Judy raised her eyebrows and held my gaze. “I don’t think we’re welcome here, Lenny.”

  “I’m sorry we disturbed you,” Lenny said. “You’re McKenna, right? How come you don’t use your first name? You know, I had an uncle who was just like you. He didn’t want to be called Mr. and he insisted everyone call him Jackson, which was his last name.”

  Lenny was still babbling about his uncle as Judy pushed him toward the door. “Stuff it, Lenny. Nobody cares. Especially him. Or me.”

  They passed Benni on their way out. She approached. Sat next to me. Then, took my hand. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “I’m surrounded by beauty.” I smiled. The troubled couple was gone. Serenity had returned. And, Benni was here. What more could I ask for?

  She winked. “Not here. This is a church. Show some respect.”

  “I wish everyone did that.”

  “Let it go, McKenna. They’re still young. Why’d you come here first?”

  “I don’t know. It just seemed like the right place for me to be. Where have you been?”

  “I went to the cemetery before the others, then toured the gardens. I found a few things I want you to see.”

  “That sounds good.” Was that a sign? The gardens? I could do the one-knee bit. Crap. I didn’t have a ring.

  Benni took my hand and stood, but before either of us could move, a woman’s scream pierced the air.

  Lenny

  Benni and I rushed out the front door of the church and ran straight into a half dozen others from our tour. Around us, the crowd was in chaos. They were all glancing in different directions. Some clung to their spouses. They all jabbered at once.

  —What was that?

  —It came from the cemetery.

  —No, no, it was back by the bus.

  —It was a woman.

  —Someone call the police.

  The conflicted yammering went on as Benni and I pushed past the others. I didn’t care who thought what. We’d definitely heard a woman’s scream.

  “Which way is the cemetery?” I asked Benni. As she pointed to my left, I said, “You check by the van. Yell as loud as you can if you find anything.”

  I hurried around the side of the church. At first I saw nothing, then about fifty feet away I spotted Judy. She stood a few feet away from a short, lava-rock wall. It was the perimeter of a gravesite. Next to Judy, Lenny knelt over the body of a man lying spread-eagled on the grass. My breath caught. It was the grave of Charles Lindbergh.

  Good God. Lindbergh was an American hero. The first man to fly across the Atlantic. And now some joke
r on a tour bus died, not only in the same cemetery, but right next to him? I took a quick look at the positioning of the body. Head against one of the rocks. Torso and legs extended out onto the grass. The face was that of Ramon Gilligan. One of our tour members.

  Lenny poked at Ramon’s neck while glancing up at me. “I’m trying to find a pulse. I saw this done once, but you know how it is in the heat of the moment.”

  Blood had turned the grass near Ramon’s head crimson.

  I pushed Lenny to one side. What kind of idiot didn’t know how to take a pulse? “I understand.” He could have interpreted my words as an apology for shoving him out of the way, but right now I couldn’t care less about Lenny’s feelings. A man was dying before my eyes.

  I pressed my fingers against Ramon’s neck. One weak thump. Another, this one just a flutter. Then, nothing.

  Ramon Gilligan was dead.

  A wave of remorse surged through me—more at my willingness to get a laugh at someone else’s expense than the gravity of the transgression. The whole incident had been stupid. Why had I insulted Ramon’s family name? During our picnic lunch at a quaint roadside store in Hana, I made cracks about the old “Gilligan’s Island” TV show. Ramon, an autoworker from Detroit, didn’t appreciate my “three-hour tour” jokes. He quickly told me he’d heard them a thousand times. It seemed so petty, poking fun at a man’s name—

  “Is he—dead?” asked Judy.

  I reined in my feelings, telling myself that they were just knee-jerk reactions. Judy stared down at Ramon, her jaw slack, the bottle of Red Stag no longer visible. When had she ditched that?

  I nodded. Stood. Watched Benni rush toward us. Nausea washed over me. We’d been moved from a different tour group to this one at the last minute. Was this the reason why? Had the cosmos put me here to watch a man die? What kind of cosmic conspiracy was this? Shaking my head at how ridiculous it seemed for the cosmos to be concerned with me, I peered at Lenny, who stood a few feet away, framed by a backdrop of tropical foliage, volcanic stone walls, and palm trees.