Maui Widow Waltz (Islands of Aloha Mystery Series) by JoAnn Bassett Read Free Book Online Page B

week and my body resisted the idea. I pulled into
the alley and parked behind a red door marked with large black Korean characters
which translated into English as “Palace of Pain.”
    People who earn a black belt at my guan are not only awarded the prestigious belt, but are also given a position of
trust as special recognition for passing the rigorous test. At my black belt
ceremony I’d been given my own key to the back door so I could come and go
whenever I pleased. I slipped inside and entered the chilly, dark space. The
floor mats were sticky and cold on my bare feet. I could barely make out my
reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, but I didn’t turn on the lights or
the space heater. I train at Palace of Pain because the name speaks to me. I
don’t believe in powder puff martial arts, where the air is conditioned and the
mats smell like Mountain Fresh Lysol. At PoP we pride ourselves on what Sifu
Doug—our head instructor—calls “sucking it up.” Take what you’re dealt and use
it to your advantage.
    I warmed up in a matter of minutes,
and after an hour of forms and work with the mao —the long lance—I was
relaxed and centered. I took a lukewarm shower in the locker room and dressed
for work, which simply meant trading my black martial arts uniform for a pair
of white capris and a blue lace-trimmed tee-shirt. At the outer door, I slipped
on my well-worn rubbah slippas, and headed out to my car.
    I’d made the coffee and settled
down at my desk when the phone rang. Glancing at the caller-ID I saw it wasn’t
an 808 area code, which meant it wasn’t local. Probably a collection call from
the mainland. I took a deep breath and picked up.
    “Morning, Pali.” It was Lisa Marie,
singing my name like we were b/f/f. “I found something in a magazine I’m just
dying to show you. Can you come by here this morning?”
    I hesitated. I still hadn’t taken the
time to sleuth out where she was staying. Now I’d have to wring it out of her.
    “Sure, I can come over. But I’ll
need the address.”
    “Check my client folder.”
    I couldn’t believe she was playing
that game again. “If you’ll give me the address it’ll save me the time of
looking it up. I’ll be able to get there that much sooner.”
    She sighed, and I heard a loud thunk ,
as if she’d banged the receiver down on a table. A half-minute of murmured
voices was followed by the clatter of someone picking up the phone.
    “Hello? Hello?” The voice was
tentative, with a slight lilt.
    “ Aloha . This is Pali Moon.
Who is this, please?”
    “I am Josie. I work here.”
    “Oh. Is Lisa Marie still there?”
    “She here, but she say to tell you
where she is. She not know.”
    “Great. What’s the name of the
hotel, please?” I said.
    “Is not hotel. Is house.”
    “Okay. She’s staying in a private
home?”
    “Yes.”
    “Can you give me the address?”
    “You know where is Olu’olu?”
    “Yes, over on the west side.”
    Every Maui resident knows Olu’olu.
It’s a touchy subject. A supposed ancient Hawaiian burial ground, the entire
area bucked development for decades. A single residence had been built there—on
a spit of sand jutting into the ocean. The property flagrantly violated about
half a dozen building ordinances—from Coastal Commission setbacks to the razor
wire-topped fence that runs from the property line all the way down to the
ocean preventing public access to the beach. But there’d been no hearings when
the building permit had been issued. Rumor had it the house was owned by a
mainland mob boss who’d used creative measures to sail through the permit
process. Allowances had been made; dissent had been stifled.
    “It is the house on the beach.
Across the street from the big banyan tree.”
    “I know exactly where you are. Mahalo .”
    No one I knew had ever been to the
house, and even though I’d driven past the property at least a hundred times,
I’d never noticed any sign of life. I wondered if the