Chapter 7

7

As I jogged home from the Nakasones’, my mind circled back to the case at hand. Despite the day’s many distractions, the missing ornament still weighed heavily on my mind.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called Keone. Maybe he would be back in time to go with me to Namolo’s house in Hana.

To my surprise, he picked up. “Hey. I’m almost to Ohia. I’m coming the back way. Was hoping you still wanted to get a bite to eat.”

“Perfect. I’m starved. And I need company for a home visit after we eat. Let’s meet at Braddah Hutts outside of Hana and go from there.”

As I arrived at Braddah Hutts food truck in my white SUV nicknamed Sharkey, I sniffed audibly. I got out of my vehicle, taking in the scent of smoky, grilled meats mingling with the salty breeze coming off the nearby ocean.

I spotted Keone at a picnic table, his face lit up with a welcoming grin. “There’s my Kitty Kat!”

“Dude. I don’t mind you calling me that when we’re alone, but . . .” I quirked a brow. “It’s a tad diminutive for public consumption, don’t you think?”

“That’s my woman, setting a boundary,” he said, not missing a beat. “I got you your favorite.”

He pushed over a to-go container piled high with tender, juicy kalua pork with sticky rice and a green salad on the side.

“Mr. K, you’re the best.”

“I aim to please.”

The first bite was a burst of savory flavor, perfectly seasoned and cooked to perfection. My stomach activated with a vengeance and so did his; there was no conversation for a bit as we made short work of the delicious food. “So, there’s this dispute between the Pahinuis and Namolos,” I explained, wiping my hands on a napkin as I finished my meal. “Artie told me the Namolos have been trying to get the ornament from them for years.” I filled in the details.

“Sounds like they have a reason to take it.” Keone’s expression was thoughtful. “A classic family feud. But why did Josie warn you about Namolo?”

“I’m not sure,” I replied, glancing around at the bustling food truck scene. “She just said not to go alone when I went to his house. What do you know about him?” Keone and his family, the Kaihales, were longtime Hana residents. Everyone seemed to know everyone here—and many were related.

“Not much. Only Malcolm lives here in Hana. His wife died ten years or so ago. He’s retired, keeps to himself. I see him fishing sometimes when I go surfing. He’s got a mean dog, though. Maybe that’s why Josie warned you.”

“Well, let’s stay positive. Sounds like, if he lives alone, he might appreciate a nice container of kalua pig from Braddah Hutts.” I stood up, waving for Keone to stay seated. “You got dinner. I’ll get this.”

After I bought a quart of smoked kalua pork, we got into Keone’s green Tacoma, leaving Sharkey parked beside the food truck. Keone knew roughly where Namolo lived, but a quick call to his mom got us exact directions.

The road wound through dense tropical foliage; the truck’s headlights cast stark light and shadow on the narrow street as we drove to Namolo’s address outside of Hana.

Namolo’s cottage appeared even more run-down than I’d imagined, its wooden boards weathered and paint peeling, when we finally found it hidden behind a thick ti leaf hedge.

A mean-looking pit bull barked ferociously from the yard, its chain giving an ominous rattle as we parked and got out of the truck in the driveway.

“Looks like we have an unwelcoming committee,” Keone remarked, his voice low.

We approached the house but didn’t have a chance to knock before Malcolm Namolo stepped out onto the porch. He had the height and build of one who’d once been an imposing man. His posture was hunched, and his face lined with age and suspicion in the porch’s overhead light. “What do you want?” he demanded, eyes narrowed.

“Hi.” I tried my best smile. “I’m Kat and this is Keone?—”

“I know who you are. The haole postmaster and the Kaihale boy who’s a pilot.”

“Hey, uncle,” Keone said. “Good to see you again. We’re collecting items for the holiday auction for a new community center. Were wondering if you had anything to donate?”

“Nah.” Namolo folded his arms. “No need for a community center.”

I advanced and held out the container of barbecue to the man. The dog increased its aggressive barking. “We were at Braddah Hutts. I picked up some kalua pork for you.”

“What for?” He took the container, looking genuinely puzzled as he stared down at it. I didn’t try to answer over the barking—but finally he turned to the hound. “Quiet, Cujo.”

“Good name,” Keone said, as Cujo sat down and shut up.

“What do you really want?” The warm container of kalua pork was working its magic, and Namolo’s expression had softened—if only slightly.

“We’re here about the Queen’s Ornament,” I said, keeping my tone calm and steady. “Wondering what you might know about it.”

“I heard it was going to be given to that auction. And that’s not right because it belongs to my family.”

The air felt heavy with unspoken history and tension.

“Artie told me that your ancestor claimed it was his, but that his ornament was actually lost or stolen,” I ventured.

Namolo snorted. “He would say that. My great-grandfather told us Pahinui was the one to take it, and that they have two of them. That’s why it was easy for him to donate one.”

I struggled not to react to this unlikely accusation. “Have you had any disputes with the Pahinuis lately?” I asked. “Personally, I mean.”

“I nevah go their store. We don’t speak.” Namolo’s eyes flashed. “They think they can take what’s ours. It’s not right.”

I nodded. We wouldn’t get anything more out of the man and might provoke him further. “Thank you for your time. Hope you enjoy the pork. I had some earlier; it’s delicious.”

As we walked back to the car, Cujo started barking again.