The camera motion shifted, actually the stop button had been pushed. It was at this moment, unknown to my current audience Will had grabbed my ankle, and I flinched at an anticipated ‘accidental’ drowning. When the show resumed I was no longer behind the lens, but in front of it. That’s what Will had silently sought to signal to me, allowing me the honor of a little stardom. Little did I know at the time, I was being manipulated.

  “And that’s you,” the policeman recognized my curves. “Who’s using the camera?”

  “The guy’s name is William, and his wife’s name is Cynthia. I never did get their last names. From Ohio, I think.”

  Kee made a notation. To give my statement validity, the camera swung over to watch Cynthia effortlessly glide by.

  “Nice buoyancy,” said my father, gaining snorts from the men, a glare from me. Wait till she wins the Triathlon; quite possible.

  “Here I am again. We had been diving out farther, but started going closer to shore. Did you know that Captain Cook was killed on this spot in 1779?” I knew Michael knew, but continued. “Since that time the ocean has risen, and the actual spot of his death is now 10 feet offshore. I had heard there might be a plaque underwater and lined up to the monument on shore and headed that way.” Will Bonney had planted the idea aboard ship, and with subtle camera directing led me in the direction he wanted me to go. Gad, so perfect at the subterfuge. Adam Tate swam to the side with another underwater spot light, the undulating temperature in the water currents casting vibrating beams, like looking through jello.

  The film sequence shows me kicking in the distant murkiness, at the edge of the light beam’s radius. I go over this rock, and then twist around to see what I thought I saw. From the men’s perspective I discovered the ammunition box sitting on a large round chunk of coral. In truth, I turned back because it looked like, and I am sure it was, the actual ammunition box, from the geo-caching, the box with the white bags of powder contained within. Could Will see my expression through my face mask, more mortification at what I knew, than surprise? Now, knowing the part I was to play, I slowly opened the military canister, held up a handful of necklaces, one gold chain, quite similar to the one around Ramona’s neck. I even gave off exciting thumbs up to Cynthia and Will. The camera followed as I swam back to the boat, lugging along my own special cache discovery. I liked the game and would miss playing.

  I finally understood what the Beautiful People had been up to. This jewelry I had ‘discovered’ had been stolen and stolen twice. First by a death squad, and later stolen again in retribution, the white bags of powder left behind to exact revenge. Death would be too merciful for Mr. Lorca. Dealing with the American judicial system could equate to a slow, tedious bureaucratic death. With all his money, the evidence would be destructive in the hands of rabid government prosecutors, jail time assured, I hoped, along, as I am sure, were the wishes of the Beautiful People. In truth, as I saw it, the blind woman called Justice is not fair. If I were Ramona I would opt for a surgical knife and be locked in a room with a trussed up Mr. Lorca.

  

  Chapter 48

  The Secret Pact

  The CD film had run its course. They were amazed. Michael fondling a bracelet, thinking I’m sure of draping it around Kuikahi’s wrist. Detective Kee did not catch the stealth of my film work. Filming did not occur on board the boat, no faces seen. My own idea.

  “Would you like to hear my theory?” I got immediate nods, and with a dramatic flourish dropped on the table in front of Detective Kee, two jeweled earrings, not matching. He picked them up as if sacred, as they were.

  “The Lorca robbery,” said the Detective, shaking his head for comprehension. “They are identical to the ones on the cocaine bags. How did you —?”

  I began. “I don’t know how or why this ‘cache of jewels’ ended up at this spot or how I chanced upon it. The location, as I was told, is right at the spot of a very popular snorkeling site. So within a day or so someone else would have stumbled across it.” I paused for the effect, for the impact coming.

  “Detective Kee, if you confront Lorca he will deny ownership. These I am guessing are the spoils taken from his Death Squad victims in Columbia. There will be no claimants, as probably there are no survivors.”

  My father, a past legal beagle, thought he saw his daughter as a mercenary, or worse, a corsair, a pirate.

  “If no one claims these jewels, then the finder is entitled to a major chunk of the value, after the state takes a tax cut. And you, Madison, are the finder.”

  The men looked at me in a different light, a callous money-grubbing harpy. Gaining a reward after what I’ve been through this last week sounded fair trade to me, but not my style.

  “No, I don’t want any part of this… loot. This is blood money. But I don’t think it wise to merely turn it over to the police. Sorry, detective, the police might get a cut of any proceeds for a new police car, then the state’s unclaimed property division will tax it into nothingness. Fees, legal bills, false owners, even sticky fingers, all will eat up what we see as value here. I have a better solution.” And when I told them, and they debated the merits, in the end, all three agreed. Another group of conspirators I had joined.

  I passed the litmus test of the Beautiful People that night. With the ammunition ‘treasure’ box I knew it had been placed on the coral by one of them; a set up. How easy to drive over to the monument during the day and snorkel out to the hiding spot. On the boat, Will started the ethical battle when he pulled out a handful of the Lorca loot and said, “I think we should divide this up and go our separate ways.”

  Emphatically, I argued, “No, this goes directly to the police. It is lost or stolen property.”

  “What if the owner doesn’t want it back,” jumped in Adam Tate. “What if it turned out to be stolen, the owner has to prove ownership, maybe he can’t.”

  “Finders keepers,” said Carson, giving it one last shot in offering complicity. I called their bluff.

  “Let’s all take it to the police. You can claim a reward for recovery.”

  I saw Ramona wince and turn away. Perhaps she saw the necklace match to the one her fist clung to, or recognized jewelry belonging to a neighbor.

  “Frankly,” I said, stamping my foot, playing my indignant role. “I want nothing to do with it. On the spot where Captain Cook was slain, it has to be cursed. No, the police must be brought in.”

  Which I did, only in a different way. And the Beautiful People acceded to my moral position, and that’s what they wanted, to put me to a test. They wanted to be absolutely certain I was honest. An initiation rite? For what reason and purpose, I don’t know. Was I now a member of the Beautiful People honorary status society? I don’t think so. I did feel a little good, maybe a little bit comfortable with myself. An accomplishment my mother would have been proud of. She had to be smiling.

  Still, the lousy part of the evening was the farewell at the airport. Even with the role play to someone else’s script it had been a fun evening. Ramona and Cynthia remained with the rental car and would drop me off at the hotel. I waited while Will and his two writer buddies checked in. The old gang, so to speak, was breaking up. Temporarily, I wondered?

  This was not to be a mushy-mushy kissy-kissy goodbye. I was exhausted, not feeling urges of romanticism, if any existed. I felt this deep vibe not yet defined and considering my track record with men, I sought the proper soliloquy for his departure. Will voiced the words out of my mouth.

  “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  His touched sincerity made me honestly like him. I tried to respond appropriately as a mature woman, and failed, dammit.

  “Yeah, for never seeing you again. Just what is it that you do, Mr. Bonney? We never got around to who you are?” I prepared to steel myself to the letdown that a certified public accountant, or a worse, a small town mortuary owner, might have sparked my interest.

  That deep laugh again. “Miss Dayne, you are an adventuress by happenstance born by malevolent intrigues; I am an adventurer by design, a fixer of impossibilities. I believe we are destined to meet again, and not by fate but by calculation. Goodbye.”

  Gallant to the end, his grin was his farewell, and he departed to his boarding gate. I understood him a little better, too late: The Count of Monte Cristo departing from his Treasure Island, taking not island postcards, but a suitcase of literary mementos from his most recent escapade.

  Would he remember me; but for how long before other females, more attractive and interesting, came into his life? We really didn’t get to know each other, never really sat and talked our philosophies, our likes and dislikes. Come to think of it, I don’t think he’s my type.

  “Madison Dayne.”

  What? I turned into his quick embrace, his kiss to my lips, too brief, moist, unexpected. My eyes closed.

  “Your island souvenir,” whispered hot in my ear.

  My eyes opened. Vanished before my arms could wrap around him, to stop him from leaving. I shook my head at empty space where he had been seconds ago. Damn, he was good. My Honest Rogue. A man in control, this fixer of impossibilities. Watch out, Mr. Bonney, I am definitely an impossibility.

  I looked back on this last week at my used up quota of near death experiences, or as Will put it, at these ‘malevolent intrigues’ and the men who so briefly touched my world: A killer, a thief, and a betrothed king. Online dating can’t beat this.

  Chapter 49

  Evening of Few Regrets

  I woke to Dad’s invitation to dinner for our last night on the island, and I accepted with nothing better to do and wanting to be with my main man.

  Tonight, I would be his fairy princess and dressed in my white cotton dress, a light wrap over my shoulders, sandals with pink trim. Thinking back, recalling my childhood when we all would dress up and go to the country club for special dinners, I would try to behave like a grown-up.

  Now, only two of us, both growing a little on this trip, dependent on each other’s strengths.

  I had been certain our last meal would have been with Chef Lorenzo in his restaurant. Instead, we walked to the beach. On the sand, hotel staff had sculpted out a level area and I found a table set, white tablecloth under fine china and Reidel wine glasses. Off to the side a cooking prep table with a burner. My father, Jeffrey Dayne, said to me,

  “Tonight will be special. Many great times in the past Elizabeth and I created new dishes and cooked together, it is the proper moment to place those memories in a special place inside the heart, and start building anew.”

  He handed me a store-bought apron, the label boasting the fabric had been dyed in grey volcanic dirt. Featured on the front was a brightly colored cartoon caricature of a skimpily clad island wahine, eyeing the world with a smoldering, seductive look, while standing at the ocean’s edge holding a bubbling tiki cocktail. The apron caption read: When in doubt, go to the beach!

  “I want you and I,” he said, “to fix a dinner that Daniel Thiebaut sent down from his restaurant. A recipe to place in our own special memory book.”

  The setting sun over a receding tide our backscape; Tiki torches to soften the approaching night’s embrace, hinting of a past culture, of those who cooked by fire glow.

  I reveled in nature fulfilled: a whale breeched just at the moment of the green flash, and the most special of all: Jeffrey gave me a cooking lesson, my first as a foodie; what a privilege.

  “We’re going to do Daniel’s ‘Asian Crab-coated Mon’chong with a Sweet Chili Beurre Blanc.”

  “Sounds delish. What’s a mon-chong?

  “Growing in popularity on the islands. Chefs can do a lot with mon’chong when people are tired of ono and mahimahi preparations. A deep water fish, medium flaky in texture with a high fat content for grilling, as we will do.”

  “You mean, everything here on the beach?“ No problem. The crab crust first, next, grill the fish, and then the sauce.”

  And we did, father and daughter side by side.

  He read out the ingredients.

  

  “Okay, blend cream and coconut milk. Add all ingredients in saucepan, thicken with cornstarch.”

  “It seems like we are making more than for two.”

  “Actually a serving for 4.” We split tasks. My assignment was to grill the fish on both sides, and set aside. Next I moved over to a wok on the grill to stir fry vegetables and bay bok choy. Jeffrey, in whirl of hand movement created the sauce.

  

  “Madison, I am going to reduce the wine with shallots by half.” The smells began to rise from wok and sauce pans. I sniffed to inhale each dish. “Now, add the cream and we reduce for another 3-4 minutes.”

  He turned to the fish, coating one side of the fish with 2 table spoons of crab crust mixture, and sprinkled with paprika. We had a small convection oven, where, I don’t know how, plugged into some portable power source. He baked the fish at 375 degrees for 3 to 4 minutes.

  The vegetables and bok choy first on 2 hot plates (remember though this is a recipe for four). Top with the crab-crusted fish. Just as he was to ready to pour the sauce around the fish, he added a Monte au Beurre, seasoned to taste. 4 Tablespoons of sweet chili (he used the brand May Ploy)—he poured into the butter sauce as he was serving. Garnishes included green onion, diced tomatoes, and sesame seeds. Jeffrey added, but optional back mainland, hijiki, calcium-rich seaweed.

  

  We sat to dine, satisfied at our creation, anxious to see if our palates agreed.

  During dinner, each morsel was tasted with selfish lingering, swimming our palate with a longing desire of more, sad to see the former chewing swallowed, the next bite too soon on our fork. Such debauchery in toying and caressing our food gave us plenty of time to dawdle in our table conversation. Our subject matter remained light and we avoided the tribulations of the last few days, except the latest which my father had to revisit.

  “So we all agreed, the four of us, that the jewelry would not be turned over to the authorities. Michael will keep the jewelry secured in the hotel safe. Detective Kee will do his own personal investigation, try to discover any rightful owners, or at least, a list of the victim’s families still living.”

  I finished the bargain struck. “And with time, the jewelry will be sold and through the Cooke Foundation, the residual funds will be distributed to the survivors of Lorca’s killings.”

  “Yes, a nicely tied bundle of a good deed.”

  “I still worry that Captain Jimmie will suddenly appear and smash everyone’s good intentions. Or what if this Lorca asshole beats the drug charges?”

  “Michael said he didn’t see Captain Jimmie wanting to show his head around here again. By local customs his loss of face makes him a nonperson. Anyway, I thought Detective Kee had a splendid solution: blame all of Lorca’s legal problems, including the alleged planting of drug evidence, on Captain Jimmie. Make our fugitive a fink. And as our own official policeman stated: ‘If Lorca ever gets out of jail, or has cronies on the outside who still do his bidding, let evil search out evil’.”

  At dinner’s close, how sweet of him, my father gave me a present in wrapping paper with surfboard designs. A new camera to replace mine, drowned in the sailboat sinking, eons ago. This new camera was a beaut.

  He handed me another package.

  “This came for you this afternoon.”

  My name in block letters on plain wrapping paper. No postage. No return address. I held it at arm’s length.

  My father laughed with the knowing.

  “I listened. Nothing ticking inside.”

  A fool for gifts, I ripped it open, found the contents plastic wrapped. A book, no, a manuscript of yellow pages, set in a faded, leather-cracked folder, ink written in an elaborate scrawl. A cookbook of sorts. I passed it over to Jeffrey.

  “Good God. The Andrews Receipt Book— the first Hawaiian Cookbook. Look here’s a date in the margin. 1842. And recipes written in Hawaiian and translated. Amazing. Wonderful. Who sent this to you?” He knew where it had originated from and realized another disturbing connection: Lorca, the burglary, and me.

  Above our heads, stars engorged the heavens. “I don’t have a clue.” But I did.

  “Well, we have to get this to Detective Kee. Evidence in that burglary, but I am sure since you started him on stretching the law, he’ll find a way to have a museum become conservator. Lorca won’t need this back. This is a cultural treasure for the island and the public must see it on display.” That word ‘treasure’ was a word with new meaning.

  “Exactly.” Whoever sent this gift knew I would do the right thing. I looked to my father, smitten, as he slowly leafed through the manuscript, delicately, ignoring value but seeking the culinary soul of this rediscovered holy relic.

  “We will return it, after we copy it,” I said. And Jeffrey nodded, happy as the proverbial kid on Christmas morning. With my new camera I captured his elation. Special moments, special person.

  As he thumbed the pages, seeking a starting point, a notation in the margin on one page caught my attention, and I asked to view part of the loose-leaf manuscript. The number scribbles were not 200 plus years old in the archaic penmanship of the 1800s author, Lorrin Andrews. No, the writing was more recent, quite modern.

  GPS coordinates. N 35˚ 40. — W 105˚ 57. — .

  My face expelled many expressions, starting with open mouth and wide-eyed, like a slow turning projector reel, from startled to confused, from surprise into enlightenment, more so, wonderment teased with caution.

  In that moment, I understood: on that page, a message for only one to decipher.

  And I had — an invitation.

  My father, perplexed, watched the facial range of my metamorphous.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yes, quite.”

 

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