A Legacy of Bones by Doug Burgess

Author:Doug Burgess
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Published: 2022-11-23T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Hūnū, Ghosts

On Kaumaha, the endless pageant of life and death continued. Gilbert Kapiaho shuffled about the nave of the tiny village church with a broom and dustpan. The space was only about thirty feet long and ten wide, with shuttered windows on each side. The ceilings and stanchions were koa wood that had become almost black from centuries of damp and tobacco. The walls were lined with dusty glass cases holding various relics from the last century: a machete with a rusted handle, several bits of broken pottery, a much-thumbed Bible, a few examples of local palm weaving. Most came from Gilbert’s family. The Kapiahos were among the first families to settle Kaumaha with Reverend Lathrop. Melchior Kapiaho was the plantation’s first overseer, a tall and broad-shouldered man who had, it was rumored, Austronesian blood. A photograph taken of him late in life, sometime in the 1880s, revealed a face more African than Hawaiian. There were traces of that square jaw and stern expression in Gilbert, his descendant. Lani had them as well.

Gilbert moved about the church like a sleepwalker, emptying the dustpan and straightening the altar cloth. His wife, Agnes, thought giving him tasks would distract from his grief. For days he pottered around the garden, pruning, mowing the lawn, building a bird feeder for the banyan tree. But this work, at least, had meaning. The church was his sanctuary. It was only fitting that Lani should be here at the end.

Black bunting draped the pews and pulpit; two large urns flanked the bier where Lani Kapiaho’s coffin would rest. The old man’s eyes flickered again to that spot, as if in disbelief. The front doors were ajar, sending shafts of light down the central aisle. Suddenly a figure entered. “Detective Roundtree,” Gilbert said, unsurprised.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you again, Mr. Kapiaho.”

“S’ok. I’m almost done here.” He waved a hand vaguely.

Roundtree looked around him with approval. “It looks lovely,” he said, and meant it. There were not many of these village churches left. “Is there anything I can do?”

Gilbert bit back the obvious retort—You could find my granddaughter’s killer—and said instead, “Thanks, but I got uku help. What can I do for you?”

He was conscious of a certain unease in his visitor. Most of the time Detective Roundtree loved his job. At this moment he hated it. “I just heard back from our forensics people,” he said reluctantly. “They tested residue from the explosion. There were a few bits and pieces of the blast caps left.” He drew a breath, braced himself. “Lani’s fingerprints are on them. And on the unused ones back at the construction site. I’m afraid it looks as if she set the explosion herself.”

Kapiaho had been absently straightening objects on the windowsill. He paused, looked up. “She did?”

“We think so.”

“I don’t understand. Does that mean she wasn’t murdered after all?”

Roundtree shook his head. “No, it is still very possible she was murdered. But it had to be after the explosion and possibly because of it.

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