Captain Cooked, Hawaiian Mystery of Romance, Revenge...and Recipes! by S.P. Grogan

Author:S.P. Grogan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, women, suspense, mystery, passion, hawaii, cooking, fluke, davidson, evanovich
Publisher: S.P. Grogan

I laughed at how hopeless I seemed,

looking for love on all the wrong beaches.

Chapter 26

Plot Stewing

I slept the sleep of the dead. Wrong metaphor. Late morning I woke to angry voices in my head. Not in my head, but outside my window, and we were five stories up. I threw on my robe. My trashed clothes from last night’s jungle foray nowhere to be seen.

Below, in a grassy courtyard, ironically near a bush of Angel’s Trumpet, I could see Uncle Joe Coffee yelling at Michael Ka‘aiea, and doing so in Hawaiian. What surprised me was Michael’s response, snapped back, not at the same level of anger, but likewise spoken in Hawaiian. All the more interesting were small clusters of people surrounding the two of them; as my Father would have noted, three groups, each in the colors seen several days earlier at the front gate. I even saw Larry Tutapu in his green-yellow T-shirt with his followers. Every once in a while the revolutionary First Mate threw out his contribution in a cursed epitaph, frustration at not being part of the dialogue.

I felt like I was watching street gangs in strutting positioning, Sharks versus Jets. No one could prevent the old man from waving his arms to enunciate his shouting. Everyone stood poised, on brawl alert. The Monarchy fogies against Green Shirt rappers.

Only the White Shirts stood aloof. From that group, I had yet to pick out anyone of leadership authority. They seemed a protest movement run by committee.

Michael, I could see, paced uneasy, glancing around, cognizant the one-sided shouting match from Old Joe Coffee could be overheard by the hotel guests, staring down, as I was, from their balconies. In his ranting, Uncle Joe saw me and his arm pointed my way, shaking his hand viciously. Noticing me in attendance from on high, Michael let his voice rise to overwhelm the old man’s vitriolic spew. His Hawaiian spit out rapidly, showing him to be a fluent native language speaker. No casual pidgin expressions.

Old Joe fell silent. In moments, they all stalked off, three separate pathways, in various degrees of agitation; the only thing in common, each group threw backward stares, looking my way. Michael looked at me and walked off. No smile, more a grimace of pain.

Maybe my body could cause the launch of a thousand war canoes.

Ah, from towel to ocean, the sand burned underfoot, the water a tolerable coolness, I stood neck high and let my pains soothe. I would have tipped heavy for the return of the old medicine woman with her magic massage potions? Here I am in paradise and I have only two hours of beach time before Michael is to escort me to the Memorial concert.

Back on my towel the sun rays purged my mini-hangover. I took stock of what happened last night, and what I had rolled in. Marijuana leaves stuck to my clothing. Maybe I did not know all the history of my father that he could recognize the leaf so quickly; then again, he was a former defense attorney and used to looking through evidence exhibits.

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