Free Surfing Detective 02 - Wipeout by Chip Hughes Page A

as well just
holoholo.
    The Aloha 737 quickly left O‘ahu behind on this cloudless winter morning, crossed the wind-whipped channel to Moloka‘i, then skirted the sloping red plateau of its west end. Across from Moloka‘i lay the tiny island of Lana‘i. Gazing upon the rural and remote “Pineapple Isle,” I got this odd feeling that I was going there, rather than to Maui. The feeling made no sense and gradually faded away
.
    The jet glided over cane fields on the isthmus between Maui’s twin volcanic cones and touched down at Kahului airport at ten, leaving me the better part of the day to poke around. The sub-compact I had reserved from Dollar was sold out, so at no extra charge they gave me a silver-blue Mercury Grand Marquis,whose overstuffed leather seats could have accommodated Summer’s whole crew of dark escorts.
    I pulled away from the airport and cruised toward Upcountry Maui, turning onto Baldwin Avenue at the former bustling sugar town of Pa‘ia. Dubbed “noisy” in plantation times, today this rustic country town hosted quieter tourism. As the Grand Marquis climbed Baldwin past a rusting sugar mill and, by contrast, spotlessly white churches, the shoulderless road twisted higher into wide-open acres, ranches, and secluded luxury homes. The Mercury leaned precariously around each hairpin turn, as the mountain air grew cooler and more fragrant. It smelled pine fresh up here. High-country fresh.
    Along with Kamuela on the Big Island, Makawao was one of the islands’ last genuine cowboy towns and it looked the part: Old West wood-frame buildings with hitching posts recalled John Wayne movies. Settled near the end of the 19th century by Portuguese immigrants who raised cattle on upcountry slopes, this former rough and tumble mountain hamlet today boasted an eclectic blend of western,
paniolo,
Yuppie, New Age, and alternative. You could buy a saddle, have your palm read, attend a rodeo, order a veggie burger, and watch a glass blower. All in the same little town.
    What did Makawao’s character say about Maya? Was this North Shore surfer girl also a cowgirl or a hippie? An artsy type? A vegetarian? I aimed to find out.
    Near the corner of Makawao and Baldwin Avenues, I stepped into a New Age bookshop called “Om,” where the musty smell of incense hit me like a wall. Besides herbal essences, bath oils, and scented candles, there were also a few books and tapes and CDs, most of the occult, astrological, and inspirational variety. Airy space music, from a CD by a group called “Cosmic Tofu,” wafted through the haze.
Tommy Woo would cringe.
    A wispy brunette, gold ring dangling from her nose, greeted me with penetrating cobalt-blue eyes that made me feel naked.
    “How are
you
today?” she asked, sounding like she actually wanted to hear my answer.
    “I have a favor to ask.”
    Her blue eyes didn’t blink.
    “I’m looking for someone named Maya—tall, red hair, maybe from around here. I don’t have her picture, but I do have her boyfriend’s.” I showed her Corky’s youthful face.
    “Too bad he’s taken.” She studied the photo intently. “And you say his partner’s name is Maya?”
    “Right.”
    “You don’t have a last name?
    I shrugged. “I know it’s a long shot . . . .”
    She shook her head. “I really wish I could help.” She sounded sincerely sorry.
    “Where else would somebody who lives around here shop?”
    “Paniolo Trading Company. And the natural foods stores—there are two—one on Makawao, one on Baldwin.”
    “She would need groceries, that’s for sure. Thanks.” I turned and left her behind in the incense haze floating among the spacey music and fragrant knickknacks.
    Whole Earth Foods was just next door. But no one there had heard of Maya or recognized Corky. At Ambrosia, the second health food store on Baldwin Avenue, I did no better. Next I tried an antique shop and an adjacent real estate office. Same drill. Same response.
    Trying not to lose hope, I stepped