Captain Cooked, page 7
“We will split the entrées; see which one you like the best for the next visit.”
For the fish he selected: Sautéed Kampachi with Red Pepper Coulis, Chuka Soba & Lop Chong Sausage Stir-fry. For a red meat, he had changed his mind on steak and decided on Kahua Ranch Lamb, with a side of Cabernet & Foie Gras Sauce.
I had glanced briefly at the menu, amazed at all the exotic sauces. That’s when I saw one menu fish selection, served with Li Hing Mui, an ingredient to a Tequila Butter sauce. Could a food bring back painful memories to mind and tongue? Yes. Jeffrey most likely intentionally skipped this choice. I hurt with him, helpless to know what button to push or unlocking key to find a happy tomorrow. I knew it wasn’t what’s her name, and that sparked me.
“I guess ol’ Desi of PR is working late trying to crank out the official line for the hotel about Oli’s death. A ‘freak accident’ sort of thing.” I sipped my wine, using the glass as a shield.
“I think she’s spending the evening with the surviving band members, the Pāhoehoe Sounds. All are devastated and in deep mourning. You know her son’s in the band?”
“Her son?”
“Yes, calls himself, ‘Johnny Rocket.’ Sounds more suitable for a roller-skate hamburger drive-in.”
I was in mid-sip. He handed back my sass with a full blast, tactfully, in a careful thrust.
“Did you know she had taken her son’s garage band,” he said, “toned them down, and negotiated them to be the backup group to this Oli when he was trapped in Hawaiian karaoke, one hundred pounds less, two years ago. According to Michael, Desi became the ad hoc band’s manager and promoter. Oli’s rising star, his hit songs, had a future to make them a lot of money, and now this. I’m sure she’s trying to keep them all on an even keel. Who knows what young people do with grief ?”
He wasn’t talking about me. Or was he? Was he condemning me? No, I think he was focused on time present, thinking who might have mistakenly caused the death of Oli Palalū.
“Yes, I saw Johnny Rocket down by the beach. A little drugged out.”
“Aren’t pills and drugs and groupies a requirement with rock bands?”
He was not prudish, a little old-fashioned, but his flat humor returned us to safe ground.
“I don’t think Oli’s sort of ballad music invokes guitar breaking and hotel wrecking. But Johnny Rocket certainly comes across as a headbanger.”
First course arrived and we moved in to important truths: starvation abatement.
During the salads I realized to my surprise my plate was scraped clean.
“What was that dressing? That was fantastic.”
The server, on clearing plates, replied, “Banana Papaya Sauce.” The salad had consisted of papaya, macadamia nuts, and baby greens. I found myself asking for the recipe, something out of the ordinary for me.
By dessert, which honestly, I can’t repeat or I would gain immediate pounds, our host, Peter Merriman, dropped by and accepted accolades for a dinner fit for a star. Jeffrey went through each meal item and gave comment, not rating, more as with a wine, a discussion on the various creative flourishes. Mr. Merriman complimented my Father on his best seller, Insatiable: Further States of Epicurean Delights, and Jeffrey responded in kind to our host’s compilation cookbook, The New Cuisine of Hawaii, produced with eleven top chefs of the islands.
Once outside the restaurant, Jeffrey said,
“Next time we venture forth up here we’ll go to Daniel Thiebaut’s restaurant, just blocks away. Imagine. Two outstanding gourmands extraordinaire to be found in this small burg, originally founded as a cattle ranch town.”
We did not drive back to the hotel resort, more a corpulent rolling down the hill from Waimea. My extreme compliment to Merriman’s came from patting my tummy, wondering where all the morsels could fit.
When I returned and opened my hotel room it was in shambles, ransacked.

Chapter 13
The Shag Story
I slept with my father; rather, in the adjoining suite they’d given him, the one with the kitchen. I could not sleep in a room where I felt personally violated. Just because hotel security changed the key code, how could I feel any more secure?
Very strange circumstances. Nothing appeared to be stolen. Loose change and traveler’s checks were on the dresser. Losing the camera equipment spiked my immediate panic. All accounted for, though someone tossed the place, apparently looking for something. Film canisters were opened but the unexposed film untouched. The Pentax camera had been opened, exposing and ruining the fresh roll of film I had loaded for my sunset visit to the beach. Clothes had been yanked from drawers, or apparently rifled. I got this feeling that a sicko might have broken in, because all my panties and bras were removed with some gentle order in mind. Other clothes were dumped unceremoniously on the floor, but my personal unmentionables were merely rearranged, like they were fondled and laid reverently down. God, I hope not sniffed. How disgusting. I planned on having the hotel, on their dime, wash, iron, and sanitize all my clothes.
The night manager expressed sympathy but could do little. This was petty crime, breaking and entering, vandalism at the most, and hardly that. I was to file a report with the police in the morning. I could see it going nowhere. The break-in didn’t reach the fingerprinting level. The police would hardly roust the entire hotel and start grilling suspects. So strange. Beyond HDTV camera equipment, owned by the Food TV Channel, not mine, what did I have worth the risk and effort?
As I said goodnight, Jeffrey informed me of his, our plans, for the next day.
“I made the calls. We’ve accepted Cooke’s invitation to go fishing, boat touring, and perhaps a safe luncheon, in a secluded cove.”
“Is there enough room?” My mind conjured up the small charter fishing vessels I’d seen at the marina, little deck room, cramped steerage.
“I heard it was adequate. I’ve invited Chef Lorenzo along, with Cooke’s blessing. We are going to fix one of the Chef’s dishes. I’d like you to shoot the food prep. Giving him an international audience, via a camera lens, might return him halfway to sensibility. Goodnight, Madison.”
“Good night, Dad.”
I felt squeamish, a kid on a camp-over, warm recollections of my childhood, wanting to recapture the snuggle value. I could not sleep right away, all nerves. Working on settling down I took the elevator down to the lobby for a little jaunt around the interior flower gardens of the hotel. A janitor buffing the floor and a night clerk doing paperwork were the only people in view. It seemed the tourist crowd crashed early from their day romping exertions. Even the parrots had covers over their cages. I passed the walled weaponry display, all accounted for, still looking lethal. The main bar was closed. In the corner, leaning against the wall, were the flow chart notations from the Beautiful People. I studied what they had written down. For some strange reason, like being drawn in to an unknown labyrinth, I went back to the lobby, found a sheet of hotel stationary, returned, and copied down the two columns.
N 36˚ 06. 381’ W 115˚ 10. 348’
N 36˚ 07. 573’ W 115˚ 11. 538’
Don’t ask me why. Maybe my hidden urge to be part of their pleasure and mirth or wondering what they were up to intrigued me. Stock quote machinations? Real estate formulas? If I could get one of them alone, I would put on an act of ‘silly me for being so nosy,’ but….
My walk downstairs dissipated my high-strung energy, the cause still apparent: not knowing who had broken into my room, and for what purpose. I had no answers.
When I returned to my new room I opened the sliding glass door to listen to the ocean’s repetitive melodies, wishing I could add to those sounds some strong medicinal relaxant. I saw my father on the next suite balcony leaning over the railing, silent, deep in thought, a brandy snifter in hand. Above us a billion stars danced. I watched as his eyes focused on the dark and restless sea, longing for his lost mermaid.
This was their island.
Here’s another of my journal stories, this one from the dusty files of long, long ago.
So, Elizabeth and Jeffrey are hitting it off. Jeffrey believes she is the one, the ever-sought soul-mate, so he constantly reminds all with this oft told reminiscence. To ingratiate himself into her world since he certainly did not want to bring the drudge of rampant crime into their intimate conversations, Jeffrey begins the trek to Naperville, to her kitchen store, Prince & Davidson, where she was manager. Strategically, he began the love conquest, coveting her time and presence, in the subtle pretext of taking cooking classes, which by fate, he is quite good at.
This rutting ritual went on for a one year dating cycle. Commute and cook, and for dessert, if not also as hors d’oeuvres, nibble at appetite engorgements of love and lust. In short time, they joined in those little habits that become endearing in couples. Sunday mornings, after reading the Chicago newspapers in bed, they would go through her accumulated pile of food magazine subscriptions tearing out recipe sheets. As a couple they did all things epicurean; as example, attending wine tastings to learn snobby phraseology like, ‘the wine has oak wisps with hints of green apple bouquets.’ Jeffrey would surprise his sweetheart with out-of-print 1930s and 40s cookbooks for her extensive foodie library. They discovered common enjoyment in regional cuisines. Sometimes, they’d order their vente seven-pump vanilla lattes at the mega bookstores, browsing and buying, seeking the latest in gastronomical challenges from far distant places. And thereby, most above all, they would cook together, experiment, create, laugh and hug, and sup in each other’s ardor.
As fairy tales dictate supposed happy endings, they did everything proper regarding engagement and marriage rituals to please all parental sides. The new Mr. & Mrs. Dayne embarked on their honeymoon to the state of Hawai‘i, an inaugural trip for both, to the island chain’s largest land mass, also called Hawai‘i. They spent ten days languishing, I presume, in rapture at Mauna Kea Resort, off the Queen Ka‘ahumanu Highway, just a few miles from where my father and I are presently staying at the newly opened Ho‘oilina Kai Grand Hotel Resort.
When not behind a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, the besotted honeymooners toured the island imbibing in cooking classes at one gourmet restaurant after another, offset with menu sampling at local bistros, going native at spam-laden greasy spoons, or savoring odors of Kālua pig smoldering in wood-fired imu pits. Somehow during all such distractions of palate I was conceived.
Mother, once in a fit of giggles, with her attempt at the birds and bees dialogue, which I knew enough of, thank you, let me know that I germinated not from a normal course of human reproduction methodology, but a riotous evening of honeymoon debauchery after consuming one, though I think two bottles more accurate, of an expensive 1984 California merlot, rolling around in the beachside condo like—I don’t want to even think of the animal allusion.
Nine months later, in the miracle of pain and joy, both having equal choice of names, I became Madison Merlot Dayne. My father took the high road considering the lawyerly integrity of James Madison, a founding Federalist and U.S. president, explained Jeffrey, the proud new father. And, he had heard, President Madison’s wife had something to do with early American colonial food. Like ice cream. Ha-ha.
Mother, on the other hand, remembered that island night of sweat and sweet bliss, alternating passion in crescendos like the rolling, crashing waves heard from inside and outside the bedroom. Feelings, though inebriated, were being expressed in soul-seared whispers, commitments made of volcanic duration. ‘Merlot’ came added to the Madison name. Mom, in her innuendo humor, of course had to go on and tell me I could have been called ‘Claire Murray Dayne,’ from that night, same name as the rug designer they shag-burned across from floor to heavens. Sometimes, children need less information rather than more.
Chapter 14
Pursed Clues
A shark bit at my shoulder as I struggled in frothing water, gasping, being dragged down to the murky ocean floor. Not a shark, but a flailing Oli, dropping into darkness as I opened puffy eyes.
My father, already dressed for the day, tugged at my shoulder. No Jaws. No drowning singer.
“What did you have in your purse last night? Where is it?”
Sleep deprived, I pointed to the floor, under some salvaged clothes. My canvas tote, stitched with yarn flowers, he retrieved and brought bedside. The bag, a cheap souvenir from Cabo San Lucas and a forgetful wanderlust Spring Break. Before I could protest he dumped out the contents. Praise be the saints! The condoms, unopened, and my morning-after pills, a full bottle, always were secreted in a camera case pocket, even the thief had not discovered. My makeup lay scattered and revealed me as a minimalist in facial construction. The stars got make-up; behind the camera it mattered little.
Jeffrey picked up a roll of film.
“What’s this?”
“From your old Pentax. Keeps me in the dark room practicing. What I shot yesterday on arrival. Using the hand digital I popped the demonstrators at the front gate.”
“I didn’t see you taking photos.”
“A good photo journalist has to catch his quarry unawares. Besides, digital shots are usually silent.” Not mentioned was I got off a few surreptitious pics of Michael K. carting our luggage on arrival.
He gave that consideration. “With the Pentax camera what did you photograph?”
“The front of the hotel on arrival; behind the hotel on my way to the grotto, the grounds and the marina. That’s about it. I changed film for the beach bar at sunset.” He pulled my digital camera from the purse dump.
“This the digital you are referring to?”
I had to think, reconstructing yesterday’s timetable.
“Walking back with your plastic evidence containers, I think I snapped a couple of shots of the guards chasing the interlopers, maybe some rough stuff pushing and punching.”
“Trying for your Rodney King Pulitzer?”
“Interesting situations intrigue me. Family habit.”
Jeffrey balanced the film canister against the digital camera, weighing importance. I showed him how to pull up the photos on the smaller camera and let him scroll back and squint at the postage stamp display screen.
“Maybe your burglar didn’t get what he was looking for. He exposed the film in your camera left in the room, correct?”
“That was a clean roll I loaded and yes, ruined. No exposures.” Well, except the fuzz composition of the Captain Cooke head shots. Not important.
“But, he didn’t get the photos you took, that’s important, I think. Maybe you took a photo yesterday that compromised a protestor, or worse, caught someone where he or she wasn’t supposed to be, like near the grotto.”
I threw back the bed sheet eager for the chase. “We need to get the 35 mm film developed as soon as possible. And print out the digital card.”
At the hotel front desk we found the photo development service required courier service to Waikoloa Marketplace, with delivery back by early evening if not next morning. So much for this detecting jazz and a quick solution to the crime, whatever crime it was. Standing around, I spot the Beautiful People beginning their raucous day. Interesting. They were loading into three different Jeep Wranglers.
All wore white ball caps with a red marking.  Was this a religious-like symbol? Great. Probably a bunch of missionaries out to proselytize for the flock.
Several of them were holding some hand held device, waving them at each other, laughing. As they drove off I realized I could wait no longer with not knowing.
“I have a question,” I asked the valet, who had just seen off the Jeep caravan. “I saw these people earlier and note they are off on some sort of… excursion. Do you know what they are doing? Just in case my father and I might want to try it.”
The valet, dressed in his hotel uniform of white shorts and short sleeve white shirt, ever helpful, saw no harm in the question.
“I am not sure, ma’am. But, they have GPS units. I think it’s one of those geo-cash games.” My blank face begged more knowledge. “You know, it’s a treasure hunt sort of thing. Like a scavenger hunt, but with technology. They are given some coordinates and the GPS leads them to find a treasure. Like On-Star in cars. Nothing of value, I hear. Sign their names when they find the hidden box, or whatever.”
I thanked him, the mystery thus solved. They were playing a game, with three teams. Young affluents at leisure play. Means nothing to me. Did their leader choose the teams? Did he put that athletic top heavy blonde on his team? I could not recall if I saw her in the jeep with him. It’s of no consequence.

Chapter 15
Shaken Not Stirred
Back in the room I dressed for a day on the water, a two-piece under shorts. I scarfed down nuts and potato chips from the room mini-bar since eating food from any hotel restaurant left me wary. I went off in search of Jeffrey who told me to track him down at the hotel’s fine dining restaurant. Chef Lorenzo had named his gourmet showplace the Uakea La Reve, loosely translated, ‘white mist dream.’ The front desk called the place Lorenzo’s, while I heard valet gossip about the shutdown over at Larry’s Pub. So much for high-faluting name branding.
As I walked through the resort’s floral pathways toward the restaurant I saw Michael and waved. He threw back a friendly grin. Heads turned. He had been in a meeting held in the beauty of the warming morning, the humidity yet to appear. Excusing himself, he bound with athletic leaps to the top of the grass-stone amphitheater to join me where I stood on the over-looking path. It was an open air amphitheater, comfortable for 200 people, with grass seating, designed for convention seminars, wedding ceremonies, and, as I saw, a concave of secretive Hawaiians.
“Conducting a class for senior citizens?” My playful question meant to match his buoyant mood.
“Diplomatic peace talks.”
“Manager Cahill said you were community liaison for the hotel.”
For the fish he selected: Sautéed Kampachi with Red Pepper Coulis, Chuka Soba & Lop Chong Sausage Stir-fry. For a red meat, he had changed his mind on steak and decided on Kahua Ranch Lamb, with a side of Cabernet & Foie Gras Sauce.
I had glanced briefly at the menu, amazed at all the exotic sauces. That’s when I saw one menu fish selection, served with Li Hing Mui, an ingredient to a Tequila Butter sauce. Could a food bring back painful memories to mind and tongue? Yes. Jeffrey most likely intentionally skipped this choice. I hurt with him, helpless to know what button to push or unlocking key to find a happy tomorrow. I knew it wasn’t what’s her name, and that sparked me.
“I guess ol’ Desi of PR is working late trying to crank out the official line for the hotel about Oli’s death. A ‘freak accident’ sort of thing.” I sipped my wine, using the glass as a shield.
“I think she’s spending the evening with the surviving band members, the Pāhoehoe Sounds. All are devastated and in deep mourning. You know her son’s in the band?”
“Her son?”
“Yes, calls himself, ‘Johnny Rocket.’ Sounds more suitable for a roller-skate hamburger drive-in.”
I was in mid-sip. He handed back my sass with a full blast, tactfully, in a careful thrust.
“Did you know she had taken her son’s garage band,” he said, “toned them down, and negotiated them to be the backup group to this Oli when he was trapped in Hawaiian karaoke, one hundred pounds less, two years ago. According to Michael, Desi became the ad hoc band’s manager and promoter. Oli’s rising star, his hit songs, had a future to make them a lot of money, and now this. I’m sure she’s trying to keep them all on an even keel. Who knows what young people do with grief ?”
He wasn’t talking about me. Or was he? Was he condemning me? No, I think he was focused on time present, thinking who might have mistakenly caused the death of Oli Palalū.
“Yes, I saw Johnny Rocket down by the beach. A little drugged out.”
“Aren’t pills and drugs and groupies a requirement with rock bands?”
He was not prudish, a little old-fashioned, but his flat humor returned us to safe ground.
“I don’t think Oli’s sort of ballad music invokes guitar breaking and hotel wrecking. But Johnny Rocket certainly comes across as a headbanger.”
First course arrived and we moved in to important truths: starvation abatement.
During the salads I realized to my surprise my plate was scraped clean.
“What was that dressing? That was fantastic.”
The server, on clearing plates, replied, “Banana Papaya Sauce.” The salad had consisted of papaya, macadamia nuts, and baby greens. I found myself asking for the recipe, something out of the ordinary for me.
By dessert, which honestly, I can’t repeat or I would gain immediate pounds, our host, Peter Merriman, dropped by and accepted accolades for a dinner fit for a star. Jeffrey went through each meal item and gave comment, not rating, more as with a wine, a discussion on the various creative flourishes. Mr. Merriman complimented my Father on his best seller, Insatiable: Further States of Epicurean Delights, and Jeffrey responded in kind to our host’s compilation cookbook, The New Cuisine of Hawaii, produced with eleven top chefs of the islands.
Once outside the restaurant, Jeffrey said,
“Next time we venture forth up here we’ll go to Daniel Thiebaut’s restaurant, just blocks away. Imagine. Two outstanding gourmands extraordinaire to be found in this small burg, originally founded as a cattle ranch town.”
We did not drive back to the hotel resort, more a corpulent rolling down the hill from Waimea. My extreme compliment to Merriman’s came from patting my tummy, wondering where all the morsels could fit.
When I returned and opened my hotel room it was in shambles, ransacked.

Chapter 13
The Shag Story
I slept with my father; rather, in the adjoining suite they’d given him, the one with the kitchen. I could not sleep in a room where I felt personally violated. Just because hotel security changed the key code, how could I feel any more secure?
Very strange circumstances. Nothing appeared to be stolen. Loose change and traveler’s checks were on the dresser. Losing the camera equipment spiked my immediate panic. All accounted for, though someone tossed the place, apparently looking for something. Film canisters were opened but the unexposed film untouched. The Pentax camera had been opened, exposing and ruining the fresh roll of film I had loaded for my sunset visit to the beach. Clothes had been yanked from drawers, or apparently rifled. I got this feeling that a sicko might have broken in, because all my panties and bras were removed with some gentle order in mind. Other clothes were dumped unceremoniously on the floor, but my personal unmentionables were merely rearranged, like they were fondled and laid reverently down. God, I hope not sniffed. How disgusting. I planned on having the hotel, on their dime, wash, iron, and sanitize all my clothes.
The night manager expressed sympathy but could do little. This was petty crime, breaking and entering, vandalism at the most, and hardly that. I was to file a report with the police in the morning. I could see it going nowhere. The break-in didn’t reach the fingerprinting level. The police would hardly roust the entire hotel and start grilling suspects. So strange. Beyond HDTV camera equipment, owned by the Food TV Channel, not mine, what did I have worth the risk and effort?
As I said goodnight, Jeffrey informed me of his, our plans, for the next day.
“I made the calls. We’ve accepted Cooke’s invitation to go fishing, boat touring, and perhaps a safe luncheon, in a secluded cove.”
“Is there enough room?” My mind conjured up the small charter fishing vessels I’d seen at the marina, little deck room, cramped steerage.
“I heard it was adequate. I’ve invited Chef Lorenzo along, with Cooke’s blessing. We are going to fix one of the Chef’s dishes. I’d like you to shoot the food prep. Giving him an international audience, via a camera lens, might return him halfway to sensibility. Goodnight, Madison.”
“Good night, Dad.”
I felt squeamish, a kid on a camp-over, warm recollections of my childhood, wanting to recapture the snuggle value. I could not sleep right away, all nerves. Working on settling down I took the elevator down to the lobby for a little jaunt around the interior flower gardens of the hotel. A janitor buffing the floor and a night clerk doing paperwork were the only people in view. It seemed the tourist crowd crashed early from their day romping exertions. Even the parrots had covers over their cages. I passed the walled weaponry display, all accounted for, still looking lethal. The main bar was closed. In the corner, leaning against the wall, were the flow chart notations from the Beautiful People. I studied what they had written down. For some strange reason, like being drawn in to an unknown labyrinth, I went back to the lobby, found a sheet of hotel stationary, returned, and copied down the two columns.
N 36˚ 06. 381’ W 115˚ 10. 348’
N 36˚ 07. 573’ W 115˚ 11. 538’
Don’t ask me why. Maybe my hidden urge to be part of their pleasure and mirth or wondering what they were up to intrigued me. Stock quote machinations? Real estate formulas? If I could get one of them alone, I would put on an act of ‘silly me for being so nosy,’ but….
My walk downstairs dissipated my high-strung energy, the cause still apparent: not knowing who had broken into my room, and for what purpose. I had no answers.
When I returned to my new room I opened the sliding glass door to listen to the ocean’s repetitive melodies, wishing I could add to those sounds some strong medicinal relaxant. I saw my father on the next suite balcony leaning over the railing, silent, deep in thought, a brandy snifter in hand. Above us a billion stars danced. I watched as his eyes focused on the dark and restless sea, longing for his lost mermaid.
This was their island.
Here’s another of my journal stories, this one from the dusty files of long, long ago.
So, Elizabeth and Jeffrey are hitting it off. Jeffrey believes she is the one, the ever-sought soul-mate, so he constantly reminds all with this oft told reminiscence. To ingratiate himself into her world since he certainly did not want to bring the drudge of rampant crime into their intimate conversations, Jeffrey begins the trek to Naperville, to her kitchen store, Prince & Davidson, where she was manager. Strategically, he began the love conquest, coveting her time and presence, in the subtle pretext of taking cooking classes, which by fate, he is quite good at.
This rutting ritual went on for a one year dating cycle. Commute and cook, and for dessert, if not also as hors d’oeuvres, nibble at appetite engorgements of love and lust. In short time, they joined in those little habits that become endearing in couples. Sunday mornings, after reading the Chicago newspapers in bed, they would go through her accumulated pile of food magazine subscriptions tearing out recipe sheets. As a couple they did all things epicurean; as example, attending wine tastings to learn snobby phraseology like, ‘the wine has oak wisps with hints of green apple bouquets.’ Jeffrey would surprise his sweetheart with out-of-print 1930s and 40s cookbooks for her extensive foodie library. They discovered common enjoyment in regional cuisines. Sometimes, they’d order their vente seven-pump vanilla lattes at the mega bookstores, browsing and buying, seeking the latest in gastronomical challenges from far distant places. And thereby, most above all, they would cook together, experiment, create, laugh and hug, and sup in each other’s ardor.
As fairy tales dictate supposed happy endings, they did everything proper regarding engagement and marriage rituals to please all parental sides. The new Mr. & Mrs. Dayne embarked on their honeymoon to the state of Hawai‘i, an inaugural trip for both, to the island chain’s largest land mass, also called Hawai‘i. They spent ten days languishing, I presume, in rapture at Mauna Kea Resort, off the Queen Ka‘ahumanu Highway, just a few miles from where my father and I are presently staying at the newly opened Ho‘oilina Kai Grand Hotel Resort.
When not behind a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, the besotted honeymooners toured the island imbibing in cooking classes at one gourmet restaurant after another, offset with menu sampling at local bistros, going native at spam-laden greasy spoons, or savoring odors of Kālua pig smoldering in wood-fired imu pits. Somehow during all such distractions of palate I was conceived.
Mother, once in a fit of giggles, with her attempt at the birds and bees dialogue, which I knew enough of, thank you, let me know that I germinated not from a normal course of human reproduction methodology, but a riotous evening of honeymoon debauchery after consuming one, though I think two bottles more accurate, of an expensive 1984 California merlot, rolling around in the beachside condo like—I don’t want to even think of the animal allusion.
Nine months later, in the miracle of pain and joy, both having equal choice of names, I became Madison Merlot Dayne. My father took the high road considering the lawyerly integrity of James Madison, a founding Federalist and U.S. president, explained Jeffrey, the proud new father. And, he had heard, President Madison’s wife had something to do with early American colonial food. Like ice cream. Ha-ha.
Mother, on the other hand, remembered that island night of sweat and sweet bliss, alternating passion in crescendos like the rolling, crashing waves heard from inside and outside the bedroom. Feelings, though inebriated, were being expressed in soul-seared whispers, commitments made of volcanic duration. ‘Merlot’ came added to the Madison name. Mom, in her innuendo humor, of course had to go on and tell me I could have been called ‘Claire Murray Dayne,’ from that night, same name as the rug designer they shag-burned across from floor to heavens. Sometimes, children need less information rather than more.
Chapter 14
Pursed Clues
A shark bit at my shoulder as I struggled in frothing water, gasping, being dragged down to the murky ocean floor. Not a shark, but a flailing Oli, dropping into darkness as I opened puffy eyes.
My father, already dressed for the day, tugged at my shoulder. No Jaws. No drowning singer.
“What did you have in your purse last night? Where is it?”
Sleep deprived, I pointed to the floor, under some salvaged clothes. My canvas tote, stitched with yarn flowers, he retrieved and brought bedside. The bag, a cheap souvenir from Cabo San Lucas and a forgetful wanderlust Spring Break. Before I could protest he dumped out the contents. Praise be the saints! The condoms, unopened, and my morning-after pills, a full bottle, always were secreted in a camera case pocket, even the thief had not discovered. My makeup lay scattered and revealed me as a minimalist in facial construction. The stars got make-up; behind the camera it mattered little.
Jeffrey picked up a roll of film.
“What’s this?”
“From your old Pentax. Keeps me in the dark room practicing. What I shot yesterday on arrival. Using the hand digital I popped the demonstrators at the front gate.”
“I didn’t see you taking photos.”
“A good photo journalist has to catch his quarry unawares. Besides, digital shots are usually silent.” Not mentioned was I got off a few surreptitious pics of Michael K. carting our luggage on arrival.
He gave that consideration. “With the Pentax camera what did you photograph?”
“The front of the hotel on arrival; behind the hotel on my way to the grotto, the grounds and the marina. That’s about it. I changed film for the beach bar at sunset.” He pulled my digital camera from the purse dump.
“This the digital you are referring to?”
I had to think, reconstructing yesterday’s timetable.
“Walking back with your plastic evidence containers, I think I snapped a couple of shots of the guards chasing the interlopers, maybe some rough stuff pushing and punching.”
“Trying for your Rodney King Pulitzer?”
“Interesting situations intrigue me. Family habit.”
Jeffrey balanced the film canister against the digital camera, weighing importance. I showed him how to pull up the photos on the smaller camera and let him scroll back and squint at the postage stamp display screen.
“Maybe your burglar didn’t get what he was looking for. He exposed the film in your camera left in the room, correct?”
“That was a clean roll I loaded and yes, ruined. No exposures.” Well, except the fuzz composition of the Captain Cooke head shots. Not important.
“But, he didn’t get the photos you took, that’s important, I think. Maybe you took a photo yesterday that compromised a protestor, or worse, caught someone where he or she wasn’t supposed to be, like near the grotto.”
I threw back the bed sheet eager for the chase. “We need to get the 35 mm film developed as soon as possible. And print out the digital card.”
At the hotel front desk we found the photo development service required courier service to Waikoloa Marketplace, with delivery back by early evening if not next morning. So much for this detecting jazz and a quick solution to the crime, whatever crime it was. Standing around, I spot the Beautiful People beginning their raucous day. Interesting. They were loading into three different Jeep Wranglers.
All wore white ball caps with a red marking.  Was this a religious-like symbol? Great. Probably a bunch of missionaries out to proselytize for the flock.
Several of them were holding some hand held device, waving them at each other, laughing. As they drove off I realized I could wait no longer with not knowing.
“I have a question,” I asked the valet, who had just seen off the Jeep caravan. “I saw these people earlier and note they are off on some sort of… excursion. Do you know what they are doing? Just in case my father and I might want to try it.”
The valet, dressed in his hotel uniform of white shorts and short sleeve white shirt, ever helpful, saw no harm in the question.
“I am not sure, ma’am. But, they have GPS units. I think it’s one of those geo-cash games.” My blank face begged more knowledge. “You know, it’s a treasure hunt sort of thing. Like a scavenger hunt, but with technology. They are given some coordinates and the GPS leads them to find a treasure. Like On-Star in cars. Nothing of value, I hear. Sign their names when they find the hidden box, or whatever.”
I thanked him, the mystery thus solved. They were playing a game, with three teams. Young affluents at leisure play. Means nothing to me. Did their leader choose the teams? Did he put that athletic top heavy blonde on his team? I could not recall if I saw her in the jeep with him. It’s of no consequence.

Chapter 15
Shaken Not Stirred
Back in the room I dressed for a day on the water, a two-piece under shorts. I scarfed down nuts and potato chips from the room mini-bar since eating food from any hotel restaurant left me wary. I went off in search of Jeffrey who told me to track him down at the hotel’s fine dining restaurant. Chef Lorenzo had named his gourmet showplace the Uakea La Reve, loosely translated, ‘white mist dream.’ The front desk called the place Lorenzo’s, while I heard valet gossip about the shutdown over at Larry’s Pub. So much for high-faluting name branding.
As I walked through the resort’s floral pathways toward the restaurant I saw Michael and waved. He threw back a friendly grin. Heads turned. He had been in a meeting held in the beauty of the warming morning, the humidity yet to appear. Excusing himself, he bound with athletic leaps to the top of the grass-stone amphitheater to join me where I stood on the over-looking path. It was an open air amphitheater, comfortable for 200 people, with grass seating, designed for convention seminars, wedding ceremonies, and, as I saw, a concave of secretive Hawaiians.
“Conducting a class for senior citizens?” My playful question meant to match his buoyant mood.
“Diplomatic peace talks.”
“Manager Cahill said you were community liaison for the hotel.”
