Murder, She Wrote: Aloha Betrayed

Murder, She Wrote: Aloha Betrayed

New in the USA Today bestselling series—Jessica Fletcher finds herself in a tropical paradise where “aloha” means both hello and goodbye. But sometimes, the goodbye is permanent… Jessica is on the Hawaiian island of Maui, giving a lecture at Maui College on community involvement in police investigations—a subject she knows well. Her co-lecturer is legendary retired detective Mike Kane, a behemoth of a man who shares his love of Hawaiian lore, legends and culture with Jessica. Sadly, all the talking stops when the body of a colleague is found at the rocky foot of a cliff. Mala Kapule was a botanist and popular professor at the school, known for her activism and efforts on behalf of the volcanic crater Haleakala. The high altitude crater is already the site of an observatory, but plans to place the world’s largest solar telescope there split the locals, with Mala fiercely arguing to preserve the delicate ecology of the area. Was someone trying to muffle the protestors? Or was Mala’s killer making a more personal statement? Now, it’s up to Jessica, along with Mike, to uncover who was driven to silence the scientist…and betray the true meaning of Aloha. Jessica Fletcher is a bestselling mystery writer who has a knack for stumbling upon real-life mysteries in her various travels. Donald Bain , her longtime collaborator, is the writer of more than one hundred other books, many of them bestsellers. Mike’s car was a dusty blue SUV with a dent in the front fender on the passenger side and with the distinct aroma of fried fish inside. A plastic bag hanging from a radio knob held balled up wax paper from a variety of fast food places. Two empty cans of Coke occupied the cup holders in the console. “It looks like you do a lot of eating on the run,” I said, hoping it didn’t sound like criticism. “Yeah,” he said, as I buckled up. “Excuse the mess. My wife won’t go near this car. She says it stinks. I cleaned it up for you. Not too bad, now, huh?” “As a method of transportation, it’s perfect,” I said, pressing a button to roll down the window. “You don’t need air conditioning?” he asked as the car started with a groan of protest and rumbled to life. “I’m fine without it.” “Where you from? Florida?” “No,” I said, laughing. “I’m from Maine, all the way up the east coast, the last state before Canada.” “Never been there. Actually the only place I been to on the mainland is California.” “So you’re a Hawaiian, born and bred?” “Relatively speaking,” he said. “My father was half Hawaiian. Like most of us on the island I’m pretty much a mutt. Got some Portuguese, Filipino, Samoan, French, Korean—I think there’s even some Irish in my blood.” “My mother was from Ireland,” I said. “I knew we had something in common.” Mike gave out with a belly laugh. “Then top ‘o the morning to you, Cousin Jessica,” he said. “That’s not a bad Irish accent you have there, Cousin Mike.” A police car passed us on the road and the driver honked. Mike gave him a Hawaiian wave, a fist with thumb and pinkie fingers extended. He was silent a moment, then said, “After class tomorrow you should come to our family picnic.” “Where is that?” “We do a barbecue up in Iao Valley. Good food. You’ll like my wife. She’s a lot like you. Her name is Pualani. She calls herself Lani. Are you free?” “I am, and I would be honored to come. Can I bring anything?” “Just yourself,” he said, grinning. “It’ll save me a lot of time explaining to my wife who this woman is that I’ve been seen driving around with.” From Kahului, where the college was located, we took Mokulele Highway across the island to Pi’ilani, a four lane road that paralleled the southwest coast and avoided the congestion of the main street through Kihei, a neighborhood of smaller condominiums, homes, and hotels where many of the resort employees lived. Mike parked his car in a shopping center and we made our way between two luxury hotels to reach the Wailea Coastal Walk, a mile-and-a-half trail that ran behind waterfront resorts and private condominium developments. I’d explored a small portion of it the evening before. It was midday and hot. I followed Mike’s example and put on a hat, grateful that I’d thrown a pair of tennis shoes in my shoulder bag so I could change out of the dress pumps I’d worn to teach the class. The paved part of the walk radiated back the heat and the air shimmered above it as we walked past a crescent shaped beach and down toward the field where the luau had been held. A few runners, undaunted by the high temperature, coasted by us, but most of the pedestrians must have opted to wait for the cooler evening or early morning hours to enjoy the spectacular view. The luau field was empty, the tables and chairs gone, the stage dismantled and stored away until the next performance. We ambled around the curves of the coast, Mike taking his time and examining the vegetation along the path. “So Miss Kapule was at the luau last night,” he said, pausing to peer over a bush near a rocky