spent together.
Tuesday morning I pulled up to Island Fantasy Holidays, which, according to a mauve marquee, specialized in Hawai‘i vacations. The agency occupied one of several units in an upscale strip mall along Glenoaks Boulevard. The outer office smelled of new carpet and paint, which were both in soft pastels and illuminated by indirect lighting. New Age music wafted through speakers in the ceiling. The agency looked prosperous.
A twenty-something blonde, reminding me too much of Niki, directed me to an inner office, its wall lined with brass plaques. As I entered, a slim, elegant man in pinstripes rose behind his desk. His maroon ascot and tortoiseshell glasses gave him a dapper, almost flamboyant look. His full head of wavy copper hair had greyed handsomely at the temples. He was probably pushing fifty, but looked younger. Reaching for his offered hand, I whiffed the spicy aroma of his aftershave.
“Mr. Archibald, thank you for seeing me.”
“Call me Emery.” He winked. “Emery Archibald, the third. Grandfather started this travel business a half century ago. I’m his namesake.”
“You’ve kept the business in your family a long time. You must be proud.”
“We are.” With an aristocratic flourish of fingers, Archibald straightened his tortoiseshell glasses. His gold wedding band gleamed. “I hope you didn’t fly all the way from Honolulu just for this interview.”
“Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “I have other business in Los Angeles.”
“I’m relieved, since I can’t tell you anything about the accident that I didn’t already tell the police.”
“Then I hope you don’t mind going over the same territory again, for my client’s peace of mind.”
“Not at all.” Archibald ran his fingers through his copper hair.
“May I ask you first why you were on Moloka‘i the day of the accident?”
“Certainly.” Archibald again straightened his glasses. “Let me give you some background. A few years ago, I changed the name of our agency from ‘Archibald’s’ to ‘Island Fantasy Holidays.’ The original name sounded a bit old fashioned; besides, Hawaiian vacations had become our bread and butter.”
“From those awards on your wall, it appears you’ve been very successful.” I gestured to the armada of plaques from the Hawai‘i Tourism Board, United Airlines, Hertz, Hilton, Sheraton, and a dozen others. Next to those hung a photo of him with a cozy group whom I guessed to be his wife and children.
“Hawai‘i has been good to us, though the future looks cloudy.”
“Why’s that?”
“The airlines have cut our commissions.” Archibald began toying with a maroon fountain pen. “It’s tough. Very tough. Some smaller agencies have already gone under.”
“But you’re hanging on?”
“We book vacation packages–hotels, rental cars, tours– whole trips in tickets and coupons. That’s what saves us. That’s what took me to Moloka‘i.”
“I don’t quite understand.”
“To keep abreast of island tours available to our clients, I actually take them myself. I can sell a tour better if I’ve been on it first …” He leaned back in his leather chair. “Moloka‘i is on the verge of a tourism boom. What’s happening on Lāni‘i is nothing compared to what you’ll see soon on Moloka‘i. More hotels, more resorts, more daily flights.”
“Why do you believe tourism will boom?”
“Simple. Once Kalaupapa becomes a fully operational National Park and that new Chancellor Trust resort goes in on the cliffs above it, the sky’s the limit.”
“So you took the tour in hopes of developing new business for your agency?”
“Precisely.”
“Did you go alone, or did your family join you?” I nodded toward the portrait on his wall.
“The two boys had a swim meet here.” Archibald again preened his copper hair. “Martha stayed home with them and our daughter. I went alone.”
“About the accident …”
“Terrible. She was a lovely
Tuesday morning I pulled up to Island Fantasy Holidays, which, according to a mauve marquee, specialized in Hawai‘i vacations. The agency occupied one of several units in an upscale strip mall along Glenoaks Boulevard. The outer office smelled of new carpet and paint, which were both in soft pastels and illuminated by indirect lighting. New Age music wafted through speakers in the ceiling. The agency looked prosperous.
A twenty-something blonde, reminding me too much of Niki, directed me to an inner office, its wall lined with brass plaques. As I entered, a slim, elegant man in pinstripes rose behind his desk. His maroon ascot and tortoiseshell glasses gave him a dapper, almost flamboyant look. His full head of wavy copper hair had greyed handsomely at the temples. He was probably pushing fifty, but looked younger. Reaching for his offered hand, I whiffed the spicy aroma of his aftershave.
“Mr. Archibald, thank you for seeing me.”
“Call me Emery.” He winked. “Emery Archibald, the third. Grandfather started this travel business a half century ago. I’m his namesake.”
“You’ve kept the business in your family a long time. You must be proud.”
“We are.” With an aristocratic flourish of fingers, Archibald straightened his tortoiseshell glasses. His gold wedding band gleamed. “I hope you didn’t fly all the way from Honolulu just for this interview.”
“Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “I have other business in Los Angeles.”
“I’m relieved, since I can’t tell you anything about the accident that I didn’t already tell the police.”
“Then I hope you don’t mind going over the same territory again, for my client’s peace of mind.”
“Not at all.” Archibald ran his fingers through his copper hair.
“May I ask you first why you were on Moloka‘i the day of the accident?”
“Certainly.” Archibald again straightened his glasses. “Let me give you some background. A few years ago, I changed the name of our agency from ‘Archibald’s’ to ‘Island Fantasy Holidays.’ The original name sounded a bit old fashioned; besides, Hawaiian vacations had become our bread and butter.”
“From those awards on your wall, it appears you’ve been very successful.” I gestured to the armada of plaques from the Hawai‘i Tourism Board, United Airlines, Hertz, Hilton, Sheraton, and a dozen others. Next to those hung a photo of him with a cozy group whom I guessed to be his wife and children.
“Hawai‘i has been good to us, though the future looks cloudy.”
“Why’s that?”
“The airlines have cut our commissions.” Archibald began toying with a maroon fountain pen. “It’s tough. Very tough. Some smaller agencies have already gone under.”
“But you’re hanging on?”
“We book vacation packages–hotels, rental cars, tours– whole trips in tickets and coupons. That’s what saves us. That’s what took me to Moloka‘i.”
“I don’t quite understand.”
“To keep abreast of island tours available to our clients, I actually take them myself. I can sell a tour better if I’ve been on it first …” He leaned back in his leather chair. “Moloka‘i is on the verge of a tourism boom. What’s happening on Lāni‘i is nothing compared to what you’ll see soon on Moloka‘i. More hotels, more resorts, more daily flights.”
“Why do you believe tourism will boom?”
“Simple. Once Kalaupapa becomes a fully operational National Park and that new Chancellor Trust resort goes in on the cliffs above it, the sky’s the limit.”
“So you took the tour in hopes of developing new business for your agency?”
“Precisely.”
“Did you go alone, or did your family join you?” I nodded toward the portrait on his wall.
“The two boys had a swim meet here.” Archibald again preened his copper hair. “Martha stayed home with them and our daughter. I went alone.”
“About the accident …”
“Terrible. She was a lovely
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