O'ahu Lonesome Tonight? (Islands of Aloha Mystery Series #5) by JoAnn Bassett Page B

Montana?”
    “Yep. I’ve already stowed my gear and met my bunkmates.”
    “Is that a
cowboy twang I’m picking up?”
    “Yep. Gotta do what I can to fit
in. They’re already calling me ‘ McGarrett ’ since I
came in from Hawaii. God knows what name they’d give me if they knew I was born
and raised in LA.”
    “Well, you stay
safe. Just ‘ cuz they’re calling you McGarrett it doesn’t mean you need to go all Hawaii
Five-O out there.”
    “What’s that
mean—‘going Hawaii Five-O ’?”
    “You know,
driving fast the wrong way down one-way streets. Rappelling
off high rise buildings with knotted bed sheets. That
kind of stuff.”
    “Sweetheart,
there’s no such thing as a one-way street or a high rise building anywhere
within a hundred miles of this place. It’s pretty much all mountains and trees
with a river running through it.”
    “Sounds nice.”
    “It is. You
can’t believe how big everything is here. The sky, the
mountains, the endless forest. Being out here feels like going from a
one-room apartment to a mansion.”
    “Well, enjoy
your mansion, but remember you’ve got someone waiting here at home in the
apartment.”
    “Will do. I miss you.”
    “I miss you,
too.”
    We hung up and
I felt a pang. It’d been a long time since I’d been to the mainland. Island
life was homey and safe, but I never forgot the expansive feeling I’d had when
I’d gone to the mainland for Homeland Security training. To see another ocean
and fly over towering snowy mountain ranges felt like going to another planet.
    By one-thirty,
Jeff and I had grown tired of being cooped up together. We’d told and re-told
all the good stories, and we’d asked and answered every question we had for
each other.
     
    So even though
I was wary about meeting my two half-brothers from my father’s side, I was
eager to get out of the penthouse.
    I gathered up
my purse and umbrella and paused at the door. “I thought we would’ve heard from
Steve by now. I hope his interview went well.”
    “He probably
wheedled his way into a late check-out,” said Jeff. “I expect him any time
now.”
    “Would you do
me a favor?”
    “Sure.”
    “Give me a call
at three. Or better yet, come down there and get me. I think an hour of
familial pretense is my limit.”
    “Got it. But I’ll call, if you don’t mind. The thought of
breathing the same air as your father’s kids is more than I can stomach.”
    “It’s not their
fault, you know.”
    “I know. But
still. Anyway, I promise I’ll call at three.”
    ***
    I arrived at
the Moana Surfrider Hotel
in plenty of time for our two o’clock reservation. I was hungry after having
only two malasadas for breakfast and then hiking partway up Diamond Head, and I
was wet from the jaunt down Kalakaua from the
penthouse. I would’ve taken the car, but in Waikiki parking is a much bigger
headache than a few raindrops.
    The Moana is one of Waikiki’s old-school hotels. Built in 1901,
it was a technological marvel of its day with telephones and private bathrooms
in every room. It also had one of the first elevators on Hawaii. The style is
‘beaux-art,” with a massive pillared portico, brilliant white paint, and a
wrap-around lanai out front. The lanai has a dozen or so hardback rocking
chairs that allow the guests to ‘sit a spell’ while they rock and watch the
traffic on Kalakaua Avenue stream by. Out back on the
ocean side, the lanai (which the Moana staff refers
to as a “veranda”) is where they serve formal tea every afternoon.
    I went into the
lobby and marveled at the polished wood floors, blazing chandeliers and
Corinthian columns. Where did the architects think they were—Savannah? But as odd
as the place looks among the drab stucco and concrete hotels surrounding it, I
had to admire its adherence to the centuries-old vision of its creator. The
place was unique.
    I looked
around. I’d seen Facebook photos of my half-siblings, but I wasn’t sure I’d
recognize them in