In The Key of Indigo, Part 2: A Tale of the Arts Department

This is the conclusion to last week's entry for the prompt Write a story that has a colour in the title...., at https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/author/martin-ross/

**

"You fantasizing about Koa bugs and Pulelehua butterflies?” Wei asked Will, seemingly mesmerized by the lush, uninterrupted forests of the haze-capped Koolauloa ridge.

“And here I thought you were surfing porn after, you know, which seemed like odd timing but I was still basking, sooo…” Professor Kalish smirked. “Actually, I was thinking about the Hawaiian happy-faced spider. It has a smiley-face emoji on its abdomen. Well, the pattern can shift with dietary changes…”

“Hush, my ipo,” Wei cooed. She turned to Ioane behind the rental’s wheel. “You had me at ‘basking.’ There’s that homeopathic clinic your pal told you to watch for, where that landscaper truck just went in. It should be the next road.”

The Pan-Pacific Arts Federation Annual Symposium had passed without incident, and department Chairman Deshpande had generously signed off on an indigenous arts tour of the Islands through the weekend. Rex Masau was a somewhat more difficult sell. Wei’s pedigree and Masau’s self-generated image as a master of everything everywhere all at once helped get them in the tech mogul’s door. Unfortunately, the door was roughly 35 miles north of Honolulu, which via Kamehameha Highway translated to an hour and change on a twisting and constricted four-lane between mountain and sea.

The Masau estate would have been unmistakable even if Wei hadn’t taken a virtual tour via HawaiiBusiness online feature on the islands’ chief shakers. Professor Zhao was particularly intrigued by the heiau on his sweeping side lawn. The traditional sacred stone bridge between the physical and spiritual realms had been plugged in between Masau’s huge floral garden/koi reserve and a nine-hole personal Palmer course, like an i’e toga flopped on the front stoop for boot-wiping.

And that stoop was muy wa nui, an impressive expanse of primo imported Sicilian black lavastone. A 25-foot half-scale double-hulled outrigger, according to HB DIYed by Masau from premium koa wood, was suspended from the lanai overhang. The sleek glass outer walls displayed Masau’s green commitment, from the bamboo flooring and bamboo/hempcrete wall panels to coconut wood furnishings. That is, once you got past the high-tech, Polynesian-style laser-cut metal entry gates.

“Malo!” A slight but familiar figure in a David Shepherd ama'u fern Kīlauea red aloha shirt and a clashing black-and-gold tribal-“inspired” Kenny Flowers sarong approached. “Johnny, my bro!” Rex Masau greeted, grabbing Ioane’s outsized palm and tugging the biologist into a shoulders-only hug.

“Professor Zhao,” the tanned, immaculately groomed man breathed with a touchless half-bow. “Johnny has told me so much about you, but your reputation precedes you. I’m honored to meet you and get your thoughts on the i’e toga. First, though, I’d like you to meet a few of my friends.”

“Oh, shit,” Ioane muttered as they trailed Masau toward the rear lanai. “Rex doesn’t have friends.”

The well-appointed trio at the inadvertently primitive hand-wrought koa table didn’t rise. “Guys, you remember Johnny Fa’alele with the Scripps Institute – we underwrote his Arctic expedition. And this is Wei Zhao, who heads the Asian Arts Department at a university south of Chicago. Oh, and Professor Zhao’s colleague, Dr. Bob Kalish.” Will beamed; close enough. “This is Kenny Masterson, our special counsel for external relations. Mary Akina, my personal executive assistant and, ah, sister. And this is my senior VP, Dave Akina.

“Before we chat about the reason for your visit, who’d like a cup of my latest craft roast? We bought the Island Grindz chain three months ago, and I’ve been tinkering with a state-of-the art industrial grade roaster on-site to see if we can’t come up with a new menu of fair-trade, sustainably produced and marketed, island-infused craft coffees.” The magnate retrieved a brushed-steel carafe from a side table, and poured a measure of inky brew into each of six sleek Cortado testing glasses. “Savor the bouquet and essence – I’ll be right back.”

“Hibiscus,” Wei observed, taking in the steam.

“He harvests and infuses the beans with the blossoms himself,” Akina the assistant noted. “But act surprised when Rex tells you. He loves the reveal.”

“So?” Masau said, emerging from somewhere in the glass patio wall with a pricey-looking lavender smart mug bearing the EnehanaTech logo. “What do you think?”

Wei and Will downed the first acrid sip with a straight face. Akina the VP grimaced as he sucked at the rim, and Special Counsel Masterson drained his small glass with rehearsed bliss.

“Hibiscus,” Rex Masau declared. He took a deep swig, and sighed in self-worship.

“Very earthy,” Ioane grunted.

“Kona beans – raised in rich volcanic soil,” Masau boasted.

“Yeah, that’s it,” the marine biologist nodded. “So, Rex, there a problem? Professor Zhao just wants to see the e’i toga, maybe run a couple routine tests. As she told me, a lot of Asian collectors and dealers have been seeing counterfeit pieces, sometimes seeded around the islands for authenticity, and I’d think you’d want Wei’s expertise. Why lawyer up?”

Masau eyed Ioane with a crooked grin. “Johnny, gonna stop you right there. Professor Zhang, Wei, you’re aware EnehanaTech leads the Pacific Rim in AI-based predictive analysis? I asked PELE, our AI, to factor your rather keen belated interest in the Aleutian artifacts, and the ramifications of authenticating the i’e toga given your scientific and social beliefs and principles.”

“Social?” Will inquired.

Masau regarded him as he would a happy arachnid. “Mary, why don’t you show Bob the gardens? We have some really unique insect species you might not see in Corn Country.”

Akina rose cautiously. “Gladly. Professor Kalish?”

Masau waited until the pair were out of sight. “Johnny, you think one of the world’s top tech entrepreneurs can’t investigate every aspect of your history, your life, your passions and sympathies? Your comments on Twitter and Instagram, the divestment protests at UC-San Diego, your cozy relationship with Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth. You’re a goddamned signatory to the Pan-Polynesian petition to block SP Petroleum’s deepwater exploration proposal.”

“Thought you were the Green Tech guy,” Ioane mused.

“SP’s proposed Samoa/Tonga operations meet all ISO, IFC, DNV, and World Bank standards.”

“What about 2019?” Ioane demanded. “That fuel oil cargo ship ran aground in the Solomons. The spill almost fucked up the local ecosystem.”

“So what’s your game here?” Masau showed his teeth. “I’ve read all about that new squid you people found in Samoa, and you yourself said the toga has squid dye in it. I can add two and two.”

“Your AI can,” Wei suggested.

“Same thing,” Rex snapped. “You want a DNA match between the toga ink and your rare squid and, what, make some endangered species claim to block SP?”

“The i’e toga’s a unique ceremonial artifact with deep cultural meaning and historic impact in charting Polynesian exploration. That makes Abyssoteuthis samoaensis a culturally important species. At least that’s what we’ll take to UNESCO and the International Union for Conservation of Nature and the Pacific Islands Forum. Greenpeace, the World Wildlife Fund, Cultural Survival, and Scripps are ready to get onboard. Gawd, you’d be a hero – the guy who saved Paradise. The fuck, bruh?”

“I’m not your bruh!” Masau yelled, hurling his hi-tech mug toward the first tee. “Why did you lie to me?!?”

And there it was, Wei reflected. She’d urged Ioane to play it straight with Masau, appeal to his image and messianic impulses. But she now realized there was something else at play, and dug out her phone. After a moment, she addressed the men.

“EnehanaTech contracts with companies all along the Pacific Rim. Here’s what your boss told the Wall Street Journal two weeks ago: ‘Incorporating powerful AI decision-mapping tools, EnehanaTech’s HaleMana System can help the world’s major energy providers fuel the world smarter, safer, and sustainably.’ Not in your interest to butt heads with SP, is it, Mr. Masau?”

Rex trained his sights on the arts professor, eyes blazing. “You’re fucking leaving, all of you,” he roared, “and I swear to God if you leak a word of this to fucking anybody, I will professionally end all of you —”

"O la matou aganu’u e le mo fa’aaliga, o la matou talafaasolopito e le mo le faatauina atu! Fa’afo’i mea ua ave, fa’alogo i o matou leo, fa’alogo i o matou tagi!"

Masau whipped around. “What the hell?” Dave Akina murmured.

“Our culture’s not a trophy, our history’s not for sale!” the voices chanted from the front of the property. Return what you have taken, hear our voices, hear our wail!”

Wei turned to Ioane. “Jesus, you didn’t…”

“Flash mob’s more your generation, Rex,” the marine biologist chuckled as Masau planted a palm on the koa table. “When I saw you’d convened the executive committee here, I texted an invite. You know there’s like 33,000 Samoans here on the island, right? Sent out a blast last night, to Kalihi, Waipahu, Leeward Coast, Honolulu – big pre-Independence Day fiafia matafaga in the cove down the way, plenty of palusami and sapasui and Vailima on ice and mu-siiiic. Now the party’s coming here -- I heard Shailene Woodley’s on the island doing a Descendants sequel. You know Shailene’s a Greenpeace Ocean Ambassador…”

Masau stumbled toward the lanai opening. “I fucking know Shaileeeeee—,” he rasped, before bouncing off the patio glass and face-planting on the lavastone.

Masterson sprinted across the stone and knelt beside his client. “Get fucking 9-1-1, somebody!!”

“Counselor, you know there’s a protocol!” Akina shouted, pulling his iPhone from his linen slacks. “Yeah, we have a Code One at the house. Put the airship down on the course. We got some kind of riot at the front gate.”

“Rex?” Masterson felt Masau’s carotid, and the digital innovator vomited on his designer polo.

“My chest,” Masau gasped.

Akina spun on Ioane. “You fucking killed him!”

“Not them, not Ioane,” Masau moaned. “Dizzy…before…melee…”

“Just relax, Rex,” Masterson murmured, cradling Masau’s head. “Chopper should be here soon, and your sister’s on the way back. Mr. Fa’alele, Professor Zhao, we’re going to have to have NDAs from both of you. If the market or the media heard he’d been hospitalized…”

Wei turned away, completed her hushed conversation, and faced the senior VP. “I think we’re beyond NDAs, guys. I just called 5-0, or whatever you actually call it here. Somebody’s tried to kill your boss, all right.”

“And I think I might know how,” a voice panted behind Wei. Mary Akina trailed Will onto the lanai, and the entomologist waved a small lidded jar. Will and Wei conferred briefly, and she disappeared momentarily into the house.

“Get your chopper guys and the hospital on the phone,” Professor Zhao ordered as she reemerged.

**

“One of the symptoms of oleander poisoning is confusion, disorientation,” Wei explained to Apana, the Honolulu PD detective who’d dispersed the masses at the front gate, at least to the nearby beach. “Masau confirmed he’d felt off before he began, ah, berating us, before the protest began. He made it clear Ioane wasn’t responsible. But how could he know that unless he realized how he’d been poisoned. Masau served us his, um, special coffee blend from a carafe, then excused himself before bringing back his own mug. Did your men find it? Can I hope the lid was closed?”

“On the way to the lab,” Apana grunted.

Wei nodded. “Look in the kitchen, and you’ll find a French coffee press, dregs intact. Masau wasn’t going to drink the commercial grind along with us peons -- he had a cup of his own hibiscus blend ready. Check the grounds, and I bet you’ll find oleander residue.”

The cop nodded. “And who made the coffee?”

The arts professor took a breath. “It didn’t seem like Masau was gone long enough to make his own coffee. So who did? When he was delirious, to his mind probably dying, he did something unusual. Masau always calls Mr. Fa’alele Johnny – Ioane is Samoan for John. Ioane hates it, and I think it’s the guy’s way of undermining others ‘beneath’ him.

“But in that moment, he called ‘Johnny’ Ioane. In fact, he rushed to absolve Ioane of the poisoning. The man who was about to blow a big deal for him, who’d brought protestors to his door. Did the lawyer tell you exactly what Masau said?”

“Just that neither of you’d done it, that he was sick before the riot.”

“Riot, protest.” Wei shrugged. “But that wasn’t what he said. Why was it so important for Masau to clear the man he probably hated most five minutes before? Maybe because at that moment, he knew who had tried to kill him. The person who’d pressed and poured his coffee. Masterson thought Masau said he’d felt bad before the ‘melee,’ but Masau wasn’t referring to the protestors.” Professor gave the word its proper island nuance.

“Mele,” The cop echoed. “Mary. Mary Akina.”

**

“Masau’s sister tried to poison him?” Apana frowned.

“That’s what Masau assumed. Paranoid guy. I looked up ‘Dave’ Akina’s profile on the EnehanaTech website, and he actually is listed under his Hawaiian given name, Kawika – translated as David just as Masau corrupted Mele’s name to Mary.

“But here’s the thing. Mele/Mary admits she prepared his special blend coffee and transferred it to his smart mug while he discussed strategy with the guys. Misogynist, too. But we’re forgetting – this was a three-step process. Masau was, at least in his mind, the artist, the artisan, building his own half-ass furniture, a ‘replica’ vintage wa’a with nonsensical engravings, designing this Disneyfied monstrosity of a cross-cultural jumble of a house. Literally, the guy who should have stuck to his day job. And left the coffeemaking to maybe the world’s top roasters. But he’s the renaissance man, master of all trades. Who personally blended his own brew. Down to picking the fresh hibiscus, probably this morning.”

“Do we know this?” Apana murmured.

“You can probably ask Masau himself. He has no reason to lie. I’m sure he still hasn’t realized he poisoned himself. With oleander blossoms.”

“Does oleander even look like hibiscus? It’s white, isn’t it?”

“A pink or red oleander could pass for hibiscus, and my guess is Rex Masau also wouldn’t dirty his hands planting his own garden. You notice that homeopathetic, holistic clinic just before you turn onto Masau’s private road?”

“Cousin goes there for his glaucoma,” the cop said.

“Well, it might interest you to know they use highly diluted oleander extracts to treat heart problems, anxiety, even skin issues,” Wei related. “Traditionally, oleander has been used to treat leprosy. And the clinic grows its own – from transplants. Delivered by Hale Pua Nursery out of Honolulu. Who also delivers plants and the occasional tree to Casa Masau.

“I saw their truck at the clinic today as we came in, and I called them to see if there’d been any glitches in their deliveries lately. And sure enough, about two weeks ago, Hale Pua accidentally dropped off a flat of hibiscus on the same day they also had a delivery for Masau. My significant other, Professor Kalish, checked out the garden, and he found a few misplaced oleanders blended in.”

“Your boyfriend a Master Gardener or something?”

“Actually, an entomologist. He wouldn’t know an oleander if I ground it up on his Fruit Loops. But…” Wei reached into her pocket and removed the specimen jar Will had passed on to her, helping save Masau’s hide. The huge green lepidopteran bounced off the glass before settling into the vegetation Professor Kalish had provided. “Daphnis nerii – think I got that right. The oleander hawk-moth. Hibiscus is pollinated by bees and birds, but the hawk-moth prefers feasting on the nectar of the oleander. Will, Professor Kalish, got suspicious when he saw this flitting about Masau’s hibiscus plot.”

Detective Apana studied the insect, then arched a brow. “So your boyfriend just happened to have a bug jar on him?”

“He’s acquired,” Wei admitted, fondly.

**

“Professor Zhao?”

Wei had just washed the last of her palusami down with a swig of Vailima as Ioane again took up the siva afi and wrangled flames against the salmon sunset. The “protesters” had adopted Will as an uso mai se isi tina, and the entomologist kicked up sand boot-scooting Samoan style with his new crew.

“Mrs. Akina?” Wei puzzled, pressing the iPhone to her ear.

“Mele, please. Again, we’re extremely thankful for your part in helping save my brother’s life and, quite probably, saving me a night in jail or worse, a media shitstorm. At any rate, I’ve been unable to reach Mr. Fa’alele, and I wonder if you might pass on that we’ll be shipping the Aleutian i’e toga to the Museum of Samoa per Leki’s directive.”

“Leki?”

“Rex, sorry. He’s in recovery now, and we reminded him of his commitment.”

“It may be the beer, but you are truly losing me.”

“Leki suffered an episode of transient global amnesia as a result of his trauma and, I suppose, the stress he suffered right before the, ah, incident. It’s doubtful he’ll ever remember anything about this afternoon. Smart move on his part to repatriate the piece before this business with Mr. Fa’alele’s friends escalated, don’t you think.”

Wei gazed at the surf. “Won’t that complicate your deal with SP Petroleum? What happens if your brother’s memory comes back?”

“I suppose we could demand the i’e toga’s return, if it came to that. Mahalo, Professor.”

Wei stared at her now-silent phone.

“Gotcha something.” Wei nearly slipped off her rock as Will smiled down. He brought his right hand from behind his now-sweaty back, and displayed the object in his open palm.

“Shit,” Wei yelped at the small eight-legged monstrosity that was grinning insanely up at her. “Spiderman and Venom had a love child.”

“Theridion grallator,” Will announced joyfully. “Hawaiian happy-faced spider.”

“Aw, you shouldn’t have. Speaking of acquisitions…”