Read Online Choreographed Crime (Miss Demeanor 3) by Jackie Marilla - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jackie Marilla
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behind her ear. “Scrabble or Cribbage?”
Four hours later, Maile stared at her laptop screen and checked off the Hawaiian restaurants she’d already tried. She discounted the ones that served Korean Barbecue, Filipino or Asian cuisine. She wanted Hawaiian fare—salty, shredded pork, sticky white rice and a fried egg covered in rich brown gravy. She chose her destination and entered the address in her cell phone.
In the reception area, Maile grabbed her rain jacket from the coat rack. “I’m going for lunch, Cory. Do you want me to bring you back anything?”
“Hawaiian food?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll pass. I’ll go get something when you get back in the office.”
Maile walked out the front door and headed for her Jeep. She loved her four-wheel drive vehicle and needed it on the Big Island to get to some of the best beaches. She ran her hand over the license plates. She knew the state of Washington expected people to transfer their registrations in a timely manner, but she didn’t feel ready to give up the rainbow splashed across her Hawai’i plates.
The address for the food truck was near the Seattle Center. Maile followed the auditory directions perfectly until she came to the intersection at First Avenue and Denny Way and couldn’t get into her turn lane. She drove around the block to get in the correct lane only to find there were no free parking spots near the Happy Hawaiian food truck. After going around the block four times, she gave up and paid for parking in a lot five blocks from the truck.
Maile grabbed her purse and tugged on her rain jacket. As she walked toward the food truck, rain started to dampen her hair. This better be worth it , she thought.
She ducked under the awning and read the chalkboard menu while she waited in line behind a group of three. It was a good sign that the guy in the truck looked Hawaiian.
“Howzit?” the guy asked her when she got up to the counter.
Maile stared at the man who sported a bright yellow shirt decorated with red hibiscus flowers. He wore a baseball cap backwards over his head and slouched over the service counter. It looked like he probably bumped his head all the time on the ceiling of his truck.
“I’m good. I’d like the kalua pork loco , extra gravy.”
The guy stared at her for a moment. “You from Hawai’i?”
Maile nodded. “The Big Island.”
“Shoots! Me too. Kona side?” He bobbed his head.
“Hilo born and raised.”
“The rainy side.”
“Yeah.” Maile screwed up her mouth.
“I’m Kalama Haleamau. Nickname’s Lama.”
“Maile Kuhiwinui. Nice to meet you, Lama.”
“I’ll get your loco . On the house this time.”
“ Mahalo .”
Lama turned his back to fix her food. Maile noticed his shiny black hair pulled into a ponytail that trailed half way down his back.
He handed her a Styrofoam food box. Heat from the food permeated the container and warmed her hands while the aroma warmed her heart.
Maile took the box and plastic fork to the one and only picnic table. At least it was under a portable shelter. She licked her lips and dove her fork into the layers of pork, egg, rice and gravy. Her taste buds came alive with the first bite.
She glanced over at the food truck and gave Lama a thumbs-up. He gestured to her with the familiar shaka sign and a big grin.
****
Lama tried not to stare at the wahine from the Big Island. He turned his back to the counter and started to chop green onion for ahi poke . The fresh tuna was already cubed and marinating in soy sauce, sesame oil, macadamia nuts, crushed red peppers and sesame seeds. Lama added the onion and gently tossed it into the mixture. He’d love to offer some of his specialty to Maile, but it took two hours to marinate.
As soon as he covered the bowl and stashed it in the refrigerator, he glanced out at her. Portuguese-Hawaiian , he thought. And no ring .
Edward, one of Lama’s best customers, approached the truck. “Aloha,” Lama greeted him. “So sorry
Four hours later, Maile stared at her laptop screen and checked off the Hawaiian restaurants she’d already tried. She discounted the ones that served Korean Barbecue, Filipino or Asian cuisine. She wanted Hawaiian fare—salty, shredded pork, sticky white rice and a fried egg covered in rich brown gravy. She chose her destination and entered the address in her cell phone.
In the reception area, Maile grabbed her rain jacket from the coat rack. “I’m going for lunch, Cory. Do you want me to bring you back anything?”
“Hawaiian food?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll pass. I’ll go get something when you get back in the office.”
Maile walked out the front door and headed for her Jeep. She loved her four-wheel drive vehicle and needed it on the Big Island to get to some of the best beaches. She ran her hand over the license plates. She knew the state of Washington expected people to transfer their registrations in a timely manner, but she didn’t feel ready to give up the rainbow splashed across her Hawai’i plates.
The address for the food truck was near the Seattle Center. Maile followed the auditory directions perfectly until she came to the intersection at First Avenue and Denny Way and couldn’t get into her turn lane. She drove around the block to get in the correct lane only to find there were no free parking spots near the Happy Hawaiian food truck. After going around the block four times, she gave up and paid for parking in a lot five blocks from the truck.
Maile grabbed her purse and tugged on her rain jacket. As she walked toward the food truck, rain started to dampen her hair. This better be worth it , she thought.
She ducked under the awning and read the chalkboard menu while she waited in line behind a group of three. It was a good sign that the guy in the truck looked Hawaiian.
“Howzit?” the guy asked her when she got up to the counter.
Maile stared at the man who sported a bright yellow shirt decorated with red hibiscus flowers. He wore a baseball cap backwards over his head and slouched over the service counter. It looked like he probably bumped his head all the time on the ceiling of his truck.
“I’m good. I’d like the kalua pork loco , extra gravy.”
The guy stared at her for a moment. “You from Hawai’i?”
Maile nodded. “The Big Island.”
“Shoots! Me too. Kona side?” He bobbed his head.
“Hilo born and raised.”
“The rainy side.”
“Yeah.” Maile screwed up her mouth.
“I’m Kalama Haleamau. Nickname’s Lama.”
“Maile Kuhiwinui. Nice to meet you, Lama.”
“I’ll get your loco . On the house this time.”
“ Mahalo .”
Lama turned his back to fix her food. Maile noticed his shiny black hair pulled into a ponytail that trailed half way down his back.
He handed her a Styrofoam food box. Heat from the food permeated the container and warmed her hands while the aroma warmed her heart.
Maile took the box and plastic fork to the one and only picnic table. At least it was under a portable shelter. She licked her lips and dove her fork into the layers of pork, egg, rice and gravy. Her taste buds came alive with the first bite.
She glanced over at the food truck and gave Lama a thumbs-up. He gestured to her with the familiar shaka sign and a big grin.
****
Lama tried not to stare at the wahine from the Big Island. He turned his back to the counter and started to chop green onion for ahi poke . The fresh tuna was already cubed and marinating in soy sauce, sesame oil, macadamia nuts, crushed red peppers and sesame seeds. Lama added the onion and gently tossed it into the mixture. He’d love to offer some of his specialty to Maile, but it took two hours to marinate.
As soon as he covered the bowl and stashed it in the refrigerator, he glanced out at her. Portuguese-Hawaiian , he thought. And no ring .
Edward, one of Lama’s best customers, approached the truck. “Aloha,” Lama greeted him. “So sorry
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