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don’t know, but I heard they were getting married and all. Then he wipes out at Waimea.” He shrugged. “Foxy lady too—leggy, long red locks. She was older, but nice.”
    “Older? How much older?”
    “Older than him. In her thirties, maybe.”
    “Any idea where I can find her?”
    “Sunset Beach, I think.”
    “She’s not there anymore,” I said.
    “Then I don’t have a clue.” Skipper shook his head.
    As I left Hale‘iwa town I turned west toward Mokule‘ia, beyond which the paved road ends and the Waianae range drops down to a remote stretch of craggy coastline. Luckily, I didn’t have to go that far. On oceanfront Crozier Drive in Mokule‘ia, I searched for a novice
ding-meister
working out of his garage.
    On the
mauka
side of the street in a carport, a crew cut
haole
kid in a surgical mask was sanding a surfboard. He looked barely eighteen, skinny, and red-faced above the mask from too much tropic sun on fair skin. I pulled in front of the carport and removed Corky’s board from my roof racks
.
    “You patch surfboards?”
    He put down his sandpaper and flipped off the mask. A ring of white resin dust circled his mouth and nose like the outline of a goatee. “You bet. You need a ding repaired?”
    I flipped over Corky’s gun to display its mottled bottom. “This board has already been patched. I’d just like to know who repaired it.”
    “It’s not the best repair job.” He observed its wavy contours. “Hold on . . .” The novice
ding-meister
rubbed the freckles on his nose. “I remember that board.”
    “You patched it like this?”
    “She was in a big hurry,” he explained defensively. “She didn’t want it done fancy. She wanted it done
fast.
She said she would pay extra if I could finish in two days, instead of my usual week.”
    “Who was she?”
    “A good look’n babe.” He flashed a salacious smile.
    “Did you ask her what happened to the board?”
    “Didn’t need to. She told me she hit a reef at Rocky Point.”
    “That so?” I replied straight-faced, trying not to betray my disbelief. Rocky Point is a popular winter break between Sunset and Pipeline. Everybody and his dog is out there on a good day. The reefs at Rocky Point could certainly damage a board, but not this one.
    “Hey,” said the teenager, “where did
you
get the board?”
    “I bought it in town at a surf shop on Kapahulu.”
    “Oh.” He rubbed the resin dust around his chin. “I figured she was going to sell it before she went to Maui.”
    “Maui?” I said, recalling that the Foodland clerk had said the same. “Did she say where on Maui?”
    “Nah.” He wrinkled his freckled nose. “Does it matter? Why are you asking all these questions?”
    “Just curious.”
    “Ooohh,”
he uttered, as if we shared some kind of secret. “Yeah, she makes me curious, too.”

    Back in my office, there was a message waiting for me on my machine.
    “Kai, I’m worried.” It was Leimomi, with that edge in her voice
.
“I’m really late now. And I feel funny—kind of sick to my stomach. Maybe I’m just worried sick, but I don’t feel like eating. And when I do eat, nothing tastes right. All I can keep down are saltine crackers—the only food mother could stand when she was pregnant!
Call me.”
    Auwe.
I decided to wait until I got home to call her back, or maybe swing by to see her on my way.
    I figured I should also check in with Summer, since my next move might be a long-shot trip to Maui and I’d be consuming more of her retainer. I dialed her Kahala number and got that foreign voice on the machine again. “Leave message at tone . . .”
    “Summer, I’ve made some progress but may need to fly to Maui to follow up on a lead. It’s Wednesday afternoon at four. Please let me hear from you by tonight, either at my office or at home.”
    That evening I arrived at Ah Fook in Chinatown before Tommy Woo did. Inside the dinky chop sui house there was no place to wait for a cramped table except behind the