“He has a punctured lung,” she says, shaking her head, as if it were some form of incurable cancer and they might as well dig Kaiko’s grave this minute. “Probably Mr. Lindquist will stay in Honolulu for some time. Mr. Leo too.”

“Doesn’t Leo have a job?”

“Family is family, Miss Everett. There’s nothing more important. Here in Hanalei, we are all family. We would do anything for each other.” She holds out the yellow envelope. “Here is your telegram.”

“Thank you.”

“Will there be a reply?”

“Probably not,” I tell her, by which I mean probably not here, because I have the feeling that whatever ethics govern the sending and receiving of personal telegrams elsewhere in the world, they don’t apply in Hanalei. At least that’s what I understand from Miss Lanalee. (By now, I’ve read the nameplate on the counter.)

About a mile up the road, I stop the bicycle and tear open the envelope. The telegram was sent last night from this fellow I know at the Associated Press.

SENT HONOLULU CLIPPINGS AIRMAIL STOP ARRIVE DAY AFTER TOMORROW HANALEI POST OFFICE CARE OF YOU STOP COST MINT STOP THIS HAD BETTER BE GOOD STOP BILL

I swear aloud, stuff the telegram back in my pocket, and climb back on the bicycle.

By the time I return to the white house called Coolibah, Lindquist has returned from taking the children to school. She sits in a wicker chair on one of the porches—lanais, they call them—with a large pot of coffee. I set the bicycle against the railing and climb the steps.

“You’re perspiring, Janey.” She gestures to the other chair. “Would you prefer water or coffee?”

“Coffee’s all right, thank you.”

“How was your telegram? Good news, I hope?”

My hand, pouring the coffee into the cup, veers off to the left. Lindquist clucks and reaches for a napkin. I blot the spilled coffee and fill my cup.

“I won’t be boring and ask how the devil you knew about the telegram. That rat Miss Lanalee, I guess.”

“She’s very protective. They all are.”

I sink onto the wicker sofa. “I have a friend at the AP who’s helping me with research, that’s all. He doesn’t know what it’s about, never fear.”

“Are you sure of that? Never trust a newsman, I always say.”

“Well, you would, wouldn’t you?” I reach for the cigarettes in the pocket of my slacks. “I asked him to pull some clippings on your flight to Australia. It’s always useful to read the news as it actually unfolded.”

“Not all the details in those newspapers turned out to be true, you know.”

I hold out the cigarettes. She shakes her head.

“But before we get into all that,” she continues, “I wouldn’t mind knowing who snitched on me. It’s just not possible you tracked me here without somebody to point the way.”