Lindquist isn’t shy on the subject of celebrity. “It’s a prison,” she snaps. “You can’t go anywhere. Even in private, with friends, you find yourself putting on the mask you wear in public. Eventually the mask becomes your real skin, and that’s when you know you’re finished, there’s nothing left of you.”

“Well, didn’t it also give you opportunity? Money? The means to keep flying? There’s no free lunch. You can’t have anything in life without giving something up. And you had a lot. You had everything you wanted. You had your airplanes, you had money, you had a nice house and nice friends and the admiration of everybody in America. You had marriage to a fellow who was more than happy to be Mr. Irene Foster, and believe me, that kind of husband doesn’t just grow on trees.”

“I know that. I accepted the cost because I wanted the prize so much. But then it went out of balance. The cost kept climbing, and the prize meant less and less. And I felt I had lost myself.”

I scribble all this down in my notebook. “How so?”

“Because I hadn’t really earned it, had I? Oh, I was a good pilot. I was maybe a great pilot. But so was Sam, and he didn’t have any of those things. He was living hand to mouth in those years, scraping together fees for air shows and stunts and derbies. Crashing for money, I used to call it. It was just the luck of the draw, and the fact that he’d married a different kind of person.”

“Was she so different, though? It seems to me that Morrow was using you as much as Mrs. Mallory used her husband. He just had more class.”

Lindquist stands. “That’s enough for now, Janey. I’m going surfing. You’re welcome to join me.”

Sometimes I join her and sometimes I don’t. It’s been three weeks now, and I can more or less manage a surfboard and enjoy the thrill of a good wave, but it’s not in my blood like it’s in hers. On Sundays, when Leo isn’t piloting the ferry to and from Oahu, he’ll join us, and let me tell you, that man is a natural. A sight to see on the ocean blue. When I’m done, I’ll just sit in the sand for the pleasure of watching him poised on his board, riding some giant wave as it curls elegantly over and he skims in to shore and jumps off and shakes his wet hair.

That’s when I gather up my things and return up the path to Coolibah. I’ve been doing my writing in the gazebo, which shelters me nicely both from the sun and from the occasional tropical downpour. I can spread out my clippings and my notes and sit on the floor with the typewriter I’ve borrowed from Olle, tap tapping away like I used to do back at the law firm where I worked one summer.

Today, however, is a Tuesday, and the picturesque Leo floats somewhere in the channel between Oahu and Kauai, and I’m not in the mood for surfing or gazebo. I’ve got that restless twitch that takes over my spirit from time to time, the one that’s bedeviled me most of my life. I pack my notes and clippings into my knapsack and ride my bicycle to Kilauea, where I ask the postmistress if there’s any mail for me, any telegrams. She makes a show of checking, as if she wouldn’t know otherwise, and returns to shake her head and tell me no. So I climb on my bicycle and head for the airfield cafeteria, which is another place I like to work, and has the additional benefit of coffee, grilled cheese, and feline companionship.

That cat. I don’t know why, but it’s taken a liking to me. Senility, no doubt. As soon as I settle on my stool at the counter and light a cigarette, it jumps laboriously from the floor to the trash can, and from the trash can to the lunch counter, and then marches on over to my coffee cup, sniffs inside, and eases itself down to my lap, from which no amount of jostling or dishes of promised cream will dislodge it.

I’ve learned to work around the ball of fluff. Uncle Kaiko takes pity on me and refills my coffee, when he’s around. I like Kaiko. He’s that bachelor uncle who gets into mischief and humiliates the family on public occasions, but he’s also the fellow you telephone at two in the morning for a spot of rescue, no judgments. Now, I grant you, he’s a terrible pilot. He’s been grounded by Olle for the foreseeable future, so he just hangs around, three stools down, sharing an ashtray while he reads the help wanted column in the Honolulu classifieds. His ribs are still bandaged, and he’s got casts on an arm and a leg, but at least the stitches are off his face. Anyway, my point is we get along just fine, Kaiko and me, even if he likes to complain about how I make him fetch coffee in his crippled condition.

“How about this one?” he says. “‘Start your career in real estate! Help wanted for top class Honolulu agency, local preferred, must be go-getter, no experience required, excellent pay, we will train you’?”

“Sounds ideal, if you’re looking for a career in rent collection.”

“Rent collection? How do you figure?”

“Call it intuition. Say, do you mind? I’m trying to work, here.”

“Gee, sorry.” A moment later: “So how’s it going? That book you’re writing.”

“Just swell, when I’m not getting interrupted all the time.”

“You know, we weren’t so sure about you, when you first turned up. Everyone figured you were trouble. Keep your trap shut, that’s what Olle told me, and don’t trust that dame an inch.”

“Olle said that? The little dear.”

“That’s our Olle. He’s a good fella, I’m not saying he’s not, but—well, you know. Kind of the wet blanket type.”

“I’ll say. He keeps me at such an arm’s length, he can’t even hand me a drink. I’m glad you feel differently, Kaiko. I do like you, you know.”

“What’s not to like? And you like my pal Leo, don’t you?”

“Well.”

“I got eyes in my head. You got more sizzle between the pair of you than a whole pig roast.” He makes a motion with his hand. “You’re not . . . you know . . . ?”

“I’m afraid not. It wouldn’t be professional, you know.”

“Now, don’t take offense, because I mean this as a compliment, but you don’t seem like the kind of gal who lets a little business get in the way of a good time with a guy she admires.”

“Why, Kaiko. I’m truly flattered. But in this instance, I figure discretion is the better part of amour. You know how these things go. It wouldn’t do to ruffle any of my subject’s feathers.”

He scratches his brow. “I thought you were writing this thing about Mallory.”

“Yes, of course. But Irene’s such a big part of the story. As you know.”

“Say, you going to put me in there too?”

“Well, Kaiko. The thing is, you didn’t know Mallory. He was dead before Irene even met you. So I’m afraid your influence in his life is what you might call peripheral. But I promise I’ll mention you in the acknowledgments, how’s that? Special thanks to Kaiko Kamealoha, for fetching coffee and keeping my spirits up.”

“That’s all?”

“Strictly speaking, yes.”

He stubs out his cigarette and returns to his omelet. I return to my notes and my clippings. When my coffee runs out, I rattle the cup in the saucer, causing the cat to raise its head for a second or two. Kaiko sighs and slides from his stool and stumps over to the percolator. He refills my cup and his and climbs back on the stool and lights another cigarette. “You know,” he says, “I got something that might interest you.”

“Have you, now?”

“I guess I wasn’t supposed to tell you about it, but that was before, wasn’t it? Back when Olle figured you were out to pull a double cross or something.”

I lay down my pen in the crease of my notebook.

“Kaiko, my darling. When you know I’m sworn to uphold the very highest standards of journalism.”

Because of the crutches, it takes Kaiko quite some time to hobble his way across the runway to the hangar that sits there by itself. Don’t think I haven’t noticed this building before. Early on, I asked Lindquist what she kept inside, and she said, oh, an old airplane or two. Some spare parts. I went over there myself a few days later, when I could steal off unattended, and confirmed the truth. Nothing but dust and rust and mothballs, a regular airplane junkyard.

Nonetheless, here I am. Following the cripple toward the hangar, notebook in hand, Kodak 35 on its strap around my neck, because he’s got something that might interest me, and that’s the kind of suggestion that always sets my pulse racing. Lots of times it comes to nothing. On occasion, it comes to everything. And an old, junk-filled airplane hangar is a terrific place to hide something important, wouldn’t you say?

We arrive at the weathered siding. Kaiko gallantly reaches for the edge of the enormous sliding door, but I sweep him aside. When I visited last, I entered through the smaller, human door, but this time I want to throw a little more light on the interior. I tug and yank and eventually the thing gives way. A gust of hot, musty air rushes out, reeking of oil and machinery and rodent droppings. Perhaps we should have brought the cat, after all.

I turn to Kaiko. “Well?”

“Right this way. It’s in the back.”