Page 24 of Tiki Beach
“I know you will.” She patted my arm, her palm warm and slightly calloused from years of museum and other work. “When you visit her property, talk to old Mr. Takahashi if he’s there. He was processed through Center #3 as a child. He helps Pearl with the garden now—a healing circle, as she calls it.”
“Mahalo for all the help,” Ilima said, standing to smooth her muumuu.
“One more thing,” Leilani said, reaching into her pocket. “This fell out of one of Pearl’s folders the last time she was here. I’ve been meaning to return it to her.” She handed me a small black and white photograph, creased and worn with age. It showed the wooden crane statue, but upon closer inspection, I noticed something else—a small compartment visible in its base.
“The crane was a hiding place,” I said.
Leilani nodded. “In Japanese tradition, the crane represents longevity and good fortune. In Pearl’s family, it seems it also protected their legacy. Perhaps that’s where her father’s journal was kept.”
As we left the museum, my phone chimed with a text from Rita: “Maile wants to know if you’re coming to the shelter later? We have SEVEN new kittens! PS: Tell Auntie Leilani we need more volunteer hours this week, and we’d love her to take a couple of these rascals home!”
Despite the gravity of what we’d just learned, I smiled at the message and passed it on to Leilani. It was good to see her smile, too. “I guess I’ll have to make up my mind which kitten to take.”
“Or two or three,” I said. Ilima and Leilani chuckled.
Even amid historical injustice and attempted murder, life in Ohia continued its small-town rhythm of kittens needing homes and friends gently pressuring each other into volunteer work.
“Ready to visit the garden site?” Ilima asked as we climbed into Sharkey and I fired up the SUV.
“Later, after work. I can’t leave Pua alone any longer,” I said, tucking the photograph Leilani had given me safely into my bag. “I’ll run you home. But as soon as we can, we should go see what might be buried under that plumeria tree on the grounds.”
8
The afternoon crowd at the post office had finally left, leaving me with just enough time to sort the last of the day’s mail before closing. I’d been distracted all afternoon, my mind repeatedly drifting back to what I’d learned at Edith’s office and the historical photographs from the Hana History Museum.
Pua had noticed my preoccupation, offering to handle the counter while I retreated to the back room to “sort packages,” which really meant texting Keone about our next investigative steps and examining the photo Leilani had given me, as if it would yield any new information.
As I locked the front doors at precisely four p.m., flipping the Post Office’s sign to “CLOSED,” I spotted Keone’s Toyota pulling into the parking lot. He’d changed into board shorts and had a rash guard and a towel slung over his shoulder.
“Perfect timing,” I called as he approached. “Let me grab my things.”
Ten minutes later, we crossed the street to the small public beach that fronted the post office. It was a local spot, rarely visited by tourists who preferred the more famous stretches of sand along the coast. Late afternoon sun cast a sparkle across the water, and the heat of the day had passed.
“You’re a genius,” I said, dropping my swim bag on the sand. “This was such a good idea. I need to get into the water. I’ve been obsessing all day about historical injustice and poisoned tea.”
Keone grinned, already pulling his rash guard on over his head. “Nothing clears the mind like saltwater. Since we’re heading to check out Pearl’s plumeria tree after this, I want to be sharp.”
“Your mom will be bummed not to be coming with us,” I said.
“I let her know already, and she understood. Mom can’t get in on every adventure, and she’s a busy lady. Meanwhile, I need some alone time with my girl.” He leaned over to give me a peck on the cheek.
The water was perfect—cool enough to be refreshing but warm enough to feel good. We swam parallel to the shore, strong strokes carrying us through the gentle swells side by side. The tension of the day washed away more and more with each pull through the crystalline water.
“What did you think about what Leilani told us about the processing center?” I asked during a brief rest, treading water as a small fishing boat puttered past in the distance.
“Enough to make me understand why someone might resort to murder to keep this whole thing quiet,” Keone replied, droplets glistening in his dark hair. “The Santos family has a lot to lose if Pearl’s evidence comes to light, including that piece of land they illegally obtained.”
By the time we got out and showered at the shack, toweling off as the sun began its descent toward the horizon, we had a clear plan for our visit to Pearl’s property. “I want to see that garden site before we lose the light,” I told Keone. “Let’s move.”
He tweaked my wet hair as I got into his truck on the passenger side. “Have I mentioned that you’re the perfect woman? Five minutes of shower time and no primping, and you look gorgeous.”
“Ha,” I said, and punched him on the arm—but my cheeks warmed at the compliment.
The drive to Pearl’s beach house took us along the coastal road, past groves of palms and patches of wild ginger whose spicy-sweet scent wafted through the open windows. The late afternoon light had shifted to that magical golden hour that photographers chase, casting everything in a honey glow that softened edges and deepened colors.
“I’ve been thinking about those blueprints Pearl showed us at the tea party,” I said as we rounded a curve that revealed the ocean, stretching to the deep blue horizon. “Pearl’s garden plans are really something special—a perfect blend of Japanese tradition and Hawaiian plants.”
“Mom’s been talking about it for months,” Keone replied. “She said Pearl consulted with landscape architects from Kyoto and native plant specialists from the University of Hawaii.”
