Page 25 of Tiki Beach
“It’s more than just a garden,” I said. “It’s reconciliation. Reclaiming something that was nearly destroyed. Giving it to the public.”
“Which makes it all the more important that we find out who tried to stop it from going forward. Hmm. No sign of Kawika’s car,” Keone observed as we pulled into the crushed coral driveway, the tires crunching beneath us.
“He’s probably at the hospital with Pearl,” I said, recalling his protective manner during our last visit. “He said they were moving her back here to Maui.”
Pearl’s house looked different in the late afternoon sunlight than it had during our tense visit with Ilima. White paint gleamed warmly against the blue trim, and fallen plumeria blossoms carpeted the walkway in a fragrant mosaic. Every time I saw the place, I could appreciate more what a peaceful sanctuary she had created—the way the house nestled perfectly against the sloping landscape, how the lanai wrapped around two sides to maximize the ocean view, the sound of the subtle wind chimes that tinkled softly in the salt-laden breeze.
The air was thick with the heady perfume of the fallen blossoms as we stepped out of the truck. A pair of mynahs squabbled noisily in a nearby monkeypod tree, their glossy black feathers catching the sunlight. The distant crash of waves against the shore below provided a soothing backdrop, a constant reminder of the ocean’s proximity.
We walked around to the back of the house, where the land sloped gently toward the sea in a series of natural terraces. A large area had been cleared of underbrush and marked with colorful flags on thin metal stakes—blue, red, and white ribbons fluttering in the gentle breeze.
The garden design was ingenious in how it worked with the natural contours of the land. Standing there, I could mentally overlay the blueprints onto the physical space: here would be the meditation pavilion, positioned to catch both sunrise and sunset, its wooden platform elevated just enough to provide an unobstructed view of the ocean. There, a series of stone pathways would meander through beds of native Hawaiian plants mixed with traditional Japanese garden elements—ti plants alongside carefully pruned black pine, birds of paradise complementing ornamental bamboo.
Near what would become the center of the garden, a stone arrangement marked the future location of a koi pond, designed to capture the reflection of the moon on clear nights. A dry riverbed of smooth lava stones indicated where seasonal rainfall would be channeled through the garden, bringing life and movement during the winter months.
I could almost see the finished garden in my mind’s eye: lava rock formations arranged to represent mountains, a small stream fed by captured rainwater, strategic openings in the foliage to frame the perfect view of the Pacific stretching to the horizon. The garden would tell a story—of loss and reclamation, of cultures intersecting, of healing after trauma.
At the far edge of the lawn, butted up against an old wooden fence that must mark the disputed five acres of land, stood a massive plumeria tree. Its gnarled trunk and spreading branches suggesting age; the bark was mottled gray and brown, twisted and furrowed like the skin of an ancient being. Its canopy spread at least thirty feet across, creating a dappled shade beneath, while cream and yellow five-petaled blossoms released their sweet fragrance into the warm air.
“That must be the tree Edith mentioned,” I said, heading toward it, my rubber slippers sinking into the grass.
As we approached, an elderly Japanese man kneeling beside some plantings looked up. His weathered hands moved with practiced knowledge as he carefully positioned small ferns along what would eventually become a pathway. He wore faded blue work pants and a short-sleeved shirt that had once been white but was now stained with the ruddy red earth. A wide straw hat shielded his face. He straightened slowly, leaning on his garden rake for support to stand upright.
“You friends of Pearl-san?” he called out, his voice surprisingly strong for someone who appeared to be in his eighties or nineties.
“Yes,” Keone replied as we walked over and neared the tree. “I’m Keone Kaihale, and this is Kat Smith. We’re helping look into what happened to Pearl.”
The old man nodded solemnly, removing his hat to reveal a fringe of white hair. “Bad business, very bad. I am Takahashi. I help with garden twice a week.” He gestured to the cleared area with a hand that gestured with purpose. “Pearl-san’s dream, this garden. Very important place.”
“You know about the history here?” I asked, noticing how his deep-set eyes seemed to look both at us and through us to some distant memory.
The lines deepened around Takahashi’s mouth. “I know. I was here since 1942.” He pointed to the large plumeria tree, its trunk as wide as Keone’s broad shoulders. “That tree, same tree from back then. We waited under it, my family, before they took us away.”
“You were processed through this center?” I asked.
He nodded, his expression momentarily distant. “I will never forget.” He looked around, as if seeing ghosts among the tropical foliage. “Yamamoto-san’s garden began there,” he pointed to an area near the tree where butterfly-shaped markers fluttered in yellow and orange. “Beautiful garden with stone paths and crane statue. All destroyed when they built processing center.”
The air seemed heavier now, the cheerful birdsong at odds with the painful history beneath our feet. I could almost hear the echoes of that time—frightened whispers, shouted orders, the crunch of military boots on gravel paths where meditation spaces had once been.
“Did you know Pearl’s father?” Keone asked, his voice gentle against the backdrop of rustling palm fronds.
“Yamamoto-san was a friend, yes.” Takahashi’s face softened with the memory, the creases around his eyes crinkling. “After the war, when we came back, I helped rebuild.” A hint of anger flashed in the old man’s eyes, sharp and sudden like the darting of a tropical fish, as he pointed to the overgrown adjoining lot. “The Santoses stole this land. Felix was a bad man; did things when he ran the processing center.”
“What kind of things?” I asked, swiping damp hair back with my arm. The cooling humidity made me shiver.
Takahashi glanced around, the sound of wind through the distant chimes seeming to make him cautious. He leaned closer. “Took valuables from families. Jewelry, watches, family treasures. Say ‘for safekeeping,’ but never returned anything. Some people protested, they got beaten.” His voice dropped to a whisper that seemed to sink into the earth itself. “One man wen’ die.”
Keone and I exchanged glances, the weight of his words settling between us like the stillness before a storm. This went beyond a disputed land grab and confirmed what Leilani had told me was included in the oral memories she had recorded at the museum.
“And now, Pearl wants to create a memorial that would expose this history,” I said.
Takahashi nodded, his calloused fingers tightening on the rake handle. The wood was smooth from years of use, the grain polished by his hands. “Someone does not want old stories told. Someone dug here, two nights ago.”
That caught our attention. “Dug where?” Keone asked.
The old gardener led us to the plumeria tree, its broad canopy creating a cathedral-like space beneath. The ground was cooler, shaded from the sun, and the air seemed to hold the scents of decades—blossoms, earth, secrets. He pointed to an area where the soil appeared recently disturbed, the soil looser and not yet settled like the surrounding ground. “Here. Where the crane statue used to stand. I found it like this when I come yesterday morning. I told Kawika-san, but he say leave it, the police will handle.”
Keone and I exchanged glances as the dappled sunlight through the leaves played across our faces. “Did the police come?” I asked.
