Page 8 of Tiki Beach
“I was the first to get to her house. And . . . well, for one thing, Pearl seemed . . . a little nervous.” Opal lowered her voice, though we were the only ones in the store. “And she had that little sandalwood box on the side table—you know, the carved one with the crane design?”
I nodded, remembering the ornate box from another visit.
“When I arrived early to help with the teacups, I saw her slip something inside it and lock it with a tiny key she wore around her neck. She was startled when she noticed me watching.” Opal leaned closer. “And when she was pouring the tea, her hands were shaking. Pearl Yamamoto never has shaky hands, Kat.”
“Did you see anything else unusual?” I asked, pushing the half-eaten bowl of stew aside.
“The phone rang just before everyone arrived. Pearl answered it in the kitchen, and when she came back, her face was pale.” Opal shook her head, the unicorn pin catching the light. “I mean, paler than usual. She tried to hide it, but I’ve known that woman for forty years. Something frightened her.”
“Her words were pretty defiant later on,” I said. “That ‘pound sand’ phrase.”
“I had the feeling she was talking herself into that,” Opal said.
Artie slid a glass of water toward me with perfect aim. “You planning to look into this, Kitty Kat? Because if something happened to Pearl that wasn’t natural?—”
“I’m already on it,” I assured him, thinking of the envelope in my desk and the tea samples with Lei. “But I need to be careful. If someone did something to Pearl . . .”
“Then they might not want anyone asking questions,” Opal finished. “And she’s vulnerable in a high-traffic place like the hospital.”
The store’s bell jingled, announcing a customer. Opal squeezed my hand before rising to attend to them, leaving me with a bowl of cooling stew and a glass of cold water.
I polished off the last few bites, the warmth settling my stomach even as a chill of unease ran down my spine.
Artie patted my hand silently; his was warm and calloused from many hours of guitar playing. “I have a feeling she’ll be okay,” he said. He went across the store and began unloading canned goods onto a shelf.
Opal returned after directing the customer to the small hardware section.
“Opal,” I said, pushing my empty bowl aside, “would you cast your runes? See what they might say about Pearl?”
She didn’t look surprised by my request. Her hand instinctively went to her pocket where she always kept the hand-carved kukui nut shell runes. She’d made them herself decades ago, polishing each shell to a warm glow before etching the ancient symbols with meticulous care.
“Artie,” Opal called softly across the store to where her husband was rearranging canned goods by touch alone.
“Hmm?” He cocked his head in her direction, always attuned to the shifts in her voice.
“Would you mind turning the sign to CLOSED for a bit? Kat needs a reading.”
Without hesitation, Artie navigated the familiar path to the front door. His fingers found the hanging sign and flipped it with practiced ease.
“Take your time,” he said, sliding the deadbolt into place.
Opal unwound the black velvet scarf from around her neck, laying it across the counter with care. The fabric created a light-absorbing, intimate space between us. Her rhinestone unicorn pin, still attached, caught the overhead light as she leaned forward, sending prismatic reflections dancing across the ceiling.
“I haven’t done a reading about something this serious since the last time you had a case,” she murmured, reaching into her pocket. The kukui nut shells made a soft clacking sound as she withdrew them in their leather pouch. She poured them out and, cupped them in her weathered palms. Thirteen pieces in total, each one polished to a deep mahogany gleam, each one bearing a symbol that seemed to breathe in the dim light of the store.
“Focus your thoughts on Pearl,” she instructed, closing her eyes and keeping her hands cupped around the shells. “Think on what happened yesterday, on what you feel in your gut about it all.”
I did as she asked, concentrating on Pearl’s face just before she collapsed, on Tiki’s strange reaction to the tea, on the rustle in the vegetation alongside the deck.
Opal’s lips moved in a silent prayer or invocation—I’d never asked which—before she cast the runes onto the velvet scarf with a practiced flick of her wrists. The kukui nut shells scattered across the black fabric, some clustering together, others landing far apart. One rolled off the scarf entirely, clattering to the floor.
“Oh,” Opal breathed, her eyes widening as she surveyed the pattern. Her expression grew grave.
Artie had made his way back to us, his hands finding the edge of the counter. “What do you see, love?”
Opal touched three shells that had landed in a tight triangle. “Secrets,” she said softly. “Old ones. From before.” Her finger moved to another shell that had landed upside down. “Betrayal. Something hidden being revealed.”
I leaned closer, drawn to the patterns though I couldn’t interpret them. “What about Pearl? Is she going to be okay?”
