Page 12 of Tiki Beach (Paradise Crime Cozy Mystery #6)

Edith Pepperwhite’s law office occupied the second floor of a restored Victorian building on Hana’s main street.

A brass plaque beside the door proclaimed “Pepperwhite Legal Services: Family Law, Estate Planning, and Historical Property Rights” in bold, elegant script that somehow managed to convey Edith’s forceful personality.

I turned the knob of the office door. A bell chimed somewhere inside as I stepped over the threshold. “THERE you are!” Edith exclaimed, the volume making the framed law degrees on the wall vibrate. “I’ve been going bananas worrying!”

Edith Pepperwhite, five-foot-no inches of pure legal determination and personality—swooped out of the back.

She wore a lavender muumuu , with a red hat adorned with what appeared to be artificial fruit.

The effect was somewhere between eccentric grandmother lawn gnome and tropical Carmen Miranda.

She grabbed me in a hug like a purple-clad hawk landing on a pigeon.

“It’s only ten a.m., Edith,” I pointed out, disentangling myself. Edith was someone whose hugs I still occasionally found claustrophobic, a throwback to the touchphobia I’d worked hard to overcome. “I came as soon as I could.”

“Well, you’re here now, that’s what matters.” She led me into her office, towing me by the hand with surprising strength for someone her size. “Terrible business with Pearl. TERRIBLE. And now the police asking questions about poison of all things!”

“Detective Texeira interviewed you already?” I asked, settling into one of the leather chairs across from Edith’s imposing desk.

“First thing this morning!” Edith confirmed, bustling around to sit behind her desk. “We did a Zoom. But—as if I would know anything about plant toxins!” She shook her head, refocusing. “That’s neither here nor there. I called you about Pearl’s papers.”

“For the Heritage Tea Garden project?”

“Exactly!” Edith pulled a thick folder from a neat stack on her desk.

“Pearl asked me to handle all the legal aspects. Historical site designation, educational trust setup, the works.” She lowered her voice dramatically.

“What she didn’t tell me initially was how politically explosive this project would be! ”

“Because of Mayor Santos?” I asked.

Edith’s eyes widened. “You know about that connection?”

“Ilima filled us in on some of it,” I said. “Something about land seizure during the internment period?”

“Land seizure is right,” Edith said, her voice dropping as she leaned forward conspiratorially. “And therein lies the scandal.” She flipped open the folder, revealing yellowed documents protected in plastic sleeves. “I’ve been researching what happened. The paper trail is quite . . . illuminating.”

She pulled out a document and handed it to me. It was a property deed dated 1939, with the name “Yamamoto” clearly visible.

“Pearl’s family owned the entire plot of land since the 1920s,” Edith explained. “Prime oceanfront property consisting of what’s now Pearl’s current house and the adjacent five acres she wants for the garden. But here’s where it gets interesting.”

She pulled out another document—this one a bill of sale dated April 1942.

“After Pearl Harbor, Japanese-Americans were given just days to settle their affairs before being sent to camps. Felix Santos—our current mayor’s grandfather—was on the local property commission that facilitated these transfers.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “He tried to acquire the Yamamoto property?”

“EXACTLY!” Edith’s volume returned. “This document purports to be a bill of sale for the entire Yamamoto estate, transferring it to the Santos family for one-tenth of its value. Felix Santos even had the gall to have it notarized.”

“But it didn’t go through?” I asked, studying the paper, which had “DISPUTED” stamped across it in faded red ink.

“That’s the miracle,” Edith said, her blue eyes gleaming. “Pearl’s grandfather was remarkably foresighted. Before the war, he had established a trust with a Honolulu law firm, with specific provisions that no sale of the property during wartime could be valid without the firm’s approval.”

“Smart man.”

“Brilliant, actually,” Edith said. “When Felix Santos tried to register the deed, the law firm challenged it. The matter was tied up in legal limbo until after the war, when the Yamamotos fought to reclaim their property.”

“So they won?”

“Eventually, yes. But they only got the house and its immediate grounds. And not without consequences.” Edith pulled out a newspaper clipping from 1947. The headline read: “Japanese Family Reclaims Disputed Property After Legal Battle.”

“Felix Santos was publicly humiliated,” Edith explained. “He had already started developing plans for the property, assuming it would be his. The scandal nearly ruined him.”

“But the Santos family recovered,” I said. “They’re one of the wealthiest families on the island now.”

“Yes, but they never forgot that defeat, and they haven’t been able to develop the five-acre parcel they kept from the Yamamotos,” Edith said. “And here’s another aspect: the entire Yamamoto property became a military processing center during the war.”

“Processing center?” I frowned. “You mean like a detention facility?”

“A temporary one for this side of the island,” Edith said. “Before Japanese-Americans were sent to the main internment camps on the mainland, they were processed at local facilities.”

“So Pearl’s family was processed for internment on their own land?” I asked, the bitter irony not lost on me.

“And Felix Santos was appointed as the civilian liaison to that processing center,” Edith said. “He had authority there, despite not being able to claim the land fully.”

“And now, eighty years later, Pearl wants to turn that land into a memorial garden,” I said, tapping my chin thoughtfully. “Which will publicly expose the Santos family’s land grab and whatever else went on. Maybe that’s why someone tried to kill Pearl before the Garden could go public.”

Edith raised a hand to her mouth, her eyes widening. “It’s so drastic. You really think that’s why? Because of this historical project?”

“It’s a strong possibility,” I said. “Especially with Mayor Santos facing a tough reelection campaign against Ilima Kaihale. This kind of historical scandal could end his career.”

“And destroy his family’s reputation. The Santos name is everywhere on this side of the island.”

“Is there anything else in these documents that might help us understand what Pearl discovered?” I asked.

Edith pulled out a small slip of paper. “Pearl left this with me last week. Said if anything happened to her, I should give it to you.” She handed me what looked like an old receipt.

On the back, in Pearl’s neat handwriting, were the words: “Under the plumeria, where the crane once stood . . . the truth is buried but not forgotten.”

“Interesting,” I said, thinking of the mysterious message in the note we’d steamed open.

“Pearl has a flair for the dramatic,” Edith said with affection. “But I think she could be referring to the old plumeria tree at the edge of her property, butting up against the disputed five-acre parcel. It’s been there since before the war, she said.”

I tucked the note carefully into my backpack. “I could check the Hana History Museum before visiting the site. They might have photographs or records from the processing center era.”

“Excellent!” Edith boomed, making me jump. “I’ve been meaning to dig deeper there myself. Talk to Leilani—she’s been helping Pearl with the historical research for the garden project.”

“Auntie Leilani?” I asked. “Rita’s cat-feeding volunteer? I know her.”

“One and the same!” Edith adjusted her fruit-laden hat. “Just don’t get her started on the sugar plantation era unless you have hours to spare.”

With that, I thanked Edith and headed for the Hana History Museum, housed in a plantation era building near the center of town.

I hadn’t had breakfast and the day had been busy; my belly complained loudly of neglect. Keone had flights today, but I had time to swing by Ilima’s house and beg for some food—and catch the third party in our little investigative team up on recent events.

“With my luck she’ll want to come along,” I muttered. “But I bet Leilani will roll out the red carpet for Ilima and make my job easier at the museum.”

People tended to do that for Ilima, and that could be to our advantage.

* * *

The Hana History Museum occupied a vintage building that was a part of a small village complex. Though small by mainland standards, it housed an impressive collection of artifacts, photographs, and documents chronicling the area’s rich multicultural history.

I pushed open the museum’s door, and the old-fashioned bell over the portal tinkled as Ilima Kaihale and I entered the cool interior with its creaky wooden floors.

I spotted Leilani crouched behind a display case, carefully arranging what looked like antique fishing implements inside the glass rectangle.

Her silver-streaked dark hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and she wore a simple blue muumuu with a subtle floral pattern.

“ Aloha Leilani,” Ilima called.

Leilani straightened and turned, her face lighting up with recognition.

“Ilima Kaihale! And Kat the postmaster!” She came around the display case to greet us, offering hugs that smelled of plumeria and the faint hint of catnip—evidence of her volunteer work at Rita’s shelter.

“What brings you two to my little museum?”

“First—where’s Poi Dog?” I asked, glancing past her into the rooms beyond for her aged hound, whose clicking toenails had accompanied Leilani’s every move during the case we’d investigated at Christmas.

A shadow fell across Leilani’s face; her smile disappeared. “Poi Dog has crossed the rainbow bridge.”

“Oh no!” Ilima exclaimed. “He was a fixture here! I’m so sorry, Leilani.”

“As am I,” I said. “He was such a sweet old boy.”