Page 13 of Tiki Beach (Paradise Crime Cozy Mystery #6)

“Poi Dog had a good long life. Rita has promised me a kitten to keep me company, but there are so many cuties at her shelter I haven’t been able to make up my mind and choose one yet.

” Leilani rolled her shoulders and put the smile back on her face.

“So. To my original question. What brings you two by? You’re both so busy, I’m sure it’s something important. ”

“We’re looking into what happened to Pearl,” I said. “And we need to learn more about the Japanese processing center that was on her property during World War II.”

After asking after Pearl’s health, Leilani frowned.

“I heard about that processing center. And Pearl’s Heritage Garden project, of course.

” She nodded. “Pearl has spent time researching that history here—gathering documents and making copies. Come, I have a special collection she’s been working with. You can take a look at it.”

She led us through the museum’s main gallery, past displays of ancient Hawaiian fishing tools, plantation era photographs, and modern cultural revival artifacts. At the back of the building was a small research room lined with archival boxes and leatherbound volumes.

“This is our special collections area,” Auntie Leilani explained, using a key from the ring at her waist to unlock a cabinet. “Pearl donated many of her family’s papers to us over the years, but recently she’s been particularly interested in the wartime period.”

She pulled out a large archival box labeled “Yamamoto Collection – WWII” and placed it on the reading table. “These materials are quite fragile. Some haven’t been fully cataloged yet.”

“Thank you for sharing them with us,” I said sincerely.

Auntie Leilani smiled, the crinkles around her eyes deepening. “Pearl would want you to see the papers.” She paused, her expression growing serious. “Is it true, what the rumors say? Was she poisoned?”

“I really can’t discuss it, I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Auntie Leilani crossed herself, a gesture that reflected the islands’ complex religious heritage. “Such wickedness. Pearl is a treasure to this community—to this island.”

“We think it might be connected to her Heritage Garden project,” Ilima said. “And possibly to the Santos family.”

I darted a glance at her; we hadn’t decided to share that much with Leilani.

Leilani nodded, though, taking this disclosure in stride. “That wouldn’t surprise me. There are dark chapters in Hana’s history that some powerful families would prefer to keep buried.” She gestured to the box. “These might help you understand why.”

She pulled a pair of white cotton gloves from a cardboard dispenser and donned them.

With practiced hands, she began to carefully remove items from the archival box: a leather photo album, bundles of letters tied with faded ribbon, official-looking documents in protective sleeves, and several manila folders containing newspaper clippings.

“This album contains photographs from the processing center,” she explained, opening it to reveal black and white images that made my heart ache with their stark documentation of suffering.

Families stood with small suitcases, identification tags pinned to their clothing. Military police with rifles stood guard beside a large wooden building with a sign reading “Processing Center #3.”

“That building stood where Pearl’s garden shed is now,” Auntie Leilani said, pointing to the photograph. “They processed over three hundred local Japanese-Americans through that facility in 1942.”

“Including Pearl’s family?” Ilima asked.

Auntie Leilani nodded solemnly, flipping to another page. “Here.”

The photograph showed a young Japanese couple with three small children. The woman held an infant, while two young girls—perhaps five and seven—stood stoically beside their father. A handwritten caption below read: “Yamamoto family, April 1942.”

“Pearl is the baby,” she said softly. “She was just six months old when they were sent to a camp on the continent. Her older sisters both died of influenza there. Her parents returned to Maui after the war with only Pearl surviving.”

My throat tightened at the casual documentation of such profound loss. “And they had to fight to keep their home and lost the bigger portion of land.”

“The legal battle took nearly two years,” Leilani confirmed, pulling out a folder of legal documents.

“During that time, Felix Santos acted as civilian administrator for the processing center property. When the Yamamotos finally won their case and returned, they found their gardens destroyed and their home ransacked.”

Ilima’s expression darkened. “And no compensation, I’m guessing.”

“None,” Auntie Leilani agreed. “But here’s an interesting twist—Felix Santos was dismissed from his position on the property commission shortly after the Yamamotos won their case. Rumor was that certain improprieties came to light.”

“What kind of improprieties?” I asked.

Auntie Leilani’s voice dropped, though we were alone in the room.

“The official records are vague. But there were suggestions of theft, abuse of power, maybe worse.” She pulled out a folder marked “Oral Histories” and selected a transcript.

“This is from an interview I conducted with Mrs. Tanaka in 1998, shortly before she passed. She was processed through Center #3 and spoke about valuables being confiscated, never to be returned. About beatings for minor rule infractions.”

She hesitated, then added, “There was even mention of a death—a man who protested the treatment of his elderly mother. Mrs. Tanaka wouldn’t name names but said ‘the man in charge’ was responsible.”

“Felix Santos,” Ilima said grimly.

“That was the implication,” Auntie Leilani nodded. “Pearl believes her father had evidence of Santos’s misconduct—something so damaging that the Santos family has been trying to suppress it for generations.”

I turned more pages in the photo album, studying images of the processing center grounds. One showed a stone garden with a wooden crane sculpture at its center. “Is this?—”

“The original Japanese garden on the property,” Auntie Leilani confirmed. “Pearl’s father was a master gardener who created a traditional meditation garden before the war. The crane statue was carved by her grandfather.”

“ ‘The crane will fly once more ,’” I murmured, remembering the note.

“Exactly,” Auntie Leilani smiled. “Pearl wants to recreate her father’s garden as part of the Heritage site. The original crane statue disappeared during the war, but she commissioned a replica based on these photographs.”

We spent another hour poring over the historical documents, learning that after the war, the processing center buildings were dismantled, and the Yamamoto family slowly rebuilt their lives on their reclaimed property.

“Pearl inherited the house in the 1980s when her parents passed away; she still wants the five acres next to it for the Heritage Garden. She considers it hallowed ground. The Heritage Garden would be her way of honoring those who suffered there while reclaiming the beauty her grandfather originally created.”

“And Mayor Santos has been fighting the project through zoning regulations and permit denials,” I noted. “Not to mention refusing to release the property back to Pearl.”

Auntie Leilani’s eyes flashed with rarely seen anger.

“Politics and pride. The Santos family has spent generations crafting their image as Hana’s benefactors.

Pearl’s garden would reveal the ugly truth beneath that facade.

” She carefully closed the photo album. “Two nights ago, Pearl called me, very excited. Said she’d found ‘the final piece’ and that justice would finally be served. ”

“Maybe that’s what was in the sandalwood box,” Ilima said, touching her intricate shell necklace.

Leilani looked surprised. “You know about the crane box?”

“We know it’s missing,” I explained. “And that it might contain evidence about what happened at the processing center.”

Leilani frowned. “Bad news that it’s gone.

Pearl believed her father’s journal from that period survived.

Something he hid for safekeeping.” She set aside some documents.

“I’ll make copies of what might be helpful to your case.

” After she gave me the copied papers, she repacked the archival materials.

“If someone poisoned Pearl to prevent that evidence from coming to light . . .”

“Then they might go after anyone else who knows about it,” I said.

Auntie Leilani met my gaze steadily. “I’ve lived a long life. I’m not afraid of threats. But Pearl—” Her voice caught slightly. “Pearl deserves to see her garden of truth and reconciliation become reality.”

“We’ll find who did this,” I promised, helping her replace the last of the documents.

“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.”