Page 15 of Tiki Beach (Paradise Crime Cozy Mystery #6)
My phone buzzed with a text, the electronic chime startlingly modern in the setting of Pearl’s sunset-lit garden. It was Lei: “Let’s catch up soon. Toxicology report shows oleander wasn’t only toxin in tea.”
I showed the message to Keone, whose expression darkened as his brows drew down. “We need to tell her about this ID tag we found and the disturbed soil.”
“I think we have the motive for Pearl’s poisoning,” I said. “Whatever evidence she found, it goes beyond covering up land theft . . .”
“And the current mayor, Felix Santos’s grandson, has every reason to keep the past buried,” Keone said. The tag and its chain clinked softly as he tucked them into his pocket.
We thanked Takahashi for his help and promised to return soon. As we walked back to Keone’s vehicle, our feet leaving temporary impressions in the soft grass, the old gardener called after us, his voice carrying on the still evening air.
“Be careful! Old secrets have sharp teeth!”
A shiver zipped up my back at his words, canceled out by my stomach growling audibly as we got into the truck.
“I guess crime solving works up an appetite,” Keone teased, starting the engine.
“I haven’t eaten since your mom made me a kalua pork sandwich earlier in the day,” I admitted. “Any chance we could grab dinner?”
Keone glanced at his watch. “Braddah Hutts food truck should still be open in Hana. Perfect for a quick dinner before—” he paused, a gleam in his eyes, “before we visit the history museum again, this time without a chaperone.”
“The museum closes at 5:00,” I pointed out.
“True,” he agreed, pulling onto the main road. “But I bet we could learn a lot more from those archives about Pearl’s father and Felix Santos. This military ID tag is just the beginning.”
I considered, watching the tropical landscape blur past the window. “I’m sure Auntie Leilani would open up for us if we called her.”
“Yes,” Keone said, “but she’s eating with Rita and Maile tonight. Something about a fundraiser for the cat shelter.”
“How do you know that?”
“Maile told me when I dropped off a big bag of cat food from Kahului on my way to meet you.” Keone often found ways to smuggle groceries and other supplies onto his flights to Hana, saving seniors and low-income friends the lengthy, gas-consuming trip.
“Apparently, it’s a monthly planning session for their next adoption event. ”
Rita and her dedication to homeless cats, with Leilani and Maile as her steadfast supporters, were a powerful trio. “So. The museum is closed; Leilani is busy . . . are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
Keone kept his eyes on the road, but the corner of his mouth quirked up. “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just stating facts.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “And what about the breaking and entering laws?”
“Technically, it would be entering without breaking if someone happened to have certain skills,” he replied. “We’re just researching. Nothing will be taken or damaged. Hypothetically speaking.”
“And here I thought Pua was nosy.” I laughed, shaking my head. “Let’s get food first. I make better bad decisions when I’m not starving.”
* * *
Braddah Hutts food truck was parked in its usual spot just outside of town. A line of locals and a few adventurous tourists were already queued up for his famous poke bowls and plate lunches. The scent of grilled fish, roast pork, and sweet-spicy sauce made my mouth water as we joined the line.
“Keone! Kat!” a booming voice called out. Braddah Hutts’ manager waved from the service window. “Come, come! I make you a special plate!”
“Does everyone in town give you preferential treatment?” I whispered to Keone as we moved to the front of the line, ignoring good-natured grumbles from those waiting.
“Only the ones who owe me for carrying supplies or fixing their engines,” Keone replied with a wink.
The manager presented us with two enormous plates of fresh ahi poke and rice, with a side of mac salad and his secret recipe grilled vegetables.
“On the house,” he insisted when Keone tried to pay. “I hear you looking into what happen to Pearl. She good lady, deserve justice.”
“Thanks, man,” Keone said, accepting the plates. “You hear anything around town about who might have had it in for her?”
The big man leaned forward conspiratorially, his voice dropping to what he probably thought was a whisper but was really normal speaking volume. “Mayor Santos is looking nervous these days. His boy too—the one working for the planning department. They been having big arguments.”
“The mayor’s son is on the planning commission?” I clarified, accepting a pair of chopsticks.
“Yeah. David Santos. He’s in charge of permits for historical buildings, among other t’ings. Pearl been fighting with him about her garden project.” We thanked him for the information and the food, then found a picnic table overlooking the view.
The poke was perfect—fresh ahi tuna marinated in soy, sesame oil, and limu seaweed, topped with crisp onions and avocado. Before my move to Maui, I’d never have imagined enjoying such a dish, but I’d come to love it.
We ate in appreciative silence for a few minutes, watching the sunset dimming in the distance. “So, David Santos,” I said finally, setting down my chopsticks. “Hmm. The mayor’s son runs the department that’s been blocking Pearl’s permits.”
“And if Pearl had evidence that his grandfather was involved in crimes at the processing center . . .” Keone let the implication hang in the air between us.
“It’s a solid motive,” I agreed. “But we need more than circumstantial evidence and old rumors to tie them to this.”
“Which is why we need to get more information.” Keone collected our empty paper luau plates and disposed of them in a nearby bin. “So, what’s your decision, Postmaster Smith? Are we going to be law-abiding citizens who wait until tomorrow, or . . .”
I sighed, already knowing what I was going to do. “Let’s drive by the museum and assess the situation.”
* * *
The Hana History Museum was dark and silent as we pulled into the small parking lot beside it. The restored storefront looked almost imposing in the deepening twilight, its white exterior ghostly against the darkening sky.
“No lights, no cars,” Keone observed. “Definitely closed.”
I pulled out my phone and tried Leilani’s number, but as expected, it went straight to voicemail. “She’s probably in the middle of dinner with Rita.”
We sat in silence for a moment, the truck’s engine ticking as it cooled.
“We could come back tomorrow,” Keone suggested, though his tone made it clear he wasn’t enthusiastic about that option.
I drummed my fingers on the dashboard, weighing the moral implications against the urgency of our investigation.
Pearl was still unconscious in the hospital.
Someone had tried to kill her. And the answers to why might be sitting in those archives, just waiting to be discovered.
We had to help Lei put together the background of her case.
“Leilani would let us in if she were around,” I finally said. “And we won’t disturb or disrespect anything. Do you have a flashlight?”
“In the glove compartment.”
I reached in and retrieved a small but powerful tactical light, then fished in my purse for the leather case I’d started carrying months ago. Lock picking was a useful skill for a postal employee who occasionally dealt with stuck mailboxes as well as her own private investigator business.
“You know,” Keone said, watching me unzip the case to reveal the slim metal tools inside, “you were pretty hard on Pua for doing exactly what you’re about to do.”
“That’s different,” I protested. “She was satisfying her curiosity. We’re investigating an attempted murder.”
“Uh-huh,” he said with a twinkle.
Mr. K’s twinkle was one of my favorite things, but I was getting grumpy with my conscience acting up. “Are you going to help or just provide give me bad ideas and then provide commentary?”
“Both. I’m a multitasker.”
The museum’s back door was solid but old, its lock a simple deadbolt that presented little challenge. The lock clicked open with satisfying ease, and I turned the handle, edgy with the knowledge that we were definitely breaking a few laws.
“We’re in,” I whispered. “Now we just need to find the archives without turning on any lights that might be visible from outside.”
The museum was eerily quiet, the displays creating shadowy silhouettes in the dim light filtering through the windows. We tiptoed through the main gallery, our footsteps muffled on lauhala mats covering the wooden floors.
The research room was at the back of the building, and we made our way there by the beam of Keone’s flashlight. I made sure the blackout blinds were down, before turning on a light.
“Leilani showed us the Yamamoto Collection earlier,” I said, scanning the cabinet labels. “Now we need to look for anything related to Felix Santos and the processing center.”
We found the cabinet marked “Internment Records – Maui County” and donned white gloves from the nearby box. We began carefully sifting through the files.
Time seemed to stretch as we worked methodically through decades-old documents, the only sounds our breathing and the occasional crackle of paper.
“Look at this,” Keone said after about twenty minutes. He’d found a folder labeled “Processing Center Staff – 1942-1943” and was examining a typewritten roster. “Felix Santos is listed as ‘Civilian Liaison – Security Division.’”
“And here’s something interesting,” I said, poring over a different file. “Pearl’s father, Takeo Yamamoto, is listed as a translator for military intelligence.”
“A translator?” Keone moved to look over my shoulder. “That’s not something they would typically advertise about Japanese-Americans during internment.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed, reading further. “According to this, he was recruited because of his fluency in several Japanese dialects. He worked with military intelligence to translate intercepted communications.”