Page 22 of Tiki Beach (Paradise Crime Cozy Mystery #6)

Pearl’s beach house looked different to me by the time we got back to Hana in Keone’s tiny plane and then drove to Ohia.

The lush, peaceful gardens seemed to hide shadows as we approached, while the ocean breeze carried chill whispers.

I bit my lip, using the tiny pain to remind myself not to get too fanciful.

Officer Mahelona, Lei’s contact, met us at the front door.

His imposing uniformed frame blocked the entrance until he verified our identities.

Young but serious, he had the hypervigilant demeanor of someone determined not to let anything happen on his watch.

“Detective Texeira briefed me,” he said, stepping aside to let us enter.

“Full access to the house, but I’m to stay with you to protect the chain of evidence retrieval. ”

“Understood,” Keone said, with a nod of professional respect as all three of us donned latex gloves. “We’re looking for a specific item. A wooden box with a crane carving. Likely sandalwood, probably old.”

“Size?” Mahelona asked.

“Small enough to hide,” I said. “Maybe the size of a jewelry box or a thick book.”

The interior of the house was immaculate, showing Kawika’s careful attention during Pearl’s absence. Everything seemed precisely arranged, from the stack of gardening magazines on the coffee table to the row of orchids blooming serenely on the windowsill.

“Where should we start?” I asked, feeling overwhelmed by the tall cabinets and packed shelves. Pearl had lived in this house for decades. A small box could be hidden anywhere.

Keone tipped his head back and closed his eyes, musing. “If I were hiding something important, I’d want it close, but not obvious. Somewhere I could access it or check on it regularly without drawing attention.”

“Her bedroom,” I decided. “Let’s start there.”

Pearl’s bedroom was as meticulously kept as the rest of the house.

The four-poster bed was made with hospital corners, a colorful silken spread smoothly draped across it.

Family photographs lined the dresser—Pearl as a young woman with her parents, Pearl at her teaching retirement ceremony, Pearl with various groups of students over the years, Pearl with her husband.

I started with the dresser drawers, carefully pulling out and examining each one without disturbing the perfectly folded contents. Nothing seemed unusual or out of place. Keone checked the large walk-in closet.

Officer Mahelona checked beneath the bed and behind the headboard, his movements efficient. “Nothing here,” he reported.

We expanded our search to the en suite bathroom, the hall closet, the guest bedroom. Each space yielded nothing but more evidence of Pearl’s organized, purposeful life.

“This isn’t working,” I said after an hour. “We’re thinking too conventionally. Pearl is cleverer than this.”

“You’re right,” Keone agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. “She hid evidence in origami cranes. She wouldn’t just stick the box in a cabinet.”

“But we know she used to keep it in her desk. Before it held important evidence. So it’s probably here in the house.

” I stood in the center of the living room, trying to think like Pearl.

“If I had a precious family heirloom containing evidence that could destroy a powerful family, where would I keep it?”

My eyes swept the room, taking in details I’d overlooked before: traditional Japanese calligraphy scrolls on the walls. A collection of ceramic figures arranged on a shelf. The small Buddhist shrine in the corner with incense holders and a photograph of Pearl’s parents.

“The shrine. It’s perfect.” I moved toward the elevated table in the corner. On top sat a framed photograph of Pearl’s parents and husband, incense holders, and a small bell. What I had initially taken to be a decorative base was a wooden rectangle marked with intricate carving.

“That’s it,” I breathed, kneeling on the low padded bench before the shrine. I removed the items atop the box carefully and set them aside. Then I removed the sandalwood box and held it, examining the exterior as Keone and Officer Mahelona came close to observe.

The sandalwood’s rich reddish color had deepened with age and regular handling. The top was carved with an exquisite flying crane, wings outstretched in flight, every feather detailed with remarkable craftsmanship. It was heavier than it looked, suggesting contents beyond the merely ceremonial.

The box didn’t have a conventional closure, but rather a clever wooden sliding mechanism that required a specific sequence to open. I examined it carefully, noting worn spots where fingers had pressed over many years.

“May I?” Keone asked, extending his hands.

I passed him the box. He turned it with his fingers exploring the mechanism with sensitivity. “It’s a Japanese puzzle box,” he explained. “My grandfather had one. You have to slide the panels in the right sequence.”

His fingers moved deliberately across the box, sliding small sections of wood in a pattern that seemed random to my untrained eye but clearly followed some internal logic. After some manipulation, there was a soft click, and the top panel shifted slightly.

“Got it,” Keone said, gently sliding the top open.

Inside, nestled in faded silk, lay a small leatherbound journal, its cover cracked with age and handling. Beside it was a folded document that looked like a map or diagram, and a small cloth pouch tied with a faded red cord.

“This is it,” I said softly. “Takeo Yamamoto’s journal.”

Keone carefully lifted the journal from the box, handling it with the reverence it deserved. He opened it to reveal pages filled with neat Japanese characters interspersed with sections in English.

“I can’t read the Japanese parts,” he said after a minute of scanning, “but the English sections seem to be Takeo’s observations about the processing center.”

I leaned closer, reading over his shoulder:

“August 12, 1942 - Tanaka-san confronted Santos today about the missing family ceremonial sword. Santos claimed all confiscated items were documented and would be returned after the war, but I have seen his private collection growing. When Tanaka-san demanded proof of documentation, Santos ordered him removed from the mess hall. Later, I heard shouting near the storage buildings. When I investigated, I saw Santos strike Tanaka and push him. He fell to the bottom of the loading dock stairs. When I called for help, Santos claimed he had fallen, but there was blood on Santos’s uniform cuff that he quickly covered.

Tanaka-san died an hour later without regaining consciousness.”

“This is direct eyewitness testimony of Felix Santos’s involvement in Tanaka’s death,” Keone said grimly. “No wonder the family was desperate to prevent this from coming to light.”

I continued reading the next entry:

“August 13, 1942 - During the confusion after Tanaka-san’s death, I managed to retrieve several items from Santos’s private collection in his office—a list of ‘confiscated’ valuables with their estimated worth, and Santos’s military ID which he lost during the struggle with Tanaka-san.

I have hidden these items where they will be safe until they can serve as evidence of his crimes.

If anything happens to me, this journal will guide my family to the truth. ”

“The ID tag we found under the plumeria tree,” I said. “Takeo took it as evidence. But we didn’t find any list.”

“Maybe whoever was digging under the tree before us got it first,” Keone said. “Let’s see what else is in here.” He unfolded the document that had been stored alongside the journal.

It was indeed a map—a detailed drawing of the Yamamoto property showing the original Japanese garden, the processing center buildings that had been erected during the war, and various landmarks, including the plumeria tree.

Small ‘X’ marks with dates appeared at several locations around the property.

I whipped out my phone and took photos of everything. “He buried evidence in multiple spots,” I exclaimed. “The ID tag was just one piece.”

“Look at this,” Keone said, pointing to a notation near what was now Pearl’s garden shed. “August 15, 1942 – Full inventory list and photographic evidence.”

“We need to check that location,” I said, excitement building. “If the full inventory still exists?—”

“It would prove systematic theft, not just isolated incidents,” Keone finished.

“And we could get those items back to the families who lost them,” I said.

“This box is a treasure trove of evidence,” Keone said, carefully returning the items to their places. “Not just about historical wrongs, but about the motive for Pearl’s poisoning.”

I closed the box reverently, the puzzle mechanism clicking back into place. “We need to get this to Lei immediately.”

“I’ll get an evidence bag and take it to the station once backup arrives,” Officer Mahelona said, reaching for his radio. “Something this important shouldn’t travel without proper security.”

As he stepped away, my phone buzzed with an incoming text.

It was from Pua: “Ok, I did it again. I’m at your house.

Aunt Fae and I steamed open Pearl’s letter.

Seriously, you need to see this. Historical Preservation Society confirms grant for Tea Garden BUT it’s cc’d to Councilman Akana as project sponsor.

Thought Ilima was sponsor? Something is weird here. ”

I showed the message to Keone. “Why would Councilman Akana be listed as the project sponsor for Pearl’s garden? I thought Ilima was handling the political side of things.”

“Good question,” Keone replied, his expression thoughtful. “Akana is on Ilima’s campaign team, right? The third member alongside Pearl?”

“Yes, but he’s been pretty much in the background. We haven’t heard much about his involvement with the garden project specifically.” I typed a quick reply to Pua: “Hold the letter. Coming to see it soon. Don’t mention to anyone else.”