Page 21 of Tiki Beach
“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.”
