Page 22 of Tiki Beach
“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.”
“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.
