Page 31 of Tiki Beach
Once Tiki had sauntered out into the sunshine, Pua opened the counter and trotted across the lobby to close the door behind her.
“I’ll finish cleaning,” she said.
“I’ve got it,” I assured her. “Least I can do since my cat desecrated the workplace.”
I quickly disposed of the rat in our outdoor trash bin before thoroughly scrubbing the counter. In spite of my disgust (maybe because of it?) my stomach let out an embarrassingly loud growl. I’d skipped breakfast in my rush to get to work after the late night at Keone’s, and it was now well past my usual lunch time.
“Take your break early,” Pua suggested. “I can handle things here. It’s dead anyway.” She raised a brow. “Pun intended.”
Through the front window, I could see Tiki sitting in the dirt parking lot, her tail twitching as she stared at the general store.
“I think I will,” I decided. “Seems like Tiki wants to visit Opal and Artie’s place. Maybe they have that ahi tuna sandwich special today.”
“The one with the mango aioli?” Pua asked wistfully. “If they do, could you bring one back for me?”
“Sure. Consider it a peace offering to make up for this morning’s trauma,” I said, stripping off my gloves and grabbing my wallet.
Outside, the sun was warm with a gentle trade wind. Tiki, spotting me, stood and stretched before trotting across the parking lot toward the general store in the lead, her tail held high as a furry flag.
“I’m coming, Your Feline Overlord Majesty,” I called after her.
I glanced back at the glass doors of the post office. As I’d suspected might be the real reason she’d hustled me out, Pua was thoroughly disinfecting and scrubbing the entire counter again. “We may never get the place clean again, Tiki. Thanks a lot.”
My cat did not deign to reply.
Opal and Artie’s General Store occupied a building that had once been the town’s first trading post. Its weathered wooden exterior had been lovingly maintained, while the interior had been modernized just enough to accommodate refrigeration and health department requirements without losing its creaky, squeaky, historic charm.
The bell above the door jingled as I entered. The store was filled with the eclectic mix of items that made the place interesting to tourists and indispensable to locals: groceries, fishing supplies, beachwear, homeopathic remedies, incense, local crafts, and the café counter serving Artie’s daily lunch special.
Artie had started out featuring coffee and malasadas from a local bakery and homemade coffee cake on Sundays. Demand had led to creative expansion of his culinary talents into takeaway lunch items I’d come to count on, along with half the town of Ohia.
Tiki slipped past me to run toward Opal, who was arranging hand-woven lauhala pendants in a display case. Opal was dressed in flowing purple gauze pants and a tie-dyed top, her white hair wrapped in a turquoise scarf adorned with tiny sparkling mirrors. Around her neck hung no fewer than seven necklaces of varying lengths, each featuring crystals, symbols, or charms that clinked softly with her movements.
“Tiki!” Opal’s voice rang out. “What cosmic timing! I was just thinking about your mama and wondering when she’d be by for the weekly ahi sandwich.”
“You caught me,” I said. “And Tiki’s here to find any fish flakes that might have fallen through the cracks. She already terrorized Pua and me with a rat delivery.”
“Ah, a gift from the hunting goddess.” Opal nodded, as if dead mice were perfectly acceptable offerings in polite society. “She’s manifesting protective energy today.”
Artie emerged from the back room, carrying a tray of wrapped sandwiches. Unlike his wife’s bohemian appearance, Artie favored size XXL aloha shirts and cargo shorts, though his salt-and-pepper beard gave him a slightly wizardly look that complemented Opal’s mysticism.
“Kat! Perfect timing,” he said. He always seemed to recognize when I was in the room, blind or not. “Tuna special just finished. You want the works on yours?”
“Yes, please,” I replied. “And one to go for Pua. She’s holding down the fort at the post office.”
“Coming right up,” he said, disappearing through the connecting door to their adjoining home, where he made the store’s daily offerings in their kitchen.
Opal crouched beside Tiki, who had settled regally on a cushion behind the counter that seemed to have been placed there specifically for her.
“She’s agitated,” Opal observed, bangle bracelets jangling as she stroked Tiki’s fur. “The energies are shifting. She feels it.”
I’d learned not to dismiss Opal’s intuitions, despite their over-the-top packaging. Behind the crystals and cosmic terminology was a remarkably perceptive woman who noticed things others missed.
“We had a busy night,” I said, leaning against the counter. “Keone and I found some pretty disturbing information about the Santos family’s connection to Pearl’s family’s land.”
Opal’s eyes widened with interest. “The past reaching into the present,” she said. “The runes have been restless.”
Before I could ask what exactly constituted “restless runes,” Artie returned with a plate bearing the most glorious tuna sandwich in existence—fresh ahi, lightly seared and chilled, on home-made focaccia with local greens, thin-sliced Maui onion, avocado, and the shop’s famous lilikoi aioli that somehow balanced sweet, tangy, and savory.
