Page 34 of Tiki Beach
I opened the drawer marked “Personal Collection” and caught my breath. Inside were dozens—perhaps hundreds—of expertly folded paper cranes in every imaginable color and pattern. Some were tiny, barely larger than my thumbnail, while others were the size of my palm. They were arranged in neat rows, each one perfect in its complex folds.
“She must have been folding these for years,” I said aloud, carefully lifting one to examine it. The paper was high-quality, and the crane was folded with such precision that every angle was crisp and clean.
But what struck me most was the weight. The crane felt slightly heavier than it should, as if something more than paper comprised its form.
Carefully, I began to unfold it, trying to minimize damage to the delicate paper. As the folds opened, I noticed tiny, precise handwriting covering the interior surface—dates, names, and what appeared to be monetary amounts.
“She wrote on them before folding,” I realized. “The cranes aren’t just art—they’re her documentation.”
A noise at the door made me jump, but it was only Tiki. She must have pushed the swing-style front door open. She strolled in as if she owned the place, leapt onto the nearby craft table, and began inspecting the unfolded crane I held with feline curiosity. She then walked over and pawed gently at a different crane in the drawer—this one folded from metallic red paper with gold accents. Unlike the others, which were arranged in rows, this one sat slightly apart.
“That one, Tiki? Okay, I’ll check it out.” I carefully lifted the crane. Like the first, it felt weightier than expected. But the weight came not just from writing, but from something small and solid nestled within the folds. As the last crease came undone, a tiny metallic object fell onto the table.
“A data drive,” I breathed, picking up the small device. It was no larger than my fingernail, one of those ultra-compact models designed for maximum storage in minimal space.
The origami crane’s paper itself was covered in Pearl’s handwriting, but these weren’t just names and numbers. This was a message:
“To whoever finds this—if you’re reading this, something has happened to me. The drive contains evidence of crimes committed by Felix Santos during the war and covered up by his family for generations. The origami cranes in this collection each document a stolen item and its rightful owner. This is my legacy of truth. May these cranes fly and bring justice. —Pearl Yamamoto”
My hands trembled as I held the tiny drive. Here was the evidence Pearl had collected, the proof she’d mentioned to Mr. Takahashi—all hidden in her origami classroom.
The sound of the community center’s front door opening fully and hitting a wall echoed through the building. Footsteps approached—too heavy to be Keone’s.
Tiki’s ears flattened, and she let out a low growl, the fur on her spine rising.
I pocketed the drive and began refolding the cranes, refolding them to their original state and tucking them in my pockets. Whoever was coming, I didn’t want them to know what I’d found.
“Ms. Smith?” A male voice called. “Are you in here?”
“Just a moment,” I called, closing the drawer and moving to block the cabinet from view. “We’re not open today.”
My stomach tightened as I recognized David Santos, the mayor’s son, standing in the doorway. The planning department official who had been blocking Pearl’s permits had tracked me down somehow. This couldn’t be good.
David wore the casual-but-expensive polo shirt and chinos that seemed to be the uniform for government officials in Hawaii. His resemblance to his father was striking; he had the same square jaw and calculating brown eyes. His hair was dark while the mayor’s had gone silver.
Tiki positioned herself between me and the door, her tail puffed to twice its normal size—a warning sign I’d learned to heed.
“The door was unlocked,” David Santos said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I saw your car and thought I’d see what brings the Ohia postmaster to the community center.”
“Just checking on the facility.” I forced a friendly tone. “Aunt Fae and I are the weekend caretakers. We like to make sure everything’s in order mid-week too. We haven’t met, but you seem to know my name.”
“You’re well-known in the community. And I’m David Santos. Planning Commission. Mayor Santos is my dad. Our paths were bound to cross sometime; it might as well be now.” His gaze swept the room, lingering on the cabinet behind me. “Ah, Pearl Yamamoto’s origami supplies. She’s quite the artist, isn’t she? Such a shame about her . . . illness.”
“Yes, we’re all hoping for a speedy recovery,” I said. Tiki was advancing toward David, her body low to the ground in stalking position.
“Some things, once broken, can never be fully restored,” he said, his voice taking on a philosophical tone. “Perhaps it’s the same with health. And reputations.”
“Reputations?” I needed to keep him talking; see what I could get out of him even as I gauged the distance to the door. This guy was blocking the only exit from the small classroom. I could take him, though, if I had to; my Secret Service hand-to-hand skills might be rusty, but they weren’t gone.
“Family legacies are fragile things,” he went on in the same musing tone. “My grandfather built ours from nothing. My father has maintained and improved it. And I . . .” he paused, his eyes narrowing . . “I won’t allow it to be destroyed by old lies better left forgotten.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Best to play dumb a little longer.
“I think you do,” David hissed. “You and your boyfriend have been busy. The museum archives. Pearl’s property. You’ve been digging up the past, Kat Smith. That’s dangerous work.”
The threat was barely veiled now. “We’re just trying to help Pearl.” I stepped sideways, trying to put distance between us, but he matched my movement, advancing into the room.
“Did you send that anonymous text?” I asked, deciding direct confrontation might be my best option. “The one threatening me if I didn’t stop investigating?”
