Chapter 12

12

The bell over the door jingled as I entered Opal and Artie’s general store on my lunch break. The familiar mix of aromas hit me: fresh coffee, cut papaya from the sample board, and the subtle mustiness of the wooden shelves that had held local necessities for generations. Afternoon heat made the overhead fans work overtime, their wooden blades casting rotating shadows across the worn floor as I steeled myself for the conversation ahead.

Opal was arranging glass jars of homemade lilikoi butter on a shelf, while Artie sat at the counter, his fingers moving across the raised dots of a braille crossword puzzle.

“That you, Kat?” Artie asked, his eyes turned toward the door.

“Yep, Uncle, it is.”

“Lunch break already?” Opal asked, wiping her hands on her apron. “Artie made some curry chicken today, and it’s still hot.”

“I’d love some,” I said, leaning against the counter, “But I need to ask you both something about the Queen’s Ornament first.”

Artie’s fingers stilled on the page. “What about it?”

“Keone and I talked to Dr. Hale the historian last night. You must know him.”

Artie’s expression was puzzled. “I know who he is, but we’ve never spoken. They don’t shop out here. Too far from town.”

“I know his wife, Michiko.” Opal said. She had gone to the pot of curry on its warmer and was serving me a bowl over rice. “Nice lady. Heck of a baker and does lots of crafts.”

“Yes, we got to sample her cookies yesterday. Dr. Hale’s a retired teacher and part-time professor at University of Hawaii. He’s also on the board at the Bishop Museum and the Hana History Museum. He told me about the arrangement he made in 1980 between the Pahinui and Namolo families. The ornament was supposed to go to the Hana History Museum after the sharing agreement ended.”

“What sharing agreement?” Artie frowned. “It’s our ornament.” The ceiling fan squeaked through two full rotations before anyone spoke. Opal had gone very still. “That’s not true, what you said.” Artie said finally, his voice tight. His hands found the edge of the counter, gripping it. “Malcolm Namolo tried to tell me that once, but my father never mentioned any such thing to me.”

“Dr. Hale says?—”

Artie’s face flushed. “My father would have told me if he’d made that kind of commitment. Every Christmas, he would place that ornament in my hands, let me feel every detail while he told me the story. How the Queen gave it to our family. The meaning of the symbols on it. I may not be able to see it, but I know every curve, every pattern of that ornament by heart.”

Opal moved to stand behind her husband, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Artie . . .”

“No!” He pushed back from the counter, his sudden movement making his stool rock. “Malcolm Namolo spent years trying to guilt us into giving up the ornament. Said we had no right to it. Said his family had more claim because we didn’t have kids. And now you’re telling me Dr. Hale backs up his story?”

“Not that. Just that you and the Namolos were supposed to alternate holidays sharing the ornament, and it would be stored and exhibited at the Hana History Museum in between holidays. Your father Kawika was the one to end the swapping, and it sounds like he never told you about the arrangement at all.”

“He didn’t.” Artie had stood up and his big hands on the counter were white-knuckled with tension.

“Artie. Do your breathing. Remember your heart,” Opal prompted. We’d had a scare a while back when he had a heart event. I didn’t like the high color in his cheeks and neck.

“I’m sorry to upset you. I’m just trying to understand what might have happened,” I said. “In case it relates to the disappearance of the ornament.”

“Understand what? That my father was a liar? That he kept secrets from me?” Artie’s voice cracked slightly. “I know that ornament’s history better than anyone.”

The fan continued its lazy circles overhead as Artie sank back onto his stool, suddenly looking very tired.

Opal squeezed his shoulder. “Maybe,” she said softly, “there are parts of the story we don’t know.”

“Or maybe Malcolm Namolo convinced Dr. Hale to back up his version of events,” Artie muttered. “Either way, it doesn’t matter now. The ornament’s gone.”

“If we understand why, we might be able to find it,” I said.

“I think you should go,” Opal said quietly, as the bell tinkled to admit a noisy family of tourists. “Artie needs a break. Take your curry and eat it back at the office.”

I nodded, forgetting for a moment that Artie couldn’t see the gesture. Hating that I’d upset my dear friends, possibly for no reason. Stinging a little at Opal’s dismissal. “Okay. Sorry for the upsetting news, and thanks for the food.”

The bell jingled again as I opened the door, letting in a blast of warm air that smelled of plumeria and dust.

“Kat?” Artie called just before I let the door shut. “My father was an honorable man. Whatever Dr. Hale thinks he remembers about some arrangement . . . he’s got it wrong.”

But there was something in his voice: a slight tremor, a hint of uncertainty—that made me wonder if he was trying to convince me, or himself.

The door closed behind me with a final jingle, leaving me with more questions than answers as I headed across the unpaved lot, the bowl of curry warm in my hands.

Evening sun turned the water of Ohia Bay into liquid gold as I dove beneath the surface for my evening swim after a busy post office day.

The sea was cooler than last night, missing both the moonlight magic and Keone’s presence, but perfect for clearing my head after the nonstop activity at work. I had my swim goggles on, so I could see small yellow tangs darting around a coral head below me as I broke into an overhand stroke, churning past their underwater home. The light caught on a school of silver nenue below me, glittering like fool’s gold.

I did my laps, speeding up until I couldn’t think too hard about the troubling conversation with my dear friends at lunchtime. Keone and I had certainly stirred the pot of a simmering conflict with our investigation, but would that help us find the ornament? Or had we needlessly opened old wounds?

When I finished, I floated on my back, letting the gentle swells rock my body while I stared at the clouds overhead and the palms ringing the beach. Those trees had witnessed generations of Ohia’s secrets. From the water, I surveyed both the post office and the general store, historic buildings that held their own share of stories. A red-crested cardinal landed on the pier, its chirping song carrying across the water.

The pieces of the puzzle swirled in my mind like the schools of fish beneath me: Artie’s passionate defense of his father, Dr. Hale’s certainty about the museum agreement, Malcolm Namolo’s claims, and the ornament’s disappearance from the donated items table—an apparent crime of opportunity.

Rolling over, I dove deep enough to touch the sandy bottom. The coolness and water pressure cleared my thoughts like wiping a foggy window. When I surfaced, the answer seemed obvious: someone must have taken the ornament because they believed it belonged somewhere else. This wasn’t about money; it was about what they felt was right.

Of course, I had no proof, and I wasn’t sure where to go next with this theory.

The evening trade winds picked up, sending ripples across the bay as I treaded water. From this angle, I could see the window of Artie and Opal’s store, outlined in flashing colored Christmas lights. Across from it, the enormous fake tree in the post office sparkled and glowed.

I really, really wanted to find that ornament and see peace replace a conflict. But how?

A sea turtle surfaced nearby, its ancient-seeming eyes regarding me briefly before disappearing beneath the waves.

Leilani Akana might be the next person to interview, once more. Now that I knew more about the ornament’s history and her position of access at Rita’s, as well as her role at the Hana History Museum, it seemed clearer that she’d had the means (been in the garage where the ornament was stored), motive (getting it for the museum), and opportunity to take the ornament, or she might be aware of who had. As the museum’s long-time coordinator, she knew everyone’s connection to the artifacts of Hana.

I swam toward shore, my mind made up. The wet sand squeaked beneath my feet as I walked up the beach, wrapping a towel around my swimsuit. The cardinal was still singing, its melody mixing with the sound of gentle waves as I quickly dried off and donned a cover-up and rubber slippers.

Grabbing my phone from my beach bag, I checked the time. If I hurried, I could catch Leilani before she left the museum for the day.

As I headed to Sharkey, still parked beside the closed post office, I noticed Artie sitting on the store’s lanai in his favorite old chair. His face was turned toward the bay, and he strummed one of his guitars in a quiet rhythm. Though he couldn’t see the ocean he seemed to be listening with thoughtful intensity.

I regretted upsetting him so much. Hopefully he’d get over it soon.

The road to Hana and the museum wound past a late-blooming shower tree, its petals scattered across the pavement like confetti. Behind me, Ohia Bay disappeared around a bend, taking with it the golden evening light but leaving me with a growing hope that I was on the right track.