Chapter 9

9

The scent of night-blooming jasmine from a nearby hedge mixed with the musty sweetness of old wood as Keone and I approached the Hana History Museum after parking nearby. The building, a former general store from Hana’s early days, had the weathered dignity of a structure that had seen nearly a century pass. Through glass-paned windows, warped with age, Christmas lights twinkled around a half-decorated tree.

The old porch creaked as we stepped inside. The floorboards, worn smooth by countless footsteps, announced our arrival with a gentle groan. The door was ajar, and a crack of light welcomed us. I pushed the door gently, and it creaked open.

“Hello?” Keone called out. “Ms. Akana? I just texted you.”

“Hey Keone. I’m glad you made it. I’ve been looking forward to meeting Ilima’s boy. And our new postmaster.” A woman perched on a stepladder turned at the sound. She wore a faded muumuu in shades of green and white, her silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in a loose bun. At her feet, an elderly dog’s tail thumped against the floor, stirring motes of dust that danced in the glow shed by a lamp and the strings of light she held. “I’m getting ready for our holiday open house this coming week.” The scent of pine intensified as she shifted a branch to hang a delicate antique glass ball. “Got a real tree from the continent this year. And call me Aunty Leilani, please.”

“Thanks for agreeing to talk with us on such short notice,” I said. “Aunty Leilani.”

“Of course.” She descended the wooden ladder with careful steps, each rung protesting slightly. The dog heaved himself up and padded over to us, his nails clicking against the floor. His tail never stopped wagging. “This is Poi Dog. He showed up here one day about eight years ago and never left.”

I knelt to scratch behind Poi Dog’s ears. His coat was a patchwork of brown and white, coarse but clean. One ear stood at attention while the other flopped endearingly. He leaned into my touch, his body warm and solid against my leg. “He’s adorable.”

“We wanted to ask you about the Queen’s Ornament,” Keone said. The gentle, flickering twinkle of the holiday strands caught the planes of his face, highlighting his strong cheekbones and full lips.

I chimed in. “Keone and I are trying to locate the ornament after it went missing from the donation table at Rita’s.”

Leilani nodded, setting down a cardboard box that rattled with the sound of glass ornaments. “Oh yes, Elle called me about that. Such a shame someone took it.”

“We’re trying to piece together its history. It was donated by the Pahinui family for the fundraiser auction.” I watched her face carefully. “Did you happen to notice it when you were sorting through the donations?”

Leilani’s hands stilled on the ornament she held. She shook her head firmly. “I helped sort items, but I don’t recall the fancy box Elle mentioned.” She hung the glass ball she was holding, its surface reflecting the Christmas lights in fractured patterns. “Such a disgrace about the theft. That piece has quite a history in our little town.”

Keone moved to the box of glass balls. “Let me help.” He picked one up and hung it. “We were wondering if Dr. Hale might know something.”

“Maybe something in its history gives us a clue about who might have taken it,” I added.

“Maybe. He’s on the board of the Museum, you know, and he’s been a good friend over the years. Donated quite a collection of historical documents and artifacts.” Leilani glanced at an ancient clock on the wall, its pendulum marking time with soft clicks. “He should be home now. He keeps to a pretty strict schedule these days.”

“Could you give us directions to his house?” I asked, straightening up from petting Poi Dog.

“Of course. Head up toward the bay, take a left at the breadfruit tree. You can’t miss it—it’s huge. His place is the third house on the right. Yellow with white trim, lots of ti plants out front.” She headed for the ladder again.

Keone stabilized it. “Kat, let’s help hang all the ornaments that go on the higher branches before we go. I don’t want to leave Aunty alone here on a ladder.”

“You so sweet, Keone,” Leilani said. “Ilima always says so.”

“He is,” I agreed, approaching the tree with a glass ball in my hands. “And I agree about the ladder. We should have this done quickly for you because we don’t need one.” I reached up past Leilani to hang my ball near the tippy top. “Benefit of being tall.”

“Got to agree with that,” she chuckled. Keone helped her down and it only took minutes for Keone and me to finish decorating the higher branches.

“Well, if you happen to hear anything . . .” I let the sentence trail off.

“Of course.” Leilani’s voice was warm but definite. “You should really talk to Dr. Hale. He knows more about that ornament than anyone else in Hana.”

The door’s brass bell tinkled as we stepped out into the humid Hana night, leaving behind the pine scent and history-laden air of the museum. As we walked toward our car, I glanced at Keone. “What do you think?”

“About Aunty Leilani? Or about Dr. Hale?”

“Both.” I smiled. Some days, I really loved how in sync we were.

“She’s a good lady, and I’m guessing he is a good man. If they had anything to do with the disappearance, they had a reason.”

The gracious old house the Hales lived in took me by surprise. Unlike most of the small, plantation style homes making up the adjacent towns of Hana and smaller Ohia, theirs was a large, two-story Victorian painted a cheery yellow with white trim, just as Leilani had described. Two varieties of ti plants lined a gracefully curved driveway, their alternating red and green leaves rustling in a gentle night breeze.

“Someone did well for themselves,” I murmured to Keone as we climbed the front steps. The lanai wrapped around three sides of the house, populated with comfortable-looking rattan furniture and hanging orchids. Large, brightly colored bulb style Christmas lights fixed around the border of the ceiling provided plenty of illumination.

Before we could knock, a loud “MRRROWWW!” announced our presence, followed by the appearance of a sleek Siamese cat in the window beside the door. The cat fixed us with brilliant blue eyes and let out another commanding yowl.

The door opened to reveal a tall, distinguished older Hawaiian man, wearing khakis and an aloha shirt. Behind him stood a shorter Japanese woman with silver hair tied back in a neat bun, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron. The heavenly scent of baking and vanilla wafted out to surround us.

“May we help you?” Dr. Hale asked, his voice rich and deep.

“Sorry to intrude on your evening. I’m Kat Smith, the new postmaster in Ohia, and this is Keone Kaihale. Leilani Akana suggested we come speak with you about the Queen’s Ornament.”

“Ah, yes. I heard the ornament was donated. I bet that caused a stir,” Dr. Hale said. “And Keone, I recognize you. I taught history at the high school back when and had you as a student one year.”

Keone ducked his head. “I remember. I didn’t put the name together until this moment. I hope I wasn’t too kolohe back then.”

“A little mischievous, but nothing I couldn’t handle,” Dr. Hale said.

Mrs. Hale’s face brightened as she came around from behind her spouse. “Oh, please come in! I’m just taking a batch of shortbread out of the oven. Would you two like some cookies and tea?”

“That would be wonderful,” I answered for both of us.

The Siamese cat wound between our legs as we entered, still vocalizing. “That’s Pumpernickel,” Dr. Hale explained with an indulgent smile. “He runs the household.”

“MRRROWW!” Pumpernickel agreed.

We followed the couple into a formal living room furnished with antique koa wood furniture and family photos. The Christmas tree in the corner sparkled with vintage ornaments, and more family photos lined the walls, including one that caught my eye: a much younger Dr. Hale standing between two groups of Hawaiians who appeared to be in the midst of a heated discussion.

“That was the day of the compromise,” Dr. Hale said, following my gaze and pointing to the photo. “1980. Hot day, hot tempers.” He settled into a leather armchair while Mrs. Hale disappeared toward the kitchen, Pumpernickel trotting after her. “Have a seat.”

We took a couch across from him.

“Can you tell us more?” Keone asked. “What was the compromise you helped with?”

“You’ve probably heard some of this already,” Dr. Hale said. “The Queen awarded two ornaments to her faithful guardsmen. Both families, the Pahinuis and the Namolos, had legitimate claim to an ornament. The Pahinuis had documentation which included a photo of the ornament being presented. The Namolos had oral history and a journal entry indicating an ornament was given to a great-grandfather. The Namolos’ piece was either lost or stolen. So the fact that there were originally two was not in dispute—who really owned the one remaining ornament was.”

“Why 1980? And how did you come to be involved?” I asked.

“I was a young historian then, fresh out of my doctorate. I collected all the information I could find on the original ornament situation and brought the families together as part of drawing attention to the legacy of the Queen.” He flapped a hand. “I’ll be honest. I was getting my name out there and was hoping to develop a book out of the topic. That part never happened, but bringing attention to the situation got me a seat on the board at Bishop Museum.”

Mrs. Hale returned with a tray of cookies and tea, the spicy scent of ginger mixing with the buttery shortbread. Pumpernickel jumped onto an ottoman, watching the cookies with obvious interest.

“Thanks for the honesty, Dr. Hale. Tell us more about the agreement,” Keone prompted.

“The compromise I proposed was this: the ornament would be jointly owned by both families, alternating possession each year during the Christmas season. The rest of the year, it would be displayed at the Hana History Museum.” He accepted a cookie from his wife with a tender smile. “It worked for nearly forty years, until the Namolo family that had stewarded it part-time moved away. Once they did, the Pahinuis never returned the ornament to the Museum after the holidays, as we’d agreed.”

I thought of Artie Pahinui’s lovable face. That didn’t seem like something he’d have participated in. I was going to have to have another tough talk with my dear friends. “Who was the one to keep it?” I asked.

“Artie’s father, Kawika. He passed away many years ago. When was that, sweetheart?” Dr. Hale asked his wife.

“Back in two thousand,” she said. “Excuse me. I’ve got to put another tray in the oven.” She bustled out with Pumpernickel commenting loudly on his desire for a cookie.

“I’m the historian, but my wife actually remembers dates,” Dr. Hale said fondly.

I sipped the ginger tea and nibbled a warm cookie. “And she’s a great hostess and baker. These are delicious. Well, Artie and Opal never mentioned any of this to me when they donated the ornament to help with the community center fundraiser. And now it’s been stolen.”

“Yes.” Dr. Hale’s face grew thoughtful. “I heard that. Maybe someone saw an opportunity to right an old wrong.”

I leaned forward, nearly knocking over my tea. “What do you mean?”

But Dr. Hale smiled mysteriously. “Sometimes things aren’t lost. They’re finding their way home. That said, I’m afraid that’s all I can share tonight.” Dr. Hale rose from his chair with the careful movements of age. “I’m retired, but I’m teaching a winter session on Hawaiian cultural anthropology at UH Maui College. And as you know, it’s a long drive to Kahului.”

“But—” I started to protest.

Mrs. Hale appeared with a Christmas tin decorated with poinsettias. “Here, take some cookies home. I made way too many.” The scent of butter and spices intensified as she opened the lid. “The crystallized ginger ones are Sheldon’s favorite, but I put in some of the lilikoi shortbread too.”

Pumpernickel let out another commanding “MRROWW!” and wound between her ankles, clearly hoping for a dropped morsel.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hale,” Keone said, accepting the tin. “The cookies are amazing.”

“Call me Michiko,” she said, beaming. Then she glanced at her husband with a slight frown. “Sheldon, maybe you could?—”

“Not tonight, dear.” Dr. Hale’s tone was gentle but firm. He guided us toward the front door, his bearing that of a professor used to dismissing a class. “The past has its own rhythm, its own way of revealing itself. Sometimes we need to let things unfold naturally.”

The warm light from the entry chandelier caught the silver in his hair as he opened the door for us to leave. Despite his age, he stood straight and tall, his keen dark eyes thoughtful. “Kat and Keone, thank you for your visit. I wish you luck with your . . . investigation.” His body language was clear: we were being dismissed.

“Thank you both,” I said, clutching the cookie tin Keone had handed me. “And thank you for sharing what you did about the compromise.”

Mrs. Hale touched my arm gently. “Come back anytime, dear. And do try the lilikoi shortbread. They’re made with fruit from our own vines.”

As we walked back to the car, the colorful lights behind us cast a glow over the ti plants lining the drive. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called. Crickets tuned up their chorus. Waves in Hana Bay soughed against the shore in the distance.

“Enlightening visit,” Keone said, opening the passenger door of his truck for me.

I slid into the seat, setting the cookie tin carefully on my lap. “Indeed. Did you notice how he clammed up right after that comment about things finding their way home?”

“Yeah.” Keone started the truck once he got in. “And did you see Mrs. Hale’s face? She wanted him to tell us more.”

I opened the tin and inhaled the buttery, spicy aroma. “Something tells me Dr. Hale has an idea about what happened to that ornament.”

“Question is,” Keone said, backing out of the driveway, “why won’t he tell us?”

Through the front window of the house, Pumpernickel watched our departure, his silhouette regal against the warm light inside. Like his owner, the cat seemed to be keeping secrets.