Chapter 5
Pua was waiting for me when I arrived at the post office the next morning, which was unusual. Normally she swept in at eight fifty-nine, heels clicking, designer bag swinging; she didn’t need to be early because she was already perfectly organized and punctual.
But today, she was behind the counter at eight forty-five, folding and refolding a piece of paper she clearly wasn’t reading. Her tilted brown eyes had tired circles under them.
“You heard,” I said, hanging up my windbreaker and backpack on the hook. “About your cousin, Victor Chang.”
“Ilima’s aide called me last night.” Pua set the paper down and met my eyes. Her pink lipstick was perfect, as always, but her expression was unreadable; she was being precise about how much to show. “About the corporate filings, specifically.”
I came behind the counter and settled against the edge of the sorting table, giving her room.
The post office was quiet; the fluorescent light over the P.O.
box wall buzzing at its one constant frequency, the smell of paper, ink, and adhesives a particular institutional blend that I’d come to find oddly comforting.
Outside, a pair of mynah birds were squawking a disagreement in the parking lot with the passionate conviction mynah birds brought to all conflicts. “What’s up with your cousin, Pua?”
“Cousin.” Pua said the word the way you’d describe a weather event—factual, with the specific tiredness of someone who has spent a long time distancing from something damaging and has not quite managed to get all the way clear of it.
“Uncle Raymond’s son. Younger than me by four years.
We grew up on the Big Island together, on the Kona side.
” She smoothed the paper flat with one hand, then smoothed it again.
“Uncle Raymond stayed connected to the family business. But Victor was different. He wanted to build his own things. There was a disagreement between him and his dad about ten years ago. He left the family. We don’t discuss him. ”
“What was the disagreement about?” I cocked my head and stifled a yawn. “Sorry. Big day yesterday—it kind of caught up with me.”
“I’ll bet.” She was quiet for a moment, seemingly considering how much to tell me. Out front, the first of the morning customers was peering through the glass doors—Mrs. Rodrigues, who arrived twelve minutes early every single day and refused to understand why her mail was not yet sorted.
“I don’t know what the main problem was, but what I remember that’s pertinent is that Victor believed there was something valuable in East Maui land holdings,” Pua said.
“He wanted us to return to our roots here in Ohia, and not for the development potential. Something specific. He thought if he found what it was, it could be worth . . .” she paused .
. . “a great deal. Next thing I heard, he’s the one behind building in Sacred Valley—but it was total news to me.
We hadn’t spoken in many years.” Her voice rang with conviction.
“I was shocked when I heard it was him at the council meeting.”
I turned on the fan and it swept past us with its slow oscillation, ruffling the papers on the bulletin board where the community notices lived: the latest from the Hana Canoe Club, a flyer for Uncle Kalani’s Sacred Valley prayer services, a water district notice about the pipe repair on the Hana Highway.
“Did you know he was in Ohia? Before the council meeting?”
She shook her head. “I knew he had a development project on Maui. I didn’t know where.” A pause. “Or I told myself I didn’t know where. Which is not quite the same thing.”
I let that sit for a moment. It was an honest thing to say, and Pua didn’t always say honest things. She said precise things, carefully framed, technically accurate.
But this had the texture of something she’d been carrying and had decided to put down.
“Okay,” I said.
“I’m not protecting him.” Firmness in her voice.
“Whatever he’s done, whether it’s being involved with stealing the petroglyphs, destroying the garden—if he’s responsible, he needs to face that.
I just . . .” She stopped. Started again.
“The family is complicated. I spent a long time putting distance between myself and certain parts of it.”
“I know,” I said. And I did know. Pua’s navigation of her family’s history was something she’d spent years managing. “Is there anything you can tell me about what Victor might be searching for? Specifically?”
She considered this longer than expected.
“There’s an old story in the family,” she said at last. “About land grants—royal era documents that were never properly recorded.
Victor was obsessed with them as a young man.
He believed they would prove that certain parcels on the east side of Maui were originally—“ she chose her word carefully, “—improperly transferred. Away from Hawaiian families. And that whoever held the original documents could potentially make a claim on what had been taken.”
The hair on my arms prickled. Pearl’s Kalākaua decree sat in an evidence bag at Hana PD.
A royal land grant from 1887, designating Sacred Valley as a perpetual trust. A decree that, if authenticated, could stop Chang’s development cold—and potentially implicate the land transfers that had benefited families like the Santoses and, it was now beginning to seem, perhaps the Changs themselves.
“He’s not just trying to develop the land,” I said. “He’s trying to find something.”
Pua gazed at me steadily. “I think so. Yes.”
Mrs. Rodrigues knocked on the glass doors with a small, pointed knuckle.
“I have to let her in,” Pua said. “Catch up later.” She flipped up the counter, smoothed her blouse, and clicked in her heels toward the front of the post office to unlock the doors, composed smile in place with the ease of long practice.
I watched her go, then I picked up my phone and texted Keone: Hey there Mr. K. Got a morning flight?
Hey, Trouble. You know I do. What’s up? Miss me already?
Of course. Meanwhile we need to talk to Lei today.
His reply came while I was sorting last night’s considerable bag of mail: Ahead of you. Meet at the K the curator had given us a key after what we’d discovered helped the Heritage Garden move forward.
Yep, this was the man whose ring was currently on my right hand.
I put the phone down and sorted the mail with what I hoped was my normal level of concentration and energy. Pua deserved my best after abandoning her yesterday—and, truth be told, I might do it again today.
The K he cocked an eyebrow and waited for me to arrive at a conclusion he’d already reached.
“Someone’s been using the old cane road to access the cave system. Not through the main valley entrance—that would be too visible, too close to the petroglyph site. They’re coming in through the back.” I had followed his reasoning.
He raised his fist, and I bumped it.
“If the caves connect to the valley,” I said, “and someone was using them to access the petroglyph site without going through the main trail . . .”
“Then the thefts were carefully planned. They needed the cave access to move the stone sections out without being seen, without leaving tracks on the main trail, without any of the people who watch the Sacred Valley noticing.” He paused. “Except one of them did notice. My friend, Pali Moku.”
I raised a brow. “Who?”
“Buddy since small kid time. A Hawaiian activist and archeologist.” Keone tapped the map.
“Pali was watching and alerted me; once I heard Artie tell us about the ‘midnight trucks’ I had to see if there was some other access to the valley than the obvious one. Unfortunately, he missed what was going on until recently.”
“Pali sounds like someone I should meet,” I said.
“You will. He’s cool.”