Chapter 21
By four o’clock on Sunday, the model home where Aunt Fae and I lived in the New Ohia State Park wasn’t a staging company showpiece anymore—it was a party.
Aunt Fae and I had thrown open every slider to the lanai and the pool, and the cream canvas furniture slipcovers I’d found impersonal had disappeared under people wearing aloha shirts, muumuus, and Red Hat purple plumage.
I wedged a Bluetooth speaker into the fake ficus by the stairs, and Artie’s slack-key playlist drifted out over the terrazzo deck and open floor plan of the downstairs, gentle as trade winds moving through.
The whole place smelled like a Hawaiian potluck, meaning it was heaven: shoyu, ginger, roast pork, fried taro chips, and the bright, tangy note of fresh cut pineapple.
This gathering to celebrate the end of the case had been my idea, though Elle—with Aunt Fae’s enthusiastic support—had taken the planning over immediately.
After the week we’d had, I was happy to play second fiddle to their hyper-organized girl band.
Multiple trips to the cave, the Chang rescue, the long, ugly drive down the mountain, confronting Pali on the lanai with his sealed-up secret—I was ready to step back into boring.
Frankly, I couldn’t wait to get back behind the counter at the post office.
But before that happened, I wanted everyone I loved in one room, eating too much, laughing and talking, while the news was still fresh and good, and before some new drama rocked our tiny town. I wanted to gaze on each dear face and savor every sweet connection I’d built here on Maui.
Opal and Artie Pahinui came early and set up like they were provisioning a small army.
Opal had made her famous shoyu chicken in a roaster the size of a bathtub, and she stood guard over it in a silk shoulder wrap pinned with an enormous brooch shaped like a sea turtle, ladling sauce and dispensing opinions in equal measure.
Artie brought his ukulele and a tray of his trademarked “secret recipe” musubi.
Edith and Josie arrived together, Edith in her courtroom posture even in hibiscus print, Josie towing her little wheeled oxygen cart with a lei draped jauntily over the canister and carrying a platter of laulau.
Edith lugged a legal pad along with her macadamia nut brownies, because Edith Pepperwhite never went anywhere without something to take notes on.
Rita Farnsworth appeared with her young ward, Maile, in her usual no-foo-foo flax and linen, having contributed an enormous salad grown in their garden.
Pearl Yamamoto, accompanied by Lani, was enthroned in her wheelchair near the slider.
She sat tiny and upright, a paper crane already taking shape between her fingers; she’d brought butter mochi and a quiet radiance that came from being alive to see this day—when not long ago a man had nearly poisoned her.
She’d folded a thousand cranes since, and there she was, folding another thousand.
Ilima Kaihale held court near the kitchen island in an emerald-colored muumuu, mayoral even at a potluck, her warm laugh carrying over the music.
Uncle Kalani sat a little apart, gazing out over the pool in the quiet way he had, a still point in the noise.
He accepted a plate from Aunt Fae with a grave nod and the smallest curve of a smile.
My Keone moved through the crowd, refilling glasses, lifting Josie’s oxygen cart over the slider track, bending to hear something Pearl said and throwing his head back to laugh.
He caught my eye across the room and smiled.
Something in my chest went warm and sweet as marshmallow melting over a campfire.
“You’re staring at me,” he said, when the drift of the party finally brought us together over by the drinks table.
“It’s mutual. I’ve caught you ogling a time or two.”
He took my left hand and turned it, so the pearl gleamed.
“Gonna stare all day. Maybe all year. Get used to it.” We kissed, my second-favorite thing to do with him.
“People are talking about which hand you’re wearing the ring on.
Coconut wireless had it by breakfast.” He grinned.
“Pua texted me a string of those little party emojis.” We glanced over at Pua; she’d brought her super cute, extra yappy little dog Sassy, and was wearing the belligerent little pooch in a crystal-studded dog carrier strapped to her chest.
Aunt Fae materialized at my elbow with the unerring radar of a woman who senses two young people standing idle in her kitchen.
“There’ll be time for canoodling later,” she said.
“Right now we’ve got guests, and I’ve got a brisket I need an opinion on.
” She towed Keone away to the barbecue where she was slow roasting a huge brisket—one New England woman at a Maui potluck who planned to upstage everyone else’s cooking with that and a pan of cornbread.
Dr. Nainoa Emerson arrived, accompanied by Auntie Leilani, the historian in charge of the Hana Museum.
He moved carefully—a man of his age recently returned from being held captive for days does not bounce right back—but smiling.
The two folded immediately into the Pahinuis’ orbit as Opal piled his plate without asking, and Pearl reached out to touch his arm and said something that made him chuckle.
The front door, which we didn’t bother to close anymore, admitted two more: Lei entered first, off-duty in jeans and a faded surf tee, but with that contained alertness she never fully lost. Malia Peahi followed in uniform, moving with a black boot cinched around her left ankle and a crutch tucked under one arm.
“Eh, the law’s here,” Josie called. “Everybody behave.”
“Too late for most of you,” Lei said, and the room laughed. Aunt Fae was already steering them both toward pūpū plates because no one entered her house and went unfed.
“Hold that for us, Auntie,” Lei said. “Malia and I need a quick word with Kat and Keone.”
My pulse sped up; this had to be about Pali and the archive. “Come up to my bedroom—probably the only private spot in the house right now.”
“Not empty-handed,” Aunt Fae insisted, and foisted umbrella-bedecked drinks and a plate of pūpūs onto each woman. Since Malia was on crutches with her foot in a boot, Keone carried her refreshments, and I provided support with the stairs.
We trooped slowly up, and I tried not to let my mind gallop ahead.
The phone calls we’d had last night with each woman giving them advance notice of Pali’s upcoming information had been brief, mostly me (with input from Keone) explaining and pitching hard that Pali’s actions be judged in light of a bigger picture—and that the archive wasn’t pivotal evidence.
Neither woman had said much; I’d been left feeling like I’d hollered into the darkness of the lava tube and hadn’t got so much of an echo in return. I sure hoped Pali had kept his word and showed up to talk to them this morning, but he hadn’t been answering his phone today.
I opened the bedroom door with a flourish. “Sorry, there’s limited seating in here,” I said, gesturing to the queen-size bed (fortunately neatly made) and single desk chair.
Lei chewed a mouthful of taro chip laden with poke and swallowed. “No worries, this will only take a minute. We thought you two deserved an update about a part of the case we’re keeping confidential.”
“The archive,” Keone said.
“Yes,” Malia propped her crutch against the wall and picked up her Passion Orange Guava concoction from the desk where Keone had set her refreshments. “Pali Moku came in this morning, as you said he would.”
“And?” I sat abruptly on the edge of the bed; Keone lowered himself to sit beside me, so we faced the two law enforcement officers. “What’s the verdict?” I clapped my hands to my face. “I mean . . . argh!”
Lei smiled, but Malia didn’t; she continued as if I hadn’t spoken.
“Pali Moku came into Hana station.” Malia picked up a slice of peeled papaya from her paper plate and took a bite.
“He told me, on the record, that he hid the archive—those important historical land documents—and that he’s chosen not to disclose their location. ”
“Did he tell you why?” My gaze was pleading. I tried to rein in the puppy dog eyes; they’d likely annoy Malia—she was not the type to be swayed by such tactics.
“Legally, withholding evidence in an active case is a real issue and I’m not going to pretend otherwise.
But . . .” she shifted her booted foot and grimaced .
. . “Lei and I talked, then we took it to the DA. He examined the situation in depth. We don’t need the archive to get convictions, in his estimation—we’ve got Santos’s statements, the evidence in the warehouse, the recovered petroglyphs, Patel’s assault on an officer, the kidnapping of Dr. Emerson, the money trail with the shell corporations.
All of that stands on its own. The archive doesn’t make or break a single charge.
What it would do, if it went into the record, is open a hundred and fifty years of land claims that Awawakapu Valley has hanging over it like a storm cloud.
” She paused, wet her whistle with POG. “Our team’s determination was that Pali be issued a citation for withholding evidence and given the minimum fine.
It’s a formality.” She finished her papaya slice with a satisfying slurp.
“He paid the fine this morning and walked out of the station.”
Lei glanced back outside into the hall. “I kind of expected to see him here, to be honest.”
“The party’s still young,” I said on a sigh of relief about Pali. I felt Keone’s shoulders loosen beside me, too.
“He wanted me to tell you both something,” Malia added, her official tone disappearing. “He said: ‘the valley’s safe.’ He said to tell Uncle Kalani especially.”
“I know Uncle will appreciate that,” Mr. K said.
We clumped back downstairs. Uncle Kalani had moved to the center of the room and was preparing to bless the food; we all bowed our heads as he inclined his head.