Page 22 of Talk Story

I didn’t feel like poking this particular hot pilot bear—but Keone deserved to hear what Sophie knew, and what I’d set in motion. Wasn’t forgetting to inform him what had set him off in the first place? Before I could overthink it, I speed-dialed his number.

He answered right away; his tone was softer. “Hey, Trouble.”

“Yup, that’s me. Got some new info on the case.” I wasn’t in the mood for lovey-dovey reconciliation; that aspirin still hadn’t made a dent in my painful cranium. “Sophie says Santos and Chang are financially linked. She’s sending documentation.” I filled him in on what she’d discovered, and the surveillance system I’d ordered. “Wondering if you want to come with me to install it tomorrow, after FedEx delivers.”

“I’ll have to check my flight schedule, but probably not.” His tone had gone frosty again. “I’ll let Pali know what you’ve got going. He’ll make the time for sure.”

“Okay.” I shut my eyes, rubbed my temples. “This headache is a doozy.”

“Did you eat anything after I left?” Concern in his voice. “Mom dropped off a mean pile of leftovers in Tupperware. Come over and have some.”

“Maybe. After I go see Pearl. I want to check in with her and get a copy of those old papers for safekeeping.”

“Eat something now,” he said. I rolled my eyes but got up to search in the tiny fridge.

“Found a yogurt and a frozen burrito,” I said. “Yum.”

“Nuke that burrito and eat it. That’ll do until you get here.”

“You going all caveman on me? Trying to boss me around?”

“Trying to get you to take care of yourself, Trouble.” He sounded exasperated.

“Guess fussing like a mother hen is your love language,” I said, and ended the call before he could make another comeback. Ha. I won that round.

I took time to eat the frozen burrito and yogurt from the tiny fridge in the shack. My headache receded as I got in the car to go see Pearl after locking up; Keone was right about needing to eat, at least.

On my way to Pearl’s, I texted Aunt Fae that I’d be back late. We’d have time to catch up when I got home, or in the morning before work.

The last of the sunset fading on the Hana Highway made the windward coast seem embellished: the cliffs touched with gilt and the ocean going silver as the ironwood trees on the ridgeline caught the last warmth with their graceful, waving needles.

Pearl Yamamoto’s house was a twenty-minute drive from Ohia on the Hana Highway: white with blue trim, plumeria trees in the front yard, and wind chimes on the lanai conducting a small silvery argument with the trade winds.

Lani, Pearl’s caregiver, met me at the door and offered tea in a way that brooked no refusal, withdrawing to the kitchen with the discretion of someone who understood that some conversations required privacy. I found Pearl in her sitting room, folding origami cranes with gold paper, her wheelchair in the seated position.

She glanced up with a smile when I appeared. “This is a surprise.” She took in my expression and sobered. “It must be serious. Sit. What have you found out?”

I told her all of it—Pua and Victor Chang’s relationship, the cave that had been looted, the rockfall, the hidden survey map Keone found, Sophie’s financial trail, the investigation status, even the threatening note. Pearl listened without interrupting, though her hands continued to work a half-folded crane until she went on to make another one.

When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.

Outside, the wind had switched direction. The chimes on the lanai were making a different sound—a lower, less certain tone, like the echo of a conversation heard in snatches and bits. Unsettling.

“There’s something I haven’t told anyone yet,” Pearl said. “I’ve been waiting to understand it better.”

“What is it?”

She swiveled her chair and reached for the lid of a carved wooden chest decorated with a shell pattern that I’d noticed on other visits. She fumbled in her pocket and removed a ring of tiny keys; she inserted one into the chest and then opened it.

A draft of musty cedar smell reached my nostrils as she reached inside and removed an aged leather journal, its pages brown at the edges, the cover worn soft with handling.

“I received a visitor. A woman named Hannah Chang.”

I went still. “Chang? Related to Victor?”

“His grandmother.” Pearl set the journal on her knee and stroked it with her pale, well-kept hands. “She was ninety-one years old. She had flown over from Kona and hired a driver to bring her out here to meet with me, which should tell you something about her determination. She found my address through the Maui Historical Society; my husband had corresponded with her, decades ago, about the East Maui land records.” Pearl gazed down at the journal, stroked the leather. “She gave me this and said: ‘Keep it until the right moment comes. You will know when.’”

“Did she explain what’s in it? The significance?” I got up and moved my chair to sit close beside Pearl to see better.