T he Seashell Museum was about a twenty-minute ride from the Waikiki Waters Hotel. Regan looked out the window as the cab drove down the main street of Waikiki, headed in the direction of Diamond Head. It was a beautiful Friday morning. Shoppers were going in and out of the stores, and swimmers were crossing the street, headed for the beach, surfboards and boogie boards in tow. The water looked blue and inviting, the temperature was about eighty degrees, and the sun was shining brightly. Perfect Hawaiian weather.

Regan thought about Dorinda Dawes. People seemed to have definite opinions about her. She certainly must have come on strong. There were a lot of people Regan wanted to talk to about Dorinda, but first she wanted to read the newsletters and take a look at Spirits in Paradise.

At the museum, which was on a hill overlooking the beach, Regan paid the cabdriver and got out. It was a beautiful, somewhat secluded spot. A handful of cars was parked in the lot in front of the museum. The entrance was around back. Regan followed the walkway to the front door, went inside, and was told by a young girl behind the cash register that they didn’t open until ten o’clock. The girl had long shiny black hair adorned with an orchid.

“What I really wanted,” Regan explained as she handed the girl her card, “was to talk to someone about the shell lei that was found on the body of the woman who drowned. I understand it was returned to the museum.”

The girl squinted her eyes at Regan. “You need to talk to Jimmy. He’s a conchologist, and he owns the museum.”

“Conchologist?”

“He’s a person who can tell you everything you ever wanted to know about shells and some stuff you could care less about. He’s down the hill, sitting on the beach. Go talk to him.”

“Maybe I should wait…”

The girl waved her hand at Regan. “Nah. Go ahead.”

“Okay, thanks. What does he look like?”

“He’s big, pretty old, mostly bald, and he’ll be sitting cross-legged.”

Regan smiled. “How do you know he’ll be sitting like that?”

“Because he’s always looking at his feet. He walks so much on the beach that he occasionally gets cut by the shells. He’s fascinated by the marks they leave on his skin.”

“How interesting,” Regan murmured, more to herself, as she went back outside and paused briefly. The view of the Pacific was awesome. She inhaled a breath of fresh fragrant air and headed down the stone steps on the side of the museum to the beach.

There was no missing Jimmy.

He was a big man indeed and was sitting cross-legged on the sand. His eyes were closed, and he was wearing what looked like a toga. The toga reminded Regan of fraternity parties she’d been to in college where people acted rowdy. But Jimmy was the only one at this party, and it certainly wasn’t lively. There was no one else around. He looked like some sort of spiritual guru. His brown skin was deeply tanned, and a slight breeze blew back and forth the little bits of sparse hair that remained on his head. His eyes were closed.

Assuming he was meditating, Regan stopped a few feet behind the lone figure. She was deciding what to do when he opened his eyes and turned to her.

“Howzit. You looking for Jimmy?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Jimmy’s here.”

“Hi, Jimmy,” Regan responded, wondering why people would refer to themselves in the third person. She wanted to add: “Regan Reilly here, too.”

“You like the beach?” Jimmy asked almost accusingly.

“Oh, yes.” Regan gestured toward the ocean with her hands. “Of course with my light skin I can’t take too much sun.”

Jimmy looked at her sternly.

He thinks I’m an idiot, Regan decided. Oh, well. “I’m staying at the Waikiki Waters, and I’ll rent an umbrella so I can enjoy the surf and the sand.”

Jimmy’s eyes finally showed some interest. “Waikiki Waters. A lady drowned there yesterday. She was wearing a very special lei that was stolen from the museum here.” He gestured with his fist toward the building behind them. “What was she doing with my lei?”

“I couldn’t tell you, Jimmy,” Regan answered. “But I understand you’re the one to talk to about the history of the lei.” She took out her ID. “The hotel hired me to look into her death. The police think it was an accidental drowning. The hotel manager isn’t so sure. And the lei complicates matters.”

“You like pineapple juice?”

“I have to say that I don’t drink it very often, but I do enjoy a glass now and then.”

“Good. Let’s go up to my museum. I will show you the lei, and we can talk. I started working here fifty years ago. Now it’s mine. It’s not as big as the Bishop Museum, but we have valuable shells.” He pushed down on the sand with his hands and managed to hoist himself to his feet. He was over six feet tall with a big belly, but his arms looked thick and strong.

Regan followed the large man back up the stone steps and into the museum. It was an old building that smelled of the sand and the sea. Seashells of all shapes and sizes hung on the walls. In front of the register was a cabinet of shell jewelry for sale. Earrings, necklaces, bracelets, and rings were all on display. The girl at the desk nodded when he walked past her. Regan followed him down the hall. He pointed to his office. “Sit down in there,” he instructed Regan. “Jimmy be right back.”

Regan did as she was told. So much for coming to Hawaii for a load of laughs and fun, she thought. But it was all right. New cases always excited her, and this one was no different. She’d rather be talking to a conchologist than sitting on the beach all day. I guess that’s why God made my skin burn so easily, she reasoned as she took a seat in Jimmy’s little office. A large poster of a shell adorned the wall behind his desk. It reminded Regan of the magnified picture of a dust mite hung in all its glory behind her allergist’s desk. Different strokes for different folks.

Jimmy returned with two glasses of pineapple juice and a shell lei around his neck. Could it be the one that was around Dorinda Dawes’s neck yesterday morning? Regan accepted the drink, and Jimmy clinked her glass. “Aloha,” he toasted.

The fresh juice was tangy and delicious. Regan could almost feel the sugar race through her system. She watched as Jimmy walked around the desk and lowered himself onto the chair.

“Jimmy loves shells,” he began. “I grew up in Hawaii and spent many hours walking on the beach collecting them. I had a problem with my back when I was a child, so I couldn’t surf. But I liked to be on the beach. It made me feel good. If shells cut my feet, I didn’t care. Jellyfish bother me. They sting. Shells don’t hurt anyone. Now I own the Seashell Museum. Jimmy very proud.” Reverently he removed the lei from around his neck. “Thirty years ago this was stolen. I never dreamed I’d get it back. Here, take a look,” he offered Regan. “The police brought it back to me yesterday. I’ve missed it.”

Regan put down her empty glass and took the lei in her hands. It was truly beautiful. The shells were intricate and gorgeous, and the colors running through them ranged from coral to white to beige. Some of them were slightly chipped, but the lei was even more beautiful than many expensive necklaces she had seen.

“Jimmy knows what you’re thinking,” he said. “It’s like fine jewelry. The royal ladies liked them better than pearls.”

“I heard the story that this one was made for Queen Liliuokalani and the other for her niece Princess Kaiulani.”

“They loved these leis!” Jimmy answered vehemently. “They wore them in public all the time. The leis were donated to the Seashell Museum when it was founded in the 1920s. They hung side by side in a glass case until the burglary.”

Regan caressed the shells. “It’s hard to believe this was worn so long ago.”

“Then on a dead body.”

Regan sighed. “On someone who had never been to Hawaii until three months ago. I can’t imagine where she found this lei. Can you tell me what happened when the lei was stolen?”