The three of us take our positions on the sand as Loco and Shaka begin to play, and even though it feels like an out-of-body experience, I’m suddenly very aware that I’m standing on a beach in coconut shells in front of actual people who can see me. The music is beautiful, flowing, a sound that makes you understand why people fall in love with islands and never leave, even when those islands make them do ridiculous things.
Ruby starts with what I think is supposed to be a graceful arm movement, but it looks more like she’s directing air traffic during an emergency landing. Lani moves with the dignity of a grandmother who’s accepted her fate but refuses to be happy about it, her face set in an expression that says,I’m doing this under protest.
I try to follow the rhythm, swaying my hips in what I hope resembles traditional dance rather than someone having a seizure in coconut shells while the universe laughs.
For about thirty seconds, we’re actually doing it. We’re hula dancing on a beach in paradise while ukuleles play and tiki torches flicker, and the island winds carry our music across the water, and I’m thinking maybe this won’t be a complete disaster?—
Then Ruby attempts what she later describes as a hard right turn with attitude.
Her hip freezes mid-movement like someone hit a pause button on her entire left side, or like her body just issued a formal complaint. She stops, wobbles like a palm tree in high wind, and grabs onto me for support with the grip of a drowning woman.
“My hip!” she gasps, her face contorting in a way that suggests this is not part of the choreography. “It’s stuck!”
Before I can steady her, Lani tries a dramatic dip that her back vetoes with extreme prejudice. She straightens with a sound like a small tree falling and grabs onto Ruby with both hands.
And now, here we are, a chain of women in coconut bras, clinging to each other while trying not to fall over in the sand like some kind of tropical domino situation waiting to happen.
The band plays on. Loco and Shaka, bless their hearts and their complete commitment to professionalism, keep strumming like nothing’s happening, their music floating across the beach while we struggle to maintain both dignity and vertical positioning, which at this point are mutually exclusive goals.
“Well,” Ruby says, still frozen in her half-turn like a statue honoring bad decisions, “at least we tried.”
“Speak for yourself,” Lani mutters with one hand pressed to her lower back in a way that assures future chiropractor visits. “I think I just discovered muscles I forgot I had, and they’re all threatening to sue.”
The guests applaud anyway, clearly charmed by our enthusiasm if not our execution, which is honestly the best we could hope for. Dane bounds over with his perpetual smile cranked up to maximum wattage, unable to detect disaster when it’s wearing coconut shells.
“That was amazing!” he says, either lying or suffering from some kind of vision problem. “Very authentic! Veryinterpretive!”
“Thanks,” I say, helping Ruby into a chair where she can work on unfreezing her hip joint.
“Jinx,” Dane says, his voice dropping to something more confidential. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
He pulls me aside as Melanie rushes over to help Ruby and Lani, her managerial instincts finally kicking in despite her obvious disapproval of our entire evening, and I’m betting our existence as well.
“What’s up?” I ask, trying to adjust my coconut shells discreetly because they’ve shifted during the dancing disaster, and my nipples are threatening to take a look around.
“It’s about May,” Dane says, glancing around to make sure we’re not overheard. “Something she said the other day, and it just came to me. She mentioned that she’d been in Savannah’s garden the night Nolan died.”
“Lots of people were there that day.”
“No, I mean that night. After we checked in. She said shewent back because she’d left something there during the day, but the garden closes at sunset. There’s no reason for her to be there unless...”
“Unless she was meeting someone,” I finish, my heart starting to race in a way that has nothing to do with hula dancing.
“Or hiding something. Or getting rid of something.”
The pieces click into place with the sound of a tropical puzzle solving itself. May Leilani, running from her past, desperate to protect her new identity. Savannah Cross, protective of her garden, knowing everyone’s secrets. Two women with everything to lose, one man threatening to destroy them both.
I look across the beach where Melanie is fussing over Ruby and Lani, distracted by their theatrical injuries, which I hope were not hip-shattering. It’s the perfect moment to slip away, to find the person I’m pretty sure killed Nolan Nakamura.
The balmy breeze carries the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the sound of ukuleles across the water as I head toward the shadows beyond the tiki torches, still wearing coconut shells because I’m confronting a killer while dressed like a tourist trap came to life.
Paradise just got a whole lot more dangerous.
And I’m pretty sure I should contact Koa before doing this.
But then again, when have I ever made good decisions?
CHAPTER 22
