Koa spotted a vast collection of acrylic and oil paintings in the background of all of Mabel’s web pages—everything from abstract swirls that looked like someone sneezed on canvas tolandscapes that screamed,I took a painting class once and now I’m an expert on tropical sunsets.
His detective instincts led him to conclude she might just be headed to the swanky yet humble little town of Hanapepe, where the art world explodes onto the scene most Friday nights, and everyone and their mother is out strolling around, noshing on cookies from local bakeries, and even enjoying a sushi roll or two.
“Historical Hanapepe,” I say as we drive through the early evening light, “is the kind of place where if you blink, you’ll miss it entirely. But unless you’re as dead as Coraline Starling, you’ll definitely pick up on the scene thanks to all the bodies lining the streets.”
“Bodies?” Koa raises an eyebrow with a concerned expression, as if he’s wondering if I’ve discovered another crime scene.
“All of them alive and breathing, unlike our recent victim,” I clarify. “Just your standard Friday night crowd looking for culture and coconut macaroons.”
The evening sky spreads across Hanapepe in shades of orange and pink that make you understand why people flock to islands to watch all of their money disappear, even when those islands come with alarming homicide statistics.
The main street stretches before us like a scene from a tourism commercial, except with more actual locals and fewer paid actors pretending to be spontaneously delighted by everything.
Throngs of people pack the sidewalks elbow to elbow, creating a crowd density normally reserved for Black Friday sales and natural disaster evacuations. A local band plays near the old theater, fully committed to songs about paradise and sunsets. The scent of something deep-fried fills the air—probably malasadas, but possibly tourist hopes and dreams transformed into digestible carnival food.
Booths line the street in front of shops, selling everything from handmade soap that promises to cleanse away your troubles, to pineapple whips that look like they could cure both homesickness and whatever long day brought you to an art walk in the first place.
“Look at that soap artisan,” I say, nodding toward a woman enthusiastically explaining the spiritual properties of papaya exfoliant to a couple who says she’s from Wisconsin. “Twenty bucks says she’s going to convince them that coconut oil can solve their marriage problems.”
“No bet,” Koa replies. “But I’ll put twenty on you buying one of those pineapple whips before we make it to the end of the block.” He nods to someone walking by with a waffle cone brimming with luscious pale yellow swirls of what looks like soft serve ice cream but elevated Hawaiian style. And boy, does it ever look delicious.
“You can bet your last lilikoi that one of those pineapple whips is going to find its way into my belly,” I admit. “I have priorities, and frozen fruit-based desserts rank significantly higher than maintaining any dietary restrictions during murder investigations.”
We park Koa’s 4Runner—no police cruiser tonight, just two civilians pretending we’re not about to interrogate someone over hand-thrown pottery. We hop out as the warm air wraps around us, perfumed with plumeria, sunscreen, and kettle corn, and for half a second I let myself believe we might actually blend in.
Someone yells from a booth behind us.
Not a terrified yell, but something that lets us know a menace is afoot.
We turn just in time to see Ruby burst out from behind a tent strung with crystal jewelry and dream catchers, tangled inat least six puka shell necklaces, while a vendor charges after her waving a laminated price list like a weapon.
“So much for subtle,” I mutter.
Both Ruby and Lani appear from behind the booth selling crystal jewelry and dream catchers, followed by what can only be described as a small livestock parade.
Ruby has outdone herself tonight, wearing a muumuu that commits fully to pink, orange, and yellow. She’s accessorized with her famous bottle-cap lei, pineapple earrings, and a flamingo-covered sun hat that makes it clear restraint was never part of the plan.
Lani opted for relative restraint—a simple lavender muumuu with white plumeria that only blinds you in direct light. Her wooden spoon is tucked into a belt made of what appears to be raffia, and she’s wearing sensible sandals that suggest she’s the practical one in this friendship despite being willing to follow Ruby into whatever chaos she’s planning. And by the looks of it, she is definitely planning something.
A mama hen leads six fluffy chicks in single file, moving through the crowd with purpose. Two roosters follow behind, strutting and observant, clearly unimpressed. Three cats weave through it all with ease, focused and alert. They’re either on security detail or quietly assessing the evening’s menu.
Koa frowns as this menagerie approaches us with Ruby beaming and Lani clutching her wooden spoon as if she’s ready to defend her right to crash our unofficial stakeout.
“What a coincidence,” he says in the tone of a person who doesn’t believe in coincidences, especially ones involving poultry and amateur detectives.
Ruby waves him off, unafraid to have perfected the art of being exactly where she’s not supposed to be. “Coincidences are for people who don’t pay attention to interesting conversations happening in resort lobbies,” she says cheerfully. “Lani hereoverheard the two of you planning this little nighttime adventure, and we couldn’t let you have all the fun without proper supervision.”
“Supervision?” I ask with a laugh.
“Someone needs to make sure you two actually focus on catching the killer instead of making googly eyes at each other while she escapes to the mainland,” Lani says like she knows all too well how people let romance interfere with common sense.
“We don’t make googly eyes,” I protest.
“Honey, make googly eyes at that man while he’s reading parking meters,” Ruby informs me. “It’s both adorable and slightly concerning from a public safety standpoint.”
For the record, I’ve never seen him read a parking meter, but just the visual makes me sigh.
A baby chick decides this is the perfect moment to investigate my flip-flops, mistaking them for some kind of exotic treat that might be edible. The mama hen clucks disapprovingly and herds her offspring away from my footwear before they can cause an international incident between species.
