“Great news!” Lani bounces before us. “Someone down the way is selling fried poi mochi balls,” she announces, clearly deciding that food takes priority over whatever romantic tension she’s trying to manage. “We should head that direction before they sell out and we’re left with nothing but overpriced art and disappointment.”
“Friedpoimochi balls,” I repeat, because sometimes paradise offers combinations that sound like they were invented by someone having a very specific kind of fever dream.
“Traditional Hawaiian ingredients prepared in the most non-traditional way possible,” Ruby adds helpfully. “It’s like fusion cuisine for people who can’t decide between cultures. That’s basically Hawaiian cuisine in a nutshell.”
We start making our way through the crowd, and Koa reaches over and takes my hand as if this is a perfectly normal development in our relationship. I all but freeze mid-step, because while holding hands with Detective Gorgeous feels natural and right and like the sort of thing I should have been doing for weeks, it also feels completely surreal—like I’ve accidentally wandered into someone else’s much more successful romantic life.
His hand is warm and sure around mine, and I can feel calluses that probably come from surfing and weightlifting, and other activities that require both physical coordination and a confidence I have never had.
I’ll admit, the gesture feels both protective and possessive, like he’s claiming me as his investigation partner and maybe something more, which makes my mind drift places it shouldn’t.
I’m about to say something profound about this development—or at least something that doesn’t make me sound like I’ve never held hands with an attractive man before—when something in my peripheral vision catches my attention.
A brunette in a large-brimmed sun hat and oversized sunglasses weaves through the crowd near a gallery featuring what appears to be paintings of roosters in various states of crisis. She’s wearing a colorful touristy outfit that’s trying too hard to blend in, and she keeps glancing around like she’s checking escape routes rather than admiring local art.
“Is everything okay?” Koa asks, following my gaze and immediately shifting into alert detective mode.
“Ruby, Lani,” I call to our self-appointed chaperones, “we’ll catch up with you at the mochi booth.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Ruby calls back, making exaggerated kissing noises as they disappear into the thick crowd with their poultry entourage in tow.
I look at Koa, whose hand is still holding mine but whose attention is now focused on the suspect before us.
The evening light is fading into that magical hour where everything looks romantic and mysterious, but the woman in the sun hat looks less mysterious and more like someone trying very hard to avoid being recognized.
“I don’t know if everything is okay,” I say in a latent response, nodding toward our potential suspect. “But I do know I might be looking at a killer who thinks art appreciation makes for good camouflage.”
The crowd swirls around us, full of locals and tourists and people who just want to buy handmade jewelry and eat fried things in peace, completely unaware that somewhere in their midst stands a woman who might have decided that murder was an acceptable solution to event planning problems.
Either we’re about to confront the person who may have killed Coraline Starling, or we’re about to have a very awkward conversation with an innocent art lover who just happens to favor oversized accessories. But judging by the way she kept checking over her shoulder, I’m betting on option one.
CHAPTER 15
Navigating an art walk while conducting unauthorized interrogation of murder suspects requires a level of social finesse I’m not entirely sure I possess, but evidently, I’m doing this anyway.
I weave through the crowd toward the honey vendor, where Mabel Ortiz stands examining jars of local wildflower honey as if she were expecting a pop quiz on it later. She’s still wearing those oversized sunglasses despite the fact the evening light is fading fast, and the sun hat continues to shield most of her face from casual observation.
Honey.
It’s the perfect cover for accidentally-on-purpose bumping into a potential killer.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I exclaim, jostling into her while reaching for the same jar of macadamia blossom honey.
The collision sends her sunglasses sliding down her nose, revealing dark eyes that quickly assess me before she pushes the glasses where they belong.
“No worries at all,” she says, waving off my far too animated apology. “Happens all the time at these things.”
Darn it. I snap my fingers toward Koa, who’s positioned himself about fifteen feet away with his arms crossed and an expression that could start its own lava flow. The man looks hotter than a kitchen fire, which is saying something considering I’ve actually seen our resort kitchen catch fire twice this week already. And it would also explain the women gathering around him, sighing and fanning themselves as if they might faint.
He frowns and shrugs, clearly disapproving of my amateur sleuth methods, but is resigned to watching me improvise my way through what passes for undercover work.
Personally, I’m shocked he agreed to it. But then again, he is armed with a weapon and hasn’t taken his eyes off of me yet.
“Have you tried the honey?” I ask Mabel with the enthusiasm of discovering we had a shared hobby rather than the fact I’m conducting surveillance. I glance in the jar at the tiny, waxy circles taking up residence. “I’ve never had fresh honeycomb before.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” she says, accepting a sample from the vendor and handing it my way before accepting her own. “The island produces some of the best honey in the Pacific.”
We stand there chewing honeycomb like a couple of tourists, letting the sweet, waxy texture dissolve on our tongues while bees buzz lazily around the vendor’s setup and a rooster pecks at something near my feet, most likely his dinner.
