“Did you work with the other people involved?” I ask. “There was a pastry chef there, Giselle Fontaine.”
“Giselle,” Mabel repeats, her tone shifting into something sharper. “Now there’s a piece of work pretending to be something she’s not.”
“How so?”
“That whole French pastry chef persona is about as authentic as Coraline’s concern for island culture.” Mabel leans closer. “Her ‘signature’ lavender honey tart? That was Marguerite Beaumont’s signature dessert—right down to the specific lavender variety from Provence. I’ve had the original. It’s identical. And there are at least three other dishes in her book that are suspiciously similar to classics from French pastry chefs. Coraline noticed, too. She kept asking Giselle very pointed questions about her creative process. It was all very embarrassing for Giselle.”
My virgin daiquiri suddenly tastes more interesting. “How do you know all this?”
“Event planning is a small world, especially when you’re dealing with food service professionals. Word gets around about people who aren’t what they claim to be. The woman is a fraud. I doubt she even went to pastry school.” Mabel straightens up, satisfied with her revelation. “And yet she’s landed a lucrative book deal and has quite the fanbase. If information like this got out, it could be damning. The woman is a thief and a liar, and she could be a killer.”
I gasp. “That’s horrible.”
“That’s criminal. But she’s good at covering her tracks and even better at playing the victim when anyone gets suspicious. I bet she had Coraline completely fooled.”
“Actually, I think Coraline might have figured it out. There was some kind of confrontation between them the night she died.”
“Of course, there was. Coraline was like a shark when it came to sniffing out fake credentials and fraudulent backgrounds. She probably threatened to expose Giselle during the competition.”
Another piece of the puzzle clicks into place, and I have to work to keep my expression neutral rather than triumphant. I feel like dancing a jig. Giselle had a pretty good motive for murder.
“What about a man named Breezy?” I ask. “Did you work with him, too?”
“Brock Canton,” Mabel grunts out his name, and there’s something in her tone that spells out the fact that she has complicated feelings. “He’s a local celebrity distiller with a charm that makes you forget to ask important questions.”
“Such as?”
“Such as why his profit margins are so good when everyone else in the craft distilling business is barely breaking even.” Sheswirls her daiquiri thoughtfully. “But charm covers a multitude of sins, doesn’t it?”
“Do you think he’s running some kind of scam?”
“I think he’s running an operation that depends on people not looking too closely at the details. Coraline, unfortunately for him, was exactly the type to look very closely at everything. I don’t know what she found, but my money says she certainly found something. He didn’t look all that happy with her that night either.”
A commotion erupts somewhere behind us, starting with what sounds like someone shouting, “No, Ruby, don’t touch that!” followed by a series of increasingly alarmed voices.
I turn to witness the spectacle, but the crowd is too thick and I can’t see a thing.
“RUBY!” Lani’s voice cuts through the art walk chaos at octaves loud enough to reach Mars. “GET AWAY FROM THE SCULPTURE!”
“It’s fine!” Ruby’s voice calls back with the confidence of a troublemaker who’s never met a situation she couldn’t make worse. “I just want to see if it’s structurally sound!”
A metallic crash echoes across the street, followed by what sounds like a small explosion and the collective gasp of approximately fifty people. Chickens erupt from various hiding spots, squawking and flapping in panic, while cats scatter in all directions like furry shrapnel from whatever catastrophe Ruby has just unleashed.
Somewhere in the chaos, a man’s voice shouts, “Call the fire department!” while another yells, “Has anyone seen my rooster?”
Koa takes off for the scene with his hand moving to his weapon because he’s well-trained to respond to emergencies, even ones that originate from well-meaning women in bottlecap jewelry trying to test the structural integrity of public art installations.
“I should probably—” I start, but the chaos is spreading like wildfire through the art walk, with vendors scrambling to protect their displays and tourists either running toward the excitement or away from it, depending on their personal philosophy about disaster as entertainment.
“Rain check on the war stories?” I ask Mabel, already backing toward the source of the commotion, where I can see smoke rising from what used to be a sculpture and is now an abstract art fire hazard.
“Absolutely,” she says, gathering her things and recognizing when it’s time to flee for your own safety. “But hey—I’m a part of the do-over Mai Tai competition your resort is hosting. I’d love for you to come. After all this chaos, I think we could all use some fun.”
“I’ll be at the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort this Sunday!” I call over the growing cacophony of sirens, shouting, and what sounds suspiciously like Ruby attempting to explain to someone in authority why art installations should be more clearly labeled regarding their flammability potential.
Ruby’s talent for creating chaos at exactly the wrong moment is either the worst timing in investigative history or the perfect cover for escaping an interrogation with a potential killer who made surprisingly good conversation over virgin daiquiris and shared stories of matrimonial disaster.
A loud roar rips through the vicinity, and just like that, half of little Hanapepe town has caught on fire.
