Time to hunt down a wedding planner who could charm the scales off a snake and definitely knows more about last night’s festivities than she’s telling the police. What could possibly go wrong?
Everything, probably.
Starting with my deep-fried hair.
CHAPTER 6
“According to Instagram,” Ruby announces, wielding her phone like a private investigator with a PhD in social media stalking, “our bombshell wedding planner is currently at the Tiki Taste Festival in Old Koloa Town. She posted a selfie fifteen minutes ago with the captionHunting for inspiration and hot bartenders!Complete with fire emojis and a hashtag that says always working.”
“Of course she’s hunting for hot bartenders,” I mutter, watching Ruby scroll through what appears to be a comprehensive digital dossier on Halea’s daily activities. “I bet she’s already identified three potential victims and mentally calculated their credit scores based on their shoe quality.”
“You mean shoesize,” Lani points out, and I nod at my oversight.
“This woman documents her life like she’s running formayor of Instagram,” Ruby continues, having discovered a treasure trove of investigative gold. “Look, here she is posing with a pineapple. Here’s another one with a tiki statue. Oh, and here’s one where she’s basically making love to a mai tai.”
“Professional wedding planners probably call that market research,” Lani observes, peering over Ruby’s shoulder at the photographic evidence. “Though I’ve never seen market research that required that much cleavage.”
“Research is research,” I say, grabbing the keys to the resort van, which we affectionately call Pele, from the hook by the door. “And if you got ‘em, flaunt ‘em. Let’s go conduct some field studies of our own.”
The drive to Old Koloa Town takes us through countryside that looks like Mother Nature was showing off when she designed Kauai. Rolling green hills dotted with cattle give way to red dirt roads that stain everything they touch, while roosters scream their heads off from roadside perches and palm trees sway in trade winds that smell like plumeria and possibility. By the time we reach our destination, I’m almost convinced that paradise is perfect—right up until I remember there’s a strangled woman in the morgue.
Old Koloa Town spreads out before us like a vintage photograph stepped into three dimensions. Yes, it’s just that charming. Red and white barn-style buildings converted into a cute little strip mall house vendors showcasing everything from handmade jewelry to artisanal coffee, an entire fleet of food trucks sits nearby, while a colorful banner stretchedbetween palm trees announces, “Welcome to the Koloa Tiki Taste & Treasure Festival—Where Paradise Meets Your Palate!” in letters so cheerful they practically require their own sunglasses.
The crowd is thick, the air is both humid and perfumed with plumeria, and the chickens are running amok. In other words, it’s signature Kauai.
The place is packed with throngs of tourists and locals browsing happily under brilliant sunshine that makes everything sparkle as if it’s been dipped in liquid gold. Hawaiian music drifts from speakers hidden among the palm fronds, vendors call out samples and specials, and somewhere in the distance, a rooster crows his approval of the day’s festivities.
“Well,” I say, surveying the chaos, “at least if we lose track of our suspect, we can console ourselves with retail therapy and fried food.” So much fried food.
“Spoken like a true professional investigator,” Ruby replies, but she’s already zeroed in on a jewelry stand with the focus of a woman who collects both husbands and wedding rings.
But while Ruby has diamonds in her eyes, I’ve got something a heck of a lot sweeter in mine—malasadas. Hawaii’s answer to the perfect donut.
“Oh no,” I breathe, stopping so suddenly that Lani crashes into my back.
“What?” she asks, following my gaze to where a vendor is pulling fluffy little donuts from hot oil, each one looking like a cloud made of carbs and dreams. “Oh. Oh no.”
“What are we looking at?” Ruby asks, then spots the sign advertising three varieties of the ooey-gooey-filled malasadas. “Oh, sweet merciful mai tais.”
The vendor, a cheerful woman with flour in her hair and a smile full of baked-good supremacy, waves us over. “Aloha, ladies! Fresh malasadas, just out of the fryer! We’ve got purple ube custard—that’s sweet purple yam, tastes like heaven had a baby with dessert—traditional haupia coconut custard that’ll make you forget your own name, and classic chantilly custard smoother than a jazz saxophone!”
“We’ll take all three,” I say before my brain can engage in any kind of rational decision-making process that involves calculating my sugar intake. “Each.”
“What murder?” Ruby asks fifteen minutes later as we’re seated at a picnic table with purple ube custard decorating her chin like she’s been finger-painting with dessert. “What ex-husband? These donuts have wiped my memory clean. I’m renaming myself Ruby Malasada and moving to Old Koloa Town permanently.”
“I’m quitting the resort and opening a malasada shrine,” Lani agrees, biting into her haupia-filled creation as if it holds the secrets to eternal happiness. And let’s be real. It so does. “We’ll call it ‘Our Lady of Perpetual Sugar Rushes.’”
I’m too busy experiencing what can only be described as a chantilly custard epiphany to contribute meaningfully to this conversation. The donut dissolves on my tongue like sweet, fried paradise, and for a moment, all of life’s problems—including dead business managers and irritating ex-husband weddings—fade into blissful, sugar-induced amnesia.
“Ladies,” I announce, licking the custard from my fingertips—waste not want not, “I officially declare this the best detective work we’ve ever done.”
“We haven’t actually detected anything yet,” Lani points out, though she’s already eyeing the pizza tasting stand with predatory interest.
“Details,” I wave her off. “Sometimes the journey is more important than the destination. And sometimes the journey involves fried dough filled with tropical custard.”
We make our way through the festival like tourists on a sugar high and a mission. The pizza stand offers samples of Hawaiian pizza made with actual fresh pineapple instead of the canned rings of sadness that usually masquerade as tropical flavor, while food trucks dispense everything from traditional poke—cubed raw tuna in this case—to dim sum that comes in packages so small and cute they should be illegal but taste so good they should be mandatory.
“This is what paradise tastes like when it’s not filtered through resort kitchen limitations,” Ruby moans, sampling a dynamite sushi roll that contains enough flavors to constitute a complete cultural education.
