“I’m taking notes,” Lani says, though she’s holding a dumpling instead of a pen. “We need to seriously up our game back at the Coconut Cove. These people are making food that could end wars or start them, depending on how limited the supply is.”
“Note to self,” I add, attempting to balance three different food samples while maintaining some semblance of dignity, “murder investigations are significantly more pleasant when accompanied by gourmet food tastings and the possibility of discovering new favorite flavors.”
By the time we reach the clothing and jewelry vendors, we’ve achieved a food-induced euphoria that makes rational decision-making impossible and impulse purchases inevitable. Ruby and Lani descend upon the muumuu selection like women on a mission, emerging with armloads of hibiscus and plumeria prints and enough puka shell jewelry to outfit every auntie on the island.
“The nerve of that man,” I say, watching Lani try on a crown that makes her look like a leafy sea goddess, “coming to MY island to ruin MY tropical paradise with his petty little influencer wedding!”
“Your island?” Ruby asks, adjusting her own crown, which appears to be constructed from enough shells and tropical vegetation to house a small ecosystem. “You’ve been here what, six months?”
“Six weeks,” I blow out a breath. “But I adopted it,” I explain with the dignity of a rightful queen defending her territory. “We have an understanding. It provides sunsets, balmy breezes, and the occasional murder mystery to keep life interesting. I provide drama, corpse discovery services, and a commitment to maintaining proper mai tai standards. And don’t forget the cinnamon rolls and the ice cream we sell at the resort. That all started after I arrived.”
Ruby nods. “Jinx Julep, making Kauai yummier one sweet tooth at a time.”
“At least your ex didn’t try to turn your wedding reception into a business networking event,” Lani says, somehow managing to look both regal and practical in her leafy crown. “Mine handed out his business cards during our first dance. He said it was maximizing social opportunities for professional advancement.”
“That’s nothing,” Ruby scoffs, adding approximately six more shell necklaces to her growing collection. “Husband number six brought his mother on our honeymoon. Said she needed to evaluate my wife potential before he could commit to the relationship long-term.”
“What were the evaluation criteria?” I ask, morbidly fascinated.
“Cooking skills, child-bearing hips, and willingness to tolerate his mother’s weekly visits to critique my housekeeping.” Ruby makes a face as she says it. “I failed spectacularly on all counts, which turned out to be the best failure of my life.”
“What about husband number seven?” Lani asks, having appointed herself official chronicler of Ruby’s romantic disasters.
“Number seven was a developer who wanted to pave paradise and put up a parking lot,” Ruby says, examining a pair of earrings that could double as small chandeliers. “Literally. He proposed to me over blueprints for a strip mall that he wanted to build on sacred Hawaiian land.”
“Please tell me you didn’t really marry him,” I say.
“Oh, I married him,” Ruby grins, the expression of a woman who’s exacted complete revenge and enjoyed every minute of it. “The divorce lawyers were very thorough. He’s still paying for my legal fees and the victory cruise around the world that I took to celebrate my freedom.”
“Ooh,the cruise sounds nice,” I’m quick to say, knowing full well Erwin doesn’t have two dimes to rub together, let alone send me on a luxury liner. More like send me off on the driftwood he dug out of a sandpit.
“We hereby declare ourselves Queens of Tropical Retail Therapy!” Lani announces, landing a leafy crown on my head, too.
“Long may we reign over impulsive purchases and excellent taste in festival food!” Ruby adds, striking a pose.
I’m about to add my own royal proclamation when movement near the artisanal candle vendor catches my eye. A woman in a form-fitting dress that seems to be winning a fight with physics is currently sniffing her way through an entire slew of fruity looking candles. Her long dark hair catches the afternoon sunlight like silk, while her jewelry sparkles with every gesture. And even from here, I can see the poor candle vendor melting faster than his merchandise under her focused attention. She seems to have that effect on all men. I can’t help but frown as Koa comes to mind.
“There she is,” I say, pointing toward the aromatic drama unfolding near the vanilla-sandalwood display. “Ourbombshell witness is working her magic on unsuspecting small business owners.”
“Do you think she’s testing scents for romantic encounters or covering up murder evidence?” Lani asks, following my gaze to where Halea is now leaning close enough to the vendor to conduct a thorough assessment of his dental work.
“There’s only one way to find out,” I reply, straightening my shoulders and preparing for what might be either an interrogation or a masterclass in professional seduction techniques. “Time to shake down Halea Palani for everything she’s worth.”
Ruby adjusts her crown and grins. “This should be more entertaining than husband number twelve’s attempts at exotic dancing.”
“You had a husband number twelve?” Lani asks.
“That’s a story for another festival,” Ruby says, but she’s already moving toward the candle stand, clearly settling in for a good show. “However, if Halea is half as good at lying as she is at wearing that dress, we’re in for quite a performance.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.
CHAPTER 7
Approaching Halea Palani is like watching a natural predator in her element. She’s examining candles with laser focus while the vendor stands there looking like he’s forgotten his own name, his mother’s name, and possibly how breathing works. I give him thirty seconds before he offers her the entire inventory for free. The man is so flustered, he’s probably going to propose before we even get to her.
Halea’s red dress is on point, her heels are both threats and weapons, and she glows like the island goddess she is.
Ruby leans in, and her crown slides over one eye. “If I were twenty years younger…”
