“Oh my gosh, you guys!” she begins like a motivational speaker discovering caffeine. “Like, thank you so much for being here for my last night as a single influencer! Tomorrow, I become a married influencer, which is totally different content-wise but equally engaging for my followers!”
She pauses to take a selfie with her smoking drink. “Everyone smile! This is going live in three... two... We’re here at this absolutely adorable Hawaiian Island, Koloa, and I just want to say that female friendship is like the best brand partnership ever!”
I make a face at the fact that she got the name of the island wrong. So not authentic. Correction, so authentic for Candy.
The gecko next to me nods sagely, seemingly agreeing with my assessment.
“I can’t believe I’m getting married tomorrow!” Candy continues, her Island Fever Dream is clearly hard at work. “Like, what if I forget my own name? What if I trip on my dress? What if the flowers don’t match my ring light? These are the real concerns, people!”
Just as Candy finishes her gratitude speech, Della stands abruptly.
“Here’s to a great sister and a better friend,” she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and probably wouldn’t reach her toes either, “and to people who remember where they came from and who helped them get there.” She slices a glance at Candy, and something about it sends a shiver up my spine.
What in the world did she mean by that?
The table falls silent except for the sound of waves and a rooster crowing from somewhere in the distance, commenting on the sudden shift in party atmosphere.
“Some of us have been working behind the scenes for years,” Della continues like she’s been saving up complaints like vacation days, “building brands and creating content, while others get all the credit and all the followers.”
I lift a brow at the woman.
Then, because the evening needed more awkwardness, Della launches into what can only be described as an impromptu song about loyalty and recognition. Her singing voice sounds like someone torturing a ukulele while cats protest in the background in a chorus of yowls. Even the waves seem to pause out of secondhand embarrassment.
“Okay then!” Halea announces with the quick thinking of a professional event coordinator facing musical disaster. “On that note—let’s welcome our fire dancers!”
Three incredibly athletic Hawaiian men take the stage wearing traditional-ish attire that consists of strategic leafarrangements and bare abs that could be used as washboards—and if the women in their lives are smart, they so have. They carry flaming batons and torches that make every woman here turn into swooning puddles.
The transformation is immediate and spectacular. Respectable women become generous patrons of male entertainment faster than you can saycultural experience. Dollar bills start flying like a green storm, celebrating the intersection of fire safety and physical fitness.
Bertha begins stuffing money into leafy belts, quickly making up for decades of proper behavior. She’s cheering louder than women half her age and having the time of her life doing it, too.
“Work it, honey!” she shouts at a dancer executing a particularly impressive flame routine. “Show us those fire safety techniques!”
Ruby throws dollar bills and makes it rain over all three men, losing a few bills to the flames in the process. “That’s what I call proper torch handling! And look at those obliques!”
Lani shakes her head in wonder. “The way he spins that flame creates interesting geometric patterns. It’s very mathematical,” she says, trying to sound as scholarly as possible as if she were conducting research for her thesis. And I can see right through that scholarly veil. “Also, sweet mother of pearl, those biceps could crack coconuts.” See?
Halea hops on stage, fire be damned, and stuffs the beltsof those men with enough bills to buy them each an island of their own.
But the geckos, the chickens, the roosters, and the cats have all scurried away from the flickering flames because those smart creatures possess survival instincts the wedding guests have clearly abandoned.
While everyone else is caught up in fire dancer fever, Della sits alone, looking like someone contemplating the unfairness of life, while gorgeous men perform athletic feats with dangerous objects nearby. She’s moved away from the main group and has taken off for the beach where sand meets the surf, staring out at the ocean with a clear look of dissatisfaction on her face.
Watching Della’s obvious unhappiness and isolation while dollar bills fly and women cheer for strategic flame placement, I realize this is the perfect moment for a little private conversation. While everyone else is distracted by entertainment that involves fire and abs, the setting provides romantic ambiance that encourages confession, and I can tell that Della clearly has things she needs to say.
I’m off to shake down my last suspect and maybe the killer.
It’s time to find out if the quiet one has been the dangerous one all along.
CHAPTER 17
The fire dancers have the bride tribe hypnotized—Ruby stuffs singles into leaf belts like it’s her calling, Lani screams herself raw, Halea leads the charge like a Vegas emcee, and Bertha—oh, my word, Bertha—howls like a banshee every time a flame whooshes past.
If hell hosts bachelorette parties, they would definitely look like this, and Bertha would be their VIP guest.
But I’m not paying another stitch of attention to that swashbuckling, fire-eating good time. Instead, my flip-flops carry me in the direction of the bride’s baby sister down by the waterline.
Della sits alone on a piece of driftwood, staring out at the moonlit ocean with her Island Fever Dream barely touched, looking morose, misunderstood, and maybe a touch murderous, too.
