“What about Halea?” I ask. “She seems professional.”
Della’s expression darkens like storm clouds discovering they have excellent timing for outdoor events. “Halea? Professional? She was stealing Alana’s clients behind her back faster than tourists steal shells from protected beaches.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was setting up sound equipment the night Alana died and heard them fighting about client poaching. Halea had been offering lower prices to steal Alana’s business,badmouthing her to other vendors, trying to eliminate competition through professional sabotage.”
“But they’re in different industries, aren’t they?”
“Not really,” Della snorts. “Halea could easily do brand management on the side. I heard her say that wedding planning wasn’t enough to pay the bills.”
The gecko leans forward with a sudden interest in a murder investigation.
“But Alana threatened to make sure Halea never worked another wedding on this island if she didn’t back off from certain clients. She said something about territory and consequences for crossing professional boundaries. It was like listening to a passive-aggressive turf war.”
“What else was said?” I ask, scooting closer to the driftwood so as to not miss a single word.
Della raises a finger, but before she could go on, chaos erupts from the fire dancer performance with the timing of a natural disaster designed to interrupt crucial conversations.
Screams erupt from behind—from pleasure or pain we can’t quite tell—and we turn around to see Ruby, several drinks past good judgment, as she leads a charge onto the stage that transforms from audience participation into full-scale entertainment anarchy. She grabs Bertha and drags her into the performance area while Bertha shouts all sorts of salacious things at the men playing with fire. And as soon as Bertha latches onto one of them, they’ll be playing with fire indeed.
“Come on, ladies!” Ruby yells with glee. “It’s time to getthis party started! These drinks aren’t going to dance themselves off!”
She has a point there.
Halea hops up on stage, whooping and hollering with the best of them. As she should, after all, this is the chaos she’s created. Candy immediately recognizes a premium content opportunity and rushes toward the stage with her phone in tow, probably calculating engagement metrics while running.
Della and I head that way just in time to see Lani get swept up in Ruby’s hurricane because resistance is futile when tropical entertainment reaches critical mass.
Before I can protest, escape, or finish extracting murder confessions from my beach buddy, I find myself being guided onto the stage by a rogue fire dancer with a smile that makes rational thought temporarily unavailable.
The performer—tall, athletic, with abs that could probably be used for industrial applications—wraps his arms around me for what’s supposed to be a simple dance but becomes increasingly intimate with each flame-enhanced movement.
The routine involves strategic positioning that requires trust, physical proximity, and coordination usually associated with activities that don’t involve fire spinning around you in decorative patterns. Dollar bills shower the stage as the crowd shows their approval in the universal language of cash.
“Just follow my lead,” he murmurs with the voice of a hotdancer accustomed to making women forget they have responsibilities, relationships, or murder investigations to conduct.
The fire creates dramatic visual effects around us while the audience goes wild with appreciation for what looks like spontaneous romantic choreography. I’m torn between enjoying the attention from an attractive professional and remembering that I’m supposed to be gathering evidence about murder suspects, not participating in red-hot dance moves with dangerous objects.
A chicken wanders onto the stage area, examines the flames, then settles nearby in the best seat in the proverbial house.
In the middle of this tropical entertainment disaster, I look out at the chaos in front of me and spot an all too familiar face in the crowd.
Oh wow. This night is ending badly.
Detective Koa Hale stands at the edge of the venue, leaning against a palm tree as if he’s got all night to watch this disaster unfold.
He’s not in detective mode. He’s not even in concerned-boyfriend mode.
Koa watches with an expression of amused fascination that suggests he’s enjoying the show more than someone conducting official police business should probably admit. Or at least I hope he is.
Our eyes lock, and he offers a short-lived smile my way.
The fire dancer notices my distraction and spins mecloser, trained in refocusing audience attention during performances. “Stay with me,” he says with professional seduction skills that work on most tourists but are currently competing with the hot detective just a few yards away.
Ruby screams with delight, Candy licks the chest of one of the fire dancers, and Halea laughs her head off. A rooster crows, and it only adds to the madness.
And somewhere on this island, a killer thinks they’ve gotten away with murder.
