CHAPTER 18
The bus carrying the bridal brigade lurches away from this corner of Hanalei in a storm of shrieks, feathers, and singles stuffed in questionable places.
Ruby waves from the back window like a woman who just joined a cult, Lani is busy wringing nacho cheese out of her crown, and Bertha presses her face to the glass with the haunted eyes of a woman who had glimpsed too much flesh in the firelight.
Candy is livestreaming the entire exodus with her filters on high, and I’m sure her hashtags are flying faster than the bus itself.
Halea blows kisses to the dancers and promises tonetworklater.
And me? I slip off in the other direction, toward the only man in Kauai not covered in glitter or oil.
“Need a ride back to the resort?” Koa asks, clearly amused after watching me get intimate on stage with a professional fire dancer in front of a cheering crowd. Koa’s hair is slicked back, his eyes are glowing in the moonlight, and he holds a woodsy scent that’s pulling me closer all on its own. Koa is so darn handsome it’s almost unfair.
“Yes, I do need a ride. Unless you enjoyed watching me get seduced by flaming objects and want a repeat performance.” I’m only half-teasing.
“The fire dancing was educational,” he admits. “I didn’t know you had those moves.”
“I didn’t know I had those moves either,” I say, gripping my hips. “I guess tropical entertainment brings out hidden talents I never knew existed. Here’s hoping I can move tomorrow.”
A small cat appears from under a nearby table, snaps up a nacho chip in his mouth, and makes a quick getaway.
“Before we head back,” Koa hitches his head towards the parking lot, “want to grab some food? I know a place that serves excellent nachos and doesn’t require audience participation.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting at a beachside café that caters to people who’ve survived fire dancers and need sustenance to process the experience. It’s also a place where tiki torches provide romantic lighting without requiring athletic ability or dollar bills for proper appreciation. We’ve got a table just feet from the sand, with twinkle lights strung up above and the starry night just past that. A smattering ofpatrons sit scattered around, but it feels private, deliciously intimate, and like the perfect place to discuss all things murder.
Our nacho platter arrives absolutely drowning in mango salsa, coconut shrimp, pineapple jalapeños, and cheese that refuses to behave.
Sure, they had nachos at the bachelorette party but neither Koa nor I enjoyed those and we were having one serious craving.
I order another Island Fever Dream because I didn’t get any of that either, while Koa opts for something called a Detective’s Downtime that comes with a tiny plastic handcuff attached to the stirring stick. It’s adorable, ever so slightly practical, and right on the money for the things I want to discuss.
“So, do you want to compare notes on our mutual suspect collection?” I ask, diving into nachos with an appetite that can only come from spending the evening conducting interrogations and surviving the seduction of one very hot fire dancer—and I mean that in the literal sense.
“You mean, do I want to discuss your unauthorized civilian investigation that technically violates several police procedures?” Koa asks with weary acceptance, no longer bothering to discourage my amateur detective activities.
“I prefer enthusiastic community involvement in local law enforcement. Besides, you seemed interested in my findings when I was getting intimate with fire safety demonstrations.”
The waves provide background music as we launch into suspect analysis that feels like the world’s most dangerous pillow talk. I share my intelligence gathering about Halea’s client theft and professional threats, Bertha’s financial paranoia and family protection instincts, Erwin’s money stress and boundary-setting comments. Okay, fine, I might have exaggerated a little to make Erwin sound extra guilty, but that’s only because I want him to be.
I glance over at the ocean as the moon dances over the inky water, and the palm trees sway in the balmy breeze. It’s another perfect night in paradise, and yet here we are, staring down the barrel of another homicide.
I seem to be the common denominator in these homicidal shenanigans, but I don’t dare point that out to Koa. Although let’s face it, he doesn’t need me to point it out.
Hey? Maybe that’s why he’s sticking to my side? I’m nothing but a reconnaissance mission to him. One he doesn’t mind practicing his kissing skills on. And what skills they are.
“Della told me that Alana threatened to make sure Halea never worked another wedding on this island,” I report, because evidently, conducting interrogations while fire dancers perform behind you creates excellent confession opportunities.
“Interesting,” Koa says with the professional tone that suggests this information aligns with official investigation findings. “What else did your off-the-books suspect interviews reveal?”
“As I said, Bertha hates anyone who isn’t blood and thinks outsiders are trying to scam her retirement fund, and Erwin’s. Speaking of my ex, he was demanding receipts like he was conducting federal audits. Della has career jealousy issues, but seems more desperate to break into the music industry than dangerous.”
A rooster crows from somewhere in the palm trees, as if sounding off on our suspect assessment methodology.
“And Candy?” Koa asks, stealing a particularly loaded nacho with the casual intimacy that comes from sharing food and murder theories.
“Surprisingly saintlike,” I scoff at the thought. “She tried to mediate everyone’s drama. She even offered to pay extras from her own pocket for the expenses. Either she’s an excellent actress, or she’s just really, really good at being manipulated by wedding vendors with dicey ethics.”
“So, our top suspects,” Koa leans back in his seat, and I can practically see him organizing complex information into manageable categories, “are Halea and her business warfare, Bertha for family financial protection, and Erwin for control issues and monetary disputes.”
