Della considers this, clearly digging for anything else she can add. “No, I think I told you everything last night. But Halea might know more—she and Alana had way more interaction that night than anyone else.” She pauses and inches back as if struck by sudden recollection. “Actually, now that I think about it, Halea was asking really weird questions about Alana’s schedule the day she died. Like, specifically when she could speak to her alone and where she was planning to go. I thought it was just professional coordination, but now...”
The implications hit like a tropical storm making landfall. Della trails off, realizing she’s just provided potentiallydamaging evidence against the wedding officiant who recently pronounced Candy and Erwin married with social media blessings.
A rooster crows from somewhere near the dance floor, announcing that crucial evidence has just been revealed during wedding reception small talk. Or at least I hope it was.
I turn to spot Halea positioned by the newly installed tiki bar, looking more than ready to celebrate a successful wedding by getting very friendly with Shaka’s impressive construction skills and professional tool expertise.
Both Shaka and Loco are here tonight. They offered to help with bartending backup as well as emergency ukulele backup. They’re sort of the Jack of all Hawaiian trades, and I more than appreciate them. Koa promised he’d stop by at some point, but said he’s still working on that big break in the case. And I have a feeling I’m about to have a big break, too.
It’s time to confront the person who might very well be Alana’s killer, at her own successfully orchestrated wedding reception, while she’s attempting to seduce a construction worker, surrounded by celebrating guests and tropical cocktails.
The gecko on the palm tree does a final push-up and disappears, deciding that human justice procedures exceed its comfort level.
Sometimes justice in paradise comes with a side of tropical romance and truly terrible timing.
CHAPTER 20
The wedding reception has officially mutated into a category-five luau, and I’m not sure if FEMA or a priest should be called in first.
Torches blaze high against the indigo night, sputtering sparks into the salty air, while the surf roars its approval from the shoreline. Drums pound into the night, guests dance barefoot in the sand, and children shriek as they chase chickens that had clearly RSVP’d as feathery plus-ones.
Cats weave between tables with their tails twitching, occasionally swatting at the confetti blowing across the buffet like tumbleweeds. The scent of roasted pig, pineapple cake, plumeria leis, and spilled mai tais cling to everything, thick and sticky, the perfume of paradise gone feral.
Tiki torches create spooky shadows while string lightstwinkle like stars that decided to move closer for a better view of the festivities.
Hawaiian music fills the air with ukulele melodies that make everyone want to hula, whether they have rhythm or not, and the scent of plumeria mingles with smoke from the grill in ways that should be bottled and sold as “Paradise in a Can.”
The dance floor pulses with guests moving to island rhythms like they’ve been briefly possessed by professional hula dancers, while multiple food stations create a culinary paradise that makes dietary restraint seem like something unachievable.
The open bar serves tropical cocktails with unnecessary drama, while Candy documents it all herself under the merciless supervision of her ring light.
Ruby leads conga lines with older gentlemen who discovered that wedding receptions are excellent venues for showcasing dance moves they’ve been saving up for decades. Chickens weave through the celebration like clucking party crashers conducting their own parallel festivities, while cats position themselves strategically around food stations with the patience of tiny furry ninjas waiting for optimal snack opportunities. And they are so going to get snacks.
Despite the earlier weather apocalypse and poultry insurrection, the reception has achieved tropical celebration success levels that makes destination weddings worth the travel complications, the expense, and the inevitable family drama.
Halea still hasn’t moved from the tiki bar—or from Shaka’s orbit.
She’s practically purring as he explains the engineering behind the bar installation, clearly more interested in the builder than the building specifications. I waste no time in heading that way.
“Hello,” I say a touch too cheerfully. “Mind if I steal her for a minute?” I ask Shaka, and he gives a not-so-subtle nod. I can tell the man appreciates his girlfriend—and the opportunity to escape from a clinger.
He takes off to the opposite end of the bar, and I step in close to our resident seductress.
“Halea, this is all so wonderful,” I say, pasting on a smile. I would rather do almost anything than attend my ex-husband’s wedding—hosting it ranks even lower. “The wedding turned out amazing despite the weather apocalypse,” I begin with genuine admiration, because I give credit where credit is due—the woman managed to turn meteorological disaster into tropical romance with professional magic.
“Right? I was ready to sacrifice a chicken to the rain gods, but I guess they just needed dramatic timing for better photos,” Halea replies with the satisfaction of a party planner who’s pulled off miracles through sheer determination—and possibly intervention from The Big Guy himself.
“The flower arrangements survived better than I expected,” I continue, because I enjoy making small talk before accusing people of murder.
“I know! I had backup florals hidden in three different locations. Professional paranoia pays off when Mother Nature decides to test your contingency planning skills.”
We chat about wedding guest behavior, shared survival of reception chaos, and the general miracle of outdoor event coordination in paradise. It’s the kind of friendly conversation that makes what I’m about to do feel like a complete betrayal of social etiquette.
“Can we chat privately for a second?” I ask, nodding toward a quieter spot on the beach where waves provide white noise and tiki torch light creates an atmosphere fit for intimate conversations.
We move a few steps into the sand, far enough from the party for privacy but close enough to still hear the celebration, fueled by people who’ve survived weather disasters and lived to tell about it.
“So,” I begin casually, pivoting from party-planning praise to amateur detective interrogation with all the subtlety of a slammed door, “what did you really think about working with Alana?”
