A groan ripples through the crowd, but before anyone can hurl a flip-flop at his head, a small army of employees storms the dance floor, tossing purple and pink leis over every neck within striking distance. In seconds, the entire party is festooned in flowers, looking like an army of hibiscus piñatas.
Music thunders. The torches flicker. Chickens, not to be outdone, dart under the buffet tables, pecking at the fallenmalasada crumbs, while the cats stalk them with a gleam in their eyes.
And Erwin—my ex, who mistakes confidence for competence—stands in the middle of it all, stuffing Lani’s world-famous ube malasadas into his mouth with both hands. Purple custard streaks down his suit like finger paint at a toddler’s birthday. His teeth glow violet in the torchlight. He chews, he grins, he drips. Heisa drip.
The fact that he couldn’t keep it in his pants is exactly why we’re all here today. Not that I’m bemoaning it. If I’m smart, I’ll pen the string of hussies he had an affair with each their very own thank you note. I’m much happier on Kauai, at this cozy resort, with my herd of cats and chickens—not to mention Ruby and Lani. And last but never least, one hot detective I can’t seem to keep my lips off of.
Erwin belts out a whoop so loud it sears my eardrums. I frown at him for a moment with the malasada sludge dripping off his chin, the way his eyes are prone to wander toward anything in a skirt—and I gasp.
And just like that, the entire case snaps together in my head like a lei cinched around someone’s neck with lethal finality.
Bertha’s comment at the falls about wishing “that boy knew how to keep it in his pants.” The fact that Bertha almost decked Alana before the poor woman bit the big one. Halea calling Alana ahomewrecker. Della herself seemed to be in on some sad secret that could ruin Candy’s big day.
The puzzle finishes assembling itself while Erwin commits a full-scale ube malasada massacre, blissfully unaware his cheating just got flagged between bites at his own wedding.
I shake my head at him before turning to find Candy leading a conga line toward the shore, fueled by pure wedding adrenaline and a total disregard for terrain. The line collapses once guests realize sand and formal shoes are mortal enemies, leaving Candy moving and grooving alone in her pink dress that flows around her like expensive sea foam with an attitude problem.
The dress is stunning—layers of silk and tulle that catch the tiki torch light while managing to look both elegant and practical for boogeying at the beach. Candy moves with the confidence of a bride who knows she looks amazing and plans to document every angle for maximum social media impact.
I head for the sand to congratulate the new bride and have what might be the most important conversation of my amateur detective career—timing courtesy of her solo dance break.
“Candy! What an amazing wedding!” I call out, as if I’m simply making friendly conversation rather than for what I’m preparing to extract from her.
“Sphynx!” She spins around with her signature smile, delighted to have an audience for her beach choreography. “Isn’t this just perfect? The whole day turned out exactly like I dreamed!”
“Well, almost exactly,” I say, because subtle implications pair nicely with beachside chats and possible killers.
“What do you mean?” She tilts her head, wearing an innocence that suggests consequences are a foreign concept.
“I mean, someone murdered your business manager during what should have been the happiest week of your life.”
Candy’s expression shifts slightly, like someone adjusting their internal settings for more serious conversation topics. “Oh, that. Well, obviously, Halea killed the woman. Professional jealousy and all that business rivalry nonsense. Alana was practically taking over as the wedding planner.”
“Actually, I don’t think Halea did it.”
“Well then, you must be drinking.” Candy laughs with a forced cheer that suggests this conversation is heading in directions she doesn’t appreciate. “Pay attention. Halea offed the woman. She had all the business motivesandthe opportunity.”
I shake my head as cats begin emerging from the beach vegetation like furry audience members gathering for premium entertainment. Spam leads the charge with his tail held high, his eyes sharp. My orange fluffy bestie has glued himself to my side like a loyal barnacle. A small army of chickens materializes from various resort locations too, as if summoned by the scent of dramatic human confrontation in a tropical setting.
“No, she didn’t do it,” I insist.
Candy straightens. Her eyes flit left and right as if she’srecalculating her strategy. “Then it must have been Bertha. You know how much of a battleaxe that woman can be. Let’s lock her up forever and throw away the key.”
I grunt at the thought. “Talk about making me an offer I can’t refuse.”
I’ll admit, it is tempting.
But knowing my ex-mother-in-law, she would enjoy the martyrdom. Not only that, but prison food couldn’t be worse than her personality.
“I found out about Erwin and Alana,” I say quietly, watching Candy’s face for the reaction that will confirm everything I’ve just pieced together.
“What about Erwin and Alana?” Her voice carries a level of careful control that suggests she knows exactly what I’m talking about but hopes I don’t.
“He was cheating on you with her. You found out, too, didn’t you?”
Screams of delight emanate from the festivities behind us, and yet the sound of the crashing waves does its best to drown them out.
Candy’s expression goes through several interesting transformations—surprise, offense, calculation, then something that looks like relief mixed with defiance. She lifts her chin with a stubborn pride that suggests she’s about to stop pretending. Or at least that’s what I’m reading into it. If I’m lucky, this is the part where she pins it all on Erwin.
