Chapter 10
The Hanapepe River slides along slow and green below the swinging bridge, entirely indifferent to the fact that forty beauty queens and one detective with a bandaged arm just wrapped a photo shoot on the planks above it. Rivers have seniority.
Along the far bank, the old taro terraces step down toward the water in flat green tiers, laid out like someone started a staircase for the river and never got around to finishing it.
The light back here on the greenbelt comes down soft through the trees, gentler than the main street, and the whole place smells like river water and mock orange—a fragrant flowering shrub—and that deep green hush Kauai produces when it’s not actively showing off.
Which is rare. This island shows off the way Ruby flirts, constantly and without a shred of shame.
Pickles blows her whistle and the entire operation pivots on a dime.
“It’s time to wrap up the photos, ladies!” she shouts. “We’ll do individual shots along the river, follow Flash to the first position, single file, let’s go, let’s go!” She claps twice and the contestants flow toward the far bank like a sequined current.
Flash breaks down his tripod without being asked, cameras swinging from his neck, cologne and cigar trailing behind him like his own personal fog bank.
The whole group relocates itself in under four minutes, which I find impressive, considering thirty seconds ago these same women were screaming at my boyfriend’s torso.
Okay, fine. I screamed a little too. Internally. Where it counts.
Charlotte isn’t following the group. She’s planted at the near end of the bridge, staring out at the river, looking like she’s running numbers behind her eyes that clearly weren’t on this morning’s schedule.
Her pearls sit at her throat, because why not, her ash-blonde hair remains impervious to the river breeze the way it’s impervious to everything, and she’s holding the same coffee she wasn’t drinking twenty minutes ago.
Either she doesn’t want it or she’s forgotten it exists.
I walk over.
Spam and Coconut appear at my feet from wherever they’ve been conducting their independent investigations, and Spam attempts to sit on my left foot with the weight of a small anvil, his established method of announcing that he’s present and would like credit for it.
“Isn’t this just a beautiful spot?” I say, coming up beside her.
Charlotte glances over. Something moves behind her ice-blue eyes, a quick recalibration, and then the polished version of her slides back into place like a screen door swinging shut.
“It really is.” She looks back at the river.
“I keep forgetting how beautiful this island is when the circus quiets down.”
“The circus hasn’t historically quieted down at my resort,” I say. “But we’re working on it.” I leave out the part about the ringleader being the Grim Reaper. Some circuses are more lethal than others.
She almost smiles. “You’re doing fine. We all had a rough night.”
Ruby and Lani arrive at my flanks in perfect synchronization.
They’ve been running this maneuver long enough that they no longer need to discuss it.
Spam Musubi comes trotting along behind them on her coral leash, ears up with that Shiba grin of hers at full operational capacity, and Spam the feline version sees her coming and executes a slow, pointed turn in the opposite direction that says everything about his feelings on the matter without a single meow.
“Charlotte,” Ruby says warmly, as if they’re old friends who simply haven’t seen each other in a while. “How are you holding up, honey buns?”
At least she didn’t say mango buns.
“I’m managing,” Charlotte says, blowing out a breath. For some reason it feels like a stock answer she’s kept polished and ready for exactly this question, and I’d bet my entire skinny syrup supply she’s used it eleven times since breakfast.
“It’s just terrible what happened,” Lani says. “Poor Vera.”
“Yes.” Charlotte looks at her coffee. “Yes, it was terrible.”
Spam Musubi trots directly up to Charlotte, sits at her feet with crisp precision, and beams up at her with the open, generous warmth she extends to the entire planet, and something genuine crosses Charlotte’s face for the first time since I walked over.
“Oh goodness.” She crouches slightly. “Aren’t you something, you little smiling cutie.”
“That’s Spam Musubi,” I say. “She’s fostering with one of the contestants this week.” And hitting on my boyfriend. Get in line, Musubi.
Spam Musubi wags her tail so hard her entire back half gets involved, and now I’m worried she’s going to throw her back out.
“And this,” I add, as Spam the cat stalks pointedly past without acknowledging a soul, “is also Spam. My cat. Sort of.”
Charlotte looks between them. “They have the same name?”
I nod. “This morning has been a lot.”
Charlotte laughs as she gives Spam Musubi a quick scratch.
Jelly comes jogging up from the direction of the river, coral leash in hand and slightly breathless.
“Spam Musubi! There you are.” She scoops her up, and Spam Musubi gazes back at Charlotte over Jelly’s shoulder with naked longing.
She’s not ready to leave a new friend, and she wants the record to reflect it.
“Sorry, she got away from me on the bridge.”
“She’s perfect,” Charlotte says, and means it, and then Jelly heads back toward the shoot and Charlotte straightens up and we’re back to the accounting expression.
“I’m so sorry about Vera,” I say. “I know she meant a great deal to the circuit.” I came this close to saying circus.
Charlotte considers this carefully, as if she’s deciding exactly how much to invest in the next sentence, down to the penny.
“Vera meant a great deal to herself,” she says finally.
“The circuit and the circus she built around that.” She finally takes a sip of her coffee.
“And believe me, that’s not unkind. It’s just accurate.
She was remarkable at what she did.” She presses her lips together. “She was also Vera.”
“Did you two get along?” Ruby asks in her polite-conversation tone, which is how I know she’s not making polite conversation. Ruby is a darn good investigator.
“Oh my, nobody got along with Vera,” Charlotte says with a little laugh. “You got along with the idea of Vera, which is a different thing entirely. You managed her. You navigated her.” She winces a little. “When you spend years doing that, you get very efficient.”
Vera sounds like a pill, and a peach, and whatever other inanimate object you can compare a bully to.
“What about the other contestants?” I ask. “Anyone having particular trouble with her this week?” Like so much trouble they’d be moved to pump a bullet into her—and into my boyfriend by proxy.
Charlotte’s eyes move across the greenbelt and stop once they reach Kali.
The pretty brunette stands twenty feet away near the riverbank with a dark braid over one shoulder as she waits for her individual shot.
She’s stunning and poised, and I find myself quietly rooting for her, the homegrown girl diving in to take what’s hers.
“Kali and Vera had something going on,” Charlotte says, keeping her voice even. “I don’t know the details. But there was something. You could feel it every time they shared a space.” She looks back at the river. “Whatever Vera did, Kali hadn’t forgiven it. That much was very clear.”
I file that away in the part of my brain that’s gotten alarmingly organized lately. It has folders now. Actual folders, with tabs. Most of them are labeled motive.
“What about you?” Lani asks. “Did you have any trouble with Vera?”
Charlotte ticks her head at the thought. “Like I said, nobody got along with Vera.”
“That’s not quite what I asked,” Lani says, and smiles at her, and Lani’s smile when she’s after information is a very specific instrument, warm and patient and not going anywhere.
I’ve watched that smile crack tougher nuts than Charlotte Ashby-Wells.
The wooden spoon has never once needed to leave her apron.
Charlotte studies her for a moment and decides she doesn’t have enough fight in her to go toe-to-toe with Lani. Wise move.
“Vera had opinions about my personal life.” She says the words slow and deliberate. “She expressed them. Publicly, on occasion.” Her jaw tightens by a millimeter, but enough for me to notice. “I found that tiresome. Most people did.”
“She had opinions about your personal life?” I say. “Like—”
“It was about Forsythe,” Charlotte says, and her hand flies to her mouth, fast, then lowers with tremendous composure, as if she can stuff the name back in after the fact.
“My—he’s just a friend. Someone I travel with.
The pageant frowns heavily on contestants having any sort of,” she waves a hand, “romantic entanglement during competition. It’s taken very seriously.
So of course, any man around you is immediately under suspicion. ”
Forsythe. The name snaps a memory straight into place. It’s of Vera at the kickoff party, and that terrible fake smile of hers aimed at Charlotte as she purred, How is Forsythe settling in? He looks well. And Charlotte’s drink went still in her hand.
My guess is Forsythe isn’t just a friend. And if my guess is right, then Vera knew something Charlotte needed kept quiet, and Charlotte had a very good reason to want her out of the picture.
“Don’t worry, hon,” Ruby chortles. “Your sexy secret is safe with us!”
Good grief.
Charlotte’s eyes travel over the three of us as if she’s doing a quick risk assessment, and she evidently decides we’re low risk. Or that the damage is already done. Probably both.