Chapter 24
The pageant arrives the next evening, and Hanalei Bay decides to outdo itself, which I didn’t think was possible, because the bay outdoes itself nightly and I keep assuming it’s run out of material.
It hasn’t.
The sun is sliding down toward the water and turning the whole sky the color of a peach, and the mountains behind the bay have gone a soft shade of violet, and the water has flattened into a golden mirror.
Spoiler alert: I did not crack this case wide open like a coconut last night.
As soon as Koa drove us back to the resort, my head hit the pillow and I was out like a light.
I woke up to Spam wrapped around my skull and tickling my nose with his tail, only to find out it was well past noon.
If I wasn’t in charge of myself, I’d have fired me.
And then I spent the rest of the day in a panic trying to prepare for what promises to be one heck of a pageant.
If I’m right, this night is going to go to Canada in a handbasket faster than you can say aloha.
Tiki torches line the sand and are sprinkled all around the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort, flickering their tongues of fire and commanding their fair share of selfies from the tourists.
MISS MANGO PAGEANT banners snap in the trade winds, and the big one over the stage still reads Welcome, to the Miss Mango Beauty Pageant!
May the Best Set of Mangoes Win! in letters I never approved and yet have been blamed for ever since.
The luau is going strong. The smell of kalua pig and grilled pineapple is thick in the air, the sound of a ukulele runs through the speakers, and the contestants are circulating in their sashes, breathing in the kalua pig like it’s a scented candle.
Calories by inhalation. It’s the only serving size the pageant allows.
“Admit it,” I tell Koa, who’s standing beside me surveying the crowd.
His white button-down stretches across his broad chest enough to make the top two buttons negotiate for mercy, while the sleeves hug his biceps like they’re hanging on for dear life.
The man owes cotton an apology. “You left us in that cell on purpose yesterday.”
“I processed you efficiently.”
“We were in there six hours.”
“That’s efficient, for a double trespassing with a food-truck riot.”
“You knew the whole time you were going to let us out. You let us marinate.”
“I let you reflect,” he says. “On your choices. Sitting still isn’t your strength, so I arranged some hands-on training.” The corner of his mouth flickers with a smile. “And Ruby got engaged twice, so it wasn’t a total loss for anyone.”
“That’s beside the point. That cot was not built for three, Koa.”
“Few cots are.” He scans the beach again, and the humor drains out of him a notch.
“I have every man I’ve got here tonight.
I’m not leaving the grounds. If our killer’s going to move again, it’s going to be here, with all of us in one place and everyone watching the stage instead of each other.
” His jaw redefines itself. “Two bodies in one week. Something tells me they’re not slowing down. ”
“Then we don’t let them get a third,” I say. “Or they walk off this beach having gotten away with all of it, and I refuse to let somebody get away with murder at my mango pageant. I have standards. There aren’t many, but I do have them.”
Right on cue, a small ginger blur comes streaking across the sand and skids to a stop at Koa’s feet as Spam Musubi gazes up at him, and emits a single hopeful bark.
“I think she’s flirting with you,” I say.
“She’s not the one I’m hoping to impress.” He tips his head my way before scooping her up one-handed, mindful of his bandaged arm, scratches her behind the ears, and the dog melts into a puddle of coos and sighs.
And no fewer than ten passing women make the exact same sound at the exact same time. Lots of swooning ensues—of both the human and canine variety. I think a few chickens swooned too. If he ever holds a baby in public, we’ll need crowd control and maybe a stun gun.
His radio crackles. He brings it to his ear, says “copy,” and hands me eleven pounds of besotted adorableness.
“I have to walk the grounds. Stay where it’s bright, stay where there are people, and for the love of all things good, stay off the rocks.
” He looks at me. “Can you do that for me? One evening?”
“I can do almost all of that,” I say, biting back a smile.
“That’s the most honest answer you’ve ever given me.” He presses a quick kiss to my temple. “Don’t find a body.”
“You ask so much of me.”
And he’s gone, melting into the tiki torchlight, leaving me with the dog and the chaos of this glittering night.
“Jinx!” Kitty Champagne floats up out of the crowd without Wink in tow, carrying a plate piled high with enough food to survive hurricane season.
“What’ve you got there?” I ask.
“Everything.” She beams down at it. “Kalua pig, lomi salmon, chicken long rice, two kinds of poke, haupia, and two scoops of mac salad I’m not sorry about.” She pops a bite into her mouth. “Wink’s at the buffet for round two. I came back for seconds before he ate the entire pig.”
“How’s the stay been? Aside from, you know. The unpleasantness.” And I’m not talking about the furry kind. Obviously, Kitty finds Wink’s fur perfectly pleasant, or she wouldn’t be trying to populate the species with him.
“Oh,” Kitty says, bright as sunshine. “You mean our two complimentary homicides?” She cringes. “Listen to me. That’s terrible. Two people died. I promise I’m much more respectful than I sound.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say. “Honestly, around here, a sense of humor is practically mandatory. Otherwise every conversation starts with, ‘So, who found the body this time?’” The answer would be me. The answer is always me.
She giggles, relieved, and I like her for it. Kitty Champagne is impossible not to like.
“So how’s the, uh—” My mouth, apparently unsupervised, says, “Any progress on the little fur babies?”
I gasp once I hear it leave my body. And as fate and my vocal cords would have it, I cannot call it back.
And for one odd second, I see the future fully formed: Kitty pushing a stroller down the resort path with tiny triplets in it, all three enormous and covered in silver fur.
I can clearly see an entire trio of little Abominable snowbabies, and every last one of them is winking at me.
“I’m so sorry.” I press my lips tight and forbid them from opening ever again. Not even for a malasada.
“It’s okay!” Kitty laughs. “I love that you asked. Honestly? Not great.” She sighs, and her glow dims a notch.
“Wink’s just so distracted lately. He’s had meeting after meeting, even out here, on vacation.
The flooring business doesn’t sleep, apparently.
Luxury commercial flooring. Very big, very boring, very many phone calls.
” She rolls her eyes. “I keep saying, baby, we’re in paradise, let the floors wait. ”
And there it is, that small quiet ping at the back of my skull, the one I’ve learned not to ignore. He’s putting Kitty Champagne, Miss Pure Sunshine, on hold to conduct important flooring business?
“Wow,” I say as light as I can. “That much business? Out here? On vacation?”
“You’d be amazed.” She follows my gaze across the sand to where Wink, bare-chested and in full silver pelt, is standing at the edge of a fiery tiki, deep in conversation with Charlotte Ashby-Wells, the two of them laughing at something, their heads knit close.
“He’s a hit with everyone,” Kitty says with a dreamy sigh.
The woman knows exactly what she’s got, and she’s delightfully unhinged about it.
“He’s certainly hard to miss,” I say, watching the man who appears to have won some sort of hair-based genetic lottery and is sporting enough chest hair for at least sixteen average men.
“Well.” Kitty hoists her plate. “I’m off to collect my man before one of these girls tries to keep him. Wish me luck.” And with a wink that runs in the family by marriage, she’s gone.
Good luck to the girl who tries to steal him. I have a feeling Kitty fights like she eats—joyfully and to the finish.
The tiki torches spill golden light across the sand as the sky behind the stage burns down to embers, and that’s where I find Pickles, standing apart from the crowd, gazing out at the bay with her hands folded and her face looking relaxed for the first time in seven days.
I make my way over and sidle up next to her.
“Isn’t it just perfect,” she breathes without so much as a glance my way.
“Look at it, Jinx. I’ve worked pageants in forty states and I have never seen anything like this island.
I could retire right here. Buy a little place up the valley, watch this every night.
Heck, I could die here happy.” She sighs. “This is just Heaven.”
“It’s stunning beyond measure,” I agree. A thought comes to me and I inch closer to her. “Can I ask you something? When Miss Mango wraps and everyone flies home, what does the off-season look like for you? Do you actually get to rest?”
“Oh, I keep busy.” Pickles gives a little laugh.
“I do a bit of everything. I know how to place my girls, you know. Once they’re mine, they’re mine for good.
And there are always new girls to coach.
I find them the right rooms, the right people, the right outcomes.
I have a knack for knowing how a thing’s going to land before it lands, and people pay very well to have someone in their corner who’s never once been wr—”
She stops herself short. Something crosses her face, and just as fast as it came it’s gone, and she gives a little laugh and pats my arm.
“Listen to me, blowing smoke up my own skirt. I just mentor them, dear. And I help my girls find their footing after the crown, too. That’s all.
I’m just an old woman who likes to feel useful.
” She waves it off, and her eyes narrow in on Charlotte standing next to the dessert table, doing her best to look mildly offended but really looking as if she wants to unhinge her jaw and shove every scrumptious sweet treat in at once.
Lani really does know what she’s doing in the kitchen.
“Now. If you want a real story,” Pickles continues, “you should be asking about what Charlotte does off-season.”
“Charlotte?”
“That’s right.” Pickles lowers her voice, eyes gleaming with the particular pleasure of handing off a grenade.
“That Velvet Veranda business of hers. You didn’t hear it from me, but Vera certainly knew about it, and Vera was not a forgiving woman.
If you’re looking for someone with secrets worth killing over, sweetheart, our little not-so-innocent Charlotte knows how to meet a man’s needs and bill him for the privilege. That’s all I’ll say about that.”
Someone calls her name from the stage.
“Oh, that’s me. The girls need lining up. And I’m also the emcee. It was wonderful talking to you, dear. Stay out of trouble.” She bustles off toward the stage with her signature cardigan flapping, looking every bit the picture of a coach with somewhere to be.
I stand there a second, turning it over. Pickles placing girls in the right rooms with the right outcomes, then snapping the door shut on it mid-word. Charlotte and her Velvet Veranda. Vera knowing about both.
My filing system flags the unfinished word and puts it in a folder by itself, and I don’t have a label for that folder yet, and that bothers me more than anything anyone’s actually finished saying all week.
“Were you talking to Pickles?”
I blink a few times to see Kali drifting up beside me with a soda in her hand, watching the old woman go.
“That I was,” I say with a laugh. “The woman is a charmer.”
“I’ll say.” Kali averts her eyes.
“Kali, do you know anything about something called the Velvet Veranda?”
Kali offers up a brief laugh and holds her stomach.
“Oh, I know all about the Velvet Veranda.” She takes a sip of her drink.
“And I’m not going to tell you, because I’m not in the business of torpedoing other girls, even the ones I don’t like.
But I’ll say this much.” She leans in, just enough.
“Charlotte Ashby-Wells figured out how to meet a man’s needs and fill her own bank account at the same time, and she built a whole little empire on it.
That’s all you’re getting from me.” She tips her drink my way.
“If you’re sniffing in that direction, I wish you good luck. ”
And soon she’s gone too, and I’m standing alone in the flickering tiki light with a strong sense that I’m one small puzzle piece away from something big.
So I do the thing I should’ve done days ago. I pull out my phone, type in the words Velvet Veranda, and hit search.
The page loads, and it’s nothing. A bed-and-breakfast in Savannah. A porch furniture company out of Tampa with a website last updated when flip phones roamed the earth. A wedding venue in Texas with four and a half stars and a complicated cancellation policy. No Charlotte anywhere.
Which is its own kind of answer. A woman with a following and money that’s wrong for a lifestyle brand doesn’t run a business you can find by typing its name into a search bar. Whatever the Velvet Veranda is, it doesn’t want walk-in traffic.
So I get smarter. I add Charlotte’s name.
Nothing. I add members only. Nothing. I try the name in quotes with the word exclusive, and I’m about to give up and go interrogate the dessert table instead when a result surfaces from the bottom of page two, a forum thread, half the posts deleted, and someone asking the exact question I’m asking—does anyone have an invite?
I click. The page loads.
And I actually gasp, out loud, alone on a beach full of beauty queens, because the Velvet Veranda is not at all what I expected, and it changes absolutely everything.