Chapter 6
“According to Instagram,” Ruby announces, wielding her phone like a private investigator with a PhD in social media stalking, “our bombshell wedding planner is currently at the Tiki Taste Festival in Old Koloa Town. She posted a selfie fifteen minutes ago with the caption Hunting for inspiration and hot bartenders! Complete with fire emojis and a hashtag that says always working.”
“Of course she’s hunting for hot bartenders,” I mutter, watching Ruby scroll through what appears to be a comprehensive digital dossier on Halea’s daily activities. “I bet she’s already identified three potential victims and mentally calculated their credit scores based on their shoe quality.”
“You mean shoe size,” Lani points out, and I nod at my oversight.
“This woman documents her life like she’s running for mayor of Instagram,” Ruby continues, having discovered a treasure trove of investigative gold. “Look, here she is posing with a pineapple. Here’s another one with a tiki statue. Oh, and here’s one where she’s basically making love to a mai tai.”
“Professional wedding planners probably call that market research,” Lani observes, peering over Ruby’s shoulder at the photographic evidence. “Though I’ve never seen market research that required that much cleavage.”
“Research is research,” I say, grabbing the keys to the resort van, which we affectionately call Pele, from the hook by the door. “And if you got ‘em, flaunt ‘em. Let’s go conduct some field studies of our own.”
The drive to Old Koloa Town takes us through countryside that looks like Mother Nature was showing off when she designed Kauai.
Rolling green hills dotted with cattle give way to red dirt roads that stain everything they touch, while roosters scream their heads off from roadside perches and palm trees sway in trade winds that smell like plumeria and possibility.
By the time we reach our destination, I’m almost convinced that paradise is perfect—right up until I remember there’s a strangled woman in the morgue.
Old Koloa Town spreads out before us like a vintage photograph stepped into three dimensions.
Yes, it’s just that charming. Red and white barn-style buildings converted into a cute little strip mall house vendors showcasing everything from handmade jewelry to artisanal coffee, an entire fleet of food trucks sits nearby, while a colorful banner stretched between palm trees announces, “Welcome to the Koloa Tiki Taste & Treasure Festival—Where Paradise Meets Your Palate!” in letters so cheerful they practically require their own sunglasses.
The crowd is thick, the air is both humid and perfumed with plumeria, and the chickens are running amok. In other words, it’s signature Kauai.
The place is packed with throngs of tourists and locals browsing happily under brilliant sunshine that makes everything sparkle as if it’s been dipped in liquid gold.
Hawaiian music drifts from speakers hidden among the palm fronds, vendors call out samples and specials, and somewhere in the distance, a rooster crows his approval of the day’s festivities.
“Well,” I say, surveying the chaos, “at least if we lose track of our suspect, we can console ourselves with retail therapy and fried food.” So much fried food.
“Spoken like a true professional investigator,” Ruby replies, but she’s already zeroed in on a jewelry stand with the focus of a woman who collects both husbands and wedding rings.
But while Ruby has diamonds in her eyes, I’ve got something a heck of a lot sweeter in mine—malasadas. Hawaii’s answer to the perfect donut.
“Oh no,” I breathe, stopping so suddenly that Lani crashes into my back.
“What?” she asks, following my gaze to where a vendor is pulling fluffy little donuts from hot oil, each one looking like a cloud made of carbs and dreams. “Oh. Oh no.”
“What are we looking at?” Ruby asks, then spots the sign advertising three varieties of the ooey-gooey-filled malasadas. “Oh, sweet merciful mai tais.”
The vendor, a cheerful woman with flour in her hair and a smile full of baked-good supremacy, waves us over.
“Aloha, ladies! Fresh malasadas, just out of the fryer! We’ve got purple ube custard—that’s sweet purple yam, tastes like heaven had a baby with dessert—traditional haupia coconut custard that’ll make you forget your own name, and classic chantilly custard smoother than a jazz saxophone! ”
“We’ll take all three,” I say before my brain can engage in any kind of rational decision-making process that involves calculating my sugar intake. “Each.”
“What murder?” Ruby asks fifteen minutes later as we’re seated at a picnic table with purple ube custard decorating her chin like she’s been finger-painting with dessert.
“What ex-husband? These donuts have wiped my memory clean. I’m renaming myself Ruby Malasada and moving to Old Koloa Town permanently. ”
“I’m quitting the resort and opening a malasada shrine,” Lani agrees, biting into her haupia-filled creation as if it holds the secrets to eternal happiness. And let’s be real. It so does. “We’ll call it ‘Our Lady of Perpetual Sugar Rushes.’”
I’m too busy experiencing what can only be described as a chantilly custard epiphany to contribute meaningfully to this conversation.
The donut dissolves on my tongue like sweet, fried paradise, and for a moment, all of life’s problems—including dead business managers and irritating ex-husband weddings—fade into blissful, sugar-induced amnesia.
“Ladies,” I announce, licking the custard from my fingertips—waste not want not, “I officially declare this the best detective work we’ve ever done.”
“We haven’t actually detected anything yet,” Lani points out, though she’s already eyeing the pizza tasting stand with predatory interest.
“Details,” I wave her off. “Sometimes the journey is more important than the destination. And sometimes the journey involves fried dough filled with tropical custard.”
We make our way through the festival like tourists on a sugar high and a mission.
The pizza stand offers samples of Hawaiian pizza made with actual fresh pineapple instead of the canned rings of sadness that usually masquerade as tropical flavor, while food trucks dispense everything from traditional poke—cubed raw tuna in this case—to dim sum that comes in packages so small and cute they should be illegal but taste so good they should be mandatory.
“This is what paradise tastes like when it’s not filtered through resort kitchen limitations,” Ruby moans, sampling a dynamite sushi roll that contains enough flavors to constitute a complete cultural education.
“I’m taking notes,” Lani says, though she’s holding a dumpling instead of a pen. “We need to seriously up our game back at the Coconut Cove. These people are making food that could end wars or start them, depending on how limited the supply is.”
“Note to self,” I add, attempting to balance three different food samples while maintaining some semblance of dignity, “murder investigations are significantly more pleasant when accompanied by gourmet food tastings and the possibility of discovering new favorite flavors.”
By the time we reach the clothing and jewelry vendors, we’ve achieved a food-induced euphoria that makes rational decision-making impossible and impulse purchases inevitable.
Ruby and Lani descend upon the muumuu selection like women on a mission, emerging with armloads of hibiscus and plumeria prints and enough puka shell jewelry to outfit every auntie on the island.
“The nerve of that man,” I say, watching Lani try on a crown that makes her look like a leafy sea goddess, “coming to MY island to ruin MY tropical paradise with his petty little influencer wedding!”
“Your island?” Ruby asks, adjusting her own crown, which appears to be constructed from enough shells and tropical vegetation to house a small ecosystem. “You’ve been here what, six months?”
“Six weeks,” I blow out a breath. “But I adopted it,” I explain with the dignity of a rightful queen defending her territory.
“We have an understanding. It provides sunsets, balmy breezes, and the occasional murder mystery to keep life interesting. I provide drama, corpse discovery services, and a commitment to maintaining proper mai tai standards. And don’t forget the cinnamon rolls and the ice cream we sell at the resort. That all started after I arrived.”
Ruby nods. “Jinx Julep, making Kauai yummier one sweet tooth at a time.”
“At least your ex didn’t try to turn your wedding reception into a business networking event,” Lani says, somehow managing to look both regal and practical in her leafy crown.
“Mine handed out his business cards during our first dance. He said it was maximizing social opportunities for professional advancement.”
“That’s nothing,” Ruby scoffs, adding approximately six more shell necklaces to her growing collection. “Husband number six brought his mother on our honeymoon. Said she needed to evaluate my wife potential before he could commit to the relationship long-term.”
“What were the evaluation criteria?” I ask, morbidly fascinated.
“Cooking skills, child-bearing hips, and willingness to tolerate his mother’s weekly visits to critique my housekeeping.” Ruby makes a face as she says it. “I failed spectacularly on all counts, which turned out to be the best failure of my life.”
“What about husband number seven?” Lani asks, having appointed herself official chronicler of Ruby’s romantic disasters.
“Number seven was a developer who wanted to pave paradise and put up a parking lot,” Ruby says, examining a pair of earrings that could double as small chandeliers. “Literally. He proposed to me over blueprints for a strip mall that he wanted to build on sacred Hawaiian land.”
“Please tell me you didn’t really marry him,” I say.
“Oh, I married him,” Ruby grins, the expression of a woman who’s exacted complete revenge and enjoyed every minute of it. “The divorce lawyers were very thorough. He’s still paying for my legal fees and the victory cruise around the world that I took to celebrate my freedom.”
“Ooh, the cruise sounds nice,” I’m quick to say, knowing full well Erwin doesn’t have two dimes to rub together, let alone send me on a luxury liner. More like send me off on the driftwood he dug out of a sandpit.
“We hereby declare ourselves Queens of Tropical Retail Therapy!” Lani announces, landing a leafy crown on my head, too.
“Long may we reign over impulsive purchases and excellent taste in festival food!” Ruby adds, striking a pose.
I’m about to add my own royal proclamation when movement near the artisanal candle vendor catches my eye.
A woman in a form-fitting dress that seems to be winning a fight with physics is currently sniffing her way through an entire slew of fruity looking candles.
Her long dark hair catches the afternoon sunlight like silk, while her jewelry sparkles with every gesture.
And even from here, I can see the poor candle vendor melting faster than his merchandise under her focused attention.
She seems to have that effect on all men.
I can’t help but frown as Koa comes to mind.
“There she is,” I say, pointing toward the aromatic drama unfolding near the vanilla-sandalwood display. “Our bombshell witness is working her magic on unsuspecting small business owners.”
“Do you think she’s testing scents for romantic encounters or covering up murder evidence?” Lani asks, following my gaze to where Halea is now leaning close enough to the vendor to conduct a thorough assessment of his dental work.
“There’s only one way to find out,” I reply, straightening my shoulders and preparing for what might be either an interrogation or a masterclass in professional seduction techniques. “Time to shake down Halea Palani for everything she’s worth.”
Ruby adjusts her crown and grins. “This should be more entertaining than husband number twelve’s attempts at exotic dancing.”
“You had a husband number twelve?” Lani asks.
“That’s a story for another festival,” Ruby says, but she’s already moving toward the candle stand, clearly settling in for a good show. “However, if Halea is half as good at lying as she is at wearing that dress, we’re in for quite a performance.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.