Chapter 7 #2
“That woman could freeze a salt pond with a single glare,” Halea shudders at the thought of the woman and I involuntarily join her. “She’s got the personality of a stapler.”
“So, you do know her.” I couldn’t resist.
“Yup. She moves through life like obstacles are merely inconveniences to eliminate.”
I gasp. “Here’s hoping Bertha is the killer!” My fingers fly up to my lips.
Did I just say that out loud?
Lani nods because she knew exactly what I was thinking.
Halea pauses, searching for the most diplomatic way to phrase her assessment. “Bertha Julep has got enough passive aggression to fire up every tiki torch on the North Shore. It’s very impressive in a terrifying way.”
“Hey,” I announce, “I really like you. You’re well on your way to becoming my new bestie.”
“Finally,” Ruby says, “someone who appreciates a well-placed insult as an art form.”
“Speaking of character assessments,” Lani says as she leans in close to the woman, “what do you think of our hot homicide investigator? Asking for a friend.”
I growl her way. The last thing we needed was to remind Halea about the hottest man on the island. As if she could forget.
Halea’s eyes light up like she’s been asked to evaluate a particularly promising vintage wine. “Detective Delicious? That man is a walking advertisement for law enforcement careers. Those eyes look like they’ve undressed every woman in a five-mile radius.”
I suck in a quick breath.
They do not. Do they?
But on the bright side, that means he’s already undressed yours truly.
A giddy smile rises to my lips because of it.
“What’s your professional evaluation of him?” Lani asks with a grin because she likes to cause trouble.
“Are you kidding?” Halea fans herself. “Broad shoulders, an eight pack, and a jaw that suggests excellent bone structure and possibly excellent... well, other structural elements,” Halea continues with the thoroughness of a chef selecting prime ingredients.
“I can tell he’s the strong, silent type with just enough attitude to make things interesting.
Now that’s a very appealing package overall.
” She moans and closes her eyes as if she were having an out-of-body experience—or some other type of bodily experience.
“I’m definitely planning to conduct some recreational law enforcement research with that specimen. ”
“Back off, toots,” I say firmly. “Detective Delicious is mine.”
Halea throws back her head and laughs with delight. “Oh, honey, you can keep him. This island is crawling with hot hunks! There’s enough room at the hot hunk trough for all of us.”
“She’s right,” Ruby is quick to attest to the quality of men on Kauai.
“Besides,” Halea continues, having appointed herself relationship counselor, “I prefer my men without emotional baggage, and that one’s clearly got it bad for you.
He’s very sweet, yet very territorial. Anyone with eyes could see it.
Life is too short to fight over men when paradise is literally overflowing with gorgeous options.
I’m like a sommelier,” she explains, “but for romantic prospects. Always sampling, always discovering new varieties.”
“Bestie status officially confirmed,” I announce.
A small parade of chickens chooses this moment to march past our group, conducting their own festival tour while ignoring the increasingly frantic “DO NOT FEED THE CHICKENS” signs posted throughout the venue.
“So,” I say, deciding to cut to the investigative chase, “who do you think did this to Alana? I’m sure in your line of work, you’re practically trained to zero in on drama.”
Halea’s expression becomes carefully neutral, though her smile maintains its warmth. “Honey, you should ask the bride.”
She doesn’t elaborate, but the implication hangs in the tropical air like humidity you can practically taste.
“That’s all you’re giving us?” Ruby asks.
“As a wedding planner, I observe everything but discuss only what’s necessary for business,” Halea says as she picks up a hot pink candle cradled in a coconut shell and her nose twitches like a bunny as she sniffs it.
“Also, I’m planning to stick around this island, so making enemies isn’t good for long-term romantic and professional prospects.
” She thinks about it for a moment. “But if you’re looking for motives,” she adds with a manufactured innocence, “follow the money and the social media metrics.”
Before I can ask more, Ruby pulls out a napkin bulging with malasada crumbs.
“Ruby, no—” Lani starts.
Too late. Ruby scatters crumbs to three innocent hens.
The hens peck. Delicately at first.
Then a rooster appears. Then another. Then, seventeen more materialize from the actual ether.
“Oh, no,” I whisper.
“Ruby,” Lani says slowly, pointing to the nearest warning sign, “those signs say ‘DO NOT FEED THE CHICKENS’ in what appears to be four different languages.”
“Signs are clearly suggestions, not laws,” Ruby declares with the confidence of a woman who’s never met a rule she couldn’t rationalize her way around. “Look at their little faces! They’re practically starving!”
She begins distributing dumpling samples and malasada crumbs to the small gathering of hens and baby chicks, who accept her offerings with polite enthusiasm.
And within two seconds, chickens pour from everywhere—behind vendor stalls, under tables, possibly through dimensional portals. Roosters strut over like the Corleone family collecting protection money. Hens show up with chicks in tow like soccer moms arriving at a bake sale.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Ruby announces, now encircled by forty chickens radiating entitlement and a few loose threats.
“MA’AM! STOP CREATING A POULTRY RIOT!” a vendor shrieks.
A rooster the size of a small dinosaur begins chasing Ruby toward the main walkway. And his associates form a feathered motorcycle gang around her.
“RUN!” Halea screams.
Ruby runs, and yet the chickens pursue with the determination of debt collectors.
The security team chases the chickens chasing Ruby.
It’s bedlam. Sort of a beautiful, feathered bedlam.
Vendors abandon their posts. Every tourist has their phone out. Somewhere behind us, steel drums play the soundtrack to Ruby’s downfall.
Halea intercepts a security guard with strategic cleavage deployment and a breathless question about vendor permits while Lani and I execute a stumble that sends two hundred shell necklaces cascading across the walkway like the world’s most useless spike strip.
The chickens slip. Security slips. Ruby escapes.
Finally, we collapse in the parking lot, panting and decorated in feathers—it’s like being tarred and feathered but with less tar and more sweat.
“No more chicken charity,” I wheeze.
“Those chickens have better tactical coordination than most military units,” Ruby gasps with grudging respect.
Halea looks like she just stepped off a yacht instead of fleeing poultry-based anarchy.
“Ladies, I haven’t had this much fun since my second divorce.
” She produces a business card that not only looks but even smells pricey.
“Call me anytime for character destruction or emergency distractions. And ask Candy about her motives—just not while she’s armed with that ring light or you might end up on the working end of her social media feed. ”
We drive away from what will forever be known as The Great Chicken Incident, leaving festival organizers cursing up a storm.
Today, we didn’t just gather intel.
We’ve gained a partner in crime with excellent taste in men, devastating accuracy in character assessment, and a natural talent for coordinating escapes from poultry-related emergencies.
What more could a girl ask for in a brand-new bestie?