Chapter 16
The night before the big wedding disaster, Halea announces she’s arranged a bachelorette party featuring fire dancers, tropical cocktails, and enough nachos to feed a small island nation—or the island of Kauai.
Naturally, Ruby, Lani, and I are in—because watching beautiful men play with fire while conducting murder investigations counts as a legitimate Friday night in paradise. Also, nachos.
The outdoor entertainment venue sits on Hanalei Bay where good judgment goes to admire the scenery and never quite comes back.
Tiki torches illuminate rustic picnic tables while twinkle lights create a magical atmosphere that makes perfectly rational women throw money at athletic men wielding flaming objects.
As night falls hard on Hanalei Bay, the sky transforms into a canvas of dreamy orange and pink streaks melting into deep purple twilight.
Stars begin appearing like scattered diamonds while the dark ocean shimmers with reflected moonlight and torch flames.
Trade winds carry the scent of all things floral and tropical mixed with smoke from a grill and salt air that makes everything feel more magical and slightly dangerous.
The torches flicker along the beach as their flames snap and spit as if even the fire wants in on the party.
And party we do.
The entertainment site Halea picked is essentially an outdoor banquet hall mashed up with a tourist trap, but tonight it looks positively dreamy.
Long wooden picnic tables stretch across the sand, crowded with laughing tourists and locals, platters of food groaning under piles of nachos drenched in pineapple salsa and shredded kalua pork, bowls of poke glistening with sesame oil, and drinks that could put hair on your chest just from sheer proximity.
Cats weave between the tables with their tails flicking as they swipe pork off abandoned plates, while chickens strut with the confidence of VIPs who know no one has the nerve to kick them out.
“Ladies!” Halea announces like she’s just discovered the meaning of life, and it involves beach chairs. “Tonight, we celebrate Candy’s last night of single life with local Hawaiian entertainment and drinks powerful enough to erase memories!”
I can’t help but frown.
Let’s hope the killer doesn’t have their memory erased. I still need them to confess to a crime.
The drink menu reads like a tropical dare—Volcanic Eruption (rum-based with dry ice for dramatic effect), Hot Hawaiian Heat Wave (spicy jalapeno margarita that makes you question your pain tolerance), Fire Stick Fantasy (flaming shot served with fiery presentation), Island Fever Dream (coconut rum with tropical fruit and next-morning apology potential).
I order the Island Fever Dream because my life is already a fever dream, so why not lean in? Ruby goes straight for the Volcanic Eruption like it owes her money—and maybe the aforementioned eruption.
Massive platters of nachos arrive loaded with tropical twists—mango salsa, coconut shrimp, pineapple jalapenos, and enough cheese to put Wisconsin on alert. A cat materializes from under the next table, summoned by the scent of seafood and poor human judgment about sharing food with local wildlife.
“This is perfect content!” Candy squeals, positioning her ring light for optimal documentation of tropical debauchery. “My followers are going to die for tonight’s island experience!”
Bertha sits surprisingly close to what will clearly become the performance stage, having decided that personal space is overrated when attractive men with fire are involved.
She’s already working on her second Hot Hawaiian Heat Wave and looking as if she’s reconsidering decades of conservative life choices.
Candy stands, holding a Volcanic Eruption that’s still smoking dramatically like a special effect from a very low-budget movie. She quickly knocks it back and scoops up an Island Fever Dream from a passing server and takes a sip before shuddering.
“Oh my gosh, you guys!” she begins like a motivational speaker discovering caffeine. “Like, thank you so much for being here for my last night as a single influencer! Tomorrow, I become a married influencer, which is totally different content-wise but equally engaging for my followers!”
She pauses to take a selfie with her smoking drink. “Everyone smile! This is going live in three... two... We’re here at this absolutely adorable Hawaiian Island, Koloa, and I just want to say that female friendship is like the best brand partnership ever!”
I make a face at the fact that she got the name of the island wrong. So not authentic. Correction, so authentic for Candy.
The gecko next to me nods sagely, seemingly agreeing with my assessment.
“I can’t believe I’m getting married tomorrow!” Candy continues, her Island Fever Dream is clearly hard at work. “Like, what if I forget my own name? What if I trip on my dress? What if the flowers don’t match my ring light? These are the real concerns, people!”
Just as Candy finishes her gratitude speech, Della stands abruptly.
“Here’s to a great sister and a better friend,” she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and probably wouldn’t reach her toes either, “and to people who remember where they came from and who helped them get there.” She slices a glance at Candy, and something about it sends a shiver up my spine.
What in the world did she mean by that?
The table falls silent except for the sound of waves and a rooster crowing from somewhere in the distance, commenting on the sudden shift in party atmosphere.
“Some of us have been working behind the scenes for years,” Della continues like she’s been saving up complaints like vacation days, “building brands and creating content, while others get all the credit and all the followers.”
I lift a brow at the woman.
Then, because the evening needed more awkwardness, Della launches into what can only be described as an impromptu song about loyalty and recognition.
Her singing voice sounds like someone torturing a ukulele while cats protest in the background in a chorus of yowls.
Even the waves seem to pause out of secondhand embarrassment.
“Okay then!” Halea announces with the quick thinking of a professional event coordinator facing musical disaster. “On that note—let’s welcome our fire dancers!”
Three incredibly athletic Hawaiian men take the stage wearing traditional-ish attire that consists of strategic leaf arrangements and bare abs that could be used as washboards—and if the women in their lives are smart, they so have.
They carry flaming batons and torches that make every woman here turn into swooning puddles.
The transformation is immediate and spectacular. Respectable women become generous patrons of male entertainment faster than you can say cultural experience. Dollar bills start flying like a green storm, celebrating the intersection of fire safety and physical fitness.
Bertha begins stuffing money into leafy belts, quickly making up for decades of proper behavior. She’s cheering louder than women half her age and having the time of her life doing it, too.
“Work it, honey!” she shouts at a dancer executing a particularly impressive flame routine. “Show us those fire safety techniques!”
Ruby throws dollar bills and makes it rain over all three men, losing a few bills to the flames in the process. “That’s what I call proper torch handling! And look at those obliques!”
Lani shakes her head in wonder. “The way he spins that flame creates interesting geometric patterns. It’s very mathematical,” she says, trying to sound as scholarly as possible as if she were conducting research for her thesis.
And I can see right through that scholarly veil.
“Also, sweet mother of pearl, those biceps could crack coconuts.” See?
Halea hops on stage, fire be damned, and stuffs the belts of those men with enough bills to buy them each an island of their own.
But the geckos, the chickens, the roosters, and the cats have all scurried away from the flickering flames because those smart creatures possess survival instincts the wedding guests have clearly abandoned.
While everyone else is caught up in fire dancer fever, Della sits alone, looking like someone contemplating the unfairness of life, while gorgeous men perform athletic feats with dangerous objects nearby.
She’s moved away from the main group and has taken off for the beach where sand meets the surf, staring out at the ocean with a clear look of dissatisfaction on her face.
Watching Della’s obvious unhappiness and isolation while dollar bills fly and women cheer for strategic flame placement, I realize this is the perfect moment for a little private conversation.
While everyone else is distracted by entertainment that involves fire and abs, the setting provides romantic ambiance that encourages confession, and I can tell that Della clearly has things she needs to say.
I’m off to shake down my last suspect and maybe the killer.
It’s time to find out if the quiet one has been the dangerous one all along.