Chapter 17
The fire dancers have the bride tribe hypnotized—Ruby stuffs singles into leaf belts like it’s her calling, Lani screams herself raw, Halea leads the charge like a Vegas emcee, and Bertha—oh, my word, Bertha—howls like a banshee every time a flame whooshes past.
If hell hosts bachelorette parties, they would definitely look like this, and Bertha would be their VIP guest.
But I’m not paying another stitch of attention to that swashbuckling, fire-eating good time. Instead, my flip-flops carry me in the direction of the bride’s baby sister down by the waterline.
Della sits alone on a piece of driftwood, staring out at the moonlit ocean with her Island Fever Dream barely touched, looking morose, misunderstood, and maybe a touch murderous, too.
Her dark lipstick looks dramatic with the tiki torch lights, and her bold jewelry catches the flames and flashes like lightning every few seconds.
Behind us, the bachelorette party reaches new heights as the women discover fire-twirling abs are worth opening their wallets for. Ruby’s voice carries across the beach, providing unsolicited opinions to performers who didn’t ask for coaching.
“Mind if I join you?” I ask, settling onto the sand beside her makeshift driftwood throne. “I get it. The fire dancing is impressive, but sometimes you need a break from athletic men with flaming objects.”
She gives a little laugh. “I guess I’m just not really in a party mood,” she says with a sigh that suggests deeper issues than temporary social fatigue or inadequate cocktail consumption. Maybe both.
A small crab scuttles past us, and we watch as it dances across the sand sideways.
It feels as if everything is going sideways as of late, starting with murder.
Speaking of which…
“Rough night?” I probe gently, because I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes you need to be understated in tropical crisis situations.
“Rough year. Rough decade, actually.” Della takes a sip of her drink and makes a face that suggests even tropical rum can’t mask the bitterness of professional disappointment.
“I’ve been writing songs since I was sixteen, performing since I was in college.
But somehow, I’m still playing the same dive bars and watching people like my sister get millions of fans for dancing to other people’s music.
” She huffs at the thought like it sickened her. And I can tell it does.
“It doesn’t seem fair,” I say, and I mean it.
“You’re a singer.” I didn’t say she was a good one.
“And you try your best. You’re doing the work, you’re putting yourself out there night after night, and you just said you write your own music.
That’s pretty incredible. You should be proud of yourself.
That’s quite an achievement. Other people only dream of doing the things you’re doing. ”
“I’m not sure if I’m proud of anything,” she says with a sniff.
“It’s been years of bar gigs where drunk tourists request “Margaritaville” for the fifteenth time, coffee shop performances where the espresso machine provides more musical harmony than the audience, dreams that never quite materialized beyond local venues and scattered applause from people who might not remember my name by morning.
” The confession opens like a floodgate during hurricane season.
“It’s like being trapped in musical hell,” she continues, having found her confessional stride.
“I’m working as a freelance graphic designer by day to pay my bills while pursuing music on the side.
And it’s been a constant rejection from record labels.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m running out of time to make anything of my talent. ”
A gecko appears on the driftwood beside us, drawn by the scent of human drama and tropical beverages. It settles in to listen in on our conversation with the interest of a tiny therapist conducting field research on beach-based emotional breakthroughs.
“You know, I bet your sister’s wedding could use some live music,” I say with a casual brilliance that either solves problems or creates new ones. “Real music, not just a DJ playlist. I bet you could convince her to let you perform a few numbers during the reception.”
“I’ve already asked, and she already agreed,” Della says without a lot of enthusiasm.
“But it’s more or less a pitty gig. And my sister has put some pretty tight parameters on what I can and can’t sing.
She wants romantic but not sappy, danceable but not cheesy, original compositions that would make amazing content for her social media. ”
The gecko nods approvingly, agreeing that wedding performance opportunities constitute excellent career advancement strategies.
“I’m so glad to hear you’ll be singing,” I tell her. “And I can’t wait to hear you, again.”
“Thank you,” her eyes light up at the thought.
“There’s been so much going on with this wedding already. Did you know the woman who was murdered? She seemed to have strong opinions about wedding planning coordination.”
“That witch?” Della’s mood shifts faster than tropical weather patterns.
“She was everything wrong with the entertainment industry wrapped up in designer clothes and fake professionalism. She treated me like hired help instead of family. In fact, she made it clear that my opinions about music, decorations, anything that had to do with my sister didn’t matter because I wasn’t paying the bills.
” The bitterness in her voice could rust metal.
“She had this way of dismissing anyone she considered non-essential to her vision. She treated vendors and staff like servants, and don’t get me started on how she manipulated my sister’s insecurities about the wedding being perfect for social media documentation. ”
“What did the others think of her? Bertha seemed to have issues with Alana, too.”
Okay, so I’m angling to see if I can pin this on Bertha. Does that make a bad person? Or a very thorough investigator? Although pinning it on Erwin would be twice the coup.
“Oh, Bertha hated her from day one.” Della gives a dark laugh into the balmy breeze. “Something about inappropriate financial influence and protecting Erwin from gold diggers. Bertha thinks anyone who isn’t blood is trying to scam her family out of their retirement savings.”
Newsflash, there’s not much saved for either of them to retire. My lawyer unearthed that the hard way, but I leave that out of it for now.
A rooster crows from somewhere near the palm trees, momentarily pulling us out of our late-night financial management strategy.
“And Erwin? How is he handling all the stress from the wedding?”
“I heard Candy say that Erwin is getting more paranoid about money by the day. In fact, I’ve heard him questioning every expense myself.
He was ranting and raving the day we arrived, demanding receipts as if he were about to be audited.
He even made Alana justify every flower arrangement and catering choice.
The way he was going on, you’d think she was out to get him. ”
“I guess it’s safe to say, Erwin and Alana didn’t get along.”
Another strike against my deranged ex. He might just end up in handcuffs yet. I’m feeling lucky.
“They sure didn’t get along,” Della confirms. “Candy tried to keep everyone happy, but Alana was playing her like a ukulele. Alana convinced my sister that without everything being perfect, her wedding content would flop and her followers would abandon her for more interesting, more authentic influencers.”
The fire dancers behind us reach new levels of audience enthusiasm, judging by the increase in dollar bills being tossed their way and creative encouragement that definitely isn’t family-friendly.
“What about Halea?” I ask. “She seems professional.”
Della’s expression darkens like storm clouds discovering they have excellent timing for outdoor events. “Halea? Professional? She was stealing Alana’s clients behind her back faster than tourists steal shells from protected beaches.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was setting up sound equipment the night Alana died and heard them fighting about client poaching. Halea had been offering lower prices to steal Alana’s business, badmouthing her to other vendors, trying to eliminate competition through professional sabotage.”
“But they’re in different industries, aren’t they?”
“Not really,” Della snorts. “Halea could easily do brand management on the side. I heard her say that wedding planning wasn’t enough to pay the bills.”
The gecko leans forward with a sudden interest in a murder investigation.
“But Alana threatened to make sure Halea never worked another wedding on this island if she didn’t back off from certain clients. She said something about territory and consequences for crossing professional boundaries. It was like listening to a passive-aggressive turf war.”
“What else was said?” I ask, scooting closer to the driftwood so as to not miss a single word.
Della raises a finger, but before she could go on, chaos erupts from the fire dancer performance with the timing of a natural disaster designed to interrupt crucial conversations.
Screams erupt from behind—from pleasure or pain we can’t quite tell—and we turn around to see Ruby, several drinks past good judgment, as she leads a charge onto the stage that transforms from audience participation into full-scale entertainment anarchy.
She grabs Bertha and drags her into the performance area while Bertha shouts all sorts of salacious things at the men playing with fire.
And as soon as Bertha latches onto one of them, they’ll be playing with fire indeed.
“Come on, ladies!” Ruby yells with glee. “It’s time to get this party started! These drinks aren’t going to dance themselves off!”
She has a point there.
Halea hops up on stage, whooping and hollering with the best of them. As she should, after all, this is the chaos she’s created. Candy immediately recognizes a premium content opportunity and rushes toward the stage with her phone in tow, probably calculating engagement metrics while running.
Della and I head that way just in time to see Lani get swept up in Ruby’s hurricane because resistance is futile when tropical entertainment reaches critical mass.
Before I can protest, escape, or finish extracting murder confessions from my beach buddy, I find myself being guided onto the stage by a rogue fire dancer with a smile that makes rational thought temporarily unavailable.
The performer—tall, athletic, with abs that could probably be used for industrial applications—wraps his arms around me for what’s supposed to be a simple dance but becomes increasingly intimate with each flame-enhanced movement.
The routine involves strategic positioning that requires trust, physical proximity, and coordination usually associated with activities that don’t involve fire spinning around you in decorative patterns.
Dollar bills shower the stage as the crowd shows their approval in the universal language of cash.
“Just follow my lead,” he murmurs with the voice of a hot dancer accustomed to making women forget they have responsibilities, relationships, or murder investigations to conduct.
The fire creates dramatic visual effects around us while the audience goes wild with appreciation for what looks like spontaneous romantic choreography.
I’m torn between enjoying the attention from an attractive professional and remembering that I’m supposed to be gathering evidence about murder suspects, not participating in red-hot dance moves with dangerous objects.
A chicken wanders onto the stage area, examines the flames, then settles nearby in the best seat in the proverbial house.
In the middle of this tropical entertainment disaster, I look out at the chaos in front of me and spot an all too familiar face in the crowd.
Oh wow. This night is ending badly.
Detective Koa Hale stands at the edge of the venue, leaning against a palm tree as if he’s got all night to watch this disaster unfold.
He’s not in detective mode. He’s not even in concerned-boyfriend mode.
Koa watches with an expression of amused fascination that suggests he’s enjoying the show more than someone conducting official police business should probably admit. Or at least I hope he is.
Our eyes lock, and he offers a short-lived smile my way.
The fire dancer notices my distraction and spins me closer, trained in refocusing audience attention during performances. “Stay with me,” he says with professional seduction skills that work on most tourists but are currently competing with the hot detective just a few yards away.
Ruby screams with delight, Candy licks the chest of one of the fire dancers, and Halea laughs her head off. A rooster crows, and it only adds to the madness.
And somewhere on this island, a killer thinks they’ve gotten away with murder.