Chapter 18
The bus carrying the bridal brigade lurches away from this corner of Hanalei in a storm of shrieks, feathers, and singles stuffed in questionable places.
Ruby waves from the back window like a woman who just joined a cult, Lani is busy wringing nacho cheese out of her crown, and Bertha presses her face to the glass with the haunted eyes of a woman who had glimpsed too much flesh in the firelight.
Candy is livestreaming the entire exodus with her filters on high, and I’m sure her hashtags are flying faster than the bus itself.
Halea blows kisses to the dancers and promises to network later.
And me? I slip off in the other direction, toward the only man in Kauai not covered in glitter or oil.
“Need a ride back to the resort?” Koa asks, clearly amused after watching me get intimate on stage with a professional fire dancer in front of a cheering crowd.
Koa’s hair is slicked back, his eyes are glowing in the moonlight, and he holds a woodsy scent that’s pulling me closer all on its own.
Koa is so darn handsome it’s almost unfair.
“Yes, I do need a ride. Unless you enjoyed watching me get seduced by flaming objects and want a repeat performance.” I’m only half-teasing.
“The fire dancing was educational,” he admits. “I didn’t know you had those moves.”
“I didn’t know I had those moves either,” I say, gripping my hips. “I guess tropical entertainment brings out hidden talents I never knew existed. Here’s hoping I can move tomorrow.”
A small cat appears from under a nearby table, snaps up a nacho chip in his mouth, and makes a quick getaway.
“Before we head back,” Koa hitches his head towards the parking lot, “want to grab some food? I know a place that serves excellent nachos and doesn’t require audience participation.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting at a beachside café that caters to people who’ve survived fire dancers and need sustenance to process the experience.
It’s also a place where tiki torches provide romantic lighting without requiring athletic ability or dollar bills for proper appreciation.
We’ve got a table just feet from the sand, with twinkle lights strung up above and the starry night just past that.
A smattering of patrons sit scattered around, but it feels private, deliciously intimate, and like the perfect place to discuss all things murder.
Our nacho platter arrives absolutely drowning in mango salsa, coconut shrimp, pineapple jalapenos, and cheese that refuses to behave.
Sure, they had nachos at the bachelorette party but neither Koa nor I enjoyed those and we were having one serious craving.
I order another Island Fever Dream because I didn’t get any of that either, while Koa opts for something called a Detective’s Downtime that comes with a tiny plastic handcuff attached to the stirring stick.
It’s adorable, ever so slightly practical, and right on the money for the things I want to discuss.
“So, do you want to compare notes on our mutual suspect collection?” I ask, diving into nachos with an appetite that can only come from spending the evening conducting interrogations and surviving the seduction of one very hot fire dancer—and I mean that in the literal sense.
“You mean, do I want to discuss your unauthorized civilian investigation that technically violates several police procedures?” Koa asks with weary acceptance, no longer bothering to discourage my amateur detective activities.
“I prefer enthusiastic community involvement in local law enforcement. Besides, you seemed interested in my findings when I was getting intimate with fire safety demonstrations.”
The waves provide background music as we launch into suspect analysis that feels like the world’s most dangerous pillow talk.
I share my intelligence gathering about Halea’s client theft and professional threats, Bertha’s financial paranoia and family protection instincts, Erwin’s money stress and boundary-setting comments.
Okay, fine, I might have exaggerated a little to make Erwin sound extra guilty, but that’s only because I want him to be.
I glance over at the ocean as the moon dances over the inky water, and the palm trees sway in the balmy breeze. It’s another perfect night in paradise, and yet here we are, staring down the barrel of another homicide.
I seem to be the common denominator in these homicidal shenanigans, but I don’t dare point that out to Koa. Although let’s face it, he doesn’t need me to point it out.
Hey? Maybe that’s why he’s sticking to my side? I’m nothing but a reconnaissance mission to him. One he doesn’t mind practicing his kissing skills on. And what skills they are.
“Della told me that Alana threatened to make sure Halea never worked another wedding on this island,” I report, because evidently, conducting interrogations while fire dancers perform behind you creates excellent confession opportunities.
“Interesting,” Koa says with the professional tone that suggests this information aligns with official investigation findings. “What else did your off-the-books suspect interviews reveal?”
“As I said, Bertha hates anyone who isn’t blood and thinks outsiders are trying to scam her retirement fund, and Erwin’s.
Speaking of my ex, he was demanding receipts like he was conducting federal audits.
Della has career jealousy issues, but seems more desperate to break into the music industry than dangerous. ”
A rooster crows from somewhere in the palm trees, as if sounding off on our suspect assessment methodology.
“And Candy?” Koa asks, stealing a particularly loaded nacho with the casual intimacy that comes from sharing food and murder theories.
“Surprisingly saintlike,” I scoff at the thought. “She tried to mediate everyone’s drama. She even offered to pay extras from her own pocket for the expenses. Either she’s an excellent actress, or she’s just really, really good at being manipulated by wedding vendors with dicey ethics.”
“So, our top suspects,” Koa leans back in his seat, and I can practically see him organizing complex information into manageable categories, “are Halea and her business warfare, Bertha for family financial protection, and Erwin for control issues and monetary disputes.”
“With Della running a distant fourth for career resentment, and Candy bringing up the rear—because killing the person who controlled every aspect of your life isn’t the worst motive I’ve heard.”
Koa tips his head as he examines me in the tiki torch light, the idea of a smile tugging at his lips. “That’s a solid amateur detective analysis,” he says with what might be professional respect or might be amazement that I haven’t gotten myself killed yet. My guess is both.
“I prefer enthusiastic amateur with solid instincts. We can skip the self-preservation critique.”
“That’s a very specific category.”
“I’m a very specific woman. Besides, you seemed to enjoy watching my interrogation techniques in action.”
“Your interrogation techniques involved getting intimately familiar with fire safety procedures while a crowd cheered and threw money.”
“All in the name of justice. And possibly mild exhibitionism in front of attractive law enforcement.” I give a sly wink his way, and that smile he’s fighting expands a notch.
“You know,” Koa says, dropping his voice to an octave that makes rational thought temporarily unavailable, “for conducting a freelance murder investigation, you’re surprisingly...”
“Irresistible?” I suggest helpfully, because I enjoy finishing sentences with maximum confidence. It’s rare, but it happens.
“I was going to say dangerous, but irresistible works, too.” His eyes stay trained on mine. His lips curve just enough as if he’s spotted his dinner.
He leans in with slow, deliberate movement—the kind that promises proper romantic technique in tropical settings.
The moment builds perfectly as the waves crash like a love song, stars twinkle overhead doing their best impression of mood lighting, and the satisfaction of shared detective work creates ideal kissing-in-paradise conditions.
Just as his lips reach approximately three inches from mine and I’m calculating optimal romantic angles for noses and such, his phone erupts with the aggressive ringtone of terrible timing, and completely destroyed romance.
“Who could that be?” he mutters, checking his screen with a grunt because we both know his job has consistently poor timing when it comes to romantic moments.
He winces. “I’d better take this,” he says with the reluctance of choosing professional duty over paradise kissing opportunities.
The conversation involves a lot of “Yes, sir” and “I’ll be right there” while I sit watching my perfect romantic moment dissolve like cotton candy in a tropical rainstorm. Koa’s expression shifts from romantic interest to professional focus faster than the weather changes in paradise.
“There’s been a break in the case,” he announces, already standing and reaching for his keys.
“What kind of break?” I ask because I believe in miracles like police officers sharing confidential information with civilian girlfriends.
Wait, am I his girlfriend? Don’t we have to declare these things before I can say them? Things were so much easier in that department back in middle school.
“I’m sorry, Jinx. I can’t discuss the details, but something significant has developed. I need to get you back to the resort and head to the station.”
The drive back happens in record time, with Koa clearly processing new information while I attempt to extract details through strategic questioning that proves completely unsuccessful. The man’s been trained to resist interrogation by determined amateurs.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” I ask as he pulls into the resort parking lot with the speed of a detective with places to be and mysteries to solve.
“It depends on how this develops,” he says, giving me a quick kiss that tastes like unfinished business and tropical frustration. “Stay out of trouble.”
He drives away, leaving me standing in the resort parking lot with more questions than answers, romantic frustration, and burning curiosity about what kind of case development could interrupt perfectly good nacho-sharing and kissing opportunities in paradise.
Spam trots my way in all his fluffy, orange glory, and I quickly scoop him up and drop a kiss on his furry forehead.
The wedding is tomorrow. Our suspect list is narrowing. And somewhere in police headquarters, Koa is getting information that might crack this case wide open like a coconut, while I’m left wondering if our tropical romance will always get interrupted by a murder investigation.
At least the nachos were excellent.