Chapter 19
If paradise had a sense of humor, it was in full slapstick mode for Candy and Erwin’s big night.
The wedding was scheduled for sunset—dreamy, romantic, the whole tropical destination wedding nine yards.
Instead, the sky opened up just as the guests took their seats, and rain came down in sheets thick enough to drown the décor.
Plastic covers flew like parachutes, mai tais diluted into sad puddles, and the chickens, sensing opportunity, rushed the dessert tent like feathered mercenaries.
“Rain on your wedding day is good luck,” Ruby shouts over the downpour while shielding her head with a napkin.
I dab at my face with a cocktail umbrella. “Tell that to the roasted pig drowning on the spit.”
Smoke billows from the buffet line as the pig hisses and pops, flames licking all around like it’s auditioning for a firefighter calendar. Bridesmaids shriek, groomsmen flail, and Bertha barks orders loud enough to part the Pacific.
The catering setup becomes a culinary disaster zone with food getting burned, rain diluting sauces, and outdoor cooking equipment staging its own rebellion against tropical weather conditions.
Lani emerges from the kitchen looking like a warrior chef who’s been battling both flames and precipitation before sighing at the sky and heading back inside.
And yet, somehow, the sky begins to clear, and it all looks almost under control again. Almost.
Soon enough, the music is playing once again, the guests are standing in the sand, and Melanie has littered a path to the ocean with pink rose petals.
I had her do it in lieu of me. Halea handed me the basket of all things floral while running around chasing cats away and bribing Mother Nature to behave, but I had no intention of playing the part of flower girl at my ex’s next mistake.
Erwin makes his way down to the sand, barefoot in a sky-blue suit, and a white silk shirt that has one too many buttons undone in the front.
What’s left of his hair is slicked back and even though he’s relatively put together, he still looks offput by the nuptials in general.
Come to think of it, he wasn’t exactly in the best mood on our wedding day, either.
He strides by and grunts my way.
“Break a leg out there,” I tell him with false brightness usually saved for encouraging people about colonoscopies.
“Don’t tempt me,” he replies with his signature passive-aggressive charm. “Though knowing you, you’d probably enjoy watching me actually break something important.”
“Only if it involved medical bills that affected your honeymoon budget,” I reply sweetly, because I can’t seem to resist verbal sparring even during natural disasters.
A few cats poke their heads out from under a draped table, seeking shelter from both weather and wedding chaos. And how I wish I could join them.
Just as everyone starts questioning the wisdom of outdoor tropical weddings, the weather clears with the dramatic timing of nature providing its own special effects.
Sunset breaks through clouds like a divine stage light, creating a golden hour illumination that makes the wedding photographers shake their fist in victory.
Soon enough, the wedding march begins. Groomsmen wearing what looks like blue silk pajamas walk bridesmaids clad in white down the aisle.
Honestly, it’s a little off-putting seeing this many women in white at a wedding ceremony.
I’d have thought Candy would want the pristine shade all to herself.
And as if that wasn’t eye-popping enough, the bridesmaids carry tropical cocktails instead of bouquets, because liquid courage is more essential than flowers for surviving family wedding ceremonies.
Honestly, though, Mai tais seem like practical accessories for an event that’s already survived weather disasters and poultry insurrection.
Suddenly, the music takes a turn for the bridal, and all guests turn toward the resort only to see our blushing bride—and it all makes sense now.
Candy has decided to eschew the traditional white hue for a rosy shade of pink.
And just like that, she has all the attention right back on her, the way the Good Lord and her entire social media following would have it.
Candy doesn’t walk down the aisle—she practically skips, because getting married requires the same energy level as hosting a successful livestream with maximum engagement potential.
Her dress catches the magical lighting while her ring light operator follows behind like electronic wedding entourage providing backup illumination.
Traditional Hawaiian elements transform the ceremony into something breathtaking, with a lei exchange with both plumeria and maile leis that look like heaven, ukulele music tugs at heartstrings, a sand ceremony that blends multiple Hawaiian beaches takes place, and the tropical flower arrangements somehow survived this evening’s near-hurricane conditions.
I have to admit, it’s all very beautiful despite who the groom is.
Halea performs the ceremony with professional wedding coordinator efficiency, managing to look stunning while handling both officiating duties and crowd control.
She’s wearing a red dress that violates several unspoken laws about looking too good at other people’s weddings.
But at the end of the day, she’s a smoke show, and there’s no stopping it for nothing or no one.
The vows begin, and I brace myself for Erwin’s romantic declarations. I’m about to hear my ex-husband wax poetic about true love. Someone pass the wine.
“Erwin,” Candy begins with the enthusiasm of announcing a major brand collaboration, “you are like, the most predictable person I know.”
I snort a little too loudly and garner a stink eye from Bertha.
What? The bride said he was predictable. If that’s not comedy gold, I don’t know what is.
“You make me want to be a better content creator and a more genuine influencer.” Candy goes on. “I promise to love you in sickness and in health, in good lighting and in bad, for richer engagement rates and for poorer analytics.”
A gecko appears on a nearby palm tree, drawn by the spectacle of humans making public promises about social media metrics and questionably authentic partnerships.
“You are my ultimate brand partnership,” Candy continues, “and I can’t wait to create lifetime content with you. Our love story is totally going viral, and I am here for it!”
The crowd coos. Ruby and Lani appear by my side and stick their fingers down their throats and pretend to gag in solidarity with me. Only, I’m gagging for real.
“Candy, you bring color to my spreadsheets and joy to my quarterly reports.” Erwin’s vows follow with the romantic sensibility of a groom translating emotions into business terminology.
“I promise to support your creative vision, manage our joint finances responsibly, and always ensure you have optimal lighting for important moments.”
“That’ll keep him busy,” I mutter.
The chicken that’s been conducting the ceremony alongside Halea clucks approvingly, apparently impressed by fiscal responsibility in romantic declarations.
“You’ve taught me that love is the best investment I’ve ever made,” Erwin continues to make my stomach churn, “and our relationship has consistently exceeded projected returns. I look forward to building our future together with sustainable growth and unlimited happiness.”
“Now there’s a fiscally sound wedding vow if ever there was one,” Lani teases.
“Oh, there was one,” I say. “Seven years ago. Same vows. Different woman.”
“Recycling vows should be a felony,” Ruby says.
Lani snorts. “I’ve seen more originality on a cereal box.”
“I can’t argue with that. And by the way, my divorce lawyer showed more commitment.”
“I now pronounce you husband and influencer!” Halea calls out as she tosses a bunch of rose petals into the air. “You may kiss the bride and tag each other in your social media stories!”
The kiss is dramatic, well-lit, and absolutely for the internet. Guests cheer. A gecko applauds. Somewhere, an algorithm feels fulfilled.
“How are you holding up watching your ex marry a woman who thinks ‘authentic’ is a camera setting?” Ruby asks, with all the tenderness of a freight train.
“How am I holding up?” I shrug, watching Candy and Erwin pose for approximately forty-seven different kissing angles. “You know I’m a firm believer that justice eventually finds everyone, even the ones who look happy in the meantime.”
“You’re still rooting for him to be the killer, aren’t you?” Ruby offers up a sideways hug as we observe the carnage.
“Yup,” I say. “I’m petty like that.”
The reception revs up with Hawaiian wedding music that dares you not to dance. The buffet sprawls across the sand in decadent stations, proof that happiness is measurable in food options.
Kalua pig falls off the bone with the tenderness that comes from hours of slow cooking and possibly divine intervention.
Fresh poke offers three different preparations that taste like the ocean decided to become an edible luxury.
Coconut rice floats like a tropical cloud, while grilled mahi-mahi with mango salsa delivers a flavor that makes you briefly forget your own name.
The dessert table features multiple stations of haupia, malasadas, chocolate haupia pie, coconut macaroons, and tropical fruit tarts that make dietary restraint seem like a personal failing rather than a lifestyle choice.
“I need to put the finishing touches on this masterpiece,” Lani says, voice dripping sarcasm as she gestures to the wedding cake—Candy’s very specific request. It’s a barely dressed creation with exposed layers, minimal frosting, and an effortless look that clearly took military-grade precision to achieve maximum social media approval.
Bertha materializes beside me with predatory stealth, clearly on the hunt for something to critique and someone to blame. Most likely me.
Her silver locks are bloated from the humidity, and she’s donned a festive polyester frock engineered to trap heat and resentment in equal measure.
“Well, at least this wedding turned out better than your marriage did,” she says with the tact of a sledgehammer. “Though I suppose that wasn’t particularly difficult to achieve.”
“Thank you, Bertha. Your emotional support means everything to me,” I say, with the sincerity usually reserved for mandatory safety briefings.
“I’m just saying, some people learn from their mistakes, and others repeat them with different people.”
I don’t even try to unpack that one.
Ruby materializes like a fairy godmother who plays fast and loose with consent.
“Bertha! You have to dance with these distinguished gentlemen!” She steers her toward the dance floor, delivering her to a group of older men who look fully unprepared for Bertha’s opinions on family finances, or anything else.
I spot Melanie over by the dessert buffet, stuffing her poi hole with malasadas, and I’m about to join her when Della comes my way.
She looks jittery as she approaches with stage-ready energy, like she’s about to perform for an audience that might actually remember it—assuming they’re still upright and not fully undone by tropical cocktails.
Della slides up beside me, buzzing like a live wire in sequins.
“I’m up in five minutes,” she says. “I’ve been rehearsing all week, and the crowd is exactly relaxed enough to appreciate original music.”
Translation—this must happen now, before anyone sobers up enough to develop standards.
“Perfect timing,” I say. “Tell the band there’s a drink break for them. This crowd is exactly loose enough for original music.”
She grins and turns to go.
“Before you hit the stage,” I add, because I am physically incapable of letting a potential lead walk away, “is there anything else about Alana I should know? Any tension, drama, or unfinished business that you might have remembered since we last spoke?”
Della considers this, clearly digging for anything else she can add.
“No, I think I told you everything last night. But Halea might know more—she and Alana had way more interaction that night than anyone else.” She pauses and inches back as if struck by sudden recollection.
“Actually, now that I think about it, Halea was asking really weird questions about Alana’s schedule the day she died.
Like, specifically when she could speak to her alone and where she was planning to go.
I thought it was just professional coordination, but now. ..”
The implications hit like a tropical storm making landfall. Della trails off, realizing she’s just provided potentially damaging evidence against the wedding officiant who recently pronounced Candy and Erwin married with social media blessings.
A rooster crows from somewhere near the dance floor, announcing that crucial evidence has just been revealed during wedding reception small talk. Or at least I hope it was.
I turn to spot Halea positioned by the newly installed tiki bar, looking more than ready to celebrate a successful wedding by getting very friendly with Shaka’s impressive construction skills and professional tool expertise.
Both Shaka and Loco are here tonight. They offered to help with bartending backup as well as emergency ukulele backup.
They’re sort of the Jack of all Hawaiian trades, and I more than appreciate them.
Koa promised he’d stop by at some point, but said he’s still working on that big break in the case.
And I have a feeling I’m about to have a big break, too.
It’s time to confront the person who might very well be Alana’s killer, at her own successfully orchestrated wedding reception, while she’s attempting to seduce a construction worker, surrounded by celebrating guests and tropical cocktails.
The gecko on the palm tree does a final push-up and disappears, deciding that human justice procedures exceed its comfort level.
Sometimes justice in paradise comes with a side of tropical romance and truly terrible timing.