Chapter 20
The wedding reception has officially mutated into a category-five luau, and I’m not sure if FEMA or a priest should be called in first.
Torches blaze high against the indigo night, sputtering sparks into the salty air, while the surf roars its approval from the shoreline. Drums pound into the night, guests dance barefoot in the sand, and children shriek as they chase chickens that had clearly RSVP’d as feathery plus-ones.
Cats weave between tables with their tails twitching, occasionally swatting at the confetti blowing across the buffet like tumbleweeds. The scent of roasted pig, pineapple cake, plumeria leis, and spilled mai tais cling to everything, thick and sticky, the perfume of paradise gone feral.
Tiki torches create spooky shadows while string lights twinkle like stars that decided to move closer for a better view of the festivities.
Hawaiian music fills the air with ukulele melodies that make everyone want to hula, whether they have rhythm or not, and the scent of plumeria mingles with smoke from the grill in ways that should be bottled and sold as “Paradise in a Can.”
The dance floor pulses with guests moving to island rhythms like they’ve been briefly possessed by professional hula dancers, while multiple food stations create a culinary paradise that makes dietary restraint seem like something unachievable.
The open bar serves tropical cocktails with unnecessary drama, while Candy documents it all herself under the merciless supervision of her ring light.
Ruby leads conga lines with older gentlemen who discovered that wedding receptions are excellent venues for showcasing dance moves they’ve been saving up for decades.
Chickens weave through the celebration like clucking party crashers conducting their own parallel festivities, while cats position themselves strategically around food stations with the patience of tiny furry ninjas waiting for optimal snack opportunities. And they are so going to get snacks.
Despite the earlier weather apocalypse and poultry insurrection, the reception has achieved tropical celebration success levels that makes destination weddings worth the travel complications, the expense, and the inevitable family drama.
Halea still hasn’t moved from the tiki bar—or from Shaka’s orbit.
She’s practically purring as he explains the engineering behind the bar installation, clearly more interested in the builder than the building specifications. I waste no time in heading that way.
“Hello,” I say a touch too cheerfully. “Mind if I steal her for a minute?” I ask Shaka, and he gives a not-so-subtle nod. I can tell the man appreciates his girlfriend—and the opportunity to escape from a clinger.
He takes off to the opposite end of the bar, and I step in close to our resident seductress.
“Halea, this is all so wonderful,” I say, pasting on a smile.
I would rather do almost anything than attend my ex-husband’s wedding—hosting it ranks even lower.
“The wedding turned out amazing despite the weather apocalypse,” I begin with genuine admiration, because I give credit where credit is due—the woman managed to turn meteorological disaster into tropical romance with professional magic.
“Right? I was ready to sacrifice a chicken to the rain gods, but I guess they just needed dramatic timing for better photos,” Halea replies with the satisfaction of a party planner who’s pulled off miracles through sheer determination—and possibly intervention from The Big Guy himself.
“The flower arrangements survived better than I expected,” I continue, because I enjoy making small talk before accusing people of murder.
“I know! I had backup florals hidden in three different locations. Professional paranoia pays off when Mother Nature decides to test your contingency planning skills.”
We chat about wedding guest behavior, shared survival of reception chaos, and the general miracle of outdoor event coordination in paradise. It’s the kind of friendly conversation that makes what I’m about to do feel like a complete betrayal of social etiquette.
“Can we chat privately for a second?” I ask, nodding toward a quieter spot on the beach where waves provide white noise and tiki torch light creates an atmosphere fit for intimate conversations.
We move a few steps into the sand, far enough from the party for privacy but close enough to still hear the celebration, fueled by people who’ve survived weather disasters and lived to tell about it.
“So,” I begin casually, pivoting from party-planning praise to amateur detective interrogation with all the subtlety of a slammed door, “what did you really think about working with Alana?”
“Professionally? She was sharp—and territorial. She managed Candy’s brand like a kingdom and treated the wedding like premium content she owned.”
Spam materializes from the beach vegetation, conducting his own surveillance of our conversation. He settles nearby like a furry intelligence officer on surveillance duty.
“Territorial how?” I ask.
“Client poaching, undercutting bids, spreading rumors about other coordinators’ reliability. Standard industry warfare, but she took it personally instead of keeping it professional.”
“It must have been frustrating dealing with that kind of competition.”
“Frustrating enough that I considered several creative solutions for handling the problem,” Halea says with a casual honesty that makes my detective instincts sit up and pay attention. Okay, so I’m more of an amateur sleuth. Same principle.
And on that note, it’s time to stop dancing around the subject like it’s a delicate tropical flower requiring special handling.
“Halea,” I step in close. “Did you kill Alana Kapahu?”
The accusation hangs in the salt air like smoke from a badly timed firework. Halea’s expression shifts from happy-go-lucky to shocked and offended faster than tropical weather patterns change direction.
“Are you seriously accusing me of murder?” She takes a step back and examines me from head to toe. Suddenly, my little black dress feels woefully inadequate against her judgmental stare. “At a wedding I just coordinated? This is completely insane!”
Her voice carries sharp indignation, deeply personal and impossible to miss.
I shake my head. “Someone killed the woman, and you had professional motives—”
“Professional motives, maybe, but I’d never go near a backstabbing homewrecker like Alana,” Halea interrupts with vehemence that suggests this goes beyond business rivalry. “I don’t respect women who try to steal other people’s men.”
The comment lands hard, and suddenly everything clicks. This isn’t about wedding planning turf or stolen clients—this is about romantic betrayal and relationship sabotage. Wait…is that right?
“What do you mean by steal other people’s men?”
But Halea is already stalking back toward the party, clearly offended by my accusation and unwilling to continue a conversation that’s ventured into murder investigation territory during what should be a professional victory for her.
The waves roll in, steady and loud, while Spam settles at my feet as if to comfort me. I stare out at the water, replaying Halea’s words, and the picture sharpens in ways I don’t love. Alana didn’t just step on professional toes—she crossed lines that had nothing to do with business.
A rooster crows from somewhere near the reception, announcing that crucial evidence has just been revealed through strategic social confrontation.
The puzzle pieces start rearranging themselves in my mind like a tropical jigsaw, finally finding the right configuration.
If Alana were involved with someone’s romantic partner, that would change everything about motive, opportunity, and the type of person angry enough to commit murder in paradise.
I pull out my phone and start scrolling through social media with the determination of a digital detective conducting crucial research.
Photos, posts, comments, timeline evidence—social media is basically filled with information people share without realizing they’re creating evidence trails for future murder investigations.
The digital breadcrumbs stack up fast—couples playing happy online, comments that don’t quite match, photos that reveal more than intended about who was spending time with whom.
The evidence snaps into focus, forming a clear picture of romantic betrayal, jealousy, and a personal motivation that drives people to murder when love goes wrong in paradise.
A gecko does a tiny push-up near my foot, agreeing with my investigative conclusions based on digital evidence and superior reptilian judgment. Or at least I’d like to think so.
I glance up from my phone as a thought settles into place that I’m not quite ready to trust. If Alana’s death wasn’t about business or money or professional territory, then it leaves something far colder—and far messier—lurking underneath.
The waves continue their endless rhythm while boisterous music drifts across the beach, and somewhere in the celebration, a killer is dancing the night away and thinking they’ve gotten away with the perfect crime in paradise.
It’s time to prove them wrong.