Chapter 21
The reception has gone from tropical dream to tropical derangement, and Erwin is the master of ceremonies when it comes to chaos.
He waddles up to the mic with purple custard smeared across his chin and shouts, “Looks like Candy and I aren’t the only ones getting lei’d tonight!”
Oh, good grief.
A groan ripples through the crowd, but before anyone can hurl a flip-flop at his head, a small army of employees storms the dance floor, tossing purple and pink leis over every neck within striking distance.
In seconds, the entire party is festooned in flowers, looking like an army of hibiscus pinatas.
Music thunders. The torches flicker. Chickens, not to be outdone, dart under the buffet tables, pecking at the fallen malasada crumbs, while the cats stalk them with a gleam in their eyes.
And Erwin—my ex, who mistakes confidence for competence—stands in the middle of it all, stuffing Lani’s world-famous ube malasadas into his mouth with both hands.
Purple custard streaks down his suit like finger paint at a toddler’s birthday.
His teeth glow violet in the torchlight.
He chews, he grins, he drips. He is a drip.
The fact that he couldn’t keep it in his pants is exactly why we’re all here today.
Not that I’m bemoaning it. If I’m smart, I’ll pen the string of hussies he had an affair with each their very own thank you note.
I’m much happier on Kauai, at this cozy resort, with my herd of cats and chickens—not to mention Ruby and Lani.
And last but never least, one hot detective I can’t seem to keep my lips off of.
Erwin belts out a whoop so loud it sears my eardrums. I frown at him for a moment with the malasada sludge dripping off his chin, the way his eyes are prone to wander toward anything in a skirt—and I gasp.
And just like that, the entire case snaps together in my head like a lei cinched around someone’s neck with lethal finality.
Bertha’s comment at the falls about wishing “that boy knew how to keep it in his pants.” The fact that Bertha almost decked Alana before the poor woman bit the big one. Halea calling Alana a homewrecker. Della herself seemed to be in on some sad secret that could ruin Candy’s big day.
The puzzle finishes assembling itself while Erwin commits a full-scale ube malasada massacre, blissfully unaware his cheating just got flagged between bites at his own wedding.
I shake my head at him before turning to find Candy leading a conga line toward the shore, fueled by pure wedding adrenaline and a total disregard for terrain.
The line collapses once guests realize sand and formal shoes are mortal enemies, leaving Candy moving and grooving alone in her pink dress that flows around her like expensive sea foam with an attitude problem.
The dress is stunning—layers of silk and tulle that catch the tiki torch light while managing to look both elegant and practical for boogeying at the beach. Candy moves with the confidence of a bride who knows she looks amazing and plans to document every angle for maximum social media impact.
I head for the sand to congratulate the new bride and have what might be the most important conversation of my amateur detective career—timing courtesy of her solo dance break.
“Candy! What an amazing wedding!” I call out, as if I’m simply making friendly conversation rather than for what I’m preparing to extract from her.
“Sphynx!” She spins around with her signature smile, delighted to have an audience for her beach choreography. “Isn’t this just perfect? The whole day turned out exactly like I dreamed!”
“Well, almost exactly,” I say, because subtle implications pair nicely with beachside chats and possible killers.
“What do you mean?” She tilts her head, wearing an innocence that suggests consequences are a foreign concept.
“I mean, someone murdered your business manager during what should have been the happiest week of your life.”
Candy’s expression shifts slightly, like someone adjusting their internal settings for more serious conversation topics. “Oh, that. Well, obviously, Halea killed the woman. Professional jealousy and all that business rivalry nonsense. Alana was practically taking over as the wedding planner.”
“Actually, I don’t think Halea did it.”
“Well then, you must be drinking.” Candy laughs with a forced cheer that suggests this conversation is heading in directions she doesn’t appreciate. “Pay attention. Halea offed the woman. She had all the business motives and the opportunity.”
I shake my head as cats begin emerging from the beach vegetation like furry audience members gathering for premium entertainment.
Spam leads the charge with his tail held high, his eyes sharp.
My orange fluffy bestie has glued himself to my side like a loyal barnacle.
A small army of chickens materializes from various resort locations too, as if summoned by the scent of dramatic human confrontation in a tropical setting.
“No, she didn’t do it,” I insist.
Candy straightens. Her eyes flit left and right as if she’s recalculating her strategy. “Then it must have been Bertha. You know how much of a battleaxe that woman can be. Let’s lock her up forever and throw away the key.”
I grunt at the thought. “Talk about making me an offer I can’t refuse.”
I’ll admit, it is tempting.
But knowing my ex-mother-in-law, she would enjoy the martyrdom. Not only that, but prison food couldn’t be worse than her personality.
“I found out about Erwin and Alana,” I say quietly, watching Candy’s face for the reaction that will confirm everything I’ve just pieced together.
“What about Erwin and Alana?” Her voice carries a level of careful control that suggests she knows exactly what I’m talking about but hopes I don’t.
“He was cheating on you with her. You found out, too, didn’t you?”
Screams of delight emanate from the festivities behind us, and yet the sound of the crashing waves does its best to drown them out.
Candy’s expression goes through several interesting transformations—surprise, offense, calculation, then something that looks like relief mixed with defiance.
She lifts her chin with a stubborn pride that suggests she’s about to stop pretending.
Or at least that’s what I’m reading into it.
If I’m lucky, this is the part where she pins it all on Erwin.
I nod her way in hopes to prod it out of her.
“Yes, he was cheating on me,” she says with a vehemence that makes nearby chickens take a step backward. “What kind of an idiot is he? I’m the whole package! Two million followers, brand partnerships, endless content opportunities! And with that mouse of a woman? It was an insult.”
Spam has the rest of the cats position themselves in a semicircle around us like furry jury members observing a confession proceeding, while the chickens conduct their own surveillance from strategic positions near the rocks.
“You couldn’t let it be known that you were being played for a fool,” I say, understanding the motive with crystal clarity. “Someone had to go.”
Okay, there’s still a slim chance that Erwin is guilty of a homicide.
“Exactly!” she blurts. “I had to kill her!”
Well, that answers that. Still, Erwin could do some serious time—if not as the killer, then at least as an accessory.
“And Erwin knows you did it,” I insist. Please, let him know. Please.
“No, he doesn’t know anything!” She looks incensed by the thought. “The man is an idiot.”
Drats. And she chooses now to demonstrate how smart she is?
“My reputation, my brand, my entire influencer career—everything would have been ruined if people found out I was being cheated on with some nobody.” Candy shouts with fervor, finally getting to share her logical reasoning.
“Oh, geez,” I pinch my eyes closed. “You killed the wrong person! You should have offed Erwin!” Okay, so I may have shouted that into the night a touch too aggressively. But still, the point remains the same.
Candy shrugs with an indifference that makes my skin crawl. “I’m planning on it. Tonight. Of course, the world won’t know it was me who stabbed him through the heart. Not when there’s a bitter ex on the premises to take the fall.”
I gasp at the thought. How diabolical. How very convenient. How ingenious.
Not only does she have a killer instinct, but she has more than a few brain cells floating up there. Not many, but still…
She flashes a wicked grin that transforms her manufactured sweetness into something considerably more dangerous.
“But I’ll just have to resort to plan B since you won’t be alive to take the blame.
I think I’ll frame Bertha or my annoying sister.
At least that way I’ll never have to listen to her sing again. ”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Bertha is the only reasonable choice in that equation,” I grouse, because evidently, I maintain my sense of humor even during death threats. I am kidding, aren’t I? “But then you always seem to be making mistakes,” I hiss at her. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“The heck you’re not!”
Candy launches herself at me, furious that her careful planning just lost out to amateur detective work and inconvenient evidence. We slam into the sand in a chaotic struggle for tropical justice while cats and chickens offer loud, unsolicited advice.
She’s stronger than she looks and meaner than her social media presence suggests. We roll toward the water with the momentum of people who have absolutely committed to poor decisions while waves crash around us.
Candy rolls me straight into the ocean and shoves me under.
And GAH!
Icy water slams into my chest like a Mac truck. My lungs seize, my body locks up as if it’s forgotten how breathing works—rude, considering how attached I am to the concept.
Salt water fills my mouth while I struggle against her surprisingly effective drowning technique, relentless, efficient, and far too practiced for someone who claims to make inspirational content for a living.
Just as I’m starting to think that dying in paradise might be the ultimate ironic ending to my amateur detective career and my life, the most unlikely rescue team in Hawaii history comes to my aid.
Cats—actual cats—leap into the water with a heroic determination usually associated with dolphins who save drowning sailors. They swim toward us with surprising efficiency while chickens pace the shoreline, providing what sounds like tactical encouragement for aquatic rescue operations.
Claws are out, yowls are screamed so loud, they could hear it on Mars. About six different cats seem to have attached themselves to Candy’s body, and by proxy, mine.
Candy thrusts herself out of the water. “Get them off of me,” she screams into the night.
The distraction gives me the leverage I need to reverse our positions and get Candy in a headlock, drag her back toward shore, and pin her face down in the sand while she struggles and shrieks about ruining her wedding dress and her life.
“Jinx!” Koa’s voice slices through the beach as he charges toward us, gun drawn, clearly done with my freelance detective phase.
“She confessed!” I shout while sitting on Candy’s back like a very tired lifeguard managing an unruly swimmer. “Murder, attempted murder, and planning to frame innocent people for her homicidal tendencies.”
Candy continues to struggle and protest about the damage to her very expensive wedding attire while Shaka and Loco run up on the scene and help subdue a bride having what might be the worst wedding night in Hawaiian history.
Koa calls in the arrest while handcuffing the woman, who’s still complaining about the damage to her social media damage and ruined content opportunities, even while being read her rights.
A slew of officers darts onto the beach, and Koa quickly hands the woman off to them.
“You could have been killed,” Koa says, pulling me into his arms with an intensity that feels a lot like delayed panic.
“But I wasn’t,” I pant, committed to maintaining optimism even while dripping with ocean water and covered in sand. “Alana was having an affair with Erwin.”
Koa nods once. “I know.”
“What?”
“That was the big break,” he continues. “We pulled Alana’s phone records.
Burner number. Encrypted messages. Hotel key logs that lined up with Erwin’s business trips.
We found one of her social media posts that alluded to meeting up with a man she shouldn’t be with.
She snapped a picture of herself in front of the hotel.
It was time stamped so we scoured the security footage, and it was Erwin she was meeting.
” His jaw tightens. “They weren’t careful. They just thought no one was looking.”
“So, you knew,” I whisper.
“I knew,” he says. “And once we confirmed the affair, everything else fell into place. I was on my way here to speak to the bride.”
“I sort of beat you to it.” I can’t help but wince.
“Jinx,” he pants out my name with a frown, “you conducted an unofficial investigation, confronted a killer alone, and nearly drowned in the process.”
“I also solved the case, saved Erwin’s life, and got rescued by cats. That’s a pretty impressive evening by any standards.” I blow a quick kiss to Spam, who’s watching from a safe distance.
“You’re impossible,” he says, but his dimples are digging in when he says it, and I do my best to memorize that short-lived smile.
I shrug. “You’re attracted to impossible women, apparently.”
“Apparently, I am.”
His lips meet mine with explosive intensity, explosive enough to make fireworks seem understated. The waves crash around us as the chickens provide their chirping approval from the sand.
It turns out that justice in paradise comes with excellent romantic timing and superior animal backup support.
Even covered in sand and salt water, solving a murder in tropical settings has significant advantages over traditional law enforcement techniques.
But boy, does the law enforcement around here know how to kiss.