Chapter 22
The reception is back in full swing, as if a bride being cuffed and carted off by local law enforcement is just another excuse to drink more mai tais and grab a second plate of poke.
Tiki torches hiss, the ocean booms its steady applause, and chickens strut boldly underfoot, pecking at spilled rice like a feathered clean-up crew. The cats, not to be outdone, lounge across buffet tables with their tails swishing back and forth, occasionally batting at leis tossed like confetti.
Koa had to take off to help process the arrest, but said he’d be back as soon as he could.
I hardly have time to digest the fact that Candy is now Candy-in-Cuffs before Erwin waddles into the spotlight again with more ube all over him, this time on his shirt.
He claps his sticky hands and shouts, “Easy come, easy go! Divorces are my new thing!”
Half the crowd cheers, half the crowd groans. I’m caught somewhere in the middle.
The man processes major life trauma by treating it like a casual hobby update. His bride gets arrested for murder, and I bet he’s already calculating the financial benefits of avoiding messy divorce proceedings.
Without missing a beat, he pivots toward Della with the grace of an idiot discovering that if one sister turned out to be homicidal, he might as well try his luck with the aspiring singer carrying unresolved career setbacks and a guitar case.
“Della! How about we grab some drinks and discuss your music career?” he calls out, proving the fact that his relationship attention span can make a goldfish look committed. But I already knew that.
“Really?” Della lights up as if someone just offered her a recording contract. “Do you want to hear some of my original stuff?”
And just like that, they wander off together, two freshly wounded souls bonding over artistic dreams, romantic disappointment, and the promise of frozen cocktails strong enough to convince them this is a good idea.
A rooster watches them go with interest, clearly filing the moment away for the island gossip network.
Bertha materializes beside me, already primed to do some damage control and eviscerate someone in the same breath. Most likely me.
“I suppose I owe you an apology,” she begins with a gracious tone, seemingly admitting fault while simultaneously preparing to assign blame elsewhere.
“An apology?” I inch back. “From you? Should I alert the local news media?”
She waves me off. “Of course, if you’d been more organized from the start, this entire wedding wouldn’t have been such a disaster,” she continues, incapable of delivering gratitude without including personal improvement suggestions.
“But I suppose even poor judgment can lead to adequate results occasionally.”
“Your emotional support means everything to me, Bertha.” I don’t know what she said, and I certainly don’t understand what I said either.
A heavy sigh expels from her. “You’ll always be my favorite ex-daughter-in-law, which admittedly isn’t saying much since you’re the only one, but still.”
I watch her walk away, clearly satisfied, leaving me to decide whether I’ve just been praised or politely insulted.
Melanie trots this way, glowering at me—her go-to expression where yours truly is involved.
“This is exactly the chaos that makes resort management impossible,” she grumbles. “First murders, then investigations, now arrests at a wedding. An arrest of the brIDE! How are we supposed to maintain proper resort protocols when guests keep getting handcuffed during reception activities?”
“Maybe we should add criminal apprehension to the guest services menu,” I suggest while holding back a smile.
“And another thing—”
“Clamp it, Melanie,” Ruby and Lani say in unison as they show up on the scene.
“We want to hear more about that steamy kiss we witnessed on the beach,” Ruby says, wiggling her shoulders as she says it.
Lani nods. “We demand romantic details over a criminal justice discussion.”
Spam materializes on the nearest table as if he, too, is interested in romantic updates based on his attentive positioning and superior eavesdropping capabilities.
Before I can respond to demands for intimate intel, I spot Halea heading toward the resort entrance with a purposeful stride like she’s intent on leaving before any more awkward conversations about murder accusations can resume.
“Excuse me,” I call out, deciding that friendly resolutions take priority over sharing details about kisses with friends who witnessed everything anyway. But the woman doesn’t bother stopping. “Halea! Wait!” I quickly catch up with her before she can disappear into the night.
She turns my way with a weary look that tells me everything I need to know about how she feels.
“I really enjoyed getting to know you,” I begin with genuine warmth, “and I’m sorry I accused you of being a cold-blooded killer during your own successfully coordinated wedding reception.” I wince a little because this could go a few different ways, and I don’t look so good with a black eye.
“Well, I’ve been called worse things by people with less interesting investigation techniques,” she says with humor that suggests she’s not really taking the murder accusation personally.
“Besides, your detective work was actually pretty impressive for someone without a badge.” She gives a warm smile to back up her claim.
“Thank you,” I say, just as Ruby and Lani catch up to our conversation, unwilling to miss friendship resolution or potential group bonding opportunities at the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort.
“We wish you could hang out at the resort more often,” Ruby says, happy to have found someone worth including in our tropical social circle.
“Well, I don’t have any jobs lined up for the foreseeable future,” Halea admits. “What I did have just fell through. It’s been a hard season. I was sort of hoping Candy would have kick-started my career again with all that social media exposure and influencer networking opportunities.”
“Instead, she kick-started a murder investigation and got herself arrested,” Lani says, pointing out the irony.
A thought hits me like a tropical lightning bolt. “How would you feel about a position at the front desk of the resort?”
Halea’s expression shifts from resigned disappointment to interested curiosity. “Really?”
I nod. “There’s lots of downtime between guests, a flexible schedule, and excellent opportunities for meeting interesting men who aren’t involved in homicide investigations or wedding planning disasters.”
“That sounds perfect,” she says, clearly relieved to find that a career setback can open better doors, right here on Kauai. “And I can still try to drum up some work in the wedding planner department, too.”
We all belt out a cheer because we’ve just created our own happy endings—just the way it should be.
A chicken wanders over, nods approvingly, and settles in close as we all lean into a rocking group hug.
“I’m buying drinks!” Ruby announces, riding high on both amateur detective success and a brand-new friendship.
We all head toward the newly installed tiki bar as a group, because frozen drinks are the only appropriate way to celebrate friendship and new employment arrangements at the resort.
The tiki torches are still flickering away, creating the dreamy, romantic atmosphere only the tropics can provide while the band plays Hawaiian music for all to enjoy.
No sooner do we reach the tiki bar than I spot the most handsome man on the island, the most handsome man on any island, walking out from the lobby.
Koa intercepts me with the timing of a man ready to resume an interrupted romantic moment, this time without police business getting in the way. And I am on the very same page.
“So,” he says with a smile that makes rational thought take a flight, “are you ready to discuss your unauthorized investigation techniques?” He pulls me close and wraps his arms around me as his fingers glide into my hair.
“Wow…” He pulls back a notch to get a better look at me.
“Your hair is really soft. Must be that salt water,” he teases.
“Must be.” I give a little shrug, even though I know darn well it’s the gallon of olive oil I’ve been dunking it in every night ever since Lani turned me into a walking salad.
But there are some secrets I’ll never tell.
“So, are you planning to arrest me for conducting amateur detective work without proper licensing?”
“I’m planning to kiss you again to see if it’s as explosive as it was on the beach.”
“That sounds like an excellent investigation technique, Detective. Very thorough.”
He gives the hint of a wicked grin. “I believe in comprehensive research methods and detailed follow-up procedures.”
His mouth crashes over mine with an intensity that makes volcanic eruptions look tame, while our friends cheer and the band keeps playing.
Justice has been served, new friendships have been formed, employment opportunities have been created, and romance has been properly established through shared adventure and excellent kissing techniques.
The celebration continues under the tiki lights with ukulele music, mai tais, friends laughing, cats supervising, chickens providing commentary, and a level of happiness that comes from surviving a murder investigation while finding your place in paradise.
“Your phone is buzzing,” Lani calls out as she makes her way over and I pull back to see her wagging it at me. “You left it at the bar.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking it from her.
It’s a text from an unknown number.
Hi! This is Debbie Lee Rivers producer of The Spice Is Right cooking show.
We’re looking for a tropical location to film next week’s episode, and your resort came highly recommended.
Interested in hosting? We’ll handle everything—equipment, crew, talent.
You just provide the beautiful backdrop. Let me know! Debbie Lee
I stare at the message.
A cooking show. At my resort. With cameras and celebrities and national exposure.
This could be amazing for business.
Or it could be a complete disaster.
Probably both.
I’m already typing back with my reply.
We’d love to host. When do you arrive?
Because apparently, I’m the kind of person who invites chaos to paradise and calls it a business opportunity—and judging by my track record, murder has probably already booked a room.
Thank you for reading!