Chapter 14
The Hanapepe Art Walk happens every Friday night, bringing local artists, overpriced smoothies, and murder suspects trying to blend in with the macramé crowd.
It turns out our next suspect might just be attending tonight’s event, if we’re lucky enough to catch her before she disappears into whatever witness protection program event planners use when their schemes go sideways.
The drive from our resort near Hanalei Bay takes us about forty-five minutes south and west across the island, winding through sugar cane fields and past red dirt roads that lead to places the guidebooks forgot to mention.
Hanapepe sits in a valley along the Hanapepe River, an adorable historic town that managed to survive the sugar plantation era and transform itself into an artist’s haven where galleries and studios occupy buildings that once housed plantation workers and their dreams of something better.
Koa spotted a vast collection of acrylic and oil paintings in the background of all of Mabel’s web pages—everything from abstract swirls that looked like someone sneezed on canvas to landscapes that screamed, I took a painting class once and now I’m an expert on tropical sunsets.
His detective instincts led him to conclude she might just be headed to the swanky yet humble little town of Hanapepe, where the art world explodes onto the scene most Friday nights, and everyone and their mother is out strolling around, noshing on cookies from local bakeries, and even enjoying a sushi roll or two.
“Historical Hanapepe,” I say as we drive through the early evening light, “is the kind of place where if you blink, you’ll miss it entirely. But unless you’re as dead as Coraline Starling, you’ll definitely pick up on the scene thanks to all the bodies lining the streets.”
“Bodies?” Koa raises an eyebrow with a concerned expression, as if he’s wondering if I’ve discovered another crime scene.
“All of them alive and breathing, unlike our recent victim,” I clarify. “Just your standard Friday night crowd looking for culture and coconut macaroons.”
The evening sky spreads across Hanapepe in shades of orange and pink that make you understand why people flock to islands to watch all of their money disappear, even when those islands come with alarming homicide statistics.
The main street stretches before us like a scene from a tourism commercial, except with more actual locals and fewer paid actors pretending to be spontaneously delighted by everything.
Throngs of people pack the sidewalks elbow to elbow, creating a crowd density normally reserved for Black Friday sales and natural disaster evacuations.
A local band plays near the old theater, fully committed to songs about paradise and sunsets.
The scent of something deep-fried fills the air—probably malasadas, but possibly tourist hopes and dreams transformed into digestible carnival food.
Booths line the street in front of shops, selling everything from handmade soap that promises to cleanse away your troubles, to pineapple whips that look like they could cure both homesickness and whatever long day brought you to an art walk in the first place.
“Look at that soap artisan,” I say, nodding toward a woman enthusiastically explaining the spiritual properties of papaya exfoliant to a couple who says she’s from Wisconsin. “Twenty bucks says she’s going to convince them that coconut oil can solve their marriage problems.”
“No bet,” Koa replies. “But I’ll put twenty on you buying one of those pineapple whips before we make it to the end of the block.
” He nods to someone walking by with a waffle cone brimming with luscious pale yellow swirls of what looks like soft serve ice cream but elevated Hawaiian style. And boy, does it ever look delicious.
“You can bet your last lilikoi that one of those pineapple whips is going to find its way into my belly,” I admit. “I have priorities, and frozen fruit-based desserts rank significantly higher than maintaining any dietary restrictions during murder investigations.”
We park Koa’s 4Runner—no police cruiser tonight, just two civilians pretending we’re not about to interrogate someone over hand-thrown pottery.
We hop out as the warm air wraps around us, perfumed with plumeria, sunscreen, and kettle corn, and for half a second I let myself believe we might actually blend in.
Someone yells from a booth behind us.
Not a terrified yell, but something that lets us know a menace is afoot.
We turn just in time to see Ruby burst out from behind a tent strung with crystal jewelry and dream catchers, tangled in at least six puka shell necklaces, while a vendor charges after her waving a laminated price list like a weapon.
“So much for subtle,” I mutter.
Both Ruby and Lani appear from behind the booth selling crystal jewelry and dream catchers, followed by what can only be described as a small livestock parade.
Ruby has outdone herself tonight, wearing a muumuu that commits fully to pink, orange, and yellow. She’s accessorized with her famous bottle-cap lei, pineapple earrings, and a flamingo-covered sun hat that makes it clear restraint was never part of the plan.
Lani opted for relative restraint—a simple lavender muumuu with white plumeria that only blinds you in direct light.
Her wooden spoon is tucked into a belt made of what appears to be raffia, and she’s wearing sensible sandals that suggest she’s the practical one in this friendship despite being willing to follow Ruby into whatever chaos she’s planning.
And by the looks of it, she is definitely planning something.
A mama hen leads six fluffy chicks in single file, moving through the crowd with purpose.
Two roosters follow behind, strutting and observant, clearly unimpressed.
Three cats weave through it all with ease, focused and alert.
They’re either on security detail or quietly assessing the evening’s menu.
Koa frowns as this menagerie approaches us with Ruby beaming and Lani clutching her wooden spoon as if she’s ready to defend her right to crash our unofficial stakeout.
“What a coincidence,” he says in the tone of a person who doesn’t believe in coincidences, especially ones involving poultry and amateur detectives.
Ruby waves him off, unafraid to have perfected the art of being exactly where she’s not supposed to be.
“Coincidences are for people who don’t pay attention to interesting conversations happening in resort lobbies,” she says cheerfully.
“Lani here overheard the two of you planning this little nighttime adventure, and we couldn’t let you have all the fun without proper supervision. ”
“Supervision?” I ask with a laugh.
“Someone needs to make sure you two actually focus on catching the killer instead of making googly eyes at each other while she escapes to the mainland,” Lani says like she knows all too well how people let romance interfere with common sense.
“We don’t make googly eyes,” I protest.
“Honey, make googly eyes at that man while he’s reading parking meters,” Ruby informs me. “It’s both adorable and slightly concerning from a public safety standpoint.”
For the record, I’ve never seen him read a parking meter, but just the visual makes me sigh.
A baby chick decides this is the perfect moment to investigate my flip-flops, mistaking them for some kind of exotic treat that might be edible. The mama hen clucks disapprovingly and herds her offspring away from my footwear before they can cause an international incident between species.
“Great news!” Lani bounces before us. “Someone down the way is selling fried poi mochi balls,” she announces, clearly deciding that food takes priority over whatever romantic tension she’s trying to manage.
“We should head that direction before they sell out and we’re left with nothing but overpriced art and disappointment. ”
“Fried poi mochi balls,” I repeat, because sometimes paradise offers combinations that sound like they were invented by someone having a very specific kind of fever dream.
“Traditional Hawaiian ingredients prepared in the most non-traditional way possible,” Ruby adds helpfully. “It’s like fusion cuisine for people who can’t decide between cultures. That’s basically Hawaiian cuisine in a nutshell.”
We start making our way through the crowd, and Koa reaches over and takes my hand as if this is a perfectly normal development in our relationship.
I all but freeze mid-step, because while holding hands with Detective Gorgeous feels natural and right and like the sort of thing I should have been doing for weeks, it also feels completely surreal—like I’ve accidentally wandered into someone else’s much more successful romantic life.
His hand is warm and sure around mine, and I can feel calluses that probably come from surfing and weightlifting, and other activities that require both physical coordination and a confidence I have never had.
I’ll admit, the gesture feels both protective and possessive, like he’s claiming me as his investigation partner and maybe something more, which makes my mind drift places it shouldn’t.
I’m about to say something profound about this development—or at least something that doesn’t make me sound like I’ve never held hands with an attractive man before—when something in my peripheral vision catches my attention.
A brunette in a large-brimmed sun hat and oversized sunglasses weaves through the crowd near a gallery featuring what appears to be paintings of roosters in various states of crisis.
She’s wearing a colorful touristy outfit that’s trying too hard to blend in, and she keeps glancing around like she’s checking escape routes rather than admiring local art.
“Is everything okay?” Koa asks, following my gaze and immediately shifting into alert detective mode.
“Ruby, Lani,” I call to our self-appointed chaperones, “we’ll catch up with you at the mochi booth.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Ruby calls back, making exaggerated kissing noises as they disappear into the thick crowd with their poultry entourage in tow.
I look at Koa, whose hand is still holding mine but whose attention is now focused on the suspect before us.
The evening light is fading into that magical hour where everything looks romantic and mysterious, but the woman in the sun hat looks less mysterious and more like someone trying very hard to avoid being recognized.
“I don’t know if everything is okay,” I say in a latent response, nodding toward our potential suspect. “But I do know I might be looking at a killer who thinks art appreciation makes for good camouflage.”
The crowd swirls around us, full of locals and tourists and people who just want to buy handmade jewelry and eat fried things in peace, completely unaware that somewhere in their midst stands a woman who might have decided that murder was an acceptable solution to event planning problems.
Either we’re about to confront the person who may have killed Coraline Starling, or we’re about to have a very awkward conversation with an innocent art lover who just happens to favor oversized accessories. But judging by the way she kept checking over her shoulder, I’m betting on option one.