Chapter 16
We totally missed out on the pineapple whips thanks to Ruby’s talent for turning public art installations into fire hazards, but Koa and I have made a secret pact to track down that sweet frozen paradise later—preferably without telling Ruby and Lani, lest we give the fire department something else to do tonight.
The drive to Kapaa takes us through humidity so thick you could practically swim through it, it’s the kind of tropical air that sticks to your skin like a warm, wet blanket you can’t shake off.
Thank goodness for the pineapple express breeze that occasionally gusts through Koa’s truck windows, saving me from completely dissolving into a puddle of sweat and regret.
“The Bamboo Bar & Grill,” Koa announces as we pull into a parking lot that’s seen better decades but still manages to maintain that authentic local charm tourist guidebooks try so hard to capture and usually miss entirely.
The bar looks like it grew out of the red dirt naturally—weathered wood siding, tiki torches that actually work, and enough character to make you forget that most restaurants these days look as if they were designed by committees and assembled in factories.
Local pickup trucks outnumber rental cars three to one, which in my experience means the food will actually be worth eating and the drinks won’t cost more than a mortgage payment. I hope.
“Is this where you and your brothers hang out?” I ask, climbing out of the truck and immediately feeling the humidity wrap around me like a nice warm hug.
“Yup. Best huli huli chicken on the island,” he confirms, leading me toward the entrance where the heavenly scent of grilling meat and tropical spices makes my stomach remember that virgin daiquiris and honeycomb don’t actually constitute dinner.
“Oh wow, if the chicken tastes half as good as this place smells, then I’m going to eat an entire henhouse.”
“It’s better even than that,” he confirms.
Ruby’s ancient Cadillac pulls up just as we reach the door, ejecting Ruby and Lani along with what appears to be a small convoy of cats who’ve somehow managed to follow them across half the island.
The gray tabby emerges from the backseat with the dignity of royalty while Spam, my sweet orange furry wall, conducts a thorough inspection of the parking lot like he’s considering a hostile takeover of the establishment. And he might just be.
“How do they keep doing that?” I mutter, watching the feline entourage arrange themselves around the restaurant’s entrance.
“Island cats have excellent networking skills,” Koa says with a resigned acceptance. Clearly, he’s learned not to question the transportation methods of local wildlife.
The interior of The Bamboo Bar & Grill embraces its tiki heritage without an artificial tourist trap feel.
Genuine bamboo covers the walls, carved tikis that look like they’ve been here since the volcanic activity settled down preside over the dining room, and the ceiling fans actually work well enough to make the space habitable for humans rather than just decorative for social media posts.
“Bruh!” a voice calls from a corner booth, and I turn to see two men who could be Koa’s doppelgangers if Koa had been manufactured in slightly different but equally devastating variations.
Shaka rises from the booth first—all muscles and his man-bun firmly in place.
Tattoos wrap around his biceps in traditional Polynesian patterns, and when he moves, you can tell he’s spent years building things with his hands and probably lifting weights that would require mechanical assistance for most mortals.
“Aloha.” Loco stands and gives a slight bow our way, clearly happy to see us.
They may as well be triplets, these Hale brothers—all dark eyes with gold flecks, all built like recruitment posters for careers that require actual physical capability, all carrying themselves with a natural authority that makes you want to beg them to handcuff you to a bedpost. Okay, so that’s just a fantasy of mine, but I digress…
“Ladies,” Loco says, pulling out chairs with old-fashioned manners that suggest their mother raised them right despite the fact that they could probably bench press small buildings for entertainment.
“Hope you don’t mind if we join you,” I say.
“We’d be insulted if you didn’t,” Shaka says, and Loco is quick to nod. “In fact, the tab is on us. We need to thank you, ladies, for letting us fix up that resort of yours. Mahalo.”
“Mahalo to the both of you for that,” I say, settling into a chair that’s actually comfortable and mercifully positioned under a ceiling fan. “I’m pretty sure the whole place was held together by electrical tape and a prayer before you showed up.”
“Mostly electrical tape,” Shaka confirms cheerfully. “But we’ve upgraded you to duct tape and actual structural support, so you’re moving up in the world.”
A server appears, a gorgeous woman who can’t stop smiling at the handsome men among us. “Huli huli chicken all around?” she asks, recognizing the Hale brothers’ usual dining pattern.
“Make mine a double,” Ruby announces, “despite the fact that I’ve never been here before and have no idea what huli huli chicken actually involves. I’ve had a very exciting evening and need sustenance to recover.”
“Exciting is one word for it,” Lani mutters, still traumatized by whatever artistic catastrophe Ruby unleashed at the art walk.
Twenty minutes later, we’re surrounded by plates of what can only be described as poultry perfection.
The huli huli chicken arrives glistening with a glaze that catches the tiki torch light, seasoned with a blend of soy sauce, ginger, pineapple juice, and brown sugar that makes every bite taste like a luau in your mouth.
The meat falls off the bone with a tenderness that requires either excellent technique or divine intervention, while the char from the grill adds just enough smokiness to make you moan with approval.
“We can make soft tacos,” Shaka explains, demonstrating the proper technique with warm tortillas and an assortment of tropical accompaniments. “Island fusion at its finest.”
I construct my own version—tender chicken, crisp cabbage, mango salsa that tastes like sunshine, and enough cilantro to convince my taste buds they’ve died and gone to flavor paradise. The first bite is so amazing I actually make involuntary appreciation noises that sound suspiciously like ecstasy.
“Is it good?” Koa asks, though all of my moaning probably answers the question.
“It’s life-changing,” I confirm around another bite. “This is what I should have been eating all along. Lani, we should think about adding huli huli chicken to the menu at the resort.”
“Already on it,” she says with an approving moan of her own.
“Speaking of the resort,” Loco says, leaning back in his chair with the satisfaction of enjoying both good food and successful business conversation, “how are you feeling about the renovation progress?”
“Like I’m living in a miracle,” I say honestly. “You’ve transformed that place from a disaster waiting to happen into something that might actually attract tourists intentionally instead of landing them there by happenstance.”
“We aim to please,” Shaka says. “What’s next on your wish list?”
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about adding spa services,” I say, diving into a topic that’s been occupying my entrepreneurial imagination for days.
“Hot stone massages, seaweed wraps, maybe some kind of traditional Hawaiian healing treatments—the whole tropical nine yards. I already cleared it with Mr. X.”
“Mr. X sounds so much more mysterious than Dane,” Ruby observes, constructing what appears to be her fourth huli huli taco. “Although he is sort of a Great Dane, which is pretty fun too.”
“A spa,” Lani says, her eyes lighting up as if she just discovered that her ex-husband got audited by the IRS. “We could offer couples massage packages, meditation sessions on the beach, maybe some kind of sunrise yoga situation?”
“We’ll offer detox treatments using local ingredients,” Ruby adds, getting caught up in the planning excitement. “Coffee scrubs with local coffee beans, papaya enzyme facials, coconut oil everything because coconut oil is basically the miracle cure for whatever ails you.”
“True as gospel,” I tell her.
“Don’t forget salt scrubs using Hawaiian sea salt,” Lani continues, having a full-blown entrepreneurial vision right here at the dinner table. “And we could grow our own herbs for aromatherapy—lavender, eucalyptus, maybe some traditional Hawaiian plants.”
Shaka and Loco exchange glances that suggest they’re mentally calculating square footage and permit requirements while Ruby and Lani continue planning what sounds like the most ambitious spa operation since someone decided Cleopatra needed a milk bath.
“We could probably convert the old storage building behind the kitchen,” Loco says thoughtfully. “Good bones, ocean views, and easy access from the main resort.”
“The plumbing is already there from the old laundry setup,” Shaka adds. “Just need to reroute some lines, add proper drainage, maybe install some of those rainfall shower heads tourists love.”
While the spa planning session escalates into architectural discussions and Ruby starts sketching floor plans on cocktail napkins, Koa leans closer to me with focused attention that makes my brain forget basic functions like breathing and maintaining normal body temperature.
“Spill it, Red,” he says quietly, his voice carrying just enough authority to make me realize this isn’t really a request.
“Spill what?” I ask, batting my eyelashes with an innocent expression like I haven’t been conducting interrogations of murder suspects over virgin daiquiris and honeycomb samples.
Red. He called me Red.
My brain latches onto this detail with the intensity of discovering a new favorite song. He loves my hair. Maybe he dreams in red now. Or at least in redheads. Specifically me. The thought makes me purr—an actual, audible sound that emerges from my throat without conscious permission.
“Did I do that out loud?” I ask, mortified.
He nods, though his expression suggests amusement rather than concern for my mental stability.
“What did Mabel have to say?” he continues, deciding to move past my involuntary feline impersonation in favor of actual police work.
“Well,” I say, grateful for the change of subject, “she confirmed she was the event coordinator for the Mai Tai competition, and she definitely knew Coraline. She painted quite the picture of our victim as a demanding, unreasonable nightmare who made everyone’s lives miserable.”
He frowns. “Did it come across as self-serving reputation shredding or legitimate grievances?”
“Probably both. She mentioned specific incidents—making an elderly lei maker cry, treating local vendors like props, and changing requirements every five minutes. The kind of behavior that can build up resentment over time.”
Koa makes note of it on his phone while I continue my abbreviated report of the evening’s intelligence gathering.
“She also had plenty to say about Giselle,” I continue. “She claims she’s not really the master chef she claims to be, that the whole pastry chef persona is fake. Says Giselle has a history of misrepresenting her credentials and using other people’s professional reputations.”
“Interesting. Matches what Breezy told us.”
Us. I swoon at the thought of there being an us.
“We can’t forget about the physical evidence found at the scene of the crime. The small perfume bottle and the swatch of fabric?”
He nods. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“French perfume,” I say. “And that swatch matched Mabel’s dress. The only one left out of the physical fun is Breezy.”
Koa growls. “And the footage from Coraline’s crew yielded nothing. I went over it twice.” He thinks for a moment. “Did Mabel know Breezy?”
“She definitely knows him,” I say. “She implied his business practices are questionable—something about his profit margins being suspiciously high for craft distilling.”
“So we’ve got two suspects with strong motives,” Koa says, leaning back in his chair while the construction crew continues planning my spa empire and Ruby starts calculating profit margins on coconut oil treatments.
“Three if you count Mabel herself,” I point out. “Event coordinator whose career could have been tanked by a bad review from a celebrity food critic? Possibly skimming off the top? That’s a pretty solid motive for murder, too.”
“Agreed. Which is why Sunday’s event is going to be very interesting.”
A rooster crows somewhere outside, announcing his opinion on our investigation techniques, while inside the restaurant, the combination of excellent food, family bonding, and successful interrogation debriefing creates an evening that makes you understand why people fall in love with islands, even when those islands come with a homicide rate and a tendency to attract amateur detectives with questionable self-preservation instincts. And one very hot detective.
Paradise is beautiful, deadly, and determined to complicate both my career and my love life.