Dying for a Daiquiri (6 page)

Her dark eyes drilled into mine. “If you had spent any time with Keiki, you’d know what I was talking about. She used every inch of her perfect body to get what she wanted.”

“But why would she want Dave?” I love my brother, but the guy isn’t Brad Pitt, either in looks or bank account.

Regan shrugged. “I’m not sure. Supposedly, Keiki had a challenging childhood. Walea is actually her stepsister. I think there were issues with her own father when she was growing up so maybe she was looking for a father figure.”

“Dave said the police asked him about previous boyfriends. Were you aware of anyone Keiki dated––someone who might have been upset with her?”

“She dated one young man, also a dancer, on and off, but dumped him a few months ago. But I know he couldn’t have had anything to do with it.”

“Why not?” Former boyfriends are excellent suspects. Former husbands who leave you for another woman are even better.

Okay, I was getting off track here. I tuned in again to Regan.

“He died shortly after their break-up.”

I gasped. “How tragic. Was it an accident?”

“Possibly, although there were rumors he committed suicide because he was so devastated by the breakup. He didn’t leave a note so no one will ever know.” Regan’s face darkened as she scowled. “I used to think your brother was devoted to me. But a woman like Keiki can change a man. And not for the better.”

“Yes, but––” My reply was interrupted when Liz, Brian, Stan, and Mother joined us. With Steve and Dave not far behind. By the time the two men arrived, the only available seats were at the opposite end of the table. It was probably just as well Regan and Dave would sit apart. He nodded at her then proceeded to ignore her. She finally left to get some food, rejoining us seconds before the trio of musicians began to play.

As eight female dancers edged toward the stage, I recognized Keiki’s sister. I elbowed Stan. “Walea is performing tonight. Don’t you think it’s odd she’s dancing and not mourning her sister?”

He cocked his head. “Even in Hawaii they probably follow that old tenet––the show must go on.”

“There must be other dancers who could replace her.”

“Not necessarily. This resort only holds a luau once a week. Maybe she needs the money and couldn’t afford not to show up. Hawaii is an expensive place to live. I understand many people on this island hold multiple jobs just to get by.”

I stared at Walea, performing as if she didn’t have a care in the world. She shook her curvy hips, sheathed in a white sarong, and tossed her waist-length hair from side to side.

Maybe Walea did need the money. Or maybe she didn’t care that her stepsister had died.

Was anyone mourning the loss of the beautiful dancer?

The luau entertainment was terrific, although every time Walea returned to the stage, my thoughts drifted to her stepsister’s tragic death. The emcee, who reminded me of a tan Jay Leno minus the formidable chin, possessed an excellent sense of humor that helped distract me from my ominous ruminations.

He introduced each number with a brief history of the geographic region in the Pacific where it originated. He explained how the performers portrayed the meaning of Polynesian songs through the actions of their bodies, particularly the use of graceful hand movements.

I glanced over at Regan. She glared at her husband who conversed in low tones with Steve. My sister-in-law looked like she was about to produce a graceful hand motion of her own. One utilizing the third finger for emphasis.

The well-built, oiled bodies of the male dancers captivated me with something more–– agility. It made me wonder why Keiki would break up with a dancer her own age and go after my slightly balding, slightly pudgy brother.

The troupe performed a Fijian Dance where the men sat on the floor clapping poles together at an amazing speed and with unerring accuracy. A true crowd pleaser came next–– the
Siva Afi
––the daring fire knife dance.

“I wonder how long it would take for me to learn that dance,” Stan whispered.

“Folsom Lake isn’t big enough to put out the inferno you’d start if you took up fire dancing.”

“Party pooper,” Stan muttered.

The dancers spun their fiery swords under and around their writhing bodies. At the finale, they threw the flaming batons high enough to reach the satellite servicing my smart phone. I started breathing again once they were all successfully caught.

The men bowed and smiled broadly as the audience roared its approval. The Hawaiian Jay Leno indicated there would be one more participatory dance that included members from the audience. As the performers fanned out into the crowd searching for victims, I lowered my head. The worst thing you can do in one of these situations is make eye contact with a performer.

Stan waved at a handsome young man who must have registered on his gaydar. “Yoo hoo, over here.”

As the dark-haired dancer approached, Stan shoved me out of my chair and into the man’s muscular arms. What the heck!

Everyone at our table hooted, including Regan, who smiled for the first time that evening.

“I’m Kimo.” The young dancer introduced himself as he guided me onto the stage. I stared at the crowd in complete paralysis, wishing that
Pele,
the Hawaiian goddess of fire, would pluck me off the stage and use me as a virgin sacrifice. I’d rather be thrown into an erupting volcano than dance before an audience.

Not to mention, I’d been a practicing virgin since my divorce, so I almost qualified for a sacrificial role!

Kimo moved his muscular tush in a mesmerizing circular motion to demonstrate how to shake my booty. While I had more than enough booty to shake, I couldn’t figure out how to do it without looking like a total dweeb. I glanced at the audience awash in a sea of video cameras and phones.

OMG. My inept hips were going viral. I would never get laid again, and I wasn’t talking about the floral version.

Two capable hands grabbed my waist and spun me around.

The gods finally smiled down on me as Steve traded places with Kimo. The ship captain’s broad shoulders and back blocked the audience’s view of my clumsy gyrations. He gently placed his hands on each side of my waist and before you could say “Liliuokalani,” my hips swayed as if they were born to hula.

The last note of the song ended before I was ready to quit our Hawaiian foreplay. The amateurs were ushered off the stage to another round of applause and catcalls. Instead of returning to our seats, I asked Steve to wait with me so I could speak with Walea after the show ended.

Keiki’s stepsister, the last woman to exit the stage, stopped to talk to a musician. He placed his ukulele inside a soft-sided case and together they strolled away from the stage, headed in our direction. Our shadowed enclave made Steve and me practically invisible and the couple passed by without a glance at us. I tapped Walea on her shoulder. She spun around, her black eyes fearful.

“Sorry to frighten you,” I said. “I wanted to offer you and your family my condolences for your loss. It must be such a trying time for everyone.”

A flash of anger replaced the fear in her eyes as she recognized me. “It was your brother who caused my sister to die. I curse the day I introduced him to Keiki.”

“I’m certain Dave had nothing to do with her death,” I said. “But why do you think she was in the restaurant so late? Was Keiki meeting someone?”

The man standing beside Walea shoved his face so close to mine I could count the pockmarks on his cheeks. “Tell your brother we know what he did. Our Hawaiian gods will not let his actions go unpunished.”

Steve inserted himself between the man and me. “Now, listen here––”

An angry rumbling from above interrupted his sentence.

The gods had spoken.

Those Hawaiian gods are one heck of a responsive bunch. Seconds after Walea’s enraged friend threatened us, thunder rumbled across the sky, followed by a huge downpour. Steve grabbed my hand and we ran. Our group was already gathering belongings, ready to dash to shelter.

Heaven forbid a sudden tropical shower disturb Mother’s perfect coiffure. She whipped a tiny satchel out of her purse and transformed it into a lightweight slicker. With a matching rain hat.

We hustled across the expanse of lawn that felt like it had grown to the size of a football field. By the time we reached the lobby everyone except my mother was soaked. Steve’s wet polo shirt molded nicely to his chest, displaying an impressive six-pack. My soggy sundress clung to my derriere, emphasizing my need to enroll in a Polynesian dance class.

“Thanks for the dance lesson,” I said to Steve. I grabbed a towel from the stack the hotel staff dispersed to their drenched luau guests. “Do all ship captains have to learn how to hula?”

He threw his head back and laughed. “It’s not a requirement for our license, but I was lucky to get lessons with…” He paused and a pensive expression crossed his face.

I ventured a guess. “Did Keiki teach you?”

Steve nodded. “Keiki occasionally substituted for the
Sea Jinx’s
principal dancer. I managed to pick up a few moves from her.”

My nosy self was curious what “moves” Keiki and Steve had shared, but I decided to focus on Keiki’s movements with my brother instead.

“I guess you could tell from Regan’s outburst that she thinks Dave and Keiki were having an affair,” I said. “Did Dave ever confide in you about Keiki?”

Steve’s eyes flicked toward Dave, who was leaning against a pillar. “Your brother and I are tight, but we don’t pry into each other’s personal stuff. Don’t you think that’s a good policy to maintain?”

Not prying into a pal’s love life? As far as I was concerned, true friendship means being there to support a friend’s decisions. Also being there to tell them when they are about to screw up.

I sighed. Men seem to have different codes about stuff like this. No wonder they’re so clueless when it comes to communicating with the opposite sex.

I glanced at Dave. His eyes were fixed on his wife who conversed with our mother. I wondered what the couple’s plans were, or if they were even going home together. This might be my only opportunity to get him alone. I said good-bye to Steve and joined my brother.

“Hanging in there, Dave?”

He nodded but remained silent.

“I spoke to Walea after the show.”

That got his attention. “What did she say?”

“Um, she kind of cursed you.”

“What?” He rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Laurel. Don’t tell me you believe that Hawaiian mumbo jumbo.”

Not really. Although that mini-monsoon had erupted within seconds of that scary guy yelling at me. Just thinking about his threat made goose bumps or what the locals call “chicken skin,” appear on both arms.

“Walea was with a nasty fella. About your height, dark hair, with lots of acne scars on his face. He played the ukulele at the luau tonight.”

“That’s Henry Gonzalez, Walea’s husband,” he replied. “Not the most cheerful guy on the island, but an excellent musician.” Dave rocked back and forth on his heels. “I should stop by their house. See if there’s anything I can do to help.”

I rested my hand on his freckled forearm. “I’m not sure they’re in the mood for company from you or anyone in our family. Walea sounded like she blames you for Keiki’s death.”

Dave rapidly blinked away the water that had started to pool in his eyes. “What if they’re right and the ropes weren’t secured properly? Maybe it really is my fault she’s gone.”

“No point worrying yourself sick until you find out if it was an accident or not. Did the police say when you can open up again?”

“They said they’d be done tomorrow, but I’m not sure I can handle reopening the restaurant after what happened.” He rubbed the corner of his right eye. “It won’t be the same without her anyway.”

Her? I was about to grill Dave further when Mother joined us. Darn. Any revelations would have to wait. Mother’s arm wrapped snugly around Regan, who looked prepared to bolt the second her mother-in-law loosened her firm grip.

“Dave, your wife and I were discussing our expedition tomorrow.” Mother placed a special emphasis on Regan’s marital status. Subtlety was
not
Mom’s middle name.

“I heard you’re all driving to the volcano in the morning then Regan’s taking you on the coffee tour,” he said.

Regan shook her head. “We’ll have to delay the plantation tour until the next day. I’m meeting with a Detective Lee tomorrow afternoon at the police station.”

Dave’s eyebrows jumped an inch. “Why are they talking to you?”

It might be time for Dave to stop watching cooking shows and start catching
Law and Order
reruns.

“Regan is co-owner of the restaurant,” I said. “They’re probably going to interview all your staff. Most likely they’ve already spoken to Walea and she’s…” My voice dropped off as I realized interviewing Walea and her family wouldn’t make the authorities more sympathetic to our family.

“It’s not like I have anything useful to share.” Regan narrowed her eyes at her husband. “I took a sleeping pill last night so a troop of dancers could have paraded through our condo without waking me up. Should I have heard anything?”

Dave’s face paled and his left eye twitched, but he shook his head.

“I’m sure you two have much to discuss.” Mother released her hold on Regan and gently pushed her toward her husband. “Go home and get a good night’s rest. Brian can drive us to the volcano tomorrow. You can take us on the tour of Koffee Land the next day.”

Regan appeared hesitant. I didn’t envy her position but Mother was right. It was time for Regan and Dave to sit down and discuss Keiki. And their marriage.

Dave placed his hand on the small of his wife’s back. As the couple receded into the distance, I noted the gap between them increased.

Liz, Brian and Stan joined my mother and me.

“We can’t do the coffee tour until Tuesday,” Mother said. “So why don’t we visit the black sand beach at Punalu’u and the volcano tomorrow?”