Ukulele Murder: A Nani Johnson Aloha Lagoon Mystery (Aloha Lagoon Mysteries Book 1)

by Leslie Langtry

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  UKULELE MURDER

  by

  LESLIE LANGTRY

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  Copyright © 2016 by Leslie Langtry

  Cover design by Estrella Designs

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY LESLIE LANGTRY

  SNEAK PEEK

  This book is dedicated to Erin Mahr, who taught me how to play the ukulele when I took her class at West Music, to the Quad City Ukulele Club—an amazing group I follow and dream of joining someday—and to my ukulele heroes: Jake Shimabukuro, The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain, and the incredible Victoria Vox, who was the inspiration for Nani.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  If anyone requests "Ukulele Lady," I'm out of here. I'm not going to do it. Not again. Not for the millionth time. Is that the only song tourists know? Yeesh. Please, tiki god of the Ukulele, don't let me kill a tourist today.

  "'Ukulele Lady!'" a dumpy, middle-aged man in a Frankie Goes to Hollywood T-shirt screams. He gives me a knowing nod with his balding head to indicate he's the only one in the room who knows true Hawaiian culture.

  I hate him. I imagine bludgeoning him with my koa wood uke.

  But I don't. Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of koa wood? Well…I don't know either, but I'd guess it isn't easy.

  Instead, I play the damn song—smiling as I imagine shoving his pineapple drink up his…

  The crowd cheers as I perform. I know—it's not so bad having an adoring audience. But this isn't the audience I want. This is Judah Horowitz's bar mitzvah. One of the few gigs I could get in Aloha Lagoon.

  My name is Hoalohanani Johnson. My mother, Harriet Jones Johnson, is a bit of a Hawaiian-obsessed nut. It's so bad that it's to the point where she believes she is the reincarnation of a Hawaiian princess and says that my name came from a dream from an ancestor god. In reality, it probably came from the bottom of a rum bottle.

  To her endless annoyance, my redheaded, green-eyed mom comes from a long line of English ancestors and grew up in Kansas. Dad was a third-generation blond, brown-eyed German whose name was shortened to Johnson due to the inability to pronounce whatever the name really was. Neither of my parents had ever been to Hawaii until Mom and I moved here after Dad died.

  I go by Nani. And I now live in Aloha Lagoon on the Hawaiian island of Kauai, with my mother, who now calls herself Haliaka and dyes her hair and eyebrows a ridiculous shade of black that does not look natural. I've never understood where my dark-brown hair comes from, but I look more native than she does. Always dressed in a muumuu, Mom wears hibiscus flowers in her hair and hangs out on my lanai, singing island songs all day and night, much to my neighbors' dismay. Sigh.

  I finish my set, tell the crowd "aloha," and am cut off by the DJ who decides suddenly to play a gangsta rap song.

  "Thank you!" Gladys Horowitz of Trenton, New Jersey, and Judah's mother, slips an envelope into my hands before running to the dance floor to shimmy disturbingly. Thirteen-year-old Judah hangs his head in shame.

  I make my way through the crowd to the bar and order a decidedly un-Hawaiian vodka tonic.

  "Here's the ten bucks I owe you." The bartender smiles, handing me money.

  I gulp my drink, slapping an empty glass on the bar. "I told you, someone requests it every time." I take his money and head to my car. My shift in hell is over.

  I did not study music at Julliard for this. And no, Julliard doesn’t have a ukulele program. I started with classical guitar, but once I discovered the ukulele, I developed an independent study program for the diminutive instrument.

  And yet, here I am in paradise, playing gigs like this bar mitzvah and teaching fingerstyle ukulele to kids. My dream of being a ukulele virtuoso, hailed by critics and in demand as a performer, was rudely interrupted by reality.

  Which means I'm a white outsider from Kansas in a state full of true, native Hawaiian musicians. They call me malihini—which means newcomer. Things are different from the mainland. Hawaii has many words to remind you that you don't really belong here.

  I can't complain, because I get by. I have ten students—all from a local military base—play parties like today's or in a few bars on weekends, and am the regular musician at the Elvis-inspired Blue Hawaii Wedding Chapel. And my inheritance from Dad helps me keep Mom flush with hibiscus-flower leis and mai tais. But this is not the way I pictured my life.

  My biggest problem is my competition. There are three native Hawaiian ukulele musicians on this island. They play the big luaus at the huge resort in this town. They teach and lecture at the local community college. And they play at all the holidays, official commemoration events, and in the two concert halls on Kauai.

  They're good—real good. Alohalani Kealoha is a 50-year-old professor at Aloha Lagoon Community College. I probably know him better than I know the others—but even that qualifies as barely. As the only one of the Terrible Trio who's somewhat nice, he is actually fairly complimentary. His exact words? "Doesn't suck."

  Then there's Kahelemeakua Lui, or Kua, as he's known locally. He's young—in his 20’s, I think. A serious child prodigy, Kua travels all over the world performing when he's not surfing here at home. He's a lot more open in his hatred of me—I've heard murmurs that he's afraid I'm better than him—something I'm pretty sure he wouldn't want me to know. I don't know him very well, but I've heard he calls me "that mainland pretender." Nice.

  Last but not least is Leilani O'Flanagan. Only half Hawaiian, or hapa, she's a cutthroat 30-year-old musician who has a killer instinct and brutal temperament. I avoid her socially. If she t
hinks you're competition, she'll do anything in her power to destroy you. In fact, I've never heard anything nice about her. Rumor is she was raised by rabid badgers. The only nice thing she ever said about me had three expletives and an exclamation point. I have no idea if Kua and Alohalani hang out with her. I wouldn't.

  Don't get me wrong. I've seen all three perform, and they're all brilliant. It would be beneath me (and 100 percent true) to say I wish they'd move away or die peacefully in their sleep of natural causes. Okay, so maybe Leilani could get eaten by a shark. That would be okay.

  It's late afternoon when I toss my ukulele on the front seat of my car and head to the Aloha Lagoon Resort for a concert on Polynesian music. The bar mitzvah made me a little late, but I'm hoping I'll be there in time to see most of it.

  Leaving my instrument in the car, I race into the concert just in time to see Alohalani performing with a group of visiting dancers from Tahiti. I grab a bottle of beer from the bar and settle in to watch. He's good. Better than good—Alohalani is probably the best I've seen since I'd moved here. Even so, I wish it was me up there playing the ukulele.

  "Hey, haole." Kua sidles up as Alohalani plays "Aloha O'e," my favorite piece—it was written by Hawaii's last queen. "Bet you wish that was you up there," he snickers. Great. The fun begins. I was kind of hoping to be off the radar here so I could relax and enjoy it. I guess that's not happening.

  I turn to him. "And I'd be willing to bet you wish the same thing." I smile. "I wonder why they didn't ask you to play?"

  Kua turns into a beet-red tower of volcanic rage. "I'm sure it's a 'respect for your elders' thing." He doesn't look like he meant that. Apparently, I've hit a nerve. "You mainlanders have no respect for our ways!"

  To my dismay, Leilani joins us. She'd apparently seen Kua get pissed and decided to come rub it in.

  "I miss all the fun." She grins meanly. "Both of you upset they went with Alohalani?" She sips from a huge daiquiri that looks like it has more umbrellas than alcohol. Not that I mind. But I have heard that Leilani is even worse when she drinks.

  "Don't put me in the same league as her!" Kua thunders. This guy has a serious temper.

  "Oh?" Leilani's eyebrows go up, as if she's surprised by his reaction. "And why's that?"

  I know she just asked that question because once again she wants to hear how unqualified I am to be playing a traditional Hawaiian instrument. She lives for moments like that.

  "Because she's not Hawaiian! Not even a local," Kua growls. "She can't understand the nuances of the music because she didn't grow up here!" He shoves an index finger in her face. "And you! You're half haole! And don't you forget it!" He gives us one last sneer before storming away.

  Leaving me with the worst of the Terrible Trio. Great.

  Leilani bridles, nostrils flaring. "That bastard. He's just jealous that a woman can play better than a man!"

  "I agree," I say, even though I know she isn't taking a stand for female musicians everywhere. Leilani does not mean me. She means herself.

  She gives me a sharp look. "Why don't you just go back home and quit stirring up trouble?" Leilani O'Flanagan curses under her breath. "Things were fine until you showed up!" She stalks off in the direction of the bar.

  Yes, that's right, they all blame me for just about everything bad, even though I know that before I arrived, those two, Kua and Leilani, had duked it out many times over who should get what gig. I turn back to the stage to see the performers are taking a break.

  "Nice job!" I say brightly to Alohalani as he sits at a table, nursing a glass of water. Why not be civil to one of them? Someday he might want to do a duet, and I would be the lesser of two evils. Maybe.

  The older man looks up at me. Alohalani is still fairly attractive. He's stayed in shape through the years, with only a little gray at the temples.

  "Mahalo." He motions for me to take a seat. I jump at the chance and obey immediately. "It is too bad you weren't born here," he says softly.

  I flinch. Yes, I know I'm an outsider. These three fling it in my face every chance they can. Other natives and locals had been warm, welcoming, and wonderful when I'd moved here. Like my friend Binny. She comes from several generations of Hawaiians. She isn't like these three. Her family is practically my 'ohana. Which, by the way, means family.

  "Are we ever going to get past this?" I ask with a sigh.

  Alohalani looks at Kua and Leilani, who are now engaged in an epic argument. I expect human-propelled glassware to fly through the air at any moment.

  "Unfortunately, no. It's not completely your fault. You are a better player than Leilani and probably equal to Kua. But this is how our culture is."

  "You think I'm equal to Kua's talent?" I ask. I know I am, if not better. But I could never say it out loud. The culture here shies away from bragging. Being humble is held up as an ideal. I wonder why Kua and Leilani don't know that. Or they do and don't care.

  Alohalani ignores my question. "Musicians, like any artist, have fragile egos." He looks at me for a long time. "I'm sure you understand that."

  I bite back a response. Arguing with him won't help me in the least. This guy is a legend around here. If I turn him into an enemy, I might as well move back to Kansas. At least there, I was the only ukulele player.

  "Well," he says as he places his hands on his knees and hoists himself to his feet. "Back to work."

  And that is as close as I'll ever get to a compliment, even though he made it clear I had no business touting myself as a ukulele virtuoso here. Well, you work with what you're given, I guess. Still, I have to admit, he had said I was better than Leilani. That in and of itself is a win. I'd go home tonight a little happier.

  I stay in my seat up front. It seems rude not to keep it, especially since I was invited to sit there by the performer himself. The remainder of the concert is amazing. A couple of times, I hear Leilani shriek at someone at the back of the room, but I ignore it. When the performance ends, I join the rest of the crowd for a standing ovation. Unfortunately, Alohalani doesn't come back and sit with me. Oh well. It's time to go home anyway. It's almost dinnertime, and Mom will be expecting me to throw something together.

  As I pass through the parking lot, I spot Kua standing about 50 feet away, staring at the beach. After a second or two, he starts walking toward it. I toy with calling out and saying something brilliant, but I really need to see what mischief Mom is up to.

  "Mom! I'm home," I call out as I enter our modest bungalow, happy that the Horowitz bar mitzvah and the concert are over. The cottage was a fixer-upper when I bought it three years ago. Now it's just an upper. But it has a lovely view of the jungle, and if you stand just right in the bathtub and lean to the left, you can see a sliver of the ocean.

  There's no reply, because Mom is taking a nap on the lanai. She'd fallen asleep on her chaise lounge chair, with an empty wineglass in her hand. It's shady where she is, so I leave her there to go change. Inside, I swap my muumuu for a T-shirt and shorts. While I like the traditional dress of Hawaii, I feel like a fraud wearing it day to day. Kind of like how I feel like a fraud every time I play ukulele on this island.

  I might be giving you a false impression. This state is full of very loving and friendly people. You won't find anyone like them anywhere in the world. They are the best hosts and treat you like an honored guest. But that's the problem. You're just a guest. Anyone who is not native or local is an outsider. The basic attitude is, It's so nice of you to visit—but you have to go back to your home now. Of course, there are exceptions. Like my friend Binny. She’s awesome.

  Why don't I leave? Because I truly love it here. The beauty of the landscape, the mild weather, seeing the ocean every day, and the rich culture has held me in its thrall since the day I arrived. I can't imagine living anywhere else.

  So here I stay—the visitor from the mainland who never leaves. I wonder if there's a Hawaiian name for that.

  The doorbell rings with the voice of Don Ho—an old recording of one of his
songs. I don't know why I agreed to having that installed. Mom can be stubborn, and some fights aren't worth it.

  "I'll get it!" I shout, knowing full well she's asleep.

  The shadow of a man fills the opaque door window. I'm not expecting anyone, except maybe the crème of Hawaiian society insisting I join them in all their future musical events.

  "Miss Johnson?" The man flashes a badge. He's wearing an aloha shirt and khaki slacks. He looks like a native.

  "Yes?" I wonder what this guy is doing here. With my luck, he's the ukulele police here to arrest me for playing crap songs at bar mitzvahs.

  "Detective Ray Kahoalani. Do you have a few minutes?"

  I stand aside. "Of course. Come in."

  I lead the detective to the kitchen because I have no idea how Mom left the living room. One time she draped ten state flags from the ceiling. Another time, she filled the room with 53 pineapples. It was safer to go the kitchen.

  Why was a policeman here? I pray Mom will stay asleep outside. I can't imagine her coming in right now and doing something…inappropriate. The neighbors have submitted dozens of complaints to the police over the past year—mainly for her very loud singing but also because they've found her rum bottles in their yards.

  "I was just pouring some iced tea. Would you like some?" Detective or not, I never forget my manners.

  "Thank you," he says as he wipes the sweat from his forehead. "I'd appreciate it."

  I pour the tea over ice, trying to get a sideways glance in. What is this all about?

  "I'm afraid I have some bad news," he starts as he reaches for the glass.

  My eyes go automatically to the backyard. Did Mom die while I was changing clothes? And if so, how did the police find out so quickly? Or maybe the neighbors really have called the police to complain. I sit down at the breakfast bar and prepare for the worst.