“I’m sure the Hula Maidens are despondent.”
“Not so sad that they can’t perform tonight. I’ve never seen Kiki so excited. She said she’s got a big surprise number planned.”
“Too bad I’m on duty and will be walking around with iced tea disguised as bourbon on the rocks. Her dance numbers would drive the Pope to drink.”
“He probably does already. Please try not to look like a cop and scare off the customers.”
“I am a cop.”
She caught herself involuntarily taking a step toward him. Roland put his hand on the doorknob and smiled.
“Hold that thought,” he said.
She blushed. “What thought?”
“My grandmother was psychic, remember?”
Or so he’d told her a few months back.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” she asked.
“Even if I can’t read your mind, the look in your eyes is gonna make me blush.” He turned the knob and slipped out into the main room.
He’d inherited something special all right, but she doubted it was mindreading.
Em leaned against the desk, picked up a copy of a new sample menu, and fanned her heated face. Roland had barely closed the door to the main room when Louie walked in the back door.
“You look really nice, Uncle.” Em tossed the paper on the desk and reached up to straighten the collar on one of his many vintage Aloha shirts. This one was silk from the forties and emblazoned with cocktail glasses of various shapes and sizes filled with colorful concoctions and garnishes.
“Mahalo, honey. Gotta be comfortable tonight. Marilyn talked me into wearing a monkey suit tomorrow.”
“A tux?” Em eyeballed him. Tall, tan, and fit, her uncle’s eyes were bright sky blue. He still had a full head of silver hair. “You’re one of the most handsome grooms I’ve ever seen. In a tux you’ll knock ’em dead. Marilyn is one lucky lady.”
“She thought it would be great for the show. But I guess that’s not to be now.”
He looked so disappointed at the mention of the show, Em almost felt bad that the TV crew had pulled out.
“Have you heard anything from the production company?” she asked.
Louie nodded. “Randy called a little while ago. The show was definitely cancelled. The crew is flying back to L.A. tonight on the red eye. There’s a chance that if they need to shoot any footage to wrap things up that they’ll be back, but not until their safety can be assured.”
“As Pat said, they’re wussies.”
“I’d rather not talk about it and spoil tonight. So, speaking of knockouts, you’re looking pretty sexy yourself.”
“Thanks.” She’d pulled a dress out of her closet, a skinny little black cocktail dress she hadn’t worn since she’d left the O.C. It fit even better than when she first bought it, which was a surprise since she’d definitely gained a few inches since she moved to the island of fat-filled pupu platters and high calorie cocktails. She had wound her hair up and anchored it to the top of her head with a black lacquered chopstick. A strand of white pearls and pearl earrings were added, and she was more dressed up than she’d been in forever.
Louie chucked her under her chin. “I sure wish you’d find Mr. Right. A great looking girl like you shouldn’t be all alone. What about Nat? He seems interested. How was your dinner date with him the other night?”
She didn’t dare tell him just how interested Nat was. After a delicious meal at Kauai Pasta and a nice bottle of wine, the writer had asked if she’d like to go home with him—and she could tell he wasn’t just offering after-dinner coffee.
“I’m not looking for Mr. Right. I just got rid of Mr. Wrong not too long ago. Nat and I had a good time, but we’re just friends.” How could she explain there were no sparks? Where there were no sparks, no fire.
“What’s wrong with the men on this island? I can’t believe they haven’t been lining up for you.” Louie shook his head.
“Nothing wrong with them, Uncle.” She couldn’t help but think of one in particular. “I’m just picky.”
There weren’t many choices, and there was a disproportionate amount of surfers to choose from, not necessarily a bad thing, but on Kauai it was hard to tell the multi-millionaires from the bums. Then again, she’d been married to a wealthy white collar executive, a high-powered CPA in Newport Beach, but he was a player and far from a true gentleman. Phillip was a choice who looked great on paper, but that relationship had brought her nothing but heartache.
“Have you heard anything from Roland about the second murder? The one at HBR?”
She shook her head. “Only that someone hit one of the maids in the head and killed her. Her body was found in a guest’s condo. The guy is a birdwatcher, which is all anyone remembers about him, except that that he also had long, stringy hair. No one has seen him since. Or she could have been killed by her estranged husband, who is also missing.”
“I don’t think the same person who killed Bobby killed that maid. It would be way too big of a coincidence.”
“Neither does Roland. He’s here checking out the crowd tonight.”
“Does he think the murderer will show up here? Tonight? For gosh sake, don’t tell Marilyn.”
“It’s a possibility. He’s going to be on the lookout just in case. I hope things go smoothly. We don’t need any more publicity—good or bad.”
“Speaking of publicity, Marilyn is heartsick the TV crew couldn’t stay until after the wedding tomorrow. I hope the festivities tonight will cheer her up.”
“Speaking of Marilyn, we’d better go out and get seated. She’s waiting for you,” Em reminded him.
“She’s already pissed off because our guests are here, but we’re still open to the public tonight. She doesn’t understand how I can continually have my ‘life on display’ as she puts it.”
“That’s odd. She certainly didn’t shy away from the limelight during the filming.”
“She doesn’t realize playing host to the world isn’t like having a real job to me. I enjoy meeting people and making them feel welcome and happy. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing wrong with living life as one big party. It’s too short for anything else.”
Em paused before asking what so many others around the North Shore were thinking.
“Are you sure about this wedding, Uncle Louie?”
She thought she saw his smile dim just a notch, but if it had, he recovered in half a heartbeat.
“Sure, I’m sure. Despite what some folks think, Marilyn’s a real fine woman. She makes me happy, and if this marriage will make her happy, I’m all for it.”
“Great.” Em felt less than great, but Louie was old enough to have his way. Kiki had convinced Em to move to Kauai by fabricating a story about Louie needing Em’s help because he was losing his mental faculties, but Em had come to realize he was as sane as the rest of them.
“After you, Em.” Louie opened the office door and stepped out into pandemonium in the main room.
12
Burnin’ Ring O’ Fire
The Tiki Tones were in the middle of one of their “tourist medleys” and were banging out “Little Grass Shack,” “Goin’ to a Hukilau” and “Pearly Shells.” The tourists loved it and were singing along while the locals tried hard to look bored with the schmaltzy hapa-haole songs.
When Danny Cook saw Uncle Louie, he raised his hand, and the musicians beside him stopped playing to announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, kane and wahine, here he is, the groom, the Tiki Goddess’s very own man of the hour, Louie Marshall!”
The crowd went wild. Tourists who had walked in for the first time tonight had no idea who Louie was or what was going on, but they were swept up by the enthusiastic crowd and were quickly cheering and hooting as loud as the locals.
Em
followed Louie to the front table nearest the stage where Marilyn was waiting. Having agreed to give Marilyn away, Nat was there along with Buzzy, Louie’s best man. Louie held out Em’s chair for her. There was still one vacant place at the table beside Marilyn.
As soon as Em was seated, Marilyn leaned close and whispered, “So much for a classy, intimate dinner with the wedding party and a few out of town guests.” Marilyn pursed her lips and stared down her nose.
“If you want classy, you’re marrying the wrong guy. Besides, there aren’t any out of town guests attending the wedding that I know of,” Em reminded her. “Unless your nephew showed up at the last minute?” She looked around, expecting to spot the outsourcing Tom Benton. “If he’s here, he should be seated with us.”
“He’s still in India. I got another email today wishing me the best. He attached a photo of himself riding on the back of an elephant.” Marilyn’s expression was sour. “Look around, Em. Even if he did show up, he couldn’t get in the front door. This place was jammed at five o’clock. Once word got out about the celebration, all the locals who think they own this place started showing up.”
Her sour attitude was lost on Louie. He was smiling and waving to familiar faces in the crowd, and Em knew as soon as he finished dinner, he’d be on his feet circling the room with Letterman on his shoulder, meeting and greeting kama’aina and malihini alike. Old timers and newcomers were not only his bread and butter, he truly enjoyed people of every age and walk of life.
Em spotted what had to be a table full of Marilyn’s neighbors from Princeville seated not far from the head table.
Marilyn leaned close to Em and said, “The tall distinguished-looking man you’re staring at? That’s Orville Orion. He’s here with the homeowners’ board. I invited them all.”
“Where’s your maid of honor?” Em noted the empty seat at their table.
Marilyn glanced around the room and then took a sip of champagne. “I don’t know why she’s not here already. I hope she’s all right. Precious Cottrell is the most dependable person I know.”
Em glanced over at the bar where Sophie was pouring drinks as fast as she could. She’d dyed the spiked tips of her hair gold for the occasion. Em had offered to hire a stand-in so she could have the night off to enjoy the party, but Soph said she’d rather work because she could still enjoy all the action from behind the bar and collect a mountain of tips by the end of the evening.
“Where is the great and magnificent Kiki and her collection of crazies?” Marilyn looked over her shoulder at the entrance to the bathroom the Maidens commandeered as a dressing room.
“She’s got the Maidens corralled in the bathroom. They’ve worked up something really special for tonight.”
Marilyn sniffed.
“I wish you two would bury the hatchet for Louie’s sake,” Em said. “Maybe even find it in your heart to compliment Kiki on the performance. If it wasn’t for the Maidens, you’d only have the Tiki Tones for entertainment tonight.”
Marilyn appeared to be ignoring her. She suddenly waved at someone near the door.
“There’s Precious. She made it.” Marilyn sounded relieved.
Precious Cottrell was exactly as Kiki had described her to Em earlier in the afternoon: a diminutive three-foot-six little person with auburn hair and a big smile.
The wedding party was served. Kimo’s special panko and macadamia nut encrusted ono filets nestled atop mashed cinnamon sweet potatoes were not only delicious, but to Em’s relief, the meal came off without a hitch. Marilyn was behaving as civilly as she could with Louie acting more concerned about David Letterman’s behavior than the big event. Her uncle kept jumping up and down to make sure the parrot was content by pouring watered down cocktails into the cup attached to Dave’s perch.
Em had to give Marilyn credit; it couldn’t be easy sitting beside her fiancé beneath the life-sized portrait of Louie’s late wife that was smiling down on them. Irene Kakaulanipuakaulani Hickam Marshall was a stunningly beautiful Hawaiian, if the portrait was an exact likeness. Irene had been Louie’s one true love, the woman he called his tiki goddess. Together they established the bar and restaurant, and since Irene’s passing, Louie had closed the show each and every evening by having the crowd join hands and sing the Tiki Goddess song he’d written in tribute to his wife.
Em wondered if he planned to skip the ritual closing tonight. And what about the future? She couldn’t see how Marilyn would allow it.
More than once Em had gazed around and caught Roland watching her from across the room. She shrugged at him a couple of times as if to say, “Seen anything?”
He would only give the slightest shake of his head as if to say nothing.
Once the plates were cleared from the head table, Pat Boggs took the stage. Dressed like a man in black pants and a red and gold kihei, a square of fabric knotted at one shoulder and tied at an angle over a red long-sleeved shirt, she carried a gourd instrument called an ipu.
She stepped up to the microphone and waited for the crowd to settle down, obviously unaware that in a raucous bar, you could die trying to get everyone’s attention. Two seconds later, Pat stuck her thumb and index finger in her mouth and gave an earsplitting whistle loud enough to send shock waves through Em’s fillings. Some folks slapped their hands over their ears.
After the whistle died away, there wasn’t a sound in the room.
“That’s better.” Pat rocked back on her heels. “You might wanna drink up,” she began. “Y’all are about to see somethin’ you won’t believe.”
She tucked the ipu under one arm and started in on a hypnotic rhythm, dum dum thunk, dum dum thunk. In a low, monotone pitch that reverberated in the mic, she began. “Tonight, in a tribute to Louie Marshall and his bride-to-be, Marilyn Lockhart, the Hula Maidens present for your pleasure an exotic, erotic hula they’ll perform to the song ‘Kalua.’”
Dum dum thunk. Dum dum thunk.
All eyes turned toward the bathroom door as Kiki stepped out and started slowly walking into the main barroom, moving in time to the beat of the ipu. Encased in a form fitting, off the shoulder gown of blood-red velvet, her real hair was hidden beneath a waist-length black wig studded with plastic hibiscus gilded with gold spray paint. Her expression was set in a zombie-like stare, her kohl-rimmed cat’s eyes focused on the stage. Her arms were spread wide.
Balanced on each palm was a half coconut shell filled with flaming oil. From each wick trailed a stream of black smoke that snaked toward the ceiling. If she was forty years younger, Kiki would have looked like she’d just stepped off the cover of Martin Denny’s classic Exotica album.
Dum dum thunk. Dum dum thunk.
“Oh no,” Em whispered.
“God help us.” Louie’s perpetual smile faded.
“I’m going to kill her.” Marilyn started to stand.
Em grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her back down.
Dum dum thunk. Dum dum thunk.
Pat’s drumbeat never faltered. Her monotone droned on.
“‘Kalua’ is a song from the film Bird of Paradise, which was about a haole guy who comes to the islands, falls in love, and goes native. He marries Kalua, an island beauty, which angers the volcano God who can only be appeased by a . . . human sacrifice!” Pat leaned close and yelled the last two words into the mic, which caused it to give off a high-pitched whine.
Em’s fillings twanged again.
“Human sacrifice?” Marilyn pursed her lips. “I volunteer Kiki.”
Pat glared down at her from the stage.
Slowly, one by one, the Hula Maidens filed out of the restroom like a procession of fallen vestal virgins. They were all dressed identically to Kiki, each in red velvet off the shoulder gowns, each wearing a long black wig and balancing flaming coconut shells on their open palms.
Six counts later, Suzi
Matamoto, first in line behind Kiki, stepped out. Suzi had perfected her walk. Step, step, pause. Step, step, pause.
Next came photographer Trish Oakley, whose face was so flushed her freckles had disappeared. Flyaway strands of bright red hair peeked out from beneath the hairline of her wig. The Maidens were moving along, evenly spaced, until Flora Carillo stepped out. She gave the impression of a hobbled monk seal in her skintight crimson gown. Flora kept turning her head and smiling at the crowd and was soon out of step. The allotted space between her and Trish quickly dwindled to less than two feet.
Big Estelle appeared next, moving to the drum beat with head high and hands steady until Little Estelle laid on the Gadabout horn. When a tourist tried to shush her with a scowl, Little Estelle stuck out her tongue and gave him the raspberries. She kept on tooting the horn until Roland walked over, flashed a badge, and leaned down to whisper something in her ear.
Pat started her narrative again. “The island kahuna convinced the lovely Kalua to throw herself into the raging volcano to save the island from destruction . . .”
After Big Estelle walked on, all of the other dancers were in position in front of the stage, all but Lillian Smith, who finally appeared. Be-wigged like the rest of the Maidens, the skirt of her gown was so tight it bound her knees together, forcing her to take mincing steps across the room. Her hands were shaking so hard that hot oil threatened to slosh out of the flaming coconut shells.
Dum dum thunk. Dum dum thunk.
Em closed her eyes and tightened her death grip on Marilyn’s wrist.
Unaware that Lillian was in distress, Pat droned on. “Now the world famous stars of TV and the Tiki Goddess stage, the Hula Maidens, will begin their dance, which they lovingly dedicate to Uncle Louie Marshall.” She looked down at Louie and winked. “This one’s for you, Uncle Louie.”
The dedication made it more than obvious the Maidens could care less about Marilyn.
Three to Get Lei'd Page 7
