Ned kept an eye on Violet, who smiled sweetly at him and assured us all that her killing spree was over, while Soo Jin and I went to the dock to wait for the boat. The weather had cleared, and a large, bright rainbow was emblazoned from one end of the lake to the other.
"I can't believe that," Soo Jin murmured. "Violet's life drove her to kill half a dozen people. And here I thought she had it all together."
"Why's that?"
"Well." She shrugged. "I've always wanted what you have. What she had. A relationship that would lead to spending the rest of my life with my soul mate."
My jaw dropped open. "Are you serious? You have an amazing life!"
She stared at me as if I'd grown two heads. "I'm a medical examiner who lives in a small town in Iowa."
"Yes." I nodded. "But you have a lot of work."
"The bodies do tend to pile up," she agreed. "And that's interesting and all. But I'd like something a little more spiritual."
"You aren't planning on leaving us, are you?" We were just becoming friends. I couldn't have made it through this weekend without the Korean–American knockout.
"Merry." She turned to face me. "You were a spy! You travelled all over the world! You went on adventures! I came here after medical school. In Chicago. Not interesting at all."
Man! I couldn't believe that this wonder woman envied me! She was smart and beautiful and talented. I looked like I'd just crawled out of bed, wearing clothes that I'd slept in. Not just this morning—every day! How could she possibly envy me?
"And no," she added with a small smile, "I'm not planning on leaving. I love Who's There. I adore you, and the girls, and Kelly, and Rex and Riley."
We stood on the dock, looking toward the horizon. A boat motor hummed in the distance. The sound of people running up behind us made me spin and adjust into a defensive stance, but once I saw it was the girls, I relaxed. Lauren was holding and petting a very nervous Gertrude. I wondered if she wasn't used to being outside.
"What are you doing out here?" I asked.
Betty shrugged. "It's boring in there."
I looked at her. "Boring? You were hanging out with a murderer. How is that boring?"
Lauren piped up, "She admitted what she used to poison Enos, but she wouldn't tell us where she got the cyanide and lubricant."
I bit my lip, but Soo Jin burst out laughing.
The girls looked at each other then back at me.
"Don't worry about that." I put my arms around Ava and Inez. "Let the police figure that out."
On the horizon we spotted the boat that was coming toward us. I could just make out Kelly and Linda waving at us. Boy, were they going to be sad they'd missed this.
"And"—I bent down to their level—"let's keep the thing about the lubricant between us, okay?" The last thing I needed was for Kelly to have a heart attack.
We waited in silence as the boat drew near and eventually pulled up to the dock. I explained what was going on to the captain, who immediately called the sheriff's office on his radio. Kelly and Linda looked suitably horrified as the girls told them about each grisly murder.
"Seriously!" Kelly chastised me. "I can't leave you alone for one weekend!"
I waved my hands in front of me defensively. "I didn't do it! I had nothing to do with it!"
Soo Jin asked the captain to have the sheriff call my husband, Rex, and he did so. Within an hour and a half, the dock had three boats, four EMTs, Sheriff Carnack and three deputies, and my husband, Detective Rex Ferguson, giving me a look I was all too familiar with.
They took Violet away, along with a very shaken and disturbed Arthur. Stacey and Juliette gave their statements and said they'd wait to explain things to the Deivers. Once we'd collected our luggage and taken the boat back to shore, Soo Jin and the girls went with Kelly and Linda, while I climbed into Rex's SUV.
On the drive home, I stared at the farms that dotted the scenery.
"Are you okay?" Rex said finally.
I nodded. "Just promise me one thing."
"That you can have Pizza Rolls when we get home?"
"Okay, two things." I loved Pizza Rolls. "Promise me that our life together won't be so dull that I want to kill a houseful of people."
"Merry." He slid his hand over mine. "I can promise you that life with you will never, ever be dull. No matter how much I want that."
I let out a deep breath and settled back into the seat. I thought about Riley's work as a private investigator and how he had an open invitation for me to join him as a PI. Maybe I should take him up on it.
I didn't tell Rex about Lana. I didn't know if she was real or some sort of red herring. But one thing was for sure. I was going to find out.
* * *
The next day, Riley called his old contacts at the CIA to alert them to the possibility of Lana being in the area and trying to write a tell-all book. I wasn't sure they believed it, but Riley and I had already decided to look into it on our own. If Lana was in Central Iowa, we were going to find her. Maybe I could take a page out of Violet's playbook and make sure Lana was never found again? Would that be too much?
The Deivers were not happy about the multiple murders committed in their home, but they didn't blame the Girl Scouts.
A few weeks after the cursed Mystery Night, I heard from Stacey that with all the media attention and curiosity seekers, the Deivers had decided to open up the house for Mystery Night weekends complete with séances to contact the ghosts of the victims. Gertrude could help, as the sound of her scurrying around inside the walls would fool folks into believing there were ghosts around. From what I understood, they were booked two years out already.
Betty and the girls found out what the lubricant that smothered Thad was really for. The next two meetings were rendered useless by the giggling hysteria that broke out. Kelly insisted right to the bitter end that the lube was for car axles. The girls didn't believe it for one minute. Smart girls.
Linda was surprised that her innocent cozy mystery night went the way it did, but she kept it all in perspective and even agreed to consider writing another one for the Girl Scouts. This time, instead of donors, it would be a dinner party with actors playing the parts. And as long as there weren't any problems with the actors, I was fairly certain no one would be killed for real.
During the ensuing investigation, Soo Jin met the super handsome prosecuting attorney handling the case. They hit it off and have been dating ever since. His name was Eduardo Ruiz, and he seemed like a great guy. But if he so much as looks at her funny, I'm going all Violet on him.
That's right—Violet became a term people used as a euphemism for murder. In a way, she kind of became a sort of folk hero. She was interviewed in all the major magazines and TV news channels. The woman balanced her killing spree with a softening attitude toward the victims, who became known as the Kasinski Six.
Arthur went back to his farm and stayed there. He refused to give interviews, and eventually the media got bored and went away. I'd heard rumors that he was going to move to the Pacific Northwest to live with his brother, but I had no idea if that was true. I felt a little sorry for him, but not too much. How did he not know his wife was so unhappy? I was pretty sure that Rex would know immediately if I even hinted at a murderous rage.
Of all the victims, Dennis Blunt's parents were the only family members who did something truly amazing. They'd set up a scholarship in his honor and made gifts in his name to the Girl Scouts, the Boys and Girls Club, and a bizarre cat charity I'd never heard of. It was the most good Dennis had ever done in his life…and ironically, it was in his death.
Miriam and Ned left Penny Island shortly after the police finished interviewing them. They moved across the state and opened a small café in Dubuque, where the specialty was lasagna. It was a popular place, and I wasn't ashamed to admit that I'd ordered lasagna shipped to my house from their place. Twice.
Stacey went back to the Council and offered to resign, feeling that this was somehow her fault. Instead, they promoted her for keeping her head during all of this, and she now toured councils all over the country, giving lectures on how to keep it together when a little old lady kills off all your donors.
Juliette was the strangest development in that she seemed to drop her blazing hatred for me. For weeks afterward, there were no attacks on my qualifications as a leader, no pulling of our paperwork to harass us for the smallest thing. And I heard a rumor that she actually praised me for solving the case and keeping our girls safe.
Betty and Lauren learned how to make a pipe bomb, which they detonated at a meeting. Instead of nails and bits of metal, they'd filled it with candy and gum. Kelly's fury eventually died down, but I was still forced to begin every meeting with, "We aren't going to make any more weapons, right?" I get the feeling that Kelly thinks this speech somehow falls short of her expectations.
My pets didn't seem to notice I'd even been gone. Rex reported that Philby had gotten into the fridge and "liberated" an entire salmon, eating the entire thing in twenty minutes, and then vomited for two days, while Martini took naps in the bathtub for hours at a time. And while Leonard was still a little afraid of Philby, he wasn't cowering in fear of her anymore when she strutted around wearing a rubber werewolf mask.
* * *
Violet Kasinski held her own through a long trial. People came from miles around to wait in line for a chance of sitting in the courtroom. I was there as a witness, as was Soo Jin. But what we said wasn't as fascinating to the public as Violet's own words regarding her life on the farm. It was kind of like Little House on the Prairie—if Laura Ingalls Wilder snapped and went on a killing spree, instead of becoming a beloved children's author.
Violet basked in the glow of the attention for the ten-day trial. And when the jury declared her "guilty," she looked happier than I'd ever seen her. As the judge pronounced a sentence that included life in prison at a facility with memory care, Violet pumped her fist in the air and yelled, "Crackin!"
A couple of weeks into her stay in prison, we found out that she'd started a gang of ladies who knitted shiv cozies in the afternoons and spent every evening trying to remember where they'd put their needles. They became quite intimidating to the other inmates, often illegally selling yarn and cigarettes inside on the black market. They called Violet, "Violent Vi," much to her joyous approval. My troop even visited from time to time, although we had to be careful now that we discovered Betty was smuggling in hard candy.
In a strange way, I was happy for Violet. Oh sure, I would've preferred that she hadn't killed anyone. But it seemed to me that in that one moment, she'd felt like she'd made up for a life lost on the farm. Running a prison gang seemed like an added perk.
* * *
Weeks after the trial, as Rex and I settled on the couch one night with popcorn and a movie, I realized that even though my life was quieter now (with the exception of someone dropping dead around me on a regular basis), I couldn't complain. I had a balance that Violet didn't have, somewhere between the outrageous and the mundane. I'd been pining for my old career for the last few years. But that was just silly. I had adventure with my troop…with the mysteries that seemed to follow me everywhere…with my new and improved friendship with Soo Jin…with my boring date nights with my new husband.
As Philby slapped a piece of popcorn out of my hand, hunted and ate it, as Martini walked across the couch and fell over asleep midway between us, as Leonard climbed onto Rex's lap without withering under Philby's evil gaze, I knew that I had everything I ever needed to live a happy and contented life.
Especially knowing that at any moment there would be another mystery just around the corner. And that sounded perfect to me.
* * * * *
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* * * * *
Leslie Langtry is the USA Today bestselling author of the Greatest Hits Mysteries series, Sex, Lies, & Family Vacations, The Hanging Tree Tales as Max Deimos, the Merry Wrath Mysteries, the Aloha Lagoon Mysteries and several books she hasn't finished yet, because she's very lazy.
Leslie loves puppies and cake (but she will not share her cake with puppies) and thinks praying mantids make everything better. She lives with her family and assorted animals in the Midwest, where she is currently working on her next book and trying to learn to play the ukulele.
To learn more about Leslie, visit her online at: http://www.leslielangtry.com
* * * * *
Merry Wrath Mysteries
Scout Camp Murder (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)
Fishing Badge Murder (short story in the Pushing Up Daisies collection)
Aloha Lagoon Mysteries:
Greatest Hits Mysteries:
'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy
My Heroes Have Always Been Hitmen
Have Yourself a Deadly Little Christmas (a holiday short story)
Other Works:
* * * * *
of the first Aloha Lagoon Mystery:
UKULELE MURDER
by
LESLIE LANGTRY
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 Juilliard for this. And no, Juilliard 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 thinks 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.
"I'm sorry," the man says sheepishly. "I should've phrased that better. It's not your mother." Now I know things are bad with Mom—when the first thing a detective tells me is she's not the reason he's here.
I breathe a sigh of relief. "What is it, then, Detective Kahoalani?"
"Please, call me Ray. Everyone does." He pauses. "One of your colleagues, a Mr. Kahelemeakua Lui, or Kua, was murdered at the music festival."
"Kua was murdered?" I gasp. "I just saw him! Like, half an hour ago!"
The detective writes something in a notebook. "So it's true that you were the last person to see him alive?"
Uh-oh. "I don't think I was the last person to see him alive. I just passed him in the parking lot." A little shiver went through me. Was I really the last person to see Kua before he was murdered?
"Wait," I say. "What do you mean 'it's true'? Did someone tell you that?"
The detective looks at his notes. "A Miss Leilani O'Flanagan said you'd fought with him and followed him out the door when he left."
I shake my head. "That's wrong. I was leaving and just spotted him in the parking lot. I went straight to my car."
Leilani—what a stark-raving loon! I know she is mean, but to imply that I might've killed Kua? That is a serious reach. Besides, Kua was a big dude. And the last time I'd seen him, he'd been a huge, angry dude. Who could've murdered him? And why didn't the killer murder Leilani instead?
Ray Kahoalani writes something in his notebook. "No one else at the concert remembers seeing him leave."
I think back. I was the only one heading to my car. I'd assumed the rest of the folks were socializing. Kua and I were the only ones in the parking lot before he walked out onto the beach.
"How was he murdered?" I shiver again. It's horrible to think that someone I just saw was now dead.
Detective Ray says nothing. His eyes are on mine, sizing me up. "We found him on the beach. He was alone. Bludgeoned."
I stifle a gasp. "I barely knew him. And I certainly didn't kill him."
"We were led to believe that you were colleagues." He looks through a notebook. "Miss O'Flanagan said so. In fact, she said you two were close friends. She also said you had a nasty argument at the concert."
Of course that psycho would pin this on me. It's ridiculous, really. I shake my head, trying not to laugh. Kua would hate hearing that we were close.
"That's not true at all. I'd seen him perform a few times. I only spoke to him once or twice. I don't know anything about him."
Except that earlier I wished he was dead—but I decide that it's in my best interest not to mention that.
"Can you describe what happened when you left?" he asks.
"Seriously? I'm a suspect?" My concern starts to turn to anger.
"Just answer the question please." Detective Ray takes another drink of tea but keeps his eyes trained on my face.
I sigh. "I just walked out to my car, got in, and drove here."
"So no one can confirm what time you got home?" He frowns.
"No, I guess not." My stomach drops to my ankles. I have no alibi. But then, I hardly have any motive. I mean, wishing your competition was dead isn't a thing. Is it?
The detective finishes his tea and sets it on the table. "Thank you for your time and for the tea." He hands me a card. "Please call me if you have any thoughts. You aren't planning on leaving the area anytime soon, are you?"
Well, I am now…
"No," is all I say as I follow him to the door.
"I'll be in touch then, Miss Johnson." Detective Ray gives me a nod and leaves.
I close the door behind him and slump against it. I didn't kill anyone.