The Flaming Luau of Death

by Jerrilyn Farmer

  “Why, yes.” Seated on the bed, I had been leaning back a bit, with both of my arms supporting me. Now, one of my fingers slowly probed under the nearby pillow and discovered not a foil-wrapped candy but instead something that felt much more like a thin metal wire.

  “Excellent.” Berger beamed. “The Four Heavens would like to show our concern for your distress. May we treat your entire party to a day of spa services?” So this was how dirty resort secrets are buried.

  “Well…” I said, making eye contact with Berger. But as I stalled, my fingers slowly scooped themselves around the cool-to-the-touch metal wire and carefully pulled what felt suddenly like a pair of eyeglasses into the palm of my hand, the entire procedure done without Jasper Berger being any the wiser.

  “Well…” Wes stammered, taken aback by the largesse of Berger’s invitation. Wes and I were not easily hushed, but clearly we were dealing with a pro.

  “Well, yes. Thank you,” I said, sounding ready to let the entire matter drop. “That would be lovely.”

  Wes looked at me.

  “Excellent,” Berger said. “I understand you have special plans this evening. A private luau?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “I shouldn’t keep you, then. I’m sure you want to get on with your celebration,” he said and held the door open as we all walked out.

  When Berger had walked off down the path, Wes pulled me back. “What was that?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. None. But we were never going to learn anything more from him. So what the heck? Why not enjoy the spa tomorrow at his expense?”

  “Okay. Fine. But I know you, my dear. Something else is up.”

  I held up my left hand, turned it palm up, and opened my fingers gently.

  We both looked at the pair of wire-rimmed prescription glasses of vintage design. One of the lenses had been damaged.

  “You are amazing,” Wes said.

  “Holly must have knocked that guy’s glasses off when she hit him with the lamp. And maybe they got rolled up in the bed linens. Whoever cleaned up this room had to do it in a hurry.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Look at the etching on the bridge and the tiny arrows that hold the lenses, Wes,” I said, examining the glasses.

  He looked them over again and nodded. “You have a great eye. These look like real vintage spectacles. Probably antique frames with modern lenses.”

  “They’re so distinctive we might be able to track down where on the islands he bought them,” I said, putting the glasses into my bag. “Or maybe trace the prescription lenses.”

  “We can decide what to do with them tomorrow, Mad. But it will have to wait. As you know, I have a schedule for this weekend.”

  “You and your schedules.”

  “And right now,” he said, looking at his bare wrist, mock watch-checking, “we are scheduled to have some fun.”

  I smiled.

  “Don’t mess with my schedule, Miss Bean.”

  But of course he was right. For the first time, Wes and Holly and I were going to get to be the pampered guests at one of our very own parties. So if I couldn’t save the world or get the manager of the Four Heavens Resort to make sense, the least I could do was remember the whole point of this weekend.

  We were going to celebrate our little bride-to-be, Holly Nichols. Damn it.

  Male’ana Kuaua L’au

  (Wedding Shower Feast)

  The beauty of nature is so powerful it can even shut the mouths of a couple of carloads of overamped bridesmaids. And we were, all eight of us, awestruck into silence. Even me. It’s funny. Sometimes, amid the plans and the problems, a stray peaceful moment catches you by your heart. Sand. Seashore. A setting sun. A billion gallons of blue liquid washing up at your bare feet in gentle lapping waves.

  Your inner scrapbooker begs you to make a mental page, now and fast, before the glory gets away. File it away under H for Hawaii, memories of. Preserve it for future gray-day reflection. Such were the demands of this incredibly beautiful nightfall, with its flower-fragrant breezes and the soothing rush of waves.

  And suddenly, this traffic-weary, shopping-mall-maddened L.A. girl’s brain became giddy with metaphors. The sun was now a distant glowing beach ball riding the edge of the glassy Pacific. We waited, eyes on the horizon, to catch the instant it dunked into the surface, each of us facing seaward, our toes in the warm sand. So mesmerizing was this spectacle that it quieted our banter, all worrisome events of the day erased.

  How quickly Hawaii worked her magic on us. We had roared over to Anaeho’omalu Bay in a couple of rented Mustang convertibles, convoy style, riding with the tops down and Coldplay cranked on the radio. We’d parked in the public lot and hiked down to the secluded beach, calling out to one another, making jokes. But now, a whole other show was on. For a few extravagant seconds, it seemed like nothing else mattered in the entire world except for the vastness of the sky and the gentle rotation of our planet and the wide, wide sea.

  “Your luau will be ready whenever you are,” a young woman’s voice whispered in my ear.

  I turned briefly from the sun’s swan dive into the deep and met a pair of pretty dark eyes. They belonged to Keniki Hicks, our luau leader. “Great,” I said, when I could find my voice. “Thanks.”

  She smiled. Perfect white teeth behind very full lips. Did they encourage all the lovely young women in the state to grow their hair down to their butts? It must make finding employment at tourist attractions much easier, but then, as my brain always wanders off to worry about the underdog, whatever became, I suddenly wondered, of the unlucky wahines who were found folicly wanting? Did all the girls with short hairdos have to work in supermarkets?

  At any rate, not Keniki’s problem. Her hair was smooth and dark and wavy, with an orchid tucked behind her ear, while mine, thanks to the humidity, was a heavy mass of wild curlicues, somewhere between reddish and blondish, and came down only below my shoulder blades. Keniki was barefoot, wearing fresh flowers around her ankles, which matched those in her Hawaiian print dress, a one-shoulder affair. She had the details exactly right.

  I watched her turn, her long hair swishing, and step away to check that our cordoned-off section of the beach was properly set up for our private party. This was the very reason I’d hired Keniki to run the party. A close friend of mine had recommended her, promising she would look out for us. Keniki Hicks, I’d been told, was a gracious and energetic worker. She held down two jobs, in fact. She served cocktails on the beach of the Four Heavens during the day and freelanced at night, orchestrating private parties, like ours, on the side.

  “Ready to luau?” Wes asked. He kept his voice low in order to preserve our guests’ reverie over the sunset, but his eyes sparkled.

  “Brother, am I.”

  Now let me explain. Despite its touristy reputation, a luau does not exclusively refer to one of those huge, professionally cheesy shindigs. For the people who live on the Hawaiian Islands, a luau is just a gathering of family and friends, a time to enjoy good company, good food, and good times. So, on this Friday night, in lieu of us joining a thousand other tourists at one of those ubiquitous culture-in-a-can affairs held on the grounds of some overcrowded hotel, it was that more intimate Hawaiian luau that we intended to experience while celebrating our dear bride-to-be.

  But at this point I was having trouble keeping a single thought in my head for very long. I wondered if this was what people called relaxation. I thought maybe it was!

  As we stared at the ocean, the first of our evening’s entertainers began to play. A traditional Hawaiian song plunked out as a cheerful ukulele solo was played for our party by a dear old island “uncle.”

  The sun was dipping lower now, half submerged in the big blue, but clusters of tiki torches had been arranged here and there around our luau-decorated section of beach. The torch flames flickered, casting dancing shadows on the sand. And the shift in the evening’s light was so magical it made me imagine some cosmic hand was slowly
lowering a celestial dimmer switch. The sky and ocean darkened to deepest navy blue while the tiki lights brightened our faces and illuminated the white foam of the incoming waves. Unlike Los Angeles, the temperature did not dip with the setting sun. The soft air remained balmy and warm, even in the deepening night.

  The sea. The sunset. The waves. The soft chirping of the musical theme from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Things just keep getting better…

  I turned my Hawaii-drugged head. Holly jumped to get her cell phone. She dove into her beach bag and found it, flipping it open.

  “Hello?”

  The old ukulele master finished his strumming and we all clapped. While the small beach at A-Bay was not private, it was far enough from the grand hotels to be fairly uncrowded. The few folks who had hung around to enjoy the end-of-daylight ritual began to pack up and leave as the sun, now completely swallowed up by the ocean, had truly set.

  “That was Donald,” Holly said, joining me. She gave me a smirk. “He had no idea where I was. Am.”

  “You mean in Hawaii?”

  She nodded. Holly’s fair skin glowed from her afternoon playing in the sun. Her evening attire, a smidge of a bikini top—really, if we’re being honest, just two tiny crocheted triangles held together with string—displayed her small bosom, now just a shade too pink. Her very white short shorts revealed equally oversunned thighs.

  “Wait!” Man. Donald didn’t know we’d absconded with his fiancée. “I left a note in his mailbox. Don’t tell me he didn’t get it.”

  “He’s not home yet. He was calling from his car. Anyway, he’s really surprised.”

  “Let me tell you, Holl, that was one really cute note I left Donald. He’s going to be freaking charmed.” I grinned. “If he ever finds it.” Not every detail quite right. I made a mental note for the future. “Is he pissed off?”

  “I think he is more like stunned,” she said, smiling. “Men think they know everything. You’re always gonna be right where they think you are. Doesn’t hurt for them to get a clue.”

  “Okay then.”

  “Girl power!” She raised a fist into the night sky.

  “Go girl power!” I raised mine too.

  “Right on!”

  Nothing like a little feminist bonding on the beach to the musical backdrop of an old Hawaiian gentleman crooning tunes in falsetto along with a bouncy ukulele strum.

  I wondered again about the two lovebirds, Donald and Holly. Marriage is so complicated. Were they going to make it? Who knows what makes a match work and what doesn’t? Certainly not moi.

  “Maddie. I think Donald sounded…well…odd.”

  I checked out her expression in the dancing torchlight. Despite the Hawaiian music (the elderly gentleman had now moved on to the sliding steel guitar), the sunset, and all our cares and woes rushing sievelike from our happy brains, I detected some concern there. Holly didn’t look as calm as she might have. “Did you tell Donald about that guy you found in your room?”

  “No, no, no. I’d never.” Holly was wearing her hair swept up and held with a big cubic zirconia–encrusted clip. Her fluffy blond wisps took on a halo-glow when backlit by so many tiki torches. “That’s over. That’s done. Why worry him?”

  “So everything is okay?”

  “Pretty much,” Holly said. “It’s just, well, remember what we were talking about this morning? About my three problems.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “When I heard Donald’s voice, I figured why put it off?” Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “You know. About Marvin. And the prom. And the…” She ran out of words.

  I offered “…fact you might be married?”

  She nodded.

  I hoped, for Donald’s sake, they’d at least had a good cell connection. “Wow.”

  “I figured,” Holly said, off of my reaction, “he could mull it over, you know, over the weekend.”

  “Mulling is good.”

  “Right,” she said, sounding much more cheerful to get my agreement. “And then when I get home, we’ll figure it out. He’ll be fine. I told him to chill.” Holly grinned and gave the Hawaiian hand signal “hang loose!”

  I hoped really hard that Donald Lake was finding it in himself to be the hang-loose type. He was a nice guy and all, but a little midwestern-suburbs, parents-belong-to-a-friendly-church, iron-his-own-shirts kind of nice. And Holly was not making it easy on him, what with this other husband.

  “Okay, sweetie,” I said, trying not to sound stressed.

  “You hang loose too, Mad.” Holly grinned down at me, looking quite happy.

  Well, I’d try. Really, really hard.

  For one thing, I was finally a guest at one of my own über-parties, and it was really fun just being along for the ride. My work was done. I had arranged all the details of Holly’s luau from the mainland by calling on a few caterers I knew on the Big Island and getting their advice. Wes and I had hired a lot of help, and I had nothing to do now but take my own party advice and leave the work to the pros.

  “I mean this, Mad,” Holly said. “You need to catch the aloha spirit here. You gotta let yourself go. Do something crazy. Why not?”

  Just then the photographer we’d hired to shoot the party came up with her camera and smiled.

  “Madeline,” Holly said, draping her thin sunburned arm across my shoulder in a girlfriend hug of good cheer, “look at us.” She squeezed me.

  “We look hot,” I said.

  “And where are we?”

  “In freaking Hawaii.”

  “This is the most amazing party you have ever pulled off, Mad. Ever. I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe you and Wes brought all my homegirls to Hawaii! I can’t believe all this fabulousness is just for me!”

  “You deserve it, Holly.” My eyes suddenly had tears. She was so sweet. And at that exact moment, me misting up like a dork, the photographer’s camera flashed.

  Looking around the beach, blinking out the dark ghosts from the bright flash, I just had to smile. Among the glowing tiki torches, several tables had been swathed to the ground in yards of white hibiscus flowers splashed on red cotton. The tables were topped with ti leaves, soon to be graced with platters piled high with hibachigrilled mahimahi and steak. In the gentle breeze, the heavenly scent of grilling meats was everywhere as two steamy chefs kept the food turning on the spit.

  Holly released my shoulder and ran off, laughing. She joined her sister Gladiola, who was flirting with one of the tanned men working the grill. Five sisters. All blond. All over the age of twenty-one. All single. It was a miracle Holly’s dad wasn’t in some quiet mental facility by now.

  More as a guest, now, than a party queen, I checked out our party scene. Surreal orchid arrangements were placed everywhere. At the far side of the beach, a master sushi chef was preparing the freshest seafood into butterfly rolls to order, and a vintage bamboo bar was set on the sand nearby, the cute bartender blending outrageous fifties-style tropical drinks and pouring them into hollowed-out coconut shells and pineapples. It was all exactly as I had designed it in my office back in Hollywood. Only better. Much better.

  It seemed to be a night made for hugs. Wes came up and put his arm around my bare shoulder. “Warm enough?”

  “It’s perfect,” I said. I was wearing a gauzy black dress with spaghetti straps, but I wasn’t even chilled.

  “I love seeing you enjoy your own party,” he said, sipping something potent through a long orange straw, his nose close to the foliage atop a huge pineapple.

  “Wes, we simply have to get ourselves invited to more of our parties.” A good-looking waiter stopped by with a tray, and I was soon nibbling a large coconut-crusted shrimp.

  “The shirtless thing for the waitstaff?” Wes said, watching the server as he moved along. “That was a stroke of genius.”

  I checked out the stage. We had hired a rather large array of musical entertainment for the evening, following our general life philosophy that “more is more,” but also
, when planning a long-distance luau, it’s easy to get carried away with the variety of options. I mean, who could resist hiring a group of men called the Fire Dancers of Death?

  After the ukulele performance, four handsome beachboys had set up their island drums on the low stage. As soon as these guys began playing, beating out a passionate Polynesian rhythm, the Nichols sisters and Liz, who had been sampling from the appetizer buffet with gusto, perked right up and started bopping along—even Holly.

  “Hula lessons!” called our hostess, Keniki.

  In a heartbeat, all of us, even Wesley, were lined up behind Keniki, kicking off our sandals, waiting for instructions. Azalea retied her sarong lower on her hips. Marigold and Gladdie had stripped down to their bikinis. I’m sure the men playing the stirring island music didn’t miss a beat—but only by dint of their staggering professionalism.

  “This step is ’ami. Bend your knees like so,” Keniki said. “To the right, move your hips clockwise, see?”

  All around me hips were swiveling.

  “Good! Now, hela. Point your right foot forward, like this, and bring it back. Good. Now your left foot. Good. Okay, now huli. Rotate around, swaying your hips. Keep going all the way around.”

  The drums began to beat faster and, if possible, louder, and we all concentrated on throwing our hips around just like Keniki. Daisy, with all her yoga training, was the hands-down best at undulating her stomach, but then her identical sister, Azalea, was laughing too hard to get her stomach into motion at all. By the time Keniki finished running us through the steps for kaholo, ka’o, and lele, we were all feeling pretty proud of ourselves.

  But then she said we were ready to learn what our hands and arms should be doing. Oh, man. Hands and arms? While it was fascinating, sure, to see the graceful motions of the dance that told the story, I was not strictly confident that I yet knew my hela from my ka’o. I stepped behind Wesley, who was having no trouble keeping up with the lessons at all. The song stopped, and we all took a second to catch our breaths. Then Keniki brought out a pile of authentic hula skirts, thick with ti leaves and beautiful beading on the hip-circling belt, and told us to try them on. How cool was this?