The Princess and the Poison

by Carol E. Ayer

  "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 ti
mes. 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.

  UKULELE MURDER

  available now!