Three to Get Lei'd

by Jill Marie Landis

  “How are Louie and Marilyn’s wedding plans coming along?” he asked.

  “Unfortunately, right on schedule,” she said. “The only hitch so far is that she hasn’t heard from her nephew Tom. He’s flying in to give her away.”

  “The guy who was visiting a while back? He sounds like a nice guy.”

  Em nodded. “He was her sister’s only child. Everyone in the family is gone but them. He’s as protective of her as I am my uncle. He flew over to celebrate the engagement.”

  “So he’s not against this marriage like you and everyone else around here?”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “No, actually. You hide it pretty well. I just get the feeling you’d rather Louie not marry her.”

  “Everybody calls her the Black Widow behind her back. You know Louie is going to make husband number five? Kiki vehemently abhors her because Marilyn used to dance with the Maidens, but she quit. Kiki and the others doubt her motives for marrying Uncle Louie.”

  Kiki Godwin, leader of the Hula Maidens and wife of Kimo the chef, was as protective of Em’s uncle as she was the bar, which she considered her turf.

  “Maybe fifth time’s the charm.”

  Em shrugged. “Marilyn likes being on camera 24/7. She kept plugging her event planning business during the tapings of Trouble in Paradise, and it worked. Lockhart’s Luxury Events bookings are way up since the pilot aired.”

  “Just wait until the weekly episodes start.”

  “I can’t imagine living with this for weeks on end. They shot two months of footage just to get enough material on film for a two hour pilot.”

  Nat shrugged. “Look at Swamp People. Who knew shooting alligators in the head over and over again would catch on? And what about Honey Boo Boo? If people get hooked on Trouble in Paradise, it could run for years.”

  Em groaned. “If this keeps up, I’ll be hiring a ’gator hunter to ‘choot’ me in the head.”

  There was a blissful lull in the racket near the stage, but the silence was quickly filled by the sound of Sophie Chin’s rust bucket Honda pulling into the lot. The ancient vehicle was held together with duct tape and Bondo, the air conditioner didn’t work, and the whole thing rattled when it rolled. Sophie had named the car Shake and Bake and was always threatening to junk it and walk to work.

  One of Kiki Godwin’s many talents was car repair. She’d already replaced the carburetor and the timing belt before she declared Shake and Bake unworthy of any more spare parts.

  Em glanced at her watch. If Kimo wasn’t back in a few minutes, he’d be way behind on the lunch prep.

  “How about we have dinner together soon?” Nat asked. “The least I can do is take you away from here for a few hours.”

  “The very least.”

  She’d gone out with Nat a couple of times. He was a genuinely nice guy, a great conversationalist, and easy on the eyes. As a writer he asked a lot of questions and had the ability to get her to open up more than she had with anyone else since she’d moved to Kauai.

  With thick, wavy brown hair, square jaw and inquisitive blue eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses, Nat was undeniably attractive, but so far he hadn’t ignited any real sparks. Then again, after her recent messy divorce, she wasn’t anxious to get burned again.

  Nat was waiting for an answer.

  “I’d love to go out for dinner,” she said. “As long as there’s no camera crew.”

  “Positive.”

  “Great. How about Tuesday?”

  A bloodcurdling scream stopped the uneven beat of the snare drum and instantly halted the Maidens’ bickering. The silence was deafening.

  Em and Nat ran into the kitchen and found Sophie standing over the body of Bobby Quinn, one of the two cameramen filming Trouble in Paradise.

  The huge camera was on the floor beside Bobby, who was staring sightless at the ceiling. Blood oozed from beneath the knife in his chest, slowly forming a puddle.

  Nat knelt down and touched the side of the man’s neck, then gently closed the young man’s eyes.

  “He’s dead.” Nat looked up at Sophie.

  “Oh my God!” Em turned to Sophie, too. “What happened?”

  “Don’t look at me.” Sophie took a step back. She ran a hand through her spiked hair which was dyed black and tinted with neon-purple highlights. “I walked in and almost fell over him.” Her dark almond-eyed gaze darted around the kitchen. “Where’s Kimo?”

  “Gone. I saw him.” Em stopped abruptly and quickly lowered her voice. “I saw him run out and jump into his truck a few minutes ago.”

  “Uh, oh,” Sophie said.

  “You think he did this?” Nat asked.

  “Kimo? No way,” Em and Sophie both answered at once.

  Pat Boggs appeared in the doorway, took one look at the body, and halted. Behind her, the Maidens, along with Randy Rich and his crew, were clamoring to get in. Kiki shouted Kimo’s name over and over at the top of her lungs. Pat quickly assessed the situation, spun around, and blocked the doorway with outstretched arms.

  “None of you suckers is getting by me, so just cool your jets. There ain’t nothing in here you need to see or film.”

  “That’s Kimo’s special sashimi knife.” Sophie pointed to the blade sticking out of the cameraman’s chest. There were Japanese characters carved into the wooden handle. “The one nobody is allowed to touch.”

  “Kimo! Kimo, are you all right?” Kiki yelled over Pat’s shoulder. Kiki and Kimo had been married for longer than anyone could recall.

  “Let her in, Pat.” Em knew Kiki would be frantic. Kiki on a tear was worse than letting her in.

  Kiki came barreling in, a tempest in neon and shredded cellophane. She took one look at the dead man on the floor and shouted, “Where’s Kimo?”

  “He’s not here.” Em took her phone out of her shorts pocket and hit 911. The dispatcher came on immediately.

  “There’s been a murder,” Em said. “This is Em Johnson. Yes, at the Tiki Goddess Bar in Haena. Yes. We’re sure he’s dead. A knife wound to the chest. Right. We’re not going anywhere.” She looked down. “And neither is he,” she mumbled.

  Bobby Quinn had only been a member of the crew for a couple of weeks. He seemed like a personable kid who was thrilled to be on assignment in Hawaii, but Em hadn’t had much time to really talk to him.

  The minute Em hung up Kiki said, “That looks like Kimo’s sashimi knife.”

  “It is,” Sophie confirmed.

  “Nobody’s supposed to touch it. Ever,” Kiki said.

  “Ever,” Sophie nodded.

  “Was anyone else here when you walked in?” Nat asked Sophie.

  “No. There was no one in the parking lot. I didn’t come directly into the kitchen, though. I walked in through Louie’s office to ask Kimo if he needed help. I almost tripped and fell over”—she looked down at Bobby and shivered—“him.”

  Louie’s office door was still ajar. In a minute or two someone in the bar would remember they could get into the kitchen through the office.

  Em gestured toward the office door. “Lock it,” she said. “Quick.”

  Sophie closed the door and punched the lock on the handle.

  Kiki clutched the sides of her cellophane skirt in her hands and pressed her fists against her temples. Pink cellophane appeared to be spraying out of her temples. Her eyes were bugging out.

  “Kimo’s been k-k-kidnapped,” she stuttered. “Someone killed this guy and stole my Kimo.”

  “Who would want to kidnap Kimo?” Em wondered aloud. “Besides, I saw him drive away.”

  “They were probably hidden in his truck, on the floor or something. S-s-someone wants his recipes.” Kiki was focused on a kidnapping. “They’re all top secret.”

  Em averted her gaze from
the body to watch Kiki with concern. The last time the woman had lost it, she started speaking gibberish.

  “Have you got any Xanax in your purse, Kiki?”

  Kiki shook her head. “No. But may-be-be some . . . vodka . . . woo-would . . . help.”

  “No vodka. Not yet.” Em glanced down at Bobby Quinn. “Maybe we should cover him with a tablecloth,” she suggested.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Nat advised.

  Em figured he knew best. He’d worked with forensics and police procedural experts for years on his last show.

  Pandemonium had broken out in the bar. Randy Rich was at the door to the kitchen hollering around the stalwart Pat at the top of his lungs.

  “Let me in there, or so help me I’ll press charges! Your uncle signed a contract, Em. Nothing is off limits. You’re violating the terms of the agreement. Let us through!”

  “No one is goin’ in until I get the gold-danged go-ahead.” Pat clung to the door frame keeping Randy and crew at bay.

  Em had never really appreciated Pat as much as now.

  “Stand your ground,” Em encouraged.

  “You got it.” Pat nodded without turning around.

  Nat asked Em, “You agreed to let them film anything they wanted?”

  “No, Uncle Louie did. He would let them film him cleaning lint out of his navel, which until a few minutes ago, was the most exciting thing going on around here.”

  “Wait until your detective hears this over the dispatch,” Sophie whispered to Em.

  Em pictured Roland Sharpe, a tall, dark, and hunky KPD detective, and groaned.

  “He’s not going to believe there’s been another murder tied to the Goddess.”

  “Why not? There were five in the last year. This place is connected to more bodies than a morgue.”

  “Maybe we should have the place blessed,” Sophie suggested.

  “It’s not the bar,” Em reminded her. “Technically, only one body was ever found here, and it was dumped in our luau pit. It had nothing to do with us.”

  “What’s going on out there?” Nat wondered. The barroom had gone deathly still.

  Pat, still clinging to the door frame, called over her shoulder. “They’re doing an end run around the outside of the building!”

  Em was headed for the open back door but didn’t make it before the Trouble in Paradise crew poured through with Joe Piscoli, the first cameraman, leading the way. Producer Randy Rich blustered in and tossed a clipboard at the young female assistant producer, Peggy Denton. Kiki was huddled in a corner, frantically tapping her cell phone.

  The cameraman gasped when he saw the victim but quickly recovered enough to zoom in on his fallen comrade.

  “Who screamed?” Randy Rich, shorter than the others, tried to see around Joe. “I think we caught it on the recording, but we may have to re-loop.”

  “Get a close up of all that blood oozing onto the floor.” Peggy the PA leaned over Joe’s shoulder.

  “You people are sickos. I’ll be behind the bar if you need me.” Sophie nudged aside Pat who continued to hold the Maidens back, and slipped into the barroom.

  “I heard you were an ass, Randy, but for the love of Pete, quit filming,” Nat urged.

  Somewhere in his mid-thirties, Randy Rich was producer, director, and the oldest member of the crew. He was short, already balding, and portly. “And who are you, exactly?”

  Nat adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses. “Nat Clark. I live next door.”

  “Oh, yeah. I recognize the name. You write scripts for prime time, right? Well, this is real life, Clark,” he told Nat. “Not the made-up crap you crank out for the networks.”

  Joe filmed their testy exchange while the young female PA looked like she was going to vomit.

  Em felt sorry for her. Like Sophie, Peggy was in her early twenties, but in braids and a baseball cap, she didn’t look a day over fifteen.

  “Are you going to be sick?” Em asked her.

  “Don’t you dare!” Rich yelled. He nudged his cameraman. “Don’t you dare puke until Joe can get a close up of it.”

  “What’s going on in there?”

  Em recognized her uncle Louie’s voice outside the back door. The crew scooted around to film his uncensored reaction.

  “Where’s Em? Is she all right?” Usually laid back, Louie sounded almost frantic.

  “I’m all right,” Em assured him. “Don’t come in.”

  Too late, seventy-year-old Louie Marshall had already reached the back steps. So had his fiancée, Marilyn Lockhart. She quickly scooted under the broad leaf of a banana plant near the building. The Black Widow was protecting her latest Botox and lip injections from the morning sun. The camera was rolling.

  “I’m coming in,” Louie said.

  Em took a deep breath as he stepped over the threshold. “One of the cameramen is dead, Uncle Louie.”

  Louie Marshall stopped in his tracks and stared at the body. “Is that Bobby? He was only twenty-five. I told him he should quit smoking.”

  Em looked to Nat, silently pleading for help.

  “Someone stabbed him, Louie,” Nat said.

  “To death?” Marilyn had also pushed her way in. She swallowed hard and covered her mouth with her hand.

  “He’s pretty dead,” Nat nodded.

  “Who did it?” Louie asked.

  “No idea,” Nat said.

  “What about Kimo? Is he all right?” Louie’s head was on a swivel. “Where is Kimo?”

  “He’s not here.” Em had lowered her voice before she realized it didn’t matter. The film crew was taping every word of their exchange. “Why don’t you and Marilyn go back to the house, Uncle Louie?”

  He ignored her.

  Louie was growing frantic. “Whoever killed Bobby kidnapped Kimo!”

  “Kimo drove away,” Em said.

  Kiki rejoined the fray. “Did you see for certain that Kimo was alone? I think Louie’s right.”

  Louie drew himself up to his full six-three. With his deep tan, full head of snow-white hair, Hawaiian shirt, and white linen pants, he looked like an ambassador for the Hawaii Tourist Authority.

  “Kimo is the best chef on Kauai,” Louie said. “Since the pilot aired, people have been flocking in to taste his food. Everyone is raving about it.”

  “Exactly!” Kiki said.

  Louie smoothed his hand over his white hair and turned to the camera, his expression somber. He pulled his cell phone out of the pocket of his baggy linen pants and held it up.

  “I’ll bet we’ll get a ransom demand any minute now,” he said.

  Kiki turned to the camera. “If there’s some kind of chef slave trade, they’ll ask for millions. Or more.”

  “I’ll pay it. I’ll pay anything,” Louie said.

  Em rolled her eyes. Louie had a habit of spending money he didn’t have.

  “Maybe some egomaniacal billionaire will pay them a fortune and lock Kimo up in a mansion,” Kiki said. “Force him to cook for them.”

  “Oh, the horror.” Nat shook his head.

  “He wasn’t kidnapped, I tell you. I saw him leave in his truck a few minutes ago,” Em said again. “Alone.”

  “That’s odd.” Marilyn licked her lips and made certain her best side was turned toward the camera. “He’s supposed to be prepping for lunch.”

  The shrill whine of sirens sounded in the distance. Em glanced at her watch and tried to ignore the way Kiki was glaring at Marilyn.

  “That was fast,” Em said.

  Within minutes, two KPD squad cars pulled into the lot with two officers in each. The production crew closed in on them until the senior officer told them to back off. Two uniformed policemen stepped into the kitchen. The younger one walked over to the body, knelt down, fe
lt for the victim’s pulse.

  “Dead, all right.” The officer stood up, then stepped to the back door. The Maidens had congregated outside in the parking lot and were clinging to each other, arms linked, faces shadowed with worry. Little Estelle was behind them driving in circles on the Gadabout.

  “I’m going to walk all you folks back around to the main room. Nobody leaves the premises until an officer has interviewed you,” the officer said.

  Louie smiled up at the young man in his navy KPD uniform. He filled the kitchen doorway. “By now we know the drill, son.”

  Randy Rich gave him a keep-on-talking signal, and Louie went on without missing a beat.

  “We’re used to this sort of thing, you see. Last year our neighbor was killed.” Louie made a hacking motion with his hand. “Took a machete chop to the head, and then his lifeless body was tossed into our luau pit. My niece was kidnapped by a psycho who killed Fernando, the famous pianist. He’s the one who took over for Liberace in Las Vegas. We were catering Fernando’s party the night he was conked in the head with a rock.” Louie executed an exaggerated conking move. “We catered his memorial. We have quite an extensive catering menu, from pupus to full-on four-course meals.”

  “Excuse me, Uncle Louie.” Em cut him off.

  Outside, two officers were closing off the parking lot with yellow crime scene tape. Cars were jamming the highway out front, so people were parking and walking up on foot. Between the Maidens making cell phone calls and the report going out on the police scanner, news was traveling on the coconut wireless as fast as Category 5 hurricane winds.

  “Maybe you should stand on the front lanai and tell folks we’re closed, Uncle Louie,” Em suggested.

  He blinked at her. “But . . . we never close.”

  “Believe me, nobody will want anything that comes out of the kitchen today.” Em avoided looking at Bobby’s bloody shirt front.

  Louie stared into the camera again and smiled.

  “No matter what happens here at the Tiki Goddess, we always serve drinks,” he said. “Naturally, I’ll start working on a commemorative cocktail to add to our already extensive tropical drink menu. But until it’s been taste tested and approved by David Letterman, my expert taste-testing macaw, we’ll be featuring our other beverage favorites. Two-for-one Mai Tais might be a good idea right now.”