Iced in Paradise

by Naomi Hirahara

  Praise for Iced in Paradise

  “A delicious multicultural mystery with an instantly lovable heroine, lively family dynamics, and a vivid sense of place. I inhaled it like my favorite shave (not shaved!) ice!”

  —Sarah Kuhn, author of Heroine Complex

  “Iced in Paradise proves why Edgar-winning author Naomi Hirahara is among today’s best traditional mystery writers. She magically intersperses Hawaiian culture with an intriguing murder mystery. It’s a good thing this is a planned series because you’ll want to spend lots of time with Leilani Santiago and in her family’s shave ice store. The next best thing to actually going to Hawai‘i.”

  —Kellye Garrett, Agatha, Anthony, and Lefty award-winning author of Hollywood Homicide

  “I tore through this book, delighting in the authenticity of the setting as much as the nuanced cast of characters. Naomi Hirahara has once again crafted a complex mystery steeped in culture that readers will adore.”

  —Jill Orr, author of The Good Byline and The Ugly Truth

  “Hirahara depicts local flavors and a gorgeous setting few Mainlanders ever see, along with the challenges of life on a tourist-driven island. This is a delightful new series that promises more compelling adventures of this sharp-witted, relatable heroine.”

  —Cynthia Chow, branch manager of Kaneohe Public Library, O‘ahu

  Praise for Naomi Hirahara’s Mysteries

  “A shrewd sense of character and a formidable narrative engine.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Hirahara’s well-plotted, wholesome whodunit offers a unique look at LA’s Japanese-American community, with enough twists and local flavor to keep you guessing till the end.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “A thoughtful and highly entertaining read.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Hirahara has a keen eye for the telling detail and an assured sense of character.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “This perfectly balanced gem deserves a wide readership.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “What makes [the Mas Arai] series unique is its flawed and honorable protagonist…a fascinating insight into a complex and admirable man.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Hirahara’s complex and compassionate portrait of a contemporary American subculture enhances her mystery, and vice versa.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “In author Hirahara’s deft hands (she’s an Edgar winner), the human characters, especially Mas, always make for a compelling read.”

  —Mystery Scene

  Iced in Paradise

  A Leilani Santiago Hawai‘i Mystery

  Naomi Hirahara

  Copyright © 2019 by Naomi Hirahara

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Prospect Park Books

  2359 Lincoln Avenue

  Altadena, California 91001

  prospectparkbooks.com

  Distributed by Consortium Book Sales & Distribution

  cbsd.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Hirahara, Naomi, 1962- author.

  Title: Iced in paradise: a Leilani Santiago Hawai‘i mystery / Naomi Hirahara.

  Description: Altadena, California : Prospect Park Books, [2019]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019002885 (print) | LCCN 2019005666 (ebook) | ISBN 9781945551604 (Ebook) | ISBN 9781945551598 (paperback) | ISBN 9781945551635 (hardback)

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3608.I76 (ebook) | LCC PS3608.I76 I28 2019 (print) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019002885

  Cover illustration by Edwin Ushiro

  Cover design by Susan Olinsky

  Interior design by Amy Inouye, Future Studio

  Printed in Canada

  For Rowan

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twele

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  In Hawai‘i we say shave ice.

  If you say shaved ice,

  we know that you’re not from around here.

  —A sign on the wall of Santiago Shave Ice on Kaua‘i

  Chapter One

  “RAINBOW, BLUE MONSTER, Waimea Wonder—” I call out from behind the counter. Even though it’s about eighty degrees outside, balmy with a slight spring breeze, my fingers are frozen through my plastic gloves from guiding a block of ice through our $2,000 shave ice machine. I stand in my orange Crocs on a slated wooden platform, a creation of our ever dependable friend, Darrell, whom everyone calls D-man. D-man is like my second father, or sometimes more my father than my real dad. At least D-man’s usually around my family, while my own father is like a magician—here one moment and gone when you’re not looking.

  A family of redheads steps forward to receive their shave ice. They’re Mainlanders, probably from a place where the sun don’t shine. The boy, who looks about twelve, has a mean sunburn on his cheeks and shoulders. He’s shirtless, just in his swimming trunks and rubbah slippahs. In other words, perfectly dressed for our little Hawaiian garden isle of Kaua‘i.

  It doesn’t surprise me that the boy claims the plastic bowl with the Rainbow ice. A stripe each of blue Hawaiian, cherry, and banana. It’s eye-catching, typical, safe, perfect for a boy who can’t yet grow whiskers. The father takes his Blue Monster, my sister Sophie’s creation. Blueberry, root beer, and chocolate ice cream, topped with mochi bits, a disgusting concoction. I’m always surprised when anyone orders it. And then there’s the Waimea Wonder, my grandmother’s signature combination.

  “What is that brown stuff?” The mother frowns.

  “Azuki. Japanese red beans. Comes in Waimea Wonder.” Dang, lady, can’t you read our chalkboard? In perfect script in multicolored chalk, complete with little flowers and hearts instead of dots for the i’s, my youngest sister, Dani, has clearly written: “Waimea Wonder: haupia and pineapple with snowcap (condensed milk) and azuki beans.”

  “I told her no beans.” She gestures to the figure looming in the corner on a stool beside me.

  My grandmother, who is perched by our original 1970s cash register (I’ve been trying to get her to use a Square instead, but she says, “No can”), pretends that she doesn’t hear the woman.

  “Eh, sorry, ma’am,” I apologize and take the Waimea Wonder from her.

  I quickly shave her a new one, pouring haupia and pineapple syrup from glass bottles, patting it down, and shaving more ice on top. I squeeze the condensed milk from a plastic bottle—the perfect snow top.

  I present it to her in a pink plastic bowl, hoping the neon color will pacify her. She doesn’t seem that pleased, but I notice that she starts slurping it down immediately, not even waiting to sit down with her family at the picnic table outside.

  “Baachan, you wen hear her right.”

  “May-be,” she says.

  Baachan don’t play, especially with anyone who messes with her Waimea Wonder and its azuki beans.

  Let me just say that it hasn’t been eas
y moving back to Waimea from Seattle. I came home a couple of months ago, mostly for Mom, but I don’t let her know that. I tell everyone that I need a break from the rat race in Seattle, that I’m missing the sun and I think that I’m coming down with SAD, seasonal affective disorder. But the truth is, I love the rain and gray skies. I love that Seattle seems angry and depressed for most of the year. That its Pioneer Square is built atop an older city and that you can even traipse through the Underground. There are layers to Seattle, while on Kaua‘i, what you see is usually what you get.

  Nothing seems to have changed in my hometown since my high school years. Our sign, “Santiago Shave Ice,” which my Grandpop Santiago painted on driftwood almost fifty years ago, is still outside the shop. As long as I can remember, there’s only been this half-block stretch of businesses we call Waimea Junction along the highway. The individual stores have changed hands a bit—Auntie Lulu’s sadly is no more, and I miss the smell of chocolate chips baking in her macadamia cookies.

  This southwestern side of the island is less lush than the north. Our beach along the bay is still and shallow—fewer surfers and tourists here. But we aren’t far from Pakala Beach, with its Infinities surf break, which literally feels like it goes on forever—at least that’s what my dad and his local friends think. We are at the foot of the road to get to Waimea Canyon, our island’s Grand Canyon. Most of our customers, in fact, are covered in a reddish dust following their strenuous hike up the road. After that trek, they are ready for fluffy and syrupy sweet iced goodness.

  My BFF, Court, comes through the open door carrying one of her beautiful floral creations. “I brought this for your dad,” she says. It’s a lei made of tuberoses and ti leaves, and the fragrance of the white waxy flowers is intoxicating, filling our little shack with organic perfume.

  “So pretty,” I say. Court inherited her adoptive mother’s artistry, and although there are plenty of flower shops on the north side of Kaua‘i, some folks come all the way to Lee’s Leis and Flowers, next door, to order their wedding floral arrangements.

  “Oh, Tutu Annabelle, you lookin’ good,” Court says. It’s always strange to hear someone say my grandmother’s first name, because it sounds so old-fashioned and formal. And until Court mentions it, I hadn’t noticed that Baachan had cleaned up for my father’s special appearance today. She’s wearing a new, unstained housedress. She even took a comb to her salt and pepper hair, which she ties back with a thick rubber band that used to be around stalks of broccoli.

  “You always look good,” Baachan says to Court. She gestures toward me. “Not like some people.”

  “Whatchu tryin’ for say, Baachan?” My frizzy hair is held back in a bun with a pencil. Maybe I slept in the purple T-shirt I’m wearing, University of Washington, with our husky mascot. “Eh, I took a shower before I put this on,” I tell her.

  As Baachan and I go back and forth, Court silently coils the lei into a clear clamshell and places it on the counter. “You give um him yourself,” I tell her.

  “No, you.”

  I know what Court is up to. She is such a peacemaker. She knows that things haven’t gone that smoothly between me and my dad in the past. A tuberose lei is a perfect diplomatic offering.

  My mother enters to pick up Baachan, whose four-hour shift is close to ending. She wears her hair pretty much how she’s worn it for probably the past forty years—bangs with the rest cut blunt at her shoulders—except now, instead of shiny blond, the strands are half gray and frizzy.

  “Hello, Auntie. Betcha happy Uncle coming home,” Court says.

  Mom smiles. Today is a good day for her. She woke up early and even put on some makeup. Most of the time, she doesn’t bother. It usually melts off by the afternoon.

  “Leilani helped make this for him.” Court holds up the packaged lei for Mom to see.

  Such a liar, I think. But I accept it anyway. It will make Mom happy to think that I was thinking of Dad. I have been thinking of him, actually. Thinking about every broken promise.

  My two younger sisters, both wearing backpacks, barge in from Saturday Japanese-language school. Fourteen-year-old Sophie, wearing a Black Butler manga T-shirt, is first. Of the four of us, Sophie looks the most Japanese. I have more Filipino features, and the youngest, Dani, and Emily, who is a first-year law student at Santa Clara University in California, both have wavy blond hair. Let me just say that we confuse strangers when we all go out to a family dinner—more on the Mainland than Hawai‘i, however.

  “Somebody wen order a Blue Monster today,” Baachan says to Sophie, who lifts her skinny arms in triumph. She goes to a small chalkboard that she has nailed to the wall and with a nub of chalk adds another hash mark to seven already on the board.

  “See, Leilani, Blue Monster gettin’ popular.”

  “I don’t think eight orders make anyting popular.”

  “Well, you haven’t come up with your signature ice.”

  Sophie was right. Even Emily has her Ice Princess combination—coconut snowcap with vanilla ice cream—on the board.

  “Well, she’s back and she will,” Mom says. For a moment, she seems like the old Mom, the Mom before the diagnosis. Wendy Ellis Santiago, former star volleyball setter with killer multitasking skills, handy in raising us four girls.

  “Howzit, everyone—” Our part-timer, Sammie, appears, only five minutes late. She attends the community college and always claims that her studies affect her punctuality. But we all know the truth—that it’s usually drama involving a guy. She scans our family’s faces. “So what I wen miss?”

  There’s a lull in the late afternoon—March is definitely not our busy season—and I sit outside on our picnic table, itching for a cigarette. I started smoking in Seattle and I’ve been trying to quit. Since being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, Mom has been kind of a health nut. She’s gone paleo and lost a ton of weight. She’s skinnier than me, but then that’s not saying much. I’ve always been big boned, taking after my Filipino side rather than my Japanese or haole, white, ancestors. People, in fact, say that I’m the spitting image of my Grandpop Santiago, which, based on his beer belly in the photos around the shop, is not a compliment. I notice that both of us have big boobs.

  Smoking is how I met Travis, outside our office building in a Seattle suburb. He looked like any other analyst at our company, but there was something about his eyes. They looked gray under cloudy skies and a silver blue in the sun. When he spoke to me, he looked straight into my face, as if he really wanted to hear what I was saying. Soon after we moved in together, Travis announced that he was quitting smoking, as if that had been only a ploy for him to get to know me. I told him that I would too. I lied.

  We are doing that long-distance thing. You know, the thing that rarely works. I tried to do it with my old high school boyfriend, Kūheakapu Kahuakai (everyone who is not native Hawaiian just calls him Kelly). Kelly was a buddy before we got romantic. That was around the time he became born again, so we never really “did it,” though we did practically everything except that. At UW, I fell hard for my resident adviser in my dorm, and soon Kelly became a distant memory. When I suggested that we break it off, he didn’t put up a fight, probably because he was already falling for Court.

  My cell phone dings and I position it away from the sun so I can see the screen. It’s a text from Emily:

  Dad there yet?

  I type, No. Are u surprised?

  Be nice.

  Im always nice

  She sends me that laughing emoji before she goes to work at the college library. Emily is the book-smart one, compared with me, who dropped out of UW after three years. My sister, in contrast, is a bookworm and wants to be an international lawyer. Emily is the favored child of both my parents, but I don’t mind. I would pick her over me any day.

  I pull out a flattened cigarette pack from my fanny pack. Inside is one cigarette, my allocation for the day. I tap the pack against my wrist and pull out the sole cigarette. A Bic lighter, and I’m in busi
ness.

  “Those things killers. They kill your grandfather.” I hear that familiar, gruff voice.

  I turn to see my father pulling his suitcase over some red dirt. Behind him, getting out of the taxi SUV, is the driver, Mama Liu, who could be anywhere from fifty to seventy. Her shoulder-length hair is almost all gray and her face leathery and dark from years of being out in the sun. It’s a wonder that she can see the road with her drooping eyelids.

  “Dad.” I drop my cigarette onto the ground and smash it with my Croc.

  My dad, a few gray hairs in his brown goatee, is wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over his tank top. But instead of hibiscus flowers, the shirt features various surf sayings in graffiti style: hang ten, gnarly, stoked, and so on. My dad is trying to be cool. Urban. Instead, he looks ridiculous. I recognize the logo by the front pocket. It’s a giant wave and then the writing “Killer Wave.” This is my father’s brand, which he has expanded into clothing. Getting out of the other side of the SUV is a young haole man, wearing the same shirt, only his is blue instead of black. He’s my dad’s surfing protégé, Luke Hightower.

  “Luke, my oldest, Leilani.”

  “Hey,” Luke greets me. He has crispy blond hair and a spray of freckles on his cheeks. The hairs on his arms and legs are golden against his tanned skin. He looks like a typical California surfer, so it doesn’t surprise me when he reveals that he’s from the OC.

  “Like my mom. She’s from Fullerton.”

  Judging from their matching outfits, Luke apparently has become my father’s surrogate son. My dad always wanted a boy. Dani, Santiago Sister No. 4, was his last chance. She was supposed to be a Daniel, but I don’t tell her that. I was already sixteen when she was born, old enough to hear and understand my father’s disappointment. That’s why I refused to pick up my father’s sport, surfing, and went for my mother’s, volleyball, instead.

  While I’ve always tried to swim in a different direction than my father, Sophie has been the opposite. She’s like a stray puppy, always chasing him for his approval. It doesn’t surprise me when she appears outside. She can smell him a mile away.