Three to Get Lei'd Read online

  Someone on the island is “acting out,” with murderous intent...

  A jigger of tranquility is all Em Johnson wants, but now that her beloved Tiki Goddess Bar has been chosen as the location for Trouble in Paradise, TV’s hot new reality show, life is anything but tranquil. When a member of the camera crew is found dead in her kitchen—stabbed to death with Chef Kimo’s sashimi knife—the scene on the sleepy North Shore of Kauai goes from eccentrically crazy to downright dangerous. Suspects lurk behind every paper drink umbrella.

  It’s not enough that Chef Kimo is the number one suspect or that the life’s-a-party Hula Maidens nearly burn down the place while dancing the hula with flaming coconuts. Em still has to deal with her Uncle Louie’s wedding to the Black Widow—until his fiancée’s Mercedes plunges into the Pacific. Roland Sharpe, handsome Hawaiian fire-dancing detective, warns the locals not to interfere, but Em and the madcap Maidens can’t help themselves and soon wind up knee deep in danger again. Can the irrepressible troupe solve three murders before the champagne goes flat?

  The Tiki Goddess Series

  Mai Tai One On

  Two To Mango

  Three To Get Lei’d

  Too Hot Four Hula (2014)

  Three to Get Lei’d

  Book 3: The Tiki Goddess Mysteries

  by

  Jill Marie Landis

  Bell Bridge Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-311-5

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-288-0

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2013 by Jill Marie Landis

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

  Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo credits:

  Tiki (manipulated) © Annsunnyday | Dreamstime.com

  Shrimp © Burlesck | Dreamstime.com

  Knife (manipulated) © Dio5050 | Dreamstime.com

  Drink (manipulated) © Dancingalligator | Dreamstime.com

  :Egtl:01:

  Dear Readers,

  Aloha from the land of palm trees, gentle breezes, rainbows, sunshine, Mai Tais, murder, mayhem, and the Hula Maidens.

  The Hawaiian words used here and in the other Tiki Goddess Mysteries should be self-explanatory. Since there are only twelve letters in the Hawaiian alphabet, words often look alike but have many different meanings. Hawaiian words are not pluralized, so where I have written leis, muumuus, and have added an “s” for clarity, kala mai, pardon.

  Slang phrases such as: for reals, oh shoots, lots of stuffs, and choke (meaning crowded . . . “It’s choke in the ballroom.”) might be mistaken for typos, but they aren’t. “Lucky you live Kauai!” is also a local saying.

  Though the Hula Maidens and the rest of the cast of characters, including David Letterman—the taste-testing parrot—spend lots of time with cocktails in hand, this is a work of fiction. Please drink responsibly and always, always have a designated driver, a taxi waiting, or have someone phone a friend for you when you have no business behind the wheel.

  For more recipes, tips on island style living, tiki lore, and updates about what adventures await the Hula Maidens, please stop by and visit www.thetikigoddess.com

  Until next time, Tiki On!

  —Jill Marie Landis

  1

  “Life is full of ups and downs, honey. We have to celebrate every minute before we drain our last tiki mug.”

  —Uncle Louie

  Cue the Maidens!

  IS A JIGGER of tranquility really too much to ask for?

  Standing behind a twelve-foot koa wood bar, Em Johnson, manager of the Tiki Goddess on Kauai’s North Shore, started prepping for the day ahead. After filling the ice bin, she sliced fruit for the sectional dish that held lime, pineapple, lemon slices, and maraschino cherries for the tropical concoctions tourists ordered in droves.

  Across the room, Pat Boggs, better known as “Sarge,” struggled to wrangle an incorrigible group of geriatric hula dancers into some semblance of order. The senior dancers, a.k.a the Hula Maidens, had stubbornly conned their way into becoming the featured act at the Goddess.

  “Okay, you gol’danged left-footed boobies, shut up and get in line! You do know what a line is don’t ’cha? It’s show time!” Pat hollered.

  Pat’s voice grated on Em’s nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

  Em inhaled, closed her eyes, and slowly counted to ten. When she opened her eyes, she found herself staring up at Nat Clark, a full time television script writer and part-time Kauai resident from L.A. Nat owned the refurbished plantation cottage on the beach next door to the Goddess. A tall hedge separated his property from their parking lot.

  “You look like you need a break already,” he said.

  “I was thinking about hiding at your place,” Em said. “It would serve you right if the camera crew followed me over.”

  Nat watched the commotion across the barroom where the Maidens were trying not to fidget while a cameraman balanced a huge handheld camera on his shoulder. He panned across them and then filmed the three-piece band on the stage.

  “You realize I haven’t had a minute of peace since this whole thing started.” Em opened a new box of colorful cocktail umbrellas and set it on the bar near the garnishes. Ever since the pilot for a reality show based on the Goddess had aired, the lives of everyone connected with the place had been turned upside down. The show had aptly been named Trouble in Paradise.

  “Back the dancers out of the way. I want a close up of the Tiki Tones.” The cameraman fought to be heard over Pat’s hollering.

  “She takes her job seriously,” Nat said.

  “She does,” Em agreed. “With little success.”

  They watched Pat try to herd the Maidens away from the stage. Outfitted for a full dress rehearsal, all of the dancers were garbed in pink cellophane grass skirts tied over neon-yellow spandex cat suits—very large, very neon, cat suits.

  Pat waved her arms. “Move back, ya’ll. Let the cameraman in, would’ya? Back up, I say. Can’t cha hear?”

  The line of dancers fell apart as Pat urged them toward the center of the room. Dressed in the worn cowboy boots, white socks, cargo shorts, and baggy Aloha shirt over a bleach-stained, faded tank top, Pat’s appearance was gender non-specific. Her close-cropped hair and lack of makeup made it impossible to tell if she was a woman or a young man.

  Pat was the first to admit she “Didn’t give a good gol’durned turd” about it.

  “She was enlisted to save the Maidens from themselves, and despite the odds, she’s bound and determined to succeed . . . whether they like it or not. Most of the time they don’t,” Em said.

  Nat watched one of the heftier Maidens adjust her cleavage by yanking at the neckline of her top an
d heaving it up.

  “I didn’t know spandex had that much give,” he said.

  “You can see why I’m ready to get out of here.”

  “My door is always open,” he told Em. “Make yourself at home anytime.”

  “I was serious when I said the crew would probably follow me over to your place. Every time I turn around there’s a camera in my face.”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse than bad. Yesterday the producer said he’d give me a co-producing credit if I kept Little Estelle from yelling ‘Call me Cougar!’ every fifteen minutes.”

  “Cougar? She’s what? Ninety?” Nat laughed.

  “Ninety-two. It’s not funny. The woman is a sex maniac. Want some coffee?” She offered.

  “I’d love some.”

  She filled a thick ceramic mug with a dark Kona brew that smelled like ambrosia. Em carefully slid the mug across the bar.

  “Looks delicious,” he said.

  “Cream?” She thought Nat looked sort of delicious himself.

  “I’ll take it black. I need a good jolt.”

  Em glanced over at the stage where everything was at a standstill. The Maidens argued with each other in hushed tones while Pat shot them all stink-eye. Bandleader Danny Cook and the Tiki Tones were working out the chorus of a new Hawaiian song. Em didn’t speak the language, but even to the untrained ear she guessed they were murdering the pronunciation.

  She turned back to Nat. “Need a shot of something in your coffee? How about some Bailey’s?”

  “Nope.” He took a sip. “This will do it.” Nat glanced at his watch. “It’s only nine thirty. They’re filming early this morning.”

  “When aren’t they filming? Such is life now, no thanks to you.”

  Trouble in Paradise had been Nat’s idea. Who doesn’t dream of an exotic escape from real life, and what better setting than the always unpredictable atmosphere of a tiki bar on the outskirts of nowhere? He had been certain, and it turned out he was right. A big cable channel had picked up the show. As Em re-arranged the lime wedges in the divided dish on the bar, she wished she could have talked him out of it before it was too late.

  “I still haven’t completely forgiven you for pitching the idea,” she said.

  “I thought you finally approved.”

  “Oh, big Hollywood writer, have you conveniently forgotten that I had reservations about this?” she shot back. “But once you told my uncle about it, Louie was so gung ho I couldn’t stand in the way.”

  Nat set his mug down. “I’m sorry, Em. I really thought Trouble in Paradise would be great for the Goddess and the whole North Shore economy.”

  “Oh, there’s no denying the show is helping everyone’s business, especially ours,” she admitted. “Ever since the pilot aired, tourists have been flooding in. The parking lot is always jammed. Of course, the neighbors absolutely hate all the traffic, and I can’t blame them. Before we even open our lot is half full with the production crew’s cars and their van. The Maidens are determined to be on every minute of air time, so they’re always finding an excuse to practice or just hang around here. The overflow parking clogs the highway.”

  “It’s hard to miss all the No Parking signs up and down the road.”

  “For all the good they do.” Em shrugged. “They’re painted on everything that doesn’t move: surfboards, trash cans, light posts, derelict cars.”

  “I especially like the mannequin hanging from a noose in that old mango tree a few lots down,” he said.

  “The one dressed like a tourist holding a sign that says Park Here and Die?”

  “Well, it’s straightforward and to the point.”

  Em rested her chin on her fist. Before the pilot aired, the Goddess had been more than a setting for the latest hit reality show. It was not only a tourist destination, but a North Shore institution through good times and bad, a place so many in the community likened to a second home. The Goddess was their port in a storm.

  “Some of the locals have shied away from all the action, but we’re still making money hand over fist,” she admitted. “The Maidens are all cashing in on the show’s popularity, too. But that’s created another problem.”

  “Celebrity gone to their heads?”

  “You got it. They’re so obsessed with checking the numbers of Likes they’re getting on their Facebook pages that they’ve let their dancing slip.”

  “They didn’t have very far to fall,” he noted.

  “We’re talking about worse than ever. Those women spend more time preening in front of the camera or online promoting themselves than they do practicing. They’ve gotten so lax that Sophie refuses to help them anymore.”

  Sophie Chin, Em’s young bartender and former hula dancer, had taken pity on the Maidens a few times when they were in a bind and asked her to choreograph for them, but that was before they’d been tainted by life in the spotlight.

  “They’re bickering all the time,” Em said. “Worse than ever.”

  Nat studied the six older women of all shapes and sizes between the ages of sixty-two and seventy-two as they filed on stage. Little Estelle, or Cougar as she now insisted on being called, was the oldest of the group and confined to a Gadabout motorized scooter. For the moment, she was parked in the corner, snoozing away while her daughter Big Estelle, an Amazon in her seventies, joined the others on stage.

  Not only were all the dancers outfitted in neon spandex and cellophane grass skirts, but their neck waddles were wreathed in flower lei, their heads crowned with huge sprays of flowers and ferns.

  Nat took a sip of coffee. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think a floral delivery truck had collided with a senior citizens’ van in the middle of your bar.”

  “I miss the good old days,” she sighed.

  Five months ago, before their little corner of Kauai was illuminated by the reality show spotlight, this time of day she would have been out enjoying a morning swim and thinking about heading into the office to book catering gigs or to tackle the billing.

  Now, instead of enjoying the sunny morning, warm water, and balmy trade wind breezes, she was longing for ways to escape the voyeuristic camera crew.

  “What’s your Uncle Louie up to this morning?” Nat asked.

  “He and Marilyn are discussing the wedding plans, again, over breakfast on the lanai at the house. The producer gave up on any real action over there and brought the lead crew in to film rehearsals for tonight’s show. I think there’s another cameraman in the kitchen hassling Kimo about the set up for later today.” She sighed again. “Last night he threatened to quit.”

  “Kimo or the cameraman?”

  “Kimo.”

  “You’re kidding? He’s always so laid back. What happened?”

  Their half-Hawaiian chef never got flustered, even when the place was “choke” with people and orders backed up.

  Em said, “The kitchen is small enough as it is without a camera, boom, and assistant producer wedged in there.”

  “I really am sorry I got you into this,” Nat said.

  “You didn’t even end up working on the show.”

  “I had no idea my agent would come up with another gig for me so fast after CDP was cancelled. I’d have been crazy to sign on for Trouble in Paradise over a big prime time network show.”

  Nat had been a head writer on Crime Doesn’t Pay until the long-running show was cancelled. Now he was writing for another television who-done-it. No matter how bad things were at the Tiki Goddess, Em didn’t begrudge him the chance to win another Emmy.

  “I know,” she admitted. “But I still wish you were here to inject some common sense into the hokey storyline ideas the producer keeps coming up with. It was a shock to find out there’s nothing real about reality TV.”

  He finished the coffee
and passed the mug back to her.

  “More?” she asked.

  “No, thanks. I’m good,” he said.

  “Do you like your new show?”

  “Love it,” he said. “It was that or writing for a new musical spin-off of Glee.”

  “Really? A Glee spin-off?”

  “It’s about a group of musical twenty-somethings who work at a theme park. Guess what they’re calling it?”

  “No idea.”

  “Whee.”

  “I can see how you’d prefer cops and murders.” She dropped his cup in soapy water in the wash bin. “Thankfully, things have been really slow here. Other than Uncle Louie’s wedding, the producer has had to come up with his own ideas for a storyline. Randy’s always complaining that something exciting better happen soon.”

  Nat interrupted, “Randy Rich?”

  “The head producer and director.”

  “I heard through the grapevine that he’s a real wild card.”

  “You heard right. He came up with tonight’s show idea. The Maidens are to compete in a hula-off dressed in all that spandex. They each get to do a solo, and members of the audience can give them the gong. The last one standing wins. It’s going to be a train wreck.”

  “Not to mention dangerous. A couple of those women would kill to win,” Nat said. “I can see what Randy’s up to, though. Ratings will soar if the Maidens end up in a cat fight in cat suits.”

  “Ratings.” Em scoffed. “You’re just like the rest of them.”

  “The rest of who?”

  “Hollywood types. Industry people. The oh-so-hip, so cool, so now.”

  “TV is my bread and butter, Em.”

  Em glanced out a side window. Kimo, their chef, was hurrying as fast as a heavyset short man with a well-nurtured party ball around his waistline could hustle across the lot. He jumped into his gecko-green pickup truck and pulled out of the lot.

  “Kimo must really need something fast. When he preps for lunch he usually asks me to run errands for him,” she said.