“Dave said the police asked him about previous boyfriends. Were you aware of anyone Keiki dated––someone who might have been upset with her?”
“She dated one young man, also a dancer, on and off, but dumped him a few months ago. But I know he couldn’t have had anything to do with it.”
“Why not?” Former boyfriends are excellent suspects. Former husbands who leave you for another woman are even better.
Okay, I was getting off track here. I tuned in again to Regan.
“He died shortly after their break-up.”
I gasped. “How tragic. Was it an accident?”
“Possibly, although there were rumors he committed suicide because he was so devastated by the breakup. He didn’t leave a note so no one will ever know.” Regan’s face darkened as she scowled. “I used to think your brother was devoted to me. But a woman like Keiki can change a man. And not for the better.”
“Yes, but––” My reply was interrupted when Liz, Brian, Stan, and Mother joined us. With Steve and Dave not far behind. By the time the two men arrived, the only available seats were at the opposite end of the table. It was probably just as well Regan and Dave would sit apart. He nodded at her then proceeded to ignore her. She finally left to get some food, rejoining us seconds before the trio of musicians began to play.
As eight female dancers edged toward the stage, I recognized Keiki’s sister. I elbowed Stan. “Walea is performing tonight. Don’t you think it’s odd she’s dancing and not mourning her sister?”
He cocked his head. “Even in Hawaii they probably follow that old tenet––the show must go on.”
“There must be other dancers who could replace her.”
“Not necessarily. This resort only holds a luau once a week. Maybe she needs the money and couldn’t afford not to show up. Hawaii is an expensive place to live. I understand many people on this island hold multiple jobs just to get by.”
I stared at Walea, performing as if she didn’t have a care in the world. She shook her curvy hips, sheathed in a white sarong, and tossed her waist-length hair from side to side.
Maybe Walea did need the money. Or maybe she didn’t care that her stepsister had died.
Was anyone mourning the loss of the beautiful dancer?
Chapter 10
The luau entertainment was terrific, although every time Walea returned to the stage, my thoughts drifted to her stepsister’s tragic death. The emcee, who reminded me of a tan Jay Leno minus the formidable chin, possessed an excellent sense of humor that helped distract me from my ominous ruminations.
He introduced each number with a brief history of the geographic region in the Pacific where it originated. He explained how the performers portrayed the meaning of Polynesian songs through the actions of their bodies, particularly the use of graceful hand movements.
I glanced over at Regan. She glared at her husband who conversed in low tones with Steve. My sister-in-law looked like she was about to produce a graceful hand motion of her own. One utilizing the third finger for emphasis.
The well-built, oiled bodies of the male dancers captivated me with something more–– agility. It made me wonder why Keiki would break up with a dancer her own age and go after my slightly balding, slightly pudgy brother.
The troupe performed a Fijian Dance where the men sat on the floor clapping poles together at an amazing speed and with unerring accuracy. A true crowd pleaser came next–– the Siva Afi ––the daring fire knife dance.
“I wonder how long it would take for me to learn that dance,” Stan whispered.
“Folsom Lake isn’t big enough to put out the inferno you’d start if you took up fire dancing.”
“Party pooper,” Stan muttered.
The dancers spun their fiery swords under and around their writhing bodies. At the finale, they threw the flaming batons high enough to reach the satellite servicing my smart phone. I started breathing again once they were all successfully caught.
The men bowed and smiled broadly as the audience roared its approval. The Hawaiian Jay Leno indicated there would be one more participatory dance that included members from the audience. As the performers fanned out into the crowd searching for victims, I lowered my head. The worst thing you can do in one of these situations is make eye contact with a performer.
Stan waved at a handsome young man who must have registered on his gaydar. “Yoo hoo, over here.”
As the dark-haired dancer approached, Stan shoved me out of my chair and into the man’s muscular arms. What the heck!
Everyone at our table hooted, including Regan, who smiled for the first time that evening.
“I’m Kimo.” The young dancer introduced himself as he guided me onto the stage. I stared at the crowd in complete paralysis, wishing that Pele, the Hawaiian goddess of fire, would pluck me off the stage and use me as a virgin sacrifice. I’d rather be thrown into an erupting volcano than dance before an audience.