Aloha Lagoon Mysteries Boxed Set Volume III (Books 7-9) Read online

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  ALOHA LAGOON MYSTERIES

  BOXED SET VOL. III

  BOOKS 7-9

  by

  LESLIE LANGTRY, ANNE MARIE STODDARD & CATHERINE BRUNS

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  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2017 by Leslie Langtry, Anne Marie Stoddard, Catherine Bruns

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Ukulele Deadly (book #7)

  by Leslie Langtry

  Bikinis & Bloodshed (book #8)

  by Anne Marie Stoddard

  Death of the Kona Man (book #9)

  by Catherine Bruns

  BONUS CONTENT

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  Aloha Lagoon Booklist

  Sneak Peak of

  Lethal Tide (book #10)

  by Beth Prentice

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  UKULELE DEADLY

  by

  LESLIE LANGTRY

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  Ukulele Deadly is dedicated to my ukulele instructor, Andy Cowan, who's Music Theory lessons have blown my mind, and to the amazing staff at West Music in Moline, where I've bought about a dozen ukuleles over the years. Thanks for helping me discover and play this fabulous instrument.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  "Are those…human heads?" eight-year-old Daisy asks as we walk through my front door. "Real human heads? From, like, people?"

  My entryway looks like Madame Tussaud stopped by for a visit and made a bunch of wax heads but got bored and left before attempting anything below the neck. Dozens of glassy eyes stare unnervingly at us, probably begging us to call the police for help.

  Mom.

  "No. They're just…" My mind races for an explanation as to what these things are and why I'd even have them in my house.

  Which, by the way, I wouldn't. These heads weren't here when I'd left for work a few hours ago. Mom must be on one of her insane decorating binges. I really should take over her bank account. I'm sure Dad didn't mean for her to use her inheritance for this. Again. Still, I have to admit, this is way better than the time she filled the dining room with three dozen obscenely endowed tiki gods. They were basically giant erections with tiny figurines attached on one end, and they fell over every time I took a breath anywhere in the house. As a result of this pornographic collection (Mom called them cultural artifacts), I couldn't eat in there, and I took bratwurst off the menu until Mom removed them. Being that we're mostly German (where brats are their own food group) and from the Midwest (where it's possibly illegal if you don't grill them once a week), she grudgingly complied.

  "Mannequin heads." My exhausted brain finally connects with the right word. "They're for a…a hairstylist convention."

  Daisy shrugs and walks over to a head that eerily resembles me and pokes it in the eye. Would she actually do that if it were real? Kids are creepy.

  And that's the best I can come up with? A hairstylist convention? Well, I guess that's better than saying Mom's on an island-wide decapitation spree. At least she's diverse. I count quite a few different races represented by the unblinking heads. Some are even wearing makeup.

  "Oh good, Nani!" Mom rounds the corner in a bright lime muumuu with a sloshing mai tai to match. Great. She's on a binge and a bender.

  "I'd like your opinion," she says as she totters in on her flip-flops. Despite their flat engineering, she walks in them as if they are six-inch high heels. Mom never really warmed to the "shoes off at the front door" culture here.

  Huh. Mom never asks for my opinion on her, um, stuff. Most of the time I just stumble into the living room to find one hundred and twenty-three plastic bananas wearing handlebar mustaches and giant googly eyes.

  She waves toward the severed heads. "Do you think the legs would look better in the living room or in your bedroom? I've given them all pedicures but can't find shoes that fit."

  Fantastic. This means she has the rest of the body parts stashed somewhere. With the way my luck is running, she probably has the torsos scattered around the yard, which will definitely skeeve out the neighbors. Does she forget that not too long ago, I was the main suspect in three murders? I do not need the extremely nearsighted little old lady next door calling the police to say she saw me dismembering bodies.

  I need to get a little tough here. "Neither. And there's no more room in the garage for your 'decorations.' You can keep the heads, but the bodies have to go away." I know…why let her keep the heads? Because you have to pick your battles with Harriet Jones Johnson.

  Mom pouted. "Well, you'll have to move them then, because Nick and his mother are coming over in an hour for dinner."

  I groan. I don't even do it inwardly anymore, because Mom doesn't appear to notice or care.

  "Why didn't you tell me before I went to work?" I whine.

  Now I have to cancel Daisy's lesson, scavenge for something to cook, and, well, cook it, all in one hour. Sure, I do this all the time. But that doesn't mean I like it. At least we are past the surprise dinners where my mother foists me on strange men. I'm in a pretty serious relationship with someone she introduced me to…at a surprise dinner, where I'd tried to pass off carryout as my own cooking.

  Daisy sighs, pulls her cell out of her pocket, and dials. Unfortunately, she knows the drill. My mother has no respect for my student lessons. No matter what I say, she'll just do it again. Daisy's a little too used to this, and once she tells her parents about the severed heads in the foyer, I'll probably lose her as a student.

  "Okay, Dad." Daisy ends the call and looks up at me. Her bright yellow, smiley face ukulele hasn't even left the case. "He's just a block away. I'll wait for him outside." And with that, she's gone.

  "Mom." I turn on my mother. "I've told you to check with me before you invite people over. Now I'm going to lose another student."

  My mother doesn't care. "I'm sorry, Nani. I really am. But you work for the resort now. You don't need to teach lessons anymore."

  I take a deep breath and steel myself. "I don't need to
—I like to." Not to mention the fact that at the rate she's emptying her bank account, she'll need my income to buy googly eyes, disembodied heads, and erect tiki statues.

  At one time I had quite a few students. But when I was a suspect in those aforementioned murders, my students started falling away. The tragic and disturbing upside is that because of those murders, my competition is gone, and now I'm able to perform at the Aloha Lagoon Resort. I balance that with my gigs at the Blue Hawaii Wedding Chapel. So I'd narrowed my teaching down to three of my favorite students, which included Daisy.

  "You're going to have to start dinner," Mom says. "Nick and Vera will be here in forty-five minutes. What are you going to make?"

  "I thought you said an hour," I say through gritted teeth.

  An artificially black eyebrow rises. "Did I? Well, it doesn't matter, because they'll be here in thirty minutes."

  I really need to get Mom a watch.

  "I'll order out," I say after doing a mental inventory of my empty cupboards. Why does this always happen when we have no food?

  My mother shakes her head, causing her mai tai to spill again. A neon green puddle that looks suspiciously like antifreeze starts to run across the floor. One more mess I have to clean up.

  "I think it would be better if you cook. How do you expect to keep Nick interested if we order out each time?"

  I roll my eyes. "Nick and I have been dating for a while now. I don't think it's my cooking that he's interested in."

  Storming past Mom before she can ask for details, I reach my room, locking the door behind me. Half an hour—or whatever it is now—is at least enough time to take a quick shower and change my clothes. I've just come home from a luau, and my hair smells like roasted pork.

  My name is Nani Johnson, and I'm a Juilliard-trained ukulele musician living on the island of Kauai. I moved here almost two years ago with my mother, after my father died. And since she's mostly certifiable, she doesn't work, instead spending her days either playing mah jong at the senior center, decorating our small cottage, or running around with her new friend, Vera Woodfield.

  It's funny how I'd once thought moving to Hawaii would solve all of our problems. Mom's a diehard Polynesia-phile who thinks she's a direct descendant of King Kamehameha's. She's descended from German farmers, and instead of having Tahitian ancestors, we have pasty white people from Kansas.

  She'd started this whole obsession just before I was born. She even saddled me with a Hawaiian name—Hoalohanani—but I insist on being called Nani. It's rough in grade school when not one teacher can pronounce your name, so each and every one of them gives you a nickname. Now imagine what they pick right off the bat—one hundred percent of the time? That's right. Ho. I've been Nani ever since then.

  When my very normal father died, the crazy accelerated like gasoline on a brush fire. Now that we actually live here, she's changed her name to Haliaka, bought a closet full of muumuus, and dyed her hair an alarming shade of black. And every now and then, the police stop by to let us know the neighbors don't appreciate her singing "Lovely Hula Hands" at the top of her lungs at all hours of the day and night.

  Still, she's too young to institutionalize (she'd probably just escape anyway). I do owe her for introducing me to Nick. His mother, Vera, is kind of eccentric. It's nice dating someone who understands.

  The Loco Moco Café is packed. Great. This will only add to my time. I snake my way through the crowd and manage to get to the register. The waitress recognizes me because, sadly, I order out a lot. She takes pity on me by handing me my food and taking my money.

  After weaving back through the crowd, I find my car in the lot. There aren't many people around, which is great. I'll be home in time to set the table before the Woodfields arrive. Tossing the food onto the passenger seat, I walk around the back of the car to find a man lying on the ground. He's probably my age, and from the way he's thrashing about, I think he's in trouble.

  "Are you alright?" I drop to my knees, whipping out my cell and dialing 9-1-1.

  He doesn't look so good. The man is gasping for air and reaching toward me. I lean closer to his face, and he struggles to whisper as he clutches at my clothes. One last gasp and he goes mute, empty eyes staring at the sky.

  Oh no!

  "9-1-1, what's your emergency?" a voice says.

  "I'm in the parking lot of the Aloha Lagoon Resort," I shout. "Near the Loco Moco. There's a man on the ground. I think he's dead!"

  My heart is pounding as I get to my feet. I can barely hear the 9-1-1 dispatcher. It's as if her voice is tiny and very far away. The man just lies there, and it occurs to me I should take his pulse. I reach down and feel the side of his neck. Nothing. No! This can't be happening!

  Sirens wail in the distance. The resort isn't that far away from the police station. As the cruiser pulls up, I look around. The lot is deserted, but out of the corner of my eye, over near the hedges that rim the lot, I see some movement.

  "Miss Johnson." Detective Ray Kahoalani's voice brings me back to the scene. "Why am I not surprised?"

  I ignore the dig. "I just walked out here from the restaurant to find this guy on the ground. He died right in front of me!"

  The detective and the uniformed officer kneel down to check the victim. My eyes roam back to the spot where I'd seen something. A strange shadow is hidden there, in the foliage. Is someone watching us?

  "He's dead alright." Detective Ray stands up and gives me a look. "Who is he?"

  The reality of what's just happens kicks in. I'm shaking and cold. This isn't my first go-round with a dead body, but it still paralyzes me.

  "I don't know. I've never seen him before."

  Detective Ray directs the other policeman, and we are soon surrounded by squad cars and joined by an ambulance. I'm numb. Everything seems like a blur. Wrapping my arms around me to warm up seems silly, since the temperature is in the 80s.

  My eyes wander again to the shadow, but it's gone. Did I imagine it? Who was it? Someone who was going to help? Maybe they saw me and decided I had it handled.

  "Did he have a heart attack or a stroke?" I ask as the detective joins me.

  "We won't know until we get him to the morgue," Detective Ray says glumly. He's always sort of reminded me of a basset hound.

  "What were you doing out here?" he asks.

  I repeat that I'd been to the restaurant. To prove my point, I take him over to my car and open the door. The smell of barbequed pork fills the air. My stomach rumbles loudly.

  "I see," he says. "I've got to get back to the station, but don't leave town."

  My jaw drops open. "This is an accident, right?"

  He shakes his head. "No. I don't think so. I think this man was murdered."

  "Based on what?" I scream a little too loudly. Everyone stops what they're doing and turns to look at me.

  "I don't know," Ray says. "But if you are involved, I'm pretty sure this man didn't die of natural causes."

  I consider throwing a tantrum, which would be silly because from my experience with the police, it won't make any difference.

  "You should go home." The Detective gives me a look I don't recognize before turning to join his team.

  You don't have to tell me twice. I hit the gas and race out of the parking lot. As I tear a little recklessly through the streets, I think back on what has just happened.

  A man dropped dead in front of me. No…that's not quite right. He was already on the ground when I found him. But still, he died. And he'd tried to tell me something. What?

  Drop it, Nani. You need this like you need another mannequin head in the foyer. Just forget it happened and go home. I pull into the driveway and jump out of the car. Just as I put dinner in the oven to reheat it, the doorbell rings.

  "Vera?" I ask as the hunky botanist kisses me on the cheek.

  "Sorry." Nick seems sheepish. "She's not feeling well." He looks around the foyer, and when he doesn't see Mom, he whispers, "Do you think Hallie will be okay with that?"

>   Hallie is the nickname my mom uses now that she's "Hawaiian." Her real name is Harriet, and back home people called her Hattie. But she tells everyone it's Haliaka. I can live with Hallie, so I let it go.

  I usher him inside and close the door behind him. "I'll make her daiquiris extra strength. She'll pass out, and we'll have the place to ourselves. Kinda."

  Nick follows me into the kitchen, and I explain why dinner from somewhere else is in the oven. "Wow! Are you okay?" Nick pulls me into his arms, and I kind of collapse there. I match my breathing to his, and my thoughts begin to slow down.

  "I'm fine," I say into his chest. "It was awful."

  Nick guides me to one of the stools at the breakfast bar and pours me a glass of wine. I take a sip then belt the whole thing down. My boyfriend doesn't judge me. He simply refills my glass. "I'm glad you're okay," Nick is genuinely concerned. He's so sweet.

  "Detective Ray thinks it was murder."

  Nick's eyebrows go up. He looks a little too interested for my comfort. "Really?"

  "Oh no you don't. This has nothing to do with us. We are not investigating. No way, no how."

  I'm not joking. Nick loves to play amateur detective. But I'm no Nancy Drew, and I'm only too happy to leave this one alone. I take another gulp of wine as my cell rings.

  "Miss Johnson?" The detective's voice causes me to groan. "I'm on my way to your house. I have a few more questions."