Chapter 8
Koa is still standing on my lanai in the aftermath of our little disagreement, arms crossed, badge on his belt, bandage on his forearm, every inch the detective who just told me to stay away from my own suspects.
I crane my neck past him, but the red-haired woman with the cute pooch is currently out of view. Drats. I was really hoping to shake her down and find out what she and Vera were arguing about last night, just before someone pumped a bullet into Vera and my boyfriend.
But the morning after Vera’s murder is in full swing, and my coconut cream coffee has gone lukewarm in my hands, which is the price of arguing with law enforcement before ten a.m.
Below us the resort hums along like nothing happened last night.
The shave ice machine whirs, a hen fusses at something in the hibiscus, and the trade winds carry up salt and coconut sunscreen and a faint hint of Lani’s cinnamon rolls from the kitchen.
Ruby and Lani have wandered off toward the buffet to argue about something in peace, which leaves me alone with the hot detective, the lukewarm coffee, and a losing position.
Koa’s glowing eyes are still on me, warm and steady and quietly dismantling my entire argument, which felt airtight thirty seconds ago and now has a draft coming through it.
Spam hits my shins like a small furry torpedo.
I scoop him up on instinct before he can launch himself at whatever he was targeting, which knowing Spam was probably either the shrimp situation or a personal grudge.
He settles into the crook of my arm immediately, purring, and we both look at Koa’s bandage at the same time.
“Don’t,” Koa warns without even glancing down at it.
“I haven’t said anything,” I say, the picture of innocence, which is a picture I’ve had a lot of practice sitting for.
“You’re about to. You’ve been about to for ten minutes.”
“I’m just looking.”
“You’re looking at it like it owes you money,” he says, and the worst part is he’s right, because that bandage does owe me. It owes me an explanation, a suspect, and about six hours of sleep.
“A bullet went through you,” I remind him. “At my resort. At my party. While you were off duty and standing next to me, which for the record I did not love.”
“It grazed me,” he corrects, in the mild tone of a man downgrading a hurricane to a light breeze because the paperwork is easier. And the vexing part is, he looks lethally handsome while countering each point.
“A bullet made contact with your body, Koa.”
“Lightly,” he says, as if bullets come in decaf.
Spam’s good ear wiggles. The half-bitten stub of the other one twitches once, and I choose to interpret that as solidarity.
He’s warm and solid and weighs approximately as much as a carry-on bag, and I press my chin to the top of his head and look out at the resort, where the morning has decided to be aggressively gorgeous about everything.
The heat sits on my shoulders like a friendly hand that didn’t ask first. The plumeria trees are perfuming the resort, thanks to the trade winds doing most of the work for them, and Hanalei Bay is out there showing off without moving a muscle, and it is, objectively, paradise, which is doing its best to outshine the crime scene tape forty feet away.
“You know,” Koa says, in the tone he uses when he’s been building to something, “most people in dangerous jobs don’t also spend their off hours living next door to a body count.”
“I don’t live next door to a body count,” I protest, and even I can hear how inherently incorrect it sounds.
“This is not the first one, Jinx,” he says, gently, the way you’d remind someone of a dental appointment they keep missing.
“The resort attracts a certain—”
“And you didn’t exactly get that nickname at birth,” he’s quick to remind me. “The universe waited until it knew for sure.”
I open my mouth to counter that claim and yet nothing useful reports for duty.
Spam turns his head and gives me a long, level look, and I get the very clear impression he agrees with Koa, which is a betrayal I intend to address later.
Possibly by withholding shrimp. Probably not, because we both know who runs this place.
“That is a deeply unfair point,” I say.
“It’s an accurate point,” he says, entirely unfazed by the distinction.
“Those aren’t always the same thing,” I inform him, with all the dignity of a woman holding a cat and a losing argument at the same time.
The hint of a smile twitches on his lips, which on Koa’s face is basically a parade, and I’m preparing a very thorough follow-up when something moves at the edge of my vision and we both turn.
It’s the redhead with the dog that I’ve been hoping to shake down.
She’s coming up the path from the beach, looking cheery and bright, already finishing up her morning stroll.
She’s stunning without making any announcement about it, tall and slim, with a waterfall of deep auburn hair that the sea breeze is thoroughly enjoying.
She’s dressed in a cute little tank and matching shorts in a shade of coral that somehow coordinates with the entire resort.
She’s fresh-faced and lightly freckled, and the camera has clearly spent her whole life being extremely nice to her.
At her feet, on a slim coral leash, is the happiest dog I have ever seen.
Small, rust-colored with a white face and chest, compact, with plush ears that stick straight up and an aggressively curled tail, and if I’m not mistaken, that dog is smiling like mad.
Not the way dogs sometimes appear to be smiling.
Actually smiling, full face, ear to ear, like it has just been told the best news of its life and intends to share it with everyone it meets starting immediately.
Spam goes rigid in my arms. His purring has discontinued indefinitely, his good ear sits straight up, even his half-bitten ear is twitching.
Every muscle in his not-inconsiderable body goes to full alert, and he stares at the approaching dog while somewhere inside that orange head a very fast calculation runs at full speed.
I’m sure it has something to do with survival—and in this case it’s the dog’s survival I’m worried about.
“Easy,” I tell the furry tank in my arms. “They’re guests. We don’t bite guests.”
Spam cuts me a brief look. It’s clear he doesn’t find this policy satisfying.
Internally I note that he’s eaten the guests’ shrimp without a single moral qualm, but apparently their dogs are where his ethics kick in.
Good to know he has a line. It’s just drawn in the strangest possible place, like most of his policies.
“Good morning!” The woman slows as she reaches us, and the cute little pooch sits at her feet with crisp precision.
Somewhere along the line, this dog figured out that sitting and smiling gets results, and it’s clearly never looked back.
The woman is still smiling. I’m not sure either one of them has another setting.
“I hope she’s not bothering your cat. She’s well socialized, I promise. ”
Aww, the smiling cutie pie is a girl.
“He’ll get over it,” I say with far too much hope as I pat Spam on the rear. “Good morning, I’m Jinx Julep, I manage the resort.”
“Oh, perfect! I’m Pamela Crenshaw.” She offers up a warm handshake with her coral manicure, and I can’t help but notice she has a giant emerald ring on her middle finger.
“Please call me Jelly.” Her smile suddenly looks unsure.
She is clearly thirty explanations into this moniker-based branding decision.
“It’s a long story and an early decision, and we’ve all agreed to move forward.
In fact, the pageant has Jelly on its official roster. ”
As if I had to ask whether she’s with the pageant. The woman has legs for days, hair that could make a red-hot lava flow envious, and a couple of mangoes that scream winner. Twice.
“Are you enjoying the resort so far?” I ask, because I am a professional. Also, I’m trying desperately to make people forget this place was a slaughterhouse last night.
Koa shoots me a look just this side of a frown. You can’t please everyone.
“Oh, yes. It’s absolutely gorgeous.” Jelly glances toward the beach, where the crime scene tape is still visible, and her expression does something brief and genuine. “Under the circumstances.”
“Under the circumstances,” I agree.
“Speaking of circumstances,” Jelly steps in.
“I actually wanted to ask, is it okay that I have her here with me?” She looks down at the cheery pup, who is now looking at Koa with fixed, luminous attention.
It’s clear she’s identified her person, and she’s working up to doing something about it.
A part of me is terrified at what that might be.
“She’s a Shiba Inu,” Jelly goes on. “Isn’t she adorable?
And she has a great personality, too. I’m fostering her through the Kauai Humane Society.
They have a foster program for visitors that keeps the dogs out of the kennels.
I’m a huge animal person, so it was only natural.
” She reaches down and scratches the dog’s ear.
The dog barely notices. She’s too busy gawking at Koa.
“She’s absolutely welcome,” I say. “What’s her name?”
Jelly laughs. “Spam Musubi.”
A long pause moves in and makes itself comfortable.
I look at the smiling pooch, then at the angry ball of orange fur in my arms.
Firstly, Spam musubi is also the name of a popular dish here on the islands that consists of a thick cut of Spam—the food item—sitting on a bed of rice molded to the shape of the Spam, and the whole thing is held together with a strip of seaweed.
It’s a delicacy around these parts and often sells out before noon.
Secondly, Spam also happens to be the name this ball of orange fur decides not to answer to.