Chapter 8 #2
I glance down at the furious feline in my arms. Spam’s eyes have grown the size of tennis balls. His mouth falls open as if he were expecting tuna and got a grenade. I think he’s just learned something about the universe, and he did not consent to the lesson.
“Spam?” It comes out as more of a question than the name deserves. “Why, that’s also my cat’s name.” I try to laugh it off and yet it sounds like a sob. Because let’s face it, this won’t end well.
Jelly’s hand flies to her mouth. “No,” she gasps with delight, as if I’ve just handed her the best gossip on the island.
“Yes,” I confirm, because somebody at this resort has to face facts, and it’s clearly not going to be the cat.
“It’s a wonderful name,” Koa says with a sigh that lets me know he’s resigned to the terror the felines among us will stage because of it.
“That’s insane.” Jelly laughs, and the rest of us remain silent, because, let’s face it, she hasn’t properly met my Spam.
“It really is.” I look at Spam the cat, who is staring at Spam Musubi the dog with profound, personal offense. Spam has held that name his entire life, and he’s just discovered it is not exclusive. Nobody warned him there could be two.
A growl ripples through him.
“He’s taking it beautifully,” I lie.
Spam the cat turns, gives me one long look, and with the full ire of a wronged party, launches himself out of my arms and stalks across the resort grounds without a backward glance.
His tail is doing all the talking, and the language is not polite.
He’s more or less morphed into a walking expletive wrapped in fur.
“Just beautifully,” I repeat, as if that might somehow make it true.
Jelly laughs, loud and jolly. “Oh no. I hope I haven’t caused a kitten kerfuffle.”
“He’ll decide it was his idea eventually,” I say. “He always does.”
Koa crouches down, his good arm extended toward Spam Musubi, giving her the scratch of a lifetime behind her ears, and the sweet puppy has completely abandoned the thought of sitting patiently and is wriggling toward him with every ounce of her small enthusiastic body.
Her tail is an absolute blur, her smile is somehow wider than before, and she’s making a sound that’s not quite a bark and not quite a whimper and is entirely a declaration of love.
Koa ticks his head at the curious creature. “Why is this dog smiling at me like that.”
“Oh, she smiles at everyone,” Jelly giggles.
“That’s not an everyone smile,” I say to Koa. “That’s a you smile. That smile has a name on it and it’s Koa Hale. I think she’s flirting.”
Koa looks up at me. I hold his gaze and say nothing, because the dog is basically making my argument for me. Spam Musubi puts both front paws on his knee and grins at him with her whole being.
“Clearly, she has good taste,” I say. Internally I note she’s spent her morning at ankle level among forty beauty queens in varying states of resort-wear, and Koa Hale is the first adult male she’s properly encountered, and honestly her instincts are impeccable and I cannot fault her taste because I’ve seen the man.
And kissed the man. Something tells me she’s not too far behind.
I turn back to Jelly and catch her doing a very brief, very professional sweep of Koa herself that she reins in exactly one second before it becomes a thing. I clear my throat. “This is Detective Koa Hale,” I say. “My—”
The word boyfriend floats through my brain looking vaguely embarrassed, the way it always does, because we are full adults and the whole boyfriend-girlfriend infrastructure still feels faintly like we should be passing notes in homeroom, although standing here surrounded by forty beauty queens with legs to the horizon, I find I have very little trouble locating the word.
“Boyfriend,” I finish, at a volume that commits fully.
Jelly smiles, warm and genuine. “Lucky you,” she says, to me.
“That’s what I keep telling her,” Koa says, standing up, and I shoot him a look and he gives me nothing back except those molasses eyes doing the almost-smiling thing, which is frankly worse.
A sharp whistle cuts across the resort lawn and we all turn.
Pickles is on the low platform near the tiki bar with a tote bag over one shoulder, a pair of reading glasses pushed up into her silver-streaked auburn bob, looking like everyone’s favorite librarian.
And seeing as I’m partial to all things books, I feel an instant affinity for the woman.
She’s warm and authoritative and entirely in her element, which is running things, and has been for decades now.
“Attention, Miss Mango ladies!” Her voice carries with the easy authority of three decades of projecting to the back of rooms. “First, I want to acknowledge the loss of our dear Vera,” she says with a hand to her chest, her eyes briefly closed.
“She gave everything to this pageant, and the greatest tribute we can offer her is to continue it exactly as she would have wished.” A clipboard comes out of the tote.
“Which means we work. Today we have a full afternoon of promotional shoots and first-round interviews at a very special location.” She pauses for effect.
“The swinging bridge at little Hanapepe town!”
The crowd erupts with glee. Contestants whoop. Someone actually jumps. Mangoes bounce, albeit not naturally. Phones come out in every direction.
“Get ready and meet me at the front of the resort. Buses leave in twenty minutes,” Pickles calls over the noise. “Go!”
The resort detonates. Doors fly open, heels hit the lanai, someone drops something that clatters, and the whole gorgeous chaos of forty-plus women with somewhere to be takes over the morning.
Jelly scoops Spam Musubi up and tucks her under one arm. “I better get going,” she says. “It was so great to meet you both.” Her eyes flick to the crime scene tape briefly. “Stay safe out there.”
She heads off at a quickened clip, and Spam Musubi watches Koa over her shoulder the entire way. She’s leaving something sexy behind, and she fully intends to come back for it.
I shake my head at them. “That dog is in love with you.”
“She smiles at everyone,” he says with a weariness that lets me know he’s resigned to saying it and having no one believe him.
“Koa, that dog looked back three times. I counted. She already has a system and you’re at the root of it.”
Koa doesn’t say a word, which means he noticed too, and he probably counted too, and his number probably matches mine if not exceeds it.
“So,” I say, in the casual tone I use when I am not being casual. “Hanapepe. It’s a beautiful town. Very historic. The swinging bridge is a genuine landmark, I’ve been meaning to—”
“No,” he says, before I’ve even reached the verb.
“I haven’t finished.”
“You were about to tell me you’re going sightseeing,” he says, “and we both know the only sight you’re interested in seeing is a suspect with her guard down.”
“I was about to tell you I have a deep personal interest in local history, and the buses are leaving in twenty minutes, and all of my suspects happen to be on them, which is a coincidence—”
“Jinx.”
“I manage the resort, Koa. These women are my guests. I have a hospitality obligation.”
“You have a stay-out-of-my-case obligation,” he says, and the man actually has the nerve to sound reasonable while he says it.
“You were shot,” I remind him, playing the only card in my hand worth anything.
“Grazed,” he corrects, for what is now the fourth time this morning, and I suspect he’d have it printed on a T-shirt if the department allowed it.
“On my property,” I press on, “which makes it my bullet, my crime scene, and my problem.” I look at his bandage, then at his face.
The trade winds move through the plumeria and the whole North Shore smells like something worth staying for, and his eyes are steady and warm and not going anywhere, and Spam Musubi is about to board a bus to Hanapepe with forty suspects, and I’ve already made my decision. “I’ll drive,” I say.
He exhales hard. I can tell he made his own decision slightly earlier than mine and has simply been waiting for me to catch up.
“You’re not interviewing anyone,” he says.
“Obviously,” I say.
We both know exactly how that’s going to go.