Chapter 4
The morning after a murder should come with a warning label, something along the lines of: Caution—may contain tropical humidity, existential dread, and an alarming number of follow-up questions from law enforcement. Hot law enforcement, but still.
Okay, so it’s still an alleged murder. But I’m well aware of the odds, and the odds are very much in favor of a homicide. In fact, the numbers are so good I could take the bet to Vegas and retire by Tuesday.
Last night’s horrific events replay in my mind on an endless loop.
Debbie Lee Rivers, producer extraordinaire, dropping dead at my feet.
The gasping. The spinning. The way she clawed at her throat before collapsing onto me like I was some sort of human safety net specifically designed to catch corpses.
I’ve become the resort’s unofficial body magnet, and my reputation is suffering accordingly—and the resort’s reputation isn’t far behind. At this rate, my title as resort manager is more or less a side hustle.
The morning air is already thick with humidity, the kind that makes your clothes stick to your skin before you’ve even finished your first cup of coffee. The scent of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls mingles with plumeria and the ever-present sea spray from the ocean.
At least Lani’s culinary prowess gives the resort something to compete with. Our cinnamon rolls are legendary, drawing locals and tourists alike who line up around the beach every morning like pilgrims seeking frosted salvation.
Even the cats are crazy about them.
Speaking of the cute kitty collective—we’ve started naming the cats that seem to be taking up permanent residence here, and Spam, that orange ball of fluff with the missing ear, has declared himself head of resort security.
Whether we like it or not. Newsflash, we like.
Well, I like. Melanie insists that the cats are basically vermin with attitude problems and she’d be happy to call animal control herself.
The cats have taken over their usual spots around the pool area.
Pineapple drapes herself across a lounge chair like a furry throw pillow, while Coconut, our sleek black princess, stalks invisible prey near the hibiscus bushes.
Mango, the calico with serious attitude issues, has claimed the breakfast bar as her personal throne, radiating judgment at anyone who dares approach without offerings of tuna.
And then there’s Spam, surveying his kingdom from atop the bamboo reception counter, his one good ear twitching as he monitors the lobby traffic.
Between the four of them and their endless furry counterparts, they run the place better than I do.
A rooster chases two hens through the lobby, their squawking echoing off the dark wooden floors.
The lobby itself boasts enough rattan furniture to make Miami jealous, with potted palms in every corner and a bird of paradise arrangement on the reception counter adding a splash of color that screams tropical paradise louder than our actual location.
“Jinx!”
I turn to find Halea Palani bulldozing toward me, her long brunette hair swinging with each determined step. She’s curvy in all the ways that make tourists do double-takes, and her smile could sell sand to a beach.
Halea transferred here from Maui a few months ago after her wedding planning business dried up.
It turns out being twice divorced doesn’t inspire confidence in brides-to-be.
But her loss is our gain. She runs the front desk like a pro, charming the guests with one hand and threatening them with the other.
It’s what I admire most about her. And she’s the only person here who scares Melanie, which makes her my favorite human on the island.
“What the heck happened here last night?” Halea demands, planting her hands on her hips in a way that lets me know she means business.
“That’s what the entire island wants to know,” Melanie grouses, materializing at Halea’s elbow like a particularly stylish ghost with a vendetta.
I make a face at Melanie before offering a smile to my new island bestie. “Debbie Lee Rivers, the producer of The Spice Is Right, dropped dead during the banana bread taping. One minute she was announcing the bake-off finale, the next she was gasping and collapsing. Koa thinks it’s murder.”
“Oh my goodness!” Halea’s eyes grow wide. “I knew working here would be exciting, but I was hoping for the celebrity sightings kind of exciting, not the homicide investigation kind of a thrill. This job better not turn into a dead-end career. Literally.”
I’d defend the resort’s honor, but the evidence keeps showing up dead.
“Too late,” Melanie mutters. “We’re basically running a bed and breakfast for killers at this point.”
“You’re hilarious,” I deadpan, even though she may be right.
“And you’re a walking crime scene,” she snips right back. Melanie pats her hair. “I have to go reassure guests that we’re not actually cursed, even though all evidence suggests otherwise.”
She clicks away on her heels, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and passive-aggressive energy in her wake.
Before I can process that delightful exchange, the front doors swing open and two very large, very attractive men walk in carrying toolboxes and radiating a sexy competence that makes women forget their own names.
Halea actually gasps as her boobs suddenly make themselves known.
Halea’s boobs have their own personality, and right about now they’re introducing themselves.
The two handsome men would be Koa’s brothers. And let’s just say that the Hale men don’t exactly disappoint in any category a woman with a pulse might keep score in.
Shaka Hale, the older brother, is built as if he wrestles with rebar for fun and wins.
His dark hair is pulled back in a man bun that should look ridiculous but somehow makes him look like a Hawaiian warrior who moonlights in construction.
Tattoos wrap around his biceps in traditional Polynesian patterns, and when he shifts the toolbox to his other hand, his muscles move under golden skin in ways that leave me with a sudden interest in toolboxes.
Loco Hale follows, younger and leaner but no less devastating. He’s got his brother’s dark eyes and that same deep tan from working outdoors in paradise. His smile is trouble looking for a place to land, and he swings his own toolbox around as if it were full of feathers.
“Morning, Jinx,” Shaka says, his voice warm and easy. “Heard you had some excitement last night.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I say.
“We’re between jobs,” Loco adds, flashing that dangerous smile. “Thought we’d swing by, see if you need anything done. Plus, we’ve got a serious hankering for Lani’s cinnamon rolls.”
Of course they do. Everyone does. Lani’s cinnamon rolls are the stuff of legends—buttery, perfectly spiced, drizzled with cream cheese frosting that melts on your tongue.
Tourists plan their entire Kauai itineraries around our breakfast service.
We’ve had to implement a two-roll-per-person limit just to keep the peace.
A chicken darts past Shaka’s feet, pursued by an indignant rooster. Spam watches from his perch on the reception counter, utterly unbothered by the poultry chaos, his orange tail swishing like he’s conducting an orchestra only he can hear.
“I know something you boys can do,” Halea says, and her boobs wiggle and jiggle as she trills.
I elbow her. “Down, girl. They’re both taken.”
Halea gives a completely unrepentant laugh. “Not that. I was thinking we could use a few thatched cabanas that face the water. Give the guests some shaded luxury, private beach access, that whole resort experience people pay extra for.”
I blink. “You mean something else for guests to fight over?”
“Not if you charge a premium.” She grins. “Exclusivity breeds desire. Make them VIP-only, jack up the price ten times, and suddenly everyone wants one.”
“You,” I say slowly, “are a genius.”
“I know.”
“And Mr. X will think so, too, once I tell him about your brilliant idea.”
Mr. X being Dane Huntington, the resort’s mysterious owner who prefers to remain anonymous and lets me run the show. I call him Mr. X because when I first arrived, no one would tell me who actually owned the place. The nickname stuck.
I turn to the Hale brothers. “What do you think? Can you build us some thatched cabanas? Maybe a few, spaced along the beach?”
Shaka nods thoughtfully. “We can do that. Natural materials, open sides, privacy curtains?”
“Exactly.”
“We’ll draw up some plans,” Loco says. “And we’ll get them to you by tomorrow.”
They head toward the beach to scope out locations, their toolboxes swinging, and Halea watches them go with the appreciation usually reserved for a good meal waiting to happen.
“You know,” she says once they’re out of earshot, “I think I know exactly why you keep landing bodies in the morgue.”
I frown. “Why?”
“It’s to get that hot detective to show up and put those lips of his to good use, isn’t it? Nothing says romance like a corpse and some crime scene tape.”
“Halea—”
“I mean, if I wanted to make out with Detective Hale, I’d probably just ask him out like a normal person. But you? You’ve got a hankering for drama and a body count.”
“I do NOT murder people to flirt with Koa!”
“Sure, you don’t.” She grins wickedly. “You just happen to stumble into homicide investigations, and he just happens to show up looking all broody and competent, and then your lips just happen to find each other. It’s a total coincidence.”
She isn’t entirely wrong. Detective Koa Hale has an uncanny ability to arrive at the exact moment I’m thinking about him, which is, statistically speaking, most of the time.
Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t incriminate me further, someone clears their throat behind us and we both freeze.
I turn slowly, already knowing, with that horrible sinking certainty Murphy’s Law specializes in, exactly who’s standing there.
Detective Koa Hale leans against the reception counter with his arms folded across his chest, while those brown eyes that turn my IQ into a single digit stay trained on me with an expression I can’t quite read.
He’s wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt that fits him in ways that are personally offensive to my self-control, and his hair is still damp from what I’m guessing was a morning surf session.
“Well, well, well,” Halea purrs, recovering faster than I do. “If it isn’t the man with the hottest lips on the island himself.”
Koa’s mouth twitches just enough to let me know I’m right.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Halea continues, backing away with a grin that says she’s enjoying this way too much, “I’ve got a front desk to run. And guests to reassure that we’re not cursed. Even though we totally are.”
She disappears, leaving me alone with Koa and approximately seventeen cats who’ve decided this is the perfect moment to congregate around us like furry witnesses to my mortification.
Koa hitches his head toward the beach. “We need to talk.”
And just like that, my terrible morning officially becomes an interrogation.