Chapter 5
Koa and I land at a beachfront picnic table tucked under a pink and white plumeria tree, its branches heavy with blooms that perfume the air with a fragrance so sweet it borders on illegal.
The ocean rolls in steady waves beyond us, turquoise meeting brown-sugar sand in an endless dance that should be calming but currently feels more like nature mocking my stress levels.
The ocean doesn’t seem to care that I watched a woman die last night. Nature is rude that way.
He pulls out his phone, checks something, then sets it face-down on the weathered wood between us. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense. This is Detective Hale in full professional mode, and I know whatever he’s about to tell me isn’t going to improve my morning one bit.
“I just got word from the medical examiner,” he says, his voice low and controlled. “Debbie Lee died of anaphylactic shock from peanut poisoning.”
“I knew it!” The words burst out before I can stop them. “I mean, I sort of guessed it. She asked about peanuts specifically. But only the real killer would know for sure.”
Koa shakes his head. Those dark eyes of his are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my pulse forget how to behave. “Just because she ingested peanut butter doesn’t automatically mean she was murdered.”
I blink at him. “How does that logic work? She’s deathly allergic, someone puts peanut butter in her food, she dies. That’s murder. That’s literally the definition of murder.”
“It could have been cross-contamination,” he says, though his tone says he doesn’t quite believe it himself. “Kitchen accidents happen. Someone uses the same utensil for peanut butter and regular butter, doesn’t clean it properly, it can transfer trace amounts.”
“But she specifically asked Bubbles if the banana bread had peanuts in it,” I say, leaning forward. “And Bubbles said there were only walnuts. That they weren’t through with her yet. Which, now that I think about it, was a weird thing to say.”
Koa raises a brow. “That’s where I’m headed. If everyone knew about her allergy, and the recipe didn’t call for peanuts, then how did peanut butter end up in her system?”
“There wasn’t any peanut butter in the kitchen studio setup,” I say firmly. “I checked everything myself after it happened. Every ingredient. Every container. There was nothing with peanuts or peanut butter anywhere.”
It’s true. Lani and I conducted a thorough raid. We may have inhaled a few malasadas while we were at it. They were loaded with haupia pudding—they were practically begging for it. Refusing them would’ve been rude, and possibly illegal.
He frowns, and for some reason those sexy dimples of his dig in for no good reason except to taunt me with their deliciousness.
Even in the middle of a murder investigation, my brain finds time to catalog his facial features like I’m compiling evidence for a case titled Why Koa Hale is Unfairly Attractive—And Oh So Yummy.
“I checked, too,” he says. “But we also tested all the utensils and products that were left from the shoot. One thing registered positive for peanut butter.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
His jaw tenses, and I can see him hesitating, weighing how much to tell me versus how much to keep locked away in detective protocol land.
“What, Koa?”
“A wooden spoon.”
The world stops. Even the chickens stop their yapping, which has never happened before in recorded resort history. Even they knew this was bad.
I shake my head so hard my hair whips across my face like a fiery flame. “That can’t be right. The only one there with a wooden spoon was Lani.”
“Exactly.”
Two sharp screams cut through the morning, and I nearly fall off the picnic bench. Lani and Ruby materialize seemingly from thin air, though more likely they were hiding behind the plumeria tree eavesdropping on our entire conversation, which is both predictable and slightly terrifying.
“You’re the killer!” Ruby announces, pointing at Lani with all the drama of a woman who’s watched too many murder mysteries and decided to star in her own.
“I knew you had it in you!” She leans in and squints at her bestie.
“So why did you do it? For fame? Glory? Or the most likely reason in the book—the Almighty dollar?”
“You are insane,” Lani hisses, her face going pale beneath her golden-brown skin. “You know I didn’t do this.” She turns to Koa as panic floods her features. “You know I didn’t do this! You have to, right? I’m innocent! Both my wooden spoon and I wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
That wooden spoon had threatened more flies than a bug zapper at a barbecue, but I wasn’t about to bring that up right now.
Koa’s expression softens a notch. “I know, Lani. I know your intentions were innocent, but that doesn’t mean—”
Lani gags and gasps as one hand flies to her chest. “You do think I killed that woman.”
“Not on purpose,” I offer quickly, though my brain is doing mental gymnastics trying to figure out how Lani’s beloved wooden spoon, the one she wields like a scepter of culinary authority, ended up contaminated with the very substance that killed Debbie Lee.
“Maybe it was an accident? Cross-contamination, like Koa said?”
“I didn’t do it by accident either,” Lani says, her voice rising with indignation.
“I don’t have any peanut butter at the resort.
We don’t stock it because of allergy concerns.
And I don’t take my wooden spoon home at night.
It lives in the kitchen, in the same drawer it’s been in for twenty years. So it couldn’t have been me.”
All eyes float my way. I do a quick mental inventory of every suspicious thing I’ve ever done. The list is longer than I’d like.
I hold up my hands. “Why is everyone looking at me? I didn’t poison anyone with a wooden spoon. I can barely make toast without setting off the smoke alarm.”
Koa’s phone buzzes. He glances at it, and his expression shifts into something more urgent.
“I need to get going.” He rises from the picnic bench, and before I can process what’s happening, he leans down and lands a kiss on my cheek.
It’s quick, casual, and that easy kind of kiss that says we do this now without making a production of it.
But it still sends heat racing up my neck, despite the fact.
“Try not to solve this case before I do,” he says, his voice low and laced with dry humor. “And for the sake of everyone’s sanity, stay out of my investigation. I’ll handle things.” He nods to Lani. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll figure this out.”
He lands a kiss on my lips and within seconds, he’s gone, striding down the beach with that confident, controlled gait that makes him look like he’s walking toward danger and completely unbothered by it.
He tells me to stay out of his investigation, kisses me, and walks off. The man speaks fluent mixed signals.
Have I mentioned how yummy he is?
Ruby waits exactly three seconds before turning to us with a dangerous gleam in her eyes. “All right, girls. We need to track down the peanut butter killer before they strike again.”
“Ruby—”
“Think about it, Jinx,” she’s quick to interrupt, “someone contaminated Lani’s wooden spoon. That means someone had access to the kitchen, to peanut butter, and to Lani’s personal utensils. This was premeditated, calculated, and more importantly—cold-blooded.”
“Or,” Lani says weakly, “it was cross-contamination and I’m about to be arrested for accidental manslaughter. Do they let you bake in prison? I like to bake when I’m stressed.”
Ruby nods. “I hear stress-baking in prison is an extreme sport where the losers and the winners get a hot branding iron to the behind.”
Lani belts out a cry of terror.
Ruby could make federal prison sound like a weekend getaway with a strict dress code—albeit, a weekend getaway that goes very, very sideways, hence the branding.
“Would you two stop?” I squawk. “Nobody is getting arrested,” I say firmly, though I’m not entirely sure I believe it. Koa looked serious. And when Koa looks serious, things tend to escalate quickly. Ask me how I know.
Before we can spiral further into panic, Doreen Meadows appears on the path leading from the resort, wearing sensible hiking clothes and carrying a water bottle. She spots us and waves, her salt-and-pepper bob bouncing with the movement.
“Morning, ladies,” she calls, approaching our little cluster of conspiracy theorists. “How are you all holding up?”
“We’re—” I pause, trying to figure out how to answer that question honestly. “Processing.”
Doreen’s face softens with sympathy. “I know. It’s horrible. The girls and I were just talking about what we’re going to do about everything. The show, the filming schedule, whether we’ll even continue.”
“What have you decided?” Ruby asks.
“Nothing yet.” Doreen sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“But right now, we’re off to hike the Sleeping Giant Trail before it gets any hotter.
The studio wanted us to film some outdoor segments showing off the island.
You know, give viewers the full Hawaiian experience.
We’re not really into hiking, but honestly, we need to get away from the spot where it all happened, and clear our heads. ”
“Would you mind if we tagged along?” Ruby is quick to ask, her voice innocent, but her eyes are as calculating as a woman who’s just spotted a single man at a wedding. “We sort of need to clear our heads, too.”
“I’ll say,” Lani mutters, looking a little green around the gills. “Apparently I’m a murder suspect now.”
Doreen blinks. “What?”
“Long story,” I say quickly. “We’d love to join you. Fresh air, exercise, and the distraction from death sounds perfect.”
“The more the merrier,” Doreen says with a warm smile that reminds me why I love watching her on TV.
She’s got that comforting, maternal energy that makes you want to bake cookies and tell her all your problems. Which, given the circumstances, is either a comfort or a really sophisticated cover.
“In fact, our husbands are coming with us,” she says. “We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
“We’ll be right behind you,” I say. “See you at the Sleeping Giant. And remember, try not to wake him.”
Knowing my luck, the Sleeping Giant would wake up, stretch his legs, and add his name to the body count.
She takes off with a laugh, and I turn to my two favorite partners in crime.
Ruby’s eyes are sparkling with that look that usually precedes disaster.
Lani looks like she’s about to either lose her breakfast or grab her wooden spoon and start swinging.
And I’m standing here in paradise, about to go hiking with a trio of potential murder suspects while trying to figure out who contaminated my head cook’s beloved kitchen utensil with peanut butter.
Just another day at the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort—where paradise is a state of mind, and homicide is apparently a weekly special.