Chapter 6
Nothing says welcome to paradise like finding your first dead body before you’ve even unpacked your sunscreen.
The scream that erupts from my throat could wake ancient Hawaiian gods and probably violates several noise ordinances in multiple counties.
The sound bounces off the water, ricochets through the palm trees, and sends a rooster somewhere behind the kitchen into hysterical crowing that sounds like it’s having its own crisis.
The humid night air carries my voice across the resort like a tropical air raid siren, and I can’t seem to stop—my body has decided that continuous screaming is the appropriate response to finding a floating consultant in a pool that looks like it’s conducting science experiments.
“JINX!” Ruby’s voice cuts through my ongoing vocal performance like a lifeguard’s whistle. “What in the name of—OH MY GOODNESS!”
She appears around the corner of the pool deck at a dead run—poor choice of words—Lani is right behind her, and they both stop so fast I hear their flip-flops skid on the wet tiles.
The sight of Nolan floating face-down in the algae-riddled water hits them like a homicidal slap, and suddenly we’re a three-woman chorus of horror.
“AHHHHHHH!” Ruby joins in, her voice harmonizing with mine in a way that would be impressive if we weren’t screaming over a corpse. Under different circumstances, we could probably start a band.
“Sweet mother of pearl!” Lani adds her voice to our impromptu concert, though hers sounds more like she’s scolding the dead man than mourning him.
The night air thrums with humidity so thick you could swim through it, which suddenly feels like a terrible metaphor given the circumstances.
Plumeria and jasmine fight a losing battle against the scent of chlorine, stagnant water, and a third mystery scent I refuse to name but absolutely recognize.
Cats scatter in every direction—I count at least ten furry bodies streaking past us like they’ve just heard a can opener in another zip code.
“SHUT YOUR POI HOLES!” Melanie’s voice cuts through our screaming symphony like a machete through a coconut as she appears at the edge of the pool area in full battle regalia—pencil skirt, stilettos that could double as weapons, and an expression that could freeze lava.
Her hair is perfect, her makeup is on point, and she seems like someone who might be deeply inconvenienced by a dead man rather than, you know, horrified.
Poi would be a purple potato-adjacent staple that Hawaiians love beyond purple measures, according to the research I did on island cuisine.
“If you insist on howling at the moon,” she continues, her voice dripping with sweetness that comes with a side of arsenic and possibly a restraining order, “I suggest you head to the resort next door where they appreciate that kind of racket!”
“Melanie,” I gasp, pointing at the pool with a shaking finger that I can’t seem to control. “There’s a—”
She follows my gesture, her perfectly made-up eyes landing on Nolan’s floating form. Her gasp is sharp, but it sounds more like annoyance than shock.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” she mutters, already pulling out her phone with such efficiency, I’m convinced she’s done this before, which is a concerning thought I’m filing away for later. “This is going to be a paperwork nightmare.”
She dials with a fervor that assures us she has emergency services on speed dial, which raises more questions.
“Yes, this is Melanie Luana at the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort. We have a... situation. Pool area. Yes, I’ll hold.
” She actually taps her foot while waiting, like the 911 operator is taking too long with her murder report.
Wait a minute…was he murdered? Or is this some mai tai-based accident that befell the poor man?
Ruby grabs me by the arm, and her rings dig into my skin hard enough to leave marks. “There’s a killer on the loose!”
“We could be next!” Lani adds, brandishing her wooden spoon like it’s a broadsword, and I’m oddly touched that her weapon of choice is a kitchen utensil.
“I can’t die,” Ruby wails. “I haven’t finished husband hunting yet!”
So maybe husband hunting isn’t the most pressing concern, but from what I’m seeing, it’s very much on brand for Ruby.
Melanie snaps her phone shut with a sound like a miniature guillotine, and the flip phone tells me more than I want to know.
“Clearly, the dumbo had one too many and took a swim in eau de algae,” she grouses. “That’s the Darwin Award winner right there.”
“I’m pretty sure no one,” I say, my voice still shaky but gaining ground, “not even someone drunk enough to see pink elephants doing the hula, would willingly wade into that cesspool of—what would you call it? Prehistoric soup? Toxic waste? The Green Lagoon of Eternal Regret? I’m fairly certain something in there already has a name and a temperament. ”
The sound of sirens cuts through the tropical night, shattering the illusion of paradise.
They start as a distant wail and grow louder, mixing with the chickens’ ongoing commentary—because, of course, the chickens have opinions about murder—and the rustle of palm fronds that suddenly feel less romantic and more ominous.
The flashing lights appear first, red and blue strobing through the hibiscus bushes like a disco designed by someone with terrible news, followed by a swarm of officers who look way too official for our ramshackle resort.
But one of those handsome hotties stands out from the pack in a way that makes my brain temporarily forget about the dead body, which feels inappropriate, but here we are.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and radiating the type of authority that makes people confess to crimes they didn’t commit and possibly some they did.
He moves through the humid night air like he owns it, like the very molecules are getting out of his way out of respect.
His uniform fits him like it was tailored by someone who understood the assignment and possibly deserves a raise, and his dark hair somehow looks perfect despite the humidity that’s currently turning mine into wet spaghetti.
When he turns toward us, I catch sight of brown eyes with gold flecks that could either arrest you or make you forget your own name, and I’m experiencing both simultaneously.
He holds up a badge that glints in the tiki light. “Kauai PD, Detective Hale.”
Our eyes lock across the pool deck, and his expression darkens like a storm rolling in from the Pacific, the kind that makes you want to batten down the hatches and possibly apologize for things you haven’t done yet. And maybe apologize for a few things you’ve already done at the Līhu?e Airport.
“It’s you,” he says, and he doesn’t sound thrilled about it. In fact, he sounds like he’s just realized his evening has taken a turn for the significantly worse.
I blink, my brain struggling to process this because suddenly we’re adding awkward coincidences to tonight’s menu of disasters.
“I’m sorry, do we know each other?”
Okay, so I’m playing dumb—and the irony here? I usually don’t have to play.
His jaw ticks. “Airport. Luggage carousel. You took my suitcase.”
“That was yours?” I squeak, which is not the dignified response I was going for, but it’s what comes out. “But it had a pink flamingo—”
“And I have yours.” He pulls out a notebook that’s seen better decades, possibly better centuries. “It’s currently sitting in my truck if you want it back.”
“Oh.” My face heats up. “That would explain why all my clothes smell like men’s cologne and disappointment.” Not that I opened it, but the scent has been radiating from it ever since. And here I thought my ex was mocking me.
Two officers wade into the pool—I guess they drew the short straws—and confirm what we already know. Nolan Nakamura is very dead, very wet, and very much ruining everyone’s evening.
Detective Hale turns his laser focus on me, and I suddenly understand why suspects confess. He’s looking at me as if I personally ruined his night, his week, and possibly his faith in humanity.
“State your name,” he says, pen poised over his notebook like he’s preparing to document my descent into madness.
“Jinx Julep. Well, Jinx is actually a nickname. You won’t believe how I got it—”
“I know how nicknames work.” His tone suggests I will not enjoy how this ends. “Somehow, I think I’ll believe it. In fact, I’m starting to think ‘Jinx’ might be the understatement of the century.”
Before I can defend my playful yet accurate moniker, or explain that I’m usually only mildly catastrophic rather than murder-adjacent, Melanie appears at Detective Hale’s elbow in full swoon.
Somewhere between calling the police and now, she’s managed to undo an extra button on her blouse and apply enough lip gloss to blind and seduce every officer here, which is either impressive multitasking or deeply concerning priorities.
“Detective,” she purrs, her voice dropping an octave and gaining a breathy quality that wasn’t there five minutes ago. “I’m Melanie Luana, the resort manager. I’m so grateful for strong men like you, who protect and serve.”
She positions herself between the good detective and me, her shoulders angled and hair flipped in a way that suggests she’s done this before and won.
“Well, well…” Ruby leans my way, her voice barely above a whisper. “Looks like we’ve got our killer.”
Lani gasps and nearly drops her spoon. “You don’t think Melanie did this, do you?”
“You bet your purple hair she did,” Ruby hisses with the confidence of someone solving a murder with zero evidence. “That woman murdered a guest so she could land beneath the hottest detective this side of Hawaii Five-0.”
Sounds plausible. And honestly? You have to admire the strategy. Women far and wide would kill for a chance to be near Detective Hot Stuff, let alone under him. So, there’s that.
Lani rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out and need to be retrieved from the pool deck. “Don’t listen to her, Jinx. All Ruby thinks about is landing under any man.”
“Hey!” Ruby protests, looking genuinely offended. “I have standards. He has to have all his teeth and at least half his hair.”
“And a pulse,” Lani adds dryly.
“That’s negotiable,” Ruby shoots back without missing a beat.
And just like that, Nolan Nakamura stands a chance at love again.
Detective Hale tries to take notes while Melanie shadows him, pointing out resort features and grazing his arm on a strict three-second schedule that suggests practice, persistence, and zero shame.
Her performance is so over-the-top that even the cats look embarrassed for her, and I catch one orange tabby actually covering his eyes with his paw.
“The deceased was staying in room twelve,” she’s saying, her voice honey-sweet and about as subtle as a hurricane. “I handle all guest relations personally. Very personally.”
Has her voice suddenly taken on a country twang?
Detective Hale’s gaze slides past Melanie like she’s background noise and lands on me instead. For a heartbeat, the entire North Shore ceases to exist.
Before we know it, bright yellow caution tape starts going up around the pool area, transforming our little slice of paradise into a crime scene that looks like it belongs on a TV show I’d watch but never want to star in.
The other guests begin to gather—drawn by the sirens and the promise of drama, and it comes with the added bonus of being able to tell people about it later.
Savannah appears first, her flower arrangement forgotten as she hurries over in a cotton nightgown that makes her look like a worried grandmother. “Oh my goodness, what’s happened?”
Dane bounds up next, his perpetual smile finally showing some cracks. “Is everyone okay? I heard screaming and—” He spots the body and his smile disappears entirely. “Oh. Oh no.”
May glides over in designer pajamas that don’t forgive wrinkles. Her phone is already out and recording the scene. “My, oh my, this is all so tragic,” she says, but she’s angling for the best shot of the crime scene, which feels deeply inappropriate but also very in character for her.
The crowd grows—staff, guests, and what looks like half the neighborhood, all drawn by the flashing lights and the promise of gossip that’ll last until the next hurricane or celebrity scandal, whichever comes first. They cluster around the yellow tape like tropical birds around a feeder, their faces a mix of shock, concern, and barely concealed excitement that makes me feel slightly better about humanity and simultaneously worse.
Detective Hale surveys the growing crowd with the expression of a man who’s just realized his quiet evening is officially shot, possibly with a cannon, and there’s no getting it back.
Melanie continues her seductive performance, purring through a list of security features while leaning in just enough to make pool maintenance sound like foreplay.
Detective Hale’s eyes sweep the crowd once more before landing on me with unsettling precision. “Ms. Julep. Don’t leave the island.”
“Why would I leave the island? I just got here.”
“Because you’re a suspect.”
I gasp so hard I nearly inhale a passing mosquito. “A suspect? I found the body! That’s like, the opposite of being guilty!” I hope.
“That’s exactly what a guilty person would say.” His expression doesn’t change, but I swear I catch the tiniest hint of amusement in those coffee brown eyes. “Everyone who was at this resort is a suspect until proven otherwise. Standard procedure.”
“Standard procedure,” I repeat as my voice climbs into ranges that attract concerned looks from nearby cats.
“I’ve been on this island for less than twelve hours!
I don’t even know where anything is yet!
How would I have time to commit murder between first day orientation and figuring out which pool is least likely to give me a communicable disease? ”
“Nevertheless.” His jaw flinches in a way that evokes a sigh from every female in Hanalei. “Stay available for questioning.”
He turns to address the crowd, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding and the sudden realization that my fresh start in paradise just became significantly more complicated.
I scan the faces around me, all wearing expressions of shock, concern, and the exact morbid fascination that makes people slow down for car accidents, and wonder if somewhere in this crowd of paradise-seekers stands a killer who’s just getting started.