Chapter 7
Spending the morning cataloging all the ways your workplace could kill you without outside help puts a whole new perspective on the phrase occupational hazards.
Apparently, when someone dies suspiciously at your resort, the police want a detailed inventory of every way this place could eliminate guests through sheer mechanical failure versus, you know, an actual homicide. It’s both depressing and oddly comprehensive.
Detective Hot Stuff—fine, Detective Hale—did at least return my luggage before he left last night, retrieving it from his truck with an efficiency that suggested he wanted to spend as little time in my presence as possible.
We made the switcheroo in awkward silence, both of us staring at the matching pink flamingo tags dangling from our respective bags like some kind of cosmic joke. His cousin thought it would be hilarious. My sister thought it would be “practical.” Neither of us was laughing.
He didn’t say goodnight. I didn’t either. Professional courtesy at its finest.
Dawn breaks over the North Shore with the subtlety of a rooster convention. In fact, three different roosters are currently engaged in what sounds like a competitive crowing contest, while a chorus of hens provides backup vocals and baby chicks add their tiny peeps to the symphony.
The hot breeze carries salt spray, plumeria, and the faint scent of last night’s tiki torch smoke through my window slot, along with the sound of waves that never stop talking to the shore.
“Rise and shine, you hot tamale!” Ruby’s voice cuts through my contemplation of whether it’s too early to start drinking. “Time to take inventory of our slice of paradise!”
She appears in my doorway wearing a muumuu that looks like a hibiscus exploded on fabric, her red hair already escaping whatever she tried to do with it.
Lani stands behind her with flour already dusting her apron despite the fact that breakfast service doesn’t start for another hour, which tells me she’s either incredibly prepared or stress-baking.
“Inventory of what?” I ask, peeling myself off my glorified cot with the grace of a woman who slept on what I’m pretty sure is a medieval torture device disguised as furniture. “Our extensive list of things that don’t work?”
“Exactly,” Lani says, brandishing her wooden spoon like it’s both a scepter and a weapon. “If we’re going to save this place, we need to know what we’re working with.”
“And what we’re working against,” Ruby adds cheerfully because optimism is her default setting even in the face of certain doom.
I follow them out into the fragrant morning heat, which is already making the air shimmer like a mirage.
That one-eared orange tomcat saunters past us with the dignity of a feline who’s seen things and lived to judge them, and based on his expression, he’s judging us pretty hard right now.
He’s followed by a sleek black cat with green eyes that seem to hold secrets about where all the working appliances went, and a calico with an attitude that could power the lights if we could just figure out how to harness pure spite.
“First stop,” Lani announces like we’re on a tour of functional amenities rather than a death march through dysfunction, “the coffee shop.”
We trudge across the property, our flip-flops slapping against tiles that have seen better decades—possibly better centuries.
The resort spreads across five beachfront acres in a way that might have been charming in a vintage postcard if everything wasn’t actively falling apart.
Thirty units are divided between three buildings that lean into the salt-tinged breeze with resignation rather than grace, all overlooking what I have to admit is one of the most gorgeous stretches of coastline this side of heaven.
The snorkeling and surfing spots just south of Hanalei Bay gleam like liquid sapphires in the morning light with a view that makes you understand why people move to islands and never leave.
Too bad the rest of the place looks like it’s auditioning for a disaster movie and really committed to getting the part.
“Behold,” Lani says, gesturing toward the coffee shop area as if presenting evidence at a trial, “the heart of our operation.”
The espresso machine sounds like mechanical asthma when I flip the switch. The counter has a crack running through it that could probably be seen from Maui, and the mismatched chairs look like refugees from a yard sale massacre where only the ugliest survived.
“It has character,” Ruby offers.
“So does tetanus,” I reply.
We move on to what the signs optimistically call the “gift shop,” which currently consists of three empty shelves with sun-faded price tags and dusty postcards from 1987 featuring hairstyles that should have stayed in 1987.
The café sits next to it with chairs stacked on tables like a shrine to abandoned dreams, its menu board missing half the letters, so it now advertises “FR SH F SH” and “C CON T SHRIMP,” which sounds less like menu items and more like a cry for help in code.
“Catchy, right?” Lani teases—or at least I hope she’s teasing.
“Very avant-garde,” Ruby agrees. “Minimalist. The kids these days love that. Although not enough to give us any cash.”
The kitchen is where Lani works her daily miracles, turning duct tape and prayer into something resembling food service, which I’m pretty sure qualifies her for sainthood or at least a very generous tip.
Half the appliances have given up entirely, gone to that great kitchen in the sky, while the other half cling to life through sheer stubbornness and what I suspect is some kind of mechanical revenge.
“The walk-in cooler’s temperature is more of a suggestion than a fact,” Lani explains. “And the stove has a personality disorder—two burners run hot, one runs cold, and the fourth just makes sad clicking noises.”
“Sounds like my fifth husband,” Ruby says.
We venture outside to survey the beach, and I have to admit that Mother Nature did not phone it in on this part.
The salt air hits me first—thick and clean, mixed with the sweet perfume of plumeria blooming somewhere nearby and the faint mineral scent of sun-warmed lava rock.
The weather is balmy, like wearing a humid fur coat, and the sky is a shade of blue that only rivals the ocean for superiority of the sacred hue.
Three beach chairs sit on what is admittedly an expansive stretch of brown sugar sand that looks like something from a travel brochure, the kind that makes people empty their savings accounts and book flights they can’t afford.
The sand is so fine it squeaks under my flip-flops, and when the trade winds gust, they lift tiny crystals that catch the light like glitter.
Just around the bend, a black sand cove nestles against lava rock, all volcanic drama and primal beauty that reminds you the island was literally born from fire and hasn’t forgotten it.
Seabirds cartwheel overhead—white terns diving and calling to each other in voices that sound like rusty hinges, while a pair of frigatebirds soar above, their forked tails cutting elegant silhouettes against the blue.
The waves roll in with a rhythm that sounds like breathing, foam hissing as it slides up the beach and retreats, leaving behind shells and bits of coral that smell like the deep ocean—slightly fishy, entirely alive.
“Well,” I say, “at least Mother Nature knows what she’s doing.”
The buildings tell a sadder story—peeling, sagging, and holding themselves together out of habit.
Broken windows gape like missing teeth, their screens hanging in tatters that flutter in the wind like surrender flags.
The stone retaining walls that terrace the property show cracks wide enough to house small wildlife, and I’m pretty sure I see a gecko settling in and unpacking.
“What else needs a contractor?” I ask, pulling out a notebook that’s already wilting in the humidity like it’s given up before I have.
“The roof on Building Two is basically held up by wishful thinking,” Lani says, pointing up at what I can only describe as optimistic architecture.
“Half the tiles are missing, and you can see the sky through the beams, which is romantic until it rains. And it’s been known to rain every fifteen minutes. ”
“The foundation under the main building is cracked,” Ruby adds with the enthusiasm of sharing fun facts at a party. “It gives everything a funhouse effect when you walk through the lobby.”
“The deck railings are more decorative than functional,” Lani continues, ticking items off on her fingers like she’s been keeping a mental list for years. “Touch one wrong, and you might land head-on into the hibiscus.”
“The plumbing is shot in units four through eight,” Ruby says. “Water pressure ranges from dribble to none, with occasional stops at aggressive spray just to keep things interesting.”
“And the electrical system was seemingly installed by someone who learned wiring from a cereal box,” Lani adds to the growing list of horrors. “Half the outlets spark, and the lights flicker every time someone uses the microwave.”
We’re interrupted by the arrival of more cats—a gray tabby with white paws who moves like a tiny gentleman, a tortoiseshell with one blue eye and one green who looks like she’s seen into the future and isn’t impressed, and what appears to be the feline equivalent of a bouncer—solid black, scarred, and radiating the type of authority that makes roosters step aside and reconsider their crowing.
“Where’s Melanie been during all this?” I ask. I haven’t seen our fearless leader since last night’s seduction performance with Detective Hale.
“Who knows?” Lani shrugs. “Probably updating her résumé or meeting with her divorce lawyer.”
“She’s not married,” Ruby points out.
“Yet,” Lani says darkly, and I’m not sure if she means Melanie’s going to get married or that marriage itself is just a disaster waiting to happen.