Chapter 8
The morning heat wraps around us like a clingy ex-boyfriend who doesn’t understand the concept of personal space, and I’m sitting across from Detective Koa Hale, trying to remember how to form coherent sentences, right here on the back veranda of the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort.
He’s about to interrogate me—or as I prefer to think of it, shake me down for information—and honestly, a girl can hope he might need to give me mouth-to-mouth if I faint from the combination of humidity and his proximity.
I jest. But also, hope springs eternal.
Ruby and Lani execute the world’s least subtle retreat, suddenly developing urgent business with the hibiscus hedge and the broken pool filter housing.
Ruby starts aggressively deadheading flowers that were already dead, while Lani inspects pool equipment with the intensity of a NASA engineer hunting for signs of extraterrestrial life.
Neither of them moves more than twenty feet away, and both keep shooting glances in our direction with the stealth of neon signs.
Down on the sand, a handful of early beachgoers stake their claims with towels and umbrellas, while surfers paddle through the lineup like they’ve got nowhere else to be and nothing else to do.
Meanwhile, Mr. Sexy is about to do what sexy detectives do best, and the breeze seems to have stalled as if it wants to listen in.
Even the chickens have gone quiet—three hens and a rooster stand motionless near the kitchen door, mesmerized by Detective Hale’s presence like he’s some kind of poultry whisperer.
A calico cat that normally wouldn’t sit still for a hurricane plants herself at his feet and stares up at him with the devotion usually reserved for tuna cans and that one spot on the couch that gets the perfect afternoon sun.
I’m starting to understand the attraction, and I’m not just talking about the cat.
“Ms. Julep,” he says, low and steady, like he already knows I’m about to complicate his day. “I asked you a question.”
The morning breeze carries the scent of plumeria and sea salt, along with the faint aroma of Lani’s breakfast preparations—coffee, sweet bread, and something that might be bacon if we’re lucky and possibly SPAM if we’re being realistic about the kitchen budget.
Detective Hale has his back to the ocean, and the morning light catches the gold flecks in his brown eyes. His uniform shirt fits him the way uniforms should fit men, but rarely do—sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that probably have their own fan club and monthly newsletter.
“I’m sorry, what?” I say because my brain has decided to take a vacation to the same place my common sense went.
His scowl deepens. “I said, what are your thoughts about last night’s incident?”
“My thoughts?” I blink, trying to reboot my mental processes like a computer that’s frozen mid-update. The man is definitely a cinnamon roll—all hard edges and intimidating exterior, but I bet there’s a big old softie hiding underneath all that official attitude and perfectly pressed uniform.
“Yes, your thoughts. You found the body. Any observations? Theories? Or are you too busy...” He glances at my notebook, then back at my face with an expression that says he knows exactly where my mind wandered and is not impressed by the destination.
“Actually, I was thinking you’re probably a cinnamon roll,” I say because honesty is my new policy and my filter has officially clocked out for the day.
His eyebrows rise a fraction of an inch. “A what?”
“A cinnamon roll. You know—tough and crusty on the outside, all warm and gooey on the inside.” I gesture vaguely at his perfectly pressed uniform, which probably has military-grade creases. “I bet you’ve got a sweet center hiding behind all that intimidating law enforcement exterior.”
His scowl returns with reinforcements and possibly backup from neighboring precincts. “Ms. Julep, this is a potential murder investigation, not a bakery evaluation.”
“Right. Sorry. Murder. Very serious.” I straighten up in my rickety chair, which chooses that moment to emit a protesting squeak that sounds like a small animal in distress. “What did you want to know?”
He pulls out his own notebook, flipping to a fresh page with an efficiency that lets me know he’s done this a thousand times. “Let’s start with why you’re on Kauai. Your background. How you ended up here.”
A gecko skitters across the table between us, pauses to do a tiny push-up, and disappears into the palm fronds above. Even the wildlife has better timing than I do.
“Well,” I begin, settling back as much as the chair allows without risking total structural collapse, “it’s a classic tale of betrayal, bad decisions, and geographical confusion.”
He waits, pen poised, expression unchanged. The man could give lessons in poker faces.
“I’m originally from Ohio. My ex-husband—may he step on Legos barefoot for the rest of his natural life—decided our marriage vows were more like guidelines than actual rules.
I found him in our bed with his yoga instructor, which was really the last straw because I specifically told him I didn’t want him doing yoga in the house.
” I frown for a moment. “Okay, so it had nothing to do with yoga. The naughty poses were one thing, but the betrayal really sealed the deal.”
Detective Hale’s mouth twitches. It might be the beginning of a smile, or he might just be fighting indigestion from whatever he had for breakfast.
“So, I left. Filed for divorce. Started looking for jobs somewhere far away from the scene of my romantic apocalypse. I thought I was applying for a barista position at a cozy inn in Maine—lobsters, lighthouses, autumn leaves, the whole New England fantasy complete with chunky sweaters and not sweating through my clothes.”
“But?” he prompts, and I notice he’s actually taking notes, which means this embarrassing story is now part of an official police record.
“But I must have misread the job posting, or the universe has a twisted sense of humor. Next thing I know, I’m getting a call from Mr. X—the mysterious owner of this charming establishment—offering me a job in paradise.”
The heat is starting to make my shirt stick to my back in a way that’s distinctly unromantic, and I can see tiny beads of sweat forming at Detective Hale’s collar. Even he’s not immune to Kauai’s commitment to making everyone feel like they’re slowly melting into puddles of their former selves.
“I figured, why not? Paradise was calling with its siren song, and I’ve always been terrible at resisting sirens—ask any of my exes.
Plus, my savings account was looking pretty pathetic after the divorce lawyer took his cut, and the idea of serving coffee at a tropical resort sounded way better than serving coffee to tourists in Maine who complain about everything being too hot, too cold, too expensive, or not Instagrammable enough. ”
“Hence, the luggage incident yesterday,” he says, and I swear there’s almost warmth in his voice.
“Hence, the luggage incident. Though in my defense, your suitcase really did have a pink flamingo tag.”
“My cousin,” he explains, and this time I’m sure I catch the ghost of a smile. “As I said, she thinks she’s hilarious.”
“She’s not wrong. Your cousin has excellent taste in chaos.”
He makes a note in his book, and I can’t help but notice the way his fingers grip the pen—strong and capable, with hands that look like they could handle anything from paperwork to... other things I should definitely not be thinking about while being questioned in a murder investigation.
“Ms. Julep?”
“Sorry, what?” I realize I’ve been staring at his hands as if they’re performing magic tricks. And how I’d love to see them perform a trick or two.
His eyes narrow slightly, and there’s definitely amusement lurking behind the professional detective mask. “You were staring.”
“Was I? I was thinking about...” I gesture vaguely at his torso, then realize what I’m doing and drop my hand like it’s just been burned.
“About whether you work out. For purely professional reasons. Like, do all detectives have to maintain a certain level of fitness, or is it just a personal choice, or is there like a gym at the station, or—”
“Can I see your notes?” he interrupts, nodding at the legal pad in front of me.
I slide it across the table, grateful for the change of subject and the chance to stop talking before I embarrass myself further. He flips through the pages, and I watch his expression shift from mild interest to something approaching concern, possibly alarm.
“What’s this?” He points to my repair list with a focus usually reserved for crime scene evidence.
“That is perhaps the true killer. Lani, Ruby, and I are going to save the resort. Mr. X—the owner—said he’s shutting the place down at the end of the month if we can’t turn a profit, so we’re making a list of everything that needs fixing before this place collapses into the ocean or gets condemned by the health department, whichever comes first.”
Detective Hale stares at the page like it’s written in hieroglyphics.
“Broken windows, cracked foundation, failing electrical, roof damage...” He looks up at me, and his expression is almost gentle, which somehow feels worse than the scowl.
“Ms. Julep, this is going to cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. You may as well give up now and save yourself the heartbreak.”
“Excuse me?” I feel my spine straighten, which is impressive given the structural integrity of my chair and my general posture when confronted with attractive authority figures.
“I don’t give up on things just because they’re a little rough around the edges.
If I did that, I would have given up on all my exes way sooner than I did, and think of all the character-building experiences I would have missed out on.
Like learning that cheating is bad, or that some secretaries shouldn’t be trusted, or that ignoring red flags doesn’t make them go away. ”
He doesn’t laugh. Not even a chuckle. Tough crowd. The man has a sense of humor somewhere in there, I’m sure of it, but evidently, it’s on lockdown during official police business.
He turns the page and stops, his expression shifting to something I can’t quite read but definitely involves judgment. “What’s this?”
I crane my neck to see what he’s looking at and immediately regret my transparency and also my entire approach to detective work. “Oh. That.”
“Suspect list,” he reads aloud, and I swear his voice gets drier with each word.
“Melanie Luana—angry, never married, possible severance package motive. May Leilani—fake spiritual guru, California secrets. Dane Huntington—financial irregularities, too much charm. Savannah Cross—community garden threatened, possible hidden depths.”
He tears the page out of my notebook with a sound like ripping silk, and I feel weirdly violated, like he just confiscated my homework.
“Mahalo for the heads-up,” he says, folding the paper and tucking it into his shirt pocket. “Although there is one person you conveniently left off that list—you. Now stay out of my case. You have your hands full here.”
He stands and walks away, and I can’t help but notice how those well-worn jeans fit him in all the right places. The man has clearly been blessed by whatever force governs excellent denim fit. It’s honestly unfair.
Ruby and Lani materialize beside me with the speed of gossip spreading through a small town.
“Well?” Ruby demands, sliding into the chair Detective Hale just vacated. “How hot is he on a scale of one to spontaneous combustion?”
“Eleven,” I say, still staring at his retreating figure and the way he moves like he owns the beach, the resort, and possibly the entire island. “Maybe twelve. He’s annoyingly perfect.”
“And just plain annoying,” Lani adds, settling into the third chair with her wooden spoon still in hand like a security blanket.
“That, too,” I say. “He’s like a scrumptious cinnamon roll wrapped in attitude and served with a side of I’m-too-good-for-your-amateur-detective-work, and also you’re-wasting-your-time-trying-to-save-this-resort.’”
Ruby leans forward with a wicked gleam in her eye. “Are we giving up on solving the murder?”
Lani raises an eyebrow in a way that suggests she already knows the answer. “Did he say it was murder?”
“He didn’t say it wasn’t,” I point out, which feels like solid detective logic to me.
Ruby claps her hands together with enthusiasm like she’s about to plan a party or possibly a heist. “Then we’re back in business! Who’s up first?”
“I vote we start with May Leilani,” Lani says, standing and brushing nonexistent crumbs off her muumuu.
I lean in, interested. “Why? Because you think she’s the killer?”
“No,” Lani says with an honesty I’m learning to appreciate about her. “Because I overheard her saying she was headed to the bakery food truck down the road, and I could really use a cinnamon roll right about now.”
I nod sagely. “You and me both, sister.”
I glance out toward the beach where Detective Hale is inspecting the grounds with a thoroughness that lets me know he takes his job very seriously. As if he can feel my eyes on him, he turns and looks directly at me across the expanse of sand and broken dreams.
It looks to me, I’m not the only one having trouble staying focused on the case.