Chapter 21
Two days later, and the resort looks like it’s been kissed by a fairy godmother with a construction license and a serious addiction to baked goods, which is honestly the best kind of fairy godmother. Or at least the construction efforts are off to a good start.
The afternoon air shimmers with heat and possibility as I survey our transformed beachfront.
The scent of plumeria mingles with the aroma of Lani’s kitchen magic—kalua pig that’s been slow-cooking since dawn, fresh poke that arrived this morning still glistening with ocean spray, and rice that somehow tastes like it was blessed by ancient Hawaiian gods.
Overhead, the tropical wind rustles through coconut palms that finally look like they belong in an Instagram feed for the island instead of a disaster documentary.
“This is actually happening,” Ruby says, emerging from the kitchen wearing a muumuu that looks as if she’s wrapped herself in a sunset. “We’re throwing a real luau!”
“With real food!” Lani adds, carrying a tray of malasadas that are still warm enough to fog her glasses and make everyone within a ten-foot radius start drooling. “And guests who might actually enjoy themselves instead of filing health code complaints!”
The transformation is nothing short of miraculous.
Where two days ago we had broken deck furniture and pools that resembled failed experiments, we now have a beachfront dining area that glows with the warm light of those twinkle lights I found in the attic.
Koa’s brothers, Loco and Shaka, have strung them through the palm trees with the skill of men who understand both electrical systems and tropical aesthetics.
And speaking of Koa’s brothers, sweet mother of pearl.
Shaka is the older one, built like someone who wrestles with rebar for fun and wins.
His dark hair is pulled back into 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 lifts heavy things—which he does constantly—his muscles move under golden skin like poetry written in human anatomy.
Loco is younger, leaner, but no less devastating to the female nervous system.
He’s got his brother’s dark eyes and that same effortless tan that comes from working outdoors in paradise.
His smile rivals the sun, and he moves with a casual grace that makes a simple task look like it was choreographed by professionals.
“You ladies need hula girls!” Loco announces, stepping back to admire his light-stringing handiwork with the satisfaction of an artist completing a masterpiece. His voice carries just so that it makes you want to agree with whatever he’s suggesting, even if it’s completely insane.
“We need what now?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I heard him correctly.
“Hula girls,” Shaka confirms, grinning as if he’s just solved all the world’s problems through dance. “You can’t have a proper luau without hula dancing. It’s like having Christmas without presents or a wedding without cake.”
“Fear not!” Ruby’s eyes light up with the gleam usually reserved for attractive men under sixty. “I have coconut shells for everyone!”
“You have what?” Lani asks, and yet I can already see the regret in her eyes for asking.
“Coconut bras! From the resort’s lost and found,” Ruby is quick to inform us. “Apparently, tourists abandon a lot of interesting clothing when they leave paradise, and I’ve been collecting them like some kind of tropical bra squirrel.”
Before anyone can object—and I have so many objections forming—Ruby disappears and returns with what appears to be enough coconut shells to supply a small tropical army or possibly start a very specific museum.
“One size fits most,” she announces proudly, which is a lie we’re all pretending to believe.
“I’m not wearing coconut shells,” Lani says flatly, her voice suggesting this is non-negotiable.
“You’re wearing coconut shells,” Ruby insists, and judging by her tone, it’s the hill she’s willing to die on. “We all are. It’s for the good of the resort.”
“What about music?” I ask.
Someone needs to address the practical concerns before Ruby starts forcing us into improvised tropical lingerie and we all lose what’s left of our dignity.
“We got you covered,” Shaka says, pulling a ukulele from behind his back with the drama of a magician producing a rabbit. “Loco plays, too. We’ll provide the background music to your cultural awakening.”
Loco produces his own ukulele, and when he starts strumming, the sound floats across the beach like something the evening breeze ordered specifically for this moment. Rich, warm notes that make the evening air feel electric with possibility.
“This is really happening,” I mutter, accepting a coconut bra from Ruby with resignation because my life has officially entered the realm of the surreal.
The sun begins its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and lavender that would make a sunset photographer weep with professional envy. Our handful of guests—maybe eight people total—gather on the beach as the first stars appear in the darkening sky.
Tiki torches flicker along the shoreline, their flames dancing in the tropical breeze that carries the scent of grilled fish and tropical flowers.
Lani’s feast spreads across tables draped with long, waxy ti leaves and hibiscus flowers.
The kalua pig falls apart at the touch of a fork, the fresh poke glistens with sea salt and sesame oil, and the poi looks like something that actually came from taro roots instead of a package.
Coconut rice steams in bamboo containers, and the dessert table groans under the weight of cinnamon rolls the size of dinner plates, haupia that wobbles like edible clouds, and malasadas dusted with enough powdered sugar to create weather patterns.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I announce to our small but enthusiastic crowd, “welcome to the very first Coconut Cove Paradise Resort luau!”
Honestly, I don’t know if it’s the first, but it sounded like the right thing to say to drum up a little excitement.
The guests cheer with the enthusiasm of people who’ve finally found something to be excited about after days of questionable pool water and broken amenities.
Even Melanie has emerged from her office cave, even though she’s wearing the expression of someone attending a funeral for her professional dignity. And maybe her soul.
“And now,” Ruby declares, having strapped herself into her coconut bra with the utmost confidence, as if she had never met a costume she couldn’t work, “traditional Hawaiian hula dancing!”
The three of us take our positions on the sand as Loco and Shaka begin to play, and even though it feels like an out-of-body experience, I’m suddenly very aware that I’m standing on a beach in coconut shells in front of actual people who can see me.
The music is beautiful, flowing, a sound that makes you understand why people fall in love with islands and never leave, even when those islands make them do ridiculous things.
Ruby starts with what I think is supposed to be a graceful arm movement, but it looks more like she’s directing air traffic during an emergency landing.
Lani moves with the dignity of a grandmother who’s accepted her fate but refuses to be happy about it, her face set in an expression that says, I’m doing this under protest.
I try to follow the rhythm, swaying my hips in what I hope resembles traditional dance rather than someone having a seizure in coconut shells while the universe laughs.
For about thirty seconds, we’re actually doing it. We’re hula dancing on a beach in paradise while ukuleles play and tiki torches flicker, and the island winds carry our music across the water, and I’m thinking maybe this won’t be a complete disaster—
Then Ruby attempts what she later describes as a hard right turn with attitude.
Her hip freezes mid-movement like someone hit a pause button on her entire left side, or like her body just issued a formal complaint. She stops, wobbles like a palm tree in high wind, and grabs onto me for support with the grip of a drowning woman.
“My hip!” she gasps, her face contorting in a way that suggests this is not part of the choreography. “It’s stuck!”
Before I can steady her, Lani tries a dramatic dip that her back vetoes with extreme prejudice. She straightens with a sound like a small tree falling and grabs onto Ruby with both hands.
And now, here we are, a chain of women in coconut bras, clinging to each other while trying not to fall over in the sand like some kind of tropical domino situation waiting to happen.
The band plays on. Loco and Shaka, bless their hearts and their complete commitment to professionalism, keep strumming like nothing’s happening, their music floating across the beach while we struggle to maintain both dignity and vertical positioning, which at this point are mutually exclusive goals.
“Well,” Ruby says, still frozen in her half-turn like a statue honoring bad decisions, “at least we tried.”
“Speak for yourself,” Lani mutters with one hand pressed to her lower back in a way that assures future chiropractor visits. “I think I just discovered muscles I forgot I had, and they’re all threatening to sue.”
The guests applaud anyway, clearly charmed by our enthusiasm if not our execution, which is honestly the best we could hope for. Dane bounds over with his perpetual smile cranked up to maximum wattage, unable to detect disaster when it’s wearing coconut shells.
“That was amazing!” he says, either lying or suffering from some kind of vision problem. “Very authentic! Very interpretive!”
“Thanks,” I say, helping Ruby into a chair where she can work on unfreezing her hip joint.
“Jinx,” Dane says, his voice dropping to something more confidential. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
He pulls me aside as Melanie rushes over to help Ruby and Lani, her managerial instincts finally kicking in despite her obvious disapproval of our entire evening, and I’m betting our existence as well.
“What’s up?” I ask, trying to adjust my coconut shells discreetly because they’ve shifted during the dancing disaster, and my nipples are threatening to take a look around.
“It’s about May,” Dane says, glancing around to make sure we’re not overheard. “Something she said the other day, and it just came to me. She mentioned that she’d been in Savannah’s garden the night Nolan died.”
“Lots of people were there that day.”
“No, I mean that night. After we checked in. She said she went back because she’d left something there during the day, but the garden closes at sunset. There’s no reason for her to be there unless...”
“Unless she was meeting someone,” I finish, my heart starting to race in a way that has nothing to do with hula dancing.
“Or hiding something. Or getting rid of something.”
The pieces click into place with the sound of a tropical puzzle solving itself.
May Leilani, running from her past, desperate to protect her new identity.
Savannah Cross, protective of her garden, knowing everyone’s secrets.
Two women with everything to lose, one man threatening to destroy them both.
I look across the beach where Melanie is fussing over Ruby and Lani, distracted by their theatrical injuries, which I hope were not hip-shattering. It’s the perfect moment to slip away, to find the person I’m pretty sure killed Nolan Nakamura.
The balmy breeze carries the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the sound of ukuleles across the water as I head toward the shadows beyond the tiki torches, still wearing coconut shells because I’m confronting a killer while dressed like a tourist trap came to life.
Paradise just got a whole lot more dangerous.
And I’m pretty sure I should contact Koa before doing this.
But then again, when have I ever made good decisions?