Chapter 12
If I’d known that managing a resort in paradise required murder investigations, ex-husband drama, and my own emotional baggage, I would’ve bought stronger coffee. Heck, I would have bought stock in every coffee company on the island.
It’s mid-morning at the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort, and I’m attempting to manage the front desk while simultaneously reliving every perfect moment from last night’s family gathering. Just the perfect ones. There were a few.
The trade winds carry the scent of tropical foliage mixed with fresh coffee and fresh baked cinnamon rolls, while my brain replays Koa’s kisses on an endless loop like a romantic movie stuck on the very best scene.
I’ve conveniently edited out the poi disaster and the rooster-induced chaos, focusing instead on the important details like the way Koa’s eyes crinkled when he laughed, his mother’s final approval, the feeling of belonging somewhere for the first time in my adult life, and that kiss that tasted like possibility and felt like home.
Pineapple the cat has positioned herself strategically on the reception desk like a furry supervisor conducting performance evaluations, while Coconut and Mango lounge nearby with the patient expressions of senior staff observing an employee having a romantic breakdown during business hours.
“You’re glowing,” Ruby announces, emerging from the kitchen with a tray of what appears to be experimental breakfast pastries, with each one looking more delicious than the last. “Like, literally glowing. It’s either true love, or you’ve contracted some kind of tropical radioactive poisoning.”
“I think it’s the afterglow of family acceptance,” I say dreamily, attempting to look busy with resort paperwork while my brain continues its unauthorized vacation in Romantic Fantasy Land. “And possibly the lingering effects of poi immersion therapy.”
I had to wash my hair three times to get it back to acceptable loofah levels.
“Or the fact that you got to kiss Detective Delicious under the stars like a proper tropical romance heroine,” Lani adds, wiping flour from her hands with the knowing expression that comes from witnessing the early stages of island love-sick syndrome. And boy, have I got it bad.
A rooster crows from somewhere near the sand, providing his thoughts on my emotional state. Spam opens one amber eye to give him a withering stare that suggests even the cats think the poultry should mind their own business when it comes to human romantic developments.
I’m about to say something when a woman sweeps into the lobby, radiating a crisis energy that demands immediate attention.
Halea strides in wearing adventure-chic attire that screams, I’ve paid thousands of dollars to look like I rough it with designer hiking boots that have never seen dirt, safari shorts that showcase legs that could launch a thousand gyms, and a tank top doing some very heavy lifting.
“Aloha, beautiful people!” she announces with the manic energy a triple espresso produces. “It’s time for our exclusive Secret Falls adventure! The bus is waiting, and paradise is calling!”
The wedding party begins materializing from various resort locations like a pastel parade of matrimonial enthusiasm.
Erwin emerges from his suite looking like a tourist who’s been dressed by a personal shopper with dubious taste in men’s resort wear.
Candy appears with enough camera equipment to document a National Geographic expedition, her ring light already activated for optimal documentation of whatever constitutes adventure in the influencer universe.
Bertha materializes wearing an expression that assures us she’s expecting disappointment but is prepared to endure it with martyred dignity.
Various bridesmaids and groomsmen trail behind like extras in a destination wedding commercial.
“Morning, Jinx,” Erwin calls out with a fake cheerfulness that makes my teeth ache and sends Spam running for cover. “They’re still letting you run the front desk, I see. That is, until you run them into the ground.” He laughs at his own ridiculous sense of humor.
And just like that, my romantic glow evaporates faster than ice cream in tropical heat, replaced by a rage that could make a volcanic eruption look understated. A chicken conducting lobby inspections stops mid-peck to stare at me with what appears to be a genuine interest in my emotional state.
“Totally!” Candy chimes in, adjusting her hair in the reflection of the window.
“I mean, some people are meant for adventure and new experiences, and others are meant for, well, staying put and handling all the practical stuff. Without people like you, Sphynx, who would do all the dirty work so the rest of us could have a little f-u-n?”
She and Erwin cackle, and I suddenly have an F word of my own that I’d love to spell out for them.
I growl—actually growl—with a sound that belongs to either a territorial predator or someone whose ex is marrying an idiot. The chicken backs up, recognizing the vocal signature of a woman at her limit. Come to think of it, my ex is an idiot, too. So, in that respect, they’re the perfect couple.
Pineapple sits up straighter, looking from the cackling couple to me like she were a spectator at a tennis match.
Coconut and Mango position themselves like furry referees preparing to officiate what might become the first recorded case of ex-husband homicide in a tropical resort lobby. And how I’d love to set that record.
“You’re welcome to tag along, of course,” Erwin says with the cruelty of a man delivering what he thinks is a devastating blow. “It might be good for you to witness what actual happiness looks like. You know, for future reference.” He takes a moment to rub his nose against Candy’s.
The silence that follows is tangible. Even the trade winds seem to pause, waiting to see if I’m going to commit acts of violence that would require police intervention and possibly a hazmat cleanup.
“Oh, heck no,” Ruby declares with the righteous indignation of a woman whose best friend has just been insulted by a man wearing socks with sandals in paradise. “Nobody talks to our Jinx like that and gets away with it.”
“However,” Lani whispers my way while holding up her trusty wooden spoon, “if they’re all going to be alone at a secluded waterfall, this might be the perfect opportunity for a serious fact-finding mission.”
“A fact-finding mission, you say?” I sigh at the thought. It’s as if the universe is giving me no choice.
The wedding party files out to a waiting tour bus that looks like it was designed by luxury vacation planners with unlimited budgets and excellent taste in transportation.
I bet it has air conditioning that actually works, leather seats that haven’t been gnawed by tropical wildlife, and a mini-bar stocked with beverages that don’t require emergency medical intervention after consumption.
“Look at that,” I mutter, watching them board their climate-controlled paradise on wheels. “Even their transportation has more class than my entire existence.”
“Don’t worry,” Ruby says, patting my shoulder with the comfort that comes from decades of managing disappointment in men. “We have our own transportation solution.”
She points toward Pele, the resort’s van, which sits in the parking lot like a testament to optimism over mechanical reality.
Rust spots decorate her sides like abstract art celebrating tropical decay.
The air conditioning consists of roll down the windows and praying for trade winds, and the engine makes sounds that suggest Pele’s held together by determination, hope, and possibly the divine intervention of her namesake goddess.
It takes less than two seconds for me to put Melanie and Spam in charge of the resort while we’re gone.
“Do you think Pele has it in her to make it to the secret falls?” I ask as we head out, and I pat the van’s hood with the cautious affection usually reserved for elderly relatives with questionable life expectancy.
We’ve already tested her limits once this week. Twice seems like we’re tempting fate.
“She’s made it this far,” Ruby says with the optimism that comes from ignoring mechanical challenges through sheer willpower. “Besides, how secret can these falls be if they’re taking a tour bus full of tourists wearing matching t-shirts?”
The resort cats assemble to witness our departure. Spam supervises from the steps, Pineapple perches on the hood, radiating judgment, and Coconut and Mango inspect the tires like concerned mechanics.
A rooster crows from his perch on a fence post, offering his professional opinion on the wisdom of pursuing ex-husbands and wedding parties to remote waterfalls in vehicles that may or may not survive the journey.
“So, we’re really doing this?” I ask, sliding into the driver’s seat of a van that’s seen better decades and better drivers.
“Absolutely,” Lani confirms, buckling a seatbelt that may or may not provide actual safety benefits but definitely provides emotional reassurance. “Those people are hiding something, and waterfalls make people confess things.”
“It’s the negative ions,” Ruby adds helpfully from the back seat.
“They’re very conducive to truth-telling and emotional breakthroughs.
Plus,” she continues, rattling a paper bag in my direction, “I packed cinnamon rolls for the road. Nothing says tropical adventure like a sugar-fueled investigation.”
“And if we happen to extract a few secrets while we’re enjoying the scenic beauty,” Lani says with the innocent expression of a woman planning absolutely nothing suspicious, “well, that’s just efficient multitasking.”
Pele starts with reluctant cooperation, coughing and sputtering before settling into a rhythm that sounds like she’s politely requesting retirement to a climate-controlled garage. Not that she’s ever seen one.
“Off we go,” I announce, pulling out of the parking lot while three cats wave goodbye with their tails, and a rooster crows what might be encouragement or might be a warning about the dangers of pursuing romantic revenge in questionable vehicles.
The tour bus disappears around a curve ahead of us, leaving a trail of diesel exhaust and wedding party laughter that drifts back on the trade winds like auditory salt in emotional wounds.
“Here’s hoping we can extract a few secrets,” I mutter, wrestling with a steering wheel that has developed its own thoughts about proper road navigation.
“Here’s hoping we extract anything other than ourselves from a roadside ditch,” Ruby adds with a laugh, immune to Pele’s mechanical uncertainty.
“Here’s hoping those falls are worth whatever bruises we’re about to collect,” Lani concludes, gripping her door handle with a determination that says she’s ready for adventure regardless of Pele’s cooperation.
Pele chugs forward into whatever tropical chaos awaits us at the secret falls, while behind us, the resort cats settle in for their afternoon naps and the roosters continue their thoughts on human decision-making capabilities.
Paradise has a way of hiding secrets. I intend to drag this one into the light—even if it takes my ex down with it.
Okay, fine, that would be a bonus.