Mai Tai Confessions (The Coconut Confessions, Hawaii Cozy Mysteries #2)

Chapter 1

One thing about tourists is that they always have murder on their mind.

Not the literal kind—though give them five minutes in paradise, and they’ll start plotting against each other over beach chair real estate. I’ve been tempted to do it myself a time or two.

The evening light paints the North Shore of Kauai in shades of mango and hibiscus. The balmy breeze carries grilled teriyaki mixed with the collective desperation of people who paid premium prices to experience island life from the safety of their all-inclusive bubble.

A massive banner stretched between two coconut palms announces “Mai Tai or Die!” in letters so aggressively cheerful they could probably be seen by passing satellites.

As it stands, the who’s who of island booze—plus every tourist with a functioning liver—has descended on the sand of the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort like well-dressed locusts with credit cards and unrealistic expectations about tropical perfection.

The Coconut Cove Paradise Resort sits just this side of Hanalei Bay and holds all of the magic that the gloriously blue Pacific, the sandy beaches, and the orange and pink kissed evening sky can afford.

The air is humid, the scent of plumerias is fragrant, and the beady eyes of a dozen cats and chickens lets you know that the Garden Isle of Kauai has more to offer than just mountain sides covered in ferns.

“I’m starting to think we should charge admission just to watch these people destroy each other over who gets the best spot to watch the sunset,” I say to my bestie, Ruby, while a woman in designer resort wear stakes claim to three beach chairs as if she’s planting a flag on conquered territory.

A wall of humanity is already here, and judging by the way the bodies keep streaming onto the resort, I bet there are plenty of people still on their way, too.

My name is Jinx Julep—I’m in my mid-thirties with auburn hair that laughs at humidity, green eyes that have seen a few things, and a talent for attracting disaster that’s been my signature move since birth.

It’s right up there with making excellent espresso and spectacularly poor romantic choices—like my ex-husband Erwin, who decided till death do us part actually meant till someone hotter slides into my DMs.

Less than a month ago, I ditched him and applied for a barista position at a cozy inn in Maine.

And yet, somehow, I ended up on Kauai instead.

It turns out that when you’re crying through a Zoom interview, you don’t read the fine print about which ocean you’ll be working next to.

The trade winds had other ideas. A few things went sideways, including a murder and some questionable decision-making on my part, and now I’m the manager of Coconut Cove Paradise Resort right here on the Garden Isle.

And as it turns out, paradise comes with complications. Also, roosters. So many roosters.

Steel drum music floats from the beach here at the resort, where local musicians tune ukuleles, occasionally interrupted by sound system feedback that makes every seabird within a mile radius take cover.

Tiki torches flicker to life all along the shoreline like beacons of impending chaos, while vendors arrange their rum bottles with the reverence usually reserved for priceless artifacts.

“Which apocalypse are we betting on first?” Ruby asks, sidling up next to me in a bright green muumuu stamped with pink hibiscus and skulls and crossbones.

Her long red hair has achieved that island humidity chic look that costs Manhattan salons hundreds of dollars to replicate.

“The great beach chair wars, or the parking lot revolution?”

Ruby Figgins is technically a guest—a wealthy widow in her early eighties who’s survived umpteen husbands and decided Coconut Cove Paradise Resort was the perfect place to park herself indefinitely.

She pays for a room but acts like she owns the place, which is fine because she’s more helpful than half the actual staff.

“I’m holding out for the inevitable meltdown when someone discovers the roosters don’t operate on a noise schedule approved by the tourism board,” I say, gesturing toward our feathered residents who clearly missed the memo about guest satisfaction surveys.

A rooster struts past the veranda as if it’s conducting very important business, possibly related to judging the sunset’s punctuality and finding it wanting.

Baby chicks peep near the kitchen door like tiny critics reviewing our hospitality skills, while their mothers cluck disapproval at the growing crowd’s lack of proper etiquette.

A parade of cats begins its evening patrol across the resort.

The gray tabby with white paws leads the procession, moving with the authority of a security chief conducting rounds.

A black and white tuxedo cat arrives, battle-scarred and unimpressed.

Three more cats materialize from strategic hiding spots—a calico radiating serious attitude problems, a sleek black cat with judgmental green eyes, and a tortoiseshell who clearly holds middle management responsibilities in their feline organizational chart.

“The board of feline directors is convening,” Ruby observes. “Either they smell Lani’s cooking, or they’re planning a coordinated assault on the seafood station.”

“With my luck, it’s both,” I say, just as another furry cutie arrives on the scene.

And that furry cutie would be Spam.

He emerges from under the hibiscus bushes like a ginger torpedo with a mission, built like a small orange ottoman but moving like a con artist who just discovered the mark is allergic to saying no.

He’s all fluff, missing half an ear, and is as round as a basketball no thanks to all the sweet treats he’s managed to manipulate us into giving him.

I scoop him up before he can launch himself at the nearest ankles because, as fate would have it, I would be that mark.

Spam immediately goes limp in my arms, purring like a diesel engine while his amber eyes radiate innocence so pure it’s obviously fraudulent. This is the same cat who orchestrated a sashimi heist last week using the tortoiseshell as lookout and the calico as distraction.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” I tell him, kissing the top of his fuzzy head. His fur smells like sunshine and plumeria.

“That cat has more schemes than my fifth husband had offshore accounts,” Ruby grunts. “At least Spam’s honest about being a scoundrel.”

“That he is,” I say, setting him down, and it feels as if I’ve just let go of a twenty-pound weight.

“There you are!” Lani emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray of pūpūs that smell like heaven decided to moonlight in the catering business.

Her silver hair with lavender tips catches the tiki torch light, and flour dusts her muumuu like edible snow.

“The two of you complain about paying customers like they’re a plague, but their money bought us kitchen equipment that doesn’t require last rites before each use. ”

“Fair point,” I admit, snagging a piece of kalua pig that dissolves on my tongue like smoky paradise. “Their money did buy us functioning equipment. Though I still maintain the previous espresso machine was less appliance and more medieval torture device.”

Leilani “Lani” Mahelona is our kitchen queen, born and raised on Kauai.

She’s been working at this resort longer than some of our palm trees have been alive, running the entire food operation through sheer stubborn competence and an impressive collection of wooden spoons she’s not afraid to use as weapons.

Across the span of our little beach, the competition setup resembles what happens when you give party planners a rum budget and tell them to go tropical.

Bartenders from every resort and restaurant on the island arrange their makeshift stations as if their livelihoods depend on the angle of a lime wedge—and they just might.

Ice sculptors fuss over frozen masterpieces while garnish artists display their work—a glowing volcano carved into a watermelon, an entire tiki statue comprised of carved pineapple, and other tropical fruits that are equally carved to impress that I can’t quite identify.

The crowd includes hotel managers in aloha shirts that scream “mandatory fun,” locals in flip-flops who actually know what authentic island life looks like, and tourists clutching cameras like weapons of mass documentation.

All united in their appreciation for properly crafted tropical cocktails and the opportunity to judge other people’s mixing techniques.

“Speaking of torture devices,” Ruby says cheerfully, “how is our former supreme overlord adjusting to peasant labor?”

A crash echoes from the coffee bar, followed by what sounds like someone negotiating a hostile takeover with a blender. Melanie’s voice rises above the mechanical protests, suggesting she’s having a philosophical disagreement with equipment that doesn’t appreciate her management style.

“The espresso machine has trust issues,” she growls, heading our way with milk foam decorating her perfectly pressed shirt like abstract art.

“I request a double shot, it delivers what I can only describe as caffeinated disappointment. I select steamed milk, it produces something with the consistency of regret.”

“Have you tried apologizing to it?” Lani asks. “Machines respond to respect and proper maintenance.” She’s spent decades training kitchen appliances through a combination of maintenance, threats, and what I suspect might be actual prayers to the machinery gods.

“I don’t apologize to appliances,” Melanie shoots back. “That’s a slippery slope that ends with me having meaningful conversations with the ice maker.”

“The ice maker has better conversational skills than most of our guests,” I point out. It’s true. He’s been known to give me the cold shoulder, but if you keep at it, you can get a decent conversational cube or two out of him.