Chapter 5
Monday mornings after a murder don’t come with a handbook, but if they did, mine would definitely include a chapter on managing tourists who think dead celebrities are part of the entertainment package.
Late morning sunlight streams through our perpetually open lobby doors, illuminating what can only be described as controlled breakfast chaos.
A salty warm breeze flows through the space, giving you that signature Hawaiian hug of humidity that I’ve actually grown to love—at least when I’m not standing in full sunlight.
The scent of coffee strong enough to wake ancient Hawaiian gods mingles with cinnamon rolls the size of your head, while the sound of blenders working overtime competes with tourist chatter and the eternal clinking of dishes that suggests Lani has been caffeinating the masses since dawn.
The lobby itself consists of dark wooden floors and enough rattan furniture to make Miami jealous. There are potted palms in every corner, and a bird of paradise floral arrangement sitting on the reception counter to add a splash of color.
Our breakfast buffet sprawls across the lanai like a tropical feast operating under the belief that vacation calories don’t count and carbohydrates are a food group.
The line for Lani’s cinnamon rolls literally snakes around the property—I can see tourists queued up past the pool area, around the tiki bar, and what appears to be halfway to the neighboring resort.
Summer tourism has officially exploded across Kauai, with mainlanders pouring into every available orifice the Garden Isle has to offer, armed with sunscreen, unrealistic expectations, and credit cards that haven’t yet realized what “island prices” actually mean.
From our vantage point at the southern tip of Hanalei Bay, sheer emerald mountains rise around us like ancient spires someone carved with divine precision and a serious commitment to dramatic scenery.
The ocean stretches to the horizon in shades of blue that make you understand why people abandon perfectly good lives to move to islands, while tourists lie around, glossy with sunscreen and optimism, dotting the beach like colorful, slightly crispy human confetti.
A gray tabby with white paws weaves between the breakfast crowd with the dignity of a cute kitty conducting very important resort inspections, while Spam, the orange ball of floof, supervises operations from his perch on a potted palm.
Three hens peck at invisible treats near the kitchen door, seemingly unimpressed by the human drama surrounding them, and a rooster struts across the veranda with enough confidence to suggest he owns the place and has the property deed to prove it.
“Excuse me, is it true someone was murdered here last night?” A woman in a visor that could shelter a small family approaches me with a wide-eyed look that lets me know she watches too many true crime documentaries.
She’s clutching her coffee and wearing resort wear that signals she’s prepared for every possible vacation emergency except actual emergencies.
“There was an incident,” I confirm as gently as possible. “But I can assure you the resort is completely safe. Speaking of which, there’s a lei-making class starting on the sand in twenty minutes if you’re interested in Hawaiian cultural experiences that don’t involve crime scene tape.”
“But was there blood? I heard there was a knife and everything!”
A second tourist materializes beside her, this one wearing enough camera equipment to document a small war. His eyes gleam with morbid fascination that makes me wonder if people vacation specifically hoping to witness tragedy.
“The lei-making class features fresh plumeria and traditional techniques,” I repeat with a short-lived smile. “I can promise you, it’s very peaceful. Very non-homicidal.”
They wander off looking disappointed, obviously hoping for chalk outlines instead of flower arrangements.
Ruby appears from the coffee bar wearing a muumuu that looks like a rainbow collided with a hibiscus field and decided to throw a party. Her red hair is braided with flowers, and she’s carrying a cinnamon roll that could double as a dinner plate.
“The guests are rough today,” I say, watching a family argue loudly about whether the murder makes their vacation more or less social media worthy.
“Tourists are a lot like my ex-husbands,” Ruby says cheerfully, settling into a wicker chair that creaks ominously, and I join her at a free table that overlooks the sandy shoreline and the glistening water.
“They show up with unrealistic expectations, make a mess of everything, demand constant attention, and leave you wondering why you thought they’d be different this time.
At least tourists actually pay their bills and don’t steal your blender when they leave. ”
“Though they do leave just as much emotional damage and dirty laundry,” Lani adds, emerging from the kitchen with flour dusting her lavender-tipped hair and a wooden spoon tucked into her apron. “Plus, they never call afterward to see how you’re doing.”
A calico cat with serious attitude issues stalks past our table, followed by two more felines conducting what appears to be a strategic patrol of the dining area. The morning patrol always includes quality control checks of dropped food items and guest lap availability for unsolicited affection.
Melanie stomps across the lobby with the determined stride of a person who’s decided Monday mornings require maximum drama and minimum customer service.
Her long chestnut hair is pulled back in its usual aggressive bun, her permanent scowl seems extra scowly today, and she’s wearing an expression of someone who’s just been told the Wi-Fi is down.
“Jinx,” she announces, stopping beside our table with the look of false authority, “here’s what needs to happen this week.
Plan the Sunday luau, amp up the guest activities, coordinate with the local tour operators, update the website with current amenities, and handle the insurance paperwork for last night’s. .. incident.”
“Feel free to handle all that yourself,” I say pleasantly, taking a sip of coffee that does not believe in mercy.
“I’m not the manager anymore,” Melanie snaps as her voice reaches frequencies that make nearby cats flatten their ears. “You are.”
“And I’m delegating. That’s what makes me a good manager. Delegation and strategic task distribution.”
Melanie gasps. “You wish!” She pivots and stalks off toward the coffee bar, muttering about competency and professional standards.
“Actually,” I call after her with cheerful helpfulness, “just this one time, I’ll let you prove how much better you are at event planning than actual management. Consider it a professional development opportunity.”
A tall figure fills the lobby doorway, and for a split second, my heart does something that should probably require medical supervision. Then I realize it’s not Detective Hale but rather a handsome doppelganger of the man who cuffed my heart—literally and figuratively.
Shaka, Koa’s older brother, moves across the lobby with an easy confidence that suggests he’s built things with his bare hands and lived to tell about it.
His dark hair pulled back in a man-bun that should look ridiculous but somehow makes him look like a Hawaiian warrior moonlighting in construction, tattoos wrapping around biceps the size of mountainsides, and the golden tan that comes from working outdoors in paradise instead of paying for it at a salon.
It turns out Koa’s brothers—Loco and Shaka—run their own construction company, and after some unfortunate business involving a money-laundering resort client and a reputation that took a nosedive faster than a tourist with food poisoning, they offered to rehab our resort in exchange for cinnamon rolls.
Smart move, actually. They did a great job, and now they’re booked solid through the next millennium, but they’re still handling my honey-do list, which makes it a win-win situation for everyone involved.
“Morning, Jinx,” Loco says, his voice carrying a strength that assures me he’s never met a structural problem he couldn’t solve. He’s lean, mean, and handsome to a fault. “Finished installing the outdoor showers and foot fountains. Everything is up and running.”
I sigh, contemplating the fact that foot fountains are now something I have conversations about, let alone manage.
“Foot fountains. Six months ago, I was worried about opening shifts and whether the espresso machine would cooperate. Now I’m in charge of facilities specifically designed for sand removal from between people’s toes. ”
“Want me to put up a sign above them?” Loco asks.
“Yes, definitely,” I tell him. “Have it say something sassy about washing the sand off.”
“Ooh, I’ve got one!” Ruby perks up with the enthusiasm of an eccentric woman who’s just found her calling. “‘Come get wet and dirty—we’ll hose you down afterward!’”
Lani lifts her eyes heavenward with the patience of a bestie who’s spent decades managing Ruby’s creative input. “How about something more subtle? ‘Rinse away your troubles, one grain at a time.’”
“Or,” Shaka starts with a grin that could melt permafrost, “Lend us a hand, wash off the sand?”
“Go with that,” I decide. “Simple, functional, and unlikely to be misinterpreted by tourists with overactive imaginations.”
He heads off to handle the signage situation while Ruby and Lani inch closer with expressions that suggest they’re about to propose something I’m going to regret.
“So,” Ruby says with barely contained excitement, “when do we start our investigation into last night’s festivities?”
“You won’t.” A deep voice grumbles from behind with the authority that comes from being obeyed without question.
All three of us turn to see Detective Koa Hale standing in the lobby, and suddenly the temperature rises about twenty degrees despite the trade winds doing their best to provide natural air conditioning—warm air conditioning, but still.
His dark eyes sweep over our little group with an intensity that makes guilty people confess and innocent people wonder what they might have done wrong.
And there’s something about the way he’s looking at me specifically that lets me know I’m either in serious trouble or about to have some serious luck.
“You’re coming with me,” he says, nodding in my direction.
My Monday just got infinitely more complicated, significantly more attractive, and probably a whole lot more dangerous than foot fountain management was ever supposed to be.