Chapter 9
Returning from a chocolate factory interrogation to regular resort management feels like going from solving crimes to counting towels, but evidently, this is what passes for my Monday afternoon entertainment.
Late afternoon sunlight streams through the lobby’s perpetually open doors, illuminating what can only be described as a minor miracle—the place is still standing.
No visible fires, floods, or guest revolts mar the tropical landscape, while the Hale brothers continue their construction magic with a competent efficiency that makes me question why I ever thought running a resort would be challenging.
The scent of plumeria mingles with the lingering aroma of Lani’s afternoon coffee service, and a rooster struts across the veranda with the dignity of a quality control inspector.
Three hens peck at invisible treats near the kitchen door while Spam supervises from his perch on the reception counter, satisfied that paradise hasn’t completely imploded in our absence.
“Well, well, well,” Melanie growls from behind the front desk. “Look who decided to return from her little field trip.”
She’s arranged herself behind the granite counter with the posture of a prosecutor preparing for closing arguments. Her long chestnut hair is pulled back in its usual aggressive bun, and her permanent scowl assures us that she’s had time to work herself into a proper state of managerial outrage.
“I didn’t want to be left in charge if I’m not actually in charge,” she continues, her voice reaching octaves that make the nearby cats flatten their ears in protest. “Do you have any idea how stressful it is to manage this place when you don’t have actual authority to make decisions?”
“About as stressful as it was when you actively sabotaged everything I tried to accomplish while you were the manager?” I suggest pleasantly, setting my purse down on a wicker chair that’s seen better decades and maybe Elvis.
“That’s beside the point,” she snaps. “I’m going to tell Mr. X about your unauthorized abandonment of management duties. Let’s see how he feels about his new golden girl gallivanting around the island while paying guests need attention.”
“You mean Dane Huntington?” I say, savoring this moment as if it’s the last piece of chocolate at a weight loss meeting. “Our mysterious Mr. X, who turned out to be the activities director with the thousand-watt smile?”
“He deceived all of us!” Melanie snaps. “Running around organizing sunset cruises while secretly judging our every move! I should have seen it coming.”
“You mean doing his actual job while also owning the place? The horror.”
“I was protecting this establishment from your ridiculous ideas!”
“By sabotaging the coffee machine and making guests miserable? Great strategy. You really showed him who’s boss.”
“He doesn’t understand resort management.”
I nod. “Which is why he fired you and promoted me. Clearly clueless about running his own business.”
Melanie opens her mouth to argue, then closes it, realizing she’s been backed into a conversational corner with no graceful exit strategy.
“Where were you anyway?” she asks, clearly deciding to change tactics. “Canoodling with that hot-to-trot homicide detective? Finally making progress on your romantic disaster of a personal life?”
“I wish,” I say honestly. “Ruby, Lani, and I were conducting very professional chocolate research at a macadamia farm, if you must know. It’s part of our ongoing commitment to understanding local culinary tourism opportunities.”
“Chocolate research,” she repeats with the tone of a prosecutor who doesn’t believe a word of this cocoa-based testimony.
“It was very thorough research,” I tell her. “I’m still finding evidence in my hair.”
“Right. And I suppose this research required you to abandon the resort during peak afternoon guest service hours?”
“Peak afternoon guest service hours consist of three tourists asking where the guest bathroom is and somebody complaining that the roosters are too loud. I think you managed just fine.”
A calico cat with serious attitude issues slinks across the lobby, followed by two more felines conducting what appears to be a strategic assessment of the afternoon snack situation.
They arrange themselves near the front desk with enough precision that suggests they’ve been monitoring our conversation and taking notes.
“You’re impossible,” Melanie says, throwing her hands up in theatrical frustration. “And you’re completely irresponsible. Mr. Huntington is going to hear about this.”
“I’m sure he will,” I agree. “Right after he hears about how well you handled things. Very professional. Very mature. With exactly the kind of attitude that makes excellent barista material.”
She storms off toward the coffee bar with the wounded dignity of a deposed monarch forced to work in the kitchen. The sound of an aggressive espresso machine operation follows in her wake, suggesting she’s taking her frustrations out on innocent coffee beans.
“Time to hire some competent staff,” I mutter to the assembled cats, who seem to approve of this decision based on their synchronized head tilts.
I settle behind the granite counter and pull out my laptop, the ancient machine wheezing to life with the enthusiasm of equipment considering early retirement.
The afternoon trade winds carry the sound of construction work mixed with distant ukulele music, while baby chicks peep somewhere near the kitchen in what sounds like a very important discussion about dinner plans.
First order of business—hiring people who won’t actively try to destroy the resort while I’m gone. I pull up a job posting site and start crafting what might be the most honest employment advertisement in hospitality history.
“WANTED: Front desk staff for tropical resort. Must be able to handle guests, roosters, and the occasional murder investigation without having a nervous breakdown. Experience with cats, chickens, and dramatically failing equipment preferred. Saboteurs need not apply.”
While the job posting uploads, I decide to conduct some research into our chocolate factory suspects. Giselle Fontaine’s name produces a treasure trove of culinary drama that makes reality TV look understated.
Her Honolulu dessert bar gets decent reviews, but the gossip articles are pure gold. “Local Pastry Chef Declares War on Food Blogger Over Croissant Technique.” “Celebrity Chef Meltdown: Giselle Fontaine’s Vanilla Rant Goes Viral.” “Pastry Chefs Behaving Badly: When Soufflés Attack.”
My personal favorite: “French Chef Claims to Have ‘Revolutionized the Chocolate Soufflé,’ Local Bakers Roll Eyes So Hard They Risk Injury.”
The woman clearly has an ego the size of the Big Island and zero tolerance for being anything less than the center of attention.
Brock “Breezy” Canton proves more interesting from an investigative standpoint.
Unlike Giselle, he’s not technically a resort guest—just a local business owner who entered the Mai Tai competition.
His beach bar and distillery, gets regular mentions in island lifestyle magazines as the place to experience authentic local rum culture.
But digging deeper into the local gossip columns reveals some fascinating details.
Recent articles mention supply chain challenges and sourcing questions raised by competitors.
One particularly juicy piece references an upcoming investors’ meeting that could make or break his expanding business operations.
Another piece to the puzzle piece clicks into place when I find a buried reference to rumors about inconsistent product quality and questions about whether his signature spiced rum is as locally crafted as advertised.
It’s a perfect motive for murder if Coraline was threatening to expose his operation as fraudulent. Public humiliation and financial ruin make excellent motivators for creative problem-solving with crystal cocktail stirrers and kitchen knives.
I’m reaching for my phone to call Ruby and Lani for our next investigative adventure when a shadow blocks my laptop screen.
“What’s that brown stuff in your hair?”
I look up into the coffee-colored eyes of Detective Koa Hale, standing there in his perfectly pressed uniform like a recruitment poster for “Join the Police Force and Look Devastatingly Attractive While Fighting Crime.” His dark hair somehow manages to look perfectly tousled despite the humidity, and he’s studying me with a dark interest that could make saints confess to jaywalking.
“Chocolate,” I admit, reaching up to touch what I’m now realizing is probably a substantial amount of cocoa evidence still decorating my crimson locks. “From our very thorough research into local culinary tourism opportunities.”
His mouth twitches in what might be the beginning of a smile. “Research. Right.”
Being caught with chocolate residue in my hair by the hottest detective in the Pacific wasn’t exactly how I’d planned to advance our relationship, but at least it proved I was committed to thorough investigative techniques, even if those techniques occasionally involved getting kicked out of chocolate factories.