Chapter 13
Okay, so we didn’t have a hot and heavy make-out session after Koa knocked six teeth out of Breezy’s mouth.
Fine, he didn’t actually knock any teeth out of anyone’s mouth, but Breezy did call the police on Koa, which is comical because Koa IS the police.
It’s like calling the fire department to report that the fire department is on fire—technically possible, but mostly just confusing for everyone involved.
Let’s just say the evening disintegrated from there faster than my dignity at a chocolate factory.
Before leaving me standing in the parking lot of The Salty Seahorse Saloon with mascara smudged and romantic hopes dashed, Koa let me know he’d swing by tomorrow and pay me a visit.
I’ll admit it sounded all too cryptic to me.
Either he was planning official police business, or he was speaking in some kind of detective code that translated to “I’m going to arrest you for interfering with my investigation,” or—and this is where my optimistic delusions kicked into high gear—he had tracked me down to kiss me senseless, not to witness me getting groped by a murder suspect.
I did say they were my delusions.
The next morning finds me in the resort café, which is currently experiencing what can only be described as an ice cream apocalypse.
The café itself sits in the back of the main building of the resort and faces the glorious Pacific.
Tourists mob the counter with the desperation of people who’ve discovered the secret to happiness costs three dollars and ninety-five cents per scoop.
Our Upside-Down Paradise pineapple cake flavor is flying out of the freezer faster than my common sense around hot detectives, while the Tropical Treasure Crunch with coconut, caramel, and macadamia nuts has created what appears to be a small religious movement among visitors from the mainland.
The cinnamon rolls keep disappearing as fast as we bake them for obvious oversized and cinnamon-scented reasons. And anxious tourists line up for the next batch, acting as if patience is optional when frosting is involved.
I’m standing in this chaos holding my own personal solution to yesterday’s drama and trauma—a triple scoop waffle cone featuring all three of our premium flavors, because if I’m going to stress-eat my way through a murder investigation, I’m going to do it with style and enough sugar to ensure my bikini won’t fit by noon.
A gray tabby weaves through the crowd with the air of a quality control inspector, conducting his own research into dropped ice cream samples.
About a dozen chickens have positioned themselves strategically near the outdoor seating area, ready to capitalize on any tourist clumsiness, while a rooster struts past the windows with arrogance because clearly he’s never paid for breakfast in his life.
“Jinx!” Melanie’s voice cuts through the ice cream chaos and ruins a perfectly delicious moment. She storms toward me with a purposeful stride that lets me know it’s either very good news or very bad news, and given my track record with Melanie, I’m betting on the latter.
“I just answered the phone since the front desk was unmanned,” she announces, her voice carrying the righteous indignation of an employee who’s been personally inconvenienced by having to do actual work.
“It was Brock Canton—you know, Breezy from last night’s bar altercation? Ruby told me all about it.”
Snitch.
My ice cream suddenly tastes more complicated. “What did he want?”
“He says they’d like to have a do-over of the Mai Tai Madness Mix-Off and wondered if we were still interested in hosting it.”
I suck in a breath. “What did you say?”
“I said yes, naturally. It’s good publicity for the resort, granted you don’t slaughter anyone else as you seem particularly prone to do. Little did we know we were hiring a serial killer to run this place.”
Every head in the immediate vicinity swivels our way, including the gray tabby, who looks up from his investigation of a dropped waffle cone with a judgmental expression that lets me know even the cats think Melanie’s volume control needs work.
That or they’re not all that comfortable with a would-be serial killer in their presence.
“I’ll have you know I’d be much more discriminating in my choice of victims,” I say, lifting an eyebrow at Melanie with a pointed look that says she might want to reconsider her phrasing. “Quality over quantity, I always say.”
Melanie eyes the nearest exit as if gauging whether or not she can outrun me.
Newsflash—she can’t.
“The Mai Tai Madness Mix-Off is this Sunday,” she continues, deciding to ignore my implied threat in favor of delivering more potentially problematic news.
“I thought it best we showcase our new luau with actual hula girls at the very same time. As it turns out, there really is no such thing as bad publicity.”
The hula girl dig would be directed at Lani, Ruby, and me since we sort of filled in the hip-swiveling role last time. And it would be the very last time.
Melanie glowers at me like I’ve wronged her entire family tree. “I hate to say it, but this rash of homicides seems to have put us on the map. Our booking inquiries have tripled since the first murder made the local news.”
“I’ve always been an overachiever,” I say with a hint of pride, taking another lick of my ice cream cone. Don’t judge. It’s hot out. I need to get to it.
Melanie’s mouth falls, and she gags on an entire river of words.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” I tell her, waving my cone in her direction and nearly losing a scoop in the process. “You practically accused me of being a serial killer five seconds ago. At this point, I’m just leaning into your expectations.”
“I did not—”
“You absolutely did. In front of approximately thirty tourists who are now probably uploading videos to social media with titles like Resort Manager Admits to Murder Spree and Ice Cream Confessions: A True Crime Story.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Besides, if I were going to embark on a homicide spree, do you really think I’d be this obvious about it? I mean, come on, Mel. Give me some credit for basic strategic planning. I can be much more creative.” I wink her way, and she gasps again.
A couple from Idaho pauses mid–cinnamon roll to stare at us, openly interested in whatever this has turned into. Even the gray tabby abandons his ice cream investigation to listen in, deciding this is better than frozen cream.
“And another thing—” Melanie starts, but my phone buzzes in my pocket with the insistence of something that can’t be ignored.
I fumble for it while trying not to drop my ice cream, which proves to be a coordination challenge beyond my current skill level.
The cone tilts, gravity wins, and suddenly there’s a pile of Upside-Down Paradise, Coconut Cream, and Tropical Treasure Crunch, and waffle cone components decorating the café floor like a very expensive abstract art installation.
“Ugh,” I mutter, staring at my lost ice cream while my phone continues buzzing. The text shows Koa’s name, and my heart does something that should probably send me to the morgue.
“It’s Koa,” I announce, with a renewed sense of joy, and a renewed sense of nerves to go with it.
“He’s here.” I glance down at the triple scoops of dairy.
“Could you get that?” I ask Melanie, as I rush toward the lobby, leaving her standing there with her mouth open and a pile of premium ice cream slowly melting at her feet.
And a couple of cats run over and diminish Melanie’s task by half.
The lobby is mercifully cooler than the café, with trade winds carrying the scent of plumeria through the doors. Koa stands near the front desk, and even though I’ve seen him dozens of times by now, my brain still does that annoying thing where it forgets how to function normally in his presence.
“Morning,” he says, and his voice vibrates through me in all the right places.
“Detective,” I reply, trying for professional composure, and my voice cracks when I say it.
“We need to talk,” he says, nodding toward my desk area behind the front counter. “Privately.”
We settle into chairs that have seen better decades but provide enough privacy for conversation that doesn’t involve the entire resort’s gossip network. It turns out, coconut wireless is a very real thing.
He leans forward slightly, and suddenly the space between us crackles with tension that has nothing to do with murder investigations.
“I did some digging on that event planner you told me about last night,” he says, pulling out his phone. It’s true, he had me synopsize my meet and greet with the island’s resident octopus before I took off from the bar. “Mabel Ortiz has quite an interesting background.”
“Interesting how?” I ask, though I’m distracted by the way the morning light catches in his dark hair and makes those gold flecks in his eyes look like they’re lit from within. Like chocolate sprinkled with gold. Yum.
“The rumors are true,” he says. “She’s been running event planning scams across the West Coast for the past three years. It turns out, she takes deposits for luxury events, cuts corners on everything from permits to safety regulations, then disappears when things go sideways.”
“That would definitely give Coraline ammunition for blackmail,” I observe.
“Exactly. And here’s the interesting part—she’s still on the island.”
He slides closer, ostensibly to show me something on his phone, but really creating a proximity that makes rational thought impossible.
I can smell his cologne mixed with ocean air, and when he leans in to point at his screen, his shoulder brushes against mine in a way that sends electricity through the humid air.
“I’ve been tracking her credit card activity,” he continues, his voice low enough that I have to lean closer to hear him. “She’s been staying at the Grand Hyatt, running up quite a bill. Expensive dinners, spa treatments, shopping as if she’s celebrating something.”
“Or spending money while she still can,” I suggest, though most of my attention is focused on how his lips move when he talks and wondering what they’d feel like pressed against mine. Heck, I know what they’d feel like, I’ve felt them before. But who’s to say I don’t need a refresher?
“My thoughts exactly.” His eyes meet mine, and suddenly we’re very close, close enough that I can see the individual gold stars in his eyes and the way his mouth curves slightly when he’s thinking. “Jinx...”
“Yeah?” I whisper, because proximity to Detective Hale reduces my vocabulary to single syllables.
He reaches up to touch my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone with a gentle precision that makes my heart forget its basic rhythm.
The morning light streaming through the lobby windows turns everything golden, and for a moment, the murder investigation fades into background noise compared to the way he’s looking at me.
“You have no idea the things you do to me,” he says, his voice barely above a murmur.
“What’s that?” I ask, though honestly, he could tell me almost anything right now, and I’d probably agree with it.
He leans closer, and I can feel his breath warm against my lips.
My eyes flutter closed, and I’m pretty sure this is finally it—the moment when Detective Hale stops being professional and starts being personal, when all this slow-burn tension finally ignites into something that might require a rating change for this investigation, from PG to triple—
“What is this?” he says suddenly, his voice sharp with surprise.
My eyes snap open to find him staring at my computer screen, where I’d left my browser open to something that’s caught his attention. The romantic moment evaporates faster than ice cream in tropical heat.
“What?” I ask, following his gaze to the screen where my earlier research into local events is still displayed.
“Well, well,” he says, his expression shifting back into full detective mode. “I think I know exactly where we’ll find Mabel Ortiz tonight.”
Being interrupted mid-almost-kiss by a murder investigation lead is either the worst timing or the best investigative luck in my romantic disaster of a life, but judging by the way Koa’s eyes had gone from smoldering to sharp, I’m about to find out which one it was.