Chapter 17
“Ihad to stuff my fluff into each coconut for twenty minutes!” Lani announces with indignation because she’s just discovered that coconut bras require significant engineering skills and possibly a degree in structural support.
“But look how smexy we both look!” Ruby replies, adjusting her own precarious coconut arrangement. “We’re like tropical goddesses with attitude and adequate coverage!”
I’m not sure what horrifies me more—the fact that Ruby just used the word “smexy” in casual conversation, or that two senior citizens are currently walking a thin line when it comes to public decency laws while discussing their coconut-based undergarments at what’s supposed to be a respectable resort event.
The Mai Tai Madness Mix-Off Do-Over is in full tropical swing, and I have to admit the resort looks spectacular.
A big glittery sign announces the event in letters that encompass every color of the rainbow, while tiki torches flicker along the beach like beacons of Polynesian paradise.
The sun just set, and the sky is still glowing a violent shade of orange as twinkle lights shaped like pineapples dangle from every available palm tree, creating the sort of magical atmosphere that makes tourists forget they’re paying resort prices for drinks they could make at home if they owned a blender and had less sense of adventure.
The air is hot, the crowd is hotter, and the lively music makes everyone want to shake what their mamas gave them.
The luau spills across our beachfront, lively and unapologetic. Tables laden with kalua pig, poi, our first stab at huli huli chicken, fresh poke, and haupia pudding and then some, create a buffet that makes mainland potluck dinners look pathetic by comparison.
The sound of ukuleles mingles with laughter, conversation, and the occasional rooster crows from our resident poultry population, who consider this their personal dinner invitation rather than a human-only event.
Local musicians have set up near the main buffet, their guitars and ukuleles creating authentic island music that makes you want to learn to hula, even if your coordination peaks at walking in a straight line.
The scent of grilled pineapple and teriyaki sauce floats on tropical breezes that carry just enough ocean salt to remind everyone they’re in paradise.
“You look nice,” a familiar voice says behind me, and I turn to find Koa approaching with a confident stride that says he’s perfectly comfortable navigating luau crowds while looking devastatingly attractive in his off-duty civilian clothes.
About six different women crane their necks in his direction and sigh.
His eyes do that elevator thing—starting at my flip-flops and traveling slowly upward in a way that makes my skin heat up faster than a tourist’s first day without sunscreen. “Love the dress.”
“This old thing?” I ask, plucking at the gold fabric with beading that catches the tiki torch light like captured starlight. “It’s nothing special.”
What I don’t mention is the kidnapping situation that led to this ensemble.
Ruby and Lani literally dragged me to the boutique down the road this afternoon, where Ruby insisted on buying me this strapless number with a thigh-high slit that makes me feel like a Bond girl who’s about to infiltrate a very tropical casino.
The fact that I’m wearing it with flip-flops probably destroys any sophisticated spy aesthetic, but honestly, what more could you ask for in paradise?
Comfort, style, and footwear that won’t get me killed on the sand—it’s the perfect combination for conducting amateur murder investigations at formal tropical events.
“You make it special,” he says, and something in his eyes softens. “Because you’re special, Jinx.”
I gasp and take a step his way to close the distance between us, just as a small parade of chickens chooses this moment to strut past us, followed by three cats conducting what appears to be their own audit of the buffet.
Spam gives Koa a respectful nod before disappearing under a table laden with tropical fruit displays.
“Jinx!” Melanie’s voice cuts through the luau atmosphere like a shotgun.
She stomps toward us, wearing a little black dress with a red hibiscus flower tucked in her cleavage.
I’ll admit, it looks interesting. Why didn’t I think of that?
“These crowds are getting completely out of control,” she grouses.
“Do you want another murder on your hands?”
“Only if it’s yours.” I shrug with casual indifference as if she’s already survived one homicide investigation and lived to tell about it. Okay, fine, I’ve just about survived two.
Melanie gasps and nearly inhales a mosquito.
“I jest,” I say with a manufactured laugh that sounds more deranged than playful. “A little.”
Before Melanie can respond with whatever threats she’s currently formulating, Breezy appears from the direction of the thatch-roofed booths, hardly able to walk without tripping over his feet. It’s clear he’s already sampling his own product for quality control purposes.
“What a beautiful evening!” he announces, spreading his arms wide to encompass the entire luau setup and he nearly smacks a tourist’s hat off. “Look at this crowd, this atmosphere, this absolutely magical island energy! You’ve outdone yourselves with this event.”
He turns specifically to Koa and me with that thousand-watt smile that probably makes tourists tip him in advance.
“Detective Hale, Ms. Julep, I hope you’re both planning to sample the competition entries tonight.
I’ve got a new rum blend that’s going to absolutely revolutionize the island cocktail scene. ”
“I’m sure it will,” I say, trying to sound as neutral as possible. I’ve learned not to commit to beverages created by murder suspects.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Breezy continues, practically bouncing with enthusiasm, “I’ve got a competition to win and some serious mixing to do. This is my chance to show everyone what true island craftsmanship really looks like.”
He bounds off toward the makeshift bars lined up on the sand with the energy of a man determined to win or deceive a detective. It’s hard to tell the difference when everyone in paradise seems to operate at maximum enthusiasm levels, regardless of their criminal activities.
“We’re off to sample the wares,” Ruby announces, appearing beside us with Lani in tow and their coconut arrangements somehow still maintaining structural integrity despite what appeared to be some spirited dancing earlier.
“Can’t let all this delicious island cuisine go to waste while we stand around making small talk. ”
They head toward the buffet with the determination of food critics on a mission, leaving Koa and me alone under the pineapple lights.
“Now, where were we?” he says as the hint of a wicked grin plays on his lips.
“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice purrs from behind us, and I turn to find Mabel approaching with a predatory smile customarily reserved for people spotting attractive prey at singles bars. “Detective Hale, you clean up very nicely for official events.”
Of course, she’s into him. Every female on the sand is tripping over themselves to get a better look at him.
She’s ditched the sun hat and oversized sunglasses in favor of a little red cocktail dress that makes her look like she stepped off the pages of a magazine about successful women with questionable morals and excellent taste in evening wear.
“Down, girl,” I say, moving slightly closer to Koa with territorial instincts I didn’t know I possessed. “This one has already been claimed by the local wildlife preserve.”
Did I just liken myself to local wildlife? I frown at the thought, although I’m not too far off base. I’d like to think of myself as a tigress, but I’m probably more of a porcupine, or let’s face it—a sloth.
I glance over at Koa, who raises an eyebrow in my direction with an expression that suggests he’s either amused by my possessiveness or plotting to arrest me for interfering with his ability to attract suspects through his natural magnetism. It is so his gift.
“Oh, Jinx, I’m just appreciating the local scenery,” Mabel says with a laugh as if she’s definitely not just talking about the ocean views.
“Besides, I should get over to the booths and make sure everything is running on schedule. By my estimation, we should be beginning the judging process in about twenty minutes.”
She nods toward the beach where a series of elaborate thatched huts have been set up as individual mixing stations, complete with professional bartending equipment and enough rum to float a small cruise ship.
“Tonight is easy-peasy,” Mabel continues.
“We’ll do a popular vote where the people can cast their ballots for their favorite, and of course, we have our panel of official judges ready to provide the expert opinions,” she says, demonstrating the fact that she’s managed events more complicated than this one. “It should be quite the show.”
“Sounds good,” I say, although I’m wondering if having a large crowd, alcohol, and multiple murder suspects in the same location constitutes good planning or a recipe for disaster.
“It’s about time you showed up!” Melanie steps over and snaps at Mabel, apparently deciding that her evening wouldn’t be complete without antagonizing the event coordinator. “I’ve been fielding questions about the schedule for the past hour while you were off doing who knows what!”
Mabel rolls her eyes. I bet she’s dealt with difficult clients before, but none like our sweet little Melanie. And I mean sweet in the ironic way. Melanie is like a cupcake made with salt instead of sugar.
Mabel nods her way. “I was coordinating with the judges and making sure all the equipment was properly calibrated, but thanks for your concern about my time management. If you’ll all excuse me, I have an event to manage.”
She heads toward the makeshift bars with Melanie following behind, harping about professional responsibility and proper communication protocols with all the authority of a person who’s never successfully managed anything more complicated than a coffee order. And even that is questionable.
Koa’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he frowns at the screen.
“Receiving news that’s going to interfere with your evening plans?” I ask with a sigh. Because I was sort of hoping his evening plans would include my lips.
“My sergeant wants me to patrol the grounds,” he says, tucking the phone away with reluctance. “Having this many people gathered in one location while there’s an active murder investigation makes the department nervous.”
“Shocking,” I say. “Who could have predicted that combining alcohol, a competition, and a slew of potential killers might require additional security?”
“Try not to trip over any dead bodies while I’m gone,” he says with that dry humor that makes me want to either kiss him or throw something at him, maybe both.
“I’ll do my best to keep my corpse-discovery rate to zero for the evening,” I reply with mock solemnity. “But I make no promises if people keep leaving them in inconvenient locations.”
He heads off to conduct his official security patrol, leaving me to navigate the luau crowd alone. I move through the party, nodding to tourists who look thrilled to be experiencing authentic island culture and locals who seem amused by the whole spectacle.
I spot Giselle near the dessert table, loading her plate with enough malasadas, cookies, pie, and haupia pudding to feed a small army while wearing a flowing white dress that makes her look like a French pastry chef auditioning for a role in a tropical romance novel.
How I’d love to star in that novel myself, but fate and a certain killer seem to have different plans—and placed me in an entirely different genre.
Mabel’s accusations echo in my head—questions about Giselle’s recipes, hints about stolen work, Coraline’s pointed interest in “recipe origins.” And Breezy mentioned something similar, didn’t he? That slippery comment about her cookbook having questions around it.
Two separate sources saying the same thing isn’t proof, but it’s not nothing either.
I watch Giselle laugh with a couple of tourists, gesturing expressively while describing the authentic French technique for preparing haupia—a distinctly Hawaiian dessert that has absolutely nothing to do with Paris.
She looks perfectly natural, perfectly confident, perfectly like someone who belongs exactly where she is.
Which is either the mark of someone with nothing to hide, or someone very good at hiding things.
If Coraline was planning to expose Giselle as a fraud—recipe thief, fake credentials, whatever the actual accusation was—then Giselle had motive. A very public, career-ending motive.
Time to find out if those rumors have teeth, even if it means confronting a potential killer at a luau while wearing a cocktail dress and flip-flops.
Because this is what my life has become—amateur detective work conducted in paradise while wondering if the woman helping herself to haupia samples is also the woman who poisoned our celebrity judge.