Chapter 20
The luau crowd parts for Koa and me like we’re celebrities returning from a successful vacation in Homicide Land, and I spot Ruby and Lani hovering near a couple of tiki torches with an anxious energy usually reserved for parents waiting for teenagers to come home past curfew.
“Thank the heavens you’re alive!” Ruby shouts, launching herself at me with enough force to test the integrity of my cocktail dress.
Her coconut bra has somehow survived the evening’s excitement, though one shell is definitely sitting lower than the other, creating an asymmetrical tropical aesthetic that would probably win awards at some Paris fashion shows.
“Are you hurt? Do you need ice? Food? A strong drink? All three?” Lani demands, circling me like a mother hen conducting a medical evaluation while brandishing her wooden spoon with authority as if ready to perform emergency surgery if necessary.
“I’m fine,” I assure them, though my hair probably looks like I’ve been personally attacked by a tropical storm and my underwear has accumulated enough sand to build a small coastal development project.
“Well,” Melanie strides over with her usual lack of warmth and compassion, “at least the resort won’t get sued for another murder. That’s really all that matters here—our liability insurance premiums.”
Ruby gasps with a horror reserved for people who just discovered that their best friend has no soul. “Melanie! Jinx nearly died!”
Okay, so best friend is too strong of a statement.
“She nearly died while solving a murder that happened at our establishment,” Melanie corrects while calculating public relations angles instead of expressing human concern. “Although the publicity value alone should offset any negative coverage from the initial incident.”
I shrug at the thought. “I hate to say it, but she might be right.”
A small parade of chickens chooses this moment to conduct their post-crisis evaluation of the luau area, led by a rooster who struts past Melanie as if he were judging her emotional range and found it lacking. Three cats follow behind, providing security for the poultry investigation team.
“Jinx! Detective Hale!” Mabel approaches with a wave.
“I owe you both a tremendous debt,” she says, extending her hand to each of us with a firm handshake that suggests genuine gratitude rather than a networking obligation.
“I have to admit, I suspected something was off about Breezy’s operation—his supply chain stories never quite added up—but I never imagined he’d resort to murder to protect his brand. ”
“I guess the rum switching was pretty obvious once you knew what to look for,” I say.
And you had evidence practically taunting you.
“Your detective instincts are impressive,” she continues, turning to include Koa in her praise. “Most people would have missed those details entirely, or dismissed them as unimportant.”
“Most people don’t have Jinx’s talent for stumbling into criminal evidence,” Koa says, and I can tell he’s still processing the evening’s excitement and possibly questioning his choices in romantic partners.
Mabel blows me a kiss. “You take care Jinx Julep. And don’t forget, you deserve a happy ending.” She takes off, and I hope she gets a happy ending of her own.
A gray tabby appears from under the dessert table and begins conducting his own quality control inspection of the fallen haupia, unbothered by the night’s activities.
Spam joins him, followed by what appears to be the entire feline population of the North Shore, all drawn by the promise of dropped food and human drama.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Melanie’s voice cuts through the din of the evening’s festivities. “To celebrate justice being served and the safety of our guests, we’re having an impromptu hula contest! All women are invited to participate!”
She claps her hands with authority as if announcing a royal decree, and suddenly, staff members appear from various directions carrying grass skirts that look suspiciously like they’ve been stored in the same closet as the Christmas lights I got tangled in a few weeks back.
“Oh no,” Lani says immediately. “Absolutely not. I’ve had enough public humiliation for one evening.”
“Oh yes,” Ruby counters, already reaching for a grass skirt with the enthusiasm of a woman who’s never met a costume she couldn’t work into a seduction routine. “We’re celebrating! Jinx solved a murder! Koa arrested the bad guy! It’s like a tropical fairy tale with better accessories!”
“I don’t hula,” I protest, but Ruby is already wrapping a grass skirt around my waist despite my reluctance to participate in festive island wear. “I thought we said we weren’t doing this again. We’ve got real hula dancers covering the entertainment this time around, remember?”
“Everyone is allowed to hula,” Ruby says, securing the skirt with a knot that probably requires engineering skills and a switchblade to undo. “Once you do it, you can’t forget it. It’s like breathing, but with more hip movement and cultural significance.”
Melanie surprises everyone by stepping forward and accepting her own grass skirt. “I took lessons once,” she says with defensive pride. “Before I got into resort management. It seemed like a practical skill for the hospitality industry.”
“You took hula lessons?” Lani asks with amazement as we collectively discover Melanie’s hidden depths. Okay, so she’s not so deep, but still. It’s a start.
“Six months of intensive training with a cultural preservation group in Honolulu,” Melanie shoots back, adjusting her grass skirt as if she knows what she’s doing. “I believe in understanding the heritage of the places where I work.”
“Show off,” Ruby mutters, but she’s grinning as she says it.
The music starts, our hips get swiveling, and just like that, the night takes a turn for the better.
I spot Koa standing at the edge of the crowd, watching with an expression that reads he’s fighting between professional dignity and the urge to join the festivities.
“Come here,” I call to him, breaking from the hula line and reaching out with both hands.
“I don’t dance,” he says, but he’s already moving toward me with a resigned expression because he knows resistance is futile.
“Everyone dances tonight,” I tell him, pulling him close as the music shifts into something slower, decidedly more romantic, designed for couples rather than group performances.
“I don’t hula,” he protests.
“This isn’t a hula,” I say, looking up into his eyes that catch the firelight and reflect it back like they’re made of precious metals.
“This is just swaying. With a very attractive man. Under tropical stars. After solving a murder and surviving an attempted homicide. In other words, a pretty standard night in paradise.”
“And yet there’s nothing standard about you, Jinx Julep,” he says with humor that makes me want to either kiss him or drag him off to somewhere more private where we can explore other non-standard things I’m pretty good at.
Other couples begin joining us on the sand—tourists who’ve been inspired by the romance of the evening, locals who never need an excuse to dance under the stars, even Ruby and one of the ukulele players who’s decided that her coconut bra and grass skirt combination is irresistible have joined the effort.
The music floats across the water, mixing with the sound of waves and laughter and the distant crow of roosters who are providing commentary on the evening’s entertainment. Tiki torches cast flickering shadows on the sand while the ocean stretches toward the horizon like liquid moonlight.
“So,” Koa says, his voice low enough that only I can hear it over the music and the celebration happening around us, “what’s next for Paradise’s newest amateur detective?”
“Well,” I say, letting him spin me slowly under the starlight sky while my grass skirt swirls around my ankles, “I was thinking about taking up a nice, safe hobby. Maybe knitting. Or pottery. Something that doesn’t involve confronting armed killers on dark beaches.”
He winces. “That sounds suspiciously responsible.”
“I know. And completely out of character.” I grin up at him as he pulls me closer.
“But then again, if boring hobbies are what it takes to keep getting invitations to dance under tropical stars with devastatingly attractive detectives, I might have to reconsider my whole approach to recreational activities.”
He laughs. “Just promise me you won’t go looking for any more murders to solve.”
“I promise I won’t go looking for them,” I say solemnly. “But if they happen to find me...”
“When they happen to find you,” he corrects, seemingly resigned to the fact that homicidal chaos is simply a part of the relationship package.
A devilish gleam ignites in his eyes as he leans in close and lands his lips on mine.
Koa kisses me, soft and sweet, under the canopy of stars while the music plays and the waves whisper against the shore, and somewhere in the distance a rooster crows his approval of romance conducted in paradise with proper attention to cultural traditions and excellent timing.
Maybe this is what falling in love looks like—tropical stars, grass skirts, and kissing a man who knows exactly how much trouble you are and chooses you anyway.