Chapter 8
By the time we make it back to the resort, I’m pretty sure I’ve sweated out approximately seventy percent of my body weight, and the other thirty percent is being held together by sheer stubbornness and the promise of air conditioning—which ironically the resort does not have.
Pele coughs and sputters into the parking lot, making sounds that say she’s also had enough of today and would like to be retired to a nice junkyard where she can rust in peace.
I kill the engine—or maybe she finishes the job herself—it’s hard to tell, and we stumble out into the late afternoon heat.
The beachfront has been transformed into what can only be described as organized chaos with a tropical twist.
Shaka and Loco are working on the cabana frames, and I have to give credit where credit is due: they’re making impressive progress.
Four skeletal structures now rise from the sand, their wooden frames already hinting at the thatched luxury that’s to come.
What makes the scene particularly noteworthy is that both brothers have decided shirts are optional in construction work.
Shaka’s back muscles ripple as he hammers a support beam into place, his traditional Polynesian tattoos moving across his golden skin like living art.
Loco is up on a ladder securing crossbeams, and the afternoon sun has turned him into what I can only describe as an underwear model who wandered onto a construction site and decided to stay.
Halea Palani is stationed at the tiki bar, and by the looks of it she’s there to serve drinks to guests, but reality suggests she’s there to have an unobstructed view of the proceedings. She’s abandoned all pretense of work and is openly staring with a frozen cocktail melting forgotten in her hand.
“I’m never leaving this job,” she announces to no one in particular. “They could pay me in coconuts and I’d still show up every day.”
“At least you’re honest about it,” I say, approaching the bar. And if I’m being honest, we sort of do pay her in coconuts.
But Halea doesn’t even look at me, her eyes tracking Shaka as he lifts a massive timber beam like it weighs nothing.
“Jinx, this is a moment of pure island magic,” she whispers. “Don’t interrupt.”
“The construction or the view?”
“Yes.” She pants while fanning herself.
Melanie picks that exact moment to stride out of the lobby with a scowl on her face that suggests someone is going to get the working end of her ire—and that someone is usually me.
“Jinx!” She’s wearing a black pencil skirt and white long-sleeve blouse despite the fact that the sun is trying to extinguish us with its laser-like rays, her chestnut hair pulled into an angry, tight bun that matches her angry, tight expression. “We need to talk.”
“Those are my four least favorite words.”
“This resort is turning into a construction zone AND a crime scene!” She gestures wildly at the beach, where the Hale brothers continue their work, blissfully unaware of her inner rage.
“Do you know how many guests have asked me if we’re safe?
If there’s going to be another murder? If the banana bread at breakfast has been poisoned? ”
“What did you tell them?”
“That we have excellent liability insurance!”
My shoulders bump up a notch. “That’s actually not a bad answer.”
“It’s a terrible answer!” She gives a silent scream skyward. “We’re supposed to be a tropical paradise, not an episode of a murder podcast. And now we’ve got hammering and sawing and shirtless men everywhere—”
“I don’t see how the shirtless men are a problem,” Halea interjects, still not looking away from the construction site.
Hey. The thought just occurred to me that if Halea married one of Koa’s brothers, she would be Halea Hale. How fun is that?
I think we need to make this happen. Too bad I really like both of their girlfriends, though, so I guess that whole fun name thing is off the table. And seeing that I like myself too, she can’t have Koa, either.
Melanie ignores her. “The point is, we’re already dealing with a homicide investigation, and now you’ve turned the beach into a construction zone. What’s next? A circus? A volcanic eruption?”
I shake my head. “To be fair, the volcanic eruption would be outside my control.”
“Don’t give the universe ideas.” She stalks off, muttering something about updating her resume and moving to a resort where people have the decency to stay alive.
Ruby and Lani emerge from the kitchen carrying trays laden with banana bread slices, and I’m hit with the warm, sweet scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and tropical obsession.
“We’ve been busy,” Ruby announces, setting her tray on one of the poolside tables. “We’ve tested seven different banana bread recipes, and we need quality control.”
“You need victims,” I correct.
“Same thing.” Lani arranges her tray like baked goods are a sacred trust. “We’ve got classic Hawaiian banana bread, coconut banana bread, macadamia nut banana bread, chocolate chip banana bread, pineapple banana bread, rum-soaked banana bread, and something Ruby calls kitchen sink banana bread which has everything in it including my will to live. ”
A small crowd of guests begins to gather, drawn by the promise of free food and the spectacle of two women treating banana bread like a competitive sport.
“Try this one,” Ruby says, thrusting a slice at a tourist in a Hawaiian shirt. “Tell me if it’s better than the one Lani just gave you.”
“I haven’t tried Lani’s yet—” the poor lady stammers and looks as if she’s trying to escape.
“Too late, you’re committed now.” Ruby shoves it her way. “Comparison is key.”
The Spice Girls and their husbands appear at the top of the beach path, still looking thoroughly exhausted from the hike.
Cozy’s coral pink outfit is now streaked with red dirt, Doreen’s hat is askew, and Bubbles’ ponytail has reached a level of frizz that says the humidity has a personal vendetta against her.
Their husbands look equally worn. Gary’s neat khakis are dusty, Tom’s military posture has sagged into something more human, and even Cam’s expensive athletic wear has lost its crisp appeal.
They drift toward the poolside tables like desert travelers spotting an oasis.
“Oh glory in heaven, is that banana bread?” Cozy asks, her Southern drawl thickened by exhaustion.
“Seven kinds,” Lani confirms. “Help yourself.”
They descend on the trays with the enthusiasm of people who’ve just hiked a mountain in tropical heat and desperately need carbohydrates. The husbands grab slices, the wives sample multiple varieties, and soon everyone is comparing notes like judges at a baking competition.
Spam chooses this exact moment to make his entrance.
The orange menace appears from under a lounge chair, surveys the buffet of banana bread with his one good ear twitching, and launches himself onto the table with the grace of a furry torpedo.
“Spam, no!” I lunge for him.
But it’s too late. He’s already snatched a slice of macadamia nut banana bread and is making his escape with the slice dangling from his mouth like a trophy.
A rooster, because of course there’s a rooster, sees Spam’s success and decides to join the party. He hops onto the table with an indignant squawk, scattering slices in every direction.
Two hens follow, deciding this is now a full-blown poultry invasion.
Chaos erupts.
Lani waves her wooden spoon like a sword. “Get off my banana bread, you feathered felons!”
She’s been offering that spoon for handshakes all afternoon, seeing that flour is a permanent condition of hers. I guess it’s easier than washing up every five minutes.
Ruby tries to shoo the chickens away and nearly knocks over an entire tray. “This is a culinary experiment! You can’t just—stop pecking at that!”
In less than three seconds, every tourist on the beach has flocked this way and more than half of them are laughing their heads off, the other half are taking photos and acting like they’ve got front-row seats to a competitive eating contest where the contestants have feathers and the prize is felony charges.
Halea finally tears her eyes away from the construction site long enough to grab something from behind the bar, and by the looks of it, it’s a water gun—or more like a water Uzi.
She aims and fires a stream at the chickens who squawk indignantly and flap their way off the table, taking two slices of banana bread with them.
Shaka and Loco have paused their work to observe the spectacle.
“You need help over there?” Shaka calls out.
“We’re fine!” I shout back, wrestling a slice of pineapple banana bread away from a particularly determined hen. “This is totally under control!”
It is absolutely not under control. Ten roosters just appeared out of nowhere and they brought at least fifteen cats.
By the time we’ve corralled the chickens, rescued what’s left of the banana bread, and convinced Spam that he’s had enough (he hasn’t, but we’ve hidden the rest), the circus-like moment evaporates as quickly as it came. And I’m well aware that the circus is merely taking a break.
I glance over and see that Cozy, Doreen, and Bubbles are doubled over with laughter.
Their husbands, however, aren’t yukking it up.
Tom stands rigid, his military posture back in full force.
Gary adjusts his glasses repeatedly like a nervous tic, and Cam’s politician smile has vanished entirely, replaced with an eye roll.
I get it. Some crowds are tougher than others.
Cozy pulls herself together and exchanges a look with Doreen—brief, tense, loaded with meaning I can’t quite read.
“We should get cleaned up,” Doreen says abruptly. “It’s been a long day.”
She starts walking toward her room, and Tom falls into step beside her. Within seconds, their voices rise, not quite shouting, but definitely not the warm conversation of a happy couple.
“I’m just saying, maybe we should think about—” Doreen’s voice carries across the beach.
“We’ve already discussed this,” Tom cuts her off, his tone sharp. “The answer is still no.”
Whatever Doreen is pushing for, Tom has already ruled on—and it’s case closed.
Doreen tosses up her hands. “You’re not even listening to me!”
Their voices fade as they disappear into the resort, but the tension lingers in the air like humidity.
Gary and Cozy follow without a word, though Gary’s hand is on her lower back and it makes him look less like a partner and more like a chaperone.
Cam guides Bubbles forward, but she lingers, turning back to us with an apologetic smile that doesn’t quite ring true.
“I’m so sorry,” Bubbles says softly. “We’re all just so tired from our travels, and well, if I’m being honest, the three of us could use some healthy bonding with our husbands. That’s why we’re all going to this snazzy couples therapy session tomorrow afternoon.”
Ruby’s eyes light up with that look that usually precedes either brilliance or disaster. “You don’t say? The three of us are about at our wits’ end with our boy-toys, too.”
She nods at Lani, who makes a face before catching on and nodding back.
“That’s right,” Lani says, her voice is flat, but she’s committed to the bit. “I’d like to throw my boyfriend off the nearest bridge. Even if it’s only a few feet off the water.”
I open my mouth to ask what boyfriends they’re talking about, then realize exactly what Ruby is doing.
She’s getting us into that therapy session posthaste with or without a plus-one to argue with come tomorrow afternoon.
“Oh, you should come!” Bubbles claps her hands together.
“It sounds like it’s going to be good for all of us!
The therapist is supposed to be amazing.
She does this whole thing with vulnerability circles and authentic communication.
It’ll be fun! Like group therapy but with more tropical drinks afterward.
And maybe a few flying cats.” She nods and I’m suddenly worried for the four-footed felines among us.
“We’d love to,” Ruby says before I can interject with anything resembling logic. “What time?”
“Two o’clock, at the Pua Lani Wellness Sanctuary, in Princeville. The session is in the resort’s meditation garden.” Bubbles beams. “I’m so glad you’re coming! It’s always easier to be vulnerable when you’re not the only one doing it—at least that’s what the cats say.”
Oh wow. I think the sun has really done some damage to her today. And we all know the cats can complicate just about anything—including insanity.
The couples drift away toward their rooms, the husbands murmuring to their wives, and sheer exhaustion pulling them toward showers and rest.
Halea sidles up next to me, her eyes tracking the Hale brothers as they get back to work. “So. Couples therapy. With murder suspects. That’s not going to end badly at all.”
“We’re not going to accuse anyone of murder during therapy,” I say.
She nods. “But you’re going to listen very carefully to everything they say.”
“That’s the idea.”
Ruby grins. “This is perfect. People say things in therapy they’d never say anywhere else. All we have to do is sit there, look supportive, and take mental notes.”
“While pretending we have boyfriends,” Lani adds.
“Minor detail.” Ruby is quick to wave her off.
I glance back at the beach, where the cabana frames cast shadows across the sand, where chickens peck at fallen banana bread crumbs, where Spam lounges on a chair digesting his stolen bounty, and where somewhere among the exhausted hikers and construction workers and tropical chaos, a killer is hiding in plain sight.
Tomorrow we’ll be sitting in a circle with who knows how many other couples, pretending to work on relationships we don’t have, fishing for confessions about a homicide that’s already cost one woman her life.
And if we play this right, we might just catch a killer who thinks therapy is the one place they’re safe to let their guard down.
Now all I have to do is drum up a boyfriend.
Koa comes to mind, and I don’t hesitate to pull out my phone.
He owes me at least one favor, and I’m about to collect.