The night air thrums with humidity so thick you could swim through it, which suddenly feels like a terrible metaphor given the circumstances. Plumeria and jasmine fight a losing battle against the scent of chlorine, stagnant water, and a third mystery scent I refuse to name but absolutely recognize.
Cats scatter in every direction—I count at least ten furry bodies streaking past us like they’ve just heard a can opener in another zip code.
“SHUT YOUR POI HOLES!” Melanie’s voice cuts through our screaming symphony like a machete through a coconut as she appears at the edge of the pool area in full battle regalia—pencil skirt, stilettos that could double as weapons, and an expression that could freeze lava. Her hair is perfect, her makeup is on point, and she seems like someone who might be deeply inconvenienced by a dead man rather than, you know, horrified.
Poi would be a purple potato-adjacent staple that Hawaiianslove beyond purple measures, according to the research I did on island cuisine.
“If you insist on howling at the moon,” she continues, her voice dripping with sweetness that comes with a side of arsenic and possibly a restraining order, “I suggest you head to the resort next door where they appreciate that kind of racket!”
“Melanie,” I gasp, pointing at the pool with a shaking finger that I can’t seem to control. “There’s a?—”
She follows my gesture, her perfectly made-up eyes landing on Nolan’s floating form. Her gasp is sharp, but it sounds more like annoyance than shock.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” she mutters, already pulling out her phone with such efficiency, I’m convinced she’s done this before, which is a concerning thought I’m filing away for later. “This is going to be a paperwork nightmare.”
She dials with a fervor that assures us she has emergency services on speed dial, which raises more questions. “Yes, this is Melanie Luana at the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort. We have a... situation. Pool area. Yes, I’ll hold.” She actually taps her foot while waiting, like the 911 operator is taking too long with her murder report.
Wait a minute…was he murdered? Or is this some mai tai-based accident that befell the poor man?
Ruby grabs me by the arm, and her rings dig into my skin hard enough to leave marks. “There’s a killer on the loose!”
“We could be next!” Lani adds, brandishing her wooden spoon like it’s a broadsword, and I’m oddly touched that her weapon of choice is a kitchen utensil.
“I can’t die,” Ruby wails. “I haven’t finished husband hunting yet!”
So maybe husband hunting isn’t the most pressing concern, but from what I’m seeing, it’s very much on brand for Ruby.
Melanie snaps her phone shut with a sound like a miniature guillotine, and the flip phone tells me more than I want to know.
“Clearly, the dumbo had one too many and took a swim in eau de algae,” she grouses. “That’s the Darwin Award winner right there.”
“I’m pretty sure no one,” I say, my voice still shaky but gaining ground, “not even someone drunk enough to see pink elephants doing the hula, would willingly wade into that cesspool of—what would you call it? Prehistoric soup? Toxic waste? The Green Lagoon of Eternal Regret? I’m fairly certain something in there already has a name and a temperament.”
The sound of sirens cuts through the tropical night, shattering the illusion of paradise. They start as a distant wail and grow louder, mixing with the chickens’ ongoing commentary—because, of course, the chickens have opinions about murder—and the rustle of palm fronds that suddenly feel less romantic and more ominous.
The flashing lights appear first, red and blue strobing through the hibiscus bushes like a disco designed by someone with terrible news, followed by a swarm of officers who look way too official for our ramshackle resort.
But one of those handsome hotties stands out from the pack in a way that makes my brain temporarily forget about the dead body, which feels inappropriate, but here we are.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and radiating the type of authority that makes people confess to crimes they didn’t commit and possibly some they did.
He moves through the humid night air like he owns it, like the very molecules are getting out of his way out of respect. His uniform fits him like it was tailored by someone who understood the assignment and possibly deserves a raise, and his dark hair somehow looks perfect despite the humidity that’s currently turning mine into wet spaghetti. When he turns toward us, I catch sight of brown eyes with gold flecks that could either arrest you or make you forget your own name, and I’m experiencing both simultaneously.
He holds up a badge that glints in the tiki light. “Kauai PD, Detective Hale.”
Our eyes lock across the pool deck, and his expression darkens like a storm rolling in from the Pacific, the kind that makes you want to batten down the hatches and possibly apologize for things you haven’t done yet. And maybe apologize for a few things you’ve already done at the Lihu?e Airport.
“It’s you,” he says, and he doesn’t sound thrilled about it. In fact, he sounds like he’s just realized his evening has taken a turn for the significantly worse.
I blink, my brain struggling to process this because suddenly we’re adding awkward coincidences to tonight’s menu of disasters.
“I’m sorry, do we know each other?”
Okay, so I’m playing dumb—and the irony here? I usually don’t have to play.
His jaw ticks. “Airport. Luggage carousel. You took my suitcase.”
“That was yours?” I squeak, which is not the dignified response I was going for, but it’s what comes out. “But it had a pink flamingo?—”
