Melanie continues her seductive performance, purring through a list of security features while leaning in just enough to make pool maintenance sound like foreplay.
Detective Hale’s eyes sweep the crowd once more before landing on me with unsettling precision. “Ms. Julep. Don’t leave the island.”
“Why would I leave the island? I just got here.”
“Because you’re a suspect.”
I gasp so hard I nearly inhale a passing mosquito. “A suspect? I found the body! That’s like, the opposite of being guilty!” I hope.
“That’s exactly what a guilty person would say.” His expression doesn’t change, but I swear I catch the tiniest hint of amusement in those coffee brown eyes. “Everyone who was at this resort is a suspect until proven otherwise. Standard procedure.”
“Standard procedure,” I repeat as my voice climbs into ranges that attract concerned looks from nearby cats. “I’ve beenon this island for less than twelve hours! I don’t even know where anything is yet! How would I have time to commit murder between first day orientation and figuring out which pool is least likely to give me a communicable disease?”
“Nevertheless.” His jaw flinches in a way that evokes a sigh from every female in Hanalei. “Stay available for questioning.”
He turns to address the crowd, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding and the sudden realization that my fresh start in paradise just became significantly more complicated.
I scan the faces around me, all wearing expressions of shock, concern, and the exact morbid fascination that makes people slow down for car accidents, and wonder if somewhere in this crowd of paradise-seekers stands a killer who’s just getting started.
CHAPTER 7
Spending the morning cataloging all the ways your workplace could kill you without outside help puts a whole new perspective on the phraseoccupational hazards.
Apparently, when someone dies suspiciously at your resort, the police want a detailed inventory of every way this place could eliminate guests through sheer mechanical failure versus, you know, an actual homicide. It’s both depressing and oddly comprehensive.
Detective Hot Stuff—fine, Detective Hale—did at least return my luggage before he left last night, retrieving it from his truck with an efficiency that suggested he wanted to spend as little time in my presence as possible.
We made the switcheroo in awkward silence, both of us staring at the matching pink flamingo tags dangling from our respective bags like some kind of cosmic joke. His cousin thought it would be hilarious. My sister thought it would be “practical.” Neither of us was laughing.
He didn’t say goodnight. I didn’t either. Professional courtesy at its finest.
Dawn breaks over the North Shore with the subtlety of a rooster convention. In fact, three different roosters are currently engaged in what sounds like a competitive crowing contest, while a chorus of hens provides backup vocals and baby chicks add their tiny peeps to the symphony.
The hot breeze carries salt spray, plumeria, and the faint scent of last night’s tiki torch smoke through my window slot, along with the sound of waves that never stop talking to the shore.
“Rise and shine, you hot tamale!” Ruby’s voice cuts through my contemplation of whether it’s too early to start drinking. “Time to take inventory of our slice of paradise!”
She appears in my doorway wearing a muumuu that looks like a hibiscus exploded on fabric, her red hair already escaping whatever she tried to do with it. Lani stands behind her with flour already dusting her apron despite the fact that breakfast service doesn’t start for another hour, which tells me she’s either incredibly prepared or stress-baking.
“Inventory of what?” I ask, peeling myself off my glorified cot with the grace of a woman who slept on what I’m pretty sure is a medieval torture device disguised as furniture. “Our extensive list of things that don’t work?”
“Exactly,” Lani says, brandishing her wooden spoon like it’s both a scepter and a weapon. “If we’re going to save this place, we need to know what we’re working with.”
“And what we’re working against,” Ruby adds cheerfully because optimism is her default setting even in the face of certain doom.
I follow them out into the fragrant morning heat, which is already making the air shimmer like a mirage. That one-eared orange tomcat saunters past us with the dignity of a feline who’s seen things and lived to judge them, and based on his expression, he’s judging us pretty hard right now. He’s followed by a sleek black cat with green eyes that seem to hold secrets about where all the working appliances went, and a calico with an attitude that could power the lights if we could just figure out how to harness pure spite.
“First stop,” Lani announces like we’re on a tour of functional amenities rather than a death march through dysfunction, “the coffee shop.”
We trudge across the property, our flip-flops slapping against tiles that have seen better decades—possibly better centuries. The resort spreads across five beachfront acres in a way that might have been charming in a vintage postcard if everything wasn’t actively falling apart. Thirty units are divided between three buildings that lean into the salt-tinged breeze with resignation rather than grace, all overlooking what I have to admit is one of the most gorgeous stretches of coastline this side of heaven.
The snorkeling and surfing spots just south of Hanalei Bay gleam like liquid sapphires in the morning light with a view that makes you understand why people move to islands and never leave.
Too bad the rest of the place looks like it’s auditioning for a disaster movie and really committed to getting the part.
“Behold,” Lani says, gesturing toward the coffee shop area as if presenting evidence at a trial, “the heart of our operation.”
The espresso machine sounds like mechanical asthma whenI flip the switch. The counter has a crack running through it that could probably be seen from Maui, and the mismatched chairs look like refugees from a yard sale massacre where only the ugliest survived.
