“It has character,” Ruby offers.
“So does tetanus,” I reply.
We move on to what the signs optimistically call the “gift shop,” which currently consists of three empty shelves with sun-faded price tags and dusty postcards from 1987 featuring hairstyles that should have stayed in 1987. The café sits next to it with chairs stacked on tables like a shrine to abandoned dreams, its menu board missing half the letters, so it now advertises “FR SH F SH” and “C CON T SHRIMP,” which sounds less like menu items and more like a cry for help in code.
“Catchy, right?” Lani teases—or at least I hope she’s teasing.
“Very avant-garde,” Ruby agrees. “Minimalist. The kids these days love that. Although not enough to give us any cash.”
The kitchen is where Lani works her daily miracles, turning duct tape and prayer into something resembling food service, which I’m pretty sure qualifies her for sainthood or at least a very generous tip. Half the appliances have given up entirely, gone to that great kitchen in the sky, while the other half cling to life through sheer stubbornness and what I suspect is some kind of mechanical revenge.
“The walk-in cooler’s temperature is more of a suggestion than a fact,” Lani explains. “And the stove has a personality disorder—two burners run hot, one runs cold, and the fourth just makes sad clicking noises.”
“Sounds like my fifth husband,” Ruby says.
We venture outside to survey the beach, and I have to admit that Mother Nature did not phone it in on this part. The salt air hits me first—thick and clean, mixed with the sweet perfume of plumeria blooming somewhere nearby and the faint mineral scent of sun-warmed lava rock. The weather is balmy, like wearing a humid fur coat, and the sky is a shade of blue that only rivals the ocean for superiority of the sacred hue.
Three beach chairs sit on what is admittedly an expansive stretch of brown sugar sand that looks like something from a travel brochure, the kind that makes people empty their savings accounts and book flights they can’t afford. The sand is so fine it squeaks under my flip-flops, and when the trade winds gust, they lift tiny crystals that catch the light like glitter.
Just around the bend, a black sand cove nestles against lava rock, all volcanic drama and primal beauty that reminds you the island was literally born from fire and hasn’t forgotten it.
Seabirds cartwheel overhead—white terns diving and calling to each other in voices that sound like rusty hinges, while a pair of frigatebirds soar above, their forked tails cutting elegant silhouettes against the blue. The waves roll in with a rhythm that sounds like breathing, foam hissing as it slides up the beach and retreats, leaving behind shells and bits of coral that smell like the deep ocean—slightly fishy, entirely alive.
“Well,” I say, “at least Mother Nature knows what she’s doing.”
The buildings tell a sadder story—peeling, sagging, and holding themselves together out of habit. Broken windows gape like missing teeth, their screens hanging in tatters that flutter in the wind like surrender flags. The stone retaining walls that terrace the property show cracks wide enough to house smallwildlife, and I’m pretty sure I see a gecko settling in and unpacking.
“What else needs a contractor?” I ask, pulling out a notebook that’s already wilting in the humidity like it’s given up before I have.
“The roof on Building Two is basically held up by wishful thinking,” Lani says, pointing up at what I can only describe as optimistic architecture. “Half the tiles are missing, and you can see the sky through the beams, which is romantic until it rains. And it’s been known to rain every fifteen minutes.”
“The foundation under the main building is cracked,” Ruby adds with the enthusiasm of sharing fun facts at a party. “It gives everything a funhouse effect when you walk through the lobby.”
“The deck railings are more decorative than functional,” Lani continues, ticking items off on her fingers like she’s been keeping a mental list for years. “Touch one wrong, and you might land head-on into the hibiscus.”
“The plumbing is shot in units four through eight,” Ruby says. “Water pressure ranges from dribble to none, with occasional stops at aggressive spray just to keep things interesting.”
“And the electrical system was seemingly installed by someone who learned wiring from a cereal box,” Lani adds to the growing list of horrors. “Half the outlets spark, and the lights flicker every time someone uses the microwave.”
We’re interrupted by the arrival of more cats—a gray tabby with white paws who moves like a tiny gentleman, a tortoiseshell with one blue eye and one green who looks like she’s seen into the future and isn’t impressed, and what appears to be the feline equivalent of a bouncer—solid black, scarred, andradiating the type of authority that makes roosters step aside and reconsider their crowing.
“Where’s Melanie been during all this?” I ask. I haven’t seen our fearless leader since last night’s seduction performance with Detective Hale.
“Who knows?” Lani shrugs. “Probably updating her résumé or meeting with her divorce lawyer.”
“She’s not married,” Ruby points out.
“Yet,” Lani says darkly, and I’m not sure if she means Melanie’s going to get married or that marriage itself is just a disaster waiting to happen.
We help the few remaining guests who haven’t fled after last night’s excitement. The towels I distribute have the absorbency of sandpaper and colors that don’t exist in nature—faded beyond recognition into shades I can only describe as industrial beige and depression gray.
“Welcome to Coconut Cove Paradise Resort,” I tell a couple from Minnesota who look like they’re reconsidering every ill-fated decision that led them here and possibly some they made in high school. “We’re located across five beachfront acres on the North Shore of Kauai, with thirty units spread over three buildings, overlooking some of the best snorkeling and surfing spots in Hanalei Bay.”
“What about the murder?” the woman asks, which is a fair question that I should have prepared an answer for.
“That’s complimentary,” I say because my brain has decided humor is the appropriate response to trauma. “No extra charge.”
By mid-morning, the heat has gone from oppressive to angry god punishing mortals for their hubris, and we retreat to theveranda where a rickety table offers the illusion of shade under a palm tree that drops fronds with vindictive timing, like it’s got a personal vendetta.
