Thank you for reading!I hope you had a blast at the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort! Be sure to pick up Mai Tai Confessions (Coconut Confessions 2) and head back to Kauai now!
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See you in Hawaii!
Checkin for the mai tais, stay for the murder investigation.
Welcome to Hanalei Bay, Kauai—where the beaches are beautiful and the secrets are deadly.
A mai taicompetition turns deadly at the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort. Murder in paradise has never been this entertaining! You will LOVE this tropical cozy mystery!
Welcometo the Coconut Palms Paradise Resort, where the mai tais are strong, the murder rate is surprisingly high, and apparently my love life requires a body count to kickstart things.
I thought I was applying for a barista job at a cozy inn in Maine. Turns out there was a typo—or the universe has a twisted sense of humor—because now I’m managing a falling-apart resort on Kauai’s North Shore where the pools look like science experiments and the electrical system was apparently installed by someone who learned wiring from a cereal box.
My name is Jinx Julep, and yes, the nickname fits. I’ve got auburn hair that defies humidity, a talent for stumbling into trouble, and a recently divorced status that led me to this slice of paradise held together by duct tape and optimism.
Everything is going surprisingly well until I find a body in the sand during our first Mai Tai competition. Now I’m conducting a murder investigation with my two senior citizen sidekicks, dodging the advances of a grumpy but devastatingly attractive detective, and trying to keep our ramshackle resort from collapsing into the ocean. Okay, fine, I’m not dodging a thing when it comes to Mr. Hot Stuff who happens to bepacking heat. But who could blame me? The man looks like he was personally sculpted by Hawaiian legends and comes with his own handcuffs.
Did I mention the stray cats that run this place, the red dirt that gets into everything, and the roosters who think they’re the actual resort management?
Everyone is a suspect. And if I don’t figure out who’s killing our guests, the only thing deader than our victim will be my new career in paradise.
*Enjoy this preview of the next book in the seriesMai Tai Confessions (Coconut Confessions 2)!
Chapter 1
One thing about tourists is that they always have murder on their mind.
Not the literal kind—though give them five minutes in paradise, and they’ll start plotting against each other over beach chair real estate. I’ve been tempted to do it myself a time or two.
The evening light paints the North Shore of Kauai in shades of mango and hibiscus. The balmy breeze carries grilled teriyaki mixed with the collective desperation of people who paid premium prices to experience island life from the safety of their all-inclusive bubble.
A massive banner stretched between two coconut palms announces “Mai Tai or Die!” in letters so aggressively cheerful they could probably be seen by passing satellites.
As it stands, the who’s who of island booze—plus every tourist with a functioning liver—has descended on the sand of the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort like well-dressed locusts with credit cards and unrealistic expectations about tropical perfection.
The Coconut Cove Paradise Resort sits just this side of Hanalei Bay and holds all of the magic that the gloriously blue Pacific, the sandy beaches, and the orange and pink kissed evening sky can afford.
The air is humid, the scent of plumerias is fragrant, and the beady eyes of a dozen cats and chickens lets you know that the Garden Isle of Kauai has more to offer than just mountain sides covered in ferns.
“I’m starting to think we should charge admission just to watch these people destroy each other over who gets the best spot to watch the sunset,” I say to my bestie, Ruby, while a woman in designer resort wear stakes claim to three beach chairs as if she’s planting a flag on conquered territory.
A wall of humanity is already here, and judging by the way the bodies keep streaming onto the resort, I bet there are plenty of people still on their way, too.
My name is Jinx Julep—I’m in my mid-thirties with auburn hair that laughs at humidity, green eyes that have seen a few things, and a talent for attracting disaster that’s been my signature move since birth. It’s right up there with making excellent espresso and spectacularly poor romantic choices—like my ex-husband Erwin, who decided till death do us part actually meant till someone hotter slides into my DMs.
Less than a month ago, I ditched him and applied for a barista position at a cozy inn in Maine. And yet, somehow, I ended up on Kauai instead. It turns out that when you’re crying through a Zoom interview, you don’t read the fine print about which ocean you’ll be working next to. The trade winds had other ideas. A few things went sideways, including a murder and some questionable decision-making on my part, and now I’m the manager of Coconut Cove Paradise Resort right here on the Garden Isle.
And as it turns out, paradise comes with complications. Also, roosters. So many roosters.
Steel drum music floats from the beach here at the resort, where local musicians tune ukuleles, occasionally interrupted by sound system feedback that makes every seabird within a mile radius take cover. Tiki torches flicker to life all along the shoreline like beacons of impending chaos, while vendors arrange their rum bottles with the reverence usually reserved for priceless artifacts.
“Which apocalypse are we betting on first?” Ruby asks, sidling up next to me in a bright green muumuu stamped with pink hibiscus and skulls and crossbones. Her long red hair has achieved that island humidity chic look that costs Manhattan salons hundreds of dollars to replicate. “The great beach chair wars, or the parking lot revolution?”
Ruby Figgins is technically a guest—a wealthy widow in her early eighties who’s survived umpteen husbands and decided Coconut Cove Paradise Resort was the perfect place to park herself indefinitely. She pays for a room but acts like she owns the place, which is fine because she’s more helpful than half the actual staff.
“I’m holding out for the inevitable meltdown when someone discovers the roosters don’t operate on a noise schedule approved by the tourism board,” I say, gesturing toward our feathered residents who clearly missed the memo about guest satisfaction surveys.
