“So,” Ruby says with barely contained excitement, “when do we start our investigation into last night’s festivities?”
“You won’t.” A deep voice grumbles from behind with the authority that comes from being obeyed without question.
All three of us turn to see Detective Koa Hale standing in the lobby, and suddenly the temperature rises about twenty degrees despite the trade winds doing their best to provide natural air conditioning—warm air conditioning, but still.
His dark eyes sweep over our little group with an intensity that makes guilty people confess and innocent people wonder what they might have done wrong. And there’s something about the way he’s looking at me specifically that lets me know I’m either in serious trouble or about to have some serious luck.
“You’re coming with me,” he says, nodding in my direction.
My Monday just got infinitely more complicated, significantly more attractive, and probably a whole lot more dangerous than foot fountain management was ever supposed to be.
CHAPTER 6
Apparently, being summoned by a hot detective requires a change of scenery, because standing around in a lobby full of murder-obsessed tourists isn’t exactly conducive to serious police business or my ability to think coherently.
I lead Detective Hot Stuff toward the beach where our staff has arranged dozens of thatched umbrellas because they understand that shade—much like butcher knives—is a life-or-death matter in tropical paradise. Brown wicker lounge chairs are already occupied by bodies in various stages of sunburn, slathered in enough white sunscreen to look like very relaxed zombies.
The ocean is a swath of electric blue, the sky reflects the water’s glory but in a paler shade of perfection, and the brown sugar sand is still cool enough to walk on without scalding your skin.
We settle at a picnic table under a giant plumeria tree that perfumes the air with an intoxicating sweetness that makes you understand why people write books about tropical romance. Delicate yellow blooms drift down around us like nature’s confetti, landing on the weathered wood table and in Koa’s darkhair, which somehow makes him look even more devastatingly attractive than usual.
Those yummy root beer-colored eyes land on mine, and my stomach explodes with heat. I can’t help it. It’s practically a mandatory requirement to salivate in his presence. I can see at least six different women doing it now from afar.
“I’m getting serious wedding vibes from this setup,” I say, brushing petals off the table. “All we need is a ukulele player and someone to throw rice instead of flower petals. Although knowing my luck, the rice would attract more roosters, and we’d have a full-blown poultry uprising.”
Koa’s mouth twitches in what might actually be amusement. “I’ll make sure to avoid any sudden movements that could be interpreted as wedding vows. The last thing I need is to accidentally marry a witness during an active murder investigation.”
I frown at him for the homicidal finger-pointing.
“Smart thinking,” I muse. “Though I have to say, ‘till death do us part’ would have some interesting implications given our current circumstances.”
“Especially since you seem to have a talent for finding the ‘death’ part,” he says, and I catch the ghost of an actual smile. “I’d probably end up widowed before the honeymoon.”
Wow. Technically, I think there was a proposal in there somewhere. There was definitely a wedding.
Swoon.
A rooster hops onto our table, strutting toward us as if he’s planning to provide a commentary on our conversation. Spam, that wily ball of orange fluff, appears from whatever interdimensional space cats inhabit when they’re not judging human behavior, settling beside the table with his usual air of feline superiority. Six more cats materialize from strategichiding spots, arranging themselves around us like furry court stenographers.
“Tell me again what happened last night?” Koa asks, pulling out his notebook, an official procedural move that I’m becoming quite familiar with.
“Well, let’s see,” I say, settling my eyes on the cobalt ocean as another plumeria blossom lands squarely on my shoulder. “Someone decided our celebrity judge needed to be accessorized with premium bar equipment. I have to say, I’m impressed by their attention to detail—crystal stirrer, quality knife, oceanfront location. They really went all out for the presentation.”
His mouth twitches in what might be the beginning of a smile, but ends up in a frown. “You’re making cracks about a murder scene.”
“I make cracks about everything. It’s a coping mechanism that’s served me well through one divorce, three job changes, and now my first homicide discovery.”
“Second,” he corrects. “It’s your second homicide discovery.”
He would keep score.
I notice a slight cut under his left eye for the first time, a thin line that tells me he’s had an interesting morning that didn’t involve paperwork and coffee. “Speaking of discoveries, what happened to your face? Did someone resist arrest, or are you moonlighting as a cage fighter?”
He touches the cut self-consciously. “I walked into a low-hanging branch while investigating the crime scene in the dark last night. Police work can be very glamorous.”
“Ah, the dangers of nocturnal detective activities. I’m sure it’ll make an impressive scar for intimidating suspects.”
And, it just so happens I’m a sucker for scars.
