“Right,” I say, gathering what’s left of our dignity and heading toward the exit. “Time to make our graceful departure.”
We trudge toward our beat-up van, leaving behind a trail of chocolate footprints and what I’m pretty sure is permanent damage to the facility’s reputation for maintaining a clean tourist experience.
Getting kicked out of a chocolate factory while interrogating a murder suspect isn’t exactly how I’d planned to solve my second homicide case, but at least I’d learned that potentialkillers have excellent tempering techniques and even better finger-pointing skills.
CHAPTER 9
Returning from a chocolate factory interrogation to regular resort management feels like going from solving crimes to counting towels, but evidently, this is what passes for my Monday afternoon entertainment.
Late afternoon sunlight streams through the lobby’s perpetually open doors, illuminating what can only be described as a minor miracle—the place is still standing. No visible fires, floods, or guest revolts mar the tropical landscape, while the Hale brothers continue their construction magic with a competent efficiency that makes me question why I ever thought running a resort would be challenging.
The scent of plumeria mingles with the lingering aroma of Lani’s afternoon coffee service, and a rooster struts across the veranda with the dignity of a quality control inspector. Three hens peck at invisible treats near the kitchen door while Spam supervises from his perch on the reception counter, satisfied that paradise hasn’t completely imploded in our absence.
“Well, well, well,” Melanie growls from behind the front desk. “Look who decided to return from her little field trip.”
She’s arranged herself behind the granite counter with the posture of a prosecutor preparing for closing arguments. Herlong chestnut hair is pulled back in its usual aggressive bun, and her permanent scowl assures us that she’s had time to work herself into a proper state of managerial outrage.
“I didn’t want to be left in charge if I’m not actually in charge,” she continues, her voice reaching octaves that make the nearby cats flatten their ears in protest. “Do you have any idea how stressful it is to manage this place when you don’t have actual authority to make decisions?”
“About as stressful as it was when you actively sabotaged everything I tried to accomplish while you were the manager?” I suggest pleasantly, setting my purse down on a wicker chair that’s seen better decades and maybe Elvis.
“That’s beside the point,” she snaps. “I’m going to tell Mr. X about your unauthorized abandonment of management duties. Let’s see how he feels about his new golden girl gallivanting around the island while paying guests need attention.”
“You mean Dane Huntington?” I say, savoring this moment as if it’s the last piece of chocolate at a weight loss meeting. “Our mysterious Mr. X, who turned out to be the activities director with the thousand-watt smile?”
“He deceived all of us!” Melanie snaps. “Running around organizing sunset cruises while secretly judging our every move! I should have seen it coming.”
“You mean doing his actual job while also owning the place? The horror.”
“I was protecting this establishment from your ridiculous ideas!”
“By sabotaging the coffee machine and making guests miserable? Great strategy. You really showed him who’s boss.”
“He doesn’t understand resort management.”
I nod. “Which is why he fired you and promoted me. Clearly clueless about running his own business.”
Melanie opens her mouth to argue, then closes it, realizing she’s been backed into a conversational corner with no graceful exit strategy.
“Where were you anyway?” she asks, clearly deciding to change tactics. “Canoodling with that hot-to-trot homicide detective? Finally making progress on your romantic disaster of a personal life?”
“I wish,” I say honestly. “Ruby, Lani, and I were conducting very professional chocolate research at a macadamia farm, if you must know. It’s part of our ongoing commitment to understanding local culinary tourism opportunities.”
“Chocolate research,” she repeats with the tone of a prosecutor who doesn’t believe a word of this cocoa-based testimony.
“It was very thorough research,” I tell her. “I’m still finding evidence in my hair.”
“Right. And I suppose this research required you to abandon the resort during peak afternoon guest service hours?”
“Peak afternoon guest service hours consist of three tourists asking where the guest bathroom is and somebody complaining that the roosters are too loud. I think you managed just fine.”
A calico cat with serious attitude issues slinks across the lobby, followed by two more felines conducting what appears to be a strategic assessment of the afternoon snack situation. They arrange themselves near the front desk with enough precision that suggests they’ve been monitoring our conversation and taking notes.
“You’re impossible,” Melanie says, throwing her hands up in theatrical frustration. “And you’re completely irresponsible. Mr. Huntington is going to hear about this.”
“I’m sure he will,” I agree. “Right after he hears about how well you handled things. Very professional. Very mature.With exactly the kind of attitude that makes excellent barista material.”
She storms off toward the coffee bar with the wounded dignity of a deposed monarch forced to work in the kitchen. The sound of an aggressive espresso machine operation follows in her wake, suggesting she’s taking her frustrations out on innocent coffee beans.
