“Time to hire some competent staff,” I mutter to the assembled cats, who seem to approve of this decision based on their synchronized head tilts.
I settle behind the granite counter and pull out my laptop, the ancient machine wheezing to life with the enthusiasm of equipment considering early retirement. The afternoon trade winds carry the sound of construction work mixed with distant ukulele music, while baby chicks peep somewhere near the kitchen in what sounds like a very important discussion about dinner plans.
First order of business—hiring people who won’t actively try to destroy the resort while I’m gone. I pull up a job posting site and start crafting what might be the most honest employment advertisement in hospitality history.
“WANTED: Front desk staff for tropical resort. Must be able to handle guests, roosters, and the occasional murder investigation without having a nervous breakdown. Experience with cats, chickens, and dramatically failing equipment preferred. Saboteurs need not apply.”
While the job posting uploads, I decide to conduct some research into our chocolate factory suspects. Giselle Fontaine’s name produces a treasure trove of culinary drama that makes reality TV look understated.
Her Honolulu dessert bar gets decent reviews, but the gossip articles are pure gold. “Local Pastry Chef Declares War on Food Blogger Over Croissant Technique.” “Celebrity Chef Meltdown:Giselle Fontaine’s Vanilla Rant Goes Viral.” “Pastry Chefs Behaving Badly: When Soufflés Attack.”
My personal favorite: “French Chef Claims to Have ‘Revolutionized the Chocolate Soufflé,’ Local Bakers Roll Eyes So Hard They Risk Injury.”
The woman clearly has an ego the size of the Big Island and zero tolerance for being anything less than the center of attention.
Brock “Breezy” Canton proves more interesting from an investigative standpoint. Unlike Giselle, he’s not technically a resort guest—just a local business owner who entered the Mai Tai competition. His beach bar and distillery, gets regular mentions in island lifestyle magazines as the place to experience authentic local rum culture.
But digging deeper into the local gossip columns reveals some fascinating details. Recent articles mentionsupply chain challengesandsourcing questionsraised by competitors. One particularly juicy piece references an upcoming investors’ meeting that could make or break his expanding business operations.
Another piece to the puzzle piece clicks into place when I find a buried reference to rumors about inconsistent product quality and questions about whether his signature spiced rum is as locally crafted as advertised.
It’s a perfect motive for murder if Coraline was threatening to expose his operation as fraudulent. Public humiliation and financial ruin make excellent motivators for creative problem-solving with crystal cocktail stirrers and kitchen knives.
I’m reaching for my phone to call Ruby and Lani for our next investigative adventure when a shadow blocks my laptop screen.
“What’s that brown stuff in your hair?”
I look up into the coffee-colored eyes of Detective Koa Hale, standing there in his perfectly pressed uniform likea recruitment poster for “Join the Police Force and Look Devastatingly Attractive While Fighting Crime.” His dark hair somehow manages to look perfectly tousled despite the humidity, and he’s studying me with a dark interest that could make saints confess to jaywalking.
“Chocolate,” I admit, reaching up to touch what I’m now realizing is probably a substantial amount of cocoa evidence still decorating my crimson locks. “From our very thorough research into local culinary tourism opportunities.”
His mouth twitches in what might be the beginning of a smile. “Research. Right.”
Being caught with chocolate residue in my hair by the hottest detective in the Pacific wasn’t exactly how I’d planned to advance our relationship, but at least it proved I was committed to thorough investigative techniques, even if those techniques occasionally involved getting kicked out of chocolate factories.
CHAPTER 10
“Let me guess,” Koa says, eyeing my hair. “The chocolate is evidence?”
I touch my head, and my fingers come away sticky with cocoa. “More like collateral damage from a very productive fact-finding mission.”
I glance around the lobby, where a gray tabby has positioned himself strategically near the front desk and what appears to be a small chicken convention is taking place just outside on the lanai. “I should probably dunk my head in a vat of water first. I’m pretty sure I’m violating several health codes just standing here.”
“I know just the body of water you should use,” Koa says, and there’s something in his voice that makes my pulse do interesting things that should probably require medical supervision. “Want to go for a swim?”
Before I can process the implications of being alone in water with Detective Hot Stuff, Lani materializes from whatever kitchen dimension she inhabits when she’s not actively managing our food operations.
“I’ll man the fort,” she announces with the efficiency of a friend who’s clearly been eavesdropping and approves of thisdevelopment. “Don’t worry about the resort. Ruby and I can handle things here.”
Ruby appears from behind a potted palm where she’s been conducting her own surveillance operation. “Go!” she says, making shooing motions with her hands. “Scram! Beach time! Don’t come back until you’ve gotten all that chocolate out of your hair and maybe figured out how to solve this murder case while you’re at it.”
In less than six seconds, I change into my bathing suit and hop into Hot Stuff’s truck.
The drive to Anini Beach takes us down a winding road lined with coconut palms that sway in the trade winds as if they’re waving us toward paradise. Koa’s truck handles the curves with ease while island music drifts from the speakers and the scent of salt air grows stronger with every mile.
“Have you ever snorkeled before?” he asks as we pull into a parking area that’s basically just sand and good intentions.
“Never,” I admit, climbing out of the truck and immediately sinking slightly into the soft sand. “I’m from Ohio, where the most exotic marine life is whatever survived the industrial runoff in Lake Erie. My ex-husband’s idea of aquatic adventure was going to the local aquarium and complaining about the price of parking.”
