I did say they were my delusions.
The next morning finds me in the resort café, which is currently experiencing what can only be described as an ice cream apocalypse. The café itself sits in the back of the main building of the resort and faces the glorious Pacific. Tourists mob the counter with the desperation of people who’ve discovered the secret to happiness costs three dollars and ninety-five cents per scoop. Our Upside-Down Paradise pineapple cake flavor is flying out of the freezer faster than my common sense around hot detectives, while the Tropical Treasure Crunch with coconut, caramel, and macadamia nuts has created what appears to be a small religious movement among visitors from the mainland.
The cinnamon rolls keep disappearing as fast as we bake them for obvious oversized and cinnamon-scented reasons. And anxious tourists line up for the next batch, acting as if patience is optional when frosting is involved.
I’m standing in this chaos holding my own personal solution to yesterday’s drama and trauma—a triple scoop waffle cone featuring all three of our premium flavors, because if I’m going to stress-eat my way through a murder investigation, I’m going to do it with style and enough sugar to ensure my bikini won’t fit by noon.
A gray tabby weaves through the crowd with the air of a quality control inspector, conducting his own research into dropped ice cream samples. About a dozen chickens have positioned themselves strategically near the outdoor seating area, ready to capitalize on any tourist clumsiness, while a rooster struts past the windows with arrogance because clearly he’s never paid for breakfast in his life.
“Jinx!” Melanie’s voice cuts through the ice cream chaos and ruins a perfectly delicious moment. She storms toward me with a purposeful stride that lets me know it’s either very good newsor very bad news, and given my track record with Melanie, I’m betting on the latter.
“I just answered the phone since the front desk was unmanned,” she announces, her voice carrying the righteous indignation of an employee who’s been personally inconvenienced by having to do actual work. “It was Brock Canton—you know,Breezyfrom last night’s bar altercation? Ruby told me all about it.”
Snitch.
My ice cream suddenly tastes more complicated. “What did he want?”
“He says they’d like to have a do-over of the Mai Tai Madness Mix-Off and wondered if we were still interested in hosting it.”
I suck in a breath. “What did you say?”
“I said yes, naturally. It’s good publicity for the resort, granted you don’t slaughter anyone else as you seem particularly prone to do. Little did we know we were hiring a serial killer to run this place.”
Every head in the immediate vicinity swivels our way, including the gray tabby, who looks up from his investigation of a dropped waffle cone with a judgmental expression that lets me know even the cats think Melanie’s volume control needs work. That or they’re not all that comfortable with a would-be serial killer in their presence.
“I’ll have you know I’d be much more discriminating in my choice of victims,” I say, lifting an eyebrow at Melanie with a pointed look that says she might want to reconsider her phrasing. “Quality over quantity, I always say.”
Melanie eyes the nearest exit as if gauging whether or not she can outrun me.
Newsflash—she can’t.
“The Mai Tai Madness Mix-Off is this Sunday,” she continues, deciding to ignore my implied threat in favor ofdelivering more potentially problematic news. “I thought it best we showcase our new luau with actual hula girls at the very same time. As it turns out, there really is no such thing as bad publicity.”
The hula girl dig would be directed at Lani, Ruby, and me since we sort of filled in the hip-swiveling role last time. And it would be the very last time.
Melanie glowers at me like I’ve wronged her entire family tree. “I hate to say it, but this rash of homicides seems to have put us on the map. Our booking inquiries have tripled since the first murder made the local news.”
“I’ve always been an overachiever,” I say with a hint of pride, taking another lick of my ice cream cone. Don’t judge. It’s hot out. I need to get to it.
Melanie’s mouth falls, and she gags on an entire river of words.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” I tell her, waving my cone in her direction and nearly losing a scoop in the process. “You practically accused me of being a serial killer five seconds ago. At this point, I’m just leaning into your expectations.”
“I did not?—”
“You absolutely did. In front of approximately thirty tourists who are now probably uploading videos to social media with titles likeResort Manager Admits to Murder SpreeandIce Cream Confessions: A True Crime Story.”
“That’s not what I?—”
“Besides, if I were going to embark on a homicide spree, do you really think I’d be this obvious about it? I mean, come on, Mel. Give me some credit for basic strategic planning. I can be much more creative.” I wink her way, and she gasps again.
A couple from Idaho pauses mid–cinnamon roll to stare at us, openly interested in whatever this has turned into. Even thegray tabby abandons his ice cream investigation to listen in, deciding this is better than frozen cream.
“And another thing—” Melanie starts, but my phone buzzes in my pocket with the insistence of something that can’t be ignored. I fumble for it while trying not to drop my ice cream, which proves to be a coordination challenge beyond my current skill level. The cone tilts, gravity wins, and suddenly there’s a pile of Upside-Down Paradise, Coconut Cream, and Tropical Treasure Crunch, and waffle cone components decorating the café floor like a very expensive abstract art installation.
“Ugh,” I mutter, staring at my lost ice cream while my phone continues buzzing. The text shows Koa’s name, and my heart does something that should probably send me to the morgue.
“It’s Koa,” I announce, with a renewed sense of joy, and a renewed sense of nerves to go with it. “He’s here.” I glance down at the triple scoops of dairy. “Could you get that?” I ask Melanie, as I rush toward the lobby, leaving her standing there with her mouth open and a pile of premium ice cream slowly melting at her feet. And a couple of cats run over and diminish Melanie’s task by half.
