“Is it good?” Koa asks, though all of my moaning probably answers the question.
“It’s life-changing,” I confirm around another bite. “This is what I should have been eating all along. Lani, we should think about adding huli huli chicken to the menu at the resort.”
“Already on it,” she says with an approving moan of her own.
“Speaking of the resort,” Loco says, leaning back in his chair with the satisfaction of enjoying both good food and successful business conversation, “how are you feeling about the renovation progress?”
“Like I’m living in a miracle,” I say honestly. “You’ve transformed that place from a disaster waiting to happen into something that might actually attract tourists intentionally instead of landing them there by happenstance.”
“We aim to please,” Shaka says. “What’s next on your wish list?”
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about adding spa services,” I say, diving into a topic that’s been occupying my entrepreneurial imagination for days. “Hot stone massages, seaweed wraps, maybe some kind of traditional Hawaiian healing treatments—the whole tropical nine yards. I already cleared it with Mr. X.”
“Mr. X sounds so much more mysterious than Dane,” Ruby observes, constructing what appears to be her fourth huli huli taco. “Although he is sort of aGreatDane, which is pretty fun too.”
“Aspa,” Lani says, her eyes lighting up as if she just discovered that her ex-husband got audited by the IRS. “We could offer couples massage packages, meditation sessions on the beach, maybe some kind of sunrise yoga situation?”
“We’ll offer detox treatments using local ingredients,” Ruby adds, getting caught up in the planning excitement. “Coffee scrubs with local coffee beans, papaya enzyme facials, coconut oil everything because coconut oil is basically the miracle cure for whatever ails you.”
“True as gospel,” I tell her.
“Don’t forget salt scrubs using Hawaiian sea salt,” Lani continues, having a full-blown entrepreneurial vision right here at the dinner table. “And we could grow our own herbs for aromatherapy—lavender, eucalyptus, maybe some traditional Hawaiian plants.”
Shaka and Loco exchange glances that suggest they’re mentally calculating square footage and permit requirements while Ruby and Lani continue planning what sounds like the most ambitious spa operation since someone decided Cleopatra needed a milk bath.
“We could probably convert the old storage building behind the kitchen,” Loco says thoughtfully. “Good bones, ocean views, and easy access from the main resort.”
“The plumbing is already there from the old laundry setup,” Shaka adds. “Just need to reroute some lines, add proper drainage, maybe install some of those rainfall shower heads tourists love.”
While the spa planning session escalates into architectural discussions and Ruby starts sketching floor plans on cocktail napkins, Koa leans closer to me with focused attention that makes my brain forget basic functions like breathing and maintaining normal body temperature.
“Spill it, Red,” he says quietly, his voice carrying just enough authority to make me realize this isn’t really a request.
“Spill what?” I ask, batting my eyelashes with an innocent expression like I haven’t been conducting interrogations of murder suspects over virgin daiquiris and honeycomb samples.
Red. He called me Red.
My brain latches onto this detail with the intensity of discovering a new favorite song. He loves my hair. Maybe he dreams in red now. Or at least in redheads. Specificallyme. The thought makes me purr—an actual, audible sound that emerges from my throat without conscious permission.
“Did I do that out loud?” I ask, mortified.
He nods, though his expression suggests amusement rather than concern for my mental stability.
“What did Mabel have to say?” he continues, deciding to move past my involuntary feline impersonation in favor of actual police work.
“Well,” I say, grateful for the change of subject, “she confirmed she was the event coordinator for the Mai Tai competition, and she definitely knew Coraline. She painted quite the picture of our victim as a demanding, unreasonable nightmare who made everyone’s lives miserable.”
He frowns. “Did it come across as self-serving reputation shredding or legitimate grievances?”
“Probably both. She mentioned specific incidents—making an elderly lei maker cry, treating local vendors like props, and changing requirements every five minutes. The kind of behavior that can build up resentment over time.”
Koa makes note of it on his phone while I continue my abbreviated report of the evening’s intelligence gathering.
“She also had plenty to say about Giselle,” I continue. “She claims she’s not really the master chef she claims to be, that the whole pastry chef persona is fake. Says Giselle has a history of misrepresenting her credentials and using other people’s professional reputations.”
“Interesting. Matches what Breezy told us.”
Us. I swoon at the thought of there being anus.
