“We can’t forget about the physical evidence found at the scene of the crime. The small perfume bottle and the swatch of fabric?”
He nods. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“French perfume,” I say. “And that swatch matched Mabel’s dress. The only one left out of the physical fun is Breezy.”
Koa growls. “And the footage from Coraline’s crew yielded nothing. I went over it twice.” He thinks for a moment. “Did Mabel know Breezy?”
“She definitely knows him,” I say. “She implied his business practices are questionable—something about his profit margins being suspiciously high for craft distilling.”
“So we’ve got two suspects with strong motives,” Koa says, leaning back in his chair while the construction crew continues planning my spa empire and Ruby starts calculating profit margins on coconut oil treatments.
“Three if you count Mabel herself,” I point out. “Event coordinator whose career could have been tanked by a bad review from a celebrity food critic? Possibly skimming off the top? That’s a pretty solid motive for murder, too.”
“Agreed. Which is why Sunday’s event is going to be very interesting.”
A rooster crows somewhere outside, announcing his opinion on our investigation techniques, while inside the restaurant, the combination of excellent food, family bonding, and successful interrogation debriefing creates an evening that makes you understand why people fall in love with islands, even when those islands come with a homicide rate and a tendency to attract amateur detectives with questionable self-preservation instincts. And one very hot detective.
Paradise is beautiful, deadly, and determined to complicate both my career and my love life.
CHAPTER 17
“Ihad to stuff my fluff into each coconut for twenty minutes!” Lani announces with indignation because she’s just discovered that coconut bras require significant engineering skills and possibly a degree in structural support.
“But look how smexy we both look!” Ruby replies, adjusting her own precarious coconut arrangement. “We’re like tropical goddesses with attitude and adequate coverage!”
I’m not sure what horrifies me more—the fact that Ruby just used the word “smexy” in casual conversation, or that two senior citizens are currently walking a thin line when it comes to public decency laws while discussing their coconut-based undergarments at what’s supposed to be a respectable resort event.
The Mai Tai Madness Mix-Off Do-Over is in full tropical swing, and I have to admit the resort looks spectacular.
A big glittery sign announces the event in letters that encompass every color of the rainbow, while tiki torches flicker along the beach like beacons of Polynesian paradise. The sun just set, and the sky is still glowing a violent shade of orange as twinkle lights shaped like pineapples dangle from everyavailable palm tree, creating the sort of magical atmosphere that makes tourists forget they’re paying resort prices for drinks they could make at home if they owned a blender and had less sense of adventure. The air is hot, the crowd is hotter, and the lively music makes everyone want to shake what their mamas gave them.
The luau spills across our beachfront, lively and unapologetic. Tables laden with kalua pig, poi, our first stab at huli huli chicken, fresh poke, and haupia pudding and then some, create a buffet that makes mainland potluck dinners look pathetic by comparison.
The sound of ukuleles mingles with laughter, conversation, and the occasional rooster crows from our resident poultry population, who consider this their personal dinner invitation rather than a human-only event.
Local musicians have set up near the main buffet, their guitars and ukuleles creating authentic island music that makes you want to learn to hula, even if your coordination peaks at walking in a straight line. The scent of grilled pineapple and teriyaki sauce floats on tropical breezes that carry just enough ocean salt to remind everyone they’re in paradise.
“You look nice,” a familiar voice says behind me, and I turn to find Koa approaching with a confident stride that says he’s perfectly comfortable navigating luau crowds while looking devastatingly attractive in his off-duty civilian clothes. About six different women crane their necks in his direction and sigh.
His eyes do that elevator thing—starting at my flip-flops and traveling slowly upward in a way that makes my skin heat up faster than a tourist’s first day without sunscreen. “Love the dress.”
“This old thing?” I ask, plucking at the gold fabric with beading that catches the tiki torch light like captured starlight. “It’s nothing special.”
What I don’t mention is the kidnapping situation that led to this ensemble. Ruby and Lani literally dragged me to the boutique down the road this afternoon, where Ruby insisted on buying me this strapless number with a thigh-high slit that makes me feel like a Bond girl who’s about to infiltrate a very tropical casino.
The fact that I’m wearing it with flip-flops probably destroys any sophisticated spy aesthetic, but honestly, what more could you ask for in paradise? Comfort, style, and footwear that won’t get me killed on the sand—it’s the perfect combination for conducting amateur murder investigations at formal tropical events.
“You make it special,” he says, and something in his eyes softens. “Because you’re special, Jinx.”
I gasp and take a step his way to close the distance between us, just as a small parade of chickens chooses this moment to strut past us, followed by three cats conducting what appears to be their own audit of the buffet. Spam gives Koa a respectful nod before disappearing under a table laden with tropical fruit displays.
“Jinx!” Melanie’s voice cuts through the luau atmosphere like a shotgun. She stomps toward us, wearing a little black dress with a red hibiscus flower tucked in her cleavage. I’ll admit, it looks interesting. Why didn’t I think of that? “These crowds are getting completely out of control,” she grouses. “Do you want another murder on your hands?”
“Only if it’s yours.” I shrug with casual indifference as if she’s already survived one homicide investigation and lived to tell about it. Okay, fine, I’ve just about survived two.
Melanie gasps and nearly inhales a mosquito.
“I jest,” I say with a manufactured laugh that sounds more deranged than playful. “A little.”
