I spot Giselle near the dessert table, loading her plate with enough malasadas, cookies, pie, and haupia pudding to feed a small army while wearing a flowing white dress that makes her look like a French pastry chef auditioning for a role in a tropical romance novel.
How I’d love to star in that novel myself, but fate and a certain killer seem to have different plans—and placed me in an entirely different genre.
Mabel’s accusations echo in my head—questions about Giselle’s recipes, hints about stolen work, Coraline’s pointed interest in “recipe origins.” And Breezy mentioned something similar, didn’t he? That slippery comment about her cookbook having questions around it.
Two separate sources saying the same thing isn’t proof, but it’s not nothing either.
I watch Giselle laugh with a couple of tourists, gesturing expressively while describing the authentic French technique for preparing haupia—a distinctly Hawaiian dessert that has absolutely nothing to do with Paris. She looks perfectly natural, perfectly confident, perfectly like someone who belongs exactly where she is.
Which is either the mark of someone with nothing to hide, or someone very good at hiding things.
If Coraline was planning to expose Giselle as a fraud—recipe thief, fake credentials, whatever the actual accusation was—then Giselle had motive. A very public, career-ending motive.
Time to find out if those rumors have teeth, even if it means confronting a potential killer at a luau while wearing a cocktail dress and flip-flops.
Because this is what my life has become—amateur detective work conducted in paradise while wondering if the woman helping herself to haupia samples is also the woman who poisoned our celebrity judge.
CHAPTER 18
In less than five minutes, I watch as the tourists finish their conversation with Giselle and wander off toward the fire dancers who just showed up to light up the night, leaving my mark standing alone by the dessert table with a plate piled dangerously high with desserts.
Perfect timing.
My feet carry me over, and I quickly grab a small plate of my own and scoop up a few pieces of haupia pudding as if I’m just another guest working my way through the buffet. Haupia is the consistency of Jell-O, but think coconut pudding. It’s traditionally made in sheet pans and cut into cubes to be enjoyed by the masses. It’s actually one of my favorite sweet treats since coming to the island.
“This stuff is dangerous,” I say, gesturing to the coconut pudding as I sidle up next to her. “I’ve had three pieces already, and I’m seriously considering a fourth and a fifth and an eleventh.”
“Oh, Jinx.” Giselle gives a little laugh, and even then, her French accent seems to come through. “It’s the coconut milk. Very rich, very decadent. In Paris, we would never servesomething so indulgent without at least pretending to feel guilty about it.”
“The nice thing about Hawaii is nobody pretends to feel guilty about anything involving coconut.” I sample the haupia, letting a comfortable silence settle between us.Mmm. The haupia is perfection. “How are you enjoying the luau? Better than the mai tai competition, I hope.”
Her smile tightens just slightly. “Much better. It’s far less dramatic.”
“That’s one word for it.” I pause, watching a rooster investigate the area under the buffet table with intense focus. “Poor Coraline. I really wish she could have been here to enjoy it. I know you two had some history—food industry connections, professional circles, that kind of thing?”
“We’d crossed paths at events,” Giselle says carefully, her attention suddenly very focused on arranging the desserts on her plate. “The culinary world is smaller than people think.”
“I bet. Especially at her level—she must have tried everything, been everywhere.” I keep my tone light and conversational. “I heard she was actually a pretty serious food critic before the TV show. Really knowledgeable about technique, classical training, that sort of thing.”
Something flickers across Giselle’s face, and I wonder if it’s tension or worry.
“She had very strong opinions regarding just about everything,” Giselle says, her accent thickening slightly. “Very strong opinions about authenticity, about giving proper credit for culinary innovations.”
“She sounds like she was a very intense person.” I take another bite of the cool haupia, letting the silence stretch and appreciating the creamy coconut melting in my mouth. “It must have been nerve-wracking having her judge the competition. Someone with that kind of expertise, that attention to detail...”
Giselle sets down her plate, and I notice her hands are not quite steady.
“She was very thorough,” Giselle says quietly. “Almost relentless in her pursuit of authenticity.”
“I’ve been hearing some interesting things,” I say, keeping my voice casual but watching her face carefully. “About your cookbook, actually. Those signature recipes—the rose and cardamom opera cake, the lavender honey tart, the pistachio mille-feuille.”
The color drains from her face faster than water from our resort’s questionable plumbing system.
“What about them?” Her voice comes out tight.
“People are saying they’re remarkably similar to another chef’s work. A French pastry chef named Marguerite Beaumont.” I pause. “Who died three years ago. Right around the time your cookbook came out. I guess those were alsohersignature recipes.”
Giselle’s perfectly manicured hand trembles as she reaches for her drink. “I don’t know what you’re implying?—”
