My usual feline welcoming committee makes its appearance. The gray tabby with white paws leads the evening patrol, followed by Spam, my favorite orange ball of fluff, whose perma-scowl gives him a rakish appearance that probably makes him irresistible to the lady felines. Three more cats materialize from strategic hiding spots—a calico with serious attitude issues, a sleek black cat with judgmental green eyes, and our resident tortoiseshell cutie who clearly holds supervisory responsibilities in their organizational structure.
I’m scanning the crowd for any sign of Detective Hale when movement behind the competition area snags my attention. Two figures stand in heated conversation near the darker end of the beach, their voices carrying on the trade winds with the clarity of people who’ve completely forgotten they’re performing in public. I squint their way and immediately recognize them.
Coraline and Giselle face off behind the thatched huts, their body language suggesting diplomatic relations have deteriorated beyond repair. Even from my distance, I can see Giselle’s hands moving in animated gestures while Coraline’s posture radiates a fury typically reserved for flight cancellations.
Hands are flying, colorful expletives are carried my way by the wind. And before I know it, Coraline’s hand connects withGiselle’s cheek in a slap that echoes across the water, sharp as a rifle shot. Several nearby seabirds voice their official disapproval of violence interrupting their evening fishing operations, and I’m about to join them.
But Breezy appears from the shadows with timing that suggests he’s been monitoring the situation. And, honestly, I’m thankful for it. He says something curt to Coraline, then takes Giselle by the elbow and escorts her away from the conflict zone in a way that lets me know he’s experienced in managing intoxicated people and hostile negotiations.
The beach settles into its party rhythm, but I keep my eyes on Coraline, who’s now pacing behind the makeshift bar huts, conducting what appears to be a very heated argument with invisible opponents. Her platinum hair catches the tiki torch light as she gesticulates with the type of dramatic intensity you might see in opera performances or mental health evaluations.
What the heck has gotten into her? Not that I know her. But still. This is odd behavior for anyone occupying planet Earth.
Another figure approaches from the palm trees nearby—a woman who moves with purpose across the sand, her flowing maxi dress in vibrant tropical colors catches the flickering light. A wide-brimmed hat and oversized sunglasses complete the mysterious nighttime beach look, because maintaining anonymity at public parties requires full costume commitment.
And really? Sunglasses at night? This isn’t an 80s song. Although some nights, when I’m dancing in the dark, it so feels like one.
Their conversation starts quietly but escalates rapidly into an animated discussion that makes nearby revelers pause their drinking to enjoy the free entertainment. Mystery Woman gestures emphatically while Coraline’s voice rises to frequencies that could probably communicate with dolphins—and also teach them a salty word or two.
The argument climaxes when Mystery Woman hurls the contents of her mai tai directly into Coraline’s face.
Wow.
I gasp a little as pineapple juice and premium rum drip from Coraline’s platinum blonde hair while she spits out creative expletives that would make a longshoreman request subtitles. Both women storm off in opposite directions, leaving behind a dramatic tension that makes absolutely none of the drunks in our midst notice.
Twenty minutes of peak mai tai competition mayhem convince me it’s time to check on the resort before our chickens stage a hostile takeover of guest relations—though honestly, they’d probably provide superior customer service compared to our previous management regime.
I start heading back toward the lobby when movement near the rocky crags catches my peripheral vision. Spam and his feline security detail dart toward the darkened end of Coconut Cove with the focused intensity of cats who’ve discovered something infinitely more interesting than kalua pig.
A pale mass sits among the black lava rocks, visible in the moonlight filtering through palm fronds. From a distance, it resembles someone’s abandoned beach towel or maybe dried grass swept in by the evening’s trade winds.
But beach towels don’t usually sparkle in moonlight, and they definitely don’t wear gold sequined tops.
I head that way, traversing my way across the uneven lava rock, following the cats who’ve arranged themselves in a respectful semicircle around their discovery. What I mistook for vegetation turns out to be platinum blonde hair spread across the rocks like expensive silk, still attached to a head that’s no longer concerned with authentic island experiences or proper cocktail presentation standards.
Coraline lies sprawled among the tide pools with a crystal cocktail stirrer protruding from her throat, catching starlight and reflecting it back with the same aggressive sparkle that had characterized her entire jewelry collection. And in the middle of her chest sits the blade of a knife.
Someone had decided to give her the most authentic Hawaiian farewell possible—a one-way trip to the spirit world, complete with a premium garnish and oceanfront seating.
Coraline Starling is dead.
CHAPTER 4
The scream that rips out of me is loud, ugly, and entirely unfit for polite society.
Moonlight filters through the coconut palms onto the rocks, where Coraline Starling lies sprawled, her body at an angle that makes my stomach drop.
The Mai Tai Madness Mix-Off is still going strong behind me—with ukuleles, blenders, and tourists who are too far into vacation mode—while the trade winds carry jasmine, salt, and the unmistakable warning that this night has gone very,verywrong.
My vocal performance sends every rooster within a five-mile radius into confused crowing solidarity, three cats scatter like furry ninjas, and what sounds like half the party guests pause their revelry to wonder if someone’s being attacked by wild boar or just discovered the true cost of resort cocktails.
“Sweet mother of pearl!” Ruby’s voice carries across the beach as she charges toward me, her bottle cap lei jangling like wind chimes having a seizure. “Are you howling at the moon to summon your detective boyfriend? Because that’s either very romantic or it means you’ve completely lost your grip on reality!”
Lani appears right behind her, wooden spoon clutched in her hand like she’s ready to battle whatever’s causing the disturbance. “She’s probably just practicing her mating call,” she says with a dry wisdom that assures us she’s seen decades of questionable human behavior. “Though the technique definitely needs work.”
“If you only knew,” I manage, pointing toward the lava rocks where our former celebrity judge has taken up permanent residence in the least flattering position possible.
Both women follow my gesture, and the sight of Coraline’s platinum blonde hair spread across black rock—accessorized with a crystal cocktail stirrer protruding from her throat and what appears to be a knife handle sticking out of her sequined chest—launches them into overlapping screams that hit all at once.
