“Mon Dieu! This is terrible!” Giselle materializes like an apparition with one hand pressed to her forehead in a gesture so dramatically French it could be choreographed. Her earlier confrontation with Coraline seems forgotten in the face of actual mortality, though I notice she’s careful to stay well back from the crime scene as if she doesn’t want to be next. “Such a tragedy,” she continues, her accent making even shock sound sophisticated. “She was difficult, yes, but she did not deserve this.”
Both suspects express appropriately horrified reactions while I mentally catalog their responses for future reference. Breezy seems genuinely upset, the sort of distress that’s hard to fake. Giselle’s reaction feels more theatrical, but then again, she’s French—they probably learn dramatic gesturing in elementary school along with wine appreciation and sophisticated disdain. I’ll admit, it’s a combination that works on her.
The lights from about twelve different cameras suddenly illuminate the crime scene as Coraline’s film crew materializes with the predatory instincts of people who smell a ratings goldmine. They wouldn’t be wrong.
“This is incredible footage!” one of them announces with far too much enthusiasm. “The drama! The authenticity! Our viewers are going to eat this up!”
“Shut it down,” I snap, channeling every ounce of managerial authority I’ve accumulated over the past few weeks. “This is a crime scene, not a documentary opportunity! Show some respect!” Although if they did keep their cameras rolling, I might get a clue or two.
“But the network will want—” the cameraman starts.
“The network will want you to avoid obstruction of justice charges,” Koa cuts in, his voice steady and impossible to ignore. “Turn off the cameras. Now.”
They comply with reluctance, though I catch at least one crew member still holding his phone in what he probably thinks is a subtle recording position.
Kauai’s finest swarm the scene with professional efficiency, establishing perimeter tape and evidence markers while Detective Hale transforms from concerned almost-boyfriend into extremely hot commanding law enforcement officer. The transformation is impressive and slightly intimidating—suddenly he’s all business, issuing orders and taking control of the situation with an authority that makes even drunk tourists step back and behave themselves.
I scan the growing crowd, looking for the mystery woman from earlier—the one who decorated Coraline’s face with a mai tai before disappearing into the tropical night. But she’s nowhere to be seen among the bartenders, tourists, and resort staff who’ve gathered to witness our latest addition to paradise’s body count.
“What exactly did you see tonight?” Koa asks, pulling out his notebook with a frown.
“Actually, I saw quite a few things,” I say, trying to sound helpful rather than like someone who’s been conducting unauthorized surveillance at a cocktail competition. “I can help kick off our investigation with enough details to require two notebooks, and maybe a cocktail napkin.”
His eyes narrow on me, and suddenly the tropical night air feels about twenty degrees hotter. “Our investigation?”
Before I can clarify that I was just being optimistic about our professional partnership, he moves closer. The scent of his cologne mixed with ocean air makes my brain forget how to process basic information.
“This is MY investigation, Jinx,” he growls, and there’s something primal in his voice that makes my spine straighten,and my pulse do things that should probably require a medical disclaimer. “Notours, notyours—mine. Stay away from it.”
“But I can help?—”
“You can help by staying safe,” he interrupts, those gold-flecked brown eyes boring into mine with an intensity that could probably melt lava rocks. “There’s a killer out there who’s not afraid to make their point with a very sharp knife. I’ll quiz you about what you saw later—I know where to find you.”
He turns back to his investigation with a professional focus that leaves me standing there like someone who’s just been hit by very attractive lightning, and wondering whether Detective Hale has any idea what that growly voice does to a woman’s ability to think coherently. Okay, fine, he so does.
Koa may have killer looks, but I have a killer instinct.
This case not only happened at my resort, but I’m the one who found the body, and I know full well that lands me on the suspect list.
This might technically be Koa’s case, but as fate and my potential freedom might have it, it’s officially mine too.
CHAPTER 5
Monday mornings after a murder don’t come with a handbook, but if they did, mine would definitely include a chapter on managing tourists who think dead celebrities are part of the entertainment package.
Late morning sunlight streams through our perpetually open lobby doors, illuminating what can only be described as controlled breakfast chaos. A salty warm breeze flows through the space, giving you that signature Hawaiian hug of humidity that I’ve actually grown to love—at least when I’m not standing in full sunlight.
The scent of coffee strong enough to wake ancient Hawaiian gods mingles with cinnamon rolls the size of your head, while the sound of blenders working overtime competes with tourist chatter and the eternal clinking of dishes that suggests Lani has been caffeinating the masses since dawn.
The lobby itself consists of dark wooden floors and enough rattan furniture to make Miami jealous. There are potted palms in every corner, and a bird of paradise floral arrangement sitting on the reception counter to add a splash of color.
Our breakfast buffet sprawls across the lanai like a tropical feast operating under the belief that vacation calories don’t count and carbohydrates are a food group.
The line for Lani’s cinnamon rolls literally snakes around the property—I can see tourists queued up past the pool area, around the tiki bar, and what appears to be halfway to the neighboring resort. Summer tourism has officially exploded across Kauai, with mainlanders pouring into every available orifice the Garden Isle has to offer, armed with sunscreen, unrealistic expectations, and credit cards that haven’t yet realized what “island prices” actually mean.
From our vantage point at the southern tip of Hanalei Bay, sheer emerald mountains rise around us like ancient spires someone carved with divine precision and a serious commitment to dramatic scenery. The ocean stretches to the horizon in shades of blue that make you understand why people abandon perfectly good lives to move to islands, while tourists lie around, glossy with sunscreen and optimism, dotting the beach like colorful, slightly crispy human confetti.
A gray tabby with white paws weaves between the breakfast crowd with the dignity of a cute kitty conducting very important resort inspections, while Spam, the orange ball of floof, supervises operations from his perch on a potted palm. Three hens peck at invisible treats near the kitchen door, seemingly unimpressed by the human drama surrounding them, and a rooster struts across the veranda with enough confidence to suggest he owns the place and has the property deed to prove it.
