CHAPTER 1
It’s a balmy evening in paradise, and the scent of plumeria drifting across Coconut Cove Paradise Resort feels like an apology from Mother Nature for what’s about to happen to my sanity.
Palm trees sway lazily along our stretch of sandy beach, Hanalei Bay glitters to our left, while fern-covered mountains rise behind us, steep and impossibly green.
But all of the beauty on the island can’t make up for the fact that I’m about to enter my own personal circle of hell disguised as a destination wedding.
My ex-husband is getting married.
At my resort.
In seven days.
That’s right. My life has turned into a bad episode of theEx-Files—except I can’t change the channel, and the universe has a premium subscription when it comes to irony.
“You’re gripping that clipboard like you want to strangle it,” Ruby calls out from her perch at the poolside table. Her wild red hair escapes its hibiscus clip in the humid breeze, and she’s wearing a flowing sundress covered in tropical birds that look as if they’re trying to escape the fabric. “Should I be worried about your mental state?”
Ruby Figgins is in her early eighties and has long, wild red hair streaked with silver, usually wrangled into a loose braid or piled up with a pin. She’s officially just a long-term guest, but Ruby has lived at the resort longer than most of the staff. She’s a wealthy widow and serial divorcee who’s collected more wedding rings than most people collect coffee mugs—she inserts herself into everything and claims to know every squeaky floorboard and ghost on the property by name. She’s also got an uncanny knack for spotting half-truths, reading people, and asking the exact questions that can crack a case wide open.
“I’m fine.” I adjust my grip on the wedding preparation checklist that somehow landed on my desk this morning. The resort cats have claimed their usual spots around the pool area—Pineapple is draped across a lounge chair like a furry throw pillow, while Coconut and Mango are engaged in their daily staring contest near the bar. “Perfectly, absolutely fine.”
Yes, we’ve started naming the cats that seem to be taking up residence here. The leader of the cat pack is an orangetom with one ear partially missing. And that orange ball of fluff goes by Spam.
“Uh-huh. Sure, you’re fine.” Lani doesn’t look up from where she’s testing the sound system for the impending rehearsal dinner. Her hot pink muumuu is sticking to her skin in this humidity, but somehow, she still manages to look more put-together than I feel. “And I’m the Queen of England.”
Leilani “Lani” Mahelona—is somewhere north of seventy, petite but sturdy, with warm golden-brown skin, quick brown eyes, and short silver hair she dyes lavender at the tips because life is too short to be boring. She’s got strong forearms from kneading the resort’s famed cinnamon rolls and lifting stockpots, and her laugh rumbles low, like a simmering stew. She’s the head cook who runs the kitchen like a general but feeds people like a grandmother, treating her staff (and me) like family—although she isn’t afraid to whack someone with a wooden spoon if they test her patience.
Together, Ruby and Lani make some seriously kick-butt sidekicks when it comes to solving murders. And this week, they might prove to be just as good at helping me survive one. Or maybe even burying a body—metaphorically speaking, of course.
Okay, fine, I’m being literal.
I’ve already found a nice ditch near the lava rocks that could house a corpse if need be.
What can I say? I like to be prepared.
And I did mention that my ex is on his way, didn’t I?
My name is Jinx Julep. I’m thirty-three, my auburn hair has a long-standing feud with Hawaiian humidity, my eyes are green and tired of surprises, and chaos has always found me first. I’m excellent at two things: crafting espresso and making disastrous romantic decisions. My ex-husband Erwin proved the latter when he decided our vows were moresuggestionsthanbinding commitments.
Months ago, I applied to sling coffee at a cozy Maine inn. Thanks to crying my way through the interview, I failed to notice the job was actually in Kauai. A couple of murders and some epically bad choices later, I’m now running the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort.
The good news? Paradise is beautiful. The bad news? It comes with an army of roosters, an alarming number of cats, and a body count.
This evening, the resort grounds are being transformed from their usual tropical chic meets garage sale aesthetic into something that belongs in a wedding magazine. White orchids line the pool deck, tiki torches stand at attention like flaming soldiers, and yards of flowing white fabric are draped from the palms. It’s actually beautiful, which makes me want to throw something into the koi pond—like myself.
A rooster crows from somewhere near the tennis court, because even the wildlife wants to comment on the nightmare about to unfold.
“Here comes trouble,” Ruby sings, nodding toward the entrance.
Sure enough, here comes trouble indeed. I grab Lani and Ruby, and we quickly head that way to find an all too familiar buffoon stumbling in our direction.
And there he is.
Erwin Tuggle Julep, my ex-husband of less than a few months, is walking across the pool deck in khaki shorts and a polo shirt damp with nerves and bad decisions. His thinning hair has been strategically styled to hide the fact that stress eating and male pattern baldness are winning the war against his vanity.
His sandy hair, what’s left of it, has gone mostly gray at the temples—not in that distinguished George Clooney way, but more like someone left him out in the rain too long. The paunch he’s developed sits above his khaki shorts like a monument to corporate takeovers and too many client dinners. He’s got that dad bod thing going on that’s disturbingly trendy now, though I’m pretty sure the trend is supposed to involve actual fatherhood and not just the slow surrender to gravity and carbohydrates.
He used to be cute in that earnest, boyish way that made me think he’d age like a Kennedy. Instead, he aged like a Kennedy after a particularly rough campaign season. Still, I can see what attracted me once—the laugh lines around his eyes, the way his polo shirt is trying to present him as a casual beach guy instead of a divorced corporate tax attorney on vacation.
