Koa appears at my side with his notebook in hand, looking like he’s contemplating early retirement. In fact, I’m right there with him.
“So,” he says, “any initial thoughts on which of your charming wedding guests might have decided to redecorate the beach with a dead woman?”
I look around at the suspects at large—Erwin drowning his sorrow in rum, Candy treating murder like the opportunity of a lifetime, Bertha looking smugly satisfied, Della proclaiming cosmic coincidences, and Va-Va-Va-Voom Halea already mentally rearranging the wedding timeline to accommodate police investigations—and maybe sneaking in a hot date with a cop or two.
“Well,” I say, watching a rooster strut through the crime scene and disturbing the evidence, “at least we know it wasn’t the wildlife. They have better sense than this crowd.”
The moon hangs over the ocean like a silver witness to the chaos as police lights strobe across the sand, and somewhere in the distance, the band is still playing—unaware that this tropical wedding kick-off celebration has officially become a murder investigation.
Welcome to paradise, where the mai tais are strong, the motives are stronger, and apparently someone decided that the only good business manager slash spontaneous wedding planner is a dead one.
CHAPTER 5
If someone had told me that hosting my ex-husband’s wedding would lead to finding dead bodies before breakfast, I would have charged him double.
The morning after the murder dawns with all the subtlety of a rooster crowing directly in my ear.
It’s already a humid eighty-three degrees at seven AM, because Mother Nature believes in starting the day with a full-body sauna experience, whether you asked for it or not. Trade winds carry the scent of plumeria mixed with salt air and the aroma of Lani’s famous cinnamon rolls, while somewhere in the distance, roosters are providing an editorial on last night’s festivities with the enthusiasm of sports announcers calling a particularly dramatic game.
Speaking of which, there’s a surf competition in Hanalei Bay today, which means good times, lots of long boards andlocals, and an air horn going off at regular intervals. At least murder isn’t the number one concern around here anymore.
The Coconut Cove Paradise Resort sprawls across five beachfront acres like a tropical fever dream that’s half paradise, half construction zone. There are thirty units distributed among three buildings that lean into the trade winds with varying degrees of structural integrity, all overlooking what I have to admit are some of the best snorkeling and surfing spots on this side of the island. An expansive stretch of brown sugar sand leads toward a dramatic black sand cove nestled against volcanic rock, with sheer green mountains rising behind us like emerald guardians watching over this particular slice of chaos.
The red dirt that defines Kauai has already begun its daily mission of staining everything it touches, including my new white flip-flops, which now look like I’ve been tap-dancing in a rusty puddle. Our rooftop tennis court gleams in the morning sun like a beacon of optimism, while the mini golf course below provides a cheerful counterpoint to the yellow crime scene tape still fluttering around the beach.
The resort also boasts of three swimming pools—one for each building, a spacious lanai, and an entire army of thatched umbrellas and wicker lawn chairs. Even with all that, it’s usually the feral cats and chickens that get all the tourists’ love and attention, and rightfully so.
And lucky for the tourists, the morning wildlife parade is in full swing. Three roosters strut across the main veranda as if they’re conducting an official inspection, followed by aparade of hens with baby chicks trailing behind them like tiny feathered question marks.
The resort cats have begun their daily territorial rounds with Spam surveying his kingdom from atop a pool lounge chair, while Coconut, our sleek black princess, stalks invisible prey near the hibiscus bushes. Mango, the calico with serious attitude issues, has claimed the breakfast bar as her personal throne, and a new gray tabby with white paws appears to be conducting his own investigation of the crime scene perimeter.
I’m contemplating whether it’s too early for a frozen cocktail while seated out on the veranda by the sand when the sound of designer flip-flops slapping against concrete announces an approaching storm system.
“THIS IS WHAT I COME BACK TO?!”
Melanie Luana explodes onto the veranda like a hurricane with a grudge and a working knowledge of threats. Her long chestnut hair is pulled back in its signature aggressive bun, and she’s wearing a professional scowl that could wilt tropical flowers at twenty paces. She positions herself behind the front desk with the posture of a prosecutor about to deliver a death sentence.
“I take a few days off to visit friends on Oahu, and you turn my resort into a crime scene! AGAIN!” she continues as her voice climbs to octaves that send the resort chickens scattering for cover. “Do you have any idea what this does to our reputation? Our Yelp reviews? Our liability insurance?”
“Technically,” I reply, setting down my coffee mug withdeliberate calm, “it’s not your resort anymore. And I didn’t turn it into anything—somebody else did the decorating with dead bodies. I just happened to trip over their interior design choices.”
Melanie’s face goes through several color changes, like a chameleon trying to blend in with a lava flow. The revelation that our mysterious owner turned out to be Dane “The Smile” Huntington—the charming activities director with the radioactive grin—clearly still stings, especially since his first executive decision was to fire her and promote me to the position she’d spent months trying to sabotage. Of course, I let her stay on as the barista. I’m not a monster.
“I suppose you think this murder makes you some kind of amateur detective now?” she snaps, deciding that attack is the best defense strategy.
“I prefercorpse magnet with investigative tendencies,” I reply. “It sounds more professional on a business card.” And I should so print those.
“You couldn’t solve a crossword puzzle, let alone a murder,” she hisses.
“Ha!” I don’t hesitate to get right into her face. “Says the woman who spent the past few weeks sabotaging coffee machines and still couldn’t figure out how to get rid of me. Your problem-solving skills are about as impressive as our pool maintenance schedule.” Okay, so we might have a slight issue with algae, but with this heat it really does bloom.
Before Melanie can formulate a comeback that doesn’t involve admitting defeat, the sound of approaching laughterannounces the arrival of my reinforcements. Ruby and Lani appear around the corner of Building Two like a tropical bestie duo dressed by someone with access to a Hawaiian fabric factory.
Ruby has donned a flowing muumuu covered in dancing hula girls and palm trees, her wild red hair piled high and secured with three different colored hibiscus flowers that clash spectacularly with her earrings, which jangle like wind chimes in a hurricane. She’s managed to accessorize with enough jewelry to set off metal detectors in three counties, all of it designed to catch and reflect every available ray of sunlight. And I’m so here for it.
Lani has opted for practical khaki shorts paired with a pineapple-print top that I might be interested in borrowing soon. Her purple hair catches the morning light, and her flip-flops match the highlights in a way that suggests either careful planning or cosmic intervention.
More importantly, Lani is carrying a tray of her infamous cinnamon rolls, each one roughly the size of a dinner plate or a small planet. These balls of sugary fluff have achieved legendary status across the island—tourists line up every morning with a queue that snakes around our parking lot and halfway to Hanalei, all desperate to get their hands on what basically amounts to edible diabetes wrapped in frosting. Let’s face it, there is nothing like the aroma of a fresh-baked cinnamon roll. We practically have the island hostage with our siren call of delicious carbs.
