“In all truth,” I tell a confused-looking couple fromWisconsin who’ve just emerged from unit twelve, “these delectable sweet treats saved the resort. Before Lani’s cinnamon rolls, we were just another failing tropical disaster. Now we’re a failing tropical disaster with a cult following and a waiting list.”
They don’t argue. They simply snap one up for themselves and make tracks toward the beach before the Grim Reaper can catch them.
“Morning, sunshine!” Ruby calls out, addressing either me or the actual sun, which is blazing down with the enthusiasm of a red-hot spotlight. “Ready to start investigating? I’ve been practicing my interrogation techniques on the cats. I’ve already got a hot date lined up with a couple of toms.”
Figures. Ruby has a thing for men—across species, apparently.
“And I’ve got theories! And snacks,” Lani adds, hoisting her tray like a shield. “Murder solving requires proper nutrition. You can’t think clearly on an empty stomach, and you definitely can’t chase suspects without adequate sugar intake.”
“We’re not investigating,” I say firmly. “We’re leaving that to the professionals who actually have badges and training and liability insurance.”
“BORING!” they chorus in unison, causing two hens to scatter and Pineapple to open one judgmental yellow eye.
Melanie snorts at the thought. “You two better steer clear of Hurricane Homicide over here before she trips over another body. Death follows that woman like a lost puppy.”
“Hurricane Homicide?” I shake my head as I say it. “Hey, that’s a pretty good nickname,” I admit. “Very alliterative. I might put it on my business cards underSpecial Skills.”
Lani and Ruby titter while Melanie seethes. “Don’t encourage her,” Melanie grouses. “The Coconut Cove Strangler doesn’t need accomplices.”
“Ooh, I like that one better,” I’m quick to tell her.
A tourist couple walks past, locked in a marital dispute that suggests vacation planning didn’t go according to schedule.
“I told you not to eat that papaya when you knew we had to catch the airport shuttle!” the wife hisses, dragging her husband toward the main building with the efficiency of a bounty hunter.
“Something,somethingbathroom emergency...” he mumbles back, looking like a man who’s made several poor dietary choices in quick succession. Face it, anyone who has enjoyed a little more papaya than is reasonable can commiserate with the man.
“I’m going to wait in the lobby,” his wife continues with her airport-sponsored tirade. “Next time, listen to me when I’m talking about tropical fruit consumption!” she howls before disappearing through the doors, finished with both her husband and tropical fruit forever.
“Even the tourists are having relationship drama,” I say. “It must be something in the trade winds that makes people confess their poor decision-making skills.”
Speaking of poor decisions, I spot Erwin and Candy onthe beach, locked in what can only be described as an enthusiastic morning make-out session. They’re canoodling with the passion of teenagers while police tape flutters in the background like romantic bunting, unbothered by the fact that Candy’s business manager was strangled with traditional Hawaiian flora less than twelve hours ago.
“Nothing says grief over a murdered business partner like a sunrise tonsil-hockey session,” I mutter, watching them grope each other with all the subtlety of a nature documentary about mating rituals.
Ruby follows my gaze and snorts. “I’m no expert on mourning etiquette, but I’m fairly certain there’s supposed to be a waiting period between finding bodies and swapping spit.”
“You’d think,” I shrug. “But Alana’s death freed up space on Candy’s schedule for more quality time.”
“Quality being a generous term for whatever that is.” Ruby gestures at the spectacle with her coffee mug. “Though I suppose when your relationship is built for social media, authenticity was never really on the table.”
“Speaking of which—” I squint at them. “Is she... is she angling for better lighting?”
Lani leans forward. “Oh my goodness, she is. She’s repositioning so the sunrise hits her face at an optimal angle.”
“Even the kissing is content.”
“Everything is content when you’re dead inside,” Ruby says cheerfully. “Which, given the circumstances, feels appropriate.”
I watch Erwin pull away, clearly coming up for air, while Candy immediately checks her phone. “Do you think she’s already posted about the murder?”
Ruby snorts again. “Bold of you to assume she waited until morning.”
Lani sets her tray down on a wicker table that’s older than all of us combined. “Speaking of content, Jinx, what did you do to your hair?”
“This old mop?”
Both women turn to stare at me like I just confessed to a felony. Ruby reaches out to touch my auburn locks, which have taken on a texture that defies both gravity and good judgment.
