“She turned it into a loofah!” Ruby announces, lifting a section that crunches ominously. “What did you use, industrial-strength bleach mixed with concrete?”
“I was trying to hide the gray,” I explain defensively. “I may have overdone it with the box dye. The instructions said natural auburn, not scarecrow chic.”
“Overdone doesn’t begin to cover this disaster,” Lani says, poking at my hair like she’s testing the doneness of a turkey. “This looks like you stuck your finger in an electrical socket while standing in a red wheat field.”
“Don’t worry,” Lani continues, switching into crisis management mode. “I know just the thing to fix this!”
“If it involves a razor, I’ve already considered it,” I reply grimly. “After all, things couldn’t get any worse.”
The universe, deciding to take that as a challenge,chooses this moment to provide a demonstration of exactly how much worse things can get. Both women gasp simultaneously, staring past me toward the beach access where my ex-husband is now posing for selfies with his fiancée while standing approximately ten feet from where we found Alana’s body.
“Your ex is getting married to someone named Candy Tassels,” Ruby says slowly, as if saying it out loud might make it make more sense.
“And she’s treating a murder scene like a photo opportunity,” Lani adds, watching Candy adjust her phone and that ridiculous ring light of hers for optimal dramatic lighting. The sun is in its full glory for Pete’s sake.
“Never mind that,” Lani says, waving them off. “We’ve got hairier fish to fry. Ruby, go to the kitchen and get a cup of olive oil,” Lani instructs, deciding that my hair crisis takes precedence over existential horror. “That’ll fix this right up!”
“Olive oil for fixing my hair or fixing a salad?” I ask.
“Both, probably,” Lani admits. “Multipurpose solutions are the key to resort management.”
“Don’t I know it.”
While Ruby heads off to collect hair-repair supplies that belong in a kitchen, I watch Melanie arrange invoices behind the front desk with the aggressive efficiency of a prosecutor organizing evidence for a murder trial. She’s clearly still nursing wounded pride about her demotion from sabotaging manager to disgruntled barista, a career trajectory thatprobably wasn’t covered in her hospitality management classes, or her worst nightmare.
“You know what?” I announce, making a decision that’s either brilliant or spectacularly stupid. “Melanie, be darned—we’re investigating this murder before I commit one. I need something to take my mind off all this wedding nonsense.”
“And take your mind off Koa, too,” Lani adds, “since he specifically told us to stay out of the investigation.”
I shoot her a look. “What Koa doesn’t know, won’t hurt him.” I hope. “We need an inside source,” I continue, my brain racing ahead of my common sense and my love life. “An outsider with insider access. A professional observer with access to all the key players.”
“You mean a spy,” Ruby says, returning with a coffee mug full of olive oil that smells like it’s been blessing salads since the Carter administration.
“I mean a wedding planner,” I correct. “Halea had been watching everyone all night. She’s trained to notice details about people and relationships. She’s from Maui, so she’s not invested in local politics or grudges.”
“Plus,” Lani points out, starting to work olive oil through my hair with the determination of a master chef preparing a particularly stubborn piece of meat, “murder ruins her professional reputation and wedding timeline. She’s got motivation to help us figure out who’s responsible before the bride trots down the aisle.”
“So, we’re going to interrogate a bombshell weddingplanner who treats seduction like a competitive sport. Good thing we’re not bringing Koa along,” Ruby says, making a very good point as to why Koa should be kept in the dark from all angles. And I wholeheartedly agree.
“We’re going to politely request information from a professional colleague,” I correct, though honestly, Ruby’s description is probably more accurate.
A rooster crows from somewhere behind the kitchen, offering his opinion on our investigative strategy. Two baby chicks dart between my feet, followed by their mother, who gives me a look that suggests she’s questioning my decision-making skills as much as I am.
Mango the calico leaps onto the table next to Lani’s cinnamon roll tray, surveys the offerings with a look of longing, then deliberately knocks a plastic fork onto the tile floor where it lands with a clatter that sounds suspiciously like applause.
“Even the wildlife thinks we’re insane,” I observe.
“The wildlife has been thinking we’re insane since you moved here,” Lani replies, continuing her olive oil hair massage with professional concentration. “This is just another day in paradise for them.”
Melanie gags from behind the front desk. “This whole conversation proves my point about Hurricane Homicide. Normal people don’t decide to go hunting dangerous witnesses before their morning coffee gets cold.”
“Normal people don’t work at tropical resorts where the murder rate rivals a cozy mystery novel,” I shoot back. “Besides, we’re not hunting dangerous witnesses. We’re conducting informal interviews with potential sources of information.”
Ruby shakes her head. “More like, we’re about to walk into a situation where a professional maneater might have witnessed a murder,” she says. “Because your life needed more dangerous women in it.”
The trade winds pick up, sending plumeria blossoms swirling around the veranda, celebrating our descent, yet again, into amateur detective work. Police tape flutters in the breeze, while Erwin and Candy continue their inappropriate mourning process, and somewhere in the distance, I can hear the sound of an airhorn as another round of surfers gets ready to have a showdown on the water.
And soon enough, the three of us are going to have a showdown on land.
