Sneak Peek!
Lei'd to Rest Confessions
Book Description:
Getting lei’d in Hawaii just got a whole lot more dangerous.
When my ex-husband decides to get married at my ramshackle Hawaiian resort, I figure the worst part will be watching him exchange vows with an influencer—until the wedding planner turns up dead and I’m conducting murder investigations in flip-flops.
My name is Jinx Julep, and I run a ramshackle resort in paradise where the pools are questionable, the chickens have attitude, and apparently, the wedding planners turn up dead.
When my ex-husband announces he’s getting married at MY resort to an influencer with two million followers and the intellectual depth of a puddle, I figure the worst thing that could happen is dying of embarrassment. Then the wedding planner actually dies, and suddenly I’m conducting murder investigations in flip-flops while dodging family drama, fire dancers, and a detective who’s hotter than lava and twice as dangerous to my peace of mind.
Between interrogating suspects on muddy hiking trails, surviving bachelorette parties featuring athletic men with flaming objects, and trying not to get murdered by a killer with serious relationship issues, I’m discovering that justice in paradise comes with a side of tropical romance and very complicated timing.
The wedding must go on, the mai tais are flowing, and somewhere between the chicken attacks and social media documentation, I need to catch a killer before they strike again. Because in Hawaii, even murder mysteries come with better scenery, superior cocktails, and the kind of happy ending that makes surviving homicidal wedding guests totally worth it.
Welcome to paradise, where the views are killer, the romance is steamy, and sometimes the guests are literally dying to make an impression.
Includes RECIPE!
Chapter One
It’s a balmy evening in paradise, and the scent of plumeria drifting across Coconut Cove Paradise Resort smells 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 like tropical high-rises reaching for the sky.
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 the Ex-Files in the most literal way, 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 orange tom 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 more suggestions than binding 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.
I can tell that he’s already nervous-sweating, and the sun hasn’t even hit the horizon yet.
“Jinx!” He waves as if we’re long-lost friends instead of two people who couldn’t agree on what constituted reasonable toilet paper expenditures. “The place looks amazing! Really, really amazing. You’ve done such a great job with the, uh, the decorations and the—”
“Stop.” I hold up a hand. “Let’s skip the part where you pretend we’re friends and jump straight to the part where you explain what you’re really doing here.”
“Getting married.” He says it like a question, which pretty much sums up our entire relationship.
“At my resort, Erwin. You’re getting married at my resort. On an island, I moved to specifically to get away from you and your spreadsheet-based approach to human emotion.”
His face does that thing where it tries to look wounded but mostly looks constipated. “That’s not entirely fair—”
“You’re making me host your wedding to another woman. Fair left the building about the same time our marriage did.”
Ruby is desperately trying not to laugh, and she’s failing spectacularly.
“I thought you’d appreciate the business,” Erwin growls. “And Candy really wanted the whole real-deal tropical wedding experience—”
“Oh, I’m sure she did,” I say with a frown. “Nothing says real-deal like having your groom’s ex-wife arrange the flowers.”
“You know that’s not what this is about. This is about my good fortune of finding love again. This is about—”
“Erwin.” I cut him off before he could babble himself into a medical emergency. “Where’s your fiancée?” I know for a fact her name is Candy Tassels, but I don’t have it in me to say it in the event I end up invoking all sorts of strippers far and wide.
The bottom line is that they booked a bunch of rooms, and the resort could use the business. And now I’ve got a job to do. A dirty job, but nonetheless.
“She’s coming,” he assures me. “She had to finish a livestream about, um, wedding day skincare routines? Or maybe it was about the spiritual benefits of destination weddings? I honestly can’t keep track of her content calendar.”
Ruby and Lani exchange a look that could communicate entire novels—novels where homicide is the top priority. Or maybe it’s just me who has homicide on her mind. But knowing my two island besties, we are so on the same homicidal wavelength.
A sleek black SUV pulls up to the circular drive of the main entrance, and out steps a vision in white that makes my sundress feel as if it were assembled from chicken feathers and a prayer. A woman—a very young, young woman—who I assume is Candy unfolds herself from the passenger seat like she’s posing for the paparazzi. Her platinum blonde hair is flowing in perfect beach waves despite the humidity, her spray tan is flawlessly even, and she has on a flowing white maxi dress that could double as a wedding dress. And well, she’s got a set of knockers on her that could double as bowling balls. Scratch that, basketballs. Okay, wait, the closer she gets, I can clearly see that beach balls are the best representatives here.
And oddly enough, she’s carrying a glowing ring light—the circular kind influencers point at themselves—like it’s her most prized possession. Because of course she is. And it’s currently illuminated.
“Babe!” Candy calls to Erwin, shifting the ring light without breaking her smile. “This place is so adorably Hawaiian! My followers are going to absolutely die for this content!”
Here we go again. Another influencer on the hunt for authenticity. Newsflash, the last one didn’t fare too well.
And here’s hoping the Grim Reaper doesn’t come back for a repeat performance.
I give my ex the side-eye.
On second thought…
Candy air-kisses Erwin, most likely to avoid somehow disturbing her glossy red lips, then turns to me with a smile bright enough to be weaponized.
“You must be Jinx! Erwin has told me so much about you. Well, not that much, but enough to know you’ve got crazy red hair and you’re going to make our special day absolutely perfect!” Her voice has a particular cadence that makes everything sound like a question while being aggressively upbeat. “Or did he say vengeful?” She looks confused for a moment.
I shoot Erwin a look. So he does know me, after all.
“Anyway,” Candy is quick to wave off the thought of a toxic week in paradise, “I’m already getting so much engagement on my wedding preparation content. Who knew paradise was so photogenic!”
Everyone, that’s who.
Before I can respond, another car arrives, and out steps a woman sporting the minimalist but chic look. She has sleek black hair cut in a razor-sharp bob, designer sunglasses, and an all-black ensemble that screams I’m too sophisticated for your tropical nonsense. She’s a striking woman who looks like she might have both Hawaiian and Caucasian features, but there’s something about her expression that suggests she finds most of the world beneath her standards.
“Oh, there’s Alana!” Candy bounces with excitement, and I mean bounces, while still clutching her ring light. “Jinx, you absolutely have to meet my business manager! She’s the brains behind my entire brand strategy.”
The woman approaches with a confident stride that demands people move out of her way. When she reaches our little group, she removes her sunglasses and hisses.
“Wow,” Ruby muses as she leans in. “The cats are going to love her.”
I shake my head and whisper back. “I doubt she gives belly rubs.”
“Candy, we need to discuss the cultural elements,” the woman snaps without acknowledging anyone else, her voice carrying a level of authority that alludes to the fact that she’s never been told no in her life. “I’ve been researching, and some of these traditional Hawaiian touches are going to read as too ethnic for your brand demographic.”
The trade winds suddenly feel a lot less friendly.
“Alana Kapahu handles all my business partnerships and brand management,” Candy nods to Ruby, Lani, and me, still holding the ring light at the perfect angle to highlight her chiseled cheekbones. I have a feeling this is going to be a running theme, or a glowing theme as it were. “She’s absolutely brilliant at market positioning—and she’s helping with the wedding planning.”
Ruby’s eyebrows have climbed so high they’re practically hiding in her hairline. Lani squints at Candy as if trying to read very illuminated hieroglyphics.
“Too ethnic?” I hear myself ask. “We’re in Hawaii.”
Alana removes her sunglasses and fixes me with a look that could stop the flow of lava. “I understand you’re enthusiastic about local color, but Candy’s audience expects aspirational content. Accessible luxury, not cultural education—or appropriation. We need the wedding to feel exotic but approachable, tropical but refined.”
“You want Hawaii without the Hawaiian,” I say slowly.
“I want a wedding that photographs well and appeals to Candy’s two million followers,” Alana replies smoothly. “Think less indigenous culture, more luxury resort aesthetic.”
The roosters have stopped crowing. Even they can sense the tension.
A third vehicle pulls up—a snazzy red convertible, and out steps a woman who makes the word bombshell seem inadequate. The woman has curves that should be illegal in international waters, long dark hair that catches the late afternoon light like silk, and red lips that could stop traffic in multiple time zones. Her form-fitting coral dress leaves very little to the imagination, and her high heels make her legs look like they go on for approximately forever. Also beach ball boobs, but in all fairness, she looks like she came upon them honestly, unlike Candy, who likely shelled out the big bucks. I might need to get her doctor’s name, you know, just in case.
“Aloha, everyone!” The woman practically purrs as she approaches our group. “I’m Halea Palani, your wedding planner, and I am so excited to make this the most sensual, romantic wedding Kauai has ever seen! I’m from Maui, so I’ll make this the most sensual, romantic wedding that Maui has ever seen, too.”
She immediately zeroes in on Erwin and quickly traipses over before placing a manicured hand on his arm, and looks as if she’d like to slurp him up like he were a puddle of deliciousness. Clearly, she’s starved for some physical attention if even Erwin looks appetizing.
“And you must be the lucky groom,” she purrs. “Candy is absolutely gorgeous, but I can see why she fell for you. There’s something so appealingly vulnerable in your eyes.”
Speaking of eyes, either she needs glasses, or Erwin paid her off in advance.
Erwin turns a shade of red best described as ready to pick.
Before I can break into song and dance about the appeal of paunch bellies and quickly receding hairlines, the god of perfect timing drives up and hops out of his weathered truck looking like he just stepped out of my hottest fantasies and into my cold reality.
Detective Koa Hale chooses this exact moment to stride our way, clipboard in hand, for his routine security check of the resort grounds. He stops dead when he sees our little gathering as his dark eyes take in the scene with the kind of professional assessment that makes my pulse do things I’m not ready to acknowledge.
He’s wearing his usual off-duty uniform of jeans and a navy polo shirt that does excellent things for his shoulders, and his black hair is slightly mussed from the trade winds.
Have I mentioned he’s hotter than lava, has a body that can stop a bullet, and that perma-scowl on his face makes women swoon from three islands away? And more importantly, have I mentioned that my lips are intimately acquainted with his?
“Good evening,” he nods at the entire lot of us, his voice carrying that particular gravelly quality that makes a simple greeting sound like a naughty promise.
The man could read a grocery list and make me beg for more.
“I just thought I’d stop by and check the perimeter before the weekend festivities.” He stretches a short-lived smile my way before frowning at Erwin if he foresees disaster.
And let’s face it, if pattern is prophecy, then he sees just that.
I may have clued Koa in on the fact that my ex was sauntering onto the island to commit unholy matrimony in my presence, and neither Koa nor I was amused.
“Detective Hale,” I say, aiming for professional and landing somewhere in the vicinity of breathless. Honestly, who could blame me? I clear my throat. “This is Erwin Tuggle Julep and his fiancée, Candy Tassels,” I continue. “They’re the lucky couple tying the knot this week.”
Koa’s expression doesn’t change, but I catch the microscopic tightening around his jaw.
“And,” I continue, relishing it more than necessary, “just so you know, I had the great misfortune of being the first Mrs. Erwin Tuggle Julep. Emphasis on had and misfortune.”
Okay, so I merely reiterated that info so that we’re all on the same page—and when I say, we, I mean Erwin.
Erwin’s face flushes red enough to be seen from orbit. “Jinx, that’s not—”
“Pleasure to meet you both,” Koa says smoothly, extending his hand to Erwin. “Congratulations on your upcoming wedding.” His lips stretch into a smile, but it looks more like a threat. And wow, does it make him look lethally handsome.
They shake hands, and a part of me expects an earthquake or a volcano to spontaneously erupt in fury. Some things just aren’t natural. This is one of them.
I watch as Erwin tries to assert dominance with that aggressive grip thing men do. Koa just looks mildly amused, which somehow makes him more intimidating.
“So, you’re the detective around here?” Erwin’s voice has gone up half an octave. “Helping with resort security?”
“Among other things,” Koa replies as his eyes flick to mine for half a second, and my insides bisect with heat.
Hey? Maybe Erwin’s presence will actually be the catalyst to catapult Koa and me to the next level when it comes to our budding relationship? I gasp at the thought.
Erwin’s expression shifts from nervous-polite to something sharper. His gaze bounces between Koa and me, and I can practically see his accountant brain cataloging data points.
Face it, the heat emanating off of Koa and me makes the balmy humidity feel like an Arctic breeze. Or at least I’d like to think so.
“Among other things?” Erwin repeats slowly. “Right.”
And suddenly the air is charged with tension that has nothing to do with wedding planning and everything to do with male territorial nonsense.
“Erwin, is there something you’d like to say?” I grouse over at him.
“No. Nope. Nothing at all.” But his voice has that tight quality it used to get when he’d find my credit card statements. “I just find it interesting that you’ve gotten so friendly with local law enforcement. That’s all.”
Ruby steps up and doesn’t hesitate to give him the stink eye. “It turns out, murders tend to create those kinds of professional relationships.”
Lani steps in close and nods. “Dead bodies have a way of bringing people together.”
“Dead bodies?” Erwin repeats faintly.
“Two of them so far,” Ruby is quick to tell him. “But who’s counting?”
Lani snorts, and it’s all I can do to keep from doing the same. Instead, I turn my attention back where it belongs.
“It’s always good to see you, Detective,” I give a sly wink as I play it coy. Even though we’ve played tonsil hockey a time or two, I have no intention of flaunting that fact in front of my ex or his entourage of bodacious, beautiful women. Again, it does beg the question, exactly how much money did Erwin fall into that I don’t know about?
Koa gives a sly wink my way in return, and suddenly Erwin is growling like a dog.
The good detective growls back without hesitation.
Koa and I clearly have a thing going. Erwin sees it. Of course, he sees it. The blind bats flying overhead can see it. And if it makes Erwin upset? Well, all the better.
“So,” Erwin says, his voice taking on that passive-aggressive edge I remember from every argument about whose turn it was to take out the trash, “how long have you two known each other?”
“We met shortly after I arrived,” I reply.
Like the second I got off the plane. There might have been a tussle over luggage, but I leave that part out.
“And you’ve worked together on murder investigations?” Erwin looks more than mildly alarmed, as he should be.
Lani nods. “That’s generally what happens when dead bodies show up at her resort, so yes.”
Erwin makes a sound somewhere between a cough and a growl.
Candy gasps beside Erwin, her ring light wobbling slightly as she takes in Koa from head to toe. “Oh my gosh, you’re a real detective?” She and her boobs practically lunge at poor Koa. “That’s so—” She fans herself with her free hand. “Erwin, babe, you didn’t tell me Hawaiian law enforcement was so photogenic.”
Erwin straightens. “What my fiancée means is that I didn’t realize local law enforcement would be a part of wedding planning. But then again, there’s a lot about this week I didn’t anticipate.”
Candy expels a guttural sound as she wiggles her beach balls at Koa. “What I mean is, my followers would absolutely die to see island authority figures in some of my content. You have amazing bone structure. In fact, your entire body is very camera-friendly.”
Erwin turns colors that threaten to land him toes up in the morgue.
And me without my camera.
“I do love me a good detective.” Halea abandons Erwin’s side and immediately glides toward Koa as if gravity suddenly shifted in his direction. Darn it. Why did I have to turn him onto her sites? The woman is a passion bomb waiting to happen. “How wonderful to meet one of Kauai’s finest! I’m Halea Palani, and I have to say, island law enforcement is much more attractive than I expected.”
I shoot her a look for stating the obvious.
She somehow manages to position herself so that her impressive cleavage is at an optimal viewing angle while maintaining eye contact. It’s a skill that should probably be studied by physicists, and well, me.
I shoot Erwin a look, too, for not only surrounding himself with the most beautiful women he could find, but with the most amply endowed.
Koa’s expression doesn’t change, but I catch a slight tightening around his eyes that suggests he’s categorizing Halea under potential professional headache. Or at least, I’m hoping. Although that’s not saying much, considering that’s the exact category he files me under.
“Ma’am,” he says politely to the woman. “Enjoy your stay on the island.”
“Oh, I plan to,” she replies with a smile that could melt steel—and peel the pants off a lesser man. “Perhaps you could show me some of the more… intimate local spots? I’m always interested in cultural immersion, and I would love a private tour.”
I clear my throat without meaning to. Okay, fine, I meant to, but it was either that or tossing her to the chickens.
Private tour? I’m pretty sure she’s not talking about museums.
Ugh. If that woman gets to second base with him before I do, I’ll officially retire from the dating scene and become a cat lady. The resort cats are already halfway trained.
I catch Spam eyeing me from the windowsill.
Another car arrives—this time an airport shuttle van that looks like it’s seen better decades. The door slides open with a mechanical wheeze, and out steps a woman who makes the phrase force of nature seem like an understatement.
I gasp so hard, I think I just inhaled an entire swarm of mosquitoes. Because just like that, a nuke has dropped in front of us, and as it stands, Coconut Cove Paradise Resort just turned into ground zero.
Big Bertha Julep is seventy-something years of floral polyester and orthopedic shoe authority. Her short steel-gray hair is set in a permanent wave that could survive a category five hurricane, and she’s carrying a purse large enough to conceal a small tank. She surveys the resort grounds with the kind of critical eye usually reserved for crime scenes. And well, since the resort has been a crime scene a time or two, I’d say her radar was pretty much on target.
“Well, well, well,” she sneers at the chickens, the roosters, and the cats, “this is certainly… rustic.”
“Mother!” Erwin hurries over to help her with her suitcase, which appears to weigh approximately as much as a compact car. “How was the flight?”
“Turbulent. Like everything else in this family.” Her gaze lands on me with an accusatory look. “Hello, Justine. I see you’re still managing things. Or is it mismanaging that you’re doing?”
There’s enough subtext in that sentence to write a dissertation—and write a murder mystery, too. I’m sensing a theme. Speaking of which, where’s the Grim Reaper when you really need him?
I jest.
Mostly.
“Hello, Bertha.” I manage to keep my voice level. “Welcome to the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort.”
“Hmm.” She takes in the transformed pool area, the tropical flowers, the tiki torches, and the general organized chaos of wedding preparation just beyond the lobby doors. “I suppose it’s an improvement from when you and Erwin were married. At least now there’s some effort being made toward proper event planning.”
Ruby scoffs at the thought.
“The accommodations are adequate, I trust?” Bertha continues, her tone suggesting that adequate would be a minor miracle.
“Your suite is ready,” I confirm. “I can show you—”
“Oh my goodness, are you the mother of the groom?” Candy appears beside us, ring light in hand, the bright white circle already trained on her face. “This is perfect! I absolutely have to get some content with three generations of strong women! Bertha, Sphynx, and me—it’s like a beautiful story of family evolution!”
First, I’m not shocked she hasn’t met Bertha yet. Heck, she’s hardly met Erwin yet. Second, how exactly is this a generational picture? And third, Sphynx, really? Although I must admit, it’s a slight improvement from Jinx.
Bertha’s expression suggests she’s witnessing the decline of Western civilization in real time. That’s because she is. “I hardly think—” she begins.
“The lighting is absolutely perfect right now,” Candy continues, already positioning her glowing instrument of terror. “Sphynx, could you stand over here? Bertha, get right beside her! This is going to be such a heartwarming shot!”
“I’d rather not—” I start. “I actually don’t qualify for a generational—”
“Oh, come on!” Candy interrupts with a tidal wave of positivity. “It’s all about celebrating family bonds and new beginnings. My followers love emotional content!”
Alana appears at Candy’s shoulder. “Actually, I think we should focus on content that centers around your narrative. Including the ex-wife might send confusing messaging about relationship dynamics.”
I mouth a silent thank you to the woman even though she doesn’t bother to look my way.
The trade winds have picked up, making the tiki torch flames dance and causing Halea’s hair to flow as if she’s in a slow-motion music video. She’s somehow positioned herself so that Detective Koa is directly in her line of sight—and the sight of her cleavage—while she adjusts her dress in ways that seem entirely unnecessary. If her boobs fall out of that glorified scarf she’s wearing, this picture is going to be fit for another type of content entirely. Not that she was in the shot, but I have a feeling with Candy this will be inevitable.
“I think everyone needs to take a breath,” Lani announces, her practical voice cutting through the chaos. “And maybe some iced tea. It’s too hot for this much drama.”
“Drama?” Alana’s tone could slice glass. “I’m simply ensuring professional standards for a luxury event. Some of us understand that successful content creation requires strategic thinking.”
“Some of us understand that we’re in Hawaii,” Ruby replies, “not a sound stage in Los Angeles.”
“Ohio,” Candy corrects. “That’s the nice thing about the internet. You can be a content queen from your mattress.”
For a second, I envy her. Calling herself a queen and admitting your mattress is your throne is honestly life goals stuff for me.
Pineapple, the cute yellow kitty, chooses this moment to yawn and relocate to a shadier spot, as tired of human nonsense as the rest of us should be. And yet Spam purrs from his perch, relishing the drama at hand. Something tells me this is going to be the best week of his orange life.
And the worst week of mine.
Alana looks my way. “We’ll need fewer palm trees. We can’t risk a palm frond falling in our footage.” She takes a look around at the resort with its tiki this, and rattan that, and the totem pole that’s sticking its tongue out at her, and she scowls. “Please tone down the cultural elements, would you?”
“The cultural elements aren’t negotiable,” I find myself saying. “This is Hawaii. The resort respects that.”
Alana’s smile has all the warmth of a January morning in Alaska. “How quaint. I’m sure we can find ways to honor your questionable commitment to authenticity while creating content that appeals to a broader, more sophisticated audience.”
The way she says sophisticated makes it sound like a weapon.
Koa clears his throat. “I think I’ll conduct that security check and get out of your way. Let me know if you need anything, Jinx.”
“Jinx?” Erwin huffs as he turns my way. “On a first-name basis with the detective so soon?”
Koa raises a brow my way, and his eyes enlarge just enough to let me know he’s questioning my past, and probably wondering how many bodies I’ve stumbled upon prior to our homicidal meet and greet.
“Actually,” Halea purrs, latching onto Koa’s arm, “I’d love to discuss island safety protocols. Perhaps over dinner? I’m very interested in how you handle handcuffs.”
He fights back either a smile or a grimace. “I’m not sure we’ll have time. Have a good evening.” He nods to our small, yet oddball group.
He heads toward the beach, and Halea watches him go with an appreciation usually reserved for fine art or expensive wine. She would so be right on both accounts.
“Wow, is he gorgeous,” she murmurs. “I do love a man in uniform. Even when he’s not wearing one. And heaven knows I’d much rather see him without a stitch of anything on.”
A hostile growl rips from my throat, and both Lani and Ruby hold me back.
A rooster crows, and an entire row of chickens strut by, demanding front row seats to the bloodbath that will inevitably ensue.
“Is everyone ready to see their accommodations?” I ask, mostly because if I don’t redirect these lunatics, somebody is going to end up in the koi pond, and it might be me.
“Absolutely!” Candy raises her ring light again. “I want to document the entire Hawaiian resort experience! This is going to be such an amazing week of content!”
Bertha picks up her suitcase-sized purse and follows the group toward the main building. As she passes me, she leans in close enough for me to smell her talcum powder and passive aggression.
“I do hope you can manage to get through the week without any of your usual complications, dear.” She continues walking, leaving me with the distinct feeling that if complications do arise, she’ll make sure everyone knows exactly who to blame.
The roosters start crowing again, the trade winds carry the scent of approaching evening rain, and somewhere in the distance, I can hear the waves hitting the shore with the kind of rhythm that usually means a storm is coming.
Is it bad that I hope it’s a hurricane?
Seven days until the unholy deed is done, which means far too many hours of managing my ex-husband’s destination wedding, his passive-aggressive mother, his artificial fiancée, her cultural-appropriation-expert business partner, and a wedding planner who could seduce a statue.
What could possibly go wrong?
Everything.
Have I mentioned murder?
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****