Chapter 4
Chapter Four
T he tiki torches cast dancing shadows across the resort’s luau grounds as Helen adjusted the delicate orchid lei around her neck. The sweet scent of plumeria mixed with roasting pork from the underground imu ovencreated an intoxicating blend that epitomized their Hawaiian vacation. “Stop fussing with your lei, my love,” Mel whispered into her ear, reaching to still Helen’s nervous fingers. “You look beautiful.”
Helen felt warmth spread across her cheeks that had nothing to do with the balmy evening air. Even after six months together, Mel’s casual compliments could still make her blush. “I’m just not used to wearing flowers around my neck,” she admitted, though they both knew her restlessness had more to do with their observations of their neighbor that morning. Even though they had spent the rest of the day at Oahu’s famous Aloha Market, Helen knew neither of them could get the mysterious James Abramson out of their mind.
“Well, you wear them well,” Mel replied, guiding them toward their assigned table. The setting sun painted the sky in brilliant oranges and pinks, providing a stunning backdrop for the evening’s entertainment. Traditional Hawaiian music played softly, and the gentle ocean breeze carried the sound of waves mixing with conversation and laughter. They had just settled into their seats when Helen spotted him. James Abramson sat several tables away, looking markedly different from the disheveled man they met earlier. He wore a clean aloha shirt and appeared to have shaved, but tension still radiated from his posture. Beside him sat a young woman Helen didn’t recognize. She was perhaps in her early thirties, with short blonde hair and dressed in a colorful sundress. A lei similar to Helen’s draped around her neck.
Helen felt Mel’s subtle shift beside her. “I see them,” Mel murmured, picking up the Mai Tai a waiter set in front of them. “What do you make of her?”
“Too young to be his wife,” Helen observed, keeping her voice low. “Or at least one would hope.”
“Yeah, the body language is wrong for that,” Mel replied, and Helen heard the detective creeping into her voice. “His right hand hasn’t stopped tapping since we sat down.”
A server appeared with appetizers as the first course of the dinner’s menu, momentarily interrupting their observation. Helen thanked him and then asked Mel, “Should we try to get closer?”
Mel’s lips curved into a small smile. “You’re getting good at this, you know that?”
“I’ve had a good teacher,” Helen replied. “Besides, I think those empty seats at the table by the bar would give us a better view during the show.” They gathered their drinks and food and moved closer to the entertainment area, positioning themselves where they could observe both the upcoming performances and their subjects of interest. The young woman spoke to Abramson, her movements sharp and agitated despite her pleasant expression. Abramson kept shaking his head, his earlier tension visibly mounting.
“Ladies and gentlemen, aloha,” A voice boomed over the speakers, announcing the start of the evening’s production. After a moment, traditional dancers took the stage, their movements graceful and mesmerizing. The dancers’ grass skirts swayed hypnotically as they moved in perfect synchronization, their bare feet sliding across the wooden stage with practiced ease. Tiki torches cast flickering shadows across their faces, highlighting the serene smiles they maintained throughout their performance. The sweet melody of the ukulele mixed with the deeper thrumming of drums, creating a rhythm that seemed to pulse with the ocean waves beyond. Helen found herself drawn into the performance despite their unofficial surveillance mission. Mel’s hand found hers in the growing darkness, their fingers intertwining naturally. For a moment, Helen was able to forget they were watching a potential mystery unfold. The music, the dancing, and the warm night air were exactly the romantic evening she had imagined when they planned this vacation.
“I love you,” Mel whispered, squeezing her hand. “Thank you for understanding this part of me.”
Helen turned to look at her partner, seeing the firelight reflected in Mel’s eyes. “I love all parts of you,” she replied softly. “Even the ones that can’t help solving puzzles on vacation.”
Their moment was interrupted by raised voices from Abramson’s table. The young woman had stood, her face flushed with either anger or embarrassment or possibly both. Abramson reached for her arm, but she jerked away, knocking over her water glass in the process. “It’s only because I care about you,” the woman hissed, her voice carrying despite the music. “You need to—” She cut herself off, apparently remembering their public setting. With one last look at Abramson, she stormed toward the resort’s main building.
“Should we follow her?” Helen asked.
“No,” Mel answered. “Look at Abramson.” Their neighbor had slumped in his chair, his face buried in his hands. After a moment, he pulled out his phone, typed something quickly, then stood to leave. As he passed near their position, Helen caught fragments of muttered words “...should have known...” and “...too late now...”
The fire dancers took the stage then, their flaming batons cutting bright arcs through the twilight. The flashes of fire created an almost theatrical effect as Abramson disappeared into the shadows beyond the luau grounds. “Well,” Helen said, taking a sip of her Mai Tai. “That was certainly dramatic.”
“More than dramatic,” Mel replied. “I wonder who the woman was.”
The fire dancers continued their mesmerizing performance, but Helen’s mind raced with questions. “I suppose this means we’re officially investigating?” Helen asked.
“No. We’re not investigating,” Mel replied with a small smile. “We’re just being very observant tourists who happen to be concerned about our neighbor.”
Helen laughed softly, leaning into Mel’s shoulder. “Of course. Just concerned tourists who might need to do a bit more observing tomorrow?”
“Exactly,” Mel agreed, pressing a kiss to Helen’s temple. “But for now, let’s try to enjoy the rest of our evening. The fire dancers are dang impressive.”
As they watched the rest of the show, Helen found herself reflecting on how naturally they had fallen into a pattern. The retired detective and imaginative author solving mysteries on vacation. It wasn’t the relaxing beach holiday they had planned, but somehow, it felt perfectly right for them. The fire dancers finished their performance with a spectacular flourish, earning enthusiastic applause from the crowd. As the regular lighting came back up, Helen noticed Abramson’s abandoned table had been cleared, leaving no trace of the drama that had unfolded there.
* * *
Night settled fully over the resort, transforming the carefully manicured grounds into a different world. The path lights cast pools of warm yellow illumination at regular intervals, while moon-silvered palm fronds created shifting patterns on the ground. The air had grown heavier with moisture, carrying the rich scent of night-blooming jasmine and the distant salt tang of the ocean. Crickets provided a steady chorus, punctuated by the occasional rustle of leaves in the evening breeze. Mel kept her arm around Helen’s waist, savoring the warmth of her partner against her side. As they rounded the corner near the koi pond, a familiar figure appeared from the shadows ahead. Abramson stood at the railing, staring into the dark water where ornamental fish created ripples in the moonlight. His earlier neat appearance had devolved into something rumpled.
Without looking up, he spoke to them. “I wondered if you two might come along here.”
“We were just heading back to our apartment,” Mel said carefully.
“Of course,” he said, finally turning to face them. In the dim lighting, the shadows under his eyes looked like bruises. “But you’ve been watching. Observing. I know the look. I used to see it in the mirror when I was working on big stories.”
Before Mel could respond, quick footsteps approached from out of the shadows behind Abramson. “Dad.” The blonde woman from the luau appeared. “Dad, we need to talk about this.”
Mel felt Helen’s subtle shift closer to her, both now caught in what felt like a family drama about to play out in the tropical night. The woman suddenly noticed them and stopped short, smoothing her sundress. “Oh,” she said with a polite smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Brigitte,” Abramson said, his voice tired. “These are my neighbors from across the courtyard. Helen Hardy and Mel Nelson.” He paused, something flickering in his eyes. “Mel’s a retired police detective.”
Mel caught the slight emphasis on her former profession, filing it away with all the other oddities she had observed.
“I remember seeing you at the luau. Nice to meet you properly,” Brigitte said, extending her hand. Brigitte’s handshake was firm and confident.
Up close, Mel recognized the family resemblance. Father and daughter shared the same sharp blue eyes, though Brigitte’s held a hardness that seemed at odds with her youth. “Likewise,” Mel said.
“I’m sorry about the scene at the luau,” Brigitte continued. “Family business can be complicated.”
“Especially when that family doesn’t understand what’s at stake,” Abramson muttered, earning a sharp look from his daughter.
“Perhaps we should give you some privacy,” Helen suggested, always the diplomat, but Abramson shook his head.
“Actually,” he said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d stay a moment.” His fingers drummed on the railing that circled the koi pond. “Sometimes it’s good to have witnesses to conversations.”
Brigitte’s carefully maintained smile faltered. “Dad, don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he said. “Don’t tell them how you’ve been trying to convince me to drop the story? Don’t tell them who else might want me to stop?”
“You’re making too much of this. I’m only because I’m concerned about you,” Brigitte replied. “This isn’t like your other investigations. This is different.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “It is different. Because this time I have proof.”
Mel felt her pulse quicken at the word ‘proof.’ She had heard the word countless times in her career. Sometimes it involved someone sitting on information they knew could be dangerous. Beside her, Helen’s hand found hers and squeezed gently. “Mr. Abramson,” Mel said carefully. “If you’re in some kind of trouble—”
His sudden laugh interrupted her, but there was no humor in it. “Trouble? No, Detective Nelson. How can I be in trouble?” he asked. “I’m just a sports journalist.” A grim smile crossed his face. “But one who stumbled onto something bigger than box scores and player statistics.” His eyes met Mel’s, and she saw a hint of something there. Something that might be fear. “Much bigger.”
“Dad, please.” Brigitte’s voice softened to something almost pleading. “Just come have a drink with me. We can talk about this rationally.”
“Like we did at the luau?” he asked. “Or like we did yesterday when you first arrived?” He turned back to Mel and Helen. “My daughter flew in specifically to talk me out of publishing my story. Isn’t that right, Brigitte?”
“I flew in because I’m worried about you,” Brigitte said, but Mel noticed she wouldn’t meet her father’s eyes.
A security guard appeared at the far end of the path, making his rounds. Abramson straightened, suddenly looking more composed. “Well,” he said, “I should get back to work. Deadlines wait for no man. Good night.”
“Good night,” Mel said, but as the man started to move past them, he slowed his step.
“Detective Nelson, if anything happens to me…” he said quietly so only Mel could hear. “Find the story.”
Before Mel could respond, he disappeared down the path toward his side of the building. Brigitte watched him go, her expression unreadable in the torchlight. “I’m sorry you had to witness all this,” she said finally. “Dad gets intense about his stories sometimes. Especially since Mom died.”
“When was that?” Helen asked gently.
“Three years ago.” Brigitte’s hand went to her neck, touching a pendant that hung there. “He hasn’t been the same since. Started seeing conspiracies everywhere.” She glanced in the direction her father had gone. “I should go after him. Try to talk some sense into him.”
As Brigitte walked away, Mel found herself cataloging details. There was a slight tremor in Brigitte’s hands when she mentioned her mother and the expensive designer watch she wore, which looked new but had a tan line, suggesting she usually wore something else.
“Well,” Helen said once they were alone. “That was enlightening.”
“Mmm,” Mel agreed, her mind already working through the implications. “Did you notice how she never actually denied trying to stop his story from being published?”
Helen nodded as they resumed their walk back to their apartment. “I did,” she answered. “Very mysterious.”
“Very,” Mel murmured. Abramson’s parting words echoed in her mind. “Find the story.” After her years as a detective, she knew a cry for help when she heard one.
* * *
Back on their balcony, Helen settled into one of the cushioned chairs, letting the gentle evening breeze cool her skin. The bottle of local Hawaiian Chardonnay they’d bought at the Aloha Market that afternoon sat between them, condensation beading on its surface. “His blinds are closed,” Helen said, glancing at their neighbor’s apartment. The earlier drama seemed to have retreated behind drawn curtains, though a faint light suggested Abramson was still awake.
“Likely because he knows we can see him,” Mel replied. She had her phone out, fingers tapping the screen. “I’m looking him up.”
Helen smiled. “What happened to ‘we’re just being observant neighbors’?”
“We are,” Mel said, not looking up. “We’re just being thorough about it.” She paused, then nodded. “Well, he’s legit. James Abramson. Sports journalist for the Los Angeles Times for twenty years. Won several awards for investigative reporting.”
Helen leaned closer. “Anything specific?”
“Mostly coverage of college sports, but...” Mel scrolled further. “Here’s something interesting. Three years ago, he was apparently working on a story about college basketball recruiting violations when his wife died suddenly.”
“That matches what Brigitte said,” Helen noted, reaching for the wine bottle to top off their glasses. “Did they say how she died?”
“Not much. It was a car accident,” Mel said. She looked up at Helen. “Doesn’t look like his college basketball story was ever published either.”
Helen felt a chill despite the warm evening air. “That seems convenient.”
“Very,” Mel agreed, still scrolling. “There’s a gap of about six months after she died where he didn’t publish anything. Then he starts again, but it’s just basic game coverage. No more investigative pieces.” She paused again. “Until now, apparently.”
The ocean waves provided a soothing backdrop to their conversation, but Helen’s mind was racing. “So what changed?” she asked. “Why start investigating again now?”
“And what could be big enough to make his daughter fly out to stop him?” Mel added, setting her phone down. She picked up her wine and leaned back in her chair. “Did you notice how defensive Brigitte got when he mentioned others might be interested?”
Helen remembered. “Yes,” she said. “And how quickly she tried to imply he was paranoid.”
“Classic deflection technique.”
“You’ve seen that before?”
“In investigations, yes. When someone wants to discredit a witness or source, they often start by questioning their mental state.” Mel paused, and Helen could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. “But Abramson didn’t seem paranoid to me. Scared, yes. But clear-headed.”
Not sure what Mel meant, Helen tilted her head. “You think he is scared?”
Mel turned to face her. “I haven’t told you yet, but Abramson whispered a message to me as he walked by.”
“A message?” Helen asked softly, knowing it must be serious if Mel had waited to tell her.
“Yes,” Mel said. “He said ‘if anything happens to me, find the story.’”
Helen took a moment to absorb Mel’s words. Things had suddenly become much more serious. “Well, at least he recognizes you as someone who might help if something happens to him.”
“I suppose,” Mel said. “But why say that unless he thinks something might happen?”
The night deepened around them, and more stars emerged overhead. The resort’s grounds were quieter with guests having returned to their rooms after the luau. “Should we tell someone?” Helen asked, returning to her chair. “The police, maybe?”
Mel shook her head. “Tell them what? That our neighbor, an investigative journalist, is working on a story his daughter doesn’t want him to publish? That he made a cryptic comment about finding his story if something happens to him?” She sighed. “They’d probably react the same way Brigitte did and just suggest he’s being paranoid.”
Not happy with the answer but knowing Mel was right, Helen took a thoughtful sip of her wine. “So we wait?”
“We observe,” Mel said, picking up her phone again. “But not get carried away with it.”
Helen reached for Mel’s hand. “Says the woman who just looked into our neighbor’s background.”
“Occupational hazard,” Mel said with a small smile. “Once a detective, always a detective, I suppose.”
“And that’s one of the reasons I love you,” Helen replied softly. “Your need to help people, to solve puzzles, to make things right.” They sat in comfortable silence for a moment and watched as the light in Abramson’s apartment went out.