Chapter 3 #2
I’m scanning the crowd for any sign of Detective Hale when movement behind the competition area snags my attention.
Two figures stand in heated conversation near the darker end of the beach, their voices carrying on the trade winds with the clarity of people who’ve completely forgotten they’re performing in public.
I squint their way and immediately recognize them.
Coraline and Giselle face off behind the thatched huts, their body language suggesting diplomatic relations have deteriorated beyond repair.
Even from my distance, I can see Giselle’s hands moving in animated gestures while Coraline’s posture radiates a fury typically reserved for flight cancellations.
Hands are flying, colorful expletives are carried my way by the wind.
And before I know it, Coraline’s hand connects with Giselle’s cheek in a slap that echoes across the water, sharp as a rifle shot.
Several nearby seabirds voice their official disapproval of violence interrupting their evening fishing operations, and I’m about to join them.
But Breezy appears from the shadows with timing that suggests he’s been monitoring the situation.
And, honestly, I’m thankful for it. He says something curt to Coraline, then takes Giselle by the elbow and escorts her away from the conflict zone in a way that lets me know he’s experienced in managing intoxicated people and hostile negotiations.
The beach settles into its party rhythm, but I keep my eyes on Coraline, who’s now pacing behind the makeshift bar huts, conducting what appears to be a very heated argument with invisible opponents.
Her platinum hair catches the tiki torch light as she gesticulates with the type of dramatic intensity you might see in opera performances or mental health evaluations.
What the heck has gotten into her? Not that I know her. But still. This is odd behavior for anyone occupying planet Earth.
Another figure approaches from the palm trees nearby—a woman who moves with purpose across the sand, her flowing maxi dress in vibrant tropical colors catches the flickering light.
A wide-brimmed hat and oversized sunglasses complete the mysterious nighttime beach look, because maintaining anonymity at public parties requires full costume commitment.
And really? Sunglasses at night? This isn’t an 80s song. Although some nights, when I’m dancing in the dark, it so feels like one.
Their conversation starts quietly but escalates rapidly into an animated discussion that makes nearby revelers pause their drinking to enjoy the free entertainment.
Mystery Woman gestures emphatically while Coraline’s voice rises to frequencies that could probably communicate with dolphins—and also teach them a salty word or two.
The argument climaxes when Mystery Woman hurls the contents of her mai tai directly into Coraline’s face.
Wow.
I gasp a little as pineapple juice and premium rum drip from Coraline’s platinum blonde hair while she spits out creative expletives that would make a longshoreman request subtitles.
Both women storm off in opposite directions, leaving behind a dramatic tension that makes absolutely none of the drunks in our midst notice.
Twenty minutes of peak mai tai competition mayhem convince me it’s time to check on the resort before our chickens stage a hostile takeover of guest relations—though honestly, they’d probably provide superior customer service compared to our previous management regime.
I start heading back toward the lobby when movement near the rocky crags catches my peripheral vision. Spam and his feline security detail dart toward the darkened end of Coconut Cove with the focused intensity of cats who’ve discovered something infinitely more interesting than kalua pig.
A pale mass sits among the black lava rocks, visible in the moonlight filtering through palm fronds. From a distance, it resembles someone’s abandoned beach towel or maybe dried grass swept in by the evening’s trade winds.
But beach towels don’t usually sparkle in moonlight, and they definitely don’t wear gold sequined tops.
I head that way, traversing my way across the uneven lava rock, following the cats who’ve arranged themselves in a respectful semicircle around their discovery.
What I mistook for vegetation turns out to be platinum blonde hair spread across the rocks like expensive silk, still attached to a head that’s no longer concerned with authentic island experiences or proper cocktail presentation standards.
Coraline lies sprawled among the tide pools with a crystal cocktail stirrer protruding from her throat, catching starlight and reflecting it back with the same aggressive sparkle that had characterized her entire jewelry collection. And in the middle of her chest sits the blade of a knife.
Someone had decided to give her the most authentic Hawaiian farewell possible—a one-way trip to the spirit world, complete with a premium garnish and oceanfront seating.
Coraline Starling is dead.