Chapter 11
Suffice it to say my hot date with the hunk of homicide didn’t end with a steamy smooch like I hoped it would.
Instead, Detective Delicious shook me down for every detail I’d gleaned from Giselle at the chocolate factory, made extensive notes that suggested my interrogation techniques needed serious work, and decided he should track down Breezy himself—without any assistance from amateur detectives with questionable snorkeling skills and a talent for finding trouble in paradise.
The next morning finds me moping around the resort despite having wolfed down three cinnamon rolls the size of dinner plates, because carb therapy has its limitations when it comes to romantic disappointment mixed with professional rejection.
I’ve spent the morning engaged in what can only be described as therapeutic resort management—reorganizing the shell collection in the lobby twice, attempting to teach our resident roosters the concept of indoor voices (a complete failure), and trying to train the cat committee to actually greet guests instead of judging them from strategic hiding spots.
The cats, naturally, pretended I didn’t exist.
But as it turns out, the planning for the resort’s new spa has been much more successful.
I’ve drawn up floor plans on approximately seventeen cocktail napkins, researched wholesale massage table suppliers, and started mentally calculating the profit margins on hot stone treatments versus the cost of actually heating stones without burning down what’s left of our functional infrastructure.
My front desk hiring efforts, however, have been less inspiring.
The first candidate, a college kid named Brad who showed up wearing board shorts and flip-flops, spent the entire interview asking about our booze bennies—his words, not mine.
The second candidate, a girl named Crystal with more crystals hanging around her neck than a New Age gift shop, wanted to know if she could livestream the spirits she sensed on the property and whether our ghost activity was strong enough to build a social media following.
I turned them both down faster than tourist inquiries about our pool water quality. I didn’t feel like hosting nightly keggers or turning Coconut Cove Paradise into a Poltergeists in Paradise destination, even if the marketing potential was intriguing.
By late afternoon, I’m sitting on the veranda feeling sorry for myself while a gray tabby plays hide-and-seek in the hibiscus bushes and three hens debate dinner plans near the kitchen door.
The island breeze carries the scent of plumeria and my own wounded pride, while the ocean continues its eternal conversation with the shore, completely indifferent to my romantic disasters.
“That’s enough moping for one day,” Lani announces, appearing from the kitchen with her wooden spoon tucked into her apron and the determined expression of a good friend staging an intervention.
Ruby materializes beside her, wearing a bright, unapologetically tropical muumuu. “We’re taking you somewhere tonight to make you feel better.”
“Where?” I ask, though I’m not entirely sure I want to know the answer.
“That’s classified information,” Ruby says as if she’s planning either a surprise party or a kidnapping. “Just dress up a bit and be ready soon. We ride at seven tonight.”
An hour later, I’m standing in my closet-sized room trying to decide between my three dress options—all of which seem designed for completely different occasions and none of which seem appropriate for whatever Ruby and Lani have planned.
I settle on a black tank top dress that’s seen better seasons, add gold hoop earrings that catch the light from my mail-slot-size window, and apply a swath of hot pink lip gloss that somehow manages to give me “discount evening entertainment” vibes despite my best intentions.
At precisely seven o’clock, we pile into Ruby’s ancient Cadillac—a boat-sized vehicle in a shade of blue that probably hasn’t been manufactured since the Carter administration.
The interior smells like a combination of tropical air freshener, old upholstery, and what might be the ghost of husband number three’s cologne.
“Where exactly are we going?” I ask as Ruby pilots us down winding roads like she learned to drive before safety regulations were invented.
“You’ll see,” Lani says from the passenger seat, her wooden spoon somehow making the journey despite not being strictly necessary for evening entertainment. It’s sort of her emotional support spoon at this point.
The drive takes us through Kapaa, past tourist shops and local eateries that smell like garlic shrimp and the promise of all things delicious, until Ruby pulls into a parking lot in front of a square, boxy brick building that looks like it was designed with very practical expectations about architectural beauty.
A flashing neon sign reads ‘The Salty Seahorse Saloon’, its letters shifting colors so fast they could induce a seizure. Country music thumps from inside, mixing with the sound of laughter, conversation, and what sounds like a very enthusiastic karaoke situation.
Throngs of people flow in and out of the entrance—locals in jeans and tourists in questionable cowboy hat purchases, all looking like they’re having significantly more fun than I’ve had in the past twenty-four hours.
“A country bar?” I ask, surveying the scene with the fascination of an anthropologist discovering a previously unknown civilization.
“The best country bar on the island,” Ruby corrects, climbing out of her Cadillac as if she’s returning to her natural habitat. “Line dancing, cheap drinks, and enough fried food to make your cardiologist a very rich woman. It’s the perfect cure for romantic disappointment.”
We push through the entrance into an atmosphere that can only be described as controlled chaos with a country music soundtrack.
The place smells like French fries, beer, and enough booze to make every fraternity house in America envious.
A giant TV mounted over the dance floor displays line dancing instructions with the educational intensity of advanced calculus, while approximately fifty people follow along with varying degrees of success and sobriety.
“Come on,” Lani says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the dance floor, where people are boot-scooting with some dedication. Mostly they’re chatting away and laughing their heads off. “It’s time to learn some new skills.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m attempting something called the Electric Slide while trying not to trip over my own feet or collide with a tourist from Minnesota who’s clearly having the time of his life despite lacking any measurable coordination.
Ruby has thrown herself into the dancing with a precision that lets the world know she’s done this before—many times, possibly with multiple husbands, while Lani moves with surprising grace for someone wielding a wooden spoon as a dance partner.
The music shifts to something that involves a lot of hip swiveling and directional changes that seem designed to test the limits of human balance and dignity. I’m concentrating so hard on not falling down that it takes me three songs to notice the biggest surprise of the evening.
Behind the bar, serving drinks with the confidence that comes from clearly doing this often enough to have signature moves, stands Breezy Canton—all sun-weathered charm and mega-watt smile, shaking cocktails and flirting with customers as if he owns the place.
Which, judging by those hip-swiveling moves, he probably does.
I came here to cure my romantic disappointment and ended up finding my next suspect—someone who might have killed a woman and is now smiling directly at me.