Chapter 12
The Electric Slide requires more coordination than I possess, which is saying something considering I’ve successfully managed a resort through multiple disasters and at least one murder investigation. Okay, two.
I abandon the dance floor to Ruby and Lani, who’ve committed fully to the boot scoot with competitive intensity.
Ruby attacks something called the Tush Push like she’s got money riding on the outcome, her hips defying physics and possibly common sense.
Meanwhile, Lani has turned the Cupid Shuffle into a precision art form, her wooden spoon serving as both dance partner and potential weapon for anyone who steps on her toes.
A tourist from somewhere landlocked attempts the Watermelon Crawl in a cowboy hat still sporting its airport gift shop tags.
His technique suggests he learned these steps from a YouTube video buffering at critical moments, but he’s committed to every wrong move with the confidence that screams he doesn’t know he’s doing it wrong. Honestly, I don’t know either.
I weave through the controlled chaos toward the bar, where Breezy Canton holds court as if he were the king of tropical country fusion.
He’s mixing drinks with fluid confidence, all sun-weathered charm and bright smiles, making conversation with customers like he’s hosting a party for his best friends.
“Aloha,” I say, settling onto a barstool that’s seen better decades. “Not sure if you remember me from the other night.”
“Are you kidding? I remember every hot redhead,” he says with a wink that probably works on tourists and locals alike. Okay, fine. It’s definitely working on me. “Especially ones involved in dramatic crime scene discoveries. Jinx, right? From Coconut Cove Paradise Resort?”
“That’s me. Professional disaster coordinator and part-time murder witness.” And crime solver, but I leave that part out for now.
“Welcome to my little slice of island nightlife,” he says, gesturing around the bar with a touch of pride. “The Salty Seahorse Saloon—where the drinks are strong, the music is loud, and the dancing is questionable.”
He’s not wrong. Behind us, someone is attempting what might be the Cotton-Eyed Joe or possibly having a small medical emergency coordinated to country music. It’s hard to tell the difference from this angle.
“We’ve got the best tropical drinks on the North Shore,” Breezy continues, sliding a cocktail menu across the bar.
“Island Paradise Punch, Volcano Sunset, Coconut Cowboy, and my personal favorite—Pineapple Rodeo. But if you really want the authentic Breezy experience, you’ve got to try my famous mai tai. ”
“I’ll take the mai tai,” I say, because honestly, after watching Ruby attempt the Texas Two-Step, I need something strong enough to erase the vulgar visual.
“Coming right up!” He starts mixing with wild abandon, tossing bottles and catching them with some serious showmanship. He’s either very talented or very lucky. “I don’t work every night. I’m lucky I caught you here.”
I give a little laugh at the thought. I’m pretty sure luck had nothing to do with it. More like Lani and Ruby did their homework. I look over at the two of them, and Lani offers up a little wave, and Ruby winks. I guess in a way I am lucky—to have them.
“So what brings you to my humble establishment?” he asks, shaking out his blond mop to get the hair out of his eyes. “Other than escaping whatever’s happening out there on the dance floor.”
“My buddies, Ruby and Lani, thought I needed some cheering up. Apparently, moping around the resort isn’t considered a healthy recreational activity.”
“Nothing heals the soul like country music and poor judgment,” he says, crushing mint with the ease of a bartender who could do it blindfolded.
“How’s this place doing?” I ask, trying to ease him into conversation.
“Business has been strong—turns out investors like places with actual character. We’re talking expansion, maybe another location down the coast.” He adds rum in one smooth motion. “But it’s fragile. One wrong review from the right person could demolish all of it in about five minutes.”
“Sounds stressful,” I say, watching him work. “Especially with all the competition for tourist dollars.” And don’t I know it firsthand.
“Exactly. That’s why it’s so important to control your image, your product quality, your supply chain.
” He shakes the cocktail with perhaps more violence than strictly necessary.
“Some people don’t understand that sometimes you have to make a few compromises to survive in this market.
And when you can’t source locally, you could still adjust your marketing to match customer expectations. ”
The music shifts to something involving a lot of spinning, and through the crowd, I catch a glimpse of Lani executing a perfect line dance turn while Ruby appears to be inventing her own interpretive country dance fusion that defies several laws of gravity.
I hope no one breaks a hip over this country fried adventure.
“The thing is,” Breezy continues, straining the mai tai into a glass garnished with enough tropical fruit to constitute a small salad, “people like that food critic—they think they know everything about authentic island culture, but they’re outsiders judging things they don’t understand.”
He slides the mai tai across the bar, and it’s actually impressive—layers of rum and fruit juice that catch the bar lights like a liquid sunset.
The music bumps and thumps, and the entire establishment howls with laughter at once as the bodies on the dance floor collectively try out what looks like an acrobatic move.
Breezy steps around the counter. “Come on, honey, let’s find somewhere quieter to talk. It’s impossible to have a real conversation over this chaos.”
He leads me to a corner booth that’s far enough from the dance floor to allow actual communication and dark enough to feel slightly dangerous.
The booth has seen better decades, but it’s clean and provides an excellent view of Ruby attempting what appears to be the world’s most enthusiastic interpretation of “Achy Breaky Heart.”
Breezy slides in on the same side of the booth as me, but I suppose that’s for the better. I’d never hear him from clear across the table.
“I’m so sorry about your friend,” I say, settling into the booth with my tropical masterpiece.
“Thank you. We were friends on some level, but really she was more of an acquaintance,” Breezy corrects, though his expression shifts into something serious. “But I’m sorry about it, too. So brutal, seeing her like that. Nobody deserves to die that way.”
He stares into his own drink—something amber that probably has a story behind it. “You know, everyone thinks Coraline was just this mean, cruel person who got off on destroying people’s dreams. But that wasn’t the real her.”
“It wasn’t?”
He shakes his head. “She once told me she grew up with this horrible mother who favored her brother over her, and never cared about anything Coraline accomplished. She always told her she was dirt, that she’d never amount to anything, that she was too loud and too ugly and too difficult.
” His voice carries genuine sadness. “I guess her brother got the love, the attention, and the college fund. Coraline got criticism and neglect.”
“That’s awful.”
“It shaped everything about who she became. The TV show, the food competition world—it was all her way of proving her mother wrong. But the defense mechanisms she built to survive that childhood made her seem cold and bitter to everyone else.”
I sip my mai tai, which is honestly incredible, and try to reconcile this sympathetic picture with the woman I saw slapping Giselle behind the makeshift bar huts that night.
“Speaking of which,” I say, “I saw what happened with Giselle that night. The slap looked pretty intense.”
“I don’t know what that was about.” Breezy’s expression darkens. “Giselle Fontaine. Now there’s a piece of work pretending to be something she’s not.”
“How so?”
“Her cookbook is doing well. Really well.” He crushes the mint in his drink, not looking at me.
“Though there was some tension between her and Coraline at a food festival last year. Something about recipe origins. It got heated enough that security had to step in. Apparently, Coraline knew exactly where those recipes came from, and they had nothing to do with Giselle.”
My mai tai suddenly tastes more complicated. “How do you know all this?”
“Coraline did her homework on everyone. She was planning to expose Giselle during the competition—she had photos, documentation, the whole thing. It would have destroyed her completely.”
“That’s quite a motive for murder.”
“Exactly what I thought.” He sits back, satisfied that he’s pointed suspicion in a direction that doesn’t lead to him. “But here’s the thing—I don’t think Giselle killed her.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s not calculated enough to pull off something that evil, the stabbing, the macabre garnish with the crystal stirring stick—that took someone with serious planning skills and a flair for the dramatic. Although she is French.” He shrugs as if to say, There’s that.
I lean in. “There was a mystery woman there that night. She was wearing a long floral dress and sunglasses. I saw her throw a drink in Coraline’s face. Do you happen to see her?”
“Someone threw a drink in Coraline’s face?
” He shakes his head as he thinks for a moment, his eyes scanning the bar like he’s searching his memory for faces.
You know what, I think I might know who she is.
” He pulls out his phone and scrolls through what appears to be an extensive photo collection. “Here—is this her?”
The photo shows a glamorous woman with sleek black hair and skin so pale it practically glows against the tropical backdrop.
She’s wearing an expensive-looking dress in tropical prints, holding a clipboard, and standing in what looks like a resort conference room.
She’s wearing the exact same sunglasses, and I gasp.
“I think that’s her!” I say, studying the image. “Who is she?”
“Mabel Ortiz. She’s an event planner from Los Angeles. She was brought in specifically to run the Mai Tai Madness Mix-Off for Coraline and elevate the event’s reputation. She’s very ambitious and very focused on making this competition a success.”
“And she had issues with Coraline?”
“Oh yeah. Coraline was threatening to expose some corners Mabel had cut to make this event happen on budget. Permits that weren’t quite legal, safety regulations that were more like suggestions, vendors who weren’t exactly licensed for this kind of work.
That’s how she runs all of her shows from what I hear.
” He swirls his drink thoughtfully. “Mabel’s entire career was riding on this event going perfectly.
One bad review from Coraline would have tanked her reputation permanently. ”
The music shifts to something slower, and I notice the dance floor has thinned out slightly. Ruby and Lani are still going strong, though Ruby appears to be making up her own steps at this point.
“You know,” Breezy says, his voice taking on a different quality, “it’s nice to have someone to talk to about all this. Someone who understands the pressure of running a business in paradise.”
He slides in closer next to me until his thigh is touching mine, and suddenly the comfortable conversation takes on a different energy—a far more uncomfortable one. His hand finds mine, and his smile becomes more focused and far more personal.
“I’ve been watching you since that first night,” he continues, his thumb stroking across my knuckles in a way that probably works on most women but makes me want to escape to the safety of the dance floor chaos.
But seeing that I’m caged in against the wall, that’s not going to happen unless I crawl out from under the table.
Or over it. I’m not above taking the fastest escape route.
“You’re not like the other tourists,” he goes on. “You’ve got depth, intelligence, and real island spirit.”
“That’s sweet,” I say, trying to extract my hand without being completely rude, or without slapping him into the middle of next week. “But I should probably get back to—”
“Come on,” he says, his grip tightening slightly. “The night’s still young. We could go somewhere more private, continue this conversation away from all the noise.”
His other hand lands on my knee under the table, and suddenly our friendly conversation has wandered into unwanted octopus territory. I try to slide away, but the booth configuration limits my escape options.
“Really, I should get back to Ruby and Lani,” I say, attempting to crawl my way to safety.
“They’re having fun,” he says, pulling me back and his hand moves higher up my leg despite my obvious discomfort. “Besides, I think you and I could have a lot more fun getting to know each other better.”
Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t involve violence or public embarrassment—what the heck, I was gunning for both, a hand grabs Breezy by the shoulder and yanks him away from me.
The next thing I know, there’s the solid sound of knuckles connecting with someone’s jaw, and Breezy is stumbling backward with blood streaming from his nose.
“I’ve never been so glad to see a hot homicide detective in all my life,” I say to Koa Hale, who’s standing over Breezy with an expression that says he’s just solved a very personal problem with direct action.
“Thank goodness,” I continue, sliding out of the booth while Breezy holds his nose and mutters threats about calling the cops. “What are you doing here?”
“I was here to question my next suspect,” Koa growls, his eyes not leaving Breezy, who’s now threatening assault charges while trying to stop his nosebleed with cocktail napkins. “But it looks like I might just find myself arrested for assault instead.”
The irony of a cop potentially getting arrested for protecting a witness isn’t lost on me, but Breezy’s hands had crossed enough boundaries to make me okay with Koa crossing a few legal ones. Here’s hoping his boss is okay with it, too.