Page 7 of Mai Tais and Murder

Helen accepted the cup gratefully, breathing in the smooth aroma. “Yes,” she said, smiling at her partner. “Diane invited us to visit when we get back.”

Mel’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Really? That’s good, right?”

“Very good,” Helen confirmed, reaching for Mel’s hand. “Though she’s a bit concerned we’re getting involved in a mystery on our vacation.”

“We’re not getting involved,” Mel replied. Then she glanced at their neighbor’s apartment, where the man was still on his phone. “We’re just...”

“Being observant?” Helen finished, her eyes twinkling.

Mel laughed, squeezing her hand. “Exactly. Now, should we start getting ready to be neighborly?”

Helen kept their fingers intertwined. “Lead the way, detective,” she said. “But first, kiss me good morning properly. Our neighbor’s mystery can wait five minutes.”

* * *

At precisely ten o’clock,Mel stood beside Helen in front of their neighbor’s door, the box of macadamia nuts in her hands feeling like a flimsy excuse for what was essentially surveillance. As she lifted her hand to ring the doorbell, she noted the apartment number—327—and rang the bell. “Here we go,” Helen whispered. Before Mel could reply, the rapid typing sounds from within ceased abruptly. Footsteps approached, sounding slightly hesitant. The door opened partially, secured by a chain lock, and their neighbor peered through the gap.

His bloodshot eyes darted between them. “Yes?” His voice was hoarse, matching his unkept appearance. Mel couldn’t miss the man’s oily gray hair and the fact he wore the same Hawaiian shirt as the day before. There were dark circles under his eyes and beads of sweat forming along his hairline despite the morning’s cool air.

“Hi there,” Helen said warmly, stepping slightly forward. “We’re your neighbors from just across the courtyard. We couldn’t help but notice you seemed to be working hard and thought you might like a treat.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, but Mel caught the quick scan he did of the hallway behind them. “That’s, um, that’s very kind,” he said, but didn’t unfasten the chain.

“I’m Helen Hardy, and this is Mel Nelson,” Helen continued smoothly. “Forgive us for being nosy, but we couldn’t help but notice you typing away at all hours. Are you a writer?”

The man blinked but didn’t say anything for a beat. For a moment, Mel thought the man might slam the door on them, but then he sighed. “One second,” he said before closing the door to reopen it again with the chain unfastened. One hand remained behind the door, making Mel wonder if he still held his phone. “James Abramson.” He accepted the box of nuts with his free hand. “And yes, I’m a journalist. Sports.”

Mel noted the qualifier ‘sports’ and how his eyes seemed to tense when he said it. “Must be an important story,” she commented casually. “To keep you up all night.”

Abramson’s fingers tightened on the box. “Deadline,” he said shortly. Then, seeming to remember his manners. “Would you like to come in for a moment? I just made coffee.”

“That would be lovely,” Helen answered as she stepped inside without hesitation. Mel had to work hard not to smile at how smoothly her partner had gotten them access. The apartment was a mirror image of their own, but where theirs was neat and organized, his was cluttered with papers, takeout containers, and the scent of old coffee. The living area looked barely used. Through the open door to the bedroom, Mel saw the man’s laptop sat on the desk, screen carefully angled away from view.

Mel motioned toward the desk. “That’s a lot of paperwork,” she said, noting the multiple notebooks scattered across the desk and onto the floor. “Must be more than just box scores you’re working on.”

Abramson’s laugh held no humor. “You could say that.” He moved to the small kitchen, his movements slow as he reached for coffee mugs. “How do you take it?”

“Black,” Mel replied, watching as he poured with unsteady hands. Helen declined politely, and Mel noticed the woman’s subtle positioning near the couch, giving them both clear views of the room.

“James,” Helen said, her voice carrying that gentle warmth that could easily get people talking. “Are you here on vacation or work?”

“Both, sort of,” Abramson said, handing Mel her coffee. “Needed somewhere quiet to finish this story. Somewhere out of the way. And you two?”

Mel smiled. “Vacation,” she replied. “We’re retired and decided to soak up some sun.”

Nodding, Abramson met Mel’s eye. “Retired from?”

Feeling like the man had already guessed her past profession, Mel didn’t see any reason to hide the truth. “Los Angeles Police Department.”

“She was a detective,” Helen added, and Mel heard the pride in her voice.

Before Abramson could comment, a phone buzzed, and he nearly dropped his coffee. The flash of fear across his face was unmistakable as he pulled the cell phone from the pocket of his wrinkled shorts. He checked the screen, his complexion going slightly pale before he quieted the call.

“Everything okay?” Mel asked, though she already knew the answer.

“Fine,” he said too quickly. “Just my editor. Always pushing deadlines, you know how it is.” Although not an author like Helen, Mel did understand deadlines, and that wasn’t the look of someone dealing with an impatient editor. That was the look of someone who might have seen something they shouldn’t have and was now in over their head.

“Must be quite a story,” Mel pressed, taking a sip of the surprisingly decent coffee. “To bring you all the way to Hawaii to write it.”

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