Page 9 of Mai Tais and Murder

Night settled fullyover 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.

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