Page 10 of Mai Tais and Murder

“Well,” Helen said once they were alone. “That was enlightening.”

“Mmm,” Mel agreed, her mind already working through the implications. “Did you notice how she never actually denied trying to stop his story from being published?”

Helen nodded as they resumed their walk back to their apartment. “I did,” she answered. “Very mysterious.”

“Very,” Mel murmured. Abramson’s parting words echoed in her mind. “Find the story.” After her years as a detective, she knew a cry for help when she heard one.

* * *

Back on their balcony,Helen settled into one of the cushioned chairs, letting the gentle evening breeze cool her skin. The bottle of local Hawaiian Chardonnay they’d bought at the Aloha Market that afternoon sat between them, condensation beading on its surface. “His blinds are closed,” Helen said, glancing at their neighbor’s apartment. The earlier drama seemed to have retreated behind drawn curtains, though a faint light suggested Abramson was still awake.

“Likely because he knows we can see him,” Mel replied. She had her phone out, fingers tapping the screen. “I’m looking him up.”

Helen smiled. “What happened to ‘we’re just being observant neighbors’?”

“We are,” Mel said, not looking up. “We’re just being thorough about it.” She paused, then nodded. “Well, he’s legit. James Abramson. Sports journalist for the Los Angeles Times for twenty years. Won several awards for investigative reporting.”

Helen leaned closer. “Anything specific?”

“Mostly coverage of college sports, but...” Mel scrolled further. “Here’s something interesting. Three years ago, he was apparently working on a story about college basketball recruiting violations when his wife died suddenly.”

“That matches what Brigitte said,” Helen noted, reaching for the wine bottle to top off their glasses. “Did they say how she died?”

“Not much. It was a car accident,” Mel said. She looked up at Helen. “Doesn’t look like his college basketball story was ever published either.”

Helen felt a chill despite the warm evening air. “That seems convenient.”

“Very,” Mel agreed, still scrolling. “There’s a gap of about six months after she died where he didn’t publish anything. Then he starts again, but it’s just basic game coverage. No more investigative pieces.” She paused again. “Until now, apparently.”

The ocean waves provided a soothing backdrop to their conversation, but Helen’s mind was racing. “So what changed?” she asked. “Why start investigating again now?”

“And what could be big enough to make his daughter fly out to stop him?” Mel added, setting her phone down. She picked up her wine and leaned back in her chair. “Did you notice how defensive Brigitte got when he mentioned others might be interested?”

Helen remembered. “Yes,” she said. “And how quickly she tried to imply he was paranoid.”

“Classic deflection technique.”

“You’ve seen that before?”

“In investigations, yes. When someone wants to discredit a witness or source, they often start by questioning their mental state.” Mel paused, and Helen could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. “But Abramson didn’t seem paranoid to me. Scared, yes. But clear-headed.”

Not sure what Mel meant, Helen tilted her head. “You think he is scared?”

Mel turned to face her. “I haven’t told you yet, but Abramson whispered a message to me as he walked by.”

“A message?” Helen asked softly, knowing it must be serious if Mel had waited to tell her.

“Yes,” Mel said. “He said ‘if anything happens to me, find the story.’”

Helen took a moment to absorb Mel’s words. Things had suddenly become much more serious. “Well, at least he recognizes you as someone who might help if something happens to him.”

“I suppose,” Mel said. “But why say that unless he thinks something might happen?”

The night deepened around them, and more stars emerged overhead. The resort’s grounds were quieter with guests having returned to their rooms after the luau. “Should we tell someone?” Helen asked, returning to her chair. “The police, maybe?”

Mel shook her head. “Tell them what? That our neighbor, an investigative journalist, is working on a story his daughter doesn’t want him to publish? That he made a cryptic comment about finding his story if something happens to him?” She sighed. “They’d probably react the same way Brigitte did and just suggest he’s being paranoid.”

Not happy with the answer but knowing Mel was right, Helen took a thoughtful sip of her wine. “So we wait?”

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