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 asquare, 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.
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 tropicalcountry 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.
