“Isn’t this fun?” I say, probably with more enthusiasm than honeycomb typically warrants. “I’m new to the island myself. I just arrived a few weeks ago, actually, and I’m still figuring out all the local experiences.”
“Really?” She inches back to better inspect me. “What brought you to paradise?”
“Oh, the usual mid-life romantic disaster combined with geographical confusion,” I say, settling into what I hope soundslike casual conversation rather than rehearsed interrogation material. And it is so rehearsed, and recycled when you consider I’ve used it before. “A few weeks ago, I was having an interview on Zoom wearing a blazer over pajama shorts, applying for a barista job at what I thought was a quaint seaside resort in Maine. You know, lobsters, lighthouses, leaf peeping—the whole cozy New England fantasy.”
Mabel pauses mid-chew, her attention sharpening with interest.
“But there was some kind of typo in the job posting, or I misread it, or the universe has a twisted sense of humor about my geographical standing,” I continue. “My ex-husband’s new fiancée had just posted their engagement photos—bare feet on the beach, matching linen outfits, the whole nauseating we’re-oh-so-happy display—and I was impulsive enough to think, sure, let’s go pour coffee for tourists and pretend maple syrup cures betrayal.”
“Maple syrup as therapy,” she repeats, and I catch the hint of a smile under those oversized sunglasses. “Now that’s an approach I like.”
“Seemed reasonable at the time. Wholesome. Predictable. Safe.” I take another bite of honeycomb, letting the sweetness balance the bitterness of the recent memory. “Instead, I end up managing a falling-apart resort, right here in paradise, where the biggest excitement was supposed to be whether the ice machine would work on any given day.”
Mabel takes off her sunglasses entirely now, revealing a face that’s sharp and intelligent, with an expression that says she’s heard similar stories before. She has full lips and big brown doe eyes and looks every bit as polished as Los Angeles claims to be.
“Your story sounds a lot like mine,” she says, glancing past me toward where someone is making strawberry daiquiris at a cart decorated with enough tropical fruit to stock a small grocerystore. “How about we get something stronger than honey and exchange a few war stories?”
“You bet!” I say, probably with more eagerness than the situation warrants, but honestly, bonding with a potential killer over shared romantic disasters wasn’t something they covered in any life skills class I ever took. Come to think of it, I never took a single life skills class in my life. That would explain a lot. Also, it shows a very big crevice in public school curriculum.
I give Koa a thumbs-up as Mabel leads the way toward the daiquiri cart, and his expression shifts from disapproving to perturbed to what I can only describe as vexingly sexy. The man’s biceps just don’t quit, even when he’s radiating a frustrated authority. I can tell that he’d rather be conducting this investigation with handcuffs and official questioning rather than honey tastings and improvised girl talk.
“Two strawberry daiquiris,” Mabel tells the vendor, then adds, “Make mine a virgin—I’m driving tonight.”
I frown because alcohol would definitely help with my interrogation technique, but I follow suit.
“Virgin for me, too,” I say reluctantly. “I should probably stay sober to... appreciate all the cultural experiences.” I shrug at Mabel. “I’m planning on eating fried poi later.”
“That sounds like a solid plan,” she says with a laugh.
What I don’t say is that I should probably be sober to extract as much information as possible from a prospective killer before she figures out that casual conversation has turned into amateur detective work.
We find a relatively quiet spot near a gallery featuring paintings of cats in various states of pride—which feels oddly appropriate given the evening’s circumstances—and settle in with our virgin daiquiris that taste like paradise minus the fun parts.
“So,” Mabel says, stirring her drink with a little paper umbrella that matches her sun hat, “I guess we’re having an impromptu failed marriage support group meeting?”
“Apparently. You mentioned your story was similar?”
“Oh, honey, where do I start?” She laughs, but there’s an edge to it, as if her humor comes with a side of hard-earned wisdom. “Picture this—ten years of marriage to a man whose idea of romantic ambition was remembering our anniversary every other year. He was in finance, which should have been my first warning sign because the only thing he knew how to invest in was his own ego and his secretary’s wardrobe budget.”
“Ouch.”
“The final straw came when I found credit card statements showing he’d been funding weekend getaways to wine country for months. Naturally, I assumed he’d planned some romantic surprise for us.” Mabel takes a sip of her virgin daiquiri with a careful precision that lets me know she’s told this story before. “Turns out the surprises were for his secretary, who appreciated both fine wine and married men with flexible expense accounts.”
“Please tell me you got a good lawyer.”
“I got a great lawyer and half of everything, including his precious vintage wine collection that I sold to fund my escape to Hawaii.” She raises her glass in a mock toast. “Sometimes revenge tastes like financial independence and tropical fruit drinks.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say, clinking my paper umbrella against hers. “My soon-to-be ex-husband is named Erwin Tuggle Julep, which should tell you everything you need to know about his parents’ sense of humor and his destiny to become exactly the type of man who leaves his wife for a lifestyle influencer with an impressive Instagram following.”
“Lifestyle influencer,” Mabel repeats like she was cataloguing yet another cliché in the great handbook of male mid-life crisisbehavior. “Let me guess—twenty-something, constantly posting inspirational quotes about living your best life, and flexible in ways that have nothing to do with actual personal growth?”
“Twenty-six, constantly talking about authentic living while posing with products she’s been paid to promote, and more than capable of making even grocery shopping look like a spiritual journey worth documenting.” I take another sip of my disappointingly non-alcoholic drink. “The worst part is, I followed her account first. I thought her content about finding balance in your thirties was actually helpful. I should have known better than to take advice on what to expect in your thirties from a woman in her twenties.”
“Instead, she helped herself to your husband.”
“Exactly. Nothing saysliving your best lifelike sliding into married men’s DMs with lifestyle advice that included personal coaching sessions at our house while I was at work.”
“Did she at least unfollow you after the affair came out?”
