Armed with visual evidence of Breezy’s bottle-switching shenanigans, I decide it’s time to approach his mixing station and see if our charming local rum entrepreneur can explain why his authentic island craftsmanship involves hiding generic liquor bottles under his competition setup like a teenager stashing contraband under the bed. The raffia skirt around his table just so happens to be bald in all the right places, or all the wrong places if your name is Breezy.
The final judging is winding down, while our panel of experts samples cocktails and make notes with serious concentration. The evening air carries the scent of grilled pineapple and impending confrontation, seasoned with enough tropical humidity to make everyone crave a frozen concoction.
Breezy works at his station with a nervous energy, as if he’s operating under more pressure than winning a cocktail competition should require. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the trade winds, and he keeps glancing around like he’s expecting either the fraud police or his disappointed mother toshow up and demand an explanation. Or maybe the ghost of Coraline Starling, herself.
A rooster struts past his booth with the authority of a health inspector conducting a surprise audit. It pauses to examine something near Breezy’s thatched hut, then moves on with a disapproving look. He’s seen enough health code violations for one evening. He and me both.
I slip in behind the booth next to Breezy as the crowd dies down around us.
“Nice switcheroo with the bottles,” I say, positioning myself strategically between him and the nearest escape route.
He freezes mid-garnish, a pineapple wedge suspended halfway to his competition cocktail like he’s just been caught stealing from the church collection plate. His sandy hair is shagged out twice its normal size, and his eyes are wide as dinner plates. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really?” I gesture toward the generic bottles tucked under his station. “Because I just watched you pour from one bottle into your mixing station, then hide that bottle faster than a criminal making evidence disappear, and pull out a different bottle with your signature label.”
The color drains from his sun-bronzed face. “Sometimes you have to make adjustments for consistency in competition settings?—”
“You mean commit fraud. Your authentic island craft rum is just cheap liquor you’re rebottling and marking up for tourists who wouldn’t know genuine distillery products from flavored rubbing alcohol.”
I would be one of those tourists, but I don’t bother telling him that.
His eyes dart toward the beach as if he’s calculating whether he can outrun both me and the criminal charges I seem to be conducting. “You mean these things?” He nods to the stashunder his table. “Those aren’t even my bottles. I don’t know where they came from. They were probably delivered to the wrong booth.” He quickly tosses a towel over them to hide the loot. “Jinx. You’re a woman. You don’t understand the business pressures?—”
“I’m a woman who understands fraud investigations,” I interrupt, pulling out my phone. “There’s an article here that says state regulators have been poking around Kauai, deep diving into the liquor empires that have been sprouting up like mushrooms. That’s what Coraline threatened you with, isn’t it? Your authentic island story is about as genuine as a three-dollar bill with Elvis’s picture on it.”
“We can’t talk about this here,” he says, backing toward the edge of his station like a cornered animal who’s just realized the trap has snapped shut.
Before I can suggest that murder confessions don’t require proper venue selection, he bolts toward the darker stretch of the beach beyond the tiki torch illumination so fast that sand flies behind his feet.
I waste no time in following him because my survival instincts have been completely overruled by my own stubbornness. My cocktail dress keeps trying to tangle around my legs while my flip-flops provide about as much traction as ice skates on a hockey rink, but adrenaline has overcome my usual coordination issues.
“Breezy, stop!” I shout, although I’m not sure what my plan is beyond hoping he’ll voluntarily confess and save us both the trouble of a beach chase.
He reaches the lava rocks and turns with his chest heaving, his shaggy hair looking like it’s been personally attacked by a tropical hurricane. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“I understand that you’re running a fraud operation and killed someone to protect it.”
“It’s not as simple as fraud!” The words burst out with desperate honesty. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to build something from nothing on this island? I worked three jobs for five years, lived in a studio apartment that was basically a converted storage closet, and ate ramen noodles for dinner every night.”
A rooster appears from behind the lava rocks, followed by a hen and three baby chicks conducting their evening coastal patrol. Even the poultry seems interested in his confession. Although I’ll admit, I’d feel better if Spam and his crew were here to survey the scene. Maybe even Koa.
“When I finally saved enough to start the distillery,” Breezy goes on, “I discovered that authentic local rum requires authentic local ingredients at prices that would have made my operation about as profitable as selling ice to penguins,” he continues with desperation, making his voice crack. “So yeah, I cut corners. But it still tasted good, it was still made here?—”
“And Coraline figured it out.”
“She had photos of my supply deliveries, receipts from mainland distributors, even recordings of phone conversations with suppliers.” His hands shake as he runs them through his disheveled hair. “She wasn’t just threatening to expose the substitution—she was going to destroy my entire reputation during the competition. In front of cameras, judges, and half the island’s tourism industry.”
The distant sound of ukuleles and laughter drifts from the luau, a reminder that normal people are having normal tropical fun while I’m standing on the dark end of the beach getting a murder confession from someone whose business model included homicide as a cost-cutting measure.
“She was going to make an example of me,” he says, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “She was going to show everyone what happens when you try tofakeyour way tosuccess in paradise. I’d have been finished—and not just here, but anywhere in hospitality. Word travels fast in this business.”
“So, you killed her to stop the announcement.”
“I had to.” His eyes bore into mine with an icy indifference.
“You set up Giselle expertly,” I say, watching his face in the moonlight. “Right down to planting physical evidence at the scene to point suspicion her way. The French perfume bottle? The swatch of fabric from Mabel’s dress? You made sure everyone left a memento there but you.”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, his desperate mask slips into something colder. “Giselle is a fraud anyway. She deserves whatever trouble is headed her way. At least I was trying to build something real, even if I had to cut a few corners.”
