Her dark lipstick looks dramatic with the tiki torch lights, and her bold jewelry catches the flames and flashes like lightning every few seconds.
Behind us, the bachelorette party reaches new heights as the women discover fire-twirling abs are worth opening their wallets for. Ruby’s voice carries across the beach, providing unsolicited opinions to performers who didn’t ask for coaching.
“Mind if I join you?” I ask, settling onto the sand beside her makeshift driftwood throne. “I get it. The fire dancing is impressive, but sometimes you need a break from athletic men with flaming objects.”
She gives a little laugh. “I guess I’m just not really in a party mood,” she says with a sigh that suggests deeper issues than temporary social fatigue or inadequate cocktail consumption. Maybe both.
A small crab scuttles past us, and we watch as it dances across the sand sideways.
It feels as if everything is going sideways as of late, starting with murder.
Speaking of which…
“Rough night?” I probe gently, because I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes you need to be understated in tropical crisis situations.
“Rough year. Rough decade, actually.” Della takes a sip of her drink and makes a face that suggests even tropical rum can’t mask the bitterness of professional disappointment. “I’ve been writing songs since I was sixteen, performingsince I was in college. But somehow, I’m still playing the same dive bars and watching people like my sister get millions of fans for dancing to other people’s music.” She huffs at the thought like it sickened her. And I can tell it does.
“It doesn’t seem fair,” I say, and I mean it. “You’re a singer.” I didn’t say she was a good one. “And you try your best. You’re doing the work, you’re putting yourself out there night after night, and you just said you write your own music. That’s pretty incredible. You should be proud of yourself. That’s quite an achievement. Other people only dream of doing the things you’re doing.”
“I’m not sure if I’m proud of anything,” she says with a sniff. “It’s been years of bar gigs where drunk tourists request “Margaritaville” for the fifteenth time, coffee shop performances where the espresso machine provides more musical harmony than the audience, dreams that never quite materialized beyond local venues and scattered applause from people who might not remember my name by morning.” The confession opens like a floodgate during hurricane season. “It’s like being trapped in musical hell,” she continues, having found her confessional stride. “I’m working as a freelance graphic designer by day to pay my bills while pursuing music on the side. And it’s been a constant rejection from record labels. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m running out of time to make anything of my talent.”
A gecko appears on the driftwood beside us, drawn by the scent of human drama and tropical beverages. It settlesin to listen in on our conversation with the interest of a tiny therapist conducting field research on beach-based emotional breakthroughs.
“You know, I bet your sister’s wedding could use some live music,” I say with a casual brilliance that either solves problems or creates new ones. “Real music, not just a DJ playlist. I bet you could convince her to let you perform a few numbers during the reception.”
“I’ve already asked, and she already agreed,” Della says without a lot of enthusiasm. “But it’s more or less a pitty gig. And my sister has put some pretty tight parameters on what I can and can’t sing. She wants romantic but not sappy, danceable but not cheesy, original compositions that would make amazing content for her social media.”
The gecko nods approvingly, agreeing that wedding performance opportunities constitute excellent career advancement strategies.
“I’m so glad to hear you’ll be singing,” I tell her. “And I can’t wait to hear you, again.”
“Thank you,” her eyes light up at the thought.
“There’s been so much going on with this wedding already. Did you know the woman who was murdered? She seemed to have strong opinions about wedding planning coordination.”
“That witch?” Della’s mood shifts faster than tropical weather patterns. “She was everything wrong with the entertainment industry wrapped up in designer clothes and fake professionalism. She treated me like hired help instead offamily. In fact, she made it clear that my opinions about music, decorations, anything that had to do with my sister didn’t matter because I wasn’t paying the bills.” The bitterness in her voice could rust metal. “She had this way of dismissing anyone she considered non-essential to her vision. She treated vendors and staff like servants, and don’t get me started on how she manipulated my sister’s insecurities about the wedding being perfect for social media documentation.”
“What did the others think of her? Bertha seemed to have issues with Alana, too.”
Okay, so I’m angling to see if I can pin this on Bertha. Does that make a bad person? Or a very thorough investigator? Although pinning it on Erwin would be twice the coup.
“Oh, Bertha hated her from day one.” Della gives a dark laugh into the balmy breeze. “Something about inappropriate financial influence and protecting Erwin from gold diggers. Bertha thinks anyone who isn’t blood is trying to scam her family out of their retirement savings.”
Newsflash, there’s not much saved for either of them to retire. My lawyer unearthed that the hard way, but I leave that out of it for now.
A rooster crows from somewhere near the palm trees, momentarily pulling us out of our late-night financial management strategy.
“And Erwin? How is he handling all the stress from the wedding?”
“I heard Candy say that Erwin is getting more paranoidabout money by the day. In fact, I’ve heard him questioning every expense myself. He was ranting and raving the day we arrived, demanding receipts as if he were about to be audited. He even made Alana justify every flower arrangement and catering choice. The way he was going on, you’d think she was out to get him.”
“I guess it’s safe to say, Erwin and Alana didn’t get along.”
Another strike against my deranged ex. He might just end up in handcuffs yet. I’m feeling lucky.
“They sure didn’t get along,” Della confirms. “Candy tried to keep everyone happy, but Alana was playing her like a ukulele. Alana convinced my sister that without everything being perfect, her wedding content would flop and her followers would abandon her for more interesting, more authentic influencers.”
The fire dancers behind us reach new levels of audience enthusiasm, judging by the increase in dollar bills being tossed their way and creative encouragement that definitely isn’t family-friendly.
