Deadly Wipeout (Aloha Lagoon Mysteries Book 3)

by Beth Prentice

  ALOHA LAGOON BOOKS

  Ukulele Murder

  Murder on the Aloha Express

  Deadly Wipeout

  Deadly Bubbles in the Wine

  Mele Kalikimaka Murder

  Death of the Big Kahuna

  Photo Finished

  * * * * *

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Beth was born in Manchester, England, but after moving backwards and forwards across the world 13 times in 14 years she decided at the age of 18 that Australia was to be her home. She now lives on the beautiful Sunshine Coast in Queensland, Australia where every day is a good one. She is the lucky mother of two grown-up children, and, along with her ever-patient husband, she is the proud but sometimes flustered owner of four dogs, a cat, and a canary. She has always had a love of reading, and even though her background is in accounting, she has now discovered her love of writing. Her main wish is to write books you can sit back, relax with, and escape from your everyday life…and ones that you walk away from with a smile! When she's not writing you will usually find her at the beach with a coffee in hand, pursuing her favorite pastime—people watching!

  To learn more about Beth Prentice, visit her online at: http://www.bethprentice.com/

  * * * * *

  BOOKS BY BETH PRENTICE

  Invitation to Murder

  Killer Unleashed

  Deadly Wipeout

  Other works:

  It Started with a House

  It Started with a Christmas Tree

  It Started on Halloween

  Give Murder a Hand

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  of the next Aloha Lagoon Mystery:

  DEADLY BUBBLES IN THE WINE

  by

  MARY JO BURKE

  CHAPTER ONE

  I sat sweating in my five-hundred-dollar, cream, tea-length, non-returnable dress in the lobby of the Washington County courthouse in Maryland and focused on the front door. An ancient wall clock's big hand hovered over the twelve. The building closed at four, and our flight to Kauai was at nine. The final tick of time, and an elderly security guard approached me.

  "Ma'am, we're closed, and you'll have to leave now," he said with a pinch of pity as he touched my shoulder. "We reopen on Monday at eight."

  How many times in the past had he made that same mini-speech to a ditched bride or groom?

  I nodded and stood erect, letting the wilted red rose bouquet in my lap fall to the floor. My first step wobbled, but I caught myself and continued to the door.

  One foot in front of the other. Head up, Simone Ryan.

  My former ballet teacher, Madame Joy, would be so proud I had retained something from her class. A brief memory of wanting to grow up to be a ballerina faded as soon as it formed. It could have happened, except for my lack of talent, poise, and discipline.

  Public relations better aligned with my personal strengths—telling well-spun tales of grandeur and feats of death-defying skill. In other words, I worked for a politician.

  I gripped the cold doorknob, reminding myself why I'd decided on a secret elopement in the first place.

  No one had approved of my intended, Elliott Smythe-Wilkes. Not my friends or my family. Even my neighbor's dog had growled at him. But Elliott couldn't help that others resented his brilliance. People misinterpreted him as arrogant and condescending because he didn't dwell on what he considered superficial topics, like sports and others' interests. He was too busy analyzing his next research project. But publication had always eluded him due to peer jealousy. The editors chose suck-ups' and donors' children's articles over Elliott's research. Elliott had the heart of a poet, except when he retaliated to criticism on social media. Then he let loose with vicious tirades. As a publicist for Congresswoman A. Deborah Niven, I'd mentioned letting criticism roll off of him. Elliott had reminded me that medical device breakthroughs were a winner-take-all business.

  And politics wasn't a daily brawl to the death?

  He'd left last night, muttering about getting even and striking out on his own.

  "I've done everything by myself before. I don't need any family help," he'd said after staring at his phone for a full twenty minutes.

  "What family? I thought you were an orphan. Is something wrong?" I'd asked.

  "Of course not. I'll see you tomorrow," he'd said as he left.

  He hadn't kissed me good-bye, and I'd accepted his distraction as normal behavior. I'd detected an undercurrent of anger and maybe disgust. I should have pressed him, but his stress level had seemed too high. He'd needed time to calm down and sleep.

  I checked my phone again as I leaned against my car. No texts, phone messages, or emails from Elliott. I glanced up at the sky, just in case he'd sent a plane dragging an explanation for his absence.

  My stomach sank as I thought the worst. He was unconscious in the hospital or chanting my name as the Jaws of Life ripped the top off of his car. Near fatal accident, massive power outage, or an act of God were the only scenarios that could keep Elliott from missing our wedding day. In the future, our children would recite their father's heroics in trying to reach me. When we finally found each other, we dashed to catch our flight and had the plane's captain marry us to the applause of our fellow passengers.

  I drove back to my apartment and counted how much my postponed Hawaiian honeymoon would cost me. Two months ago, Elliott had believed his identity had been stolen and canceled his credit cards. The fraud alerts on his credit reports had yielded nothing, but he'd wanted to be sure. All charges for the trip were awaiting my payment in ten days. Elliott, ever the gentleman, had given me a check for the full amount. It hadn't mattered either way. I'd believed our money would mingle soon.

  A small nagging thought resurfaced. I'd batted it away two weeks ago, but it rippled back through my mind now.

  Fifty-four texts on his phone from the mysterious Allie Girl.

  No snooping on my part. Elliott had forgotten his charger, and I'd lent him mine overnight. In the morning, I'd unplugged his phone so that I could use the charger, and Allie Girl had flashed on the screen. I'd waited and watched him when he'd checked his phone. With the start of a smile on his face and a quick kiss on the cheek for me, he'd left, vaguely referencing an important morning meeting.

  He hadn't mentioned the need for an early exit the night before. He'd eaten my prepared dinner, watched my rented movie, and slept on my laundered sheets. Elliott had kept his calendar to himself and promised to be more open about his time after we married. The list of his other promises formed in my mind. Love, honor, marry, and to put the seat down had black lines drawn through them. Either broken or pending further review, none had moved to the fulfilled column.

  The acid in my empty stomach started to brew. I'd ignored or explained away too many obvious signs of his indifference, but being ditched at the courthouse broke the bond. Elliott and I had been in love with the same person—him.

  The light turned red, and I twisted my stunning engagement ring around my finger. Five weeks ago, I shared my happy news with my best friend, Lizzie. She'd never been a member of the Elliott Fan Club.

  "How can a guy with no credit and barely a part-time job afford a diamond ring?" asked Lizzie, the ever skeptical attorney.

  "You think he stole it?" I'd shot back in reply.

  With Lizzie, I always answered a question with another question, especially when I didn't know the answer. I never should have told her about his lack of credit cards. Her former boyfriend, one of many, had skimmed a thousand dollars off of her. The "never be a borrower or lender" Shakespeare quote was now tattooed on the inside of Lizzie's left arm. A quick reminder just in case she fell in love or lust again. I should have taken the advice too, but I was too chicken to have anything inked into my skin. Plus, the word loser surrounded by a heart with a dagger through it was probably a standard issue tattoo.

  According to the blare of the car horn behind me, the light had turned green. I drove on and pretended Elliott, a five-pound b
ox of chocolates in hand, sat in my apartment with a reasonable explanation. I was sure it would be funny, plausible, and not include Allie Girl. All doubts expertly cleared away, sweet apologies issued, and on to blissful Hawaii.

  We'd picked today to be married because I had blocked out time from work for a vacation. The Aloha Lagoon Resort posted a last minute cancelation for the bridal suite. It was about to be vacated again.

  Irony much?

  Congresswoman A. Deborah Niven, my boss, had bashed the hotel last year for not leaving enough fresh towels. How many would be enough for two people? Ten. I'd never asked what they had planned to do with the spare terry cloth. Instead, I'd looked up the Aloha Lagoon on the internet, read the stellar reviews, and decided that if I ever went to Hawaii, it would be my top choice. A lesson learned from Deborah—always do the opposite of what she said.

  As I tried to keep the tears backing up behind my eyes at bay, my mind wandered back to the day when I'd first met Elliott. Three months ago, he'd had a meeting with Congresswoman Niven. She had been looking for experts to testify on behalf of her anti-regulatory legislation. To her, the enemy was the Medication Advisory Board (MAB).

  Elliott didn't make the cut but did piss her off for the rest of the day. I'd bumped into him as he was leaving, and he'd offered to buy me a coffee. Dazzled, thrilled, and falling hard for a complete stranger described me after an hour in his presence. I saw him the same night, and he kiddingly named our first child Arthur, after his favorite mythical king. Mine too.

  Six weeks later, he'd proposed over tacos and ice cream. I'd said yes, and he'd produced a ring box. Everything had been perfect up until a few hours ago.

  My apartment welcomed me in silence, and the dead bolt wasn't locked.

  Did Elliott drop by thinking we were meeting here before going to the courthouse? Did I screw up the plan? I was a fanatic about schedules and list making. I'd cleaned out the refrigerator, turned off the air conditioning, and had my mail held. I would not have forgotten to include sit still and wait for Elliott.

  I got my answer as I set my purse on the kitchen counter and knocked my extra apartment key to the floor. I picked it up and examined the now cracked crystal heart key chain I had given Elliott. I rushed over to check my phone's messages. My mother hated cell phones and would only call the house. A few telemarketers' calls offering once-in-a-lifetime deals were left on my machine. I dialed Elliott's number one more time and got his canned response. My call was important to him, and he would get right back to me.

  I'd expected to return here as a giddy married woman with my gorgeous husband. We'd have a quick romp to make us all legal, grab our luggage, and speed to the airport. Elliott's suitcase was gone as if he had never existed in my life. A slip of folded paper sat in its stead. I swiped it up expecting a lengthy explanation followed by a heartfelt apology.

  He was dying and wanted to spare me the anguish, or he was leading a life-saving mission because his blood was the only match for a precious healing serum. He'd sacrificed himself for the greater good.

  Instead, Sorry was scrawled in a hurry and dropped on the floor along with my heart, part of my sanity, and a herd of dust bunnies. My anger decided to handle this situation. The temper I usually held in check declared herself ready to vent. I grabbed a pen and added I'm not to the note, crumpled it into a ball, and drop kicked it into the living room.

  Had I imagined everything and just woken up to watch it all dissolve?

  I slipped out of my dress and lay down on my bed. Crying was one option, throwing something breakable another, and drinking gallons of alcohol the third. Or shake out of my gloom and head to the airport.

  I deserved a vacation in the Ring of Fire. I'd include enough mai tais to float my liver and all the paper parasols and maraschino cherries ever made.

  I could ask Lizzie to go with me, but she might get all I told you so over the Pacific Ocean. There would be too many witnesses if I pushed her out of the plane. I did send her a text stating I was off to Kauai for a much deserved vacation. Her quick, succinct response, Call me when you land.

  Traveling alone, I'd join the honeymooners on the longest flight of my life. I changed into jeans, a T-shirt, and gym shoes, pulled my straightened, red curls into a ponytail, and hoisted up my suitcase. I locked up, and once outside, I hailed a cab.

  Did aloha mean hello, good-bye, or bingo?

  * * *

  On paper, Washington DC was six hours ahead of Honolulu, but with the time zone changes, it seemed like twenty. I was blessed to relive the worst day of my life on an endless loop, trapped in the middle seats. I had paid twenty-five hundred dollars for this privilege, which included a brief stopover at LAX before boarding our flight across the blue Pacific.

  I felt nauseous, but at this altitude, I couldn't decide where in the continental United States to throw up.

  I didn't mind flying, but being solo in the land of couples depressed me. Every time the drink cart rattled down the aisle, I ordered a Chardonnay. The in-flight meal consisted of a soggy turkey sandwich and stale potato chips. The airline figured the lovebirds wouldn't care or notice. I watched the couple next to me feed each other. Like a train wreck, it was horrific, but I couldn't turn away.

  Mr. Flight Attendant, please leave the box of wine and a straw.

  When we landed, the plane taxied up to an airport masquerading as a resort. I walked down the corridor sideways to catch the scenery and offset the wine buzz in my brain. Everything outside the windows was lush and green. The ocean lapped at the beach, and the sun added sparkle.

  This was where unicorns and other fairy tale characters lived. A fantasy land created for grown-ups.

  I found my suitcase and boarded a shuttle to the hotel. A couple in matching Just Mauied T-shirts sat next to me. Happy couples abounded in Hawaii—it must be the law. The pictures on the internet of the Aloha Lagoon Resort didn't do it justice. They didn't include the subtle, salty breeze off the ocean, the sunlight dancing on the colorful tiles that surrounded the outdoor pool, and the rich fragrant flowers. I strolled up to the front desk ready to forget my wasted time with Elliott.

  Had Elliott been afraid of commitment and decided running away from me was the best answer? Was there another woman or man? Was I gullible or desperate or both? How many clues had I missed? None. He'd begged me to marry him. Flowers, the ring, expensive dinner—I'd been the star of a made-for-TV romance movie. This ugly duckling had gotten a glimpse of life as a swan and grabbed it with both hands. Now, I saw myself as a dumb duck, and my so-called prince was another flipping frog.

  "Welcome to the Aloha Lagoon Resort. May I have your name?" the petite blonde asked.

  "Simone Ryan. I have the bridal suite reserved all to myself," I said as I set my purse on the counter and dug out my phone.

  I'd had one message since I left the DC airport. Maybe I was dead, and no one told me. I juggled my phone to read the text.

  "Yes, you do. It's funny—I just received a phone call asking if the bridal suite was available," she said as she typed into the computer.

  I laughed with her because I had gotten an alert from the bank. Someone had charged six hundred dollars to my credit card and hit the maximum limit. I was thousands of miles away from home with no money. I shut off my phone to save the battery and myself from compulsively checking it. My thumbs had muscle cramps.

  "Enjoy your stay," she said as she handed me a key card.

  Like I had a choice.

  I wheeled my suitcase around to the elevator and rode up to my isolation chamber for the next two weeks. I opened the door and decided leaving here would be insane. The gorgeous ocean view, the sumptuous king-size bed, and the sheer opulence of comfort overwhelmed me. The bridal suite also included a chilled bottle of champagne and two flutes. I picked up the bottle and popped the cork. It didn't foam up and spill all over. I took it as a sign to drink the whole bottle immediately.

  I opened the sliding glass door, stepped out onto the balcony and into para
dise. The bluest sky, the warmest breeze, and the gentlest waves kept an ancient rhythm. Relaxation was a requirement here. I leaned on the railing, took a swig of champagne, and choked on the carbonated aftertaste.

  "Are you alright?" A man's voice with a touch of an English lilt asked in an echo.

  I looked behind me thinking maybe I'd left the door open.

  "I'm down here," said the same omnipotent voice.

  I checked the sky hoping for a sign as I squinted at the sun. Nothing fell from above for me, so I peered over the balcony to the second cabana deck. A flash of baggy orange, black, and red swim trunks moved closer. A dark-haired and bare-chested man stood below me, proving that mythological gods lounged on this island. Tanned and muscular, he smiled up at me like a living statue of the ideal male physique.

  I was sure my mouth hung open and hoped my tongue stayed curled up in it. Elliott had a cute nerd vibe going, but this was the time and place for beefcake. Impure thoughts flooded my brain.

  "I'm fine," I rasped out.

  "Aren't there glasses in the room? Champagne burns right out of the bottle," he said.

  "I'm finding that out."

  "Ask your husband to find the flutes. They should be by the ice bucket," he said as he started to back up.

  "I didn't pack a husband. Just me," I said after a quick sip and another cough.

  He stopped, smiled, and motioned me closer. I propped the magnum on my hip and stood my ground. Not on principle. I knew that if I jumped over the rail I'd break something vital like the champagne bottle.

  "If you're sad, I'm sorry. If you're glad, I'm available for dinner," he said with a smile.

  "No thanks. I'm done with men for the decade."