Deadly in High Heels Read Online Free Page B

that last line had been in their sponsorship contract. In case of unexpected murder, please plug the Tropical Tryst Buffet and the Hula Hibiscus Day Spa.
    The three beauty queens excused themselves from our group, whispering together as the crowd in the ballroom began to disperse.
    "So what do we think of the Midnight Mystery Man angle?" Marco asked, leading our trio toward the lobby.
    I shrugged. "It could be a bit of a leap to say she was meeting a man, but I think there's a good chance that whoever lured her out of her room last night might have had something to do with her death." I knew it was stating the obvious, but I also knew that unless I stated it, Marco was going to keep Sherlocking-it.
    "That is, if Miss Delaware was correct in identifying Miss Montana as the woman she saw heading toward the beach," Dana jumped in. "I mean, it was the middle of the night. Delaware might have been mistaken."
    "Well, let's go find out!" Marco offered.
    I raised an eyebrow at him. "As in…"
    "There is a fabu little tiki bar down on the beach. Maybe Montana was heading there? Maybe someone saw her meet up there with her Midnight Mystery Man."
    "You're going to keep calling him that, aren't you?" Dana asked.
    Marco paused to contemplate for a moment. "Her Randy Rendezvous?"
    Dana and I did a simultaneous eye roll.
    "Come on," Marco whined. "Surely someone saw her. Right? It's at least worth interrogating the bartender?"
    While I was hesitant to get involved, I had to admit that after the morning's events, a mimosa didn't sound altogether terrible.
    "Okay, but we're just asking a few questions . Not interrogating ," I said, pointedly looking at Marco.
    He batted his eyelashes at me. "Whatever you say, Watson."
     
    *
     
    The Royal Waikiki Resort was conveniently located directly ocean side. While all beaches in Hawaii were public property, the Royal Waikiki had several of their resort amenities located just steps away from the Pacific. We walked from the pool area down a small stone pathway that lead to both an outdoor dining area, where the nightly luaus were held, and the "Lost Aloha Shack" tiki bar. The actual bar itself was constructed of native looking bamboo and palm fronds, giving it a classic, rustic feel. To the right of the bar was a stage where I could easily see Don Ho impersonators with their ukuleles or fire dancers lighting up the evening. Currently, however, the stage was empty, and there were a scant, few patrons.
    While the look of the Lost Aloha was island-rustic, as we took up stools at the polished wood bar, I could tell that the construction was on par with the rest of the swanky resort. In front of us top-shelf liquor lined the back wall, along with trays of glasses sporting little pink umbrellas and embellishments ranging from classic martini olives and onions, to festive pineapple slices and mango kebabs.
    A guy with long, shaggy blond hair and at least a day's worth of stubble on his chin walked up. While he clearly wasn't of Hawaiian descent, from his deep tan I put him as a local who spent a fair amount of time in the warm Hawaiian sun.
    "'Sup. What can I get for you?" he asked in an accent that was pure California surfer.
    "Mimosa, please, Dirk," I said, reading the nametag pinned to his floral printed Hawaiian shirt. I didn't usually drink before noon, but after having found a dead body, I thought I could justify the alcohol content. Plus, mimosas were almost all orange juice anyway. That was healthy, right?
    Marco ordered the same, though Dana opted for a mango pineapple smoothie instead, saying she was still "on call" as a judge.
    Dirk nodded. "You got it, chicas," he said, then turned to grab three glasses from behind the bar.
    "Say, were you by any chance working here last night?" Marco asked, as the guy tossed half a banana and some mango slices into a blender.
    I steeled myself, hoping that Marco stuck to "questioning" and not "interrogating."
    Dirk nodded, shouting over the sound of his mixer.