Mai Tais & Murder by Lydia Lane

About the Book

Tessa Tidwell knew one thing...
Honeymoons aren't meant to be solo excursions.
 
Wait, make that two things.
She knew two things.
 
The second thing?
Honeymoons aren't meant to become murder investigations.
 
***
 
Tessa Tidwell is newly single. And on her honeymoon.
 
Following a disastrous wedding (disastrous in the sense that it didn’t happen), Tessa jets off to the Golden Hibiscus Resort to lick her wounds among swaying palm trees and a mai tai.
 
Or two.
 
It should’ve been a classic rom com story: Brokenhearted woman goes to tropical island, finds herself, meets her One True Love.
 
Should've been.
 
But nothing about this trip has gone the way Tessa expected.

~~ Amazon ~~

Excerpt 

My plan, which wasn't finely tuned (not unlike my overall theory about Mara, as Ethan couldn’t resist pointing out), was to get to the trailhead Mara had mentioned and wait. I found a bench near the outdoor restrooms and tightened my shoelaces. There were still a few stars visible. The moon, which was almost a perfect semi-circle, was high in the sky.

“Moon ritual, my ass,” I scoffed.

“You know this is nuts, right?” Ethan said, kicking dead leaves with the toe of his sneaker. “What do you think you’re going to find? And what if she really is a psycho? And we’re following her into the woods in the middle of the night?”

“Calm down. We aren’t going to confront her or anything. We just need to prove she isn’t dancing in the moonlight with chickens or whatever.”

Ethan yawned. “If that’s all you’re doing, why couldn’t you get your crazy old friend to come? Or Jack, whoever that is.”

Sibyl hadn't come along because she didn't “do” hikes.

“She isn’t crazy or old,” I said, ignoring his jab about Jack. The last time it had come up, I’d said Jack was just a guy who knew the Wards. Technically not a lie, but Ethan wasn’t entirely satisfied with the answer.

He mumbled something I couldn’t quite make out.

I heard it described once that arguments in long-term relationships are like the steps of a dance. Each partner knows their steps in a beautifully choreographed flow designed to make the other person miserable.

Ethan’s mumble was the equivalent of him extending a hand in an invitation to join him on the floor.

Dance, Step One.

It was my cue to say something like, “What was that? Why are you always such an (insert a crass noun of one’s choice)?”

The sound of tires in the gravel lot startled me before I could take my first step in the dance. I grabbed Ethan’s arm and pulled him with me behind the outdoor restrooms, my heart pounding.

With my back against the building, I chanced a look around the corner. I was banking on it being Mara, but for all I knew, it could have been Roger or any other crazy fitness person wanting to go on a midnight hike while on vacation.

A beam of light bounced across the ground.

Smart. Of course a flashlight would help in this situation, but I hadn't thought to pack one for my solo honeymoon-turned-murder-investigation.

Next time I'd know better.

The person passed me, walking quickly toward the crossroads where the path split. Even in the dark, I could tell it was Mara. She held the flashlight in one hand and a walking stick in the other, a small pack strapped around her waist. I looked down at my own ensemble: a pair of jogging shorts, three-year-old sneakers, and a sweatshirt I'd borrowed from my mom and never bothered returning. Mara looked like she was on a real mission, and I was dressed for a strenuous round of mall-walking.

“Come on,” I whispered to Ethan.

“Tessa, no. You see her—she’s alone. She’s just going for a hike. Let’s get out of here. I’m not doing this.”

I spun to face him.

“Are you serious?”

He was.

“You’re going to leave me here in the middle of the night? You’re going to let me go alone?” I said.

“No, I’m trying to get you to stop being an idiot and come back with me.”

Dance, Step Two.

Step Three should have been me following Ethan back to the parking lot, where I’d say something like: You never support me.

And then he’d say something like: You’re being dramatic.

And then I’d flounce off in a huff.

And then he’d say something like: See?

And then neither of us would speak to the other for twenty-four to thirty-six hours.

So I decided to change the steps of the dance.

“I’m not being an idiot, Ethan,” I said in a quiet voice. “But you can go. I’m doing this.” I pointed down the trail. “Good thing I told you to drive separately,” I said as I walked off.

I listened intently, waiting for the sound of Ethan’s steps to get closer.

They didn’t. They got farther away.

He was leaving me out here.

Maybe the steps of the dance hadn’t changed after all.

My stomach clenched with a wave of serious doubt. What the hell was I doing, trailing Mara and Roger—assumed murderers—into the woods in the middle of the night?

Just stay back and stay quiet. Find out who Roger is and prove she isn’t doing astrological rituals, and then get out. She won’t even know you’re here.

My pep talk didn’t make me much peppier. But I was already here.

Into the woods it was.

About the Author

Lydia Lane lives in the Mountain West and spends significant time thinking about the Universe, energy, Enneagram types, and astrology. When she isn’t pulling tarot cards, you’ll find her lifting heavy weight in the gym and drinking overpriced sparkling waters.

She is the author of the Beach Cocktail Mystery series, a funny mystery series that follows a jilted bride and a gin-soaked divorcée as they encounter various deaths and other crimes at a luxury beach resort.

Lydia is an Enneagram 6, Capricorn sun, Aquarius moon, and Gemini rising. She wrote this about herself in the third person.

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