Sunshine, Selfies, & Smugglers: Port Sunset Mysteries, #3

Chapter One

"I ’m no expert, but I don’t think that’s how you do downward dog. What the

ever-loving fudge is she doing?" I watched a woman in a bikini roughly the size of four microchips strung together with dental floss as she posed on all fours on the beach.

In all fairness it is a doggy position. Just not the yoga one, Lulu said.

I swatted my grandmother’s arm. Not helping, Lulu.

"She’s been doing this the whole time, and whatever it is, it is not yoga. My BFF Nell was attempting to lead a yoga practice for guests of the Gulf Palms Resort and Spa on the gorgeous Gulf Coast of Florida. I’m not even sure she’s a hotel guest. She’s being very disruptive. I had to stop the class because people were getting so upset. Can you get her to stop sometime before my morning yoga practice is over?"

Nell was right, as the Assistant General Manager of the hotel it was on me to put an end to this woman’s shenanigans. I pasted on my best professional smile and walked across the powdery white sand. Excuse me––

The woman looked directly at the smart phone she had positioned on a tripod with a professional-looking light ring to film whatever the heck it was she was doing. She beamed at the camera and said, Sorry Merry Maniacs, but my public is interrupting. I’ll be right back to you, my lovelies. She flashed a peace sign at the camera with a roguish wink and then crawled over to turn off the video recording. She stood up, flicked her long, expertly waved brown hair over her shoulder, put her hands on her hips and glared at me. Just who the f–––

Hello, I interrupted before she could utter a very un-yoga friendly word. Internally my professional smile might’ve wavered, but I kept it on my face as I stepped toward her with my hand extended. She scowled at my hand as if I were offering her rotten fish. I lowered my hand but responded pleasantly. I’m Millie Wentworth, the Assistant General Manager of the Gulf Palms Resort and Spa. And you are?

Her big brown eyes widened and I noticed even on the beach she had full make-up on and false eyelashes luxuriant enough a breeze might’ve wafted by my face as she blinked at me. Don’t you know who I am? I’m Merry Marissa.

The name Merry Marissa meant nothing to me, in spite of her pronouncement of it as if she were telling me she was the Queen of England. Ms. Marissa––

Not Ms. Marissa, she snapped. My name is Marrisa Merriweather. Merry Marissa is my social media handle. My brand. M-E-R-R-Y. Because I’m so fun loving.

At the moment, she didn’t seem fun loving so much as cheesed off, but I let it slide.

Lulu cocked her head and looked at the woman. I’ve seen Merry Marissa online before. I didn’t recognize you. She turned to me and added, "She’s a big time social influencer.

Merry Marissa nodded. The old lady is right. I am big time. She looked my grandmother up and down and her jaw dropped when she got to Lulu’s white bobbed hair, currently streaked with a lovely shade of aqua. You are obviously one well-informed person. And I love the hair! Don’t tell me you got it done in this podunk town.

I did. Lulu jerked her thumb over her should at the historic pink resort where I worked. At the Tranquility Spa and Salon in the hotel.

I’ll have to check it out. Keeping up my appearance is very important to my brand.

Nell cleared her throat, and I jolted as I realized how off track our conversation had gotten. I’m sorry, Ms. Merriweather, but Nell is leading a yoga practice for guests of the hotel, so I’m going to have to ask you to film elsewhere.

She shook her head and snapped. No way.

I’m sorry, what? I asked.

I’m trying to film myself attending the yoga class for my followers. Show them how ‘spiritual’ I can be. Marissa made air quotes around the word spiritual and then snorted while she rolled her eyes.

Yes, but these people are paying guests at our resort and actually participating in the practice, not just posing for pictures. And you are recording our guests for public display without their permission. I’m afraid I must insist you delete the video and move on, Ms. Merriweather.

So if I were a guest at this dump I could film?

We’re actually a five-star luxury resort and a registered historic hotel, I said. No one dissed the Gulf Palms in front of me and got away with it. But, no. You would be welcome to participate in the class and film yourself if you want to, but not the other people. Are you a guest at the hotel? I frowned as I tried to place her. Somehow I knew if Merry Marissa was staying at the hotel, I would have a line of upset employees lined up at my office door. She struck me as the sort of person who did not treat service industry workers well.

No, but I think I’d like to move here if it’s as high end as you say it is. I’m staying there. She pointed to a gleaming white yacht bobbing at anchor offshore.

My ex was a huge motor yacht aficionado; he always dreamed of retiring early and sailing around the world on a yacht. Just one of the many reasons we weren’t compatible for the long haul, but I digress. My point was I knew a little bit about yachts and this had to be seventy-five feet at least. We’re talking worth millions. It’s a beauty.

She shrugged. It’s okay for parties or a short stay, but I’m starting to feel a little confined. My fiancé and a friend of his are also staying onboard in addition to our crew, and it’s getting a little claustrophobic. I’ll be back later with my luggage, and I’ll require a suite.

Um, I’ll have to check our availability.

Are you trying to say you don’t have a suite for a major influencer like Merry Marissa? She stamped her foot on the sand.

Oh good. She’d begun speaking about herself in the third person. I’m sure we can find something.

Not just something, she interrupted with a wave of her hand. A gulf view suite. And comped.

Comped? You mean you don’t intend to pay for a premium suite in the height of the summer season? My jaw dropped at the audacity of this woman.

Merry Marissa doesn’t pay for anything. You’ll get tons of free publicity. It can be positive or it can be negative. Your choice. She narrowed her eyes and pointed her finger at me. I have millions of followers and I can ruin this dump with one post, and do it with a smile on my face.

My teeth clacked together when I shut my mouth. Lulu laid her hand on my arm, so I glanced at my grandmother and she shook her head ever so slightly.

Marissa knelt on the sand to take down her video setup. She glanced at me over her shoulder. I’ll be back in a few hours with my fiancé and our things. I’m sure we can come to some agreement. You don’t have the style of your grandmother, but you don’t look like a fool either, Millie Wentworth.

I never took you for a fool before, Millie. Give a free suite to someone because they’re supposedly famous on the internet? My boss, Vince Clark, ran his hand through his thinning salt and pepper hair and tsked his tongue.

Not supposedly. Merry Marissa is a phenomenon online. I tapped on my phone, moved behind Vince where he sat at his office chair, and held it up to show him. Look at this...she has almost two million followers on this social media site alone. Having her stay here could be a major boost for business if she’s kind to us in her posts. And she has the power to trash us if she isn’t. I honestly believe it’s in our best interest to comp Merry Marissa something for staying here.

Merry Marissa is staying at the Gulf Palms?

Vince and I both looked to his office door to see Emily, our front desk clerk. The young woman vibrated with excitement. We answered at the same time.

Yes, I said.

No.

Sorry to bust in on your conversation, but I just got in for my shift and overheard you as I was walking by. Merry Marissa is a big-time social influencer. It could be great publicity for us.

Social influencer? Sometimes I feel like the world is passing me by. Millie handles all that stuff for me here at the hotel, Vince said. What does this Marissa do?

Do? Emily wrinkled her nose. Well, nothing. She’s famous for being famous, I guess.

And she makes a living this way? Nice work if you can get it. Vince snorted.

It really is, I said. Top influencers like Merry Marissa can earn millions of dollars a year. Brands pay her to post about their products.

And don’t forget sponsorship deals, Emily interjected. Merry Marissa is the face of a new cotton candy flavored vodka brand. Their slogan is, ‘Because life is always a festival with Merry Marissa’. And check out this post. It got 4.7 million likes. She pulled out her phone, called up a video and handed it to Vince.

This is her? Four and a half million people have liked a video of her frolicking on a yacht with a bottle of pink vodka?

I peeked over his shoulder at the video. Marissa was in another tiny bikini on what appeared to be the yacht I saw this morning. A major party was happening around her as she extolled the virtues of the shimmering bottle of booze she waved around while she danced.

"Okay, first––cotton candy flavored vodka? Yuck. And second, life was most decidedly not a festival with her on the beach this morning. She was pretty rude," I said.

Emily shrugged. I don’t know about that, but online her life is a blur from one party to the next, and she always seems to be having a blast. Oh! And I just remembered, I read somewhere she has a new clothing line coming soon.

So she’s a designer? Vince asked, desperate to find some sense in the world of social influencers.

I doubt she designs anything herself. They probably pay her for her name, I said.

Unbelievable, Vince said. He handed Emily her phone.

It’s a brave new world, boss. I patted him on the shoulder.

So you two think it would be worthwhile to comp her a suite?

This decision is above my pay grade, Emily said with a laugh. I’ve got to get to the front desk to start my shift, but she really has millions of followers and has a major online presence. It would introduce the Gulf Palms to a lot of new potential visitors. Just my two cents worth. See you later. With a cheery wave, Emily walked away.

She threatened to trash us if we didn’t, and I don’t know if that’s a risk I want to take, I said.

It’s blackmail.

Sorta. I have to admit it doesn’t sit well with me either, but Merry Marissa, the brand, could really help the Gulf Palms. And Marissa Merriweather, the unpleasant woman, could really harm us.

I walked around his desk to sit in the chair across from him while he pondered the situation. He frowned and tapped on his computer keyboard. A quick glance told me he was checking availability.

I already looked. The penthouse is booked for the month, I said.

Vince wagged his finger at me. And with returning visitors. I’m not ticking them off for some flash-in-the-pan online sensation. The penthouse is out.

Agreed.

And I don’t want this woman taking advantage of the situation and squatting here indefinitely.

Also agreed. I nodded.

He tapped his finger on the computer screen. Here’s a Gulf view suite that isn’t booked for two weeks. She can have it, but with the end date firmly established.

As his suggestion was exactly what I was going to propose, I merely nodded. Sounds good. I’ll take care of it when she gets here.

And make sure we have some of that pink vodka on hand, Vince said.

On it.

An uneasy sensation tingled in my mind that I would need copious amounts of the cotton-candy flavored vodka to deal with our new non-paying guest and survive the next two weeks.

Spud tugged on the end of his leash as I strolled through the lobby of the Gulf Palms. The white marble gleamed in the afternoon sunshine and I blinked against the glare. My grandmother’s rescue corgi was in a rush to get to the lobby, but the grand lobby was so bright I couldn’t see what his target was. Probably one of his many fans with a treat. The happy, solid little dog was popular with all my co-workers. Lulu took Spud in when one of her friends passed away and no one in the woman’s family wanted him. I don’t know why; he was the best dog in the world. He'd saved my life now. Twice. And I meant that literally.

As we approached the front of the lobby and the check-in desk area a woman’s voice screeched, What do you mean she isn’t here? She knew I was checking in this afternoon, and no one keeps Merry Marissa waiting.

Oh, joy. The Marissa Show had started already.

She just popped out to see to something by the pool, I’m sure she’ll be right back. Emily’s voice was calm and soothing.

Here I am, I called as I reached the desk. I fixed my professional smile on my face.

About time, Marissa pouted.

I’m very sorry you had to wait for me. I had to get Spud from my grandmother.

And that is my problem how? Marissa planted her hands on her narrow hips and glared at me. She’d changed out of her bikini and into a colorful boho-chic dress that ended mid-thigh.

Not reading the room, Spud trotted up to her expectantly. Sorry boy, I don’t think there are any treats or pets for you from this woman.

Ugh, what is this creature doing near me, Nicky? Get it away. Marissa lifted one foot and aimed it in Spud’s direction. The mile-high wedge sandal looked like it could do some serious damage.

I yanked his leash to prevent Spud from getting any closer to Marissa. Glancing past her I noticed two men standing behind her, kind of like the way the queen’s husband always had to stay several paces behind her. Nicky must be one of them. Was he the whip-thin man with the silky blond hair and unusually pale blue eyes, or the taller man with the close-cropped straw-colored hair?

I spoke before Nicky could do something to get Spud away from not-so-Merry Marissa.

The Gulf Palms is a pet-friendly resort and Spud is our unofficial mascot. He’s a very sweet dog, there’s no need to be afraid of him. Unless you were a murderer. I added silently. In that case, Spud would take you down in an instant. He was my partner in sleuthing.

She scowled at Spud as if he were a knockoff purse she’d mistakenly paid full price for but did lower her foot from kicking position. No dogs near Merry Marissa, she stated as if it were an official pronouncement.

The smaller man stepped forward and placed himself between Marissa and Spud. I’m terribly sorry to be a bother, but my fiancée does not want your dog here. Please put him somewhere else while we check-in.

He had a British accent and the bored drawl spoke of expensive boarding schools and nobility.

Certainly, I said and hoped I kept my disdain out of my voice. Nicky and Marissa were going to be even higher-maintenance guests than I’d feared they’d be. I spotted Stan the chief bellman watching from his podium by the front entrance. I waved him over to us. Stan, would you please take Spud for a few moments. You can put him in my office.

Certainly, Millie. Stan hustled over and took Spud’s leash and led the corgi away in a flash. He murmured something to the dog which set his stumpy rear end a-wagging. My heart warmed. We seriously had the best employees in the world here at the Gulf Palms.

I turned back to beam at Marissa. "There we go. Now