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To Chase, relationships were a sacred bond between a man and a woman, and these Passion Island shenanigans were seriously getting on his nerves. To the extent he’d had to suppress a powerful urge to put these men in their place for being so cavalier.

“It’s happening!” suddenly declared Nick, a stringy young man whose hair hadn’t survived an attack of attrition. His betrothed was a girl named Tina, and according to his drunken braggadocio they’d made a secret arrangement that he could bed any seductress he wanted, as a way of sowing his wild oats one last time before entering a state of wedded bliss.

Chase had his doubts about this so-called arrangement, but hadn’t given vent to his skepticism. He didn’t want to blow his cover by going overboard on the heavy-handedness. He was, after all, one of the boys, though right now he felt more like an adult surrounded by a couple of rambunctious teenagers.

On the dance floor, the spotlights were showing off their stroboscopic prowess as four ladies sashayed onto the scene, all dressed in tiny thongs and even tinier string bikinis. All four were extremely tan, thin and showcasing the kind of physique only attainable with the assistance of a skilled plastic surgeon, personal trainer and stylist. To Chase’s dismay, they reminded him of life-sized Barbie dolls. Not exactly his dream dates, though judging from the uproarious grunts and howls from his co-islanders, they couldn’t have disagreed more.

And as they produced the kind of animal sounds befitting this jungle environment, the lanky cop expelled a tired groan.

“Hey, why are there only four?” asked Arthur suddenly.

Chase narrowed his eyes. The accountant was right. Six seductresses had been advertised, but only four were stalking across the platform.

“Oh, there they are,” said Nick.

And, much to Chase’s surprise, suddenly two more seductresses materialized—and they looked very familiar indeed.

“What the…” one of the men muttered.

Four jaws drooped, Chase’s included, as two mature ladies appeared. One was dressed in a pink tracksuit, and the other in a tiger-print catsuit.

They were Grandma Muffin and Scarlett Canyon.

Chapter 20

“I think we’re on the wrong island, sweetums.”

“Shush, Brutus,” said Harriet.

“No, but I mean it. We’re on the men’s island. We were supposed to be on the women’s island.”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“But it does, sugar plum. The women’s island is where it’s at. That’s where the investigation is taking place.”

“I’m going to be on camera whether they like it or not,” said Harriet, clearly not paying attention to a word her mate had said.

She had that resolute look in her eyes that Brutus knew all too well. It often spelled trouble, and already he was trying to anticipate Harriet’s next move so he could talk her out of it, but this time she was too quick, even for one as closely familiar with her wiles as he was.

Before he could stop her, she was already stalking off in the direction of the plaza.

“Harriet!” he called out, but the music pounding from the speakers was so loud even her fine feline sense of hearing couldn’t have picked up his cry of despair.

He watched helplessly as Harriet joined the lineup of six women and started a series of gyrations that could easily compete with those of the dancing Barbies.

Brutus shook his head in frustration. He knew how keen Harriet was to be part of Passion Island, but this was too much. If she kept this up she’d be booted off the island!

The men seated at the bar were all whooping and hollering, except Chase, who looked a little green around the gills.

It’s one thing to have to watch four would-be strippers, but another to see your future grandmother-in-law strutting her stuff like a seasoned Jezebel, along with her newly-found best friend, a seventy-year-old woman having squeezed her pneumatic frame into a much-too-tight leopard-skin excuse for a garment.

The four other women kept darting curious glances at Scarlett, probably wondering if that’s what they’d look like in another forty or fifty years, but Scarlett didn’t appear bothered. Quite the opposite. While the other women strutted their stuff in situ, she decided to venture out into the world and now approached the candidates, quickly curling herself around a large and portlyone, much to the latter’s obvious delight.

Scarlett Canyon might have celebrated her seventh decade on this planet, but with all the work she’d had done she easily looked decades younger. And of course the men had been drinking steadily all evening, and the booze must have affected their eyesight.

Brutus eyed the spectacle of four Barbie wannabes, one Persian cat and one septuagenarian dressed like Estelle Getty with a jaundiced eye.

Things could only get better from this point onward. Couldn’t they?

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“What do you think you’re doing?” Chase hissed.

“Oh, come off your high horse, Mr. Cop,” said Gran, waving away his objections. “Now what does a girl have to do to get a drink around here? Preferably one of them umbrella ones.”