Chapter 6
We waste no time changing into hiking clothes, or what passes for hiking clothes when you live on a tropical island where the dress code maxes out at sundress with flip-flops.
Ruby emerges in a neon pink athletic set that looks like it was designed by a woman who thought camouflage was overrated.
Lani opts for practical capris and a tank top, though her grip on the car keys is white-knuckled, and also the grip of a woman seriously considering whether her passport is current.
And me? I’m in shorts and a tank top that says Aloha Beaches, because if I’m going to hike in murderous heat while investigating an actual murder, I might as well commit to the theme.
We pile into Pele, the resort’s very own haunted van.
Okay, so she’s not technically haunted, but she may as well be.
Pele happens to be named after the volcano goddess because she’s temperamental, unpredictable, and occasionally spits fire from her exhaust pipe.
She used to be a nice glossy white. Now she’s a sun-faded beige with rust spots that form patterns vaguely resembling angry faces.
Her air conditioning works on a when-she-feels-like-it basis, which is almost never.
Her engine makes a sound somewhere between a dying whale and a garbage disposal eating silverware.
And her passenger door only opens from the outside, which means whoever sits there is either trapped or liberated depending on whether someone remembers they exist.
I asked Halea to man the front desk and, more importantly, maybe not mention to Melanie where we went.
Melanie isn’t my biggest fan. At least not in the same way death seems to be.
Death is obsessed with me in the aforementioned stalker-ish, restraining-order-worthy kind of way.
Melanie just thinks I’m cursed and would prefer I take my bad juju somewhere else.
Preferably somewhere far away. Like Antarctica.
Or Mars. Maybe Middle Earth. Somewhere with no cell service and no body count.
“So,” Ruby says from the back seat, where she’s wedged between a box of resort supplies and what I’m pretty sure is a bag of fossilized French fries. “We’re really doing this. We’re really hiking in this heat to interrogate murder suspects.”
“We’re not interrogating anyone,” I say, gripping Pele’s steering wheel as she shudders through a turn. “We’re just asking friendly questions. Casually. While sweating profusely.”
“That’s called interrogating,” Lani mutters from the passenger seat. “And I’d like to point out that I’m a murder suspect myself, so maybe I shouldn’t be investigating anything.”
“You’re not a murder suspect,” I say firmly, though my confidence wavers slightly. “You’re a person of interest. There’s a difference.”
“What’s the difference?”
“One sounds like a dating profile. The other sounds like a prison sentence.”
Ruby snort-laughs. “Lani Mahelona, Person of Interest. Looking for someone who appreciates wooden spoons and has an airtight alibi for last night.”
“I hate both of you,” Lani says, but she’s smiling. A little.
Pele chugs up the winding road, past fields of red dirt that stain everything they touch with the persistence of a toddler wielding a permanent marker.
Roosters strut along the roadside like they own the place, which, let’s be honest, they kind of do.
Kauai belongs to the chickens. We’re just living in their kingdom, paying rent in the form of scattered breadcrumbs and tolerating their 3 a.m. crowing concerts.
The sky stretches overhead in an unblemished blue so perfect it looks too good to be real, and the heat is already picking up steam.
And I do mean steam. The humidity wraps around us like a wet blanket made of regret, and I’m pretty sure I’ve sweated through my tank top before we’ve even parked the van.
The Sleeping Giant Trail sits just outside Wailua on Kauai’s east side, and once you see it, you can’t unsee it. The ridgeline looks exactly like a giant stretched out on his back with his arms folded, and fast asleep.
Locals have long told stories of the land itself being alive. Powerful beings resting, watching, waiting. Some say the giant helped protect the people long ago and simply lay down to rest, sinking so deeply into sleep that the earth slowly grew over him until he became the mountain.
Others swear you can still make out his face, chest, and hands if the light hits just right.
Either way, the message is the same: this isn’t just a hike, it’s a place that deserves respect.
Walk softly, keep your voice down, and don’t act like the mountain is your personal stair climber.
Because whether you believe in sleeping giants or not, Kauai has a way of reminding you when you forget your manners.
The hike itself is moderately challenging, which in Hawaii-speak means you’re going to question every decision you’ve ever made halfway through.
The trailhead is marked by a small parking area surrounded by trees and tropical foliage so lush it could swallow a tourist whole and nobody would notice for a week.
Hibiscus blooms the size of dinner plates dot the underbrush in shades of pink, coral, and fire-engine red, like nature couldn’t decide on a single shade of show-off.
We pull into the dirt lot, and Pele gives one final death rattle before falling silent. I’m not entirely convinced she’ll start again when we’re ready to leave, but that’s a problem for Future Jinx.
The camera crew is already set up near the trailhead, their equipment gleaming in the sunlight.
The Spice Girls and their husbands are gathered in a cluster, adjusting hats and water bottles with a coordinated efficiency that says they’ve done promotional outdoor activities before and know exactly how to look camera-ready while pretending to be spontaneous.
Cozy is wearing a form-fitting athletic outfit in coral pink that somehow manages to look both practical and runway-ready. And, well, hot in every sense of the word, since long sleeves and long pants don’t exactly scream tropical climate.
Doreen has opted for sensible hiking gear in earth tones, complete with a wide-brimmed hat that lets us know she came prepared and will not be entertaining a speck of sunshine anywhere on her face.
And Bubbles is in pastel purple leggings and a matching top. Her blonde hair is pulled into a high ponytail that bounces with her every move.
Their husbands are equally put-together.
Gary in his neat khaki shorts and polo shirt, looking like he’s about to play golf rather than hike a mountain.
Tom is in dark athletic wear, his military posture making him look like he’s preparing for a tactical mission rather than a brisk nature walk.
And Cam is clad in expensive athletic gear that probably set him back a shiny nickel, his veneers flashing in the sunlight as he charms one of the camera operators like the seasoned politician he is.
They’re already making their way onto the trail, the crew filming establishing shots and the Spice Girls bantering for the cameras.
We climb out of Pele. Lani has to wait for Ruby to open her door from the outside, which feels like a dry run for her upcoming accommodations at a supermax prison, and then we huddle near the van’s rusty bumper for a moment.
“Okay,” I say, lowering my voice even though we’re a good fifty feet from the nearest living being—humans, that is. The chickens are always underfoot. The cats aren’t that far behind either. “We need a plan.”
Ruby nods eagerly. “I vote we divide and conquer. Talk to one woman at a time, get them alone, see what they know.”
“Agreed,” Lani says. “But who do we start with?”
“I vote for Cozy.” Ruby wastes no time in nominating the spiciest Spice Girl of the bunch.
Lani raises a brow. “Why? Because you think she’s the killer?”
“No.” Ruby waves off the thought with a flick of her wrist. “Because she loves men as much as I do, and the only thing killer about her is that smile. We’ll bond over our shared appreciation for attractive humans, and she’ll spill all her secrets.”
I stare at her. “That’s your interrogation strategy? Bonding over hotness?”
“Do you have a better idea?”
I shake my head. “Literally anything else.”
“Look,” Ruby says, adjusting her neon pink visor.
“Cozy is flirtatious, chatty, and loves attention. If we get her talking about men, romance, or literally anything that makes her the center of the conversation, she’ll open up.
Trust me. I’ve been married umpteen times. I know how to get people talking.”
“You’ve also been divorced umpteen times,” Lani points out. “And you know how to get people to empty their wallets.”
“Exactly. I’m an expert in failed relationships and extracting information—as well as dollar bills. It pays to have hobbies.”
Ruby’s marital history is less a track record and more a hostage situation, but she isn’t wrong.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fine. We’ll start with Cozy. But we’re not bonding over men. We’re asking her about Debbie Lee, the show, and whether she noticed anything suspicious. And maybe a detailed history of her relationship with peanut butter.”
“Boring,” Ruby sings. “But fine. We’ll do it your way first. And when that doesn’t work, we’ll do it my way.”
“Deal,” I say. Although why do I feel as if I just made a deal with a hot pink devil?
Lani shifts her weight from foot to foot, her face still pale. “What if she asks me about the wooden spoon? What if everyone knows I’m a suspect? What if they think I’m the killer and they brand me right here and now?”
“Lani.” I grab her shoulders gently. “You’re not the killer. You’re the least murderous person I know. You literally apologize to vegetables before chopping them.”
“That’s because they’re living things!”
“Exactly,” I say. “You wouldn’t hurt Debbie Lee on purpose, and everyone who knows you knows that. So take a deep breath, channel your inner detective, and let’s go find out who actually did this.”
She nods, though she still looks like she might bolt for the van at any second.
We start up the trail, the red dirt crunching under our shoes and the heat pressing down on us like a physical weight. The trail winds upward through dense foliage, and within minutes, I’m wondering if I could fake an injury convincing enough to require an emergency airlift.
Ahead of us, the Spice Girls laugh and chat for the cameras, their husbands trailing behind them with the patient endurance of men who’ve handled bigger problems than humidity and vertical inclines.
Ruby elbows me. “Look there. Cozy is falling behind the group. Now’s our chance.”
I glance ahead. Sure enough, Cozy has stopped to adjust her shoe, waving the others on with a cheerful, “Go ahead, I’ll catch up!” The camera crew moves forward with Doreen and Bubbles, leaving Cozy alone on the trail.
Ruby grins. “It’s time to work our magic.”
We quicken our pace, closing the distance, and I mentally prepare myself for what is either going to be a brilliant interrogation or a complete disaster.
Knowing our track record, I’m betting on disaster. The only question is how many chickens get involved.