Chapter 14
The lobby of the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort has seen better days. And by better days, I mean days when we weren’t actively investigating a murder while pretending everything was fine. Although, I’ll be honest, I don’t remember those days—I wasn’t here to enjoy them.
Ruby, Lani, and I are huddled near the bamboo reception counter, keeping our voices low, while Spam dozes on a rattan chair and a rooster patrols the perimeter as if he’s the head of security.
“Our case has stalled,” Ruby announces, like saying it out loud will somehow make it less true.
“It hasn’t stalled,” I argue. “We’re just strategically pausing.”
“That’s what people say when they’ve got nothing,” Lani mutters while crossing her arms. Her wooden spoon is tucked into her waistband like a weapon, because being a murder suspect hasn’t dampened her attachment to kitchen utensils—even if it does turn out to be the murder weapon.
“We know Bubbles had opportunity,” I tick off on my fingers. “We know she was alone in the kitchen with the supplies. We know Doreen overheard her arguing with Debbie Lee about permits and inspections.”
In the real world, that’s a coincidence. In my world, it’s a clue with a bow on it.
“But we don’t know what Debbie Lee actually had on her,” Ruby points out. “And without that, we’re just guessing.”
“I hate guessing,” I say with a sigh.
Ruby nods. “We all hate guessing.”
Before we can spiral further into investigative despair, the front doors swing open and Cozy, Doreen, and Bubbles walk in looking refreshed and impossibly put-together in cute sundresses that make me acutely aware I’m wearing shorts with a questionable coffee stain.
Cozy is in coral pink, of course, with her red hair catching the afternoon light. Doreen has opted for cool linen in sage green, and Bubbles is bouncing along in a pastel yellow number that matches her sunny disposition.
“Well, don’t you ladies look ready for an adventure,” I say.
“We’re looking to soak in some local color,” Doreen says with a smile. “We want to see the real Kauai before we have to head back to filming. Or, you know, whatever we’re doing now that Debbie Lee is gone and everything is up in the air.”
Ruby’s eyes light up with the gleam of a woman who’s just spotted an opportunity. “We’d love to show you around! There’s this gorgeous spot at Hanalei Bay that’s absolutely perfect this time of day.”
The three women exchange glances and nod.
“That sounds wonderful,” Cozy says. “Lead the way, sugar.”
If a willing tour guide and three potential murder suspects climbing into a haunted van isn’t an investigation breakthrough, I don’t know what is.
Five minutes later, we’re all piling into Pele, who starts on the second try, which I’m choosing to interpret as a good omen, and heading north toward Hanalei Bay for what amounts to a thirty-second drive.
Coconut Cove is essentially in Hanalei Bay.
The trade winds whip through the open windows, carrying the scent of plumeria and impending adventure.
Bubbles is in the back of the van, humming along to the radio, when she suddenly yelps. “Oh! There’s something under my seat!”
I glance back just as Coconut, our sleek black princess, pops her head up from between a pair of ankles with the unimpressed expression of a cat who’s been caught but doesn’t particularly care.
“That’s just Coconut,” I tell her. “She’s one of our resort cats. She must have snuck in when we weren’t looking. They have a habit of doing that.”
“Oh, I love cats!” Bubbles scoops Coconut up and tucks her into her tote bag like she’s securing precious cargo.
Coconut settles in immediately, deciding that a beach trip in a stranger’s purse is perfectly acceptable.
“Back home in Maine, I had this cat named Mr. Whiskers who used to steal socks from the neighbors’ laundry lines.
We’d find them all over the yard. Just socks, nothing else.
My husband thought we had a sock-obsessed raccoon for months before we caught Mr. Whiskers red-pawed with an argyle knee-high lodged in his mouth. ”
Cozy laughs from the front seat. “Only you would have a kleptomaniac cat, Bubbles.”
“He was very talented! How I miss that little guy.” Bubbles nods appreciatively at the thought of her dearly departed feline criminal mastermind.
We pull into the parking area at Hanalei Bay, and the view steals my breath even though I can see it right out my window.
The bay curves in a perfect crescent of turquoise water meeting white sand, backed by sheer green mountains that rise like emerald guardians.
The pier stretches out into the water, and surfers dot the waves, silhouettes against the afternoon sun.
We pile out of Pele, and Coconut leaps from Bubbles’ bag to explore this new territory with feline authority.
The beach is dotted with families, couples, locals throwing fishing nets, and tourists taking selfies. The air smells like salt and coconut sunscreen, and the sound of waves mixing with laughter creates a soundtrack that screams paradise.
Then the sky does that thing where it can’t decide between sun and rain.
Fat drops start falling even though the sun is still blazing, and within seconds, rainbows appear. Not one, but two perfect arcs stretching across the bay.
“Double rainbow!” we all shout in unison, laughing as the rain kisses our faces and the sun refuses to acknowledge that weather should make sense.
Just as quickly as it started, the rain stops. The sun blazes back at full strength, and we’re left standing there, damp and grinning like loons who have just witnessed some serious magic.
Because, face it, we kind of did.
Ruby points toward a shave ice vendor set up under a rainbow umbrella near the beach access. “Ladies, we need to cool off. And I know just the thing.”
Of course the shave ice stand has a rainbow umbrella. Kauai never misses an opportunity to commit to a theme.
We make our way over, and the vendor, a local guy with sun-bleached hair and the patient expression of a man who’s seen a hundred indecisive tourists before lunchtime, greets us with a nod.
“What can I get you, beautiful ladies?”
The Spice Girls huddle around the flavor board, debating options with the seriousness of people choosing life partners.
While they’re picking through far too many flavors to comprehend, Ruby leans in close to Lani and me. “We’ll distract Cozy and Doreen. You work on Bubbles.”
“Dibs on Cozy,” Ruby announces, already moving. “She likes men almost as much as I do, and I’ve got stories that’ll keep her entertained for hours.”
“Hey, that’s not fair!” Lani calls out, taking off after Doreen. “I like men, too!” She turns my way and shrugs. “Just not as many.”
We join the rest of our crew at the shave ice stand, and I’m left standing with Bubbles, who’s completely absorbed in choosing her shave ice flavors.
“I’ll have pineapple, strawberry, and coconut,” Cozy orders.
“Lilikoi, mango, and vanilla cream,” Doreen says.
“Blue raspberry, cotton candy, and bubblegum!” Bubbles announces. “The bluer the better!” She turns my way and nods. “Everyone knows the blue has all the B vitamins in it.”
Now that’s a Bubble-ism I’ll remember for a long time to come. Blue raspberry happens to be one of my favorite flavors. And now that it has quasi-scientific backing, I can order as much as I want unabashedly.
When it’s my turn, I panic. “Watermelon, cotton candy, tiger’s blood, mango, and oh! Coconut.” Okay, so I left off the blue raspberry. I’ll circle back tomorrow and rectify that posthaste.
The vendor stares at me. “That’s five flavors.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Most people get three.”
“I’m not most people.”
He looks genuinely worried, or possibly annoyed. It’s hard to tell because his sunglasses are reflecting my own indecisive face back at me. “You want all five on one shave ice?”
“Is that possible?”
“Technically.”
“Then yes.”
He shakes his head but starts building what can only be described as a flavor monstrosity, and honestly, I’m not mad about it.
And once he hands it over, my mouth does its best to seal itself over the top—and fails miserably. This cone is the size of my head.
I lick melting shave ice off my hand. “The resort is getting a new shave ice machine installed. I’m hoping to have it ready by the luau next week.” True as shave ice gospel.
“Oh, perfect!” Bubbles claps her hands, nearly dropping her blue-stained treat. “After we stuff ourselves with banana bread at the bake-off, we can cool down with shave ice! Carbs cancel out cold things, right? That’s basic science.”
“How I wish,” I mutter.
Cozy visibly flinches. “Hon, I can’t even look at banana bread after what happened to poor Debbie Lee. That woman is just gone.” She snaps her fingers. “Like that. One minute she’s talking about gossip and ratings, the next she’s—” She presses her lips together and shakes her head.
An uncomfortable silence settles over our little group.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I know this has been hard on all of you.”
Doreen’s expression softens. “It has. But life goes on, doesn’t it? We keep cooking, keep filming, keep moving forward. It’s what Debbie Lee would have wanted.”
I’m not entirely sure Debbie Lee would have wanted anything that didn’t directly benefit Debbie Lee, but I keep that thought to myself.
We work on our shave ice and head toward the beach, flicking off our flip-flops and leaving them in a heap near a palm tree. The sand is warm under our feet, and the ocean sparkles in that way that makes you believe in things like fresh starts and second chances—and maybe mermaids.
A shirtless surfer jogs past us, all bronze skin, water-slicked abs, and a smile that should be illegal in three time zones. He gives us a wolf whistle without breaking his stride.
Ruby clutches her chest with all the drama she can afford. “Did you see that? I still got it!”
“Hon, we all saw it.” Cozy fans herself with her free hand. “And I’m pretty sure he was looking at all of us.”
“Speak for yourself,” Ruby calls after him. “I’m the one he made eye contact with!”
“That was sunlight reflecting off your earrings,” Lani deadpans.
“Doesn’t matter. It still counts.”
Doreen takes a bite of her shave ice and sighs. “You know what I’ve learned about men over the years? They only have one thing on their minds.”
“Oh, sugar pie,” Cozy laughs, her Southern drawl thick with mischief. “Some of us girls have that on our minds, too.”
“Hear, hear!” Ruby raises her shave ice in salute. “I didn’t get hitched over a dozen times for nothing.”
Cozy’s eyes go wide. “Over a dozen times?”
“Thirteen, if we’re counting.” Ruby grins. “Though number seven might not count since we only made it three weeks before he ran off with my cousin.”
Cozy links arms with Ruby, steering her down the beach. “Oh hon, you’re going to have to tell me everything. And I do mean everything. Don’t leave any dirty little detail out. You know I’m a nosey ninny. That’s how I make a living.”
They disappear down the shoreline, with Ruby already launching into what I’m sure is a highly embellished story about husband number four. Okay, fine, it’s probably more truth than your average ears can handle.
Lani looks to me and winks before turning to Doreen with sudden intensity.
“Doreen, you have to tell me everything about The Spice Is Right. How did you get your own cooking show? I’d give anything to have my own show here on the island.
” She links arms with Doreen, and they start walking toward the cliffs.
“Tell me about the first episode. The first disaster. The first time you thought you’d made a terrible mistake. ”
Doreen laughs, already warming to the subject, and they drift away in deep conversation about the culinary arts and the chaos of live television.
“And then there were two,” I say with a shrug.
“Three,” Bubbles corrects, laughing as she turns slightly until her tote bag swings my way.
And to my surprise, I see Coconut’s pretty green eyes blink up at us from inside Bubbles’ bag.
“Oh my goodness,” I say as we share a laugh, and I take a bite of my five-flavor monstrosity, which tastes exactly like you’d expect five random flavors to taste when combined: chaotic but oddly satisfying—sort of like my life.
“Now what kind of war stories do you think we can share?” Bubbles asks, her voice all too innocent. Or at least seemingly so.
“Oh, I think we’ll come up with something.”
We start walking along the water’s edge, and I’m trying to figure out how to casually interrogate someone about murder when they’re eating blue shave ice and cuddling a cat, but before I can formulate a plan, Bubbles lifts a finger.
“You know,” she says quietly, her usual bubbly tone dropping into something more serious, “I have a confession to make.”
I lean in close, terrified to jinx the moment.
Bubbles nods. “Debbie Lee wasn’t really all that nice of a person.”
And just like that, the door cracks open. Because sometimes the key to catching a killer isn’t clever interrogation or brilliant detective work, but simply being there when someone finally decides to stop pretending and starts telling the truth.