Chapter 13
Apparently, feeding resort guests requires the same level of strategic planning as launching a space shuttle, except with worse food and a manager who treats grocery money like her personal retirement fund that she’s protecting from imaginary thieves.
It’s the next day, late afternoon on Kauai, and the heat radiates off the asphalt parking lot in waves that make the air shimmer like a mirage.
The coastal breeze carries the scent of orange blossoms and grilling teriyaki from somewhere down the road, mixed with the ever-present salt air and the faint aroma of our resort’s ongoing plumbing crisis, which is becoming its own signature scent and not in a good way.
A rooster crows from behind the kitchen, followed by what sounds like a heated chicken discussion about dinner plans.
“Jinx is coming with me for the kitchen supply run,” Lani announces to Melanie, who’s manning the front desk with her usual enthusiasm for customer service—which is to say, none whatsoever, possibly negative enthusiasm if that’s a thing.
Melanie looks up from her computer screen, where she’s been doing what appears to be online shopping rather than actual resort management. Her hair is pulled back into a bun so tight it could be used as a weapon, and her expression looks like someone just told her she has to eat gas station sushi.
“For kitchen supplies?” she repeats, as if Lani just announced plans to purchase a small country or possibly fund a revolution.
“For food,” Lani clarifies with the patience of kitchen staff who’ve had this conversation before. “You know, that stuff we need to keep guests from starving and leaving bad reviews.”
“We have a budget,” Melanie snaps, reaching into her desk drawer and pulling out a piece of paper that looks like it’s been photocopied from the Paleolithic era, possibly discovered in an archaeological dig.
“Stick to the list. No substitutions, no upgrades, no creative interpretations of what constitutes as necessary provisions.”
She shoves the list at Lani as if passing along a court subpoena.
“And don’t even think about charging anything to the resort account that isn’t on this list,” Melanie continues, her voice taking on the tone usually reserved for reading terms and conditions that no one actually reads. “Mr. X is watching every penny.”
“Mr. X is a ghost,” I mutter because I’m still not convinced he actually exists, at least not in the corporeal form.
“Mr. X signs my paychecks,” Melanie shoots back. “Which is more than I can say for some people around here.”
Ruby appears from the direction of the pool area, looking like she’s been wrestling with landscaping and possibly losing.
Her muumuu is covered in what might be mulch or possibly the remains of a plant that fought back, and she has a red hibiscus flower tucked behind one ear that’s seen better hours, wilting in the heat like the rest of us.
“Are we going on an adventure?” she asks brightly.
“We’re going grocery shopping,” Lani says flatly.
“Same thing, really. It’s all about perspective.”
Melanie’s eye twitches. “Three of you? For groceries? What is this, a social event?”
“Everything is a social event when you’re over fifty and fabulous,” Ruby replies, fluffing her red hair with a confidence that comes from never doubting your own fabulousness for a single second.
We head toward the resort’s transport vehicle, which turns out to be a van that looks like it survived several natural disasters and possibly a small war.
The paint job might have been white once upon a time, but now it’s more of a tropical rust with character.
One of the side mirrors is held on with duct tape, and the bumper appears to be attached through sheer force of will.
“Please tell me this thing is roadworthy,” I say, eyeing the van with the same enthusiasm I’d reserve for experimental surgery performed by someone who learned medicine from YouTube.
“It’s definitely roadworthy,” Lani says, climbing into the driver’s seat with casual ease as if she’s made peace with mortality. “Meet Pele—named after the volcano goddess because she’s temperamental, unpredictable, and occasionally spits fire.”
The engine starts with a sound that can only be described as mechanical bronchitis. Pele shudders, hiccups, and settles into an idle that suggests it’s considering its life choices as she roars to life.
“Buckle up,” Lani advises, and I notice she’s gripping the steering wheel like it might try to escape. “Pele likes to wiggle.”
Ruby and I climb into the back, which smells like a combination of old upholstery, salt air, and what might be the ghost of a thousand takeout meals. The seats are held together with more duct tape, and I’m pretty sure there’s a family of geckos living in the cup holders.
“Let me see that list,” I say, reaching for Melanie’s grocery manifesto like it’s evidence in a crime.
Lani hands it over, and I scan the contents with growing horror.
“What are we feeding these people, gruel? Prison food? Stuff they serve at places where hope goes to die?”
“It may as well be,” Lani says, pulling out of the parking lot with a grinding sound that makes my teeth ache. “Melanie makes the menus and the grocery lists. I just follow orders and try not to poison anyone, which is harder than you’d think with these ingredients.”
“You’re not really buying the supplies for this place at the grocery store, are you?
” I ask because the list reads like someone’s idea of a survivalist camping trip where the goal is to survive on the absolute minimum.
“Canned beans, white bread, processed cheese, mystery meat that’s probably seen things. ..”
“Where else would we buy them?” Lani asks, navigating around a pothole that could qualify as a small crater or possibly a portal to another dimension.
“Oh, sweet mother of pearl,” Ruby gasps from beside me. “No wonder this place is going under. You’re buying ingredients at tourist trap prices.”
The van hiccups as we turn onto the main road, and I grab the door handle for support because I’m not entirely convinced that we’re going to make it to our destination.
Outside, coconut palms sway in the wind, dancing to music only they can hear, and the ocean stretches to the horizon, trying too hard to be perfect, mocking our struggle with its effortless beauty.
“There’s a restaurant supply place on the island called Costco in case you didn’t get the memo,” Ruby continues. “Real ingredients at wholesale prices. We need to get into that place if we want to have a roof over our heads by the end of the month.”
“A roof over YOUR heads,” Lani corrects, steering around a chicken that’s decided the road belongs to it, and all vehicles are just suggestions. “I still live at home with Mama—and my kids live there, too.”
Ruby and I stare at her in stunned silence. And Pele chooses this moment to make a sound like a whale with indigestion.
“Your mother,” I say carefully, “is still...”
“Alive and kicking,” Lani finishes. “Ninety-nine years old and meaner than a wet cat. She runs the house with an iron spoon and makes the best lau lau on the island.”
“How many kids do you have again?” Ruby asks, clearly trying to process this information while also holding onto the door handle because Pele just hit another pothole.
“Three. Ages thirty-five, thirty-one, and twenty-eight. None of them is married, all of them living at home because the rent on this island costs more than most people make in a year. And they all have opinions about everything.”
Pele shudders over another pothole, and I swear I hear something important fall off underneath us, clattering away like our chances of making it to the grocery store.
“So basically,” I say, doing the math and feeling my heart hurt for her, “you’re supporting a household of five adults on a resort kitchen salary that’s probably minimum wage.”
“Six if you count my grandson, but he’s only two, so he doesn’t eat much yet. Give him a few years, though.”
Ruby looks like she’s trying to do complex math in her head, too. “Honey, how do you manage that?”
“Very carefully,” Lani says. “And with a lot of rice.”
We’re driving through what can only be described as paradise having a yard sale.
Roadside stands selling everything from fresh pineapple to hand-carved tikis line the highway, interspersed with tourist traps that promise authentic island experiences and probably deliver some serious keychain collections.
“So how about we take a quick detour through suspect land before we hit dollar hot dogs and tubs of questionable condiments?” I ask, and both Lani and Ruby quickly agree as Pele takes a sharp U-turn.
“Where exactly are we hunting down Savannah?” I ask, folding Melanie’s pathetic grocery list into a paper airplane because it deserves to be turned into something more functional.
“At the community garden,” Lani says, navigating around another chicken who’s clearly never learned about traffic safety. “She’s running a workshop this afternoon. I think she’s teaching kids how to plant traditional Hawaiian crops or something.”
“Perfect,” Ruby says. “Casual interrogation always works best when you’re surrounded by tiny witnesses and gardening tools that could double as weapons.”
“We’re not interrogating,” I point out, though I’m not entirely sure I believe myself. “We’re just... asking friendly questions about her relationship with our recently deceased guest.”
“While surrounded by tiny witnesses who happen to be armed with shovels and pitchforks,” Ruby adds.
Pele makes another concerning noise that sounds like metal scraping against hope, and a cat—one of our resort’s feline residents—pokes its head up from behind my seat like it’s been waiting for this exact moment.
A giant orange tomcat with white paws and one ear, gives me a look that clearly says, You thought you left me behind? Amateur.
“How did you get in here?” I ask.
The cat yawns, revealing tiny, sharp teeth, and settles onto the seat beside me like he owns the place. Which, given the state of Pele and the resort, and possibly the entire island, he probably does.
“That’s Spam,” Lani says, catching sight of him in the rearview mirror. “He likes field trips.”
“Spam?”
“Named after my second husband,” Ruby explains with the casual tone of an ex-wife who’s named multiple things after ex-husbands. “Both of them had commitment issues and a tendency to disappear for days at a time, then show up as if nothing had happened.”
“Aloha, Spam,” I say, giving his furry head a quick scratch. “Here’s hoping you’re the exact good luck charm we need.”
However, something tells me our luck ran out six exits ago.
The community garden sits on a gentle slope overlooking the ocean, about two miles inland from the resort, tucked into the landscape like it grew there naturally rather than being planted by human hands.
As we pull into the gravel parking area—with the van making one final protest that sounds like its last will and testament being read aloud—I can see Savannah Cross in the distance, surrounded by what is probably a group of children who appear to be having the time of their lives getting dirty in ways their parents will regret later.
She’s wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a sundress that somehow manages to look both practical and charming, her silver-streaked hair braided with what appear to be actual flowers from the garden.
Even from here, she radiates a calm competence that makes you want to confess your problems and ask for her banana bread recipe.
“There she is,” Ruby says, pointing toward the group like we’re spotting a rare bird. “Our friendly neighborhood garden guru.”
“Who may or may not have murdered our guest,” I add because we should probably remember why we’re here.
“Details,” Ruby waves dismissively.
Spam the cat jumps out of Pele and immediately begins stalking a butterfly with the focus of a tiny predator who takes his job very seriously.
The afternoon sun beats down on us with the enthusiasm of something trying to make a point, and I can already feel my bra beginning its slow surrender to the humidity.
“So,” I say, watching Savannah demonstrate proper seed planting technique to a group of people who are paying more attention to the dirt than the instruction because they’re most likely children who find dirt fascinating. “How exactly do we casually bring up murder at a children’s gardening class?”
“Very carefully,” Lani says, shouldering her canvas tote bag. “And with snacks. Everything goes better with snacks.”
Savannah Cross has no idea that three amateur detectives and one hitchhiking cat are about to turn her peaceful afternoon into a conversation that could either clear her name or land her in handcuffs.
And I’m not entirely sure which outcome I’m hoping for.