Chapter 14
It turns out, the children’s gardening class is actually Traditional Hawaiian Gardening for Mature Women, which explains why I’m currently watching a sixty-something woman with the name Meredith taped to her blouse practice what Savannah calls the proper stroking technique of a banana tree, and I’m trying very hard not to make eye contact with anyone.
The late afternoon sun beats down with the enthusiasm of a personal trainer who’s had too much caffeine, and the air is thick with the competing scents of jasmine, rich earth, and the collective perspiration of eight women learning to handle their tools with confidence, which is a phrase I never needed to hear in this context.
The community garden sprawls across a hillside that overlooks the Pacific like nature’s own amphitheater, with terraced plots of taro, sweet potato, and what appears to be enough flowering plants to supply a small wedding industry.
Behind us, the emerald mountains of Hanalei rise like ancient cathedral spires, their razor-sharp ridges cutting into a sky so blue it hurts to look at directly, a brilliant blue that makes you understand why people write poetry about tropical paradises.
Waterfalls cascade down sheer cliff faces in silver ribbons, disappearing into valleys so green and lush they look like someone spilled every shade of jade ever invented across the landscape.
The whole scene is so devastatingly beautiful, it makes you understand why people move to islands and never leave—and why someone might kill to protect a piece of it from developers who see dollar signs instead of sacred spaces.
“Now, ladies,” Savannah says, standing beside a flourishing patch of what I’m pretty sure is ginger, her voice taking on the tone of a woman imparting ancient wisdom.
“The secret to successful planting is all about knowing exactly where to apply pressure. You want to be gentle but firm, finding that sweet spot where the earth is most receptive.”
Ruby elbows me in the ribs. “Is it just me, or does this sound less like gardening and more like a manual for how to deal with husbands?”
“You have to develop an intimate relationship with your soil,” Savannah continues, her voice taking on the breathless quality usually reserved for romance novels or very specific instructional videos. “Feel its texture, understand its needs, know when it’s ready for you to plant your seed.”
A woman with a tangle of red hair raises her hand. “My name is Gladys. What if the soil seems resistant?”
“Patience, dear. Sometimes you need to work it slowly, tease it open, add a little moisture until it’s perfectly prepared for what you want to give it.”
Lani makes a sound that’s somewhere between a snort and a gasp. Spam, who followed us from the van and is now perched on a ceramic planter shaped like a pineapple, looks like he’s judging everyone here and with good reason.
“This is either the most educational gardening class I’ve ever attended, or the most agricultural seduction seminar,” I mutter to Ruby.
“Husband number three would have loved this,” Ruby whispers back. “He had a thing for innuendos and vegetables. Very specific vegetables.”
Savannah moves to demonstrate on a young avocado tree, her hands moving along the trunk with attention usually reserved for premium spa treatments or possibly activities that should require consent forms. “You see how I’m caressing the bark?
Plants respond to touch just like... well, just like anything else that needs proper care and attention. ”
“Oh my,” says Meredith, fanning herself with a leaf that looks like it might be wilting from the heat or possibly the conversation. “I had no idea gardening could be so stimulating.”
“Everything in nature is about fertility and growth,” Savannah explains, her silver-streaked hair catching the sunlight as she leans over her demonstration. “The key is understanding the delicate dance between giving and receiving.”
I’m starting to wonder if we’ve accidentally wandered into some kind of naughty botanical therapy session when Lani clears her throat with a deliberate loudness that lets me know she’s about to change the subject before things get more awkward.
“Speaking of delicate situations,” she says, and I can hear the careful calculation in her voice, “we heard about that terrible incident at the resort the other night. Must have been quite shocking for everyone who was there.”
Savannah’s hands are still on the avocado tree, and for just a second, her expression shifts from earth-mother serenity to something sharper. “Oh yes, poor Mr. Nakamura. Such a tragedy.”
“You were out on the beach pretty late that night, weren’t you?” Ruby asks with an innocent curiosity as if she definitely doesn’t have ulterior motives and is absolutely not conducting an amateur murder investigation.
“I’m afraid I was,” Savannah says, her voice taking on a carefully modulated tone of regret. “I simply couldn’t bear to leave such stimulating conversation. You know how it is when you meet new people—you want to really get to know them, understand what makes them tick.”
“And did you?” I ask. We’re already here, and I might as well commit to the interrogation. “Understand what made Nolan tick?”
Savannah straightens up, brushing soil off her hands with movements that somehow manage to look both graceful and deliberate. “Mr. Nakamura was a very... complicated man. He had some rather firm ideas about how land should be used. Very rigid thinking, if you know what I mean.”
Gladys leans forward eagerly, apparently thrilled to be part of what she probably thinks is just garden-variety gossip. “Rigid thinking can be such a problem in a relationship.”
“Exactly,” Savannah says with an intense nod. “Some people simply can’t adapt to new environments. They try to force their way into situations instead of learning to work with what’s already there.”
“Was he forcing his way into something specific?” Lani asks, and I notice how carefully she’s phrasing this, like she’s planting seeds of her own.
“Oh, he had all sorts of ideas about developing this area. He wanted to pave over the garden, build condominiums, turn everything natural and organic into something artificial and commercial.” Savannah’s voice carries just the right note of wounded disappointment.
“I tried to show him the error of his ways, but some people are simply too set in their methods to change.”
“How awful,” says a woman who’s been aggressively pruning a hibiscus bush like it personally offended her. “What kind of person threatens a community garden?”
“The kind who’s already made too many enemies,” Savannah says, her tone shifting to something that sounds almost satisfied. “Take that yoga instructor, May Leilani. Sweet little thing on the surface, but underneath? She’s got some very deep, very dark roots.”
My internal radar starts pinging. This feels less like casual gossip and more like a character assassination with a carefully prepared script.
“Really?” Ruby says, playing her part perfectly with just the right amount of shocked interest. “She seemed so... zen.”
“Oh, she’s zen, all right. Zen and the art of running from your past.” Savannah moves to a new plant, her hands working the soil around its base with an intensity that makes me wonder if she’s practiced this conversation in front of a mirror.
“Did you know she’s not even really May Leilani?
I heard that’s a stolen identity from some poor soul who died in a car accident.
An accident that our dear May may or may not have been personally involved in, if you catch my meaning. ”
Everyone gasps.
The temperature in the garden seems to rise about ten degrees, and it has nothing to do with the afternoon sun beating down on us like it’s trying to make a point.
“You mean...” Gladys gasps, one hand flying to her chest in genuine shock.
“I mean, that girl has been living a lie for years, and Mr. Nakamura found out. He was threatening to expose her whole fabricated spiritual awakening story. Can you imagine? All those social media followers, all that money from her wellness retreats, all of it built on a foundation of... well, let’s just say very bad karma. ”
Spam jumps down from his planter and starts stalking something in the underbrush. Even the cat can sense when a conversation has taken a predatory turn.
“But surely,” Meredith says, “she wouldn’t actually hurt someone over that?”
“Desperate people do desperate things,” Savannah says, her voice taking on the tone of sharing hard-won wisdom.
“And May was very desperate. She’d built this whole new life, this whole new identity.
The thought of losing it all? Of going back to being plain old.
.. well, whoever she really is? That kind of fear can make someone very dangerous. ”
“She did seem rather upset during the argument,” I say, testing the waters and watching Savannah’s reaction.
“Upset doesn’t begin to cover it. The girl was practically pulsating with negative energy.
And the way she kept looking at me afterward.
..” Savannah shudders delicately, like she’s reliving a traumatic moment.
“I think she blames me for some of Mr. Nakamura’s interest in her.
As if I somehow turned him against her little fantasy retreat center idea. ”
Lani shoots me a look, and I shrug her way.
“What about Dane?” I ask.
If she’s going to throw people under the bus, I want to see how many passengers she’s got lined up.
“Oh, that boy.” Savannah’s laugh has edges sharp enough to prune roses. “Dane Huntington and his thousand-watt smile. Did you know he’s been skimming money from the resort’s activity funds? Creating fake tours, charging tourists for experiences that don’t exist, pocketing the difference?”
“No,” Ruby breathes, playing scandalized with the skill of an ex-wife who’s been scandalized by at least four husbands.