Chapter 7
The drive to The Nutty Wahine Chocolate Works takes us through rolling hills covered in macadamia trees that stretch toward mountains so green they look like someone spilled emerald paint across the landscape.
Our resort’s beat-up van—Pele, the same weathered vehicle that’s held together by optimism, duct tape, and what I’m pretty sure are several illegal modifications—wheezes up the winding road while Ruby pilots us with confidence, as if she learned to navigate during a natural disaster.
“I still can’t believe we left Melanie in charge,” I say, gripping the door handle as Ruby takes a curve at speeds that would make NASCAR drivers reconsider their career choices.
“She’s got the Hale brothers babysitting her,” Lani points out from the passenger seat, where she’s clutching her wooden spoon like a talisman against Ruby’s driving. “Between Loco and Shaka, they can probably prevent her from burning down the resort or selling it to the highest bidder.”
“Though knowing Melanie, she’ll find a way to turn both of them against us and stage a hostile takeover before we get back,” I mutter.
A gray tabby with white paws pokes his head up from behind my seat, having stowed away for this adventure.
He’s followed by what appears to be Spam’s cousin—a slightly smaller cat with both ears intact but the same judgmental expression that alludes to the fact he’s evaluating our decision-making skills and finding them wanting.
“How do they keep getting in here?” I ask.
“They probably have their own set of keys at this point,” Ruby says cheerfully, taking another curve that makes Pele’s suspension system scream at top volume. “Spam runs a more efficient transportation network than most taxi companies.”
The chocolate factory comes into view around the bend, all white buildings and red tile roofs tucked into macadamia groves that look carefully curated in hopes to go viral on social media.
The parking lot is packed with rental cars and tour buses, their passengers clutching cameras and wearing enough vacation excitement that assures me this stop has been circled on an itinerary for weeks.
“There’s our French pastry princess,” Lani says, pointing toward a group of tourists clustered around what appears to be the main entrance.
Giselle stands in the middle of the crowd wearing an apron that somehow looks like haute couture, her dark hair pulled back in a way that screams she’s ready for serious chocolate business.
She’s asking a tour guide questions with broad gestures and lots of gesticulation, looking completely unbothered by the audience she’s gathered.
“She looks awfully comfortable for someone who may have just plunged a knife into her nemesis,” Ruby points out.
“Either she’s really into chocolate, or she’s planning to poison the entire tourist population with artisanal cocoa,” I say. “Both equally plausible at this point.”
We join the tour group just as the guide—a cheerful woman whose enthusiasm for macadamia nuts borders on religious fervor—begins explaining the harvesting process with agricultural passion that makes organic farming sound like an extreme sport. And I have no doubt it is.
“The macadamia nut is native to Australia,” she announces, “but Hawaii has perfected the art of growing them in paradise!”
“Unlike my ex-husbands, who couldn’t grow anything except debt and disappointment,” Ruby whispers, loud enough to make several tourists turn around and titter.
The tour moves into the chocolate-making facility, a large building with lots of white walls, lots of stainless-steel machines, and lots of people wearing hairnets and gloves.
The air is so thick with cocoa aroma, I’m pretty sure you could get a contact high just from breathing. Industrial chocolate tempering machines hum with a precision that makes me understand why people become obsessed with artisanal desserts.
“Now, let’s talk about how chocolate goes from bean to bliss,” the guide says, lowering her voice as if her boss might be listening to the secret she’s about to spill.
“First, we harvest the cacao pods from the trees, then ferment the beans for about a week to develop flavor. After that, we dry them in the sun, roast them to bring out the chocolate taste we love, crack off the shells to get the nibs, grind those nibs into chocolate liquor—which isn’t alcoholic, sorry folks—then separate that into cocoa butter and cocoa powder.
Add sugar, maybe some milk, and lots of love, and voilà!
The chocolate we can’t live without is born. ”
“Sounds more complicated than my last relationship,” I mutter.
“But with better results,” Lani adds.
“Just about anything has better results.”
“Now we’ll learn about temperature control,” the guide continues, leading us to a station covered with thermometers and what appears to be enough chocolate to supply a small island—this one.
“Proper chocolate tempering requires exact temperatures—too hot and it seizes, too cold and it won’t set properly. ”
“Sounds like my dating life,” I mutter.
“At least chocolate is consistent,” Lani observes. “You heat it up, it melts. You cool it down, it hardens. No mixed signals, no games, no pretending it’s just not ready for a relationship.”
“Exactly,” Ruby agrees with a knowing that comes from having more than a dozen ex-husbands. “Chocolate never lies about its weight, doesn’t steal the remote, and always delivers on its delicious promises. Plus, it doesn’t leave dirty socks on the floor or forget anniversaries.”
“Or accuse you of homicide,” I mutter.
We’re handed aprons and stationed at individual chocolate tempering setups that look like science experiments designed by a scientist with a serious sweet tooth. The goal is to create perfectly tempered chocolate that can be molded into whatever shape our artistic vision demands.
Ruby’s chocolate immediately seizes into what can only be described as chocolate concrete—hard, lumpy, and completely unsuitable for anything except possibly construction projects, and snacks.
“I think I broke it,” she announces, poking at her chocolate with a spoon that bounces off the surface.
“You didn’t break it, you just gave it commitment issues,” Lani says, whose own chocolate has achieved the consistency of chocolate soup and is currently threatening to escape its container.
My chocolate, meanwhile, has decided to become abstract art—swirling patterns that look like either a Jackson Pollock painting or something you’d find on a crime scene forensics report. That latter seems painfully on brand for me.
Giselle, naturally, creates perfect chocolate that flows like silk and looks like something you’d pay premium prices for at a fancy dessert boutique. She handles the temperature control with an expertise that makes the rest of us look like amateurs playing with delicious toys.
“Very impressive technique,” the guide tells her, clearly recognizing professional skill when she sees it.
“I’ve had some practice,” Giselle says modestly, which is either false modesty or a massive understatement.
The tour moves to the molding station that’s filled with an entire row of lusciously flowing chocolate fountains. At least a dozen of them, each rising four feet high and bubbling with enough chocolate glory to evoke a moan of approval from each and every one of us.
The guide lets us know this is where we’re supposed to pour our chocolate creations into shapes that will presumably look like something identifiable. Ruby’s chocolate, having achieved the consistency of volcanic rock, refuses to pour at all.
“I think mine has achieved consciousness and is actively resisting participation,” she announces, trying to coax her chocolate out of the container with what appears to be a combination of pleading and threats.
“Maybe try negotiating with it,” I suggest. “Offer it better working conditions and health benefits—maybe a bite of one of our cinnamon rolls.”
“Chocolate doesn’t need health benefits,” Lani points out. “It IS the health benefit. Antioxidants, mood enhancement, spiritual fulfillment—it’s basically medicine that tastes good.”
“Unlike men, who taste questionable and provide no measurable health benefits,” Ruby adds, finally managing to extract some of her chocolate concrete and dropping it into a mold where it lands with a sound like a small rock hitting pavement.
The tour guide has moved on to what she enthusiastically calls quality control, which appears to be code for eat as much chocolate as humanly possible while pretending it’s educational.
“The key to proper chocolate appreciation,” she explains, “is understanding the complexity of flavor profiles and the way different cocoa percentages affect taste and texture.”
“The key to proper chocolate appreciation,” Ruby corrects, “is having enough to get through whatever crisis your life is currently experiencing.”
“Amen,” Lani agrees, sampling what appears to be her fourth piece of milk chocolate. “Chocolate doesn’t judge you for eating it for breakfast, doesn’t complain when you choose it over social obligations, and never makes you feel guilty for wanting more.”
“Plus, it’s always there when you need it,” I add, reaching for another sample. “Consistent, reliable, and it improves your mood instead of ruining it.”
“We should write a self-help book,” Ruby says. “Why Chocolate Is Better Than Dating—A Guide to Everlasting Happiness.”
I nod approvingly. “It sounds like a bestseller already.”
Ruby steps closer to the display with her phone raised as she angles for the perfect social media shot.
“Just one more—”
Her elbow clips the edge of the table. Not hard but just enough.
The nearest chocolate fountain wobbles, hesitates, then tips, knocking into the next. A row of fountains follows, the steady hum breaking into startled clanks. Chocolate sloshes, molds slide, finished pieces skid and drop to the floor with soft, irreversible thuds.
Someone gasps. Someone else swears.
Ruby freezes, phone still in the air, staring at the spreading mess.
I close my eyes and count to three, already calculating how much this is going to cost and whether it’s too late to pretend I’ve never met her.
“INCOMING!” someone shouts as tourists dive to save their chocolate creations as a giant chocolate tsunami hits us all at once.
SPLASH!
And in less than three delicious seconds, everyone in the room is coated with chocolate goodness.
Ruby emerges from the chaos looking like she wrestled with Willy Wonka’s entire factory and lost spectacularly. Chocolate covers her muumuu, decorates her hair, and has somehow managed to coat her sunglasses despite the fact that we’re indoors.
“I may have gotten a little carried away with the hands-on experience,” she admits, chocolate dripping from her arms.
Lani looks like a walking dessert menu, with chocolate handprints across her apron and what appears to be cocoa powder dusting her hair like edible snow. “I’m pretty sure I just became a health code violation.”
I survey my own chocolate-covered state and realize I look like a crime scene where the victim was murdered with premium confections. “At least if we die investigating this case, we’ll die happy.”
Giselle, somehow, remains pristine. Not a single drop of chocolate mars her designer apron, her hair is still perfectly arranged, and she watches the mess with a calm that doesn’t flicker.
The tour guide stands in the middle of the chocolate apocalypse, surveying the damage with an expression that suggests she regrets every bite of chocolate that ever led to this moment, that or she needs more to cope. Maybe both
“Well,” she says finally, “this is certainly the most enthusiastic tour group we’ve had this month.” And by enthusiastic, I bet she means dangerous.
As other tourists begin departing, clutching their salvaged chocolate creations and what’s left of their dignity, I realize this is the perfect opportunity for some casual conversation with our French suspect.
I approach Giselle, trying to look nonchalant despite being covered in enough chocolate to qualify as a walking dessert buffet.
“Giselle,” I call out, giving a friendly wave that sends more chocolate splattering at nearby tourists.
She turns, and for just a second, something flickers across her face, making me wonder if she feels caught in a lie she hasn’t quite told yet.