Chapter 18
The lava rocks are slick with sea spray from the waves crashing against them, and the tide pools glow faintly in the tiki torchlight, on this, the final night that the Spice Girls are among us.
Doreen and Cozy are standing near the edge, close enough to the water that one good wave could soak them both—and their body language screams, Argument in progress. Do not disturb.
Spam trots ahead of me like a cat who’s never met a situation he couldn’t make worse, his tail held high like a tiny orange exclamation point.
I can hear the sound of raised voices, but I can’t make out any words yet. Just the sharp edges of anger cutting through the ukulele music and tourist chatter from the luau behind us.
And, as fate would have it, as soon as they spot me approaching, all conversation ceases.
“Everything okay over here, ladies?” I ask, trying to sound casual and concerned rather than like a woman about to accuse them of murder.
I’m not, am I?
Oh heck, I think we all know I have to.
Both of them plaster on fake smiles and take a step back from one another.
“Oh, sugar pot pie, we’re just fine!” Cozy says, her Southern drawl stretched thin. “Just discussing the competition. There are so many wonderful recipes out there tonight. It’s going to be hard to choose just one.”
“In the dark? On the lava rocks?” I ask, marveling at the fact they actually think I might fall for that. “You’re quite a distance from the competition.”
Doreen’s smile falters. “We just needed some air.”
“From the outdoor luau?” I raise a brow. I think it’s obvious that I probably shouldn’t be provoking either of them—especially not if one or both are killers.
“We needed some fresher air,” Doreen says as her smile begins to sour.
Before I can push further, Bubbles appears beside me, slightly out of breath and looking concerned.
“Oh good, I found you!” she practically sings.
“I saw you all walking this way, and I thought, what if someone falls on these rocks in the dark? They’re so slippery!
And then I’d feel terrible because I didn’t warn anyone, and...
” She pauses and seems to notice the tension.
“Am I interrupting something? Wait, just a minute,” her mouth opens with delight, “are you girls having a private party? Do you have cookies?”
How I wish.
“No,” Cozy and Doreen say in unison.
“Yes,” I say at the same time. “I think they are having a private party. Sans the cookies, of course.”
“Oh well.” Bubbles rolls her eyes. “Everyone knows that sand doesn’t belong in cookies.
” She inches back and gasps at her friends.
“Wait just a sandy minute. What’s really going on here?
” She looks between us as her expression shifts from worried to curious.
“Is this about Debbie Lee? Because I know we’re all thinking about her tonight.
I mean, how could we not? The banana bread, the competition, the fact that she literally died right over there eating banana bread.
” She points down the way. “Is there etiquette for standing near where someone died? Should we have brought flowers? Should we have brought banana bread?”
Honestly, we sort of collectively brought banana bread.
What can I say? Apparently, we’re a ruthless bunch.
“Bubbles,” Doreen says gently, “it’s fine.”
“Are you sure?” Bubbles goes on. “Because I feel weird about it. Not as weird as I feel about the whole murder thing, obviously, but still pretty weird.”
And I’m starting to think Bubbles is the only one with a heart around here.
Spam sits down on a flat rock and begins wiping his face with one paw, completely unbothered by the tension radiating off everyone like heat from the tiki torches.
“Look,” I say carefully, “I know this has been hard on all of you. Debbie Lee’s death, the investigation, being suspects...”
“We’re not suspects,” Cozy interrupts with a gasp. “Honey, we are simply grieving colleagues.”
“Who all had reasons to want her dead,” I point out without missing a beat—and then I wince because of it. “Look, I’m not trying to be insensitive, but let’s not pretend we don’t all know the score here.”
Doreen’s expression hardens to stone. “Jinx, are you accusing us of something?”
The waves slap the shoreline with a particularly loud crash, and I swear I just heard the word yes emanate from them.
“I’m sorry, ladies,” I say. “I’m just trying to figure out what happened. That’s all. And that’s the honest truth.”
“By cornering us on the lava rocks in the middle of a party?” Doreen scoffs and takes a full step back.
“By asking questions,” I counter. “Which is what people do when someone gets murdered.”
Ask me how I know. I’m basically an old pro at this by now. Not that I want those bragging rights.
The waves crash louder, sending sea spray into the air that catches the moonlight like glitter.
Bubbles shifts her weight nervously from foot to foot.
“I just don’t understand why it had to be that specific slice,” Bubbles says suddenly, almost to herself. “I mean, there were so many loaves of banana bread. Why that one?”
Something flickers in my brain, but before I can grab onto it, the three women exchange glances.
Doreen straightens her shoulders. “You want the truth? Fine. We weren’t Debbie Lee’s biggest fans.”
“Not even close,” Cozy adds, her Southern accent thickening.
“That woman was fixing to drag my career through the mud and bury it six feet deep over something that happened years ago. She had photos, contracts, emails. Everything she needed to parade me on national television like I was the biggest fraud this side of the Mississippi.”
“She was going to fire me,” Doreen says flatly. “After five years of building that show from nothing. She wanted to replace me with some twenty-something food blogger and blame the whole thing on my stagnant creativity. She was going to humiliate me publicly.”
Bubbles fidgets with the strap of her tote bag.
“She knew about Cam’s indiscretions. And about how I used his position to help the show.
She had recordings, proof of everything.
She was going to leak it all right before his re-election campaign.
That woman would have been happy to tank my husband’s career. ”
They all nod at each other like the united front they are.
“So yes,” Cozy continues, “we all had reasons to want her toes up in the morgue. Excellent reasons, actually.”
“But we would never take her life,” Doreen adds firmly. “We’re not killers.”
Bubbles giggles nervously. “Honestly, if we were going to murder anyone, it would’ve been our husbands. At least they deserve it.”
The other two women belt out a few sharp barks of laughter that hold more truth than humor.
“Cam forgot our anniversary three years running,” Bubbles says.
“Tom leaves his socks literally everywhere,” Doreen adds. “Like he’s marking territory.”
“Gary once told me I looked like a tired raccoon right before we went on camera,” Cozy says. “I’m still not over it.”
They’re joking, but there’s an edge to it. Something that feels almost too honest wrapped in humor.
Bubbles shrugs. “But for all they’ve done, we’re still together. Those men would do anything for us.”
Those men have helped themselves to other women, I want to say, but don’t. It seems to me that all they think about is themselves.
“We should get back,” Doreen says finally. “People will notice we’re gone.”
“And the judging starts soon,” Cozy adds. “It’s time to pack on some serious pounds gobbling up all that banana bread.”
They start walking back toward the luau. Doreen and Cozy lead the way, but Bubbles lingers behind, glancing over her shoulder to make sure the other two are out of earshot.
“Jinx,” she whispers as she steps closer. “I don’t think I told you everything yesterday.”
My heart begins to hammer. “Okay, what else have you got?”
“Debbie Lee had files. On all three of them.” She glances back again, her voice dropping further. “Not just the affairs. Real files. The kind that don’t go away.”
“What kind of files?”
She hesitates, biting her lip. “If I were you, I’d start with Gary’s medical practice in Maine. Then maybe Tom’s biggest clients. And, well, Cam has always been very generous with developers.” She forces a brittle smile. “Anyway. I should get back. The judges’ tent calls.”
She hurries off after Cozy and Doreen, her pastel yellow sundress disappearing into the crowd of the luau.
I stand there for a moment as my pulse picks up. Then I pull out my phone.
Three searches. Three results. Three sets of headlines that make my stomach drop in escalating order.
“Oh my word,” I whisper to no one in particular.
Spam meows up at me from the lava rocks, his one good ear twitching like he can already tell the night just took a turn for the dangerous.
My phone buzzes and I fully expect to see a text from Koa, but instead I see my phone has pulled up one of those memory montages it likes to make without asking.
Dozens of pictures from the past few days.
Debbie Lee at the first filming. The Spice Girls laughing together.
The husbands standing in a group near the bar.
Bubbles organizing the kitchen. The setup before the fatal taping. The crowd gathered around.
I scroll through them slowly, my brain cataloging details, connections, patterns I didn’t see before.
If we were going to murder anyone, it would’ve been our husbands.
Lani had flour all over her hands the day Debbie Lee died. She had the Spice Girls shake her wooden spoon instead of her hand. She also shook other people’s hands that way, too.
Bubbles knew. Bubbles has known all along.
I look up at the luau, at the tiki torches flickering and the crowd laughing, and the banner announcing the Spice Girls’ triumphant return to baking.
I think I know who did this.
And why.