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.
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 tohandle 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, teaseit 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.
