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.
“Mr. Nakamura had evidence. Photos, receipts, the whole sordid story. Poor Dane was looking at serious prison time. And a man like that, with hisflexiblerelationship with honesty? He’d never survive in prison. That pretty smile wouldn’t last a week.”
A woman whose nametag reads Betsy, stops pruning and stares, her pruning shears frozen mid-snip. “You think he killed Mr. Nakamura to avoid jail?”
“I think that boy’s smile hides a very dark heart,” Savannah says, her voice carrying enough authority to suggest she’s made a career out of reading people. “He’s spent his whole life charming his way out of consequences. But some consequences can’t be charmed away.”
The wind, AKA the pineapple express, chooses this moment to gust through the garden, sending the scent of flowers and freshly turned earth swirling around us like nature is providing its own commentary. It should be peaceful, serene even, but there’s something in Savannah’s tone that makes even paradise feel slightly ominous, as if there’s something dangerous hiding under all this beauty.
“How did you find out all this?” I ask because someone needs to ask the question that’s hanging in the air like humidity, heavy and impossible to ignore.
“Oh, honey,” Savannah says, her smile as warm and genuine as fresh-baked bread, the kind that makes you want to trust her completely. “When you’ve been part of a community as long as I have, you learn to pay attention. People tell you things. You see things. You put pieces together. It’s amazing what you can discover when you really care about protecting the people you love.”
“And you love this community,” Lani says. It’s not a question.
“With everything I have,” Savannah confirms, her hands moving to caress a flowering vine with the same gentle intensity she’s been using throughout her demonstration. “This garden, these people, this land—it’s all family to me. And you protect your family, no matter what it costs.”
The way she says it sends a chill down my spine despite the tropical heat. Spam reappears from the underbrush with what appears to be a small gecko in his mouth, looking pleased with his hunting skills.
“Well,” says Gladys, clearly oblivious to the undercurrents swirling around the conversation like dangerous riptides, “itsounds like Mr. Nakamura made quite a few enemies in his short time here.”
“Some people have a gift for bringing out the worst in others,” Savannah agrees. “It’s really quite sad when you think about it.”
“Very educational,” Ruby announces, deciding this is her moment to shine and possibly deflect from the murder talk before we reveal too much. She approaches a particularly phallic-looking cactus with the enthusiasm of a wannabe botanist who’s found her calling. “Savannah, honey, what’s the secret to handling something this impressive?”
“Well,” Savannah begins, clearly delighted to have such an engaged student. “Size can be intimidating, but it’s really all about technique and confidence.”
“I’ve always found that to be true,” Ruby says solemnly, running her fingers along the cactus with theatrical appreciation. “My third husband was particularly, uh,substantial, and it took some practice to learn the right approach.”
Gladys fans herself harder, her face flushing every shade of red. “Oh my.”
“The key,” Ruby continues, “is not to be afraid of getting pricked. Sometimes a little pain leads to the most beautiful blooms.”
“Exactly!” Savannah exclaims. “I see that you understand the deeper philosophy of cultivation.”
“Honey, I’ve been cultivating men for over eighty years,” Ruby declares. “I could write a manual on proper handling techniques.”
A very naughty manual.
Meredith swoons. “Ruby, you simply must share your secrets!”
“Well,” Ruby says, positioning herself beside what appears to be a very suggestive squash plant, “the first thing you need to know is that size isn’t everything. It’s all about knowing where to apply pressure and how long to maintain contact.”
At this point, Lani looks like she’s trying to disappear into the hibiscus bush and possibly die from secondhand embarrassment. Spam has abandoned us entirely for more dignified hunting grounds, and I’m wondering if there’s a support group for people whose friends have accidentally turned gardening into inappropriate performance art.
“And another thing,” Ruby continues, now addressing her rapt audience like she’s giving a TED talk, “you can’t be afraid to get your hands dirty. Some of the best results come from really getting in there and?—”
“RUBY FIGGINS!”
The voice cuts through the garden like a hatchet through paradise, sharp and unforgiving. A tall, stern-looking woman in sensible shoes and an expression that could wilt plants storms toward us, followed by what appears to be the president of the local garden club wearing a badge that readsHorticulture Professionallike it’s a warning.
