“Ruby and I heard the Slapper tell Loco she was heading to The Nutty Wahine Chocolate Works for their chocolate-making workshop,” Lani says with barely contained excitement. “We think we should go shake her down.”
“A workshop that involves copious amounts of chocolate?” I perk up immediately. “Well, that changes everything. I mean, we’re talking about chocolate here. That’s basically a medical emergency requiring immediate intervention.”
“Exactly,” Ruby says solemnly. “It would be irresponsible of us not to investigate. For public safety reasons.”
“And quality control,” Lani adds. “Someone needs to make sure she’s not poisoning the chocolate supply with her murderous tendencies.”
“Plus, if she is the killer, at least we’ll die happy,” I point out. “Death by chocolate beats death by crystal cocktail stirrer any day of the week, or a kitchen knife.”
I glance back toward where Koa disappeared, biting my lip. “Though technically, Giselle wasn’t the slapper—she was the slapped. And I’m pretty sure Koa wouldn’t want me butting into his case.”
“But chocolate trumps police protocol,” Ruby argues with a logic I can’t argue with.
“It’s a well-known legal loophole,” Lani confirms with a straight face, and I’m starting to think she’s right.
“I’m one hundred percent certain Koa would rather I stay safely at the resort organizing lei-making classes thanchasing down a potential perpetrator who’s probably learning to weaponize cocoa beans.”
Lani nods knowingly. “I thought you might say something like that.” She pulls a colorful sarong out of her apron with all the magic of producing a never-ending scarf from a hat. “Giselle dropped this as she peeled out of the parking lot.”
I snatch it up like it’s the last piece of chocolate on earth. “Well, in that case, I’m just being a responsible resort manager, reuniting one of our guests with a lost article of clothing.”
“You’re very civic-minded,” Ruby agrees solemnly. “And if there happens to be chocolate involved, that’s just a happy coincidence.”
“Exactly. And if I happen to reunite myself with a killer in the process, that’s just efficient multitasking with a side of cocoa.”
And perhaps something a bit more lethal.
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.
