“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 thatsuggests 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.
CHAPTER 8
Confronting a potential murderer while wearing enough chocolate to qualify as a walking dessert buffet requires a certain level of confidence I’m not entirely sure I possess, but we’re doing this anyway.
The Nutty Wahine Chocolate Works is winding down from our group’s catastrophic visit, with staff members surveying the chocolate carnage like disaster relief workers assessing hurricane damage. The sweet aroma of cocoa still hangs in the air thick enough to swim through, mixing with the tropical breeze that carries hints of macadamia blossoms and the distant sound of Pele’s engine ticking as it cools down in the parking lot.
Giselle stands near the gift shop, somehow still looking like she stepped off the pages of a French culinary magazine despite the chocolate apocalypse we just survived. Her designer apron remains mysteriously pristine while I look like I’ve been used as ammunition in a cocoa war headed by raccoons.
“Giselle,” I call out, pulling the colorful sarong from my purse with what I hope looks like casual helpfulness. “What a coincidence to find you here. I think you dropped this in our parking lot.”
She turns, and for just a split second, something flickers across her face that looks less like gratitude and more like someone who’s just realized they left incriminating evidence at a crime scene.
“Oh,” she says, her French accent making even surprise sound sophisticated. “Merci beaucoup. I wondered where that had gone.”
