As the impromptu photo session winds down, I float on my back in the crystal-clear water, surrounded by tropicalparadise and armed with more information than I had before.
Halea and Alana fighting over business territory. Bertha disapproving of outsiders affecting family finances. Erwin making threatening comments about putting people in their place. Obviously, he just floated to the top of my suspect list, and a part of me hopes he stays there.
And all of it happening in the most beautiful waterfall setting imaginable, because murder mysteries in paradise come with spectacular scenery and excellent swimming facilities.
The gecko does one final push-up and skitters away, having collected enough human drama evidence for whatever reptilian gossip network operates in tropical locations.
Halea might’ve had friction with Alana. Bertha certainly did. And Erwin… well, Erwin might be guilty of existing.
Time to see which of these motives may have led to an actual homicide, and whether anyone can survive Candy’s social media documentation of the investigation process.
CHAPTER 15
The thing about Secret Falls is that they don’t warn you that therealsecret is the trail back out. It’s less of a hike and more of a survival course designed by a demon with a fondness for mud. Red dirt sticks like cling wrap, vines lash out like bullwhips, and the mosquitoes are so bold they fly directly into your mouth just to prove their dominance.
So. Very. Gross.
So far, I’ve swallowed three.
The return journey on this trail of tropical doom proves even more treacherous than our original descent into jungle hell. The rain has started, and what began as questionable terrain has transformed into knee-deep mud with the consistency of chocolate pudding and the temperament ofquicksand seeking revenge against tourists in inappropriate footwear.
The young, spry hikers disappeared into the distance approximately thirty minutes ago like athletic gazelles fleeing a natural disaster, while our senior hiking club—consisting of Bertha, Ruby, Lani, and yours truly—brings up the rear at a pace that makes glacial movement look like Formula One racing.
Bertha moves slower than molasses in January, as if each step requires strategic planning and possibly divine intervention. Her shoes are now disguised as mud boots, and her face has achieved the color typically associated with tropical medical emergencies.
“This is all your fault,” she gasps between labored breaths, still committed to blaming me for geological formations and weather patterns beyond my control. “If you’d been a proper wife, none of us would be dying in this red dirt hell.”
Honestly, the woman has always been a Johnny One-Note.
“Yes, Bertha, my domestic failures definitely caused the formation of this hiking trail. I’m basically a geological supervillain.” I can be a Johnny One-Note, too.
Ruby and Lani trail behind us, their struggle up the trail resembling interpretive dance about the dangers of outdoor recreation.
Ruby clings to Lani’s arm, clearly having discovered that flip-flops weren’t designed for jungle expedition survival, while Lani mutters creative profanity about never againleaving the resort for any reason involving voluntary suffering.
A chicken appears on the trail ahead of us and clucks our way, conducting its own evaluation of our hiking progress. It examines our mud-covered group with the critical eye of a wilderness guide who’s decided we won’t make it out alive.
“Even the poultry is judging us,” I say, watching the chicken shake its head and disappear into the jungle like a feathered critic who’s seen enough amateur hour entertainment. Believe me, I have, too.
I glance over at Bertha and decide this enforced proximity provides the perfect opportunity for interrogation disguised as helpful hiking companionship. It’s time to see what my ex-mother-in-law really knows about Alana’s business practices and family financial management.
“So, Bertha,” I say, trying to sound friendly enough while helping her navigate a particularly treacherous root system, “what did you think of Candy’s business manager? You seemed to have some strong opinions about her involvement in the wedding planning.”
“Erwin was such a twit when he agreed to let her on board with the wedding planning. She was a business manager, not an expert on walking down the aisle. That boy was too trusting, as usual,” she pants, having enough oxygen for character assassination but not enough for actual hiking. “Always has been. Alana had him completely fooled with her professional expertise nonsense.”
“How so?”
“She was bleeding him dry with her ridiculous fees and constant additional services. Everything required special handling, extra payments, and premium upgrades. She had him convinced that a proper wedding required enough flowers to stock a funeral home and enough food to feed half the island. He shared all of the receipts with me as he always does.”
She shoots me a look that assures me she saw each of my credit card bills, too, which doesn’t surprise me. The woman showed up on our honeymoon and asked to sleep on a cot in the room.
“But Erwin started asking questions eventually, right?” I prompt, because evidently, I’ve committed to conducting this interrogation while avoiding tropical obstacles and gravitational challenges.
“Yes, finally,” she grumbles. “He started demanding itemized receipts and questioning every expense after I told him to. That woman didn’t like being held accountable for her spending sprees one bit.”
“Oh? How did she react to that?”
“Like a spoiled child being told no for the very first time. She threw tantrums about artistic vision and creative control. She started making threats about what would happen if he didn’t pay her full fees.”
