Ruby is still clinging to Lani like a tropical vine with entanglement issues while attempting to navigate the slope with the grace that comes from discovering gravity has personal vendettas against elderly women in inappropriate footwear—or lack thereof.
Lani bravely goes first with Ruby still attached, and immediately loses her footing on the slippery slope. They slide down in a tangle of limbs and creative expletives that will forever be seared into my gray matter.
“Well,” I say to Bertha, watching our friends disappear into the mud below, “that looks like fun.”
Famous last words, because the universe has been waiting for me to tempt fate while conducting amateur detective work on unstable terrain.
Bertha and I follow our friends down the embankment with all the grace of baby giraffes learning to walk.
“AARRGGHH!” we harmonize all the way down, bumping and thumping any and everything at an alarming clip until we’re tangled up in a pile at the bottom and covered in enough red mud to start our own brick factory.
“Is everyone okay?” I croak meagerly, as much as my bruised body will allow, and one by one, they all croak back. By some miracle, we’ve all managed to survive.
A rooster glides over and lands right on top of Bertha’s head, but before I can so much as smile, it lands on my noggin next, then Lani’s, and Ruby’s before crowing his lungs out and taking off into the jungle.
“Well,” I say, spitting out what tasted like a geology lesson mixed with tropical humiliation, “at least now we know who’s really in charge of this jungle.”
Ruby raises her mud-covered head and grins like a lunatic. “Best hiking trip ever!”
Even covered in enough mud to do our own spa treatments, I have to admit she’s right. We’ve survived the trail from hell, gathered crucial information about multiple murder suspects, and been personally crowned by local wildlife as champions of recreational disaster.
In paradise, that’s not just adventure tourism—that’s achievement worthy of its own social media documentation, assuming any of us survive long enough to find working cameras and decent lighting.
CHAPTER 16
The night before the big wedding disaster, Halea announces she’s arranged a bachelorette party featuring fire dancers, tropical cocktails, and enough nachos to feed a small island nation—or the island of Kauai.
Naturally, Ruby, Lani, and I are in—because watching beautiful men play with fire while conducting murder investigations counts as a legitimate Friday night in paradise. Also, nachos.
The outdoor entertainment venue sits on Hanalei Bay where good judgment goes to admire the scenery and never quite comes back. Tiki torches illuminate rustic picnic tables while twinkle lights create a magical atmosphere that makes perfectly rational women throw money at athletic men wielding flaming objects.
As night falls hard on Hanalei Bay, the sky transforms intoa canvas of dreamy orange and pink streaks melting into deep purple twilight. Stars begin appearing like scattered diamonds while the dark ocean shimmers with reflected moonlight and torch flames. Trade winds carry the scent of all things floral and tropical mixed with smoke from a grill and salt air that makes everything feel more magical and slightly dangerous.
The torches flicker along the beach as their flames snap and spit as if even the fire wants in on the party.
And party we do.
The entertainment site Halea picked is essentially an outdoor banquet hall mashed up with a tourist trap, but tonight it looks positively dreamy. Long wooden picnic tables stretch across the sand, crowded with laughing tourists and locals, platters of food groaning under piles of nachos drenched in pineapple salsa and shredded kalua pork, bowls of poke glistening with sesame oil, and drinks that could put hair on your chest just from sheer proximity.
Cats weave between the tables with their tails flicking as they swipe pork off abandoned plates, while chickens strut with the confidence of VIPs who know no one has the nerve to kick them out.
“Ladies!” Halea announces like she’s just discovered the meaning of life, and it involves beach chairs. “Tonight, we celebrate Candy’s last night of single life with local Hawaiian entertainment and drinks powerful enough to erase memories!”
I can’t help but frown.
Let’s hope the killer doesn’t have their memory erased. I still need them to confess to a crime.
The drink menu reads like a tropical dare—Volcanic Eruption (rum-based with dry ice for dramatic effect), Hot Hawaiian Heat Wave (spicy jalapeño margarita that makes you question your pain tolerance), Fire Stick Fantasy (flaming shot served with fiery presentation), Island Fever Dream (coconut rum with tropical fruit and next-morning apology potential).
I order the Island Fever Dream because my life is already a fever dream, so why not lean in? Ruby goes straight for the Volcanic Eruption like it owes her money—and maybe the aforementioned eruption.
Massive platters of nachos arrive loaded with tropical twists—mango salsa, coconut shrimp, pineapple jalapeños, and enough cheese to put Wisconsin on alert. A cat materializes from under the next table, summoned by the scent of seafood and poor human judgment about sharing food with local wildlife.
“This is perfect content!” Candy squeals, positioning her ring light for optimal documentation of tropical debauchery. “My followers are going to die for tonight’s island experience!”
Bertha sits surprisingly close to what will clearly become the performance stage, having decided that personal space is overrated when attractive men with fire are involved. She’s already working on her second Hot Hawaiian Heat Waveand looking as if she’s reconsidering decades of conservative life choices.
Candy stands, holding a Volcanic Eruption that’s still smoking dramatically like a special effect from a very low-budget movie. She quickly knocks it back and scoops up an Island Fever Dream from a passing server and takes a sip before shuddering.
