Chapter 9
Apparently, amateur detective work requires proper snacks, because here we are trudging through knee-high grass toward a cluster of food trucks that smell like heaven and look like they’ve survived several natural disasters.
It’s mid-morning on Kauai’s North Shore, and the sun is already plotting against my SPF like it has a personal vendetta against my skin tone.
The scent of grilling onions and fresh bread fights a valiant battle against the salt air and the sweet perfume of pikake jasmine blossoms that line the roadside.
Somewhere behind us, a rooster announces our departure to the entire island, while ahead of us, the sound of sizzling griddles and cheerful island music promises carbohydrate salvation.
“There she is,” Ruby says, pointing toward the cluster of colorful trucks with the satisfaction of a detective spotting her mark. “Our little spiritual guru.”
May Leilani stands beside a bright blue truck called Aloha Eats with her phone held high, angling for what appears to be the perfect cinnamon roll shot.
She’s wearing designer athleisure in a shade of pink that could stop traffic and possibly cause temporary blindness, her blonde hair perfectly beachy despite the humidity that’s currently turning mine into a wet, orange blob best described as a cautionary tale.
“How many photos does one pastry need?” Lani mutters, adjusting her grip on her wooden spoon, which she obviously considers essential equipment for any off-resort expedition. I’m starting to think she sleeps with that thing.
“In May’s world? About seventy-three, followed by forty-seven different filters and a lengthy caption about gratitude,” I say, watching May shift angles like she’s photographing the Mona Lisa instead of delicious dough.
We approach the food truck area, which consists of five vehicles arranged in a rough semicircle around picnic tables that have seen better decades—possibly better centuries.
The blue truck serves breakfast and pastries, a yellow one advertises Fresh Fish Daily in hand-painted letters that have faded to the color of old friendship, a red truck promises Authentic Plate Lunch, a green one specializes in shave ice in flavors that probably don’t exist in nature, and a purple monstrosity claims to offer Fusion Cuisine in swirly letters that hurt my eyes and possibly my soul.
A small parade has followed us from the resort—the one-eared orange cutie, the battle-scarred black cat, a calico with attitude problems and possibly a criminal record, and what appears to be their lieutenant, a sleek gray tabby with white paws.
They spread out behind us with the tactical precision of furry commandos, and I’m suddenly very aware that we’re being escorted.
“Oh no,” I say, watching the cats position themselves with a level of coordination that lets me know they’ve done this before. “They’ve organized.”
“Should we warn her?” Ruby asks, gesturing toward May, who’s now kneeling on the grass trying to get an artistic low-angle shot that probably requires a yoga certification to achieve.
“Let nature take its course,” Lani says philosophically, and I’m quickly learning that this is her approach to most things involving people she doesn’t particularly like.
May holds her phone at arm’s length while a cinnamon roll is positioned on a paper plate beside her yoga mat, which I’m guessing she’s brought for that authentic spiritual energy look.
She’s livestreaming to her followers, her voice carrying across the morning air with the enthusiasm of a woman who makes a living monetizing her personality.
“Good morning, beautiful souls,” she booms. “I’m here at this absolutely divine little food truck gathering, connecting with the authentic energy of local cuisine—”
A rooster struts directly into her shot with the confidence of a celebrity who knows the cameras are rolling, stops in what can only be described as his good side, and lets out a crow that could wake the dead and possibly the merely hungover.
May’s smile doesn’t waver, but I catch the tiny muscle twitch in her left eye that suggests her spiritual composure is being tested.
“—and embracing the wild, untamed spirit of island life—” she continues.
The rooster crows again, louder this time, clearly enjoying his moment of fame and possibly auditioning for a recording contract. May tries to shoo him away with her free hand while maintaining her camera angle, which is impressive multitasking even if it’s failing spectacularly.
“—where even the local wildlife wants to be part of the spiritual journey—”
A second rooster joins the first, followed by three hens and what looks like a small convention of baby chicks who’ve heard there’s a show happening.
They surround May’s yoga mat like they’re planning an intervention or possibly a hostile takeover while their tiny feet make determined scratching sounds in the grass.
“Sweet mother of pearl,” Lani says. “It’s a poultry uprising.”
“Should we help?” I ask, though I’m already pulling out my phone because this feels like a moment that needs documentation from both near and far.
“Absolutely not,” Ruby says, pulling out her own phone. “This is better than my wedding to husband number four.”
May bravely continues her livestream, now completely surrounded by chickens who seem personally offended by her presence and her pink athleisure. “The universe is clearly testing my ability to find peace in chaos—”
The one-eared tomcat chooses this moment to make his move, and I recognize the look in his eye—it’s the same look my ex had right before he ruined my life, except the cat is way more honest about his intentions.
He slinks toward May’s cinnamon roll with the stealth of a ninja and the confidence of a cat who’s never met a pastry he couldn’t devour.
“Oh, this is going to be good,” I murmur to Ruby, who’s already recording.
May raises her voice, trying to talk over the chicken commentary that sounds suspiciously like heckling. “As I was saying, authentic island living means embracing the unexpected—”
The tomcat springs. May’s cinnamon roll disappears into his mouth in one fluid motion, leaving her holding an empty plate and a look of bewildered shock. Clearly, her spiritual practice did not prepare her for armed robbery by a feline.
“Did that cat just steal my breakfast on a live feed?” she asks the universe at large.
The universe responds with another rooster crow and what sounds suspiciously like chicken laughter, if chickens could laugh, which I’m starting to think they can.
“Okay, beautiful souls,” May says to her phone, her spiritual composure cracking like cheap nail polish, “sometimes the universe asks us to practice non-attachment in very literal ways—”
The gray tabby joins the action, knocking over May’s coffee and sending it rolling across her yoga mat with a precision that suggests this was planned.
The calico pounces on the bottle, mistaking it for prey or possibly just enjoying chaos for its own sake, while the black cat settles himself directly in front of May’s phone camera and begins grooming himself with elaborate indifference, his rear end prominently featured in what I assume is a very spiritual livestream moment.
“This is a disaster,” May mutters, forgetting she’s still livestreaming to what’s probably thousands of people as she spits out about a dozen colorful expletives.
“This is karma,” Lani says, loud enough for May to hear and possibly loud enough for her followers to hear, too.
May’s head snaps up, and she spots us for the first time, her expression shifting from spiritual crisis to forced enthusiasm so fast I get whiplash just watching it.
Her social media-worthy smile returns, but there’s something frantic around the edges, like a beauty pageant contestant who just realized her dress is on backwards.
“Oh! Hi there! You’re from the resort, right?” She scrambles to her feet, brushing cat hair and chicken feathers off her designer leggings with a level of dignity you can only muster when you’re being filmed. “I was just sharing some authentic island experiences with my followers.”
“Authentic is one word for it,” I say, eyeing the chaos around her yoga mat, which now looks less like a sacred space and more like a crime scene.
“Ruby Figgins,” Ruby says, extending a ring-laden hand. “And this is Lani and Jinx. We thought we’d grab some breakfast and commiserate about last night’s... uh, excitement.”
May’s smile falters for just a second—brief enough that her followers might miss it but long enough that we definitely don’t. “Oh yes, that poor man. Such a tragedy.”
“Tragedy,” Lani repeats flatly, in a tone that says she has thoughts about May’s choice of words. “That’s one way to put it.”
The food truck owner, a cheerful woman with graying hair pulled back into a practical bun and forearms that could arm-wrestle a hurricane and win, calls out from her window. “What can I get you, ladies? Fresh malasadas, cinnamon rolls, banana bread? Everything was made this morning.”
“Three cinnamon rolls,” Ruby says immediately, like she’s been thinking about this since we left the resort. “And coffee. Lots of coffee. The kind that makes you see sounds.”
“Make that four rolls,” May adds, deciding to replace her stolen breakfast and possibly salvage her livestream. “And could you make mine extra special? I’m documenting the authentic local cuisine experience for my wellness blog.”
The owner’s smile turns slightly predatory, and I watch her eyes narrow in a way that says we’re about to witness something beautiful. “Oh, you’re the one who left the bad Yelp review about our ‘corporate energy disrupting the spiritual flow of food,’ aren’t you?”
May’s face goes through several interesting color changes from pink to red to something approaching purple, like a mood ring having an existential crisis. “I... that was just... I was having a very sensitive chakra day—”
“Uh-huh.” The woman turns to us with considerably more warmth. “You ladies are from Coconut Palms, right? Poor things. The coffee is on the house after what happened last night.”
“You’re too kind,” I say, shooting a meaningful look at May, who’s now furiously typing on her phone, probably doing some much needed damage control to her livestream or possibly blocking followers who are asking uncomfortable questions.
We settle at a picnic table that wobbles like it’s been through several earthquakes.
The cats arrange themselves in a semicircle around us with the precision of a jury, hoping for more theft opportunities or possibly just enjoying the show.
The chickens wander off to terrorize other customers, their work here apparently done.
I take a bite out of my cinnamon roll and moan with delight. If heaven were personified in bakery goods, this would be it. And make no mistake about it, I’ll be looking to stuff my pie hole, or my poi hole as Melanie put it, with more of the same celestial carbs as soon as I’m through.
“So,” Ruby says conversationally, tearing off a piece of her cinnamon roll and releasing a puff of cinnamon-scented steam that makes my mouth water, “crazy night last night, right?”
May nods enthusiastically, her spiritual composure restored now that she’s no longer being mugged by farm animals, and her followers can’t see the cat hair on her leggings. “Absolutely wild. I mean, I’ve experienced some intense energy shifts during my retreats, but nothing quite like that.”
“Energy shifts?” Lani repeats, and I’m starting to recognize this as her tell—she repeats things when she thinks they’re baloney. “Is that what we’re calling murder now?”
“Well, I mean, we don’t know it was murder,” May says quickly, too quickly, like someone who’s been thinking about this exact question. “The poor man could have just... you know... had too much to drink and taken an unfortunate swim.”
“In that green lagoon?” I raise an eyebrow because this theory requires a level of intoxication that would make medical history. “I wouldn’t swim in that water if you paid me. In fact, I wouldn’t swim in that water if you threatened me.”
“Maybe he was confused,” May offers, taking a careful bite of her replacement cinnamon roll. “Or disoriented? The island energy can be very intense for newcomers who aren’t spiritually prepared.”
The one-eared tomcat jumps onto our table and begins eyeing Ruby’s cinnamon roll with professional interest, like he’s casing a bank before a heist. Ruby breaks off a piece and tosses it to him with the casual ease of an island resident who’s made peace with enabling criminal behavior.
“Please don’t feed the wildlife,” May says automatically, in a tone you’d use to recite a mantra. “It disrupts their natural foraging patterns.”
“Honey,” Ruby says. “This cat could teach a master class in natural foraging. He just stole your entire breakfast in front of a live internet audience and probably has better reviews than you do.”
May’s phone buzzes with what sounds like approximately seven hundred notifications, the sort of sound that suggests either she’s gone viral or her followers have discovered something she’d rather they hadn’t. She glances at the screen and winces.
“Popular post?” I ask innocently, channeling every bit of fake sweetness I learned from dealing with my mother-in-law.
“My followers seem to be very engaged,” she says, shoving the phone into her designer fanny pack like it’s radioactive. “They have strong opinions about authentic experiences and about cat theft.”
The morning heat is starting to press down on us like a weighted blanket made of humidity and the collective breath of every tourist who’s ever complained about the weather being too hot after booking a trip to a tropical island.
I can feel my shirt beginning its slow surrender to the moisture in the air, clinging to my back in a way that’s neither comfortable nor attractive.
“So,” I say, settling back against the picnic table, “are you ready to talk about what really happened last night?”
May takes a careful bite of her replacement cinnamon roll, her eyes darting among the three of us like she’s calculating odds, and nods with enthusiasm as if she’s found solid ground after a morning of livestock-related chaos and public humiliation.
What she doesn’t know is that solid ground in paradise is just volcanic rock waiting to crack.