Chapter 10
The art of gentle interrogation takes on new dimensions when your target is simultaneously covered in powdered sugar and wearing the expression of a person who’s been personally betrayed by baked goods and possibly the entire concept of breakfast.
The mid-morning sun beats down on our picnic table with the relentless enthusiasm of a personal trainer who’s had too much coffee.
Sweat beads on my forehead despite the shade from a coconut palm that keeps dropping fronds like it’s commenting on our conversation, offering its own quasi-lethal editorial opinions.
The air shimmers with heat waves and the competing scents of frying oil, tropical flowers, and that particular aroma of humidity that makes everything smell slightly fermented, like the island is slowly pickling us all.
“So,” I say, settling back against the wobbling picnic table, “let’s talk about Nolan.”
May Leilani takes a delicate bite of her replacement cinnamon roll, her composure fully restored now that she’s no longer being mugged by poultry, and her follower count has probably skyrocketed from the cat heist footage. “Poor Nolan. Such a complicated man.”
“Complicated how?” Ruby asks, leaning forward with intensity because she obviously lives for gossip and might just consider it a valuable life skill, too.
“Well,” May begins, her voice taking on that breathless quality reserved for sharing deeply personal revelations. “We actually knew each other from California. He was helping me with my wellness retreat center—you know, business advice, marketing strategies, that sort of thing.”
“Business advice,” Lani repeats, her tone suggesting she’s heard that phrase before and it rarely means what people think it means, usually involving money and broken promises.
“He was very generous with his time,” May continues, oblivious to Lani’s skepticism. “Always trying to help me find my true path, connect with my true purpose. Sometimes maybe a little too helpful, if you know what I mean.”
The one-eared tomcat jumps back onto our table, having spotted crumbs. A gecko skitters across the umbrella above us, followed by two more, like they’re staging their own little parade.
“Too helpful how?” I ask because too helpful is usually code for something way more interesting and potentially illegal.
May sighs dramatically, the type of sigh that suggests a deep spiritual burden and possibly catastrophic student loans.
“He had very strong opinions about my retreat approach. He kept saying I needed to be more realistic about my business model, more grounded in actual wellness practices. He just couldn’t understand that spirituality can’t be measured in spreadsheets. ”
“The horror,” Ruby murmurs, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Exactly!” May says, missing the sarcasm entirely or choosing to interpret it as genuine support.
“He was always questioning my methods, suggesting I needed to be more transparent with my clients about my background. Like, why does it matter where I learned my healing techniques? The universe teaches us in many ways.”
A rooster crows from somewhere behind the purple fusion food truck, and three cats—the gray tabby, the calico, and a new arrival with tortoiseshell markings—position themselves around our table like they’re expecting a show or possibly another opportunity for theft.
“So, what brought him to Hawaii?” I ask, trying to steer this back to something resembling useful information.
“Business, as usual. He mentioned something about development opportunities, property assessments.” May waves her hand dismissively.
“Very boring corporate stuff that made my chakras hurt just listening to it. But he seemed especially interested in that community garden. He said it was sitting on prime real estate.”
“Did he now?” Lani’s wooden spoon appears in her hand, and she starts tapping it against the table with ominous precision.
“Oh yes, he was obsessed with it. Kept going on about how the land could be so much more profitable, how it was wasted on vegetables and good intentions. I tried to explain that some spaces are sacred, that you can’t put a price on spiritual energy or the connection between people and the land they nurture, but he just didn’t get it.
He kept talking about ROI and market value like those words meant anything to someone who understands true worth. ”
Ruby tears off another piece of cinnamon roll and tosses it to the overgrown tomcat, who catches it mid-air with professional skill that says he’s been training for this his entire life. “And how did Savannah take that news?”
May’s expression becomes more animated, as if she’s finally getting to the good part of the story.
“Oh my goodness, she was not happy. I saw them having this incredibly intense discussion yesterday—well, discussion might be too polite a word. More like a heated spiritual energy exchange with raised voices and aggressive gesturing.”
“They had a fight,” I translate because I’m getting tired of May’s spiritual euphemisms for normal human emotions.
“A passionate disagreement about land use philosophy,” May corrects, but there’s a gleam in her eye as if she enjoyed watching it.
“But yes, there was definitely some negative energy flowing. Savannah was saying something about how that garden is her life’s work, thirty years of teaching and growing and community building, and Nolan kept insisting that sentiment doesn’t pay property taxes or fund retirement accounts. ”
The heat is starting to make the air shimmer like a mirage, and I can feel my clothes beginning to surrender to the humidity in a way that’s both uncomfortable and inevitable.
Even the cats look slightly wilted, though they maintain their strategic positions around our table like furry guards who take their jobs very seriously.
“Savannah seems so sweet, though,” Ruby says. “Hard to imagine her getting truly angry about anything, much less angry enough to—”
“Oh, she has depths,” May says knowingly.
“Still waters run deep, as they say. There’s something very intense about her relationship with that garden.
Almost possessive. And the way she looked at Nolan when he mentioned development.
..” May shudders dramatically, and for once, I think she might not be exaggerating.
“I’ve never seen such focused negative energy.
It was like watching someone’s soul catch fire. ”
“Focused enough to do something about it?” I ask because we’re dancing around the actual question here, and I’m getting impatient with the spiritual small talk.
“I’m just saying,” May says, lowering her voice even though we’re sitting outside and there’s literally a rooster three feet away who could be a witness, “if you want to understand what happened to poor Nolan, you might want to start at that garden. Savannah knows things about this island, about the land, about people’s connections to the place.
She’s been here forever, knows everyone, sees everything.
And people who are that connected to something.
.. well, they’ll do anything to protect it. ”
May’s ominous words hover like an awkward guest.
The morning heat is approaching levels that should require a permit or at least a warning from the National Weather Service. And suddenly spontaneous combustion feels like something that might come to pass, sooner than later.
“Well,” Ruby says, standing and stretching. “I think we need more sustenance for this conversation. Who wants malasadas?”
“Oh!” May perks up. “I love malasadas! In fact, I bet I could eat more than any of you. I have an incredibly fast metabolism from all my years of yoga practice.”
Ruby’s eyes light up as if she’s just been issued a challenge and has never backed down from one in her entire life. “Is that so?”
“Ladies,” I say, recognizing the warning signs and feeling a sense of impending doom that has nothing to do with murder. “Maybe we should—”
“Malasada eating contest!” Ruby announces to the food truck. “Four orders of fresh malasadas, and may the best stomach win!”
The truck owner, who’s been watching our conversation with amusement, grins and starts pulling hot malasadas from her fryer with tongs that look like they’ve seen some things. “You ladies are about to learn why we call these Hawaiian donuts of doom.”
Five minutes later, we’re each facing a plate of six steaming malasadas, golden and rolled in enough powdered sugar to create our own weather system.
The cats have moved closer, sensing opportunity.
Even a few chickens have wandered back, drawn by the scent of fried dough and impending disaster like they have a sixth sense for chaos.
“On three,” Ruby says, cracking her knuckles like she’s about to commit a culinary felony. “One... two...”
“Wait,” May says, pulling out her phone with the speed of a woman whose livelihood depends on documentation. “I should livestream this. My followers love authentic cultural experiences, and nothing says authentic like competitive eating in a dirt lot.”
“Three!” Ruby shouts and dives into her plate as if it owes her money.
I manage two malasadas before the sugar rush hits my bloodstream and makes me question everything that led me to this moment—the divorce, the job application typo, the decision to get involved in amateur detective work with people who think eating contests are a valid investigative technique.
Lani approaches the challenge with methodical precision, eating steadily without apparent effort or enjoyment, like she’s completing a task rather than participating in madness.
May starts strong, maintaining her camera angle while somehow managing to look graceful even with powdered sugar coating her chin, which is honestly impressive and possibly the result of years of practice eating photogenically.
But Ruby... Ruby eats malasadas like she’s been personally wronged by fried dough and is seeking revenge.