“That, too,” I say. “He’s like a scrumptious cinnamon roll wrapped in attitude and served with a side of I’m-too-good-for-your-amateur-detective-work, and also you’re-wasting-your-time-trying-to-save-this-resort.’”
Ruby leans forward with a wicked gleam in her eye. “Are we giving up on solving the murder?”
Lani raises an eyebrow in a way that suggests she already knows the answer. “Did he say it was murder?”
“He didn’t say itwasn’t,” I point out, which feels like solid detective logic to me.
Ruby claps her hands together with enthusiasm like she’s about to plan a party or possibly a heist. “Then we’re back in business! Who’s up first?”
“I vote we start with May Leilani,” Lani says, standing and brushing nonexistent crumbs off her muumuu.
I lean in, interested. “Why? Because you think she’s the killer?”
“No,” Lani says with an honesty I’m learning to appreciate about her. “Because I overheard her saying she was headed to the bakery food truck down the road, and I could really use a cinnamon roll right about now.”
I nod sagely. “You and me both, sister.”
I glance out toward the beach where Detective Hale is inspecting the grounds with a thoroughness that lets me know he takes his job very seriously. As if he can feel my eyes on him, he turns and looks directly at me across the expanse of sand and broken dreams.
It looks to me, I’m not the only one having trouble staying focused on the case.
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 AlohaEats 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 theMona Lisainstead 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 advertisesFresh Fish Dailyin hand-painted letters that have faded to the color of old friendship, a red truck promisesAuthentic Plate Lunch, a green one specializes in shave ice in flavors that probably don’t exist in nature, and a purple monstrosity claims to offerFusion Cuisinein 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 offurry 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 enjoyinghis 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.
