“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 somespaces 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,discussionmight 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 couldeat 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.
“How are you doing that?” May gasps, pausing in her own consumption to stare at Ruby, who’s on her fifth malasada while the rest of us are struggling with our third and contemplating our mortality.
