The Fever Cabinet

Professor Molly Mysteries, Volume 9

Frankie Bow

Published by Hawaiian Heritage Press, 2019.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

THE FEVER CABINET

First edition. November 20, 2019.

Copyright © 2019 Frankie Bow.

Written by Frankie Bow.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Also by Frankie Bow

Miss Fortune World: Hair Extensions and Homicide

Once Upon a Murder

Tabasco Fiasco

Schooled

Miss Fortune World: Supernatural Sinful

Sinful Science

Miss Fortune World: The Mary-Alice Files

Mary-Alice Moves In

Bayou Busybody

The Vanishing Victim

Aloha, Y'all

The Two-Body Problem

Black Widow Valley

The No-Tell Motel

Vampire Billionaire of the Bayou

The Pajama Murder

The Lost Weekend

Professor Molly Mysteries

Trust Fall

The Musubi Murder

The Cursed Canoe

The Black Thumb

The Invasive Species

Mother's Day

The Nakamura Letters

The Perfect Body

The Fever Cabinet

The Case of the Defunct Adjunct

Watch for more at Frankie Bow’s site.

Fiona: Not Exactly What it Says on the Tin

FIONA SPENCER WAS CLOSE to finishing her first term as Assistant Professor of Business Ethics at Mahina State University in Hawaii. Both the tenure line and the tropical location had provoked a satisfying level of envy among her graduate-school cohort. Best of all—or so she’d thought at the time she accepted the offer—the position would allow her to live with Emmett, a luxury academics did not take for granted. They would spend their first Christmas together as a married couple.

All tickety-boo. Until she set down in Mahina.

The “historic” new College of Commerce building turned out to be a disused sanatorium, across town from the main campus and currently under repair. Thanks to some bureaucratic cock-up, her office was officially listed as vacant, so the builders used it as a tip (or a “dump,” as the Americans called it). Each morning she came in to find a new layer of plasterboard scraps and scaly old pipes added to the rubbish heap along the back wall of her office.

The two senior members of the management department, Hanson Harrison and Larry Schneider, did worthwhile scholarship. She would have gladly collaborated with either of them, but they were never there. Rodge Cowper, who hadn’t published a thing since he got tenure, was forever stopping into her office, preening and trying to chat her up.

Home, unfortunately, was no refuge. The house Emmett had rented was ugly and cheap, surrounded by overgrown trees and vines that blocked out the sun. Emmett himself made her feel like an unwelcome guest; he had grown even more distant after he was blamed for the boy’s suicide. Last night they’d had a row, Emmett had stormed out, and she hadn’t seen him since.

Fiona had shut her office door, despite the air con being out of order. She didn’t want to talk to anyone today. Not Rodge, not her whingeing students, and especially not her nosy department head, Molly Barda. Not a day went by, it seemed, without the woman popping in and checking up on her. Fiona suspected Molly was watching for an excuse to sack her.

There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.

My life is a bloody Oscar Wilde quip, Fiona thought.

A sudden pounding on her door nearly made Fiona jump out of her seat.

“Fiona?” called a voice from the other side of the door.

Fiona’s heart dropped. It wasn’t Rodge. Or Molly. This was far worse.

“Fiona! I know you’re in there. Do open the door, darling.”

Molly: Refusing a Perfectly Unreasonable Request

“IT WOULDN’T BE AN ETHICS violation, Molly,” Emma insisted. “You’re exaggerating.”

I frowned disapprovingly at my phone, which of course had no effect, as Emma couldn’t see me.

“It’s not an ethics violation to take university property and give it to my friends? Hey, how about I go over and ask Fiona about it? She’s an actual professor of business ethics. And before you make the business ethics is an oxymoron joke, I’ve already heard it, so don’t bother.”

Emma Nakamura is my best friend at Mahina State, and I would do anything for her—anything that’s legal and not likely to get me fired. Unfortunately, she had called me to lobby for the fever cabinet, an antique medical device we’d found when the College of Commerce was moved into the old Inebriates Asylum.

“Don’t bother her majesty,” Emma said. “I know it would be wrong to give department property to me personally. That’s not what I’m asking for. I’m saying the College of Commerce should do an interdepartmental loan to the biology department.”

“So that you, personally, can take it home and use it as a giant Crock-Pot for your luau.”

“Not a Crock-Pot, Molly. An Imu, for make kalua pig. And it’s not my luau, it’s Yoshi’s.”

“Oh, not for you, for your husband. Even better. Emma, it’s a medical device. It’s had sick people inside it. How can you even consider eating out of it?”

“I’m not gonna eat out of it. I just don’t want those furshlugginer dummkopf friends of Yoshi’s digging a big hole in my backyard.”

Emma grew up in Hawaii. Right on this island in fact, just a few miles down the road from Mahina State University. But she got her doctorate in upstate New York, at Cornell. This, in her mind, entitles her to throw in Yiddish now and again as she pleases.

“Even if I said yes,” I said, “how would you bring it home? The thing’s enormous. It’s like an iron lung. I don’t know how they got it up here in the first place.”

“We can take it apart. I’ll bring a screwdriver.”

“Oh, we can take it apart with a screwdriver? Yeah, sounds like a well-thought-out plan. Anyway, with all the construction going on in our building, they’ve been moving stuff around. I don’t even know where the thing is now.”

“You lost it?”

“Emma, I personally did not lose—ooh, speaking of construction, I better go. It sounds like the landing’s caving in out there and I think I smell something burning.”

This wasn’t a ruse to put Emma off. The banging noise out on the landing was insistent enough to rise above the ordinary construction din in our building. And I really did smell something burning.

I hung up the phone, cutting Emma off mid-argument, and peeked out of my office. Across the landing I saw a disheveled figure hammering on Fiona Spencer’s door. He held a smoldering pipe with his free hand. Which explained both the noise and the smell. What I didn’t know was who this person was, and why he was bothering Fiona.

This was not good. My prime directive right now (according to Dan Watanabe, my dean) was to keep our new hire happy. And whatever was going on, it didn’t look happy.

“Fiona?” The hobo had an English accent and pronounced it like “Fion-er.” “Fiona! I know you’re in there. Do open the door, darling.”

Now what do I do?

Go back to my office, call security, and wait for someone to drive across town from the main campus? Or intervene, and risk getting myself tossed over the railing? Our building has an open atrium-style design. From the top-floor landing it’s a straight forty-foot drop to the ground floor. And it’s a hard floor.

“Fiona, darling, do let me in,” the visitor persisted. This couldn’t be Fiona’s husband. From what I’d heard, Emmett Spencer was tall, good-looking, and American. This character had a fireplug build and wore a flat cap, a rumpled, oversized jacket, and wool trousers stuffed into knee-high rubber boots.

“Excuse me sir,” I started to say, when Fiona Spencer yanked her door open.

“Oh, do try not to make a scene,” Fiona snapped as her visitor entered her office. She glared at me and slammed her door shut.

I went back to my desk, looked up Fiona Spencer’s phone number in the online campus directory, picked up the phone, and dialed. I could hear the phone ringing across the landing.

“Spencer,” she answered.

“Fiona, this is Molly,” I said. “I’m just calling to remind you about the budget meeting this afternoon.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I saw what just happened. Do you want me to call security?” I asked.

“No,” she said emphatically. “Please don’t. Thanks ever so much for your concern.”

And she hung up.

Okay, fine. I mentally checked off my mandatory daily chat with Fiona Spencer. I pulled out the stack of reflection papers from my Intro to Business Management class and resumed grading. (Intro to Business Management—IBM—get it? It’s business-y! The course titles and descriptions were already set before I was hired on. Changing them now would only confuse the students. But I want to make sure no one thinks these names were my idea.)

I finished grading the papers, stood up, and looked out onto the landing. Rodge’s door was propped open. Larry’s, Hanson’s, and Fiona’s were shut. Larry and Hanson weren’t here, of course, but how Fiona could bear having her door closed was a mystery to me. The building’s air conditioning was out of service because of something the construction workers were doing, so I had my window and door open as far as they would go. The banging of pneumatic tools, the traffic out on the main road, and even conversations on lower floors reverberated up the center of the building and directly into my office. But at least I had a breeze.

The sputter of an engine starting up outside cut through the other noise. I ran back into my office and looked out of my window, just in time to see a motorcycle disappear around the corner of the main hospital building.

Fiona was on the back of the motorcycle. Or at least, someone who sure looked like Fiona. Her thin, strawberry-blond hair peeked out from under a helmet, and her floral-print dress fluttered in the wind as the bike sped off.

Molly: A Mediocre Mentor

I DON’T USUALLY LOOK forward to budget meetings, but today I welcomed the break. I was drenched in sweat after spending most of the day in my un-air-conditioned top-floor office, and hours of grading freshman writing had made me cross-eyed. At a quarter till, I locked up my office and went down the four flights of stairs and across the utility road to the main hospital building.

I passed a man in a bright-pink Konishi shirt and a hard hat. He was standing in the shade of the cantilevered terrace, talking on his phone.

As unpleasant as it was for me to sit in my office and swelter, I realized I had nothing to complain about compared to the Konishi Construction crew. They had to toil in the soggy heat, wearing hard hats, long sleeves, and work boots.

“Nah, no good,” the man was saying. “Lava rock too hard. Cannot dig a hole big enough. Listen. I get one place. I get you the key. Top floor but we get the elevator working now. Eh, no leave one mess, ah?”

(Later it occurred to me that the man was probably arranging for even more junk to get dumped into Fiona’s office.)

The College of Commerce budget meeting was scheduled in the dining room on the ground floor of the main hospital building. It’s a gorgeous space. They held the donor banquet there when the university first took over the old hospital complex. You’d think it was originally a grand ballroom, with its lofty stamped-tin ceilings and its tall French doors leading out to the terrace. In fact it had been a tuberculosis ward, before the discovery of antibiotics, when the state-of-the-art treatment was healthful quantities of sunlight and fresh air. With the doors propped open to let in the trade winds, the temperature was actually tolerable.

Serena, the dean’s secretary, was the only other person there when I arrived. I jumped in to help set up the room, shoving tables out of the way and unfolding metal chairs.

“This is so much nicer than our old building,” I said.

“Hm,” Serena said. “If you ask me, the university should’ve asked a few more questions before they moved us in here. Sorry, that’s just my opinion.”

“Why?” I asked. “Is there something wrong with the new space?”

“No,” she said offhandedly. “Unless you mind your workplace being haunted.”

“You mean the ghost of Constance Brigham?” The Brigham family heiress was rumored to roam the old hospital complex, occasionally tossing people out of windows or off balconies.

“Nah, not that,” Serena said. “The thing about Constance Brigham was made up in the seventies to scare tourists. I’m talking about the baby’s cry.”

“The what?” I asked.

“If you’re close to the hospital and you hear the baby’s cry, it means you’re gonna die. You only hear it if you did something bad, though. You should look it up.”

Two of the marketing professors came in, and Serena put them to work unfolding metal chairs.

By the time the meeting started, everyone in the management department was present—except Fiona Spencer. It’s not like she’d get lost in the crowd. We only had a couple dozen faculty in the College of Commerce, and only a few of those were women. I started to get concerned.

Worried for Fiona, of course; while she seemed to have gone off on the motorcycle willingly, it was no guarantee she was safe. But I was also concerned for myself, which I realize sounds a little selfish. I was afraid Dan Watanabe, my dean, would blame me for Fiona’s absence. Not only was I Fiona’s department chair, I was her assigned mentor, and the first in my college to participate in the new campus wide Encompassing Mentoring Initiative. Which meant I was singlehandedly responsible for cultivating Fiona’s Sense of Community and Belonging at Mahina State University. And also in a position to embarrass the whole College of Commerce if I failed.

It's not false humility to say when Dan chose me as Fiona’s mentor, he couldn’t have picked a worse candidate. I have such a low tolerance for unstructured social interaction, on Sundays I time my arrival at Mass to avoid the Passing of the Peace.

But Dan didn’t have many alternatives. I’m the only woman in the management department, and I’m also apparently the only one Dan can trust to take on extra work and do it properly. So I’m the one who gets to check in daily with Fiona to make sure she is feeling Fully Integrated into the Life of the College.

Fortunately for me, Dan Watanabe seemed to have more important things to do today than hassle me about the Encompassing Mentoring Initiative. Dan usually gave an impression of grayness: salt-and-pepper hair, silver-framed glasses, gray-and-beige reverse-print aloha shirts. But today he looked like his own ghost.

“Thank you for coming, everyone.” Dan’s weary voice rang and echoed in the great room. “You may have heard the rumors about an unexpectedly large budget cut coming down. Well, the rumors are true.”

He looked around to make sure he had everyone’s attention. He did.

“It seems,” he went on, “the construction on this building has cost more than anticipated.”

Outraged grumbling arose from the assembled faculty. Hanson Harrison stood to speak.

“This was entirely predictable, Dan.” Hanson, one of the management department’s senior members, was from old New England money. He looked the part: patrician posture, silver hair, tall. “You may recall before the county ‘gifted’ the old Mahina Memorial Hospital site to the university, the Mahina State faculty senate budget committee passed a resolution asking for a detailed estimate of the costs required to bring the buildings up to code. It was sent up to the chancellor’s office, where, like all resolutions from the Faculty Senate, it sank without a trace.”

“This is exactly why the county dumped it on us,” Larry Schneider chimed in. Larry was the other senior member of the management department. Unlike Hanson, he was slight and scrappy, and hailed from an unfashionable borough. If someone ever decided to make a movie about the College of Commerce with an all-dog cast, Hanson Harrison would be a Weimaraner, and Larry Schneider would be a terrier mix. (Rodge would be something shaggy that shed everywhere and humped your leg.) “They didn’t want to pay for the remodeling. This place is still unfit for use, and all we’re doing is lining the pockets of Konishi Construction, not to mention—”

“Thank you for your comments, Larry,” Dan interrupted. “And Hanson. I understand the procurement process isn’t always as transparent as we’d like. That’s exactly what I’m here to talk about.”

I sensed my colleagues settling down a bit. Despite being a dean, Dan Watanabe had for the most part managed to retain his integrity. We didn’t always like his decisions, but we could count on him to be honest with us.

“Now, I’m going off the record here. It seems parts of these old buildings are valuable to collectors and restorers. Doorknobs, pieces of molding, even some of the old medical equipment. Konishi Construction’s just throwing it out as they go, and...nobody write this down, please.”

Serena, Dan’s secretary, set down her pen. As did Iker Legazpi, from the accounting department, who always diligently took notes for his own edification.

“I’m not saying I officially approve of this,” Dan continued, “in fact, I don’t. But if we all work together, we can figure out a way to at least buy enough copy paper and toner cartridges to get us through the end of the fiscal year. Not through the university budget system, of course. But the Finance Club has agreed to help us out, in exchange for a small percentage.”

“Are you saying we have to sell off pieces of our building simply in order to do our jobs?” Hanson demanded.

“Meanwhile our crappy football team spends two million dollars a year traveling to the mainland to get their butts kicked,” Larry grumbled.

“What’s the alternative?” Dan asked them. “Just keep an eye out for anything that looks unusual or collectible and bring it in to the dean’s office. If it’s too big to move, let Serena know.”

I guiltily recalled the silver absinthe spoon I’d found in the unmarked space adjoining my office. The hidden room wasn’t on any of our building plans. Neither Facilities nor Konishi Construction seemed to be aware of it.

I might turn in the spoon. But I wasn’t going to breathe a word to anyone about my secret room. The extra space would only be confiscated and used for storage or given to some favored administrator. They certainly wouldn’t allow me to stay there.

“We need to get the word out to all our faculty and staff,” Dan went on. “Is anyone missing?”

Serena, Dan’s secretary, said

“Fiona Spencer. Management department.”

Fiona was the only one who didn’t show up? Even Rodge Cowper was here? Yes, there he was, by the window. Playing some game on his phone by the looks of it, but physically present.

“Molly?” Dan asked me. “Where is Fiona? Did you tell her about the meeting?”

“Yes, I did.” I tried my best not to sound defensive. “I emailed the department, of course, and I phoned Fiona earlier today to remind her. She said she’d be here, but it seems something came up. I can let her know what we discussed.”

I felt the resentful stares of my colleagues. Thanks to the latest round of budget cuts, the College of Commerce only got one new hire this year. The management department—my department—had landed the coveted faculty line.

And now, almost as soon as we hired Fiona Spencer, we’d gone and misplaced her.

“This is why we can’t have nice things,” one of the marketing professors quipped.

“That’s not necessary,” Dan admonished him. “Molly, I understand. You can’t force Fiona to attend. Just make sure she comes to the next meeting.”

“I’ll do my best.”

I braced for what was coming next:

“Remember,” Dan said, “it’s our responsibility to ensure our junior faculty are fully integrated into the life of the college.”

By this time I could say it along with him, although I didn’t, of course.

Dan went on to cover a few more topics of interest: an update on the air conditioning (currently scheduled to be working by late January), the revised Student Retention Office reporting forms, and the schedule for winter commencement. The agenda item that sparked the liveliest discussion was a curiously Schrödingerian statement on class attendance from the university system. It both supported taking attendance (because financial aid rules and our new automated Student Success System required the data) and argued against it (because who were we to sit in judgment of our students’ complicated lives?). The upshot was it didn’t matter what we decided to do about taking attendance. The instant a student complained, the administration would reprimand us for doing it wrong.

After the meeting, I found myself walking back to the College of Commerce building with Iker Legazpi. Iker’s side-parted brown hair was perfectly in place as always, and his plump, ageless face radiated serenity. Talking to Iker is always a comfort for me, despite his sunny attitude. He usually has a kind word for everyone, and treats his students—even the underachievers, the plagiarists, and the grade-grubbers—with far more compassion than I am able to muster. I have a theory that Iker may be an angel in human form, except I can’t work out why an angel would have been sent to earth to teach accounting.

Iker held the door for me as we entered the College of Commerce building.

“I’m worried about Fiona Spencer,” I told him as we started up the steps. There’s an elevator, but most of us don’t trust it. “Iker, have you met Fiona’s husband? What does he look like?”

“Emmett Spencer?” Iker frowned. “Yes, of course. I serve on the board of the St. Aelred School for Boys. Mr. Spencer is the new headmaster. Pardon me, perhaps I should not say he is new. He was appointed nearly a year ago.”

“I thought you had to be a priest or something to work there, no?”

“Not any longer. It is a complicated history, that of the St. Aelred School for Boys.”

“What does Emmett Spencer look like?” I asked.

We reached the landing where Iker’s office was and stepped aside to let the people behind us pass.

“Emmett Spencer is one hundred and ninety centimeters in height, and of a slender build. He has brown hair and blue eyes, and he is thirty-six years old.”

“A hundred and ninety centimeters is...?”

“Six feet, two point eight inches.”

“So he’s tall. Iker, how do you know his exact height?”

“As board treasurer, it is among my responsibilities to review the insurance policies. The details I share with you are not confidential. Why do you ask about the appearance of Dr. Spencer’s husband?”

“Because Fiona...some guy came to meet her, and she left with him. It looked like she went willingly. But she hasn’t come back. I was wondering whether the guy was her husband, but from your description, it doesn’t sound like it’s the same person.”

“This thing happened today?” Iker asked.

I recapped the morning’s events for Iker, ending with my seeing someone who looked like Fiona being spirited away on a motorcycle. I was already in trouble with Dan, so I didn’t see any harm in telling Iker everything.

Iker shook his head.

“I do not know this figure with the odorous pipe and the rubber boots,” he said. “But you say Dr. Spencer went willingly.”

“Looked like it,” I said.

“Perhaps she believes a drive in the fresh air on a motorcycle would be a cheering thing for her.”

“Cheering? Why does she need cheering? Iker, she just got a tenure-track job in the same town as her husband. I know a lot of academic couples who would kill to trade places with her. Her students love her, even though she’s mean to them. I mean, okay, this place isn’t perfect, but can’t she just once say thank you, or smile, or show even a glimmer of positive emotion at all? Why does she have to be such a dry stick? I’m sorry, Iker, I know I’m supposed to be her mentor, but I’ll be honest. Fiona’s a little hard to warm up to.”

Iker retrieved his key and opened the door to his office. “Molly, we are not...do you wish to come in and talk more?”

“No, I don’t want to keep you. And I need to get back. What were you going to say, though? We are not...?”

“Ah yes. We are not to show kindness only to the people who we find friendly and amusing. Kindness is not a purse from which we dispense little gold coins only to the deserving.”

“I guess. So you’re saying I should be charitable to Fiona regardless of her obvious contempt and ingratitude.”

“To take a more worldly view,” Iker added, “to lose Fiona Spencer would be a catastrophe for the College of Commerce. The Administration will say, we have given you a professor, and now you have lost her. We will not give you another.”

“Oh, you’re right about that. Dan reminds me every day. And you heard what happened in the meeting.”

“It may be, Molly, that Fiona Spencer has a private sadness which you cannot see.”

“I know, I know. I should give Fiona a break. She’s in a brand-new job, she doesn’t really know anyone, we still haven’t gotten the situation with her office straightened out...I should try to be a little more understanding.”

Iker was right. We were lucky we’d been able to hire anyone at all, let along someone of Fiona Spencer’s caliber. Dan had worked hard to convince the trustees to fill the business ethics position. (The previous Business Ethicist had departed years ago, under circumstances so tragically on-the-nose you’d think I was making the whole thing up.)

As Mahina State’s enrollment flattened over the past few years, our approach to student retention grew increasingly desperate. The Student Retention Office’s philosophy morphed from “every student should have the opportunity to reach their potential” to “every student can succeed” to “students don’t fail; teachers do.” “Failing” faculty are subject to mandatory “enrichment opportunities” where they are exhorted to better engage our “customers.” My friend Emma Nakamura (a repeat offender) refers to these sessions as “de-education camp.” (“Cause you come out dumber than when you went in,” she says.)

Despite (or perhaps because of) this approach, enrollment and tuition revenue are down, and faculty haven’t gotten a cost of living adjustment in years.

Now faculty are quitting at an unprecedented rate, the administration is trying the same kinds of retention tactics on us.

What would I want if I were in Fiona’s place? A workspace with functioning climate control. An office within walking distance of the classroom, not across town from it. A respite from the construction din reverberating through our building from 7:45 in the morning until exactly 4:30 in the afternoon.

The College of Commerce could offer Fiona none of these things. Instead, she got me as a mentor.

No wonder she was grumpy.

Fiona: An Unexpected Visitor

FIONA HUNG ON TIGHT as the motorcycle sped along a one-lane road through a tunnel of green jungle, turned sharply up an even narrower road, and pulled off at a small clearing next to a waterfall.

Harriet Holmes pushed down the kickstand, removed her helmet, drew her flat cap from her pocket, and pulled it back onto her head.

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Harriet produced a pipe and tobacco pouch from the inside breast pocket of her field jacket and a small spray bottle from a different pocket. “It’s almost too scenic. Oh, squirt some of this on yourself, darling. You know how the mosquitos will gobble you up given half a chance. You never did do well in the tropics.”

Fiona took the proffered bottle and sprayed the mosquito repellent around her head and arms.

“I did not choose to have a reaction to the malaria pills. My deepest apologies for the inconvenience, however.”

“Don’t forget the ankles,” Harriet reminded her through a cloud of pipe smoke. “Those little buggers love the ankles. Blood’s close to the surface, you see. Come, sit.”

Harriet led Fiona over to a recycled-plastic bench overlooking the waterfall. Beyond the treetops, the Pacific Ocean glittered in the distance.

“Now then, isn’t this lovely.” Harriet took an appreciative pull and blew an imperfect smoke ring. She tried again, this time with better results.

“There, you see?” Harriet waved her pipe at the perfect wreath of smoke floating over their heads. “Persistence pays.”

“I’m supposed to be at a budget meeting.”

“A budget meeting? You already know what it’s about then,” Harriet said. “It’s only going to be gloom and doom. No bursar since the dawn of time has ever called a budget meeting to say, ripping news, everyone, we’re rolling in dosh.”

“Yes, I know all that,” Fiona replied.

But bad news about our finances won’t be all of it, she thought. The worst bit will be afterwards, when that Barda woman comes oiling up and tries to jolly me along and asks whether there’s anything at all she can do for me, only there’s no money to fix anything. And I’ll have to say everything’s going swimmingly, thanks, when what I really want to tell her is if you can’t get the bloody air con fixed or keep the builders from piling up their rubbish in my office then leave me alone, you nosy cow.

“Something on your mind, darling?” Harriet asked.

Fiona smoothed her print dress over her slender thighs and watched the water tumble down the black lava rocks, a silvery column shattering into spray. She conceded the place was beautiful but could not bring herself to feel joy or appreciation.

“What was so very important that you had to bring me all the way out here to talk about it?” Fiona finally asked.

“Well, this is much more pleasant than that old workhouse or wherever they have you, isn’t it?” Harriet waved her pipe at the waterfall. “The mosquito repellent’s working, I hope, darling? Don’t look at me like that. I took you away from your work because I didn’t want you to make a scene.”

Fiona’s mouth set in a thin line. “You don’t think you already made a scene hammering on my door?”

“I saw Emmett. I thought you might like to know.”

This surprised Fiona, although she didn’t want to give Harriet the satisfaction of letting on.

“I see him every day,” Fiona shot back. “How long have you been in Mahina?”

“I only arrived Monday. Such a quaint little airport, reminds me a bit of Bathpalathang.”

“You might’ve told me you were coming,” Fiona said.

“Whatever for? I’ve got a place to stay. Wouldn’t dream of imposing on the newlyweds. Anyway, here’s what I wanted to tell you. I was planning to send off some note cards to let people know I was here. It seems there’s only one proper stationer in Mahina. Mahina Printing and Stationers Incorporated. Such an old-fashioned little hamlet, this Mahina of yours. Not the sort of place I’d picture you, if I’m honest.”

Fiona crossed her arms. “What’s all this got to do with Emmett?”

“Well, I was having a look around the shop, I turned the corner, and there they were. You know how one’s brain can be slow to process things. My first impression was of Emmett Spencer, respectable headmaster and devoted husband, squeezing someone’s bum. My next thought was no, it’s entirely impossible, because that’s certainly not Fiona’s bum he’s squeezing.”

Fiona glared at Harriet.

“Stop it. I’ve had quite enough of these filthy rumours. I’d think you, of all people, would be smart enough not to fall for it.”

The pipe paused halfway to Harriet’s mouth.

“It’s nothing to do with rumours,” Harriet said. “I saw them with my own eyes. I thought you’d want to know—”

“I don’t believe it,” Fiona declared.

Harriet took a pull on her pipe.

“Quite understandable. You threw in your lot with Emmett Spencer, you uprooted your entire life to be with him. You’ve invested quite a bit in this marriage, despite the warning signs, and I suppose you’d sooner die than admit—”

“Stop it.” Fiona stood up. “Take me back. I’d rather sit through a bloody budget meeting than listen to this.”

Harriet quietly put out her pipe, folded her cap, and tucked it into her pocket.

“Very well. I’ll drop you back at the lunatic asylum, if you like.”

“I’m sorry, Mum,” Fiona said. “I know you’re only trying to help. I’ve been a bit cross at Emmett myself lately, if I’m honest. And it’s a former inebriates’ asylum if you must know, not a lunatic asylum. For all the difference it makes.”

Molly: Lost and Found

EMMA NAKAMURA CAME over from the main campus the next day to join me for lunch in the cafeteria of the old hospital building. Our satellite dining center had the exact same yogurt cups, packaged sandwiches, and hard bananas available on the main campus. But the soaring ceilings and relative quiet of the old tuberculosis ward made lunch more pleasant.

I found Emma already seated at one of the round tables, munching a musubi and watching a video on her phone. Emma is short, freckled, and suntanned. Despite the silver threads in her wavy hair she’s often mistaken for a student. But anyone who talks down to her is unlikely to try it a second time.

“What’re you watching?” I sat next to her and pulled the foil top off my yogurt.

“This is me with the paddlers. Right after we finished the Molokai to Oahu race. We finally got the video posted.”

I picked up Emma’s phone to see a rowdy group of women on a small karaoke stage, clearly in a celebratory mood.

“Look how sunburned you all are. What are you doing?”

“We’re doing a victory haka.”

“You’re what?”

“The haka is an ancient Māori tradition we use in the islands to display our strength and unity.”

“I know what a haka is. That’s not a haka.”

“Oh yeah? What do you know about it?”

“Emma, you’re playing air guitar.”

“Colonizer.” Emma snatched the phone back. “So what’s new up here at the haunted hospital?”

I told Emma about Fiona Spencer’s disappearance. She finished her musubi and licked the stray rice grains from her fingers.

“Did you get a picture of the guy who grabbed her?” she asked.

“No. Everything happened so fast. And he didn’t grab her, that’s the thing. She invited him into her office, and next thing you know she was riding off on his motorcycle. That’s why I’m not sure whether this is something I need to report.”

“You could describe the guy, though, yeah?”

“Sure. He kind of looked like a gardener. Or a hobbit? I don’t know. He was wearing a lot of layers.”

“What’s Fiona look like?” Emma pulled the plastic wrap off her second Spam musubi and took a big bite.

“You’ve never met her?”

“Nope.”

“Early thirties, fair hair, judgmental expression that says, ‘I’m from Oxford and I disapprove of everything,’ thin build, average height.”

“Sounds like your new hire’s working out great.”

“Why does Fiona Spencer have to be my problem, Emma?”

“Cause you’re department chair? Wild guess.”

“I blame Dan Watanabe for appointing me.” I gestured with my spoon for emphasis. “Anyone can see I’m not cut out for this.”

Emma picked up a napkin and dabbed her eye.

“Easy there, Spatter McGee.”

“Sorry about that.” I set my spoon down. “I’m supposed to be keeping my faculty happy and productive and instead I go and lose one of them.”

“Does she look like that?” Emma jutted her chin at a point behind me.

“Like what?” I twisted around to see Fiona Spencer sitting on the far side of the dining room, silhouetted against the tall window. She was eating alone.

“Emma, that’s her! It’s Fiona!”

Emma started to unwrap her third musubi.

“Glad I could help. You’re welcome.”

“What a relief. Let’s go sit with her.” I stood up.

Emma stayed put and scowled at me.

“Kinda looks like she wants to be by herself, Molly.”

“I’m already behind on my Encompassing Mentoring check-ins. And also I’m supposed to encourage her not to miss any more meetings.”

Emma made a face.

“Gotta make sure she’s ‘fully integrated into the life of the college’ so she won’t quit on you?”

“Exactly. Come on.”

Emma didn’t budge.

“Molly, in what alternate universe do people want their boss butting in on their peaceful lunch?”

“What are you talking about? I’ve had lunch with Dan Watanabe lots of times,” I said.

“Yeah, but that’s different,” Emma shot back. “Your boss is Dan. Her boss is you.”

Emma and I glared at each other for a minute, me balancing my half-eaten yogurt on my tray, her sitting there stubbornly.

“Your reasoning is unsound, and your conclusion is invalid,” I said finally.

“Yeah, but I’m right,” Emma retorted.

“I have to go talk to her, Emma. What if Dan comes in and sees her eating by herself and I’m over here with you enjoying my lunch?”

Emma sighed heavily, but she got up and came with me.

The deer-in-the-headlights expression on Fiona’s face as we approached her table confirmed Emma was right. She wanted to be left in peace. But it was too late to back out now.

“Oh. Molly. I apologize for missing the budget meeting yesterday,” Fiona said to me.

“Don’t worry about it.” I said.

“Well, ehm.”

“Mind if we join you?”

We seated ourselves across from her, which probably made Fiona feel like she was facing a tribunal. But it seemed like a better choice than plunking down on either side of her. Fiona put aside the journal she’d been reading. Emma introduced herself, and Fiona introduced herself back.

“I put in another request to Konishi Construction,” I said. “To have them get the junk out of your office.”

I wanted to find out what had happened to her the previous day and who her visitor was, but it was a topic I’d have to ease into, and I couldn’t really bring it up in front of Emma anyway.

“I’d be perfectly happy if they simply stopped bringing in more rubbish,” Fiona replied. “Having the existing rubbish removed would be more than I could hope for.”

“Whoa, three pretty ladies at one table.”

We all looked up to see Rodge Cowper holding his lunch tray. The buttons of his rumpled aloha shirt strained across his belly. His thick, graying hair was cut short in the front and longer in the back. It occurred to me his hairstyle was probably older than Fiona.

Rodge placed his tray on the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

“Looks like today’s my lucky day.”

“Hey, Rodge, why don’t you join us?” Emma said, once he was seated and had started in on his sandwich.

“She’s a little firecracker, isn’t she?” Rodge mumbled to Fiona, through a mouthful of egg salad and white bread. Rodge Cowper has an enduring crush on Emma despite (or possibly inflamed by) Emma’s obvious contempt for him.

“You wouldn’t know from her last name, Nakamura, but Emma’s half-Hawaiian. That’s why she’s got that wild streak—”

“Rodge?” I said. “Do you remember our discussion with Maisie from HR?”

Rodge’s face fell.

“I thought that was just for job interviews.”

“No, it’s for not getting written up by HR again.”

“Eh, Fiona,” Emma said, as if Rodge weren’t there, “you going to the in-service tomorrow?”

“The Professional Development thing,” I said, in response to Fiona’s questioning look.

“That’s tomorrow already?” Rodge asked Emma. “Are you going, Emma?”

“I forgot it was so soon,” I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the Student Retention Office announcements. “Oh. Here it is. It’s about how to understand text-speak so you can communicate better with your students.”

“Surely we’re not expected to share our private telephone numbers with our students?” Fiona asked.

“Oh yeah, you’re new here,” Emma said. “The Student Retention Office thinks professors should be on the clock providing outstanding customer service 24/7.”

“Aw, give the SRO a break,” Rodge said. “They’re good people.”

“Yeah, you’re just saying that cause they keep nominating you for the stupid teaching award,” Emma shot back.

“Our legal department says we don’t have to share our personal contact information with students,” I told Fiona. “I don’t.”

“Me neither.” Emma narrowed her eyes at Rodge. “I believe in maintaining appropriate boundaries with students.”

“Are the Student Retention Office and the university lawyers at odds then?” Fiona asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“It’s like the rule about our office doors,” Rodge said. “We have to keep ‘em closed for fire safety, but open so we look welcoming to students.”

“Actually the thing about keeping the doors open is called the Rodge Cowper rule,” Emma put in maliciously. “When a student’s in your office you gotta keep your door open at least 45 degrees.”

“There’s a Rodge Cowper Rule?” Fiona asked suspiciously.

Rodge, his mouth once again stuffed with egg salad sandwich, gave Fiona a thumbs-up.

“Wait’ll you hear about our new attendance policy,” I said. “It’s in the meeting minutes Serena sent out this morning.”

“Hey, Fiona,” Rodge swallowed his mouthful of sandwich. “You got any plans for Christmas?”

“That’s right, we’re almost to the end of the semester. Do you and Emmett have any plans?” I was proud of myself for remembering the name of Fiona’s husband. Normally this is the kind of information that deserts me just when I need it.

“If you’re going off island, you should know they jack up the prices exactly when school’s out,” Emma advised. “It’s better if you guys can take off as soon as final week’s over.

“I suppose I’ll travel back to England.” Fiona rested her hand on her issue of Philosophy & Public Affairs. “Emmet won’t be joining me.”

“Whoa, pretty lady like you traveling that whole way all by yourself?” Rodge said.

“He can’t get away from work, I’m afraid.” Fiona’s tone was flat.

“Isn’t your husband the headmaster at St. Aelred?” Emma asked. “He can’t take Christmas off to be with his wife?”

Fiona obviously didn’t want to discuss this. I nudged Emma’s foot under the table. She ignored me.

“Speaking of Christmas,” I said, “Did you know in Japan, the traditional Christmas dinner is Kentucky Fried Chicken?”

I’ll admit, I’m terrible at this.

“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” Emma persisted.

“It’s true,” I said. “You have to place your order months in adva—”

“Didn’t you move to the butt end of creation to be with him?”

“Emma!” I exclaimed.

“That’s exactly what your dissertation advisor said about Mahina,” Emma retorted.

“He was a little disappointed I didn’t end up somewhere more high-profile, but Emma, you love living here. And so do I. Mahina is a wonderful place to live.”

“Yeah, there’s no place like it,” Rodge agreed. “It’s got everything you need. Did you know just about forty minutes south of here they got a clothing-optional—” I cleared my throat. Rodge shot me a guilty look and quietly started on the second half of his sandwich.

“It’s rather silly and sentimental for a married couple to expect to spend all one’s free time together,” Fiona said quietly.

“Nah, that’s your husband talking,” Emma declared. “You don’t believe it for a second. You moved halfway around the world to be with him, and now he won’t even spend Christmas with you? Come on, you don’t have to put up with that.”

“Emma! Fiona, I am so sorry. Emma, I think we should go. Rodge, maybe we should all let Fiona get back to her—”

Fiona burst into tears, stood up, and fled.

Rodge, Emma, and I sat and watched her leave.

“Whoa, catfight!” Rodge said.

Emma and I glared at him until he picked up his energy drink, mumbled something about getting back to the salt mines, and left.

“Nice going Emma,” I said, when Rodge had left the cafeteria. “Why did you say those things to her?”

Emma reached across the table and grabbed Fiona’s untouched tuna sandwich.

“I hate it when women put up with that crap. He makes her move all the way out here just to be with him, then he ditches her at Christmas. She’s gotta dump him.”

“Technically you’re not wrong,” I said. “But now I have to go do damage control. So thanks for that.”

“Eh, I told you it was a bad idea to come sit with her. Next time listen to me.”

I left Emma to dispatch the remains of Fiona’s abandoned sandwich.

Fiona: Found and Lost

FIONA MARCHED BACK up to her office, fuming. How dare that Emma creature say those things about Emmett? Why did Molly simply sit there, gawping, while Emma harassed her? And to top things off, there was that tiresome old fossil Rodge Cowper waggling his eyebrows at her.

Fiona was angry at herself as well. She shouldn’t have let on about spending the Christmas holidays apart from Emmett. That titbit would be catnip for Mahina’s nosy parkers.

Fiona hadn’t tried to start a row. She’d only asked Emmett how long they were expected to live in the rented kit house while the St. Aelred’s parsonage was being refurbished. She hoped the builders would be finished before the new year. Somehow it came up that Emmett already had plans for the Christmas holiday. Plans that didn’t include her.

This was an obvious sign of trouble in their marriage. But it wasn’t the first.

There was the time Fiona had popped into St. Aelred hoping to surprise Emmett for lunch, only to be told he was unavailable. On her way back out to the car park, she stopped in the ladies’ privy (the one for female staff and teachers). She was in the far stall when two women walked in, chatting.

“I thought after Emmett’s wife got here, he’d be more careful,” said one.

The sound of running water drowned out the other woman’s response.

“You really think the wife doesn’t know?” The first woman laughed. “Eh, love is blind, but in this case it’s gotta be deaf and dumb too, ah?”

“Yeah, dumb is right,” the other woman had replied. They walked out cackling.

Fiona realized she was standing in front of her office door. She couldn’t remember walking across the dirt path from the main building, nor mounting the stairs. She was that flustered.

Fiona unlocked her door and shoved it open. The Post-It Note with her name written on it fluttered to the ground. Her fury at Emmett gave way to feeling depressed about her working conditions.

She had no complaint about the size of her office. It was at least twice as big as any of the others on the floor. But whatever the room had been originally designed for, it certainly wasn’t marking papers or meeting students. The tiled floor sloped gently toward a drain in the centre of the room. There was a single small window, up near the ceiling. Its size and position made it look like it was designed to prevent a person escaping. It certainly didn’t admit much fresh air.

She sat down, set the stack of student papers in front of her, uncapped her red pen, and started to read:

The dictionary defines ethics as “moral principles that govern a person's behavior or the conducting of an activity.”

She moved the paper to the bottom of the stack and started on the next:

Since the dawn of time, ethics has been a big problem in society.

She capped the pen and set it down. Despite the portable air conditioner wheezing away at her elbow, it was too hot for her to concentrate. She wondered whether she could steal away home for a quick shower and change but remembered once again that Emmett had taken the car.

When Fiona had suggested buying a second car, Emmett immediately dismissed the idea as wasteful. He’d been so confident in making his argument Fiona thought it useless to contradict him. Now she was angry at herself for not having put up a fight.

Someone knocked on the door and opened it. It was Molly.

“Fiona,” Molly said, “I, uh—”

“Yes?”

Fiona had no interest in putting Molly at ease. Molly could have stopped what happened downstairs. Instead she did nothing. She could bloody well stand there in her uncomfortable-looking shoes.

“Fiona, I apologize for what happened just now. If I’d known how you—how those comments would land, I would have stopped it. Here’s the thing, in Mahina? People here are really interested in other people’s business. It took me a while to get used to it. When I was pregnant with Francesca, one of my students randomly congratulated me on having a girl, and I still don’t know how she knew, because we didn’t tell anyone the baby’s sex.”

Fiona said nothing.

“Emma means well,” Molly went on. “Her comments came from a good place, even if it doesn’t sound like it sometimes. Not sure I can say the same about Rodge. Sorry. Listen, is there anything I can do?”

“No,” Fiona said. “I mean, yes, there is.”

“There is?”

“If you wouldn’t mind dropping me at St. Aelred?”

“The school?”

“Emmett’s office has air con, and it’s quiet. I’d rather work there. And I don’t have the car just now.”

Fiona hadn’t had a car since Emmett had walked out. She’d been taking the sampan (Mahina’s open-air taxi), going on foot, and now and again cadging a lift from a friendly neighbour. Fortunately, the shuttle between the College of Commerce and the main campus ran at regular intervals, which enabled Fiona to get to and from her classes.

“Oh. Sure.” Molly glanced at her wristwatch. “Yeah, it’s hard to get anything done here with all the noise. You want to go right now?”

Fiona did.

As they walked side-by-side down the stairs, Molly filled Fiona in on the mundane details of the budget meeting she’d missed. Fiona assumed Molly was simply making conversation, so she barely paid attention as Molly nattered on about the dean’s scheme to scour the building for bits and bobs that could be sold off to supplement the budget.

The worst part of all of this was admitting her mother had been right about Emmett all along. That, more than anything else, was what Fiona found truly unbearable.

Molly: A Drive to St. Aelred School

THE DRIVE OUT TO THE boys’ school took longer than I thought. Or maybe it just seemed long because I was trying so hard not to offend the prickly Fiona Spencer.

Fiona might not be the most personable colleague I’d ever had, I reminded myself, but it could have been worse. We’d had so much trouble agreeing on a candidate, we could have ended up with a failed search.

Hanson Harrison’s pick was a self-styled iconoclast who refused on principle (he claimed) to publish in peer-reviewed journals. Instead, his intellectual output was entirely confined to social media, where he proclaimed, “attendance policies are educational malpractice,” and advised his followers “if you hate grading, stop doing it.” Hidebound reactionaries who insisted on “standards” and “rigor” were destined for the ash heap of history (or the glue factory). Best of all, this young rebel’s advisor happened to be one of Harrison’s pals at Yale.

Unfortunately for Harrison, his pet candidate posted what he thought was a private message wherein he bemoaned the oppressiveness and injustice of the academic job market. As evidence he offered his own predicament, which he described as “stuck at a crappy little teaching college in Hawaii.” He was promptly dropped from further consideration.

Hanson’s nemesis, Larry Schneider, backed a young man whose research focused on debunking higher-ed myths. In addition to his publications, Larry’s candidate maintained a lively blog, whose purpose was to mock fads like those espoused by Harrison’s pick. Larry’s candidate got as far as a phone interview with the Student Retention Office, after which he immediately withdrew from the search.

Rodge Cowper and I both supported Fiona Spencer; this was one of the few things Rodge and I had agreed on, ever. I liked her prestigious degree, which would go a long way toward reassuring local parents our quality was every bit as good as a mainland school. Her already-impressive research would ensure smooth(er) sailing for contract renewal and tenure. She seemed to connect well with the students during her teaching demonstration (mostly because they loved her accent).

Rodge favored Fiona Spencer because, as he put it, “No offense, Molly, but we could use some eye candy around here.”

I made sure to put the top up on the Thunderbird before we started driving. After living in Mahina as long as I have, I don’t mind a little rain now and then, but I couldn’t expect Fiona to feel the same way.

We headed out of Mahina, down the two-lane highway toward the St. Aelred School for Boys. On both sides of the road was dense forest and bushy strawberry guava and staghorn fern, punctuated by the occasional corrugated metal roof.

“People complain about the rain here,” I said, “but it doesn’t bother me. I like how it keeps everything green. Honestly, I like living on the windward side. I think the other side of the island’s too hot.”

Fiona was silent.

“The thing is, it’s warm rain, so even if you’re caught without an umbrella, it’s not the worst thing in the world.”

No comment from Fiona.

What was her problem? She’d asked me for a ride, I agreed, and she was still grumpy. Maybe her mood didn’t have anything to do with me, but when someone is sitting in the passenger seat, silent and fuming, it’s hard not to take it a little personally.

As we picked up speed, the convertible roof started to squeak rhythmically.

“Your car is squealing,” Fiona pointed out.

This probably annoyed her on top of everything else, but at least she was talking.

“I know,” I said. “Sorry about that. I need to bring it in to Miyashiro Motors. I’ve been putting it off.”

“Car servicing’s expensive here.” This could be interpreted as either commiseration or accusation.

“True,” I agreed. “Plus every time I take my car in, I have to listen to Earl Miyashiro lecture me about how there are fewer and fewer places to buy parts and I should be driving something more practical, like a two-year-old Toyota. He has no aesthetic imagination. No concept of awe or beauty.”

“Why don’t you go somewhere else?” Fiona asked.

“He’s a competent mechanic. Plus no one else on the island will even look at my car.”

Fiona seemed to lose interest in the conversation and stared out the window.

I still wondered who Fiona’s recent visitor was, the one who’d spirited her away and made her miss the budget meeting. But I’d seen how sensitive Fiona could be, so I kept my questions to myself. In any case, she’d willingly accompanied the person and had returned in one piece.

I shouldn’t let Fiona’s lack of friendliness bother me, I told myself. Of course like most people, I’d rather be liked than disliked. But as department chair, a certain amount of hostility came with the territory. It was my unhappy duty to represent the faculty’s interests to the administration, and then to turn around and implement the administration’s diktats over the objections of the faculty.

As Dan Watanabe, my dean, likes to put it, “it’s lonely in the middle.”

Almost too late, I saw the carved koa St. Aelred sign signaling the drive to the school.

“Turn in here?” I asked.

“What? Oh, yes, sorry. Right up here.”

St. Aelred’s private road was smoother and newer than the highway we’d just turned off. The glossy black asphalt drive cut through acres of velvety, perfectly-trimmed grass. We slowed at the guardhouse. The guard recognized Fiona and waved us through with a smile.

We drove on past a few single-story bungalows and classroom buildings, all decades old but perfectly maintained. I pulled up next to the administration complex, which housed the headmaster’s office. As I shut off the engine, I spotted a stout, rumpled figure carefully stepping up the side of a grassy hill.

“Who is that?” I wondered whether this was the person I’d seen hammering on Fiona’s office door.

“It’s Mr. Ferman, The science teacher,” Fiona said, just as I realized the man was someone I’d never seen before. He wore a tweed jacket with a woolen muffler, but his shock of white hair indicated he was considerably older than Fiona’s visitor.

“He looks a little unsteady,” I said. “Is he okay?”

Fiona gave a dismissive shake of her head.

“He’s potty,” she said.

“What about a potty?”

“Addlebrained. Emmett says he has a drinking problem.” Fiona tried pulling the Thunderbird’s door handle toward her to release the latch.

“Up and down, not toward you,” I said. “Hang on, I’ll get it.”

I jogged around to the passenger side and saw Mr. Ferman stumble. With effort, he got back up, looked around, and rubbed his eyes.

I pulled open the heavy door and let Fiona out.

“Are you sure he’s okay?” I asked. “Is there a nurse’s office on campus?”

We watched Mr. Ferman steady himself and make his way toward the main highway, where we’d just come from.

“I’m certain he’s fine,” Fiona said as she started across the parking lot. “But I’ll be sure to tell Emmett.”

“Do you mind if I tag along?” I said. “We’re going to be doing a recruiting push at St. Aelred’s and I’ve never been. It’d be good to see the campus.”

“If you like.” Fiona said as she walked ahead of me. “I imagine the families who send their sons here are setting their sights a bit higher than Mahina State University.”

Charming, I thought. I followed her into the administration office, a one-story building with dark wood siding and frosted-glass jalousie windows.

The young man behind the koa counter wore a forest-green St. Aelred School polo shirt. When he turned to greet us, I realized I knew him.

Bryce Kahului was a first-year student in my Intro to Business Management class. He was a sweet kid, with an easy smile.

“Is Emmett Spencer in?” Fiona asked, without bothering to address him by name.

“Oh, hello, Dr. Spencer. No, he’s not in at the moment. Oh, hey, Professor Barda.”

He grinned, dimpling his cheek.

“Hi Bryce, nice to see—”

“Do you know where I might find him now?” Fiona interrupted.

Bryce’s smile faded.

“I don’t know. Sorry, Dr. Spencer.”

“When did you last see him?” she demanded.

“Yesterday morning, I think—”

“Is Maureen here?” Fiona interrupted.

“Sorry, Dr. Spencer. She’s in a meeting.”

Fiona Spencer’s mouth tightened.

“I see. Do you know when she’ll be back?”

Bryce shook his head.

“Sorry. Would you like to leave a note?”

“No. Thank you.”

Fiona pulled out her phone and stepped outside, leaving me standing there with Bryce. I was no longer surprised to run into current and former students all over town. At my credit union, where they could see my expenditures and balance; at the pharmacy, where they know my medical history; at the Galimba’s Bargain Boyz cash register, where they offer unsolicited advice on my bra purchases.

“Bryce, I didn’t know you worked at St. Aelred,” I said.

“Yeah, I started when I was a student here.” He brightened. “It’s perfect for me. Part time, and lots of downtime so I can study.”

“So you’re an alumnus. Perfect. You know, the College of Commerce is going to be stepping up its recruiting here. Just out of curiosity, how did you happen to choose Mahina State?”

“Cheap, that’s why,” he said happily. “I wanna save up for grad school.”

“Good plan,” I said.

“Yeah, I told Mr. Spencer with in-state tuition, I could get through without taking out loans. He told me, Bryce, you’re smart enough to go to a real university.”

“He said what?”

“But I went Mahina State anyway.”

“You’re smart enough to go to a ‘real’ university?” Nice way to talk about your wife’s workplace, you undermine-y jerk.

I forced a smile.

“I’m glad you didn’t listen to him, Bryce.”

Fiona came back inside. Emmett wasn’t answering his phone.

“I’ve no idea where he is.” Fiona sounded flustered. “I hope he’s not hurt.”

Oh, do you? Because I hope he fell down a lava tube.

“Why don’t I just drive you home?” I offered. “It’s really no trouble.”

She opened her mouth to say something, appeared to change her mind, and nodded.

“I’d appreciate it. Thank you.”

Fiona: The Only Thing Worse than Being Wrong is One’s Mother Being Right

AS MOLLY AND FIONA made their way back to the parking lot, Fiona stewed. She was furious with Emmett for putting her in this position. Why had she let him decide she didn’t need a car of her own? She was angry at both Molly and Bryce, for having witnessed her humiliation. But the main target of her rage was the woman who had been right all along about Emmett Spencer. Her mother.

Harriet had seen it before they’d even married. Emmett had refused to buy Fiona an engagement ring. Harriet saw it as a red flag. Fiona had insisted Emmett was simply being sensible. The thin gold wedding band was all she required.

“You’re quite mistaken about that, darling,” her mother had countered. “Just wait until he has the chance to splash out on something he wants. See how sensible he is then.”

It was true; Emmett economised ruthlessly when it came to furniture (which he didn’t care about) and tea (which he didn’t drink). But Emmett had arranged travel for the Christmas holiday, which must cost something. He wouldn’t tell her where he was going, how much it would cost, or who else would be there. It was as if he wanted to be with her as little as possible.

The only time Emmett showed any affection for Fiona was when they were out and about.

“This is my wife, Fiona,” he’d declare proudly as he introduced her to an acquaintance.

“Your wife?” the other person would reply, looking surprised. Or relieved.

Fiona was so wrapped up in her thoughts as she made her way down the walkway, she didn’t realize Molly was no longer beside her. She stopped and backtracked, only to find her department head rummaging through a black plastic rubbish bin.

“e-waste. Hold for pickup,” a handwritten sign was taped to the stuccoed wall. Molly’s upper half had disappeared into the bin. She stood tippy toed on her pointy little shoes, her skirted backside sticking up into the air.

“Er, Molly?” Fiona approached her. “What are you doing?”

“They’re throwing away these keyboards and they’re brand new,” replied a muffled voice from inside the bin. Molly stood up, clutching an armload of black computer keyboards, which she deposited on the ground. She pushed up her sleeves and dove back in.

Fiona hesitated; she thought she should help Molly instead of simply standing there, but there didn’t seem to be room for two in there. Additionally, she had no desire to dig through rubbish.

“Got it!” Molly’s muffled voice came from inside the bin. In the next moment, Molly held aloft a small cubic appliance.

“Look at this microwave,” Molly said. “It’s practically new. It’ll be perfect for our little break table. You know, out on the landing, next to the ladies’ room? Where we have the teakettle now? Okay, I think I’m ready to go.”

“Do...you need any help?” Fiona asked.

“If you don’t mind, could you grab the keyboards?”

Fiona scooped up the keyboards and followed Molly back to the car.

“Surely we can order these things,” Fiona said as she tried to keep the keyboards from sliding out of their stack and dropping onto the ground. “Mahina State don’t expect us to pick through other people’s rubbish, do they?”

Molly turned and raised her eyebrows at Fiona.

“We cannot just order these things, believe it or not. Central admin’s only released ten percent of our projected budget. There’s zero money for office supplies. We have like twenty cents in our B budget right now.”

As they approached the car, Molly shifted the microwave to balance it on her hip and fished her keys out of her purse.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but Dan Watanabe had to write a personal check to cover your last pay check.” Molly unlatched the boot and watched the massive blue lid swing up to reveal a cavernous storage area. It held a collapsible pram, a child’s booster seat, a knapsack, and a pile of carrier bags. And it was mostly empty.

“Are you saying we’re on our uppers?” Fiona asked.

“I don’t know,” Molly said. “What does that mean?”

“Insolvent? Broke?”

“Not any more than usual,” Molly said. “I think it has more to do with your not having been added to the system yet. That’s why they keep dumping construction junk in your office. Officially, your office is still unoccupied.”

“But I’ve a key,” Fiona objected. “Someone must realize I’m in there, surely.”

“I know. I’m trying to get it straightened out, but Konishi Construction says it’s a Facilities issue, and Facilities keeps telling me to talk to Konishi. Okay, here we are. Everything can go in the trunk. That’s the wonderful thing about these old cars. Not great on gas mileage, but you could stash two or three bodies back here. Hey, speaking of construction junk, here’s something to keep in mind. Some of the old fixtures in the building could be worth some money, and the Finance Club is going to help us out by selling them and taking a cut. When you have some free time, I can help you sort through the pile. Who knows, we might scrape enough together to actually send you to a conference or something. Yeah, now I’m saying it out loud, it kind of does sound like we’re broke, doesn’t it?”

“A bit.”

Fiona could have refused the position at Mahina State. Emmett hadn’t forced her to move out here. In fact, he’d warned her not to be too eager to accept the offer, to wait and think about it, to see what other opportunities presented themselves. Now she thought of it, he hadn’t been very encouraging at all.

“Do you have children?” Fiona stacked the scavenged keyboards onto the pile of bags next to the collapsible pram. Molly gave the impression of being too scattered to be a mother. One imagined her dressing a baby in mismatched socks or misplacing it altogether.

“Just one child.” Molly reached up with both hands and pushed the lid down until it locked into place with a thunk. “Francesca. She’s seven months old. Although somehow with one kid and two adults, Donnie and I still feel outnumbered. Ready to go?”

Fiona looked around once more, as if Emmett might come bounding out to the car park to stop her leaving. Emmett, however, was nowhere in sight, so she reluctantly climbed into the passenger seat.

Fiona: Not Snooping

FIONA HAD HOPED TO find Emmett at home when Molly dropped her off.

But the carport was empty. And as soon as Fiona stepped through the front door, she knew Emmett wasn’t there. The interior of the house was gloomy. This was partly because of the overgrown foliage in the disused lot next door, and partly due to the low ceilings and stingy windows of the late-1980s kit home design.

Fiona realized with some annoyance that chasing after her errant husband had put her behind on marking papers. She sat down at her computer and logged into the plagiarism-checking program. She noticed two of the papers in the batch had been flagged as identical, which only worsened her mood. She assigned zeroes to the two plagiarists, hoping it wouldn’t put her in the Student Retention Office’s bad books.

The SRO had sent a broadcast email directing professors not to assign D or F marks as doing so “discouraged” students. Within minutes Dan Watanabe, the college’s dean, had sent an email instructing the College of Commerce faculty to ignore the Student Retention Office and assign students the marks they’d earned. If anything, the faculty should show a bit more “tough love” as the college’s Friends in the Business Community had become concerned about grade inflation.

By the time she had finished marking, it was already dark outside. She wasn’t accustomed to how quickly the sun set this close to the equator. She found she had no appetite, which was just as well, as she was stuck without a car and there wasn’t much to eat in the house. Emmett never bothered to cook anything, and the few times Fiona had tried, he’d criticized her efforts. They’d defaulted to ordering out from Chang’s Pizza Pagoda.

Fiona decided to order a pizza, just to give herself something to do. Perhaps by the time it arrived, she’d be hungry enough to eat it. If Emmett came home in the next hour or two, he would appreciate having something for dinner.

The login and credit card information for Chang’s Pizza Pagoda was on Emmett’s computer. He kept his computer locked, but she’d seen him type the password in, so it was a moment’s work to get past the lock screen.

As soon as she entered the password, Emmett’s email inbox filled the screen. Fiona clicked to open a new browser window, brought up the Chang’s Pizza Pagoda website, and paused.

She wrestled with the urge to go back and check Emmett’s inbox. She hated the idea of turning into the kind of wife who rummaged through her husband’s emails.

But what if he was in some kind of trouble? He’d never been away from home this long without contacting her.

She decided finally she wouldn’t rummage. Instead, she’d simply go back to Emmett’s inbox and make a quick visual scan. If there was anything out of the ordinary, it should be obvious. She certainly wouldn’t poke about in his private communications. That would be beyond the pale.

Thus justified, she selected vegetarian pizza and switched back to the in-box window.

At first, she saw nothing unusual. Most of the items appeared to be from the school secretary and were about things like parent visits and grade deadlines. There was one concerning Mr. Ferman. She already knew about poor old Mr. Ferman and his penchant for helping himself to the solvents from the chemistry classroom supply cabinet.

Fiona was about to close the window when an item at the bottom of the page caught her eye: RESERVATION CONFIRMATION.

She hesitated briefly and clicked. What would Emmett have a reservation for?

The email was a room confirmation for a Las Vegas hotel.

The dates spanned the St. Aelred School Christmas holiday.

And the reservation was for one adult: Mr. Emmett Spencer.

She leaned over and yanked the cord from the wall, counted to thirty, and plugged the computer back in again. That way, if Emmett thought anything was odd with his computer, he’d put it down to a power outage.

Fiona had forgotten to finish placing the order for the pizza. But it didn’t matter. She wasn’t hungry.

It was barely eight o’clock, but her papers were all marked, and she hadn’t the mental energy to work on her research. It seemed pathetic to stay up to wait for Emmett.

She fell asleep quickly and slept heavily. Until the mobile phone on her nightstand rang.

Fiona: A Minor Misdirection

FIONA SNATCHED UP THE mobile eagerly. But it wasn’t Emmett calling.

“Fiona,” the caller said, “it’s Maureen. Sorry to bother you. I hope you weren’t asleep.”

“No, of course not,” Fiona lied, out of reflexive politeness. Why on earth was Emmett’s secretary calling in the middle of the night? No, not the middle of the night. The time readout on Fiona’s phone indicated it was only nine-twenty.

“Is Mr. Spencer there?” Maureen asked.

Fiona reached over to the other side of the bed. The covers were undisturbed.

“I’m afraid right now is not a good time, Maureen.” Not an outright lie, but enough of a misdirection to throw Maureen off the scent.

“Aw, why you wen’ answer the phone then?” Maureen chided, laughing. “Eh, sorry, ah? He missed a parent conference this afternoon, that’s why, and they’ve been emailing to see when they can reschedule. I was hoping to get it straightened out tonight. No worries, I’ll talk to Mr. Spencer tomorrow. We can get everything fixed up then.”

Fiona disconnected the call, lay back, and stared up at the whirling blades of the ceiling fan.

It wasn’t at all like Emmett to skip a work meeting without a good reason. Then again, Fiona wouldn’t have thought it was like him to book a bachelor holiday in Las Vegas.

Fiona imagined Emmett’s Las Vegas-bound plane plummeting into the Pacific Ocean in flames and billows of black smoke. The thought comforted her as she drifted back to sleep.

Molly: A Visit from Young Bryce

AFTER I DROPPED FIONA off at her house, I drove back to the College of Commerce and lugged the microwave up the steps to the top floor. We already had a little break table set up on our landing, against the wall where the electrical outlet was. I plugged the microwave in, set the clock, and let myself into my office to recover. Emma is always on my case about not getting enough physical activity. I’d make sure to tell her I climbed four flights of stairs carrying a twenty-pound microwave, which should count as my weight-bearing exercise for the month.

I’d just started up my computer when I heard a knock on my office door.

It was Bryce Kahului, the student we’d just seen over at the St. Aelred School for Boys.

“Bryce. You got over here fast.” I propped the door open (per the Rodge Cowper Rule). “Unless you have an identical twin. Would you like to come in?”

“Sorry Professor, I know it’s not your office hours. An’ you’re probably ready to go home to your family.” He took a seat in one of my visitor chairs. So he obviously wasn’t that sorry.

“I’m not even close to going home,” I said, which was true, now Bryce had parked himself in my office.

“Did you have another question about tomorrow’s assignment?” I asked him.

“Oh, no, I already turned that one in. I stopped by because I wanted to say sorry for what I said about Mahina State. I could tell you were upset about it.”

“Did you come all the way over here just to apologize?”

“It’s okay, Professor. It’s not that long of a drive. Honestly, it’s a lot easier to find parking here than on the main campus.”

“Well, I appreciate it. It was sweet of you to stop by, Bryce. Thank you.”

“I think people stay away from here because of the baby’s cry, too,” he said.

“What baby’s cry? We’re not allowed to bring babies into the building.”

“You never heard of the baby’s cry?”

“No,” I said. “I’ve heard of Constance Brigham’s ghost throwing people off balconies. Wait, no, yes, I have heard of it. I think Serena said something about it. What’s the story?”

“Back when this was a hospital, I don’t know, in the nineteen twenties, I think? There was a man who worked on the plantation. He was married, but he got a girlfriend too. When his wife came hapai, he decided he didn’t want to support her and their new baby. So when the wife had the baby, he set the nursery on fire.”

“How horrible,” I said. “I’m not sure I wanted to know that.”

“The building was all wood, yeah? So it burned down real fast. But the nurses got all the babies out just in time.”

“Oh, I’m glad,” I said. “What about the man who set the fire?”

Bryce leaned his elbows on my desk and folded his hands.

“They say he was standing too close to the building and got killed when the roof collapsed. He was the only fatality.”

“Ooh, karma,” I said.

“Exactly.” Bryce flashed his dimple-cheeked grin. “When you get bachi, you know, you did something bad? And you come close to where the old nursery was? If you hear the baby’s cry you know something bad’s gonna happen to you.”

“Something bad? Like what?” Despite the heat, I realized I was rubbing my arms to smooth the goose bumps (or chicken skin, if you prefer the local expression).

“My mom’s friend was driving up past the hospital one night with her aunty, and the aunty said, do you hear a baby crying? My mom’s friend didn’t hear anything. So the next day the aunty was on the roof fixing her gutter and she fell off and died.”

“Oh no. Poor lady. Bryce, have you ever heard the baby’s cry?”

Bryce shook his head.

“No, thank heavens. I know, chicken skin, yeah?”

“I was exactly thinking that, yes,” I said. “Now I have something to think about when I’m here working late.”

“You don’t have to worry if you didn’t do anything bad,” Bryce said.

“Did your mom’s friend’s aunty do something bad?” I asked.

“Yeah, she was a good aunty, but she used to sell her pills. Anyway what were we talking about again? Me coming to Mahina State. You know what, whatever Mr. Spencer said about it, now I’m going here, it’s actually not that terrible.”

I was happy to be off the subject of the baby’s cry. I’m not superstitious or anything, but you don’t have to believe in something to be scared by it. After Emma convinced me to watch The Sixth Sense with her, I had to sleep with the lights on for a month.

“Now there’s a slogan we can use for our ads,” I said. “Mahina State. Actually not that terrible.”

“I thought our slogan was ‘Where Your Future Begins Tomorrow,’” he said.

“Yes. It is. Listen, for what it’s worth, it was kind of a gut punch for me to hear what Mr. Spencer said about us, but no one’s blaming you, Bryce. It’s just Mahina State University does a lot for St. Aelred’s. We serve on their board, we mentor their students in the science fair, we set up career days on their campus. I’m sure there’s other stuff I’m not even thinking of. After all that, for him to turn around and badmouth us. Bryce, you know Mr. Spencer’s wife, she teaches business ethics for us, did you know she earned her doctorate at Oxford?”

“For real?” Bryce’s eyes widened. “Mr. Spencer never said anything about it.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. I understand he mastered out of his program, which is why he’s Mr. Spencer and she’s Dr. Spencer. Okay, well it is getting a little late, did you have any other...”

Bryce looked down at his folded hands.

“My boyfriend was supposed to come here with me, you know,” he said. “To Mahina State.

“Oh.” I had started to stand up, but I sat back down. “Where did he end up going?”

“He died.”

I slid my tissue box over to his side of the desk. Maybe I should do something more than offer him a tissue. Should I whip out the Counseling Center’s laminated information sheet and tell Bryce to scan the code with his phone? I think that’s what they told us in our last training session. But it didn’t seem appropriate right now.

“Do you think you might like to talk to someone?” I asked.

“I am,” he said earnestly. “I’m talking to you right now.”

“True. But I meant someone like a professional counselor. Our counseling center...”

I remembered our counseling center closed at noon now. It used to be open during regular business hours, but that was several rounds of budget cuts ago.

“Trevor was fearless,” Bryce said. “He didn’t care what anyone thought. One time he bought a new case for his phone. It was purple, all covered with glitter and it said ‘Princess’ in silver writing. His dad was so mad when he saw it, he cut off Trevor’s allowance.”

“Over a phone case?” I said.

“Well, probably his grades had something to do with it too. Sorry, Professor.” Bryce pulled out a tissue, looked up at the ceiling, and dabbed underneath his eyes. “I guess I’m not over it. Anyway, just wanted to come by to apologize for what I said about Mahina State. That’s all. Sorry to take up your time.”

“No, Bryce, it’s no imposition at all, really...”

Bryce stood, grabbed a few more tissues, and walked out blowing his nose.

I locked up and started downstairs. Bryce was a likeable kid, but I wondered how credible he was with the story about the dead boyfriend. It all seemed like a little too much drama.

But I had my own drama to worry about. I had to pick up Francesca and I now had four minutes to get to daycare.

Fiona: Still Waiting

ON FRIDAY MORNING, Fiona woke up to find the pillow next to her smooth and undented. Again. She went out to the kitchen, hoping she’d find Emmett sipping one of his twee little espresso drinks. But there was no sign of him there either, and the Nespresso machine was cold.

She opened the door to the carport. Emmett’s Mini Cooper was still missing. There was only the congealed petrol splotch on the pavement.

Fiona didn’t have time to wait for the sampan, and she didn’t want to bother her neighbour again. Walking to campus –an hour, in the rain—would be impractical.

Molly Barda would have given her a lift, but Fiona was not inclined to call her and ask. It was bad enough her department head had seen the way Emmett had left her stranded the day before. If she called to ask for a ride now, it would be obvious Emmett was still missing, and worse, had stayed out all night without bothering to think of how his wife would get to work the next day. It would be too mortifying.

Besides, Molly had invited her to come along to some wretched garden club meeting tomorrow, and Fiona had agreed. All the more reason not to cadge a ride from her today. Fiona and Molly would be seeing quite enough of each other as it was.

Having no other options, Fiona made the call. Ten minutes later, Harriet Holmes’ Triumph Bonneville roared up to her door.

Harriet was straddling the bike and puffing on her pipe when Fiona came outside.

“So he really has scarpered, has he?” Harriet asked as she handed Fiona a helmet. Harriet herself was bareheaded.

“I don’t know.” Fiona fastened on the helmet and climbed onto the back. Harriet held the motorbike steady with one hand and smoked her pipe with the other.

“Or only worked late and slept in his office again?”

Fiona bristled at the way Harriet emphasized the word “slept” as if it were a euphemism for something indecent. Fiona herself had noticed how spacious and private Emmett’s office was. She wondered why he needed that new leather sofa, which was far nicer than any piece of furniture in their house.

“Maureen told me Emmett wasn’t there at all yesterday afternoon,” Fiona said. “He even missed a parent meeting.”

Harriet took a long pull on her pipe and blew a perfectly formed smoke ring toward the grey sky.

“Missed a parent’s meeting? My goodness. Even in Hawaii, I imagine one’s still expected to show up to work occasionally.”

“I wonder, what if something’s happened to him?”

“Always looking for the silver lining, aren’t you, darling?”

“That’s a beastly thing to say, even for you. If anything happens to Emmett, I’ll be stuck. Alone in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”

“Alone? Nonsense. I’m here.”

“But it’s only a visit, yes?” Fiona pleaded. “You’re not here forever. Don’t you have to be back before the start of Michaelmas term?”

“Unless I decide to take my retirement.”

“Oh, it’ll be ages before you retire, Mum,” Fiona said hopefully.

“No, it won’t. Oxford used to be like the Mafia. One only left feet-first. But they’ve just put in the Employer-Justified Whatsit Thingy now. Mandatory retirement at sixty.”

“Surely not!”

“Sixty-something, I don’t recall exactly. They’ll be bunging me out soon enough, I can tell you that. It’s legalized age discrimination, Fiona. They don’t stand for it here, judging by some of the old fossils I see tottering around Mahina College.”

“It’s Mahina State University.”

“I could retire, you know. Your father will be a free man within the year. Think how jolly it would be to have all three of us in Hawaii.”

Fiona tried to rub her forehead, but her hand bumped against her helmet.

“I can’t talk about this anymore. Please take me to my office.”

Harriet paused and looked over her shoulder, her boot hovering above the kick starter.

“I’m awfully sorry, darling,” Harriet said.

“Thank you, but there’s no need for you, or anyone, to feel sorry for me. I should have known what I was in for when I married him. You tried to warn me, and I didn’t listen. There. I said it. Ready to go?” Fiona pulled the visor of her helmet down.

“No, what I’m sorry about is it seems we can’t leave just yet.” Harriet stomped the kickstand into place, stuffed the smouldering pipe into a pocket, and climbed off the motorbike. Fiona lifted off her helmet and turned to see what Harriet was looking at.

Two policemen were walking up the drive.

Fiona: A Visit with Mahina’s Finest

FIONA HOPED THEY HAD news about Emmett. Knowing where he was would be better than not knowing. Besides, she didn’t wish Emmett ill, exactly, but his being incapacitated (or worse) would at least provide an excuse for his absence.

But the police hadn’t come about Emmett, which was both a relief and a disappointment. Instead, they had questions about a Mr. Anatole Ferman, who taught science at the St. Aelred School for Boys.

“Why, what’s he done?” Fiona asked.

“Ended up in the hospital is what,” the younger policemen replied. “He’s hurt pretty bad.”

“The poor man,” Harriet said pointedly. “What happened?”

“Hit by one bus yesterday,” the older policeman said. “Driver said he stepped in front of it.”

“Whatever for?” Harriet demanded.

“What in heaven’s name is going on at that school?” Fiona added.

Fiona had expected to hear Mr. Ferman had suffered liver failure or alcohol poisoning. But not this.

“At this time, we don’t know,” the older policeman said. “We’re looking into it. Is Emmett Spencer at home?”

Fiona and Harriet exchanged a glance.

“What does this have to do with Emmett?” Fiona asked.

“He’s mister Ferman’s employer, yeah?” the younger officer said.

“Ah yes, Emmett’s the headmaster, isn’t he?” Fiona felt like an idiot. “Yes, of course. I suppose he is Mr. Ferman’s employer.”

She wondered whether she should say anything about visiting the school and seeing Mr. Ferman stumbling and disoriented. She decided to keep mum. She didn’t want to explain why she was at the school to begin with, searching for her missing husband.

“We haven’t had any luck finding Mr. Ferman’s family,” the younger officer said.

“Did you call the secretary?” Fiona asked. “Maureen Dos Santos. She’d have the information.”

“Already did,” the older officer said. “She said Mr. Ferman’s emergency contact is his ex-wife. He never updated it and the number’s disconnected. She thought Mr. Spencer might have more information. She told us when she called here last night, your husband was at home. Can we talk to him?”

Fiona felt Harriet giving her a sharp look.

“Yes, of course,” Fiona said quickly. “But he isn’t here now. I’d expect he’d be at the school by this time.”

Fiona knew better than to lie to the police. However, she had only said she expected her husband to be at work. She added, “I’ll tell him to call you as soon as I talk to him.”

“Car’s gone,” the older policeman said. The younger one nodded. Indeed, the carport was empty. This seemed to confirm for the police that Emmett wasn’t hiding inside the house, at least.

The older officer handed Harriet his card.

“Officer De Silva,” Harriet read. “We’ll be in touch if we hear anything. Ta!”

Harriet and Fiona watched the officers head back down the drive.

“Was Emmett here last night?” Harriet asked as the police cruiser pulled away from the kerb and drove off. “I thought you said he hadn’t come home.”

Fiona shook her head.

“Maureen called and asked where he was. I couldn’t very well tell her the truth, could I?”

“Why ever not?” Harriet asked.

“Maureen means well, but she’s a frightful gossip. She’d be broadcasting it to everyone on the bloody island, wouldn’t she? Don’t look at me like that, Mother. It was only a little misdirection to save myself being humiliated.”

“Fiona darling.” Harriet fished the smouldering pipe from her pocket and puffed it back to life. “What if your husband truly has come to harm?”

“Don’t be daft. I know it’s easy to let one’s imagination run wild, but nothing bad ever happens to Emmett.”

“I hope you’re right. Because if he has, your expedient little lie—excuse me, misdirection—is going to be a bit tricky to explain.”

“Oh, I nearly forgot. I’ll need to leave a note for Emmett to let him know I’m at campus.”

“I see,” Harriet said. “He’ll show up when he pleases, and no questions asked.”

Fiona went back into the house, leaving Harriet standing outside next to her motorbike, puffing thoughtfully on her pipe.

Fiona: By the River’s Edge

SATURDAY’S MEETING of the Pua Kala Garden Society, in the historic Brewster House on Russian Road, was exactly the kind of thing Fiona might have enjoyed under different circumstances. If she weren’t preoccupied with the fact that her husband was still missing. For now, she’d have to keep her chin up and hope no one asked after Emmett.

Molly parked in front of a white house set back on a velvety lawn. Near the entrance was a lovely assortment of rosebushes blooming in shades ranging from pink to crimson. Sugar-pink roses dotted the trellis framing the front door.

As Fiona followed Molly down the back staircase, she heard bits of conversation floating up:

“She moved all the way out here for him, and it didn’t stop him.”

“If anything, he became more flagrant.”

Fiona’s stomach clenched.

“Well, she’s better off without him.”

Better off without him?

At the bottom of the staircase was the sheltered area underneath the house where the Pua Kala Garden Society met. Outside the shaded area, the sun blazed down on a garden of wild ginger, ti plants, and ferns that extended to the edge of the embankment. The roaring of the Hanakoa River below was louder here than it had been from the road.

The Pua Kala Garden Society members were seated in rattan chairs around a low coffee table. They stopped chatting and looked up when Fiona and Molly walked in.

Fiona recognized the impertinent Emma Nakamura, the agreeable Iker Legazpi, and Emmett’s secretary Maureen Dos Santos.

“Fiona, come sit.” Maureen waved and pulled out the chair next to her.

Fiona got on well with Maureen, although they had little in common. Maureen was a bit older and hadn’t travelled much except to “go Vegas” each year. But Maureen had an easy laugh, and a way of making Fiona feel like an old friend, not like the boss’s wife.

Ordinarily, Fiona would have been glad to see Maureen. But not today. She worried Maureen might ask after Emmett and wasn’t sure what to say if she did.

The only person at the meeting Fiona didn’t recognize was an elegant woman with upswept white hair and a floor-length caftan. This turned out to be Mrs. Masterman, their hostess.

I suppose I should do my best to be agreeable, Fiona thought as she took her seat next to Maureen. If Emmett’s really done a runner, I may need to make some new friends.

Molly: Back to the Pua Kala Garden Society

I PARKED OUTSIDE THE Brewster House and let the Thunderbird idle. I knew I had to get out of the car and go inside. Only I didn’t want to.

Just push through it, I told myself. It’ll be over in an hour.

I hadn’t come to the Pua Kala Garden Society meeting to have fun or learn about flowers. I was doing my job. Specifically, I was here for the benefit of Fiona Spencer, who was currently sulking in the passenger seat.

Dan had reminded me once again that if we lost Fiona Spencer, the College of Commerce wouldn’t be authorized for another full-time hire until sometime after the sun cooled. And it would be my fault.

“Just make her happy,” Dan had urged me. “Maybe you can take her to that gardening club you and Iker belong to. English people like gardening, don’t they?”

“Just” make Fiona Spencer happy? Good one, Dan.

If King Eurystheus had truly wanted to stump Hercules, he wouldn’t have bothered with trifling tasks like slaying hydras and cleaning stables. No, he would have challenged Hercules to coax Fiona Spencer out of her perpetual snit. I doubted it was something even a demigod could pull off, let alone a socially inept department chair.

You might assume, because I’m friends with Emma Nakamura, that I can get along with anyone. But truly, Emma’s not so bad. I mean, sure, we get on each other’s nerves sometimes, but at least you know where you stand with Emma. If you invite her somewhere and she doesn’t want to go, she’ll tell you straight out, with some swear words added in to make sure there’s no misunderstanding. She won’t give you a hunted look and an affectless “yes, of course” as if she were being ushered up the steps of the guillotine.

I realized Fiona was already halfway up the walkway to the Brewster House, so I quickly locked up and followed her. The front door was unlocked. I slipped my shoes off and went in first. Fiona left hers on, which I didn’t realize until I heard her behind me, clacking across Mrs. Masterman’s polished eucalyptus floor in her leather-heeled flats. I didn’t say anything to her about the shoes. Mrs. Masterman could scold her about it if she wanted.

As we stepped into the shaded area under the house, the conversation stopped. I wondered at first whether they were talking about me. It was my first time attending a Garden Society meeting in a while. But to my relief I wasn’t the topic of conversation at all; it turned out they were only gossiping about Nicole Nixon from the English department, or rather, her faithless ex-husband. Nicole wouldn’t have minded at all. His caddish antics had inspired her recently-published memoir, which was enjoying some success in the literary world.

Iker Legazpi, the only man in our group, stood and greeted us with a neat bow. Emma was there, along with Mrs. Masterman and a dark-haired woman I didn’t recognize. She wore a muddy-colored muumuu that flattered neither her complexion nor her figure, but she had a friendly smile. She and Fiona seemed to know each other, which I was relieved to see.

Mrs. Masterman made everyone introduce themselves, and I learned the woman’s name was Maureen.

“Mrs. Masterman,” Iker said, “I must say how fortunate we are that you have returned to Mahina.”

“Yeah, what happened with that?” Emma asked. “We thought you was gonna stay in Honolulu, ah?”

Mrs. Masterman smiled and settled into her chair.

“The Brewster House has such a unique location. It has the great good fortune of being in both a high-risk lava zone and a tsunami zone. Well, no self-respecting mortgage lender would touch it. I had to finance the sale myself.” She paused and gave us a Mona Lisa smile. “It seems the buyers had gambled their fortune on some kind of currency scheme—call me old-fashioned but I must admit, I never did quite understand it—and unfortunately, they missed a few payments. So as the mortgage-holder, I took possession of the property. I really had no choice.”

“So you got your house back,” Emma said, “plus you got the down payment an’ whatever they paid before their investment thing wen’ all kapakahi. Smart, you.”

“I was simply lucky.” Mrs. Masterman moved the cookie plate aside and lifted a blighted-looking orchid onto the glass-topped coffee table. “And fortunately the couple were not condemned to penury. They simply had to move to one of their other properties, I believe on Kauai. Well. I’m delighted to be back in Mahina, with my beloved garden and all of you wonderful Garden Society members. Oh, before we get started. This was found in the guest bathroom a few meetings ago and I keep forgetting to ask.”

Mrs. Masterman put on her reading glasses, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and smoothed it out on the coffee table. It was a regular letter-sized sheet, with a few typed words on it.

“Three thousand by Thursday or I tell,” she read.

“It seems to be an extortion,” Iker said.

“Quite so,” Mrs. Masterman agreed. “If this was directed at anyone in this room, I am willing to do whatever I can to help you.”

She lowered her reading glasses and looked around the room, but no one appeared to recognize the note.

“You may contact me privately if you wish.” Mrs. Masterman put her glasses back on. “I have no patience whatsoever with blackmailers. If a deed truly needs to be exposed, why, do the right thing and expose it! Otherwise mind your own business. Now, who can tell me what’s wrong with this poor little girl?”

Mrs. Masterman stroked a leaf of the plant.

“Cymbidium Mosaic Virus,” Fiona said.

“Why, you’re exactly right,” Mrs. Masterman exclaimed, delighted.

For a while, it seemed things were going well. Fiona joined in the ensuing discussion of necrotic lesions and chlorotic rings. Now and then it almost seemed she was enjoying herself.

As we were wrapping up the meeting and getting ready to go, Mrs. Masterman invited Fiona to join her for dinner the following weekend, and to bring her husband.

I was a little envious; Mrs. Masterman had never invited Donnie and me to dine with her. But I was happy to see how quickly Fiona Spencer was getting herself “integrated into the community.” I would have to tell Dan the good news.

“You’re ever so kind to ask,” Fiona replied, “but Emmett’s still out of town. I’ll be sure to ask him about it when he gets back.”

Maureen, the woman who knew Fiona, said,

“But he was at home last night when I called, yeah?”

“Well, I thought I’d heard him come in,” Fiona stammered, “but it seems I was mistaken. He called this morning and said he was delayed.”

Maureen looked like she was about to say something but changed her mind and started gathering her things.

“Tell him to let me know as soon as he’s back, yeah?” Maureen said, “so I can reschedule the parents’ meeting. They’re asking about him, you know.”

“Yes, of course.” Fiona stood up and slung her purse over her shoulder, avoiding eye contact.

Fiona’s obvious discomfort made me feel uneasy. I wandered over to the side table, where Iker Legazpi was refilling his tea. It was warm for November, but Iker Legazpi was wearing his usual long-sleeved shirt and tie.

“How are things at St. Aelred School?” I asked him.

“Very well, thank you,” Iker said.

“One of my students stopped by the other day and told me something about St. Aelred’s. Bryce Kahului.”

“He is an alumnus of St. Aelred,” Iker said. “Mr. Kahului is perhaps not a top scholar, but he is kind and has a good character.”

“He said he had a close friend at the school who was also going to come to Mahina State with him, but he passed away? The friend did, I mean. Do you know anything about it?”

“It was a very sorrowful thing,” Iker said. “A student died by his own hand.”

“Oh no. I’m so sorry to hear it.”

“A boy of eighteen,” Iker said. “It would be a tragedy in any event, of course, but in this case, there is the added complication. He is the son of Maureen and Apostol dos Santos.”

Iker nodded in the direction of the newest club member, who was disappearing up the stairs.

“That Maureen?” I whispered. “She’s married to Apostol Dos Santos? The Apostol Dos Santos?”

“Yes. You have heard of her husband, of course.”

“Sure. He’s on our Board of Trustees.”

“Yes. He also serves on the Police Commission, the St. Aelred School Board, the Chambers of Commerce, and the Mayor’s Advisory Board. He is a civic-minded and influential man.”

“You know, I don’t think I would recognize him.

“It is unsurprising. Despite his elevated profile, or perhaps because of it, he does not like to have his photograph taken.”

“I hear dos Santos is someone you don’t want as an enemy,” I said.

“That is also my understanding,” Iker sipped his iced tea. “It is said, you do not want to cross The Rancher.”

“Why do they call him The Rancher?” I picked up a marble-sized tea cake from the cookie platter and popped it into my mouth. Delicious. I took another one.

“Perhaps he owns a ranch,” Iker said. “But I am only speculating.”

“The Rancher? What a missed opportunity. His name is Apostol Dos Santos. An apostle and two saints. He should definitely be called The Saint.”

Iker looked at me quizzically.

“No?”

“But he is called The Rancher,” Iker said.

I picked up a little square cocktail napkin and dabbed the powdered sugar from the corners of my mouth.

“Okay, fine. If you don’t mind my asking, what happened, exactly? With the son?”

“It is said Trevor Dos Santos was a volatile and troubled young man.”

“And?” I prodded.

“It seems the younger Mr. Dos Santos found a loaded firearm in the headmaster’s desk and fatally shot himself.”

“The headmaster meaning Fiona’s husband?” I whispered.

Iker nodded.

“Fiona’s husband left a loaded gun lying around in an unlocked desk?” I looked around but no one was close enough to listen. Mrs. Masterman was clearing away the tea things, and Fiona was on her phone. “Are you saying a student—Dos Santos’s son, no less—got into the office and found a loaded gun? That’s... I mean, I’m not a lawyer, but that sounds like criminal negligence or something, doesn’t it? How does he still have a job there?”

“The weapon was purchased as a defense against what we call our helicopter parents,” Iker said. “It is something of a paradox. The duller and more indolent the son, the more zealous and aggressive are the boy’s mother and father. They cajole; they bribe; when those things do not work, they resort to threats. Mr. Spencer feared them.”

“He should have bought a taser or something,” I said. “At least that’s not designed to kill people.”

“It was a tragic error in judgement, yes. One he very much regrets now, of course. There was talk of lawsuits and firing. Mr. Spencer is fortunate to have kept his employment.”

“Wow. Poor Maureen. At least she doesn’t seem to be holding it against Fiona.”

“Indeed,” Iker said. “It was Maureen Dos Santos who found the boy.”

“No! Where?”

“In Emmett Spencer’s private office. He took his last breath in front of the headmaster’s desk. The very desk that held the loaded weapon.”

I glanced over at Fiona, who was standing just outside with her back to us. She wasn’t taking in the view of the Hanakoa River gorge. She was hunched over and looked like she was typing something on her phone.

“Why was Maureen in the headmaster’s office?”

“It is her place of work. She is the secretary to the headmaster.”

“Ohhh. Right. I see. That’s how she knows Fiona. How horrible for her.”

“So you see, Molly, it is incumbent upon us to show kindness to our colleague.”

“You’re talking about Fiona? I am kind to her. I’m super kind. I brought her to the meeting today. I’ve been driving her everywhere.”

“These events, I am certain, have caused her much unhappiness and uncertainty.”

“If anything, I think people should try to be nice to Maureen,” I said. “She’s the one who lost her son to suicide.”

“Of course. We must take every opportunity to show kindness.”

“I guess,” I said, “Well, thank you for filling me in on the background, Iker. It explains a lot. You’re right. I really should try to be nicer to Fiona Spencer. I mean, I’m already as nice as I can be in my actions, but in my mind, I’ve been maybe not so charitable.”

Iker gave me a solemn nod.

“You will never regret showing kindness,” he said.

Demonstrably untrue, I thought. But I guess it sounds nice.

Fiona: A Good Deed

IT WAS A PLEASANT SURPRISE to see Maureen at the garden society meeting, Fiona mused as she followed Molly back out to the car. Bit of a shock to see that Emma woman again. Although things turned out alright in the end. Emma didn’t harass anyone, Iker from accounting was lovely, and Mrs. Masterman gave her a little potted orchid as a welcome gift.

In fact, the meeting had gone rather well overall, certainly better than Fiona had expected. The blackmail note business was entertaining, reminiscent of one of those murder mystery parties. Mrs. Masterman had obviously concocted it for the amusement of her guests, but she was quite an actress and Fiona found herself nearly believing the note was real.

Things did go a bit pear-shaped when Mrs. Masterman invited Fiona and her husband to dinner. But it wasn’t unusual for one’s husband to be traveling, was it? Surely Mrs. Masterman didn’t suspect anything was amiss.

Molly stopped at the front door to put her shoes back on.

“Sorry,” Molly said when she straightened back up, “were you going to say something?”

“Ah. I suppose I was wondering, were we expected to remove our shoes?” Fiona asked.

“A lot of people do here. I’ve just gotten into the habit. Okay, ready to run?”

It was starting to rain. Molly sprinted back out to the car and held open the passenger door for Fiona. Fiona hurried into the car as quickly as she could manage.

“So, what did you think?” Molly asked as she climbed into the driver’s seat.

“It was lovely, thanks.” Fiona buckled the seatbelt.

“Was Maureen the same person you were asking about at the school? St. Aelred?” Molly asked.

“Yes. She’s the headmaster’s secretary.”

“Ah. I figured a parent’s meeting had something to do with school business, and how many Maureens could they have working there? Well, that works out then. I hope you were able to talk to her about whatever it was. Unless you managed to get a hold of her in the meantime...I mean, I’m not trying to pry or anything...”

Molly trailed off and concentrated on starting the car. It was an elaborate dance of ignition key and accelerator that seemed to require all her attention.

Fiona thought of a way to steer the conversation away from Emmett.

“Poor Maureen,” Fiona said. “She’s been marvellous, really. Considering all she’s been through.”

“I heard her son committed suicide?” Molly said as she twisted the key and tapped the pedal.

“Yes. You heard?”

“Hard to keep a secret in Mahina,” Molly said. “I can’t even imagine. Poor woman.”

The engine finally engaged, and Molly pulled away from the kerb. They drove in silence down Russian Road, past expansive lawns and well-preserved houses.

“I think you really impressed Mrs. Masterman,” Molly said, finally. “How do you know so much about orchid viruses?”

“A magician doesn’t give away her secrets. That’s the saying, isn’t it?”

“I mean, not to imply that somehow you shouldn’t know about orchid viruses,” Molly said, “but I would’ve bet money Emma was the only person in the room besides Mrs. Masterman who could diagnose a sick plant on sight. What was the name of the virus again? Something like ceramic?”

Fiona let out a little snort of laughter. Molly glanced over, startled.

“I don’t remember the name of it at all,” she said.

“Really? But how...”

“Emma Nakamura brought it up on her phone. She held it under the glass table for me to read. I should probably tell Mrs. Masterman. I do hope she won’t be cross.”

“Mrs. Masterman? No, I think she’d appreciate the effort.”

Molly braked, causing the car’s front end to plunge dangerously. She hand-over-handed the steering wheel to the right, making wide arc uphill, onto the narrow road that led to the hospital. “Sorry, I just remembered something. Do you mind if we stop at Broadmoor? It’ll just take a minute.”

“I’m sorry, Broadmoor?” Fiona asked.

“That’s what we’ve been calling our new building.”

“Have we?”

“Well, not officially,” Molly explained, “I think it was Pat Flanagan who started it, before he left, and it’s kind of caught on. Pat taught English here at Mahina State, but he got a better offer in Honolulu, so he’s there now.”

“Broadmoor’s a psychiatric hospital in Berkshire,” Fiona said.

“Exactly,” Molly said. “That’s why we...you know, because our building used to be an inebriates’ asylum. I mean of course you’d get the reference, you’re from there. Not Broadmoor, I mean, you’re from England. But you already know that.”

Molly cleared her throat and focused on the road.

“I guess it’s not really that funny,” she said.

Fiona did not, in fact, find it funny. It was the sort of joke her mother might make.

“We’re stopping by the office, then,” Fiona said.

“Just for a second. You can wait in the car if you want, I’ll just run up and I’ll take you home right afterwards.”

“I’ll come with you,” Fiona said, “I have loads of papers to mark and I’ve just remembered I left a stack of them in my office.”

“Oh, that works out,” Molly said. “Speaking of your office, any progress on getting the construction junk moved out?”

“No.”

“What? Dangit.”

“It might be my imagination, but it looks to me like the pile’s getting bigger.”

Molly sighed.

“I’m so sorry about that. Okay. When we go to campus I’ll log in and submit another work order. They’re not going to see it until Monday, but at least you’ll be first in line.” Molly slowed and guided the car around a narrow turn. “Boy, every time I drive up here, I’m amazed this is our one road to the hospital. Can you imagine trying to get an ambulance up here? If we ever have any kind of mass emergency we’re done for.”

“Do you mean the new hospital’s up this road?” Fiona asked. “I assumed the signs were for the old hospital. Where our offices are.”

Fiona remembered Mr. Ferman, the science teacher, was in hospital.

“Yup, the Mahina Medical Center’s just about half a mile up the road,” Molly said. “You’ve never been? Ever since we had the baby it seems like we’re there every week. Tell you what, I can drive by so you can see where it is. I’ve just been through all the prenatal tests and birthing classes and everything, so go ahead and ask me anything you want to know.”

Did Molly think Fiona had a baby on the way? No chance of that, she thought bitterly.

“It’s nothing to do with babies,” Fiona said. “Do you remember Mr. Ferman, the science teacher St. Aelred School?”

“The older gentleman? He seemed not to be feeling well? Yes, I do. Is he okay?”

“Ah. Well, he’s in hospital, actually, and he doesn’t have family. I thought I might look in on him.”

“We can go now,” Molly said. “And stop in the office on the way back down. Then we don’t have to leave our stuff in the car.”

A moment later, Molly turned into the hospital car park.

“Here we are,” Molly said. “Totally normal hospital. Not haunted at all, unlike where our offices are.”

Molly was right. The Mahina Medical Centre was modern and perfectly unmemorable.

“I suppose I should have brought a card,” Fiona said to Molly as they headed to the main entrance. She realized she was holding the orchid Mrs. Masterman had given her. Perhaps Mr. Ferman needed it more than she did.

“I’m sure you can find a nice card in the gift shop,” Molly said. “Would you like me to come in with you to see him? Do you think he’d appreciate an extra visitor? If not, I can wait in the lobby.”

“It’s best you come with me,” Fiona said, “otherwise I may never find my way back. My sense of direction is pants, as my husband never fails to remind me.”

Fiona was glad Molly was offering to join her in her visit to Mr. Ferman. She had no idea what she would say to him. She barely knew his Christian name. Was it Anthony? Anton? Anatole, that was it. She only ever called him Mr. Ferman.

But as she followed Molly into the tiny gift shop, Fiona wondered whether this visit was as pure an act of charity as she had originally thought. She had to admit to herself that her motives might not be entirely selfless. Mr. Ferman, after all, might know where Emmett was.

Molly: Not Eavesdropping

FIONA SPENCER AND I ended up making an unplanned detour to the Mahina Medical Center, locally known as the “new” hospital. It was just up the road from the “old” hospital where our offices were. It seems Mr. Ferman, the elderly science teacher at St. Aelred’s, was there and she wanted to visit him. I don’t know where this sudden compassion of hers came from. The last time the topic of Mr. Ferman came up, Fiona had sniffily dismissed him as an old alcoholic who raided the supply cabinet for solvents to drink.

I wondered how well she even knew him. She didn’t seem to know his first name. In the gift shop, she bought the first get-well card she grabbed off the rack, something with a cartoon dog with an ice bag on his head and a plaid blanket across his lap.

Maybe the fact he was in the hospital had made her realize he wasn’t going to be around forever. Who knows? I was probably better off not trying to explain or predict Fiona’s moods.

At least I was helping to brighten Mr. Ferman’s day. Or so I hoped.

We hadn’t planned our appointment ahead of time, so we were outside of regular visiting hours, but a sympathetic nurse led us to Mr. Ferman’s room anyway. She told us we were the first visitors he’d had, aside from the police.

“If he’s resting, let him be,” the nurse advised as we stopped outside his door. “But if he’s awake I think he’ll be happy to see you. And he’ll appreciate the flowers. So pretty, the color.”

I realized Fiona was holding the potted plant Mrs. Masterman had given her. It was a pale-pink orchid, with three perfect blooms. Pink foil covered the small pot.

“Mrs. Masterman told me to keep it or give it so someone who needed it more than I did,” she said, a little defensively. The nurse looked at me as if my opinion were somehow important.

“That’s very kind,” I said. “I think Mrs. Masterman would approve. In fact, I know she would.”

“You don’t think the flowers are a bit garish?” Fiona asked us.

“I think Nature is allowed to be garish,” I said. “Things like orchids and sunsets should be colorful. I mean, who wants a tasteful rainbow, right? What would that even look like?”

“I agree,” the nurse said. “If it was me in the hospital, I’d appreciate someone bringing me flowers. No one else got him anything, you know.”

She turned and left us to cheer up Mr. Ferman.

Mr. Ferman had one arm in a sling resting atop the brown hospital blanket. A number of tubes and wires connected him to beeping machines. A crumpled IV bag hung on a pole. His thick white hair was pressed crooked by the pillow.

His eyelids fluttered, and he turned his head toward us.

“Ah, Mrs. Spencer,” he rasped. “Do my eyes deceive me, or did you bring me flowers?”

“Hullo, Mr. Ferman.” Fiona set the pot down on the small rolling table next to the headboard. “Yes, this is for you. Isn’t it lovely? It’s an orchid. I’ve no idea what kind.”

“It’s a moth orchid,” I added. I’m no flower expert, but I have picked up a few scraps of information from the Pua Kala Flower Society meetings.

“And who’s this delightful young lady?” Mr. Ferman tried to raise his head from the pillow. The effort was unsuccessful, and he sank back.

I introduced myself. He grasped my hand with his free hand. His skin felt dry and papery.

“How did you know I was here, Mrs. Spencer? I haven’t told anyone.”

“The police came round to my house to tell me about your accident.” Fiona’s tone was mostly stern but had a touch of compassion. “My goodness, you have been in the wars, haven’t you? What on earth happened?”

“It seems I made a miscalculation,” he said matter-of-factly. “Not a wise thing to do, where moving buses are concerned. It seems I’m lucky to be here and not downstairs in the morgue. That’s what they tell me. Might’ve been better that way, come to think of it.”

“I’ll wait outside,” I said. It sounded like the conversation was about to get personal and having a nosy stranger (me) lurking around wouldn’t be comfortable for anyone. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Ferman. I hope you feel better soon.”

I suppose I should have kept going down the hallway to give them some privacy. But I paused when I heard Fiona exclaim,

“Mr. Ferman, what in heaven’s name is going on at the school?”

“My dear, as much as I’d like to lay the blame on anyone but myself—”

“First the boy Trevor, now you?” She retorted. “Who’s next?”

I folded my arms and leaned against the wall, trying my best to look like I was relaxing and not eavesdropping.

“Oh, my dear. You are asking me for a rational explanation of things. I’m afraid I have no answers. Only many questions of my own. I can’t remember a thing, you see. No, that’s not quite right. I should say what I can remember makes no sense at all.”

“It seems bad things are happening to people at St. Aelred’s, Mr. Ferman. And now Emmett’s gone.”

Gone! That explained the odd exchange between Fiona and Maureen. Maureen had said the headmaster had missed an important parents’ meeting, but Fiona had brushed it off as if it were normal for her husband to disappear without warning.

“Yes, he is, isn’t he,” Mr. Ferman wheezed. “Emmett, as you say, is gone. I remember now. Mrs. Spencer, you’re making me nervous standing there like that.”

The voices lowered, and I strained to hear what was going on.

“It’s only that I’m worried about him,” Fiona said, at a perfectly audible volume.

“Oh no, worry doesn’t help, Mrs. Spencer. It won’t change a thing.”

“How can I not worry? A student kills himself, my husband’s missing, now you’ve gone and stepped in front of a motor coach.”

“I assure you, it wasn’t on purpose. All I can recall is...no, not even that.”

“It’s quite a coincidence, though, you must agree,” Fiona said.

“The boy’s suicide isn’t exactly a mystery,” Mr. Ferman said. “It’s the same old newsreel. I’ve seen it play through many times. A fellow’s worried his son’s not manly enough, not interested in girls, that kind of thing. But for some reason dear old dad thinks the answer is to stick the boy into an all-male boarding school. Don’t know what the thinking is exactly. It’d be like me trying to get sober by moving into Hagiwara’s Specialty Liquors. I mean, I’d enjoy myself, don’t get me wrong, but it wouldn’t change—”

“Yes, I get your point, Mr. Ferman,” Fiona interrupted. “You’re saying there is no connection between the events at St. Aelred. The circumstances of the boy’s suicide had nothing to do with your accident, and neither has anything to do with my husband’s disappearance. Have you any idea at all where he is?”

I strained to hear Mr. Ferman’s answer. Just to be on the safe side, I had my e-reader out. If anyone asked, I wasn’t listening in on a patient’s private conversation. I was just hanging out in a hospital hallway catching up on my favorite mystery series.

“I am terribly sorry for any unpleasantness between you and Emmett, Mr. Ferman,” Fiona said. “He’s only done what he feels is best for the school. But that’s all in the past, and everyone’s moved on, and we...” and again, Fiona’s voice became too quiet for me to hear what she was saying.

They kept talking, but at such a low volume that for all I knew they could have been muttering nonsense syllables at each other.

The conversation stopped and I heard a chair scraping on the floor. Fiona was getting up. I jumped away from the wall, sped down the hallway to a bench underneath a window, and feigned great interest in whatever was on the page of my e-reader. That’s where Fiona Spencer found me waiting.

“Ready to go?” I dropped my e-reader into my purse and stood up, my face a mask of innocence. Or so I hoped. I also hoped Fiona hadn’t noticed I’d been holding the device upside-down.

“Yes. All done.” Fiona seemed impatient and unhappy. In other words, things were back to normal.

“That was nice of you to pay Mr. Ferman a visit,” I said as we started down the hallway. “I’m sure he appreciated it.”

We walked in silence back out to the parking lot. Fiona seemed like she wanted to say something. Finally, when we were getting into the car, Fiona said,

“Molly, would you mind terribly if we went back to St. Aelred?”

“Right now?” I asked. “Didn’t you want to stop by the office—”

“Yes. But I really want to go round to the school first. I’m sorry. I’ll pay for petrol. And I understand if it’s all too inconvenient.”

“It’s no problem at all,” I pulled out of the hospital lot and onto the road. I wondered what Fiona was trying to find out. “The main office?”

“The parsonage, actually,” Fiona said.

“There’s a parsonage?”

“Originally they had a minister serve as the school’s headmaster. The headmaster’s quarters are still referred to as the parsonage.”

“Oh. But you’re not living there? Even though your husband is the headmaster?”

“There was severe termite damage so it’s under repair. I do hope I’m not putting you out.”

“No, not at all. It’s not far.”

It actually was kind of far, but I felt bad for Fiona. If my husband and car were missing (I assumed the car had disappeared along with the husband, which was why she was having me drive her around), I’d want someone to help me out. Also, I was curious. What had Mr. Ferman said to make Fiona decide to rush back to St. Aelred’s? What did she think she’d find there?

Fiona: The Last Place You Look

THE VISIT TO THE PARSONAGE site turned out to be an utter waste of time.

There had been no sign of Emmett at the site. Fiona and Molly had found only a wooden work bench, a pile of lumber with a wet tarp draped over it, and a few nails scattered on the concrete pad.

Mr. Ferman had told Fiona he had seen Emmett at the parsonage when he was out walking. But he didn’t remember what day of the week it had been. Even at his best, Mr. Ferman tended to ramble. A fellow teacher had quipped that Mr. Ferman’s brain had been “programmed with too many go-tos,” which Fiona thought was a spot-on way to describe the man’s meandering conversational style. Emmett (who, unlike Fiona, had never taken a course in History of Computing) didn’t understand the reference and had refused to find it amusing.

The drive back up to the College of Commerce building was quiet. Fiona was too embarrassed to make conversation. She had just made her department head drive her all over Christendom. Molly probably thought Fiona was off her trolley.

And for all that, Emmett was still missing.

“Here we are,” Molly said, pulling Fiona out of her thoughts. “I’m going to park next to the building. No one’s around to hand out parking tickets on Saturday.”

Molly followed the unpaved drive that wound around the back of the hospital building and pulled up underneath the terrace, alongside the old delivery bay. It was boarded over with mildew-speckled plywood. Molly locked up the car and the women followed a short footpath through the jungle down to the former Inebriates’ Asylum.

The interior of the building was even warmer than outdoors.

“Can’t wait till they get the A/C working,” Molly said, bounding up the steps ahead of Fiona. “I don’t know how people could stand working here before they had air conditioning. I guess they used to be able to open up that big skylight. Somewhere along the line they nailed it shut, I’m not sure why.”

Fiona trudged behind, feeling utterly drained. How did the woman have so much energy? She thought resentfully. Weren’t new mums supposed to be exhausted?

Or maybe it was Fiona who was unusually tired. Fiona had barely slept since Emmett walked out.

As they reached the top floor, Fiona caught a whiff of something savoury. She realized she was not only knackered; she was famished.

I should have eaten Mrs. Masterman’s cookies when I had a chance, she thought. I can’t remember the last time I ate, come to think of it.

“Is someone cooking?” Fiona asked.

Molly’s nose twitched.

“I don’t smell anything unusual. But I might be coming down with a cold, so don’t go by me.”

The women went to unlock their respective offices. As the door of Room 310 swung open, the meaty odour intensified. Fiona felt her stomach rumble.

“It seems someone’s left food in my office,” Fiona called out, and Molly hurried over.

“Your ‘rubbish heap’ looks like it’s gotten bigger,” Molly said as she came through the door. “Is that a toilet?”

“Apparently, yes,” Fiona said. A chipped, soap-green toilet teetered atop the scraps of blackened lumber and mildew-speckled plasterboard.

“Fiona, I’m so sorry.” Molly seemed sincere. “Like I said, I keep sending in work orders to Facilities telling them Room 310 has an occupant, and they tell me I need to talk to Konishi Construction. But every time I try to talk to Konishi, they tell me they can’t do anything because they only take their orders from Facilities. All I can do is keep sending in work orders.”

Molly stuck her nose into the air and sniffed.

“Oh, I do smell it now. It smells good, kind of like bacon. Did you leave food in your trash can?”

Fiona didn’t think so, but she went over to check the bin to make sure.

“It’s empty,” she said. “There’s no food in there.”

Molly tilted her head. “Do you hear a buzzing noise?”

The sound was coming from somewhere within the pile of construction debris. Molly and Fiona worked together to lift the toilet onto the ground (it was surprisingly heavy). They moved aside the rubbish until they made a small clearing. There they found the source of the sizzling sound: an electrical outlet with an old cord plugged into it. The wire to the plug was covered with woven fabric, black with white dots. It snaked back into the rubbish heap.

Molly yanked the plug out of the wall, yelped, shook her hand, and blew on it.

“Ow. What do you have plugged in back here?” she asked Fiona.

“Nothing.”

They looked at each other.

“I’ve never gone back here,” Fiona insisted. “I only use the front of the office, where the desk is.”

“Okay, let’s find out what’s on the other end.” Molly followed the cord, hand over hand, while Fiona moved things out of the way. They finally slid a ragged slab of fibreboard aside to reveal a great rust-speckled metal box balanced on a metal-and-wooden frame. It looked a bit like a breadbox, but it was much bigger, longer than Fiona was tall. It was radiating heat.

“The fever cabinet!” Molly exclaimed.

“The what?” Fiona asked.

“It was here all along. It’s hot. Who plugged it in?”

“I’m sorry?” Fiona frowned at the contraption. “You know what this is then?”

“It’s kind of a mechanical antibiotic, before they had actual antibiotics. On that end? If we cleared away the rest of that junk, you’d be able to see that there’s a hole where the patient’s head would stick out. They’d use a fan to blow air on their face to keep them comfortable.”

“Fascinating,” Fiona said. “So, it’s not just rubbish cluttering up my office, it’s historically significant rubbish. How do you know so much about it?”

“My friend Pat Flanagan, who I guess I mentioned, did a story about the old hospital for his news blog before he moved to Honolulu,” Molly said. “I should send you a link to the article. Anyway, this is exactly the kind of thing our dean wanted us to keep an eye out for. Selling it off could keep us in whiteboard markers and toner cartridges for a year. Fiona, did you lend anyone your office key?”

“No,” Fiona said.

“Okay. I’m going to have to call security, then. Someone’s been in here plugging things in without your permission.”

“Do you think it might’ve been the builders?” Fiona asked. “They’ve got keys.”

“I did overhear one of the construction guys on the phone talking to someone about lending them a key. It might have been to this office. All the more reason to get security involved. They shouldn’t be using your office as a dump and they definitely shouldn’t be going around creating fire hazards. What if we hadn’t happened to come in today? This whole building could’ve burned down.”

Molly punched in a number on her mobile and walked out to the landing, where the signal was stronger.

Later, Fiona couldn’t remember whether she had been driven by hunger, curiosity, or a combination of the two. But the bacon smell continued to tantalize her, and it was coming from the metal box. Fiona guessed it was one of the builders heating up his dinner, in which case it would serve him out if Fiona found his meal and ate it first.

Fiona pushed aside a cobwebby slab of ragged plasterboard to reveal a black lever on the side of the contraption. She touched it. It was warm but insulated, so not intolerably hot. She pushed more decisively. When nothing budged, she rocked the lever back and forth. She finally moved it enough to crack the massive lid open about an inch.

Molly was still outside the door, with her back turned. Fiona pushed the lid up all the way.

And saw the source of the bacon odour.

She shoved the lid back down with both hands, barely noticing how the hot metal seared her palms.

Molly appeared out of nowhere and pulled Fiona upright. She led Fiona over to her desk and eased her into her office chair.

“Security’s on their way,” Molly’s voice said, from somewhere in space. Fiona rested her head on her arms, like a child taking a nap at her desk. She wanted to stay as she was, eyes closed, while the room spun around her.

“Here,” Molly said. “Drink some water.”

Fiona lifted her head, took the mug Molly was offering her, and drank.

“Chicken Boy?” Fiona asked feebly, reading from the mug.

“You mean my coffee cup. It’s a store in L.A. There’s a giant chicken statue...I’ll tell you about it some other time. Fiona, what happened? You were completely out. You know, you’re right. It really does smell like someone was cooking in here.”

Molly: Think of a Hedgehog. With a Bonnet.

THE SECURITY GUARD was a round young man with an easygoing demeanor. It took me a couple of seconds to recognize him, out of context as he was.

“Micah?” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know you worked here. Well, it’s nice to see a familiar face.”

Micah had been my student years earlier. He hadn’t been particularly studious, but he was always cheerful and eager to help out.

“You okay, Professor?”

“Me, or her?” I asked. Fiona was at her desk, her head resting on her arms. I had pulled up a chair next to her, close enough to catch her in case she keeled over again. “Actually, neither of us is having a terrific day.”

“Either of you hurt?” he picked up my wrist and felt for a pulse.

“Not physically, no.”

I had made the mistake of looking inside the fever cabinet. Now I was trying to fill my mind with cute, pleasant things. Hedgehogs. Capybaras. Alice Mongoose and Alistair Rat having tea, with a capybara and a hedgehog as guests. I imagined the capybara with a Panama hat and the hedgehog wearing a bonnet.

Micah released my wrist and sniffed the air.

“Someone cooking in here? Smells ono.”

Fiona raised her head from her folded arms to look at Micah. She had gone so green she practically matched the floor tiles.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she replied robotically, and set her head back down. “Never been better.”

“She’s not fine,” I countered. “She fainted.”

“I got a report of unauthorized entry in three-ten.” Micah stepped out of the office, checked the number to verify he was in the right room, and came back in. “Whose office is this?”

“This is Fiona Spencer’s office,” I said. “We haven’t gotten her a permanent name plate yet. Micah, I’m the one who called you. Someone came in here, plugged in the fever cabinet, and left it on. It’s a fire hazard.”

“Mind if I take a look around? Can’t find any obvious sign of forced entry.” Micah ran his hand up and down the door frame, presumably checking for splintered wood. “Kalua pig, that’s what I’m smelling. Smells good, you know. Not too much liquid smoke. That’s a rookie mistake, ah? Too much smoke flavor. Pig’s not supposed to taste like it died in a fire.”

Fiona whimpered softly.

“Micah,” I said, “please go look over there in the fever cabinet.”

Having thus reminded myself of what I’d seen there, I was overcome by a wave of nausea. I bent over and let my head hang between my knees. I still felt queasy, only with more pressure behind my eyeballs.

“The what? Professor? You okay?”

“Big metal box,” I said. “Hot. Be careful.”

I heard Micah forging into the rubble to investigate. I heard the lid of the fever cabinet creak open. Something clattered onto the tile floor.

“Okay. I gotta call this in.” Micah’s voice was shaking. I took three slow, deep breaths and sat back up. Fiona was still slumped over her desk, and Micah was gone.

I heard his voice coming from out on the landing.

“Ambulance? Nah, no need,” he said. “Six foot, six foot one maybe, brown hair. White boxer shorts. No jewelry or nothing. Kinda hard to tell. Haole, I think. Yeah, yeah. Nah. Yeah, fo’real. Like one huli huli chicken. Okay, hang on, ah?”

I was getting better at understanding Pidgin. Huli huli chicken was chicken cooked on a grill.

Micah came back into Fiona’s office. She must have heard him, because she managed to push herself up to a sitting position.

“Anyone know who he is?” Micah asked.

“No idea,” I said.

“I know who he is,” Fiona said.

“What?” I said. “You do?”

“His name is Emmett Spencer,” Fiona leaned her forehead on her hands. “He’s my husband.”

Fiona: Whose Assistant (Professor) Are You?

FIONA WAS FEELING A little better by the time the police showed up. Fiona, Molly, and the security guard had moved over to Molly’s office. The security guard explained that Fiona’s office was now a crime scene, and she might not be allowed back inside for a bit.

Fiona wasn’t feeling well enough to move again and it wouldn’t do to kick Molly out of her own office, so when the policemen came to interview Fiona, they dragged in extra chairs for themselves. Micah stayed as well, which made five people crowded into Molly’s little office. At least Molly had a big window that opened to let in fresh air.

At first, Fiona thought all the policemen in Mahina must look alike. But she realized she had seen them before when they came round to her house to ask about Mr. Ferman.

“Just to confirm, you are Fiona Spencer?” Officer De Silva (the older one) asked Fiona. She nodded and he wrote something in a little notebook.

“The deceased was your husband, correct?”

“Yes.”

“His occupation?”

“He was headmaster at St. Aelred School for boys.”

The younger officer automatically crossed himself. He must have been a student there, Fiona thought.

“Your occupation?”

“Assistant professor of business ethics,” Fiona said.

“And who do you assist?”

“It’s just a job title,” Molly cut in. “An assistant professor’s not actually someone’s assistant.”

De Silva grunted and wrote.

“And what were you doing in room three ten?” he asked.

“It’s my office, isn’t it?” Fiona said.

“De Silva’s pencil paused in mid-scribble.”

“That’s your office?”

“It is,” Molly said. “We don’t have the name plate yet. But it is definitely Dr. Spencer’s office.”

“You’re a doctor?” the younger policeman asked Fiona, wide-eyed.

“Okay, sorry I gotta ask this,” De Silva said, “but do you know anyone who might have wanted to harm your husband?”

Mr. Ferman, whom Emmett had disciplined for stealing the ethanol from the supply cabinet in the chemistry classroom. The friends and loved ones of the departed Trevor Dos Santos (except perhaps for his mother Maureen, who seemed incapable of holding a grudge). To say nothing of that faction of St. Aelred trustees who had tried, unsuccessfully, to sack Emmett and replace him with their own candidate.

“Mrs. Spencer, I know this is difficult,” De Silva persisted. “Can you think of anyone at all?”

And me, of course, Fiona thought. I wanted him dead.

“Mrs. Spencer?”

“Absolutely not,” Fiona declared. “Everybody loved Emmett.”

“Was he having problems with anyone at work?” De Silva asked.

“Remember Trevor Dos Santos?” the younger policeman said. “Killed himself in the headmaster’s office. Wit’ the headmaster’s gun he left loaded. We could start looking there.”

“Can I get anyone something to drink?” Molly asked. “Tea? Coffee?”

“No thanks,” the policemen replied automatically.

“I like coffee,” the security guard said.

“You know,” Molly said. “I’d like some coffee too.” She bounced up from the yoga ball she used as an office chair. The ball reminded Fiona of Rover from The Prisoner, the cult television series from the sixties. Emmett had seen every episode of The Prisoner several times and had made Fiona watch it with him. Fiona wondered whether Emmett really enjoyed the programme, or whether it only ticked a box on his Anglophile checklist.

Molly popped back into the office.

“Fiona, can I get you a cup of coffee?”

Fiona hesitated. She would have preferred tea. A cuppa would be lovely right now. But she didn’t want to ask, and in any case, she didn’t trust Molly to make it properly.

“I’ll just fix you a cup,” Molly said. “You don’t have to drink it.”

When Molly had gone, Officer De Silva said,

“You’re familiar with the circumstances of Trevor Dos Santos’s death.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Fiona said. “He was a student at the St. Aelred School for Boys. He took his own life. It was tragic. We felt for his family, Emmett and I.”

“People thought your husband was responsible.” Another statement.

“Not the people who knew him well,” Fiona said. “Maureen, for example. The boy’s mother. She’s Emmett’s secretary. She’s been quite supportive.”

De Silva wrote in his notebook for what seemed like a long time.

“Anyone else you’d say knows your husband well?” De Silva asked.

“I suppose there’s Bryce, the boy who works in the headmaster’s office,” Fiona said. “I expect it will be easy to find his last name. I don’t happen to know it. Mostly he assists Maureen, I think. I don’t believe he works directly with Emmett.”

Fiona’s sensitive nose twitched. But no one else seemed to notice the acrid odour.

“Anyone else you can think of who was a friend or acquaintance of your husband?” Officer De Silva asked. “Besides the secretary and the secretary’s assistant?”

“There’s Mr. Ferman,” Fiona said. “The chemistry teacher.”

“Can you tell me how to spell his name?”

Fiona stared at De Silva.

“You lot came round to my house to ask me about him. Don’t you remember?”

De Silva frowned.

“Remember?” said the younger policeman. “She was at the house with Harriet. When we went to ask about Anatole Ferman after he wen’ walk in front of a bus.”

“Oh yeah,” De Silva said. “Sorry, Mrs. Spencer, I didn’t remember you at first. How was Mr. Ferman’s relationship with your husband?”

“Our relationship with Mr. Ferman was perfectly cordial,” Fiona said. “Dr. Barda and I went to visit him in hospital.”

Molly came back into the office and set three steaming mugs on her desk.

“Who, Mr. Ferman?” Molly asked. “Yes, that’s right. There’s no coffee, sorry. I made tea. I tried heating up some cold brew in the microwave, but as soon as I turned it on there was a weird smell. At least the kettle works. Oh, you’ll have to drink your tea plain. There’s no sugar or milk unfortunately.”

Fiona picked up a mug and sipped the unsweetened tea. It was bitter and made her teeth feel gritty, but it was hot, and certainly better than nothing. She was just starting to feel a bit better when Officer De Silva asked,

“Not counting today, when’s the last time you saw your husband?”

Molly: There’s the Price, and There’s the Cost.

I OFFERED TO MAKE COFFEE while the police were questioning Fiona. I’d like to say it was because I’m generous and nurturing. In fact I was desperate to get out of my office and walk off some nervous energy. Why did I have to go and look inside the fever cabinet? What was wrong with me? It was as if I’d learned nothing from my high school Driver’s Ed class, which I almost failed because I always passed out during those car accident movies.

I popped three mugs of cold brew coffee into the microwave. But after a few seconds, the whole landing started to smell like overheated brake pads. I stopped the microwave, took the coffee cups out, and sniffed around for the source of the stench. At first, I couldn’t figure out what was wrong, because the microwave oven’s interior looked clean and new. But when I lifted out the glass platform, I found a tiny, stinky lump of plastic.

This must be why the microwave had been in the e-waste pile at the St. Aelred School. Someone must have put a non-microwave-safe dish in there and melted it. How nice for St. Aelred’s that they could afford to throw away practically-new appliances. I’ve been sitting on a fifteen-dollar yoga ball for years because we don’t have a budget for faculty office furniture, and it was all I could afford out of pocket.

But I had a more pressing problem right now. I’d just ruined the last of the organic cold-brew coffee I had on hand. There were a few tea bags on the break table. The electric kettle wasn’t where it was supposed to be, but I found it in the men’s room. (Hanson Harrison brings it in there to fill it with water. Enter Larry Schneider, they get into a heated discussion about something or other, and Hanson forgets about his tea.)

When I came back into my office, Fiona was still answering questions. She seemed to be holding up pretty well.

Until Officer De Silva asked her,

“When’s the last time you saw your husband?”

Fiona stared at De Silva as if he’d just accused her of committing the murder herself.

I considered leaving my office again to give her some privacy, but I would have had to get up and walk around everyone to get to the door, which would have been even more awkward.

“Did you and your husband have an argument?” De Silva persisted.

Fiona began to cry.

“Can she do this later, Officer?” I heard myself ask De Silva. I felt like a bit of a buttinsky, but what was I supposed to do? Fiona was bawling now, her thin shoulders heaving under her print floral dress. I couldn’t let her get grilled like this, not after what she’d just gone through.

Fortunately, De Silva relented. I expected he might. Andy De Silva has carried a torch for Donnie’s sister since they were all in high school. Even though she’s married and living in California, and Donnie barely ever speaks to her, Andy De Silva seems to think of me as a connection to his crush.

De Silva said he wanted to talk to Micah anyway. This made Micah immensely happy, as he’d been waiting this whole time for his turn.

The younger policeman (I never did get his name) went into Fiona’s office to get her purse, so she wouldn’t have to go back in herself. I texted Donnie I was going to give Fiona a ride back to her house, and I’d be home soon.

Everything okay? Donnie texted back.

Not really, I replied.

Should I get Francesca?

Thank you. Yes. Will explain when home.

I carried Fiona’s purse and my own as we walked down the stairs. I was glad she didn’t suggest taking the elevator. I like to tell people I take the stairs to stay fit. In fact, the old elevator terrifies me, and I always imagine myself getting stuck in it and dying of thirst and heat stroke before anyone finds me.

“Fiona,” I said, “I’m so sorry, I can’t even imagine. If you need to take some time, we can arrange to cover your classes. We have bereavement—”

“No,” she cut me off. “I’ll teach my classes as usual. It’s the best thing, really. I don’t want to sit at home thinking about it.”

“I understand,” I said.

As we were about to get into the car, I realized I was still holding the plastic glob I’d pried out of the microwave. I dropped it into my bag. It could be my lucky charm, except in this case it would serve as a reminder not to be such a cheapskate next time.

We were on the road, driving, before Fiona spoke again.

“I suppose I should have told him about the row Emmett and I had,” she said. “About his holiday plans.”

“I think you handled it well,” I said. “You’re not supposed to volunteer extra information, from what I understand.”

“I suppose I’m free to make my own holiday plans now,” she said.

I can’t invite her to spend Christmas with me, I thought, panicked. My parents will be here.

My mother—was it something about being an Ob-Gyn, where once you bring a few lives into the world, you start to think you’re omnipotent and everyone needs to hear your advice about everything? Or was it just her? And then there was my father, who despite having the best intentions, managed to be even more mortifying, if that were possible. I was still trying to live down the memory of my mother treating Donnie to an unsolicited lecture about sperm count. She’d then interrogated him about his choice of underwear.

“If you want to conceive, you gotta let your boys breathe,” my father had chimed in helpfully.

I would have squeezed my eyes shut to banish the memory, if I hadn’t been driving.

“I thought Emmett would be pleasantly surprised when I arrived early to Mahina,” Fiona was saying.

Fiona’s position had an official January start date, but somehow Dan worked a deal where we were able to get her here and start paying her a semester early. Some details—like her office—still hadn’t been worked out. But Dan was afraid if we didn’t give her the start date she requested, she might not come at all.

“He wasn’t happy to see you?” I asked.

“No. It seemed my presence here was an intrusion.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, because what else can you say?

A swarm of bikers passed us, roaring into the oncoming lane just as the road took a turn and narrowed. I eased up on the gas pedal. We were driving through an older residential subdivision that had no sidewalks or bike lanes, only deep, narrow drainage channels between the asphalt and the front lawns. One moment of inattention and we’d be sideways with two wheels spinning in the air. The road was wet, and I hoped that neither we nor the bikers would run into a ditch.

“Fiona, I am so sorry,” I said again. I had to steer the car and the conversation at the same time, and I wasn’t doing a very good job at either one. It didn’t help that my hands were still shaking. I slowed down even more to scale the first of a series of ridiculously tall speed bumps. The residents of this neighborhood had some pull with county services, apparently.

“Emmett had made me believe he was looking forward to my moving out here,” Fiona said. “But when I showed up, he seemed cross. He doesn’t like surprises, Emmett doesn’t. I thought he’d come around. But he never did.”

This was more personal revelation in thirty seconds than she’d done since the start of the semester. I wondered whether her sudden chattiness was a symptom of shock.

“He’d already planned his Christmas holiday without me,” she went on. “He made it quite clear I wasn’t welcome to join him, and that my arrival in Mahina had been a massive inconvenience for him. He told me I was being irrational for wanting to spend Christmas with him. It seems his definition of ‘rational’ means catering to his feelings and ignoring one’s own.”

I pulled up to the curb outside of Fiona’s house to see the scruffy bikers that had passed us earlier, blocking her driveway. Most of them were grizzled, bearded men in leather vests. The one non-bearded biker, shorter and paler than the rest, but no less imposing for all that, strode toward Fiona’s side of the car.

The woman gave the impression of being sturdy, although her shapeless jacket revealed little about her figure. I didn’t realize where I had seen her before until she lifted a pipe to her mouth and took a puff.

I kept the engine idling and gripped the wheel tighter.

“Fiona,” I said, trying my best to sound calm. “Would you like to go back to campus?”

The Thunderbird didn’t have great acceleration, and I was pointed uphill. We wouldn’t be able to outrun a pack of Harleys. On the other hand, the car was sturdy enough that with the doors locked and the windows up we would be safe inside, unless they started shooting at us.

“No, I’ll be fine.” Fiona opened the door. “My mum’s here.”

“Your mum?”

“You’ll forgive me for skipping introductions. She’ll talk your ear off if she has the chance.”

“Are you sure? Because I can...”

But Fiona was already out of the car.

Molly: Brigham & Brewster

ON THE WAY HOME I HAD a sudden impulse to stop at the Mahina Mall. There wasn’t anything I needed to buy, but it had been an eventful day, to put it mildly. Our uncrowded little shopping center seemed like an ideal decompression chamber.

I pulled in and parked in the lot right outside the one-story Brigham & Brewster store that anchors the mall. Brigham & Brewster started as a dry-goods store in the mid-nineteenth century and is now a Mahina institution. It’s where Mahina’s merchant class buys their upscale aloha shirts, their sake sets, and their teenagers’ prom outfits. Online stores haven’t made a dent in Brigham’s business. (People usually call it “Brigham’s” for short. Calling it “B&B” is an outsider’s faux pas, like referring to San Francisco as “Frisco” instead of “The City.”)

As soon as I pushed open the glass door and stepped inside, I felt my blood pressure drop. Brigham’s silky pomander scent and perfectly tuned climate control were balm to my panicky, hyperventilating soul. I ambled over to the Shiseido counter and perused the selection of lipsticks. I strolled through the housewares department, admiring the stainless-steel cookware and the hand-painted Japanese bowls. Even though between us, Donnie and I had more than twice the kitchen things we needed.

I was passing the lingerie counter (another look-don’t-buy mission, as I still had a lifetime supply of bras I’d bought on sale at Galimba’s Bargain Boyz) when I spotted Maureen Dos Santos. I was going to scurry past without saying anything, but she saw me and said hello.

So I had to stop and chat.

I’d only seen her that morning at the Pua Kala Garden Society meeting. But a lot had happened since then. Most notably, her boss turning up dead in Fiona Spencer’s office. I assumed it wasn’t yet common knowledge, and I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell her about it.

“Maureen, hi,” I said. “Wow, that’s lovely. Is it silk?”

“Yeah, I’m returning it,” Maureen said as the salesgirl scanned the price tag. “Wasn’t really right for me.”

The garment in question was a slip of heavy ivory-colored silk, with a wide lace border at the hem.

“I’m glad you brought Fiona to the Flower Society meeting today,” Maureen said. “She needs to get more involved in the community, you know. Emmett’s got so many other obligations as headmaster, she can’t depend on him for her social life.”

“No, she can’t,” I said. “You’re absolutely right about that.”

“I’m in the same boat. Apostol’s so busy all the time. At least I get a nice allowance, I can go shopping whenever I’m in the mood.”

The idea of getting an allowance from one’s husband seemed horrifyingly retrograde to me. But I smiled and said, “have you started your Christmas shopping?”

Hawaii is ethnically and religiously diverse, but locals aren’t offended when you assume they celebrate Christmas. Christian or not, everyone pretty much does.

“Not even Thanksgiving yet,” Maureen laughed.

“Not too soon to think about it,” the salesgirl said. “We get the decorations up already.”

She was right. In the center of the lingerie department loomed a white flocked Christmas tree festooned with white ornaments and twinkling lights.

“I probably should be starting my Christmas shopping,” I said. “But I had kind of a stressful day at work today, so I’m just here for some quick retail therapy.”

The salesgirl hung Maureen’s return up on a rack behind the counter. The slip was impractical but pretty, and it crossed my mind that I might like to buy myself something like it.

Then she opened the cash register drawer.

“Here’s your refund, Mrs. Dos Santos,” she said, and counted out three hundred and twenty-nine dollars and change, which Maureen quickly tucked into her purse.

I didn’t need to buy a slip. When would I ever wear a slip?

“Aw, you had to work on Saturday?” Maureen clucked. “What, after the Flower Society meeting? Poor thing. Know what, you ever try Brigham’s chocolates? Over in the gift department, by housewares. Get the big box.”

“I think I will,” I said. “That’s a great—”

The chorus of “Another One Bites the Dust” blasted from Maureen’s purse. She pulled out her phone and frowned at the screen.

“Mahina police department?” she said. “Funny. Why would the police be calling me?”

“No idea,” I said. “I sure don’t know. Why would I know? Probably a wrong number. Anyway, thanks for the recommendation about the chocolate. I’ll go check it out.”

I speed-walked to the nearest exit and sprinted to my car.

That was enough relaxing at the mall, I thought as I peeled out of the parking lot. It was time to go home and have a nice, normal evening with my family. I’d cuddle the baby on my lap and give her a bottle. Donnie and I would have a glass of Sangiovese, or maybe a cool Pinot Grigio. Donnie would tell me about his day at the Drive-Inn, and I would tell him about attending the Pua Kala Flower Society meeting, visiting nice old Mr. Ferman in the hospital, and finding Emmett Spencer’s body in Fiona’s office.

I did not expect to find Emma Nakamura at my house.

“She’s here, Donnie!” I heard her yell as soon as I came in from the garage. From the back of the house I heard the wail of a newly-wakened baby. I unslung my bag and hung it on its hook. When I turned back around Emma was standing in front of me.

“Geez Emma, give me some warning!” I clutched my chest.

“Too stressed-out, you.” Emma followed me out to the living room, where I plunked down on the sofa. “You should be more like your husband. Home early from work to spend time with the baby. It’s called work-life balance. It’s getting dark already. Where you been this whole time?”

“Shopping,” I whispered. “It’s kind of a long story actually.”

“No need whisper,” Emma said breezily. “Baby’s awake.”

Donnie emerged from the hallway, carrying Francesca over his shoulder and marching with the bouncy gait he used to calm her down. Her head was drooping, her chubby cheek squashed on his shoulder.

“So? How’s everyone?” I asked. “Emma, are you drinking already?”

Emma looked at the wine glass in her hand.

“Guess so.”

“We’re glad you’re safe.” Donnie came over, kissed the top of my head, and settled down with the baby in one of the armchairs. “What happened?”

“How did you hear about it?” I asked.

“From me,” Emma said. “I was driving up the old hospital road and I saw your car in the parking lot and a bunch of fire and ambulance and stuff too. I tried to drive in but there was a cop car blocking the way. So I came over to your house to find out what was going on. Donnie was here so I decided to wait.”

“There hasn’t been anything on the news,” Donnie said.

“So what happened?” Emma asked.

“Where to begin? How about I start with the good news. Emma, I found the fever cabinet.”

Fiona: Emmett’s Good Whiskey

“DOES FATHER KNOW YOU’RE hanging about with the Hell’s Angels?” Fiona whispered to her mother as the men shuffled into her house.

“They’re not Hell’s Angels, and yes, of course he knows,” Harriet retorted.

“How does he know, Mum? Did you tell him?”

“Well, he shouldn’t be surprised in any case.”

“Why are they all taking their boots off?”

“Everyone takes off their shoes indoors,” Harriet replied. “It’s the Oriental influence. Loads of Japanese about, hadn’t you noticed?”

“You’re the expert now, are you?” Fiona grumbled, annoyed because her mother was right. Fiona had dropped a right clanger at the Garden Society leaving her shoes on.

The men were crowded into the available seats in the living room, so Fiona dragged in two of the white stacking chairs from the carport. She disliked the stacking chairs—one could never get them completely clean, for starters—but they were coming in handy just now. Besides, they weren’t much worse than the orange-yellow living room suite Emmett had picked up at the liquidation sale of the Hanohano Hotel.

“Well, then.” Fiona scanned the room and noted, to her dismay, that her mother was squeezed in between the arm of the couch and a man who looked like Genghis Khan. “Ehm. Anyone for tea?”

“Don’t worry, darling, you don’t have to be mother,” Harriet said. “We’ve only dropped by to express our condolences. Then we’ll be on our way.”

The first man stood, approached Fiona, and clasped her in a bear hug so tight she noticed his beard smelt of coconut oil. He released her and stepped aside. The next man stepped up and gripped her hand briefly.

“Sorry, ah?” he said.

One by one, each man expressed sympathy in his own way. Finally, Harriet herself approached and placed her hands on her daughter’s shoulders.

“Hard luck, darling,” she said. She turned and herded the men out the front door.

A roar of un-mufflered engines crescendoed, then faded as the bikers drove off.

Fiona walked into the kitchen, pulled out a teacup, and poured herself a generous portion of Emmett’s good whiskey, something she had never done while Emmett was alive. Not that he forbade her outright. But he made her feel she lacked the expertise to truly appreciate it. That it was wasted on her and she may as well drink something cheaper.

Fiona took her brimming teacup back into the living room to find her mother there, in the act of lighting her pipe.

“Mother!”

Harriet jumped.

“Ah, there you are, darling. Wasn’t it lovely of the fellows to stop in and wish you well?”

Fiona clutched her teacup of whiskey and sank into the closest chair.

“Mum, you can’t smoke in here.”

Harriet pocketed the pipe and headed to the kitchen.

“Mind if I help myself to whatever you’re having? ‘Tea,’ is it?”

“Bottom shelf, next to the fridge.” Fiona called after her. “Have as much as you like.”

Harriet came back out with a glass in her hand and got comfortable on the couch.

“You’ll have to forgive me for asking,” Harriet said as she took a sip, “but you’re quite sure it was Emmett you found?”

Fiona nodded miserably and stared into the amber depths of her teacup.

“I can’t imagine who could have done this to him,” she said.

“Well, I can,” Harriet countered. “He’d made a lot of enemies, hadn’t he?”

“Not every passing thought needs to be spoken aloud. How did you know about it? It hasn’t been in the news yet, has it?”

Harriet set down her glass.

“Not that I know of. It’s a bit tricky to explain how I came to find out.”

“I’m sure it is,” Fiona replied. “And while I don’t wish to appear ungrateful for the outpouring of sympathy from the horde of men you invited into my house and who now know where I live, what on earth possessed you to tell them about Emmett’s death in the first place? They certainly were no friends of his.”

Although, as she said it, Fiona realized she didn’t know who Emmett’s friends had been. She certainly had no idea whom he had intended to meet in Las Vegas.

“You’ve got it backwards, darling,” Harriet countered. “I didn’t tell anyone. It was Clyde who heard about it first from the police. He told me. Marvellous coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Clyde? Who on earth is Clyde?”

“He was sitting next to me. He reminds me a bit of your father, in a way.”

Fiona stared at her mother.

“Reminds you of Father? You don’t mean the man with the plaited beard and the leather waistcoat?”

“Handsome man, don’t you think?” Harriet replied.

“And how did he happen to know about Emmett?”

“It’s rather a long story.” Harriet took a sip and set her glass down on the side table. “Perhaps I’d better start from the beginning. Now, let me think.”

“Take your time.” Fiona gulped her whiskey and started to cough.”

“You okay?” Harriet asked.

“Never better,” Fiona gasped. Fiona was not much of a drinker and didn’t see the appeal now. Her throat was burning, and she felt lightheaded. But she wanted to prove Emmett wrong about her not appreciating whiskey. “Now tell me, how did you find out about Emmett’s death?”

“It seems one of the policemen who came to the scene had attended St. Aelred School. When he realized the body belonged to the headmaster at his alma mater, he rang up his wife to tell her.”

“I wouldn’t think they’d be allowed to do that if there’s been a murder,” Fiona said. “Seems a bit sloppy. Were there any other details?”

Fiona considered mentioning that the policemen who showed up at the murder scene were the same ones who had come round asking after Mr. Ferman but decided against it. She didn’t want to derail the conversation.

“He said the room smelled like kalua pig. That’s the one they cook underground. Have you tried kalua pig? It’s lovely, rather like a smoked gammon.”

“You do realize the ‘smoked gammon’ was my husband,” Fiona said.

“Yes, they found him in a sort of great roasting pan thingy, didn’t they?”

“It’s true,” Fiona swirled her teacup and took another gulp of whiskey. “Now I think of it, I do remember a meaty sort of odour in my office.”

“Your office?” Harriet exclaimed. “That’s where he was?”

Fiona nodded.

“What on earth was he thinking getting murdered in your office? How horrid of him. Now you’re getting me all distracted, darling. Let me think. What happened then?”

“The policeman’s wife,” Fiona said.

“Ah yes. The policeman’s wife told her mother, who manages Mahina Printing and Stationers.”

“Mahina Printing and Stationers? Why does that sound familiar? Is it where you told me you’d seen Emmett?”

“Quite. Lovely little shop. You didn’t seem at all interested when I tried to tell you about it before.”

Fiona slumped in her chair and took another slug of whiskey.

“I don’t want to hear what happened in the shop. I want to know why everyone in Mahina seems to know Emmett was murdered.”

Fiona: Word Gets Around

HARRIET RETRIEVED THE bottle of Macallan from the kitchen, refilled Fiona’s teacup, and topped off her own glass.

“Let me start again, darling, shall I? The policeman told his wife about finding the headmaster of the boys’ school dead. Yeah? Then the wife told her mother, who manages the stationer’s. The mother remembered seeing Emmett in the shop. And me as well. Then the mother told the daughter about our little contretemps—”

“Ah,” Fiona said. “You’re already infamous in Mahina, are you?”

“Do let me finish, darling. The mother told the daughter she’d seen Emmett in the shop, and the daughter told her husband, the policeman. The police went round to the stationer’s, and that’s how they found me.”

“You were at the stationer’s again?” Talking with her mother often made Fiona feel like she was trying to read a book that had random pages torn out.

“Not today. No, I haven’t been back.”

“How did they find you then?” Fiona asked. “You really must be infamous, mustn’t you?”

“Oh, no one knows me. But I was with Clyde, you see, and it seems Clyde knows everyone in Mahina.”

“You were with Clyde? Plaited-beard Clyde? You never said you were with Clyde.”

“How am I supposed to remember every little detail if you keep interrupting me, darling? It seems the policeman’s mother-in-law recalled the woman who was with Clyde Hamamoto—that’s me, you see—had had words with the headmaster, so—”

“I’m almost afraid to ask, what exactly did you do?”

“I gave him a right bollocking, of course. What would you expect me to do?”

“Did you threaten him? Please tell me you didn’t threaten him.”

“Not a bit of it. All I did was tell him I had divorce papers all drawn up and ready, and there was a handsome incentive for him if he’d sign. I was improvising, of course, but he had no idea—”

“Mother!”

“Now don’t ‘Mother’ me, darling, I was only trying to help. Anyone could see he was making you miserable. And I do see how it’s all gotten a bit messy now, but how was I to know he was going to go and get himself murdered?”

Fiona closed her eyes.

“And did he accept your offer?” she asked quietly. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Please allow me to cling to the conviction that my dead husband loved me.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what he thought of my offer,” Harriet said. “I was escorted from the premises before I could get an answer. They have some sort of plainclothes house detective there, did you know? I suppose to stop people nicking pens. Poor Clyde, I certainly didn’t want to drag him into it.”

“You shouldn’t have brought him along, then.”

“I don’t suppose it would have made any difference. Clyde is my landlord.”

“You’re living with him?”

“Now don’t look at me like that, it’s not what you’re thinking. He owns the Hanakoa Falls Bed and Breakfast. That’s where the police found me.”

Fiona shook her head and poured herself more whiskey.

“I don’t believe there’s any such place. I think you’re making it up.”

“Look it up if you like. Four and a half to five stars on all the travel sites. I’ve got a room with a private bath, balcony that looks out over the river, the view’s brilliant. The police asked a few questions and told us what happened. Clyde already knew Emmett was my daughter’s husband, because I’d had to explain to him what happened at the stationer’s, you see. He insisted on getting the fellows together to come round and pay their respects. So here we are.”

“I should like to ask something,” Fiona said.

“Anything, darling.”

“What if Emmett had come to see you? To accept your hastily improvised and poorly-thought-through offer of payment in exchange for divorcing me? Would you have gone through with it? Paid him, I mean?”

Harriet thought for a moment and shook her head.

“No. If he had come to see me? Much simpler to push him over the balcony. Not that I couldn’t afford it, but why should he be rewarded for...you look a bit peaky, darling. Stay right here. I’ll get you a paracetamol and a glass of water.”

“It’s in the medicine cabinet,” Fiona called after her mother. “It’s called acetaminophen here. No one in America’s heard of paracetamol.”

Molly: The Baby’s Cry

BY THE NEXT MORNING, Saturday’s gruesome discovery seemed very far away. My queasiness had faded, as had my determination to be a vegetarian for the rest of my life. I took Francesca to Mass and stopped by Donnie’s Drive-Inn to pick up some lunch and see Donnie. (Sunday is the Drive-Inn’s busiest day.) I had just gotten everything put away at home when I remembered I had Student Retention Office paperwork due Monday. And I’d left the forms in my office.

So I buckled Francesca into the car seat and headed to the College of Commerce. I felt a little strange going back into the building after what had happened yesterday. But Campus Security had sent out an announcement this morning, assuring us there was no danger to the Mahina State University community, but to be on the safe side, they were stepping up security at the old hospital complex.

My only problem was going to be keeping Francesca out of sight.

Right after we moved to the new building, one of the marketing professors brought his non-housebroken twins into work and let them run loose while he met with his students. The adorable tots managed to steal their father’s cigarette lighter and set the hallway bulletin board ablaze. Fortunately, Serena, the dean’s secretary, got there quickly with the fire extinguisher. But from then on, children were banned from the College of Commerce building.

Once inside my office I locked the door behind us. Then, balancing the baby on one hip, I pressed a slightly-worn spot on the koa-paneled wall and entered my secret room. It smelled like old leather with a whiff of mildew. I plunked Francesca into the portable playpen I’d set up and switched on my battery-powered desk lamp to supplement the natural light.

When Pat Flanagan, my reporter friend in Honolulu, was researching the old hospital, I asked him to find out what the hidden room was for. He thinks my office, together with the adjoining room, was the personal workspace of Constance Brigham, heiress to the Brigham fortune. Miss Brigham was from one of those old Hawaiian dynasties that sprang from the son of a missionary marrying the daughter of a chief. Constance herself devoted her life to temperance and charity, and the Inebriates’ Asylum had been her life’s work.

Whether Miss Brigham used the secret room to court donors, rendezvous with lovers, or simply relax with a glass of something otherwise not permitted on the premises, was unknown. For me, the room had been perfect as a private space to pump breast milk. Now Francesca was mostly weaned, I’d found it was a good place to do paperwork. My computer wasn’t there to distract me, and with the panel closed, no one could barge in and interrupt me.

A breeze ruffled the stack of forms under the Alice Mongoose teapot I used as a paperweight. Francesca babbled happily as she played with her squeaky, jingly toys.

Filling out the Student Retention Office forms by hand was frustratingly inefficient, especially compared to the all-online system the Student Retention Office had until recently. But for now, there wasn’t any alternative. Our procurement officer had discovered serious security issues with the Student Information Management System (that is to say, she caught her husband fooling around with the company’s chief operating officer) so the contract was cancelled. The bidding process had to be started over, and until it ran its course, we were stuck with paper forms.

I heard a clicking sound outside on the landing. Who in the management department (besides me) would come in to work on a Sunday? I pressed the koa panel closed behind me, careful not to wake Francesca. The idea of leaving her unattended, even for a few seconds, spiked my anxiety, but I couldn’t let it be known that I’d brought a baby into the building. In any case, the panel wasn’t soundproof. So if she woke up, I’d hear her.

I went out to the landing to see Fiona’s door was ajar. There was no police tape or anything to indicate her office had been a crime scene. They must have collected everything they needed already. I didn’t feel like talking to Fiona, or anyone for that matter, but I realized I should probably pop in and see how she was doing. It was only yesterday she’d found her dead husband, after all.

“Fiona?” I knocked on the door frame and peeked in.

No one answered, and I didn’t see anyone inside.

“Fiona?” What if she had passed out again and was on the floor somewhere? I walked into the office, knelt down and checked under her desk, stood up—and found myself face-to-chest with a large man in a hot-pink Konishi Construction shirt. He was wearing dark sunglasses, which seemed odd.

I yelped and stepped sideways, toward the door.

He stepped too, blocking my exit.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“I’m Molly Barda.” My voice sounded thin and tentative. “I’m the department chair.”

He stared at me (or at least he aimed the sunglasses in my direction) as if considering whether to let me out. Who was this guy? My mind immediately went to the worst possible scenario. He was Emmett Spencer’s murderer, he’d somehow gotten his hands on a Konishi Construction t-shirt and a key to Fiona’s office, and he was back to make sure he hadn’t left any incriminating evidence.

But why would a Konishi Construction guy want to kill Emmett Spencer? And if he wasn’t a real Konishi employee, how would a random murderer get a key?

“I thought I heard Dr. Spencer come in,” I said to the man, “so I came over to see her.”

“You thought you was gonna find her on the floor?”

It was true, I had been looking under her desk.

“She fainted yesterday,” I said. “I thought she, um...”

Nice work, Molly, you pretty much just told this guy you were here when Emmett Spencer’s body was discovered. Smart move. The evidence he’s looking to get rid of now includes you.

The man didn’t move. He stood and stared. I couldn’t think of anything to do but stare back. I hadn’t even brought my phone with me, like an idiot.

And then I heard Francesca. Just one syllable: “ba.”

Francesca, hang on, I thought. We don’t want the bad man to find you.

Waaaaa! Francesca cried.

“What was that?” the man turned his head a little, but he didn’t move out of the doorway.

I was terrified, and angry. Poor Francesca, all alone in the musty little room.

But then I remembered what my student Bryce had told me. That if you were near the old hospital, you’d hear a baby’s cry before something bad happened to you.

“What was what?” I said. “I didn’t hear anything. Why, did you hear something?”

The man paled beneath his tan.

“You never heard that?” he demanded. “You deaf or what?”

I shrugged and tried not to flinch when I heard Francesca raise her voice again.

Waa, waa, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Even more upset now because where was Mom? I ached to rush back to my office and hold her, but even if I could push past the man (I couldn’t), I didn’t want to lead him to her.

WAAAAAAAAA!

“Someone get a baby in here?” he demanded.

“Did you say a baby?” I put on a concerned expression. “Are you telling me you hear a baby’s cry?”

He glowered at me for a few seconds and I was afraid he was going to punch me. He swore, turned on his heel, and thundered down the stairs.

As soon as he was out of sight I rushed back to my office, pushed through the panel door, and snatched Francesca out of the playpen. After finishing up the diaper change (the baby’s, in case you’re wondering), I took out my cell phone and called Security.

At first there was no answer. I hung up again and this time someone picked up after the second ring. I babbled out my version of what had just happened, but the woman interrupted me to tell me they would be sending someone up to my office.

Molly: Good News

“MICAH,” I SAID. “WE are really glad to see you. Thank you for coming up.”

“Oh, hey, little girl,” Micah cooed, as Francesca stretched her chubby arms toward him. “Can I hold her? Francesca, yeah?”

How could I say no? Francesca was leaning away from me so hard I had to struggle to keep her from tipping out of my arms. Micah took her and held her. He must have been closing in on thirty, but he still had his chubby baby cheeks, which made him and Francesca look adorably alike. I’m not saying he looked like he could be the father of the baby; he looked like the actual baby. I would never share this observation with him, of course.

Francesca beamed at him, pushed away from his chest, and reached out to me again.

“I’m kinda surprised to see you back here, Professor,” Micah said as Francesca twisted around in my arms and leaned back toward him. “After everything that happened yesterday. I thought you’d wanna take some kinda leave or something.”

“Well I had paperwork to do,” I said, “and I thought it would be good to get back up on the horse, so to speak. I thought it would be safe, because apparently, I’m an idiot. Micah, why don’t you come in and sit down?”

He sat in my visitor chair with Francesca on his lap while I told him what had just happened over in Fiona’s office.

“Sounds like it was just one of the Konishi Construction guys,” Micah said. “They’re allowed to be in here, you know. Construction is behind schedule that’s why. They’re working overtime and weekends.”

“He was wearing one of those bright pink Konishi shirts,” I said, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean he was a real employee. Maybe he stole the shirt. Or counterfeited it. Or even found it at a thrift store. And who wears sunglasses indoors?”

“He must’ve had a key, but,” Micah countered. “Cause you said he was already in Professor Spencer’s office. We keep a log of everyone who has keys and you’re not supposed to copy ‘em. All the Konishi guys get ‘em, but.”

“If he was here for some innocent reason, why was he acting like that?” I asked. “Why prevent me from leaving the room? I think if Francesca’s crying hadn’t scared him off, he would’ve...I don’t know what he would’ve done, but it would’ve been bad.”

“Maybe he thought you were a suspicious intruder,” Micah pointed out. “He doesn’t know who you are, either, you know.”

“Me? I’m the least threatening person imaginable.”

Micah laughed. Francesca, still sitting on his lap, laughed too.

“If you could tell who was a criminal just by looking at ‘em, law enforcement would be a lot easier,” he said. “You can file a report if you want, Professor. Can’t promise it’ll go anywhere. It’s up to you.”

Francesca started to make discontented noises and act like she wanted to get down on the ground. I pulled a jingly butterfly toy out of my desk drawer and handed it over to her. She beamed and happily bashed the toy on my desk.

“Yes, I would like to file a report,” I said.

“It’s online,” Micah said, so I fired up my desktop computer, and Micah talked me through filling out the form. As I typed out my recollection of the incident, I realized how weak my story sounded. I had gone into Fiona Spencer’s office and found one of the Konishi Construction workers inside. He asked me what I was doing there—understandable. He eventually left. (I omitted the part about Francesca crying, of course, because I wasn’t supposed to bring her to work in the first place.)

“I think this thing is affecting me more than I realized at first,” I said when I had pressed the “submit” button. “I didn’t sleep at all last night. I’ve never met Fiona’s husband. Never even talked to him on the phone. I can’t imagine how much worse this must be for Fiona. Even for me, the thought of him cooking to death inside the fever cabinet, it’s so horrible. I can’t get it out of my mind.”

“They took the thing away you know,” Micah said. “It’s evidence, that’s why.”

“Come to think of it, that’s right. I didn’t see the fever cabinet in Fiona’s office. Good. I’m glad they took it. I’d hate for Fiona to have to look at it after yesterday.”

“I got some other good news too, you know,” Micah said. Francesca stuck one of the butterfly’s wings in her mouth and started to chew it.

“I’m here for good news,” I said. “What is it?”

“It’s not official yet, Professor, so don’t tell nobody, but the cause of death wasn’t the victim cooking to death like it looked like.”

Francesca dropped the butterfly toy on the floor. After Micah retrieved it and handed it back to her, I asked,

“How did he die? Here I’ll take her. And how did you hear about it?”

Micah handed Francesca across the desk to me.

“My cousin works at Mahina PD,” he said. “Remember you didn’t hear it from me. Don’t want to get nobody in trouble.”

“No, I understand. Of course.”

“I know what you mean, Professor, about not sleeping. It was making me sick to think about the poor bugga getting cooked alive, you know.”

“But you just said that’s not what happened,” I said. “Right?”

Francesca lobbed the butterfly toy straight at Micah. He caught it and handed it to her, which caused her to squeal delightedly.

“Yeah. So the good news is, he was already dead when they wen’ put ‘im in. Someone wen’ shot ‘im first.” Micah rubbed the back of his shaved head for emphasis. “That’s what my cousin said. Couldn’t tell me nothing besides that, but he heard someone else talking about it.”

“Well that’s a small mercy,” I said. “Listen, I know I’m probably worried about nothing, but do you mind walking us down to my car? I had a bunch of paperwork I was hoping to finish up, but I’ll just come in early tomorrow morning.

Molly: A Good Start

I MANAGED TO COMPLETE the Student Retention Office paperwork first thing Monday morning, thanks to a shortcut I cooked up for the dreaded Student Engagement Journal Entries. It involved a handwriting font, a random word generator, and some adjustments to my printer settings. No one in my department actually filled out the Journal Entries every week like they were supposed to, and I was fairly sure no one in the Student Retention Office actually read them, so I decided my solution should make everyone happy.

I even had some time to answer Pat Flanagan’s email. Pat and I hadn’t communicated much since he’d moved to Honolulu and taken a job at the weekly paper. I could tell he no longer found Mahina State University gossip particularly fascinating. And Pat’s new beat (Honolulu city politics) is so complex that trying to keep up gives me vertigo. But he was just assigned a feature on the history of the big Labor Day canoe race / biker convention that takes place on this island, so once again we had something to talk about. I’d actually been to the event, and he hadn’t, so I was able to give him a sense of the festive atmosphere. In his latest email Pat told me more about Mahina’s oldest biker club, which apparently is more like a civic association than anything else. The former wife of one of our trustees was one of the first women to ride with them, he informed me, and a current member of the club even owns a popular upscale bed-and-breakfast.

In my reply I told him about dropping Fiona off at her house with all the bikers hanging around her driveway. I was sure he’d enjoy meeting Fiona and her mother, I wrote, and I encouraged him to fly back and visit any time he liked.

So I started the day with a pleasant feeling of having pulled ahead of my to-do list. I’d just bundled up the Student Retention Office paperwork for intra-campus mail, when Fiona marched into my office and dropped her frail backside into one of my visitor chairs. No knock on the door, no may I come in, nothing.

I set the stack of papers down and gave her my full attention. I hadn’t seen her since we’d discovered her dead husband in her office the other day, so I assumed she was probably still feeling a little jangled. I wondered whether I should tell her about the guy poking around her office yesterday. Maybe eventually, but certainly not this minute when she seemed all stressed out.

“Molly, I’d like a word. In private. Do you have time right now?”

“Sure,” I said. “Do you want to close the door?”

“In a moment.”

Fiona pushed the chair back and went to the doorway.

“Mum?” she called out to the landing.

I’d seen Fiona’s mother twice before, but this was the first time I’d gotten a good look at her. To me she looked exactly like a character from a BBC mystery series set in the English countryside. Sensible, practical, and horsey (in both senses of the word). You were always surprised when she turned out to be the murderer. In my archetypal TV show, I mean.

“Hullo. I’m Harriet.” The woman reached across my desk and administered exactly the no-nonsense handshake I expected.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, and we all got seated. My first impression of Harriet had been completely off. Harriet was bare faced, and she wore her hair in a no-maintenance crop. But she was hardly a hobo. Her clothing was tailored to outlast fickle fashion. Her field coat was rumpled and had some burn marks around the pockets, but a new one like it would set you back a month’s rent.

“So...” I looked from Fiona to her mother and back to Fiona.

“She knows,” Fiona said.

“I do,” Harriet confirmed.

“About...Saturday?” I asked.

“Yes,” Fiona said with some asperity. “Mum knew Emmett was dead nearly as soon as I did.”

“Fiona’s office still smells of ham,” Harriet said cheerfully. “Quite upsetting, when you think about it. Fiona couldn’t remember, what was that thing called you found him in?”

“It’s called a fever cabinet,” I said. “This building used to be a medical facility and there’s still some old equipment lying around. They used it for pyrotherapy, which was basically raising the patient’s body temperature and burning out infections. I think it was invented by a doctor who noticed some of his patients who got malaria were cured of their syphilis. Sorry, that’s probably a lot more than you wanted to know.”

“Not a bit of it. It’s fascinating!” Harriet exclaimed. “How hot does it get?”

“A hundred and five degrees.”

“Fahrenheit or Celsius?”

I glanced at Fiona. She was staring at her lap, her mouth a tight line. She didn’t seem interested in hearing about the gripping history of this medical device.

“Fahrenheit,” I said.

“Is that all?” Harriet snorted. “Barely hotter than bathwater. You can hardly cook a person like a Christmas gammon at that temperature.”

“It was hotter than that,” Fiona said flatly. “I nearly burned my hand on it.”

I briefly considered sharing what Micah had told me—Emmett was dead when he was put into the device and hadn’t been killed by the heat. But I wasn’t sure Micah’s information was correct, and even if it was, Fiona might get upset I knew something about the case that she didn’t.”

“Why ever did you have the thing in your office to begin with?” Harriet asked Fiona.

“It’s not Fiona’s fault,” I said. “We completed her hire after the semester deadline so according to Facilities the office is still unoccupied and can be used as storage.”

“It looks a right tip,” Harriet said. “You should ask them to send someone in to tidy up.”

“I’ve been sending in requests for exactly that,” I said. “And actually, there was a guy in there yesterday. I don’t know what he was doing, but he was wearing a Konishi Construction shirt.”

“Finally,” Fiona said.

I decided Fiona didn’t need to know I’d reported the man to Security.

“So Fiona,” I said, “did you want to initiate your bereavement leave?”

She shook her head.

“Hardly worth it for the three days they give you. I’d rather keep myself occupied. In any event, I’m not here about the leave.”

“We need to find a lawyer,” Harriet said, “and we’re hoping you might recommend someone. I was going to take Clyde’s recommendation, but my daughter forbade me.”

“Clyde?” I asked.

“Not important,” Fiona said.

I looked from Fiona to her mother and back.

“Of course it’s your right to sue the university,” I said. “But it would be hard to find a lawyer who’s willing to take on something like that. Our legal department is really good at dragging things out—”

“Sue?” Harriet snorted. Fiona shifted uncomfortably next to her. “I’m not suing anyone. I’m about to be arrested for murder!”

Molly: Only Trying to Help

“I CAN RECOMMEND A LAWYER.” I pulled out a pad and started to write. “She happens to be a former student of mine, and she’s helped me out a lot in the past.”

“Helped you?” Fiona sounded incredulous.

“Yep. Despite my wholesome and inoffensive appearance, I actually have required the services of a criminal lawyer in the past. My grad school roommate came to visit, I took her to a Garden Society meeting, she, well, she died right there in front of everyone, and I was accused of her murder. Everything worked out in the end, I mean, here I am, not in prison, but yeah, it was a pretty stressful episode.”

“Never,” Fiona exclaimed.

“Well she’s Italian, isn’t she?” Harriet said to Fiona. “Bang tidy, the Italians, but a bit dangerous. If I were you, Fiona, I’d try a little harder not to get on her bad side, eh?”

“Molly, I do apologize for my mother,” Fiona said.

“No, it’s fine. My ancestry is Albanian, actually. Barda is an Albanian name. It’s more commonly spelled with an ‘h’ but my...never mind, it’s not important.”

I happened to know “bang tidy” means “attractive,” so Fiona’s mother had basically just deemed me sexy and dangerous. It was a welcome compliment in my book. Especially since just the other day, Emma had pointed out that because I lived in the suburbs and had a daughter, I was technically a suburban mom. That, for some reason, was far more upsetting.

“Is she expensive, this lawyer?” Fiona asked.

“She’s not cheap.”

“Money won’t be a problem,” Harriet said. “As long as this person can ensure I’m not sent up to death row, I’ll consider it money well spent. Not that I’m worried for myself, mind, but I imagine it would be terribly embarrassing for Fiona.”

“Ship has sailed, Mum,” Fiona muttered. “And Hawaii doesn’t have a death penalty in any event.”

“That’s a relief, then,” Harriet replied. “Well, I won’t pretend I liked Emmett, and I can’t say I wouldn’t have topped him given the right circumstances. I daresay, I’m parched. I suppose tea’s out of the question.”

“Honestly, Mum, this is hardly the—”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I can make tea. We have a kettle.”

“I’ll make it,” Fiona said. I guess she wasn’t impressed with my tea-making skills.

“The kettle might be in the men’s room by now,” I said. “Make sure to knock first.”

Fiona stood up.

“Yes, I know.”

Fiona: Not an Abattoir

FIONA RETURNED WITH three brewed mugs of tea, to find Molly away from her desk, and Harriet about to light her pipe.

“Mum, put that beastly thing away. This is a no-smoking building.”

Harriet’s pipe paused in mid-air. She did some quick disassembly and tucked the components back into her coat. Another scorch mark, which Harriet seemed not to notice.

“Your department head seems a decent sort,” Harriet said as Fiona took her seat.

“Where is she?” Fiona asked.

“She went to get us some milk for the tea,” Harriet said. “This is rather a nice little office, isn’t it? Why does yours look like an abattoir?”

“Don’t be morbid. It looks like no such thing,” Fiona protested, but in fact it wasn’t hard to imagine blood being hosed off the green tiles and swirling down the drain at the centre of the floor. “I imagine it was an operating theatre at one time.”

“Operating theatre, abattoir, tomato, tomahto. A hundred years ago it was more or less the same thing, wasn’t it?” Harriet said.

“Got us some milk.” Molly entered, holding a little red-and-white milk container. She opened the spout and set it down on the desk between Fiona and Harriet. “Oh, Fiona, thank you for the tea. I just realized when I was walking back up here, I never had a chance to say to both of you, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Not much of a loss, let’s be honest,” Harriet said.

“Mother!” Fiona admonished.

“One of the boys found Emmett’s gun and topped himself,” Harriet said to me. “Emmett nearly got sacked but managed to worm his way out of it. Can’t imagine how the boy’s family feels.”

“That’s not fair,” Fiona retorted. “Naturally when there’s a tragedy, people want to find someone to blame. But it wasn’t Emmett’s fault.”

Harriet started to reach for her pipe pocket but stopped and poured a splash of milk into her tea instead.

“I supposed it depends on one’s definition of fault, darling. If Emmett hadn’t come to St. Aelred, the boy might still be alive.”

Molly cleared her throat.

“So anything I can help with besides the contact information for the lawyer?” she asked.

“You can tell my mother not to go round incriminating herself,” Fiona said.

“I’m doing nothing of the sort,” Harriet retorted.

“Why do they think your motive was?” Molly asked Harriet. “Do you know?”

“It’s probably because I caught him out with his bit-on-the-side and went spare,” Harriet replied.

“My mother confronted Emmett in a public place,” Fiona explained, because Molly looked confused. “She yelled at him—”

“Never yelled,” Harriet interrupted.

“I understand,” Molly said. “You had an argument with Fiona’s husband, and then he turned up dead. I can see how it looks bad. But I’m not a lawyer. Speaking of which, did you want her contact information—”

“I don’t see how it counts against me,” Harriet went on. “It should be the opposite, really. If I’d known he’d be getting murdered shortly, I would have pretended to be on the best of terms with him. I’ll tell you what looks suspicious, Fiona. You lying about your husband’s whereabouts.”

“Mother! I did not lie!”

“But you did, darling. You claimed your husband was at home in bed when he was almost certainly already dead. I believe it’s what the Yanks call a Whopper.”

Molly: Threat Assessment

“YOU LIED TO THE POLICE?” I blurted out.

“Never to the police,” Fiona said. “Only to Maureen.”

“Why? Sorry, never mind, that’s something to discuss with a lawyer. Speaking of which—”

“Yes, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” Harriet said. “A recommendation would be much appreciated.”

“Her name is Honey Akiona,” I said.

Mother and daughter exchanged a glance.

“Very well. I suppose we should give her a ring.” Fiona stood and her mother followed suit.

“Ta for the tea,” Harriet said.

“Here’s Honey’s contact information.” I wrote it down on a legal pad, folded the yellow lined paper in half, and handed it to Fiona.

“Thanks.” Fiona sounded the opposite of grateful. “I believe we already have it.”

“She’s the one Clyde recommended,” Harriet said, “but my daughter doesn’t trust Clyde or some such nonsense, so she insisted we come here and waste your time getting the same information.”

“Harriet, just out of curiosity...” I wouldn’t have pried if it were just Fiona there, but I sensed Harriet wouldn’t be offended by a nosy question. “The...discovery of the murder was day before yesterday, and you’ve already been arrested? Are you out on bail?”

“No, I haven’t been arrested,” Harriet said. I thought I heard Fiona mutter “worse luck” under her breath, but I could be wrong. “Clyde’s been brilliant, he’s been keeping me apprised. He’s heard through the jungle telegraph I’m the prime suspect.”

“Don’t say jungle telegraph, Mum,” Fiona said. “It’s offensive.”

“You can say coconut wireless,” I suggested.

“I certainly hope this Honey person is good with difficult clients.” Fiona yanked open my office door, and nearly ran into Micah, the security guard.

“Everything okay here?” he asked.

“We’re fine, thanks,” Fiona said. “My mother and I were just leaving.”

“Oh, you’re the mother?” Micah shook Harriet’s hand. “So sorry what happened to your son in law.”

“I think we need to let Molly get on with her work.” Fiona sidled around Micah and out to the landing. “I suppose the next thing to do is call this Honey person.”

Micah watched the women leave, pulled my office door shut, and sat down.

“You doing okay, Professor?”

“Yes, thank you for asking.”

“Supposed to keep an eye on you and Dr. Spencer, that’s why.”

“Really? Why?”

“Cause you was both at the scene. Threat Assessment told us make sure you no hurt yourself or nothing.” He took out a sheet of paper, unfolded it, and read. “Professor, you having thoughts of self-harm?”

“Self-harm? Hm. I did briefly consider volunteering for the General Education committee, but I think I’m over it now.”

“Mahina State University offers counselling resources for employees,” he went on. “Refer your colleague or student to ...just a minute professor.”

He bent down and resurfaced holding a copy of the Counselling Centre’s laminated information sheet.

“The Counselling Centre’s open till lunchtime usually,” he said. “But it’s good to call ahead.”

“Thank you,” I said. I didn’t tell him I had my own copy of the Counseling Center’s laminated information sheet with the outdated opening times printed on it. “it’s nice to have someone looking after my well-being. But do you know what really does help? Just keeping me informed. The way you’ve been doing. Passing along whatever information you’ve heard.”

“For real?” Micah looked skeptical.

“Yes. Listen, if someone dumped a body in your workplace and you had no idea who did it or why? How would you feel?”

Micah cleared his throat.

“Always on edge,” he said. “Little bit paranoid kine. Wondering who’s next.”

“I’m sorry, Micah. I didn’t even stop to consider you’re dealing with this, too. How are you holding up?”

“I seen dead bodies lots of times at funerals,” he said. “But this is the first time...”

I had never seen Micah in any mood but cheerful. Until now. He was looking in my direction, but not at me. I wondered whether this was what people called the thousand-yard stare.

“Eh, you know Professor Spencer’s mother. Who was just here?”

“Yes,” I said.

“She’s a suspect, you know. Don’t tell nobody, but. Eh, is that tea?”

Micah looked pale and tired, and very much like he could use a “cuppa,” as Fiona might say. I wouldn’t mind another cup myself. I collected the three mugs and stood up.

“Stay right there,” I said. “I’ll go make some more.”

Molly: Overkill

SO HARRIET’S INFORMATION, wherever she’d obtained it, was correct. Or at least it was consistent with Micah’s. Fiona’s mother was a suspect in the murder of Fiona’s husband.

“Why would they think Harriet did it?” I asked.

“Cause she got in one beef wit’ the husband down at Mahina Stationers.”

“What was it about? Do you know?”

“I heard it was cause he was cheating on the daughter.”

“That’s the least surprising revelation ever.” I sipped my tea and set it back down. Fiona really was better at tea than I was. “Micah, do you really think Harriet could have done it? I don’t know. It’s hard for me to imagine.”

“Domestic situations can get kinda out of hand, you know,” Micah said.

“Yes, but like this? Why not do something simple like, I don’t know, poison him? I mean, if I wanted to kill someone, I’d probably just dump some antifreeze into their margarita or something.”

Micah set his tea down slowly.

“Not that I would ever actually poison anyone,” I added quickly. “I would not. It’s just, this is such an over the top, attention-seeking way to kill someone. Whoever did this would somehow have to get Emmett Spencer up to the top floor of the College of Commerce building and into the fever cabinet. I don’t think he’d be that easy for an average-sized woman to move.”

“She coulda marched him up at gunpoint, made him climb into da kine, then shot ‘im.”

“Oh, good thinking,” I said. “I guess that would be pretty straightforward. But how would she get into Fiona’s office then?”

“Maybe she had one accomplice,” Micah said. “A partner in crime, know what I mean? She’s like da kine, can get men to do da kine for her, you know?”

“What?”

“A femme fatale, that’s what I was trying to think of.”

“You’re talking about Fiona’s mother?”

Micah nodded shyly.

Harriet didn’t square with my idea of a dangerous dame, but what did I know? My stereotype of a femme fatale came from Hollywood.

“Okay, let’s play it out. Harriet asks some guy, let’s say it’s this Clyde person, whoever he is, help me kill my annoying son-in-law. They force him to accompany them to Fiona’s office—would the husband have a key?”

Micah shrugged. “Not supposed to, but the wife coulda made an illegal copy.”

“They make him open the office, make him climb into the fever cabinet, shoot him in the head except no one hears a gunshot, turn the fever cabinet on, and leave. Actually, Harriet might not need an accomplice if she did it that way.”

“Okay,” Micah said.

“Except. It’s Fiona’s office. Can you imagine Harriet saying, hey, here’s an idea, let’s kill my son-in-law and dump the body in my daughter’s office in a way that causes her maximum trauma. See what I mean?”

Micah rubbed his chin.

“Yeah, good point. Maybe she didn’t know which one was the daughter’s office.”

“Harriet knows where Fiona’s office is,” I said. “She’s come to visit Fiona before. And it’s the only one Emmett would have a key to. See, you and I sitting here can work out it couldn’t have been Fiona’s mother. I hope Mahina’s justice system can figure it out as quickly as we did.”

“How well do you know Fiona and Harriet?” Micah asked.

“Fiona started here this semester, and I met Harriet today. I guess I don’t know them that well. I don’t want Fiona’s mother to be guilty. I want the police to find the real culprit. Then peace will descend on the management department, Fiona won’t quit, and I’ll be able to make the spring schedule without having to find an emergency substitute business ethics professor.”

Micah sipped his tea and frowned.

“Professor, I was wondering, yeah? How hot is it supposed to get, da kine?”

“The fever cabinet? A hundred- and five-degrees Fahrenheit. It’s supposed to simulate a malarial fever.”

“Could it get up to a hundred fifteen?” Micah asked.

“I don’t know. I mean, it must’ve been built in the thirties or even before, so I can’t imagine the temperature control was that great. Especially if it was left on longer than it was designed to be. Why?”

“Cause that’s hot enough to cook meat.”

“What? I’ve never heard of that. So you could leave a roast outside in Palm Springs and it would cook?”

“Only reason people don’t do is cause it’s not hot enough to kill the bacteria,” Micah said. “But you can get the meat falling off the bone at a hundred fifteen if you leave it in long enough.”

“Ew, that’s horrible!”

“Yeah, good thing you wasn’t there to see it when they was trying to move the body. You know my auntie, when she makes kalua in the oven, she puts it on 225 for five hours. She says internal temp gotta be at least 140 to be safe.”

“Micah, you said the heat’s not what killed him, right? He was shot.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know whether there’s any progress on tracing the bullet? Was there a bullet?”

Micah shook his head.

“Nuh-uh. Victim was shot with a nail gun.”

“A nail gun?”

Micah nodded.

“Like I could go down and buy from the hardware store?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, that’s weird. A nail gun. Wow. So that’s good, right? Narrows it down? Or something?”

Micah shook his head.

“Doesn’t help, Professor. Cause it’s not bullets, just standard framing nails. So there’s no way to trace ‘em.”

Molly: A Banana Bafflement

AFTER MICAH LEFT, I found it impossible to sit still and focus on my work. I emailed a reminder to my students about next week’s midterm and decided to walk over to the main hospital building and get something from the cafeteria. Sitting in the high-ceilinged, sunny space always lifted my mood and cleared my head, and the short walk across the utility road was just enough exercise.

I took out my phone and texted Pat Flanagan:

Have some INTERESTING news from Mahina. How is your story going?

I realized I was feeling excited about being involved in another murder case. Which worried me.

So when I entered the dining hall and saw Iker Legazpi sitting by himself, I thought it might be A Sign. Virtuous people make me feel defensive and inadequate, so I generally avoid them. Iker Legazpi is an exception.

In fact, Iker is one of the three people in my life I turn to for advice. The other two are my husband Donnie, who always has the safe and politically-savvy answer for me; and my best friend Emma, who exhorts me to stand for my principles and battle the forces of evil regardless of the personal cost. (The forces of evil in Emma’s mind include the Student Retention Office, the IRB, athletics, the IT department, and for some reason the humanities dean.)

Only a few other people were scattered around the room; it was well after the lunchtime rush and I had gotten in just before the cash registers closed. I bought the last strawberry yogurt and a rock-hard banana and headed over to where Iker was sitting.

Iker put aside what he was reading—an old paperback book in a language I didn’t recognize—and listened patiently while I related the whole story, including the unusual murder method and the fact that Fiona’s mother was now implicated.

“It is a terrible predicament for Fiona Spencer and her mother,” Iker said. “And you are right to wish them well. Why does this trouble you?”

“Because to really help her I have to find out who the murderer is. I mean someone has to find out. That’s what I meant. And I know it’s what the police are supposed to be doing, but they’re just going to pin it on Fiona’s mother because it’s the easy way out. She didn’t get along with the son-in-law, case closed.”

I tried to snap the nub off the end of my banana to peel it. The skin was too tough, and I could barely bend it.

“You are saying you hope for justice to be done,” Iker said.

I gave up on the banana and started trying to pick the edge of the foil off the yogurt.

“Here’s the problem, Iker. I’m not satisfied with hoping for justice. I referred them to the best lawyer in Mahina, not sure they’re going to follow up, but I feel like there’s more I can do. Then again, am I just trying to inject some excitement into my quotidian suburban-mom existence? I know this sounds like a ridiculous amount of existential angst, but I have Francesca now. I feel like I should be a good example for her.”

Iker picked up my banana, easily peeled it from the wrong end, and handed it back to me.

“Oh. Thank you. How did you do that?”

“You are concerned with what is in your heart,” he said. “Whether your motives are pure. As Paul wrote to the Corinthian Church, If I am without love, my great accomplishments will do me no good whatsoever.”

“Exactly! Am I just being a thrill seeker? I mean, you know I’ve been involved in murder cases in the past, and I don’t know, maybe I’m trying to recapture the excitement or something. Do you think it’s possible?”

“Such misgivings are an encouraging thing, Molly. They are the sign of an active conscience. As we have cited the Apostle Paul, perhaps we invite James into the conversation as well. James 4:17 says, to the one who knows to do good and does not do it, that is sin.”

“Great. So I can do the right thing for the wrong reason, which ends up not being the right thing, or I can do nothing, which is also wrong.”

“Molly,” Iker said. “I have no doubt your intentions are good. However, I would offer a more practical caution. We do not yet know who did this thing to Fiona Spencer’s husband. Nor do we know whether the grudge is against Emmett Spencer, Fiona Spencer, or even the College of Commerce. You should first of all ensure your own safety and stay out of danger. Now if you will excuse me, I must meet my afternoon class and I have missed the shuttle. I thank you for a pleasant and stimulating conversation.”

Iker rose, gave me a little bow, and headed out to the parking lot. I felt a flush of guilt. He hadn’t even finished half his sandwich, and he now had ten minutes to make the drive across town to the main campus, find a parking place, and get to his classroom. I watched him leave and took a bite of the remaining half of his tuna salad sandwich. Or maybe it was chicken salad, hard to tell.

But our conversation had reassured me. Wanting to help Fiona didn’t mean I was a bad person, according to Iker. I didn’t have time to dwell on the part about staying out of danger, because my phone started ringing.

“Molly, you done eating?” Emma’s voice demanded from my phone.

“How did you know I was...oh.”

I looked up to see Emma striding toward me, still on her phone. We both hung up.

“You want the rest of that?” Emma sat down in the chair Iker had recently occupied, picked up the sandwich half with the bite out of it and stuffed it into her mouth.

“Help yourself.”

“Junk, this sandwich,” Emma said through a mouthful of it. “What’s it supposed to be?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t buy it. It was Iker’s. He just left.”

Emma took my napkin and wiped her mouth and fingers.

“Oh yeah, that’s how come the chair’s warm. Eh, maybe I just consumed some of his good karma. You got anything you gotta do right now?”

I looked at my watch.

“Not really. And I have some time before I have to get the baby. I don’t feel like going back to my office yet. What’s up?”

“Come help me pick out a Christmas present for Yoshi.”

“Today? Christmas is more than a month away. I thought you liked the thrill of waiting until the last minute.”

“They’re having a sale on phones and I might wanna get a new one for myself too. You’re good at finding bargains, Molly. Plus we hardly get to hang out anymore.”

Molly: Christmas Shopping

“WHY ARE YOU WALKING like that?” Emma demanded. “You trying to make me feel short?”

“No, I’m walking like this because the gravel wrecks the heels of my shoes if I walk normally.”

“You tiptoeing across the parking lot looks way more ridiculous than scratched-up heels no one looks at anyway, just so you know. Where are you going?”

I stopped and carefully let my heels down to give my aching calves a break.

“Aren’t we taking your car? The Thunderbird’s kind of a gas hog. Yours is better for the environment.”

“Uh-huh. You mean you want to leave your very recognizable car in the parking lot, so it looks like you’re still here and not ducking out of work to go shopping?”

“Emma, your cynicism shocks me.”

We got into Emma’s car and buckled in. Emma pressed the ignition button, or whatever it’s called on an electric car. It felt more like booting up a computer than starting an engine.

“Ready to sniff out some good deals?” Emma asked as we careened down the narrow road.

“Ha, speaking of ‘sniffing’ out good deals,” I said. “I picked up a practically-new microwave from the e-waste pile down at St. Aelred’s, and the first time I used it I found out why they tossed it. It smells like a toxic waste dump. I pulled out a little plastic glob from under the rotating plate, but it didn’t seem to help.”

“You didn’t throw it away yet, did you?” Emma asked. “I need a microwave for my lab. I’ll get one of my grad students to take it home and clean it out.”

“Take it, please. Rodge Cowper used it to heat up his coffee this morning and it stank up the whole floor.”

Emma wrinkled her nose.

“Ew, never mind.”

“You mean the chemical fumes don’t bother you, but the fact that Rodge used it once is a bridge too far?”

Emma parked in front of the hardware shop so she could plug her car into the free charger. From there it was a ten-minute walk through Mahina’s intermittent rain to reach our destination. Emma declared the inconvenience completely worth it for what she called “free gas.”

We arrived at phone store to find it surprisingly uncrowded. The mystery was cleared up by a sign in the window announcing the sale started next week. Emma acted like she had planned it this way all along. Her strategy, she claimed, was to stake out her purchase now and pick it up later at a reduced price.

I trailed after Emma as she walked the perimeter of the store, examining one rectangular black phone after another.

“I’m going to go look at the accessories,” I said after about five fascinating minutes of comparing front-camera resolution.

“Don’t buy phone cases here,” Emma said, as she followed me over to the accessories rack. “They’re a rip-off at the store, cause they gotta cover all the rent an’ salaries. It’s way cheaper to buy ‘em online.”

“Emma, shh,” I whispered. “Your so-called wasteful overhead is that poor kid’s livelihood.”

The boy behind the counter looked like he was busy with something at the register, although Emma and I were the only customers in the store.

“That’s how come we need universal income, Molly. The boy shouldn’t be chained to his minimum wage job.” Emma was generally apolitical, but when her husband Yoshi abandoned the MBA rat race to become a freelance artist, Emma became suddenly sympathetic to redistributive social welfare programs.

“You’re right.” I examined the price tags posted above the pegboard hooks. “These are kind of overpriced.”

“Eh, Molly, you should get this one. The silverbacks in your department would plotz.” She held up a glittery pink phone case with “Diva” written across it in gold script. “Could you imagine Hanson Harrison huffing and puffing about the Dignity of the Academy?”

“Not worth it,” I said. “I can listen to Hanson huffing and puffing without buying an ugly phone case. Wait, this reminds me of something.”

“We have more colors in the back,” said a voice at my elbow. The young man from behind the cash register stood beside us with an expectant expression. I dearly hoped he hadn’t heard my comment about the ugly phone case. “We got a big shipment in for the sale next week.”

“Nah, we’re just looking.” Emma slid the package back onto the hook.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Do you have this in purple?”

“I’ll go check.”

“Molly, you serious?” Emma said as soon as the young man had disappeared into the back.

“Emma, look at this.” I pulled the glob of purple plastic out of my purse and showed it to her. She took it from me and examined it.

“You starting a collection or what?” she asked.

“It’s from the microwave. The one I scavenged from St. Aelred’s. This is the stinky plastic glob I was telling you about.”

“Oh yeah.” Emma leaned in to examine the glob more closely but didn’t touch it. “Did you take this out before or after Rodge used the microwave?”

“What? I don’t know. Before. That’s the thing. I took it out, but the microwave still smells terrible.”

“So what does this have to do with you asking about whether they have the phone case in purple?”

“Okay, I’ll stipulate from the outset, this is really none of my business, but—”

“Ha, when’s that ever stopped you?”

“Fine, I won’t tell you.”

“Nah, come on,” Emma pleaded. “I’m nosy too.”

I peeked over the rack of phone accessories to make sure no one was listening.

“Okay. The St. Aelred’s student who committed suicide. Maureen’s son.”

“Yeah, Trevor Dos Santos. What, he had a phone case like this?”

“Well, I was going for the buildup, but yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. My student told me Trevor was his boyfriend.”

“Wow, your students tell you some personal stuff, ah?”

“Sometimes, yeah. Anyway, according to him, Trevor bought himself a sparkly purple phone case, which his macho father did not appreciate. Dad cut off the kid’s allowance. I wonder whether it all spiraled down from there. Bryce didn’t come out and say it, but it seems possible Trevor’s suicide could be related to what the father did.”

“Aw, that’s sad. So how does the microwave fit in? What, you think the boy Trevor burned his phone case in the microwave at the school cause he felt bad about his dad disowning him or whatever?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

“So what are you gonna do with this thing?”

“I was thinking if this is really from Trevor’s phone maybe Bryce would want it. I mean, I know it’s not appropriate to insert myself into a student’s personal life like that. On the other hand, if I were in Bryce’s place, if someone had a memento from someone I’d lost, even if it was a little burned glob of plastic, I’d want it. What do you think?”

“Shh, Molly, the boy’s coming back with your phone cases.”

The young man was holding a set of three cardboard-backed packages fanned out as if they were oversized playing cards. The phone cases were glittery and purple, and all of them had Princess emblazoned across them in curly silver script.

“What model phone do you have?” he asked.

“This one.” I plucked the biggest case out of his hand and held my plastic glob up next to it. The glob was burned black along the edge, but otherwise it was a match.

“I can keep that for you at the counter if you want to continue shopping,” the young man offered. If he thought my comparing the phone case with a plastic blob was weird, he didn’t show it. “You can take your time and come up when you’re ready.”

“I think I’m not going to make a decision on a case just yet,” I said.” “Thank you for bringing those out for me to look at, though. Oh, I will take this charger kit.”

As Emma and I were headed back to her car, she said,

“I can’t believe you just spent fifty dollars on a charger kit, Molly. You could get it online for less than half that price.”

“He was very helpful,” I said, “and I wanted him to get credit for making a sale. We might have been his only customers today.”

“You’re just getting ripped off and propping up an exploitative system.”

“Well, until the Glorious Revolution occurs, this is the system we have. I can’t tip him, that would have been weird. What would you have done, Comrade?”

“I dunno. Buy an overpriced charger kit, I guess.”

Molly: Gay Casanova

EMMA HAD DODGED MY question about giving Bryce the plastic piece from (what I assumed had been) Trevor’s phone. As she drove us back to my building, I brought it up again. Emma wasn’t always tactful in giving advice (in fact I can’t recall a single instance of Emma being tactful) but she usually had something useful to say.

“I dunno,” Emma said. “How come you think Bryce and da kine, Trevor, had a relationship? Just from what Bryce says?”

“Well, yes, because not to be ghoulish or anything, but I can’t exactly ask Trevor, can I? You sound like you don’t believe it.”

“From what Maureen was saying, it doesn’t sound like Trevor had a boyfriend.”

“She’s probably in denial, Emma. They’re at this conservative private school, the dad is this macho big-shot businessman, of course Maureen’s going to edit the reputation of her late son.” I was surprised Emma was being so naive.

“You’re wrong, Molly.”

Emma gunned the car into the left turn, barely missing a lifted truck speeding through the intersection from the other direction. Emma leaned on her horn for a good five seconds as we barrelled up the hospital road.

“Maybe we can discuss this when you’re not driving,” I said as the prickle of panic faded from my fingers and toes.

“Idiot. Not you. He shoulda slowed down.”

“Great. After they scrape me out of your passenger seat, they can put that on my tombstone. So Maureen denies her son was gay. But—”

“I didn’t say she denies it, Molly. It’s the opposite. From what she says, the boy was like gay Casanova. He didn’t have one boyfriend, he had plenty boyfriends.”

“Emma, are you saying Maureen the school secretary at St. Aelred’s called her own son gay Casanova?”

“I’m paraphrasing. But yeah, pretty much.”

“In what context would that be an appropriate thing to say?” I asked.

“She said she’d wished she’d pushed the boy harder to get counseling. She thought he was looking for male affection cause he didn’t get along with the father.”

“How sad. So maybe Bryce thought they had something special, but Trevor not so much. Even so, do you think Bryce would still want something to remember Trevor?”

“A burned piece of plastic? Molly, that might not go over so good. And what if Trevor melted the phone case cause he wanted to get rid of it? Then you’d be going against a dead person’s wishes.”

Emma turned into the lot of the old hospital complex. My turquoise-and-white Thunderbird was one of only a few cars remaining.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “I should probably stay out of it.”

“That’s what should go on your headstone,” Emma said as she pulled up next to the Thunderbird. “Emma was right. I should’ve stayed out of it.”

Molly: The Rodge Cowper Rule

I THOUGHT I COULD SLIP back into my office unnoticed. I should have known better. I’d just emailed out a reminder about the midterm coming up in Intro to Business Management next week, so I came back to find a cluster of students waiting outside my office.

I had them come in one at a time, for the sake of privacy. I also kept my office door propped open to comply with the Rodge Cowper rule. Anyone waiting outside could hear every word spoken inside my office.

I hate being the excuse police, so I use a policy I borrowed from Emma: I don’t let students postpone or make up exams. Instead, they can drop their lowest midterm grade, no questions asked. It’s on the syllabus, but students read the syllabus about as carefully as I read the terms and conditions when I’m updating my operating system.

You have to miss the midterm because you’re turning twenty-one and your family’s taking you to Vegas to celebrate? I’ll drop the zero and take the average of your remaining scores. It’s your girlfriend’s due date? Congratulations, that midterm won’t count toward your final grade. You can’t take the midterm that day because your pastor told you it’s the date of the Rapture? Assuming I’m left behind to turn in final grades as the Apocalypse rages outside my office window, that’ll be the midterm you drop. (And no, I don’t understand that one either.)

When the last student had left, I went downstairs to find Dan Watanabe, my dean. Ever since we’d hired Fiona, Dan had been on my case to do whatever I could to help Fiona out. Finally, I had thought of something that would actually be helpful—get her some emergency aid for her legal fees. Honey Akiona was probably the best criminal lawyer on this side of the island, but she was also expensive.

Serena, Dan’s secretary, produced the paperwork for me to fill out on Fiona’s behalf. I’d have to get Dan to sign the form personally; it wasn’t something Serena could use his signature stamp for. Dan had been in back-to-back meetings all day, but Serena assured me he’d be back at some point, because he’d left his car keys in his office.

First, Dan had met with our media team to put together messaging that placed Emmett Spencer’s murder “in context” and didn’t reflect poorly on the university’s decision to move faculty offices into the abandoned hospital complex. Next Dan had strategized with Campus Security to figure out how to deal with snooping reporters and curious tourists. At the moment, she told me, he was in an emergency meeting with our Board of Trustees.

The trustee meeting was going to be “even worse than usual,” for Dan, Serena told me. At best, the Board of Trustees showed all the nuanced understanding of the complex ecosystem of higher education you’d expect from, well, a Board of Trustees. Throw in a potential PR disaster involving a murdered headmaster turning up on campus, and things could get unpleasant.

“Serena,” I asked, “if you had to guess, who do you think killed Fiona’s husband?”

Serena was taking our incoming mail from a big plastic bin on a cart and sorting the envelopes into piles.

“Someone who hated him, probably,” she said without looking up from her sorting. I noticed she tossed the mass-mail pieces directly into the recycle bin, having apparently decided on the faculty’s behalf that we didn’t need our junk mail.

“Do you think people blamed him for that student’s suicide?” I asked.

“I blame him.” she paused and looked at me. “Sorry, but who leaves a loaded gun lying around in his desk like that? At a school? Stupid.”

“I can’t imagine how the boy’s parents feel,” I said. “If I were in their place, I could see wanting revenge. Although I can’t picture Maureen Dos Santos murdering anyone. What about the father, though? Do you think he’d kill someone who he thought enabled his son’s suicide?”

Serena snorted.

“Nah. Apostol never like the boy, you know. Shame, having one mahu son.”

“Really? Wow. How sad. Poor kid.”

“Bad luck, the family. His first wife died in an accident, you know.”

“Car accident?” I asked.

“Tanning bed. He got remarried and had a kid quick though. Didn’t want to grow old alone, I guess.” Serena reached for the ringing phone, signaling the end of our chat.

I wanted to ask more: Was Apostol Dos Santos so disappointed in his son that the boy’s suicide didn’t bother him? And how does someone die in a tanning bed accident?

But Serena’s attention was on the caller, who was apparently leaving a message for Dan Watanabe.

I heard a noise behind me and turned to see Dan Watanabe rushing in. His hair was spiky with sweat and he looked harassed.

“I only have a minute,” he said to me as I followed him back to his office.

He plunked into his chair and stuck his hand into the giant jar of peach-colored antacid tablets on his desk. I averted my eyes when he crammed a handful of them into his mouth. I think they’re supposed to taste like orange Creamsicles, but I tried one once and it tasted like a urinal cake. (Or at least the way I imagine a urinal cake tastes, never actually having eaten one.)

“It’s for Fiona,” I said. “She’s going to have legal expenses. I filled out the paperwork for emergency assistance, and I was hoping you could—”

“Save yourself the trouble.” Dan removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Fiona Spencer is leaving.”

Molly: It’s the Optics

“FIONA IS LEAVING?” I stared at Dan across his desk as he swallowed the remains of his antacid tablets. “How can she be leaving? Dan, she and her mother were just in my office this morning, asking about getting a lawyer.”

Dan pretended to look through his desk drawers for something.

“Maybe she didn’t feel engaged with the department,” he said.

I threw my hands up and let them fall into my lap.

“Dan, I’m not the one who barbecued Fiona’s husband and left him in her office. This is not my fault. How ‘engaged with the department’ would you feel if it happened to you?”

“Molly, no one’s blaming you.”

“Really? Because it kind of sounds like...sorry, I don’t mean to be contentious.”

Dan shut the desk drawer and looked at me.

“Fiona Spencer leaving by mutual agreement is probably the best solution overall.”

“Except we lose a faculty line we never get back.”

“It’s not great, I agree. But the optics.” Dan cleared his throat. “Apostol Dos Santos is on our Board of Trustees. His son Trevor took his own life in Emmett Spencer’s office. It’s just bad all around. None of it is Fiona’s fault, but like it or not, she’s caught up in it. Better for everyone, especially for her, if she finds a job somewhere else.”

“Fiona’s definitely caught up in it. I can’t argue with you there. Okay, so if Fiona is leaving at the end of the semester, we have to figure out—”

“Maybe sooner than the end of the semester,” Dan said.

“What?”

Dan averted his gaze again.

“Great,” I said. “So how do we cover her classes?”

“I’m afraid that’ll be your responsibility.”

“Wait, me? Dan, you can’t make me teach Fiona’s classes and mine too.”

“Technically I can. You’re the department chair. You’re responsible for ensuring coverage.” He picked up a file folder from his desk and fanned himself with it. “Molly, I know you care about our students and you’ll do what it takes to make them successful.”

“Couldn’t we hire a lecturer just for the last few weeks?”

“Sure. If you can find someone who’s qualified this late in the semester.”

“Hang on. I’m not the only person in the management department. Maybe Larry, Hanson, and Rodge can each pick up one of Fiona’s classes. We can offer them a prorated overload—”

“Molly, Larry Schneider and Hanson Harrison are both past retirement age, and they’re holding it over me. The minute I dare to ask either of them to take on an overload, I’ll get their notices of intent to retire the same day, and there’s two faculty members gone I won’t be able to replace.”

“What about Rodge Cowper?” I asked. “He’s not eligible for retirement yet, is he?”

“Rodge would agree to it just to get me out of his office and then and he wouldn’t show up to any of the classes.”

“Is he allowed to do that? Just not show up?”

“I could fire him for insubordination. But it’s the same thing. I’m down another faculty member I can’t replace within my lifetime.”

“Why is it such a fight for us to keep our positions?” I asked. “Emma’s department doesn’t seem to have any problem hiring new people.”

“Funny you mention biology. Last time I brought up our situation with Marshall Dixon, she told me for the price of one College of Commerce professor she can get two biologists who will teach a three-three load, bring in a quarter million a year in grants, and are happy to have the job. Hard to argue with that.”

“Dan, I’m not a business ethics expert. I teach resume writing. My degree’s in literature. I had to do a ton of prep just to be able to teach Intro to Business Management. Sticking me into Fiona’s classes would not be doing the students a favor.”

“Well, maybe you’ll do a better job than I could at convincing Fiona Spencer to stay. Good luck.”

Molly: The Tanning Bed Accident

DONNIE WAS SITTING at the kitchen counter with Francesca hoisted over his shoulder. With his free hand he was sorting through the day’s receipts. The baby was drooling happily down the back of his red Donnie’s Drive-Inn shirt. I grabbed a prefilled formula bottle from the pantry, lifted the baby from Donnie’s shoulder, and sat down to feed her.

I checked my phone with my free hand. Nothing interesting in my email, and Pat’s reply to my text had been profoundly disappointing. He’d already heard about Emmett Spencer’s murder, so I hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know.

I single-thumb-typed another text to Pat:

Apostol Dos Santos first wife died in tanning bed “accident”?? Biker connection?

Pat had told me the wife of a trustee rode with the local biker club. I hoped he’d find my idea interesting.

“Donnie, did you feed the baby today?” I asked. Francesca was frantically gulping down the formula.

“I gave her a bottle about twenty minutes ago.” He got up from the counter, ran a glass of water, set it in front of me, and sat down next to us on the sofa. “Tough day?”

“Yes, now that you mention it. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you had starved her. She still seems hungry, that’s all. Maybe she’s going through a growth spurt. And thank you for the water.” I took a sip to show his effort wasn’t wasted. “It’s not quite as important now that I’m not breastfeeding, though.”

“You’re right,” Donnie said. “She does seem hungry.”

We watched Francesca’s cheeks pulsing as the fluid level in the bottle sank. The baby’s eyebrows drew together, giving her a determined expression.

“Her whole world is focused on getting that formula out of the bottle,” I said. “Only a baby could make complete self-centeredness look so adorable.”

“So how was your day?” Donnie asked. “Want to talk about it?”

“I learned a new way to peel a banana.”

“From the non-stem end?”

“You knew about that? I hate feeling like everyone knows things except me.”

Donnie put his arm around me and gave me a gentle hug.

“Fiona’s mother is a suspect in Emmett Spencer’s death,” I said. “Unless you already knew that too?”

“She was arrested?”

“Not yet. Fiona and her mother came in to see me about it this morning. I told them to call Honey Akiona.”

“Good recommendation.” Donnie took the empty bottle from Francesca, got up, and returned with a full one. Francesca grabbed the bottle and attacked it as if she hadn’t eaten for a week.

“Yeah, turns out someone had already given them her name. Oh, one more thing.” I stroked the baby’s fuzzy black hair. “This afternoon, I found out Fiona told Dan she’s leaving.”

“I know you fought really hard to fill that position. Will you be able to replace her?”

“Probably not. But wait, there’s more. Dan thinks she’s going to leave before the end of the semester, so I’ll have to teach all her classes.”

“Why you? Can’t any of the other professors help out?”

“Ugh, I don’t want to talk about it. Is it okay if we invite Fiona over for dinner?”

Francesca was struggling to stay awake now. Donnie caught her half-empty bottle before it toppled onto the floor and took it over to the sink.

“Are you going to try to convince her to stay?” Donnie called over the sound of running water.

“Why, you think it’s a bad idea?”

“No, not at all. But I can understand her wanting to leave.”

“But to walk away from a tenure-track job?” I said.

“She just found her husband’s dead body in her office.”

“Good point. He’s the main reason she came to Mahina in the first place. Now he’s gone, we have to give her another reason to stay. Make her feel like part of the College of Commerce family.”

“Didn’t you say her mother’s here?” Donnie shut off the water and came back out to the living room. “Sounds like she already has family.”

“True, but I’m not sure it really helps. Imagine me and my mother, only times a thousand.”

“Hm.”

“Fiona doesn’t realize she has people here in Mahina who need her,” I said. “Her students. Her colleagues.”

“Her department chair who doesn’t want to take over her classes,” Donnie said.

“Exactly. So is it okay if I invite her over?”

“Sure.” Donnie said. “When?”

“How about tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“I know it’s last-minute.”

“What are you thinking, an hour from now? If you’re okay with leftovers. Here, I’ll take the baby. Take a look. See what you think.”

Donnie went to deposit Francesca into her crib. Inside the fridge I found stacks of large foil pans, neatly labeled with masking tape.

“It looks like we have chow fun, chicken katsu, teriyaki beef, and fried rice,” I said to Donnie when he came back out. “I think that’ll be fine. You’re amazing. Thank you.”

“Thank all the customers who didn’t order chow fun, chicken katsu, teriyaki beef, and fried rice today,” he said.

I gave him a big hug, and he planted a kiss on top of my head.

“Okay, I’m going to make the call now,” I said. “Boy, I hope this isn’t awkward.”

Fiona: Surely it’s Not That Simple

FIONA SAT ON THE UGLY maize-coloured couch in the darkening living room, too dispirited to make the effort to switch on the light.

Fiona was no Pollyanna when it came to the American legal system. Her views had been shaped by studying its outstanding ethical failures: the Korematsu decision; the mortgage securities meltdown; the industry-fuelled opioid epidemic. Even so, she had been shocked by her conversation with Honey Akiona, reputedly the best lawyer in Mahina.

Honey had advised Fiona and Harriet to leave Hawaii before they could be arrested.

She hadn’t come right out and phrased it that way, of course. She had prefaced her advice with, “now I’m not saying you should do this...” and gone on to talk (hypothetically, of course) about what would happen if they were to leave before any formal charges were filed. The lawyer’s best guess, based on her own experience, was with the evidence they had, Mahina PD wouldn’t bother to follow through. Especially if it was going to involve extradition from another country.

“Surely it’s not that simple,” Fiona had objected. “We’re to just pick up and leave?”

“Sorry to be blunt,” Honey explained, “but a lot of people think your husband got what was coming to him. Karma. Bachi. There’s not a lot of sympathy for the victim here.”

Fiona bristled. Certainly, Emmett had his faults. But for the entire town to dislike him as much as she did felt like an insult to her good judgement.

“There’s something else you should consider, Dr. Spencer,” the lawyer continued. “Your mother had a confrontation with the victim, which looks bad. But you lied to your husband’s secretary and told her your husband was with you after he was already dead. That’s even worse. Makes you look like you got something to hide.”

Fiona hadn’t tried to explain. She couldn’t bring herself to admit she had lied to protect Emmett’s reputation (and her own) and it had backfired horribly. It would make an interesting case study for her class, if it weren’t all so mortifying.

Fiona didn’t even have her mum about to commiserate with. Harriet had seemed more exhilarated than alarmed by the prospect of becoming a fugitive from justice and had gone out for a celebratory dinner with Clyde.

Fiona considered writing to her father to tell him about Harriet’s friendship with Clyde. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t make a bit of difference.

“Let her have her bit of fun,” the perpetually unbothered Nigel Holmes would reply. Or worse, “That’s my Harriet, absolute force of nature, don’t you know. Always been a man magnet.”

Fiona had never wanted a marriage like her parents’. She wanted a husband who stood up for himself, who cared for her enough to be just a little jealous. It hadn’t quite worked out as planned, to say the least.

Meanwhile, against all reason, her parents’ peculiar union had endured. It was all rather infuriating.

Fiona got up to fix herself a pot of tea, never mind it was already after five. She filled the electric kettle, the one that didn’t whistle. Fiona had wanted one that whistled so she’d know when the water had boiled, but Emmett had insisted on a quiet one because he didn’t like the noise. (Emmett himself drank coffee.)

Fiona realized she had few fond memories of her husband. It made the loss more painful. Because Emmett had left her with nothing.

Fiona abandoned the idea of tea. She switched off the kettle and helped herself to Emmett’s good whiskey instead. She was on her second glass when her phone rang.

It was Molly Barda, her department head. With apologies for the late invitation, was she free for dinner? It looked like she bloody well was. No husband to worry about, and no mother either. Anything was better than hanging about, festering. Transportation was no longer a problem, as Maureen had managed to track down Emmett’s car and rescue it from police impound.

Fiona punched Molly’s home address into the map program on her phone and started down the hill.

Fiona: A New Perspective

FIONA SPENCER WAS NOT an experienced drinker, so she was unacquainted with the effects of whiskey on an empty stomach. When she arrived at Molly’s house, she felt tipsier than when she had left. She probably shouldn’t have driven herself down, but she was here now. There was nothing for it but to carry on until her head cleared.

Fiona had prepared herself for an awkward evening. But from the moment Molly answered the door and invited her in, Fiona found to her surprise that the time passed quickly. She had never been impressed by her department head’s social skills. But tonight, she realized Molly was a fantastic listener. So much so that she seemed fascinated by Fiona’s every utterance. Molly’s husband was dead charming too, although not at all the pale and slender type Fiona usually fancied.

Dinner was plain comfort food, served “family style” on platters and accompanied with wine, which Fiona did not refuse, lest she seem standoffish. The conversation flowed so easily, and the company was so agreeable, Fiona wondered whether Mahina might not be such a bad place to live after all. She might even miss it after she left.

“I’ve always distrusted passion, you see.” Fiona was sitting at the kitchen counter, refilling her glass at regular intervals while Molly loaded up the dishwasher. “I suppose it’s why I married Emmett in the first place. Well I liked his looks, too, didn’t I? Can’t ignore that side of things. Tall and ethereal, like some sort of angel. It was a challenge, at first, to try to make him happy. I even bought him a ten-thousand-pound watch as a wedding present.”

Molly turned and gave Fiona a quizzical look.

“Did you say a thousand-pound watch? How does a watch—oh, you mean it cost a thousand pounds.”

“Ten thousand.”

“Whoa.”

“Mum says buying a man an expensive gift makes a woman look desperate. Do you think it’s true?”

“How does a watch cost ten thousand pounds? Can it fly or something?”

“It’s a Vacheron Constantin. Platinum. Gorgeous blue-black alligator band.”

Molly slotted the dirty plates into the dishwasher racks in neat rows. Fiona would have volunteered to help tidy up, but Molly seemed to have things under control.

“Do you have the watch now?” Molly asked. “I’d love to see it.”

“No idea where it is. Funny, I haven’t thought about the bloody thing in yonks. Looked lovely on Emmett’s wrist. I can’t even remember whether he was wearing it the last time I spoke to him. We had quite a row, you know.”

“I think you mentioned it,” Molly said.

“I was thinking he might’ve lost the watch. Or perhaps given it to someone.”

“Things must have been good between the two of you at first, though, right?” Molly asked.

Fiona gave the question some thought as Molly rinsed and loading dishes. Had they ever had what people called a “honeymoon” period? Finally, she said,

“When Emmett first asked me to marry him, he said he thought I’d be a ‘suitable’ wife. So no, I don’t suppose there was ever a time when we were giddy in love or anything like that.”

“You were okay with that?” Molly asked.

“Oh, yes. It sounded so rational. So different to my parents. They like to think they’re all about passion, living their truth, and all that tosh.”

“Following your passion and living your truth doesn’t sound so bad if you can afford it,” Molly said.

“It is when it lands you in prison.”

“Prison? Who’s in prison?”

“My father, for one.”

Fiona wouldn’t have opened up so readily if Molly’s husband had been there, but he’d long since gone to put the baby to bed and hadn’t returned. For some reason it was easy to confide in Molly.

Molly finished up at the dishwasher, pulled up a barstool next to Fiona, and poured herself some wine.

“I’m sorry to hear about your father,” she said. “If you’d like to talk about it? I don’t want to pry.”

“Oh, no need for sympathy. He’s quite proud of himself if you must know. He was sentenced to twelve months for protesting a tree-felling scheme in his neighbourhood.”

“A whole year for participating in a protest? Sounds kind of harsh.”

“Oh, he fancies himself quite the martyr. He’s only got a few months left on his sentence so he’s in a bit of a rush to finish writing his prison memoir.”

“Okay,” Molly said.

Fiona stared into her glass.

“Molly, all I wanted was routine. Consistency. To live an unexceptional, predictable little life. Like yours.”

“Um, thanks?”

“Life with Emmett in Mahina seemed to suit. Married to a headmaster in a little village thousands of miles away from anything. Teaching at an obscure college no one’s ever heard of. It seemed like a lovely plan.”

“You sound exactly like my dissertation advisor.” Molly put her glass down. “Except he didn’t think it was at all lovely. It was bad enough for me to end up at a university he’d never heard of, but teaching in the business school? That was a mortal sin as far as he was concerned. He said I was wasting my ‘fine critical mind’ teaching ‘a bunch of slack-jawed baseball caps how to pad their resumes.’ But you know what? I could’ve done a lot worse. Mahina is a great place to live, Fiona. We don’t have a symphony orchestra, or a ballet company, or five-star restaurants, but we do have the County Band and world-class hula. Not to mention the Maritime Club and the Pair-O-Dice Bar and Grille. I like it here. I do. It probably sounds like I’m trying to sell you on Mahina.”

“A bit, yes,” Fiona replied.

“Maybe I am. Dan told me you were thinking of leaving.”

Fiona felt her face grow hot.

“I didn’t think he’d go and tell everyone,” she said.

“He didn’t tell everyone. He told me, because he thinks it’s my job to talk you out of it.”

Molly drained and refilled her wine glass.

“He says it’s my fault you’re leaving,” Molly went on. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be engaging you. Making you feel like you belong here. Ensuring you’re fully integrated into the life of the college.”

“What a bloody load of rubbish.” Fiona was unsure whether to feel flattered or manipulated.

“Exactly!” Molly tried to point at Fiona, but her aim was slightly off, and she had to grab the countertop to keep from toppling off the stool. “That’s what I’ve tried to tell Dan. Depending on me to charm people into making good life choices is a ridiculous load of...what you said. But. Here’s the thing, Fiona. Losing you would be a disaster for the management department. You’re the best teacher we have. By far.”

Better than the two quarrelling silverbacks and Rodge the superannuated sex pest? Fiona wondered. Faint praise indeed. Unless Molly was including herself in the comparison.

“And I count myself, by the way,” Molly added. “Fiona, the students really like you. They’d be heartbroken if you left.”

“Never.”

“It’s true,” Molly insisted. “They love your lectures, your syllabus, everything. They’re always telling me how much they enjoy taking a class from Mary Popp—pop, popular, you’re very popular, is what I’m trying to say. You’re doing such a great job, Fiona. We’re lucky to have you. I’m sorry if I haven’t made it clear.”

Fiona was astonished to find herself blinking back tears. Yes, she knew Americans exaggerated horribly, and she was certain no one truly loved her lectures. Still, it was the first time anyone had paid her a compliment in donkey’s years. Apart from Rodge.

“I know this whole situation has been horrible for you,” Molly went on, “and you need to take care of yourself first. But if there’s anything I can do? To, you know, make you feel supported, at least so you don’t feel like you have to drop everything and leave before the end of the semester? There’s an emergency employee loan we can get you to help with your legal fees. I’ve already filled out the form. We should have had you over for dinner earlier. It’s just that with the baby—”

Fiona burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Molly’s confused expression made Fiona laugh even harder.

“I’m not leaving because the department’s not friendly enough,” Fiona sputtered. “I’m leaving to avoid a murder charge.”

Molly: Several Bottles were Harmed in the Making of this Chapter

DINNER WITH FIONA SPENCER didn’t go at all the way I’d expected. First of all, she was half in the bag when she showed up. I confiscated her purse as graciously as I could (“here, let me take that”) and hid it in the kitchen. She wasn’t going to get her car keys back until I was sure she’d sobered up.

Drunk Fiona was a lot chattier than the version I was used to. She complimented our remodeled plantation house, which was nice of her, at first. But this soon turned to her complaining about her own domicile, which segued quickly into a disquisition on the relative merits of our respective husbands. She made unsettling comments about Donnie’s “vigor” and “stamina” and managed to come up with various reasons to touch him and squeeze his biceps. Eventually he made an excuse about putting the baby to bed, left the living room, and never came back.

It was close to midnight before I was able to steer the conversation to where I could ask Fiona the big question. We were sitting at the kitchen counter, killing a bottle of Sangiovese.

I told Fiona what Dan had said to me and asked her whether it was true. Was she really planning to leave Mahina?

I was prepared for her to be offended, or at least evasive. I did not expect her to burst out laughing.

“I’m not planning to leave because the department’s not friendly enough,” she snorted. “I’m leaving to avoid a murder charge.”

I was confused, to say the least. Just this morning it was her mother who was under suspicion. Had I misunderstood? Was Fiona a suspect too?

“Shouldn’t you talk to Honey Akiona before you just take off?” I asked. “Or if you’re not comfortable with Honey, you should get some kind of legal advice from someone. Don’t you think?”

“Mum and I saw Honey Akiona today,” Fiona said. “Right after we came to see you.”

“Oh. So what did she tell you?”

“Our leaving the States was her idea.”

“Are you serious?” I realized I was talking little too loudly. Donnie and the baby were probably both asleep by now.

“Are you serious?” I asked again, more quietly. “Honey Akiona told you to leave town while the police were investigating the murder of your husband? Isn’t there some rule about not leaving town or something?

“She said now’s the best time,” Fiona said. “No one’s been charged yet.”

“Doesn’t running away make you look guilty?”

Fiona refilled her wine glass.

“Mum asked her the very same thing. Honey Akiona told us if we go back to England, your police won’t bother to extradite us. Too much trouble and paperwork. Humbug, I believe she called it.”

“Really? Could I kill someone and move to England, and get away with it because it’s too much trouble to chase me down?”

Fiona shrugged.

“So long as you choose an unsympathetic victim. Like my husband. It seems most of Mahina thinks he got what he deserved.”

“Got what he deserved for what?”

“Leaving a loaded gun lying about so Maureen’s son could kill himself.”

“Oh, right. That.”

I wondered what Trevor Dos Santos was doing in the headmaster’s private office to begin with, and why he chose to end his life there. But it didn’t seem tactful to ask about it, and besides, Fiona probably didn’t know anyway. We’d emptied our bottle of wine, so I opened another one. Fiona and I sat side-by-side at the counter and drank quietly for a few moments.

Finally, I asked,

“Fiona, do you have any idea who killed your husband?”

Fiona shook her head.

“No. But there were times I wished him dead.”

“You had some anger and frustration, which you did not intend to act on, and now he’s really gone you feel irrationally at fault,” I said. “I’ve been there, believe it or not.”

“Really?” Fiona whispered. “You wished your husband would die?”

“No, no, not Donnie. Someone from the Student Retention Office.”

“Ah. I’ve heard you don’t get on with them.”

“You have? Wait, what have you heard exactly?”

“Was it Linda you wanted dead?” Fiona asked.

“What did you hear about me and the Student Retention Office?”

“I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to murder Linda,” Fiona said.

“Which Linda are you talking about? They have more than one.”

“Do you remember when she tried to make me give passing marks to that student, I don’t remember his name now. Even if I had tried to go along with it, I couldn’t have done because he wasn’t even registered in my class. But I do appreciate your coming to my defense.”

“Oh, that Linda. Yeah, I remember. No, it wasn’t one of the Lindas. Her name was Kathy. She was canoe paddling with Emma. I saw her out there on the water and I imagined lightning striking...it’s a long story.”

Fiona tossed back another glass of wine.

“I don’t know who would do something like this to Emmett,” she said. “Although...I wish I could be certain of my mother’s innocence.”

“You think your mother did this?” I asked.

“We don’t always get on, Mum and I,” Fiona said. “But she cares for me, in her own way. She thought Emmett was making me unhappy. She was right, of course.”

“For what it’s worth,” I said, “If I were going to murder my daughter’s rotten husband, I wouldn’t leave his body in her office for her to find. I’m sure your mother wants to protect you, not traumatize you.”

“She had a row with him in public,” Fiona said. “Loads of witnesses. I’m not saying she murdered Emmett with her bare hands, but she’s quite good at enlisting people in her schemes. She may have an accomplice. A Thomas Becket sort of thing.”

“Will no one rid me of this turbulent son-in-law?”

“Quite. She’s got a friend here named Clyde. He’s devoted to her. I think he might’ve done it.”

“So it sounds like your mother might have to leave town,” I said, “which is a shame, of course, but Fiona, you don’t need to leave, and walk away from a tenure-track job.”

“I lied about Emmett’s whereabouts,” Fiona stared into her wine glass.

“Yeah, why did you do that? Did you actually lie to the police?”

“No. To Maureen. I told her he was beside me in bed. He wasn’t. He hadn’t come home. I was making excuses for him.”

“I see.”

I did see. When the wife runs around on her husband, everyone says it’s the wife’s fault. When the husband runs around on the wife, everyone says it’s the wife’s fault. I couldn’t blame Fiona for trying to save face.

“In hindsight I can see it was a stupid thing to do. I only wanted to avoid being gossiped about. Bloody Maureen, she of all people should understand.”

“Why Maureen of all people?” I asked.

“Maureen had her son four months after her wedding. Mahina knows how to do simple maths. Quite a scandal at the time, I understand, with him recently widowed.”

“Ah,” I said.

“It’s a shame, really.” Fiona poured herself yet another glass of wine, stopping only when the meniscus threatened to overtop the rim. “Husband’s turned out to be a bit of a brute. Keeps a tight hold on the purse strings. Maureen has to buy things on her credit cards and return them for cash just to get a bit of spending money. When the husband cut off Trevor’s allowance, Maureen did everything she could to make it up to the boy. Even sold her jewelry.”

That explained Maureen returning the three-hundred-dollar slip with the price tag still attached. She probably never intended to wear it. I didn’t tell Fiona I’d seen Maureen in Brigham’s. I already felt squeamish about poking into the poor woman’s unhappy domestic life.

“Wow,” I said. “I feel bad for Maureen.”

“And after all she did for him, he went and topped himself.” Fiona sipped from her brimming glass. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but Trevor was a spoilt child. Oh dear, I’ve gone and finished the bottle.”

I took the hint and opened yet another bottle. I couldn’t let Fiona drive home. After I refilled our glasses, I went to make sure the guest room bed was made up. By the time I came back to the kitchen, Fiona had fallen asleep with her head on the kitchen counter, and she was snoring softly.

Molly: BFFs

I WOKE UP THE NEXT morning to discover Fiona had gone. She’d managed to find her purse and car keys, which I had cleverly hidden on the kitchen counter the night before. Her absence was a relief, to be honest. Dealing with Drunk Fiona had been quite an experience; I was in no rush to meet Hungover Fiona. Donnie had left already with the baby, so I had the house to myself.

I called Honey Akiona’s office and switched on the speakerphone so I could talk while I got dressed. Honey was the one who had talked Fiona into leaving. Maybe she could talk her out of it.

Honey told me she couldn’t discuss the specifics of Fiona’s case, of course. But she did permit herself to opine in a general sense about events in the news. The wheels of justice turn slowly in Mahina, Honey assured me, and for the time being it seemed the police didn’t have enough evidence to make an arrest in the case of Emmett Spencer’s murder.

“Honey,” I asked (back when she’d been my student, I had a hard time calling her “Honey”, but I was used to it by now), “Can you recommend a good private investigator? Say, I wanted to find out who really killed Emmett Spencer?”

“I can’t think of anyone,” she said.

I finished applying my smudge-proof lipstick and waved my hand in front of my face to dry it.

“What about your investigators? Do they freelance?” I asked.

“No,” Honey replied.

“Getting this resolved would make my life a lot easier.” I closed one eyelid and painted on eyeliner. Just a thin line, no fancy wings. I didn’t have time to mess with wings today. “If Fiona Spencer leaves the country, well, she can’t, that’s all. We can’t afford to lose her.”

I closed the other lid and painted a matching line.

“You’re not paying for my advice,” Honey said, “but I’ll give it to you anyway. You really wanna make your life easier, let the police do their job and stay out of it. Listen, I gotta go. Nice to talk to you again, Professor. Stay in touch.”

And that was the end of our conversation.

I opened my eye and frowned at myself in the mirror. What just happened? It was pretty clear Honey wanted nothing to do with this case. If I wanted to figure out what happened, I’d have to find some other way to do it. I finished getting dressed and drove to work.

If you assumed our wine-fueled heart-to-heart had turned Fiona and me into BFFs, you’d be wrong. I saw little of Fiona that day, despite the fact that her office was across the landing from mine. She was there for her required office hours, but she kept her door shut. (Of course she was probably massively hung over, so I couldn’t really blame her.) Instead of knocking, her students would hover in front of Fiona’s office door as if it might sense their presence and swing open on its own. When it didn’t, they gave up on Fiona and came to my office.

Why me? Larry Schneider and Hanson Harrison weren’t there. (It was no use trying to force them to keep their scheduled office hours; they’d only threaten to retire.) Rodge Cowper was in his office, and it was well known he welcomed students, particularly the pretty, young, female ones. But students—particularly the pretty, young, female ones—seemed disinclined to visit him.

So I met with Fiona’s students, and the conversations went something like this:

1) Student wants to know when an assignment is due, doesn’t know what percentage of the grade the final exam is, or wants to know what grade they’re getting in the class.

2) I pull up Fiona Spencer’s syllabus online and point out where their question is answered. Occasionally I remind them how to calculate a weighted average.

If you are wondering why students would rather make a special trip across town from the main campus to the College of Commerce building to obtain this easily-accessible information rather than taking five minutes to find it themselves, I would direct you to my colleague Betty Jackson’s excellent annotated bibliography on learned helplessness. (Just ask for it in the library, they get requests for it all the time.)

I was so busy advising students and shuttling to and from the main campus to teach my classes, I barely thought about Emmett Spencer’s murder. But that afternoon a chance comment from a student brought it back up. He had come to see me because he was on academic warning. He didn’t like school, he told me, and wondered aloud why he was bothering with the effort and expense of college at all.

I pulled up his online transcript and tried not to grimace.

“What originally inspired you to come here?” I asked carefully. We were under strict orders from the Student Retention Office not to say anything that might encourage a student to leave. It was all very well for faculty to provide guidance, as long as we didn’t suggest taking a gap year or transferring somewhere else. Our prime directive was to keep our students enrolled and paying tuition.

“I came here to get a decent job,” he said.

“Well, there you go.”

“Yeah, but my friend who graduated last year? He’s still working the cash register at Galimba’s Bargain Boyz except now he’s got a bunch of loans to pay off.”

“Well, the job market in Mahina is limited,” I said.

“But the Konishi Construction guys get good jobs. They all got nice trucks and cool watches and stuff. I was thinking, I should quit school, go work construction.”

“Okay, but you have to remember, construction is a cyclical...did you say watches? What kind of watches?”

“I saw one guy the other day, he had on this cool blue watch. I never saw anything like it.”

“Dark blue or light blue watchband?” I asked.

“Dark blue. Almost black, but not black, know what I mean? White face, real clean looking. You could tell it was expensive.”

It might not have been the watch Fiona had bought for her husband. Maybe there was a blue-watchband craze sweeping Mahina I hadn’t noticed. But it seemed worth looking into.

“Where did you see this person again?” I asked.

The young man shrugged. “I dunno. Somewhere on campus.”

“Here in the hospital complex, or on the main campus?” I asked.

“Here, I think.”

“Would you excuse me please? I just remembered, I have a meeting.”

I hustled the bewildered student out of my office, called Mahina PD, and asked to speak to Detective Medeiros. I had no idea whether Medeiros had been assigned to this particular case, but I trusted him. He and I go way back. Also, he and Donnie have known each other since high school at least. He would pass the information along to whoever needed to know it.

Detective Ka`imi Medeiros listened to what I had to say and expressed his gratitude by encouraging me to mind my own business.

It was almost as if they didn’t want to solve this case, I thought grumpily as I hung up the phone.

Molly: Who Watches the Watches

I CAME TO WORK THE next morning on high wristwatch alert. The first thing I noticed was hardly anyone wore a “real” watch anymore, only fitness monitors and smart watches.

I was wearing a smart watch these days too; Donnie and I both bought them after we had Francesca, so we wouldn’t miss each other’s texts. Having my watch buzz in the middle of a meeting and light up with the message “baby has runny poop” was a small price to pay for the peace of mind.

I strolled all four floors of my building, checking out the wrists of every Konishi Construction worker I came across. I saw one blue watchband, but it was rubber and the watch had a black oblong face.

Pat texted me back to tell me it was the wife of another Mahina State trustee who was the biker. Also, Dos Santos’s first wife hadn’t exactly died in a tanning bed accident. She had overdosed on barbiturates and alcohol, and then passed out in her tanning bed. She was burned so badly the medical examiner claimed he had a tough time identifying the body.

The watch thing seemed like a dead end. Until later that afternoon. I stood up from my desk to get the blood moving in my legs and saw Konishi Construction had started work on the railing. In front of the work area stretched a garland of yellow safety tape. A worker was lying on his back, with the soles of his boots facing me and his head resting at the edge of the four-story drop to the first floor.

He was using a power screwdriver to loosen the fasteners holding the railing together. The railing leaned out over the abyss. When he reached up to catch it, his cuff pulled back to expose a dark-blue watchband.

I could see why the student had noticed the man’s watch. The midnight-blue leather glowed richly, and the crisp platinum-and-white face was minimalist elegance itself.

I downed my lukewarm coffee (for courage? I don’t know why) and crossed the landing to Fiona’s office. Her door was ajar, so I rapped on it and pushed it open without waiting for an invitation.

Fiona was sitting with a student, going over a marked-up paper. Apparently Fiona had chosen to ignore the Student Retention Office’s ban on using red ink on student work, because the paper looked like a crime scene. (The Student Retention Office had at one point tried to block the department secretaries from ordering red pens. It didn’t go well. As powerful as the Student Retention Office may be, no one pushes the secretaries around.)

“Oh hey Professor Barda,” the student said.

“Hi,” I replied cheerily, completely unable to remember her name. She’d been in my Intro to Business Management class last year. “I’m so sorry to interrupt. I need to have a quick word with Dr. Spencer.”

Fiona followed me over to her doorway.

“The worker over there, lying on his back,” I whispered to her.

“He’s awfully close to the edge.” Fiona’s voice sounded hoarse. “Is he dismantling the balustrade?”

“I’m sure he’ll put it back together when he’s done. My question is, do you recognize his watch?”

We watched him work for a moment, which was very stressful for me. I kept imagining him sliding head-first off the balcony and plunging to a bloody death forty feet below. Fortunately that didn’t happen.

The man raised his hand, and I heard a little gasp from Fiona.

“Is it the watch you gave Emmett?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Or very like. What should I do?”

“If it is his, I assume you want it back?” I asked. She nodded.

“Is it engraved or anything? So you can identify it as your husband’s?”

Her face fell.

“No. We were—I was going to have it engraved. But Emmett said it was perfect as is and he didn’t want to ruin it.”

“Okay. I’ll see what I can find out.”

She nodded again and slipped back into her office. Finally, I could do something useful for Fiona.

I didn’t want to bother the man again while he was working on the ledge, so I waited inside my office with the door propped open. I kept an eye on him until he had finished up and was brushing the dust off his jeans.

The student who had been in Fiona’s office wandered in and sat down in my visitor chair.

“Oh hi Ashley.” I stood up to signal that I had to leave. At least I had remembered her name, finally. The man with the watch was already starting down the steps, toolbox in hand.

“Sorry to bother you,” she said earnestly, “but I was hoping you could help me check my graduation progress. Dr. Spencer says trying to figure out our gen ed requirements was making her woozy.”

“Sure thing,” I said. “I just need to talk to that man for a second. Wait right here.”

I tucked a clipboard under my arm and started down the steps. The man was gone, probably disappeared into the elevator on the third floor. I raced down to the bottom of the steps and to the back of the ground floor lobby and waited in front of the elevator.

Eventually the bronze doors creaked open, and the man walked out past me.

The watchband looked black now in the dim lighting of the ground floor.

“Excuse me,” I called after him, and he slowed down to let me catch up. “I couldn’t help noticing your watch. I was wondering where you got it.”

He looked at his wrist.

“Yeah, nice, ah?”

“Very. I was thinking, my husband might like one like it.”

I had to walk quickly to keep pace with him, so I couldn’t tiptoe on the muddy utility road. I’d have to worry about my shoes later.

“Mr. F gave it to me.” The man was able to talk and carry a heavy toolbox without slowing down at all. “I don’t know where he got it from, but.”

“Mr. F?”

“Teaches science down at St. Aelred.”

“You mean Mr. Ferman? The one who was in an accident and ended up in the hospital?”

“Shame, ah? Good man, Mr. F.”

“May I see the watch again?”

The man stopped walking and held his wrist out for me to admire. Out in the sunlight the band looked dark blue again.

“If you know Mr. F, you could ask him where he got it,” he said. “Anyway, I gotta go, ah? You have a good evening, Mrs. Gonsalves.”

The man hurried off. I shouldn’t have been surprised he knew who I was. Or, rather, who my husband was. Everyone in Mahina knows Donnie Gonsalves, founder and owner of Donnie’s Drive-Inn. So much for me being a clever spy.

I walked (carefully) back to our building, cleaned the mud off my shoes in the first-floor ladies’ room, then went upstairs to tell Fiona what had just happened.

She agreed that this must be her husband’s watch. The Mr. Ferman connection couldn’t possibly be a coincidence. She dialed Mahina PD and asked for Officer De Silva. He wasn’t there so she left a message. She described the watch in impressive detail, although all she seemed to recall of the man was that he was “dressed like a builder.”

After she hung up, I asked,

“Why didn’t you say anything about Mr. Ferman?”

“I don’t believe Mr. Ferman killed my husband,” she said. “I’d only be giving the police an excuse to harass the poor man. The builder’s probably lying about where he got it in any case.”

“Oh. I didn’t even think of that.”

A quiet knock made us both look up.

“Ashley! I’m so sorry.” I had completely forgotten about the student waiting in my office. “Okay, let’s go have a look at your transcript...hang on, what just happened? Where did they all come from?”

A line of students had formed in front of my door and stretched down the stairs.

“They just sent out a text alert about early spring registration opening,” Ashley said as we walked back over to my office. “So you can help me plan my spring semester schedule too.”

Molly: A Purple Glob

I HAD TO PUT THE QUESTION of Emmett Spencer’s watch out of my mind temporarily. You don’t want to hear the details of navigating our Byzantine course registration system—really, you don’t. Just trust me when I tell you that trying to help students work out their class schedules is as challenging as solving a murder mystery, and much less fun.

The last student in line was Bryce Kahului. By the time he was up, my brain was so wrung-out I was happy I even remembered his name. He set up his laptop on my desk, and I asked him how he was doing.

“Kinda hectic at St. Aelred,” he said. “They’re hiring a search firm to look for a new headmaster. I think Maureen’s got it under control though.”

Must be nice to work at a private school where you can replace people when you lose them, I thought.

I was tempted to tell him about my conversation with the Konishi Construction employee and ask him whether he knew anything about Emmett Spencer’s watch. Specifically, how it might have ended up in Mr. Ferman’s possession. But as curious as I was, it didn’t seem right to drag a student into this.

“You call your boss Maureen?” I asked. “Not Mrs. Dos Santos?”

“Nah, she never like being called Mrs. Dos Santos. She says, Mrs. Dos Santos is my mother in law, call me Maureen.”

A twinkly noise filled my office. Bryce pulled his phone out of his messenger bag and shut off the sound. I wondered whether his hot pink phone case had caused him any grief with his relatives.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “It’s my sister calling again. I don’t have the money to fly home for Thanksgiving and she’s giving me a hard time about it.”

Should I invite Bryce to our Thanksgiving potluck? Donnie would be okay with it. But to avoid the appearance of favoritism, I might then have to invite every student in the College of Commerce, something I definitely wasn’t prepared to do.

I took Bryce through an audit of his past classes and current requirements, switching windows among the table of historic course number changes, the schedule of currently available courses, and the maps of which courses (which may or may not be offered in the current semester) fulfilled which gen ed requirements. The faculty have repeatedly asked for all this information to be consolidated on one site, so we wouldn’t have to open several different browser windows and PDF documents each time we wanted to advise a student. But migrating data takes resources, and faculty labor is apparently unlimited and free, so the answer is always no.

Fiona Spencer’s spring classes were filling fast, I noticed. There were a lot of students who wanted to experience a class with “Mary Poppins,” a nickname I didn’t think Fiona would appreciate.

“Do you have someplace to spend Thanksgiving?” I asked Bryce when we were finished with his course scheduling.

“Oh yeah. St. Aelred’s. The dining hall does a nice meal for the boarders and staff. I’ll be having Thanksgiving dinner there.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “Oh. One more thing.”

I pulled the purple plastic glob out of my bag. Poor kid, if he couldn’t spend Thanksgiving with his family at least he could have this little memento.

“Bryce, I think this might be from Trevor’s phone. Do you want it?”

Bryce frowned at the charred glob on my desk.

“Why do you think this is from Trevor’s phone?” He asked.

“Because, remember you told me about Trevor’s sparkly purple phone case, and how it caused so much trouble between him and his father? When I saw this, I remembered what you told me. Sparkly, purple, that’s how I made the connection.”

I didn’t tell him the part about matching the piece to the cases at the store. It would have seemed weird.

“Where’d you find it?” Bryce asked.

“There was a new-looking microwave in the pile of e-waste on the St. Aelred School campus,” I said. “So I picked it up for the department. This piece of plastic was stuck inside, under the rotating glass plate.”

“Can I see it?” Bryce picked it the glob and shook his head. “Doesn’t match. Trevor’s one was a different color. Where’s the microwave you’re talking about?”

“It’s the one right out there on our break table. We’re not really using it, because every time someone turns it on our whole floor smells like toxic waste. If you know anyone who needs a stinky microwave, it’s there for the taking.”

“I could use it,” Bryce said.

“Really? Well, okay. Sure. Help yourself.”

Bryce slung his messenger bag onto his shoulder, went over and unplugged the microwave, and carried it down the stairs.

Fiona: Thanksgiving

AS SHE WAS GETTING ready for bed that evening, Fiona’s phone rang. It was the lawyer, Honey Akiona.

“Dr. Spencer.”

Fiona thought Honey Akiona’s tone sounded grim. She sat down on the bed.

“Yes?”

“Looks like someone’s kicked a hornet’s nest. Things have started to move pretty fast.”

“Oh?” Fiona felt queasy.

“Do you remember our conversation?”

“Yes. Are you saying my mother and I—”

“I think your mother’s okay for now, actually,” Honey said. “But you somehow got on the wrong side of someone important.”

“I did? How ever did I manage that?”

All Fiona had done was leave a message for Officer De Silva about the builder who was wearing what looked like Emmett’s watch. De Silva hadn’t returned her call and upon further reflection, she realized it wasn’t much to go on. She didn’t have a good description of the man wearing the watch, and perhaps it hadn’t really been Emmett’s watch after all. The man could have invented the story about Mr. Ferman, who after all, was famously eccentric.

“I’m not sure what you did,” Honey said. “But someone’s putting pressure on Mahina PD. It’s not a healthy climate for you right now.”

“How much time do I have?” Fiona asked. “Do I have the weekend at least?”

“Oh yeah,” Honey said. “As long as you’re out of here by Christmas you’ll be okay.”

So Fiona quietly arranged her departure and, in the meantime, did her best to keep up appearances. She taught, and graded, and kept office hours, although with the door shut so very few students dared bother her.

Wary of letting the mask slip, she avoided any unnecessary contact with people. She especially evaded her mother. Harriet was both perceptive and indiscreet; no secret was safe around her.

But on a rainy, lonesome Thursday, when Americans were celebrating their Thanksgiving holiday, Harriet roared up to Fiona’s house on her motorcycle. Harriet shanghaied (her phrase) her daughter for what she called “a Thanksgiving feast by the seaside.”

Fiona’s escape plan was well enough along by now that even if Harriet found out about it, she couldn’t cock it up. Emmett’s Mini Cooper Convertible would already be down at the harbour and would ship out today or tomorrow. The only thing left for Fiona to do was to notify her department head she wasn’t coming back on Monday. She would do that later today.

Fiona accepted her mother’s invitation, even though it meant riding on the back of Harriet’s 1966 Triumph Bonneville in the rain. Getting rained on in Mahina wasn’t so bad, really. It was like stepping into a warm shower.

“The Maritime Club is the social centre of Mahina,” Harriet shouted to her daughter as they pulled into the car park. It was nearly full. “And they have a gorgeous Thanksgiving spread today.”

“Don’t you have to be a member to eat here?” Fiona asked.

“I joined, didn’t I tell you?” Harriet took Fiona’s helmet and her own and locked them up. “Clyde put me up for membership. He’s quite well-known here, you know.”

Harriet secured the bike and they hurried into the weather-beaten little clubhouse. At first Fiona didn’t recognize any of the diners. But as she took in the room, she saw a man she thought looked awfully like Mahina’s state senator, and over there by the window was the mayor with his wife. The walls were chock-a-block with black and white photographs of the Maritime club and its members throughout the years. The maître-d greeted Harriet by name, wished her a Happy Thanksgiving, and led Fiona and Harriet to a small table next to a window overlooking the ocean.

Hanging above their table, directly next to the window, was a black-and-white photo taken at a Maritime Club Christmas party. (Many of the people in the photo were wearing Father Christmas hats.)

“Well, isn’t this interesting,” Harriet exclaimed.

“Do you see someone you know?” Fiona asked.

“Just a who’s who of Mahina. Including the little tart from the stationers who was snogging your husband.”

“Oh yes, I remember. When you publicly incriminated yourself and me as well.” Fiona deliberately did not look at the photo. Little tart? This was new information. Who was the little tart, Fiona was dying to know? “Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Mother.”

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” Harriet said. “I am sorry.”

“Well you did mention it, didn’t you?” Fiona retorted. “It’s a bit late to take it back.”

A waiter came by and placed a basket of little baguettes and a tub of butter on the table.

“Get you ladies something to drink?” he asked. “In addition to coffee, tea, juice, and soft drinks, we offer prosecco, which is a sparkling wine.”

“No need to introduce us,” Harriet said. “Prosecco and I are old friends. Two, please.”

“Just coffee for me,” Fiona said quietly. She was annoyed that Emmett’s infidelity had intruded on what should have been a tolerable meal.

But she was also curious.

When the waiter left, Fiona forced herself to look at the photo. A quick scan didn’t reveal any faces young or attractive enough to raise suspicion.

“You may as well tell me who it was,” Fiona said, adding pointedly, “I’m sure I have the self-control to refrain from creating a public disturbance.”

“Right there, in the leopard print.” Harriet finished buttering a bit of baguette and pointed with her knife. “I don’t understand the attraction, but there’s no explaining that sort of thing, is there?”

Fiona looked to where Harriet was pointing. Then she stared.

“Let’s not dwell on it, darling,” Harriet said. “No point in being cross about it now, is there? Look, is that a chocolate fountain? I’m ravenous. Come on, let’s get something to eat.”

“You go first.” Fiona pressed her hands to her temples to keep her skull in one piece. She barely noticed when the waiter set the coffee down in front of her.

Fiona needed fresh air more than she needed caffeine. She went out the side exit door and found herself standing on a bit of lawn just a few feet above the crashing surf. She took out her phone and scrolled through her emails. There was the Thanksgiving invitation from Molly, complete with street address and phone number.

She dialled Molly’s number. Might as well get this bit over with, at least.

Molly: The S-Word

WHEN DAN WATANABE MOVED up from department chair to College of Commerce dean, I became department chair. I also inherited the department tradition of hosting Thanksgiving potluck. Today Rodge was the only one from the management department who showed up, his contribution to the Thanksgiving banquet a bag of tortilla chips from Galimba’s Bargain Boyz. Emma and Yoshi brought a pot of kim chee chili. (It sounds like it would taste weird, but it’s really good. The kim chee adds crunch and heat, like onions but less onion-y.) Iker Legazpi from the accounting department had come with a savory homemade chicken and vegetable stew. Some of the kids that worked at Donnie’s Drive-Inn were there too. One of them happened to be a student in one of my classes.

Emma was on her best behavior, doing her utmost to hide her loathing for Rodge. Rodge, fortunately, had the decency to refrain from trying to flirt with Emma while her husband was sitting right there. I called my student “Riley” and afterward remembered his name was “Ryler” and “Riley” was someone else. I hoped no one noticed.

So things were going pretty smoothly until my phone rang. I took it into my office and was surprised to hear Fiona on the line.

When the call was over, I wandered back into the dining room, feeling a little dazed.

“Iker and Emma,” I said, “could you help me bring in more drinks from outside?”

Donnie stood up to help.

“It’s okay,” I said. “We got it. Thank you.”

“Let me know if you need me.” He gave me an inquiring look and sat back down.

I led Iker and Emma out the side door and onto the back lanai.

“Where are the drinks we are to carry in?” Iker asked.

Emma didn’t waste time looking for the nonexistent bottles. She made herself comfortable on one of the wicker chairs, gazed out at the graveyard beyond the back hedge and took a sip of wine.

“What?” she said, when she saw me looking at her glass. “I knew it was a ruse. If there was really something heavy to carry, you’d have sent Donnie out.”

“It’s true,” I said to Iker. “I brought both of you out here under false pretenses because I need your advice. Please sit down. We have a situation.”

“Uh oh,” Emma said eagerly.

“That was Fiona calling,” I said.

“Will Dr. Spencer be joining us today?” Iker asked as he took the chair next to Emma.

“No. And she told me something I found kind of hard to believe, so Iker, I wanted to check with you. Are you still on the board of St. Aelred’s?”

“Yes, I am,” he said carefully.

“Whoa, Iker,” Emma exclaimed. “High maka maka you, hanging out with the tech billionaires and the heiresses. How’d you score that gig?”

“When one is trained in accounting and willing to serve as treasurer, it is a simple thing to gain entry to the board of a nonprofit,” Iker said. “I find I am turning down many such invitations.”

“Did the board ever discuss the headmaster’s personal conduct?” I asked Iker. “Specifically, did Emmett, to your knowledge, um, break his marriage vows?”

Iker’s cheeks flamed pink.

“These proceedings of the personnel subcommittee of the board are confidential,” he said stiffly.

“In other words, yes,” Emma volunteered.

“Was the other party Maureen Dos Santos, his secretary?” I asked.

Iker blushed even brighter.

“Maureen? Whoa, almost spilled my wine.” Emma drained her glass and set it down on the side table. “Our Maureen? From the Flower Society?”

“Yes,” I said. “I don’t know any other Maureens who are the headmaster’s secretary.”

“No way. Fiona told you Emmett was, wait, how’s the British way to say it, getting a leg up on Maureen? Bubbling her squeak? Iker, you learned British English. What’s the right phrase?”

“Fiona said ‘shagging’,” I said.

“Fiona said that?” Emma exclaimed. “Wow, I’m surprised. I think shagging’s considered a rude word in England, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, well. Fiona’s pretty mad,” I replied.

“So what else did she tell you?” Emma asked.

“It wasn’t a long conversation. She won’t be coming back after the weekend, good luck finding a replacement, sorry for the short notice, and oh by the way that b-word Maureen was s-wording her husband the whole time.”

“You don’t have to say ‘s-word’,” Emma said. “You already said shagging. She’s leaving cause of that?”

“I don’t know.”

I told Emma and Iker about Honey Akiona advising Fiona and her mother to leave the country before charges were filed.

“So maybe Fiona really did kill her husband,” Emma said, “and now Mahina PD’s closing in.”

“So you’re saying you think Fiona knew about Emmett and Maureen all along?” I asked. “She’s a pretty convincing actor, then. It sounded to me like she just found out.”

“Didn’t you say she was all fainting and staggering around when she found Emmett’s body?” Emma asked. “Maybe that was acting too.”

“Why was one of the Konishi Construction workmen wearing Emmett’s watch then, claiming Mr. Ferman at St. Aelred’s gave it to him?” I asked. “How does that fit in?”

“The simplest explanation is the man found the watch on Mr. Spencer’s remains,” Iker said. He seemed to have recovered from the recent trauma of discussing Emmett Spencer’s affair. “Konishi Construction is performing work on the College of Commerce and also at the parsonage at St. Aelred, therefore it is possible the same workman has spent time at both sites and knows of our Anatole Ferman. He invents the story as a way to explain his possession of the costly watch. And Mr. Ferman, he is one who rambles in his words. It is difficult to get what is called a straight story from him.”

“Ew,” Emma cried. “You think one of the construction workers stole a watch right off Emmett Spencer’s dead body?”

“It is not difficult to imagine,” Iker replied. “One can reason as so: The dead man can no longer enjoy the watch. If I take the watch, I can exchange it for food or medicine. If I do not take the watch, someone else will find it. And so it is justified for me to remove the dead man’s watch.”

Emma and I both stared at Iker for a moment. It occurred to me Iker never talked about his childhood. It was just as well, probably.

“How do you think Fiona killed him then?” Emma asked. “He was shot, right? Did they ever find the gun?”

“I heard it wasn’t a gun gun,” I said. “Micah, my former student who’s one of our security guards now?”

“Yeah, we know Micah,” Emma said.

“Okay, well Micah told me he’d heard it was a nail gun. Easily accessible, totally untraceable. Listen, the reason I called you out here is I think Fiona is going to go after Maureen. And then she’s going to leave the country. Shouldn’t we try to stop her?”

Donnie stuck his head around the corner.

“Everything okay out here?”

“Donnie, I’m so sorry,” I said. “Thank you for entertaining the guests.”

“Molly thinks Fiona killed Emmett Spencer,” Emma announced, “and now she’s going to murder Maureen Dos Santos and leave the country.”

Donnie came out and took the last unoccupied chair.

“Was that Fiona on the phone?” Donnie asked.

“Yep,” I said. “She told me she won’t be back after the Thanksgiving weekend. And she thinks her husband was having an affair with Maureen. Which she was not happy about. Once you murder someone, isn’t it easier to kill again?”

“Yes,” Iker said sadly. “The first time one takes a life one must also kill one’s own conscience. With the conscience gone, the next killings are easier.”

“Do you think we should call the police?” I asked. “Where’s my phone? Oh, I’m holding it.”

“Did Fiona tell you when or where she’s going to commit the murder?” Donnie asked me.

“Oh.” My finger hovered over the phone’s number pad. “I guess that would be helpful to know. No, she didn’t even say she was going to kill anyone. She just seemed really angry. I know, you think I’m being ridiculous.”

Donnie stood up.

“Not at all. I’m surprised it hasn’t already happened.”

“You already knew about Maureen and Emmett?” Emma exclaimed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked. “And how did you know?”

“I didn’t know,” Donnie said. “But now you tell me, I can see it. There are small things that add up.”

“Oh, like when Maureen defended Emmett after her son’s suicide,” Emma said. “Even though the boy used Emmett’s gun he stupidly left loaded and sitting in his desk.”

“Things like that,” Donnie agreed. “Okay, I’m going back in. Rodge seems like he’s getting ready to leave, by the way.”

“Oh no, Rodge,” I said. “We’re the only people here he really knows.”

“Don’t apologize to Rodge,” Emma said. “He brought a bag of tortilla chips to your potluck.”

“I will go,” Iker stood up. “Although I have many disagreements with Rodge Cowper, and I do not think he is a good teacher, I would not like for Rodge to feel he is without a friend on this day of Thanksgiving.”

When Donnie and Iker had gone back inside, Emma said,

“So you think Fiona’s gonna go after Maureen?”

“I don’t know. Fiona doesn’t strike me as someone who has a good handle on her emotions.”

I hadn’t told anyone about Fiona’s uninhibited behavior at dinner. It would only embarrass everyone involved. But I’d been relieved when she hadn’t accepted the invitation to our Thanksgiving potluck.

“No kidding,” Emma said. “I could totally see her whacking someone. Eh, call her back and ask her what she’s gonna do.”

“I did call back. Twice. The call went straight to voice mail.” I slapped a mosquito on my forearm.

Emma leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and stared into my face.

“Molly, you’re the one who talked to her. If your first impression was, she’s gonna go hunt down Maureen, there’s probably something to it.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do, drive all over Mahina looking for her only to find her at home having a quiet tea with ‘Mum’? And in the meantime, I’ve left poor Donnie here to deal with all the guests by himself?”

“Look at it the other way,” Emma said. “What if you had the chance to prevent a murder, and you decided not to? And you had to live with it for the rest of your life?”

“Dang it, Emma.”

“We gotta take the T-bird, though. Otherwise Yoshi’s got no way to get home.”

Fiona: Closure

FIONA PUT HER MOBILE away and took a moment to gaze at the Pacific Ocean. It was grey and choppy. A disturbance in the water might have been a whale—November, she’d been told, was when one started seeing them—or it might have been simply the wind whipping up the waves. She had rung off rather abruptly and now she wondered whether she had dealt with things properly. She considered calling Molly back. But the mobile signal had dropped to zero bars.

Fiona went back inside to find her mother digging into a chocolate-syrup-drenched stack of pancakes.

“Lovely out there, isn’t it?” Harriet asked. “One doesn’t even mind the rain. Did you see the whales breaching?”

“I need to talk to Maureen,” Fiona said.

“Not right this minute, I hope,” Harriet replied. “I was going to get some salmon next.”

“You’re having salmon after chocolate pancakes?”

“Why ever not? That’s what the prosecco’s for, to cleanse the palate.”

“I’ll wait.” Fiona folded her hands in front of her and stared at Harriet.

“Is that her name? Maureen? You know who she is, then.”

“She’s Emmett’s secretary,” Fiona said.

Harriet briefly choked on her pancake and washed it down with prosecco. She signalled the waiter for a refill.

“Never,” Harriet exclaimed, when she’d recovered. “Emmett was getting his leg over with the secretary? Fiona, the man’s a walking cliché.”

“Still waiting for you to finish eating,” Fiona said, knowing she was being annoying.

“What’s the rush? I’m sure you can get into a hair-pulling fight with your husband’s secretary any time you like. Why don’t you wind your neck in and try to enjoy your supper?”

“I only want to wish her happy Thanksgiving and no hard feelings,” Fiona said. “Closure, I believe it’s called.”

“Nonsense.”

Fiona glowered at her mother.

“Do you know what I think, darling?” Harriet said through a mouthful of pancake. “I think you’re feeling angry and betrayed. You may say you want reconciliation and all the rest of it, but you’re not being honest with yourself, are you? I think you should enjoy your weekend and see how you feel about it Monday.”

By Monday, of course, Fiona would be on her way back to England.

“Just this one favour, Mum. I’ll be quick about it and then I won’t mention it again.”

Fiona wheedled and pestered until Harriet finally relented. They finished up their meal and rode the Triumph through the drizzle down to the St. Aelred School for Boys. The dining hall seemed to be busy, so they went there first. It was full of chattering boys eating turkey, pumpkin pie, and mounds of rice from rectangular paper trays. But Maureen was not in evidence.

“Well that’s that. Shall we?” Harriet turned to leave.

“She might be in the office,” Fiona said.”

“I do hope you don’t make a scene darling,” Harriet said.

“No, we would never want to do that, would we?”

Bryce Kahului was behind the counter.

“Hullo Bryce,” Fiona said. “Working on your holiday, I see.”

“Oh, happy Thanksgiving Dr. Spencer. How can I help you today?”

“Is Maureen here?”

“Here?” He seemed surprised. “I thought she was with you.”

“Why on earth would Maureen be with us?” Harriet asked.

“Bryce, this is my mother, Harriet Holmes,” Fiona said. Harriet and the boy shook hands.

“She said she had to...” Bryce’s forehead creased. “She’s running an errand.”

“Where did she go?” Fiona asked.

Bryce ran his finger around the collar of his St. Aelred polo shirt.

“Sorry. I’m supposed to tell you Maureen’s in a meeting. She says it’s unprofessional if people think the secretary’s not on site.”

“I understand. Thank you, Bryce.”

As Fiona turned to leave, the office phone rang.

“Excuse me,” Bryce said, and went to answer it.

“St. Aelred School.” Bryce said cheerily into the phone. “How may I help—oh, hello, Mr. Dos Santos, happy Thanksgiv— no, you just missed her.”

Fiona stopped, and Harriet bumped into her.

“What are you doing?” Harriet whispered.

“Listening in,” Fiona whispered back.

Bryce’s back was turned, so he didn’t see Fiona and her mother still standing there.

“Oh, pretty soon, I think,” Bryce said. “She went to take the headmaster’s car down to the ship. Yeah. Oh yeah, I didn’t think about that. I don’t know how she was gonna get back, maybe call a taxi? Yeah, yeah, good idea. Ok, good. Aloha.”

Fiona pulled her mother out of the office before Bryce could hang up and see them standing there.

“Why is this Maureen taking Emmett’s car to a ship?” Harriet asked as they hurried back out to the car park.

“Mum, do you know the way to the port?”

“The port? Fiona, honestly—”

“Please, Mum.”

Molly: A True Femme Fatale

I KNOCKED ON FIONA’S door and rang the doorbell. No one answered, and the carport was empty.

“What now?” Emma asked as we got back into the car.

“I don’t know. Where else would Fiona Spencer hang out? Maybe with her mother, but I have no idea how to find her.”

I twisted the key in the ignition and delicately toed the gas pedal.

“Actually,” Emma poked my shoulder and said something I didn’t catch.

“What?” I was concentrating on my pedaling technique. Just enough gas to give the thirsty V-8 what it needed, but not enough to flood it.

“I said it doesn’t matter where Fiona hangs out,” Emma shouted at me.

The engine caught and roared to life. I lifted my foot off and let it idle.

“I can hear you,” I said in a normal voice.

“What I was saying is, the real question is where does Fiona think Maureen is? I dunno where Maureen lives though. Do you?”

“Me? No. Oh, do you know who we could ask? Bryce Kahului. My student.”

“You got his number? Can you call him?”

“I can do better than that. I think I know where he is right now.” I shifted into gear and started down the hill. “He said he was having Thanksgiving dinner at the school.”

“Doesn’t he have a family?”

“I think they’re on another island. Okay, here’s the intersection. What do you think? Do we go left or right?”

“Go right,” Emma urged me.

“Right it is.” I eased onto the highway, toward the St. Aelred School for Boys. “So you don’t think I’m worried about nothing? I can’t decide whether we’re saving the day or whether we just left our husbands alone on Thanksgiving for no good reason.”

“Molly. Remember that time in the cafeteria when you introduced me and Fiona, all I did was say hello and she busts out crying?”

“Not exactly how I remember it, but yes.”

“And what about when she came over to your house and was groping Donnie? That’s not someone with good impulse control.”

“Emma, how did you know about that second thing? I didn’t tell anyone about it.”

“Donnie just told me today.”

“He did? Donnie told you? When?”

“He said if Fiona came over today, he’d have to make sure there was always a piece of furniture between them. He said not to tell you what he said, cause he didn’t want you to feel bad about it.”

“Poor Donnie. I hope he’s okay handling the guests by himself.”

“Fiona’s not there to harass him, so I think he’s fine,” Emma said.

“Okay, here we are.”

I parked the Thunderbird as close to the main office as I could. We sprinted in and found Bryce Kahului behind the counter. I wished him a happy Thanksgiving, introduced Emma (unnecessarily, it turned out, as he had taken her biology class), and asked him whether he happened to know where Maureen Dos Santos might be at the moment.

“That’s funny,” he said. “Someone else was just here looking for her. Maureen should be back soon.”

“It was Fiona Spencer,” said a raspy voice behind me. “Can you blame her?”

I turned around to see Mr. Ferman. He was thin, leaning on a cane, and his tweed jacket hung loosely. But his white hair was combed neatly into place, and his red bow tie looked festive. He certainly looked better than when I’d seen him in the hospital.

“Mr. Ferman?” I tentatively extended my hand. He balanced his left hand on his cane and returned my handshake. His grip was warm and papery. “I’m Molly Barda. I don’t know whether you remember me. I came to see you a few days ago. This is my colleague, Dr. Emma Nakamura.”

“You’re Fiona’s friend,” he said. “So you must have known. Everybody knew. Except the respective spouses, of course.”

“Knew what?” Emma asked innocently.

“Apostol thought Maureen could do no wrong,” Mr. Ferman said. “But that girl, she was never a one-man woman. Even I could see it. She was trouble. A true femme fatale.”

Bryce came out from behind the counter.

“Mr. Ferman, are you ready? The next seating’s in five minutes. We don’t want to miss the pule.”

“I don’t want to keep you from your Thanksgiving dinner,” I said, “but who else was looking for Maureen?”

“They were in a hurry, I can tell you that,” Mr. Ferman said.

“They?” Emma asked.

“She was riding with some fellow on a motorcycle, and they were going like a bat out of Hades.”

“Where were ‘they’ headed?” I asked.

Bryce frowned. “Mr. Ferman, do you mind going ahead? I’ll catch up.”

Mr. Ferman gave a salute and shuffled out of the office in the direction of the dining hall. I wanted to ask him about the elegant watch with the dark blue band, but that would have to wait.

“Fiona Spencer and her mother came here a few minutes ago looking for Maureen,” Bryce said. “What’s going on?”

“Fiona just found out about her husband hooking up with Maureen,” Emma said. “She’s pretty mad about it and we’re afraid she’s gonna do something dumb. Bryce, is it true?”

“Awkward,” Bryce said. “Maureen should be back soon if you wanna talk to her.”

“When do you expect her back?” I asked.

“Mr. Dos Santos just has to drive her back up from the port, so it should be—”

“So she’s at the port?” Emma interrupted.

“What? Nah, I never said—”

“Thank you, Bryce,” I said. Emma and I sprinted back out toward the car.

Bryce ran after us.

“Professor Barda, Professor Nakamura, I know you want to help. But you really don’t want to get involved with this.”

“No?” I asked. “Should we just call the police?”

“No. No, that wouldn’t be a good idea. Listen, I have to catch up to Mr. Ferman. Eh, you want to join us for Thanksgiving dinner? It’s okay, plenty food, you know. And it’s pretty good.”

“Thank you for the invitation,” I said, “but we actually have our own Thanksgiving dinner to get back to. You’re right, Bryce, it’s probably best we stay out of it. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving and tell Mr. Ferman Happy Thanksgiving too.”

Molly: A Pretty Good Liar

“WHOA, MOLLY,” EMMA cried, “I’d rather get there alive, ah?”

“Sorry about that.” I’d peeled out onto the highway a little too fast, and the back end of the car had swung wide. “The road’s wet, though. It’s not my fault.”

“The road’s always wet.” Emma snapped her seatbelt shut. “You live in Mahina, remember?”

“We’re not going back to the house,” I said.

“Yeah, I figured. You know, you’re getting to be a pretty good liar.”

“It’s sweet Bryce feels protective of us, but it sounds like he knows something bad’s going to happen. In fact, I think this might be a good time to call the police.”

“Okay,” Emma said. “I’m gonna use your phone though, cause 911 get caller ID.”

“Why does that matter?” I asked.

“I don’t want everyone to think I’m a snitch.”

We got to the highway’s end and made the right turn to the potholed road that goes down to the Port of Mahina. The weather was usually sunnier in this part of Mahina, and today was no exception. The clouds thinned out as we drove, and before long the sky was shiny and blue.

The Port of Mahina sign was half-hidden behind overgrown Monstera, but I spotted it in time to make the turn. The chain-link gate was open, although there was no guard posted. I pulled into the lot and parked in the shade of a lifted Tacoma. On both sides of the lot were corrugated-metal buildings surrounded by trees and vines. A cargo ship loomed on the water side of the lot.

“That must be the ship that’s taking the car,” I switched off the ignition. “But where’s Maureen?”

“I see her! She...uh-oh.”

We exited the car as quietly as possible, slowly pressing the heavy doors shut with a “thunk.” I stood on tiptoe and peeked over the bed of the lifted truck. Emma was too short to see over the truck bed, so she stood to my right and peered around the back.

By the edge of the water, next to a guardhouse, I saw Maureen Dos Santos and a tall, heavy set man. He was dressed like an average Mahina businessman, in a designer aloha shirt and black slacks.

“Is that her husband?” I whispered. “Apostol Dos Santos?”

“I think so,” Emma said

I had seen him before, I realized. In Fiona’s Spencer’s office, wearing a hot-pink Konishi Construction shirt and dark sunglasses.

We couldn’t hear what they were saying. Maureen stood with her arms folded. Apostol seemed to be pleading with her. The cargo ship’s multicolored containers made a colorful backdrop, stacked like Lego bricks.

Maureen was not wearing the baggy muumuu I’d seen her wearing at the Garden Society meeting. She sported an off-the-shoulder gold lame top, snug black leggings, and spiky heels. She clutched the handle of a leopard-print rollaboard suitcase.

“Because I love you, Maureen,” we heard the man cry out. “I’ll die without you.”

Maureen shook her head and stepped back. Emma leaned out a little too far to get a better look, and almost toppled over sideways.

“Steady on.” The sound of the strange voice made me jump out of my shoes. Emma and I looked around wildly to see where the voice was coming from.

“Down here.”

We crouched down to see Harriet and Fiona, seated comfortably underneath the lifted truck. Harriet’s field coat was spread over the asphalt like a picnic blanket. A car parked on the far side of the truck shielded the women from being seen.

“What are you two doing here?” Fiona whispered as Emma and I scooted under the truck to join them. She sounded more mystified than angry.

“Looking for you,” Emma said.

“Why are we all sitting under a truck?” I asked.

It wasn’t a bad place to wait things out. Harriet’s coat was well-padded, and the truck was lifted high enough that we didn’t have to worry about bumping our heads.

“Fiona was planning to have a word with Maureen,” Harriet said, “but Maureen’s husband turned up. One doesn’t like to interfere in a family discussion.”

“He ran after her shouting her name,” Fiona said. “It got dramatic rather quickly, so we thought it would be best to stay out of sight.”

“And now we’re stuck here, watching the drama unfold,” Harriet said, “We’ve learnt ever so much, haven’t we darling? For example, we know what happened to Emmett, don’t we?”

“What?” Emma and I asked in unison.

“Maureen’s husband killed him,” Fiona whispered.

“With a nail gun?” I asked.

“You knew about the nail gun?” Harriet exclaimed.

“Mum, shh.”

“You got any more detail?” Emma asked eagerly.

“Maureen’s husband got Emmett to come round to the parsonage,” Fiona said. “Under the pretense of asking him about window casings or some such thing. They’re rebuilding it for us, you know. Were rebuilding it for us, I should say.”

“Of course it was all a ruse” Harriet said. “He had brought Emmett there to confront him about Maureen. Fiona, darling, do they know about Maureen and Emmett?”

“Yes,” I said.

“It’s kinda why we’re here,” Emma added.

“He seemed to have quite a grudge against Emmett,” Fiona said. “He accuses Emmett of taking his family from him.”

“Quite,” Harriet said. “He blamed Emmett for his son’s suicide, and of course he wasn’t terribly happy about Emmett getting his end away with his wife. So he confronted Emmett at the parsonage, Emmett turned his back, and he picked up the nail gun.”

“Which was conveniently loaded up and lying about on the site,” Fiona said.

“Yes, for a crime of passion it does seem rather well-planned,” Harriet said. “Mr. Dos Santos emptied the nail gun into the back of Emmett’s skull. All out of affection for Maureen and their late son, of course.”

“So how did Emmett’s body end up in your office?” I asked.

Fiona and Harriet looked at each other.

“He didn’t say,” Fiona replied.

“No idea,” Harriet added.

“So Fiona, you gonna kill both of ‘em then?” Emma asked.

“I’m sorry? Me?”

“Yeah, you. We came down here cause Molly thought you were gonna kill Maureen cause of the affair. Now you gotta kill ‘em both, sounds like, cause Dos Santos killed your husband.”

Fiona turned to me.

“Molly. You thought I was planning to murder Maureen?”

“Emma did too,” I said. “Maybe not outright murder her, but the whole reason we came here is because you were understandably upset about the affair, and we wanted to stop you from doing something you might regret.”

Fiona looked hurt.

“I only wanted to talk to her,” she whispered.

“About what?” Emma asked.

Fiona shook her head. “I can’t remember.”

“It seemed ever so bloody important at the time, though, didn’t it?” Harriet said. “Oh, I say, has either of you brought your mobile?”

“Both of ours are still packed away in her saddle bag,” Fiona said glumly. “We had to move quickly to hide ourselves.”

“I already called the police,” Emma said. “When we were driving down.”

“I’ll say this for Emmett,” Harriet said. “He’s got to have been the stupidest man alive, to be having it off with that man’s wife. Whatever could he have been thinking?”

“Maureen!” Dos Santos roared. We all looked at each other.

“I’m just going to take a quick look,” I said.

“Don’t let ‘em see you,” Emma warned.

I scooted back out from under the truck and peeped over the truck bed.

Apostol was pleading, arms outstretched. Maureen did not seem impressed by his show of devotion. She was backing away, wobbling on her high heels.

I ducked back down and told Harriet, Fiona, and Emma what I’d seen.

“I hope the police get here before it’s too late,” Fiona said.

“The police station’s only a couple miles away,” Emma said. “They should be here by now.”

“I’m going to call Bryce again,” I said.

“Who?” Harriet asked.

“He works for Maureen at St. Aelred’s,” Emma said. “Plus he’s our student, that’s how come Molly knows him.”

“Oh, him,” Harriet said. “We just saw him, didn’t we, Fiona? Cute as a button, and nearly as bright. Not terribly helpful, though.”

“Do you think he can help us?” Fiona asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I hope so. Couldn’t hurt, might help. And I don’t have any better ideas.”

Molly: Big Scrap

MAYBE I SHOULD HAVE called Donnie, but I already felt bad about leaving him to entertain our guests by himself. And I held on to the hope he’d never have to know about this.

I called the St. Aelred main number, and let it ring until it went to voice mail. I tried again, and this time Bryce picked up. I heard festive cafeteria noise in the background.

“Bryce, it’s Molly Barda,” I said. “Is there a party going on in your office?”

“I forwarded the office phone to my cell in case anyone called,” he said. “I’m still in the dining hall. What’s going on?”

I quickly brought him up to date on the situation.

“Are you saying Maureen’s husband killed Mr. Spencer?” he asked after a long pause.

“Yes. And they’re both here.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be there, Professor.”

“We would all like very much not to be here, but at the moment, we’re hiding under a truck because we don’t want him to see us. Wait, is it his truck?” Fiona and Harriet nodded. “Great. We’re cowering under Apostol Dos Santos’s truck. Bryce, is there anything you can tell me that might help us here?”

“Why do you think I know anything?” Bryce sounded wary. “You should call the police. Don’t tell them it’s about Maureen or Apostol though.”

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“Apostol Dos Santos pretty much owns the police.”

“Are you kidding me? So the police won’t show up if they know Dos Santos is involved?”

“Good to know,” Emma muttered, and punched 9-1-1 into her phone. Apparently, everyone could hear both sides of my conversation with Bryce.

“Don’t leave, Maureen,” we heard Apostol Dos Santos sob in the distance. “I’ll die without you. I mean it.”

“Who was that?” Bryce asked. “Is it Mr. Dos Santos?”

All four of us turned toward the sound, even though we couldn’t see anything but the car next to us.

“Yes, that’s Mr. Dos Santos,” I said. “He and Maureen are arguing, nothing physical so far. Is there anything else you can tell me that might help us?”

“I wish I could help, Professor. Sorry.”

“Wait. Dangit. Bryce, are you there?”

“Hello, Emergency?” Emma spoke into her phone. “You gotta send someone down to the port right now. There’s a, um, a fight going on.”

“I’m still here,” Bryce’s voice was scratchy. “Bad connection, ah?”

“Please, Bryce,” I said. “This is important. What are you not telling me?”

“What makes you think I’m not telling you something?”

What did make me think that? His walking off with the microwave? Although I had offered it to him. The fact he’d tried to discourage us from following Maureen? Although it probably would have been smart to heed his advice. The way he claimed the piece of plastic wasn’t from Trevor’s phone? Maybe he was right. But I was still convinced he was hiding something from me.

“You asking me who’s the individuals involved?” Emma said to the dispatcher. “It’s Maureen—”

I shoved her shoulder and shook my head at her.

“What? Oh yeah, right. It’s, um...no one you know. Just some homeless guys. No, wait, tourists. Yeah, that’s what I said. Homeless guys versus tourists, big scrap.”

“Whoa,” Bryce said. “Sounds like you got a lot going on down there. Okay, hope everything works out—”

“Bryce, listen. We don’t know what’s going to come out when this situation is over. If I do make it out alive, I promise I will do my best to protect you from any consequences arising from anything you tell me right now. Is there anything else you know about this situation that could help us?”

“You mean it about protecting me?”

“Of course,” I said.

I heard him take a deep breath.

“You promised, yeah?”

Molly: His Poor Grieving Mother

BRYCE KAHULUI WAS A scholarship kid at the St. Aelred School for Boys. Working as assistant to the headmaster’s secretary was part of his aid package. And it was how he met his first real boyfriend, Trevor Dos Santos, the secretary’s son. Unlike Bryce, Trevor never had to worry about money. He bought sneakers, video games, candy, and whatever else took his fancy, whenever he liked.

Until his father cut off his allowance.

Trevor set about finding a new income stream. At first, he stole ethanol from the chemistry supply cabinet, watered it down, and sold it to the other boys. Bryce found out and convinced him to stop. Unfortunately, when inventory was done, it was Mr. Ferman, the chemistry teacher, who got the blame.

Trevor was running low on funds again when he had a stroke of luck: he discovered his mother was having an affair with the new headmaster.

He decided to blackmail her.

One afternoon at work, Bryce noticed Maureen seemed agitated. She told Bryce to come in an hour later than his scheduled time the next morning. Bryce became suspicious, so he came in early instead. He found the office locked but let himself in with his key.

He heard a conversation coming from the headmaster’s private office. He recognized the voices of Maureen and Trevor, and crept close to listen.

“Let me see the pictures,” Maureen said. Bryce couldn’t hear Trevor’s reply.

“I have the whole amount right here,” Maureen said. “We can keep each other’s secrets, yeah?”

Bryce heard a drawer slide open, some rummaging and scraping. A pop, like a firecracker.

Bryce ran out the back door. He circled around the building and walked casually back in through the front. He found a crowd had already gathered around a sobbing Maureen.

When Maureen spotted Bryce, she dried her eyes and came over to give him a hug.

She whispered in his ear,

“We can keep each other’s secrets, yeah?”

“What do you mean?” Bryce tried to play dumb. It didn’t work.

“Who they gonna believe, honey?” she murmured. “Trevor’s poor grieving mother? Or his gold-digging boy toy?”

The police found Trevor dead on the floor with a single gunshot wound to the head. Emmett Spencer’s gun was lying near the boy’s left hand. It was ruled a suicide. Only Bryce and Maureen knew any different.

Molly: I Can’t Bear to See a Man Grovel

I THANKED BRYCE, HUNG up, and gave Emma, Harriet, and Fiona, a summary of what Bryce had told me.

All four of us crept out from underneath the truck and peered over the top of the small car next to it. We saw Apostol Dos Santos on his knees. Maureen was backing up the gangplank of the cargo ship.

Harriet straightened up and strode out from between the two cars.

“Mum!” Fiona stage-whispered. Harriet ignored her.

“Dos Santos!” Harriet bellowed.

Apostol Dos Santos turned toward the sound of Harriet’s voice.

“Don’t be a bloody fool, Dos Santos. Your son didn’t kill himself. Maureen shot him.”

“Mum,” Fiona squeaked. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t bear to see a man grovel,” Harriet declared.

Dos Santos wasn’t groveling now. He picked himself up slowly. Maureen was too far away for me to see her facial expression, but I could read her body language. She had been defiant and dismissive. Now she was scared.

“She’s lying!” Maureen shrieked. “It’s not true!”

Apostol Dos Santos roared and charged up the gangplank. His bulk obscured Maureen for a moment.

Three loud pops sounded, like firecrackers.

Apostol Dos Santos flailed his arms, toppled sideways over the skinny railing, and fell into the water with a “sploosh.”

Maureen stood on the gangplank, staring into the water, still grasping the gun with both hands.

Then she looked up. Sirens wailed in the distance, steadily growing louder.

Maureen tossed the gun into the water, in the general direction of her late husband. Ignoring Harriet, she turned and sauntered up the gangplank, pulling the leopard-print rollaboard behind her.

Molly: You Should Talk to Someone

EMMA, DONNIE, AND I were at an outdoor table at the Maritime Club, enjoying the cool breeze and the view of the waves crashing and foaming on the black lava rocks. Emma has the Maritime Club membership, but her husband Yoshi didn’t want to come (“all those pretentious, dressed-up people,” he’d said, which if you knew Yoshi when he first moved here, you’d find hilarious) so she’d invited Donnie and me along.

We were discussing the case of Maureen Dos Santos, who had been apprehended trying to flee the island on a container ship. She was currently awaiting trial for the murders of her son and her husband. It was reported that Mrs. Dos Santos would have escaped had it not been for a group of unnamed witnesses who were either homeless people, or tourists, or both.

“I thought Mahina was too gossipy for anyone to keep secrets,” I said. “But I guess I was wrong. Fiona had no idea her husband was cheating on her.”

“It’s always the one who’s getting cheated on who’s the last to know,” Emma remarked as she stuffed shrimp into her mouth.

I turned to Donnie.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “You and the baby keep me busy as it is. I don’t have time for a whole other woman in my schedule.”

“Good,” I said.

“Eh, service is slow tonight,” Emma said. “I’m gonna go to the bar. Don’t give away my seat.”

Donnie found my hand under the table and squeezed it.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he said.

“Me too. Believe me, if we’d known Maureen was going to start shooting, we wouldn’t have gone down there. I wouldn’t have gone down there, anyway. Emma might’ve.”

“Molly, I know you wanted to do the right thing, and it’s great that you helped out, but I have to admit, I’m selfish. Your safety is more important to me than anything. So please, next time—”

“I was never in any actual danger,” I said.

“Really?” Donnie looked skeptical.

“I should’ve called you, though. Next time I feel like I’m in trouble at all, I will call you.”

Donnie seemed like he was about to say something but changed his mind.

“You okay?” I asked.

“It’s hard to believe The Rancher is dead.” Donnie squeezed my hand again. “It’s the end of an era. Apostol had a lot of influence in Mahina.”

“Hey, a power vacuum,” I said. “Here’s your chance. To be King of Mahina or whatever Dos Santos was.”

Donnie laughed.

“No thanks. I’d have to fight Konishi for it.”

“Al Konishi?” I asked. “Konishi Construction?”

Donnie nodded.

“He’s Dos Santos’s cousin.”

“Hey, Professor Barda, Mister Gonsalves.”

We looked up to see Micah, my former student and erstwhile security guard. He wore a white shirt and black trousers, and was holding an order pad.

“Micah? You work here?” I asked, unnecessarily. “At the Maritime Club?”

He nodded enthusiastically.

“Yeah, I quit the security job. Couldn’t handle, after da kine, in Dr. Spencer’s office. I kept seeing it in my head when I was trying fo’ go sleep, you know? Mr. Gonsalves, the guy was all cooked like one huli huli chicken. You know when they moved the body he just fell apart—”

“Sounds like you made a good decision,” Donnie said.

“That’s a traumatic thing to live through, Micah,” I said. “I know exactly what you mean. Maybe you should talk to someone about it.”

“Oh yeah, good idea.” Micah pulled out the fourth chair and sat down at our table.

“Micah, I didn’t mean—”

“Professor Barda, glad you never get hurt. Mr. Gonsalves, bet you was worried, ah?”

“Yes,” Donnie said.

“Micah,” I said, “we don’t want to take you away from your work.”

“It’s okay. It’s a little slow right now. Eh, so my cousin at Mahina PD told me—oh hey, Professor Nakamura.”

Emma had a glass of beer in each hand.

“That was nice of you to bring extra,” I said, “but Donnie and I are drinking wine.”

“Huh? These aren’t for you. This is so I don’t have to get up again. Eh, Micah, looking sharp, you.”

“I dressed for work, that’s why.”

“Listen, if you want anything to drink, you gotta get it yourself,” she said. “Service is junk today.”

“Micah was going to tell us what he heard from his cousin who works with Mahina PD,” I said.

“Oh yeah?” Emma got seated and started on her first glass of beer. “So is it really true? Maureen killed her son in the headmaster’s office and made it look like suicide?”

“It’s true,” Micah said. “The boy was gonna tell the father about the mother’s affair.”

“What a little snitch,” Emma said. “Not that I’m excusing Maureen for killing him. But still.”

A bearded man in an aloha shirt materialized next to our table.

“Is everything okay here?” he asked. “Micah?”

Micah scooted the chair back and jumped to his feet.

“Oh, hey, Mr. K. Sorry, I was just—”

“It’s my fault,” I said. “Micah was sharing some history with us. At my request. I understand if you can’t spare him.”

The manager glanced at his watch.

“We do want our staff to engage our customers,” he said. “And we’re proud to share our club’s history. But Micah, we’re a little busy right now, and we have customers waiting.”

Molly: We Absolutely Disapprove of Murder

MICAH CAME BACK TO our table to chat after the rush was over. According to his cousin at Mahina PD, the purple glob in the microwave really was from Trevor Dos Santos’s phone. After Maureen shot her son, she cooked his phone in the microwave to get rid of the photos he’d taken. She managed to ruin the microwave. But she didn’t destroy the incriminating images, which the police were able to retrieve from a remote server.

I picked up a little more gossip from Bryce Kahului, my student, when he stopped by my office during Christmas break. Bryce has lunch regularly with Mr. Ferman, who has been sharing his recollections as they surface.

The workman who had been wearing Emmett Spencer’s watch was telling the truth about where he got it. Apostol Dos Santos had just killed Emmett Spencer and was about to walk away from the body when Mr. Ferman happened by on his morning stroll.

To distract Mr. Ferman from the nail-studded corpse lying prone on the workbench, Dos Santos removed the headmaster’s distinctive watch and handed it to Mr. Ferman. Disoriented by what he had just witnessed, Mr. Ferman regifted the watch to the first person he saw—the Konishi employee I’d seen at our building. He then wandered out onto the highway and into the path of a tour bus.

Fortunately, Mr. Ferman’s body and his memory are steadily recovering.

Pat Flanagan was finishing up his feature on the Labor Day Race and preparing to pitch a story on The Dos Santos murders to his editor. I gave Pat my eyewitness account of Dos Santos’s death and Maureen’s attempted escape. Pat reciprocated with the solution to the Mystery of Emmett Spencer’s Christmas Plans: Fiona’s husband had reserved a single-occupancy room in a Las Vegas resort. The same resort where Maureen and Apostol Dos Santos spent the holidays. The apparent plan was for Maureen and Emmett to sneak off while Apostol gambled.

No wonder Emmett didn’t want Fiona to accompany him.

The Dos Santos case was, unsurprisingly, the main topic of discussion at the December meeting of the Pua Kala Garden society. We deduced that the extortion note Mrs. Masterman’s housekeeper found in the bathroom had probably been discarded there by Maureen. When Mrs. Masterman asked the group about it, Maureen pretended she had no idea what it was.

There was a general feeling among the Pua Kala Garden Society members of having been hoodwinked; we’d all thought of Trevor Dos Santos as a tragic victim of suicide, not a ruthless blackmailer. We agreed that while we absolutely disapproved of murder, it wasn’t easy to eke out much sympathy for the young racketeer.

Serena, the dean’s secretary, told me it was Fiona’s mother who had kicked off the entire chain of events. Harriet’s chewing-out of Fiona’s husband in the middle of Mahina Stationers was immediately the talk of Mahina, Serena told me. The gossip got back to Maureen’s husband, who could no longer remain in denial. He took advantage of his position on the board of the St. Aelred School for Boys to lure his wife’s lover to the isolated parsonage site behind the school.

The physical evidence indicates that Emmett Spencer’s last act was turning his back on the older man—an unforgivable gesture of disrespect.

No one seems to know whether Dos Santos knew in advance that the fever cabinet was in Fiona’s office, or what he was thinking when he placed Emmett Spencer’s lifeless body into the device. Dos Santos might have remembered the difficulty of identifying his first wife after the tanning bed accident and assumed Emmett Spencer’s identity could be similarly obscured. Or he may have plugged the thing in not knowing what it did, nor caring that he could have burned our building to the ground. Dos Santos, of course, isn’t talking.

After our college got the fever cabinet back from the police (who were happy to return it as it took up most of the free space in the evidence room), the Finance Club auctioned it off online. With the proceeds, the College of Commerce was able to buy a teakettle, coffee maker, and microwave for each floor of our building. And we had enough left over for two years’ worth of copy paper, toner, and whiteboard markers.

Without a murder conviction hanging over her head, Fiona Spencer decided to cancel her trip back to England and finish out fall semester. She left after commencement for a position in New Zealand. Her students threw her a little party and gave her a fancy umbrella as a going-away present, which I hope she assumed was a reference to rainy Mahina.

I had been dreading trying to find a replacement for Fiona, but fortunately there was a candidate available. A recently-retired Tutor in Law at Balliol College, Oxford University. Miraculously, she’s perfectly content with our paltry lecturer wages, and with her office assignment. It’s Fiona’s old office, Room 310, which she cheerfully refers to as “the abattoir.”

Her name? Harriet Holmes.

Fiona: Dear Old Oscar

FIONA STEPPED OUT OF the motor coach in front of the extended-stay hotel, and took a deep draught of cool, foggy air. She’d feared New Zealand’s upside-down seasons would mean a warm December, but here at the southern tip of South Island at least, it was cooler than she’d expected.

It would feel like a proper Christmas after all. This cheered her. Driving on the left-hand side of the road had lifted her spirits as well. Fiona had the oddly pleasant sensation of coming home to someplace she had never been.

She extended the handle of her rolling bag and hooked her new umbrella onto it. As a moving away gift her students had given her a British-made umbrella, black, with a malacca crook handle. It was meant as a sort of joke; the students called her “Mary Poppins” on the sly. Fiona thought this rather sweet, and far preferable to some other nick names she’d heard of.

She checked her watch: a men’s Vacheron Constantin with a dark-blue alligator band. It looked huge on her slender wrist, but Fiona liked the boldness of it. The Mahina police had been lovely about getting it back for her. She’d heard the builder who had been wearing it was only too happy to return it when he found out where it had come from.

Another entry on the plus side of the ledger: Harriet had stayed behind in Mahina.

Fiona’s mother had negotiated a semi-retirement with the Bursar in order to teach at Mahina State. Because she had been a Tutor in Law at Oxford, she was deemed qualified to teach the College of Commerce Business Ethics classes. Harriet was happy to make do on a lecturer’s salary. She was minted and didn’t need the money, and she thought the whole thing a jolly wheeze.

As much as Fiona didn’t want to admit it to herself, she was relieved to find it wasn’t too much trouble to travel between Hawaii and New Zealand. When she was ready, she could pop over and visit Harriet. And with only a few more months before Fiona’s father was out of prison, there was a fair chance all three would be able to meet soon, perhaps somewhere on the upcoming book tour for his prison memoir.

Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.

Dear old Oscar. There was no avoiding him, it seemed. Fiona smiled and pulled her rolling bag up to the hotel’s check-in counter.

From the Author

THANK YOU FOR TAKING the time to read The Fever Cabinet. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends and posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend, and much appreciated.

Frankie Bow teaches at a public university and writes licensed Miss Fortune World novellas as well as The Professor Molly Mysteries. Unlike Professor Molly, Frankie is blessed with delightful students, sane colleagues, and a perfectly nice office chair. She thinks if life can’t be fair, at least it can be entertaining.

Sign up for the Island Confidential newsletter and get a free short story.

Also by Frankie Bow

Miss Fortune World: Hair Extensions and Homicide

Once Upon a Murder

Tabasco Fiasco

Schooled

Miss Fortune World: Supernatural Sinful

Sinful Science

Miss Fortune World: The Mary-Alice Files

Mary-Alice Moves In

Bayou Busybody

The Vanishing Victim

Aloha, Y'all

The Two-Body Problem

Black Widow Valley

The No-Tell Motel

Vampire Billionaire of the Bayou

The Pajama Murder

The Lost Weekend

Professor Molly Mysteries

Trust Fall

The Musubi Murder

The Cursed Canoe

The Black Thumb

The Invasive Species

Mother's Day

The Nakamura Letters

The Perfect Body

The Fever Cabinet

The Case of the Defunct Adjunct

Watch for more at Frankie Bow’s site.

About the Publisher

Hawaiian Heritage Press publishes Hawaii's finest classic and modern literature.