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.

 

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