“And then?”

  “You said Ladd is now claiming his wife’s disappearance was a stunt, and the body at the bottom of the cliffs wasn’t really her. Well Mr. Henriques claims Mr. Ladd told him, Mr. Henriques, that he, Mr. Henriques, could take care of Ladd’s fish in case Ladd has to be gone for any reason. So doesn’t it sound like Mr. Ladd was planning for the possibility of going to jail?”

  “I gotta be honest, Professor Barda, what you’re telling me, it isn’t exactly a smoking gun. Are you sure Henriques is telling you the truth? That’s a nice aquarium, you know. Some real valuable aquatic life. Maybe Henriques is trying to get his hands on it.”

  “Yeah, I could see that.”

  Emma, who was listening to both sides of the conversation, shrugged. Then she got up to refill her glass.

  “The thing about Jandie Brand being alive still, maybe it’s true,” Medeiros went on, “but if it is true, Mr. Ladd needs to tell me where his wife is. And convince me the dead woman isn’t her. Eh, you’re talking to your insurance tomorrow? About the fire?”

  “Yes. Is there anything I should tell them?”

  “Give them my contact info.”

  “Where’s Pat?” I asked Emma when I’d hung up.

  “He’s in his room. I think he’s taking a nap.”

  “We’re calling it his room now? Well at least he’s comfortable here.”

  An abrupt hammering on the door made us both jump.

  Harriet Holmes stood on my front porch, bottle of excellent whiskey in hand.

  “Our telly’s out,” she said. “Mind if I watch here?”

  Harriet marched in without waiting for an invitation.

  “Sure. Watch what?” I quietly closed the door behind her.

  “Ladd’s going to be on the evening news. Oh I say, Flanagan!”

  Harriet’s voice was so hearty, I could sense the walls vibrating. Pat stumbled into the living room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “Ah, Flanagan. Always a pleasure. Ready to watch the Sunday evening news?”

  Pat dropped his hand.

  “The regular TV news? Why would we watch that?”

  “Edward Ladd’s gonna be on,” Emma said.

  “Apparently,” I added.

  “Really?” Pat was instantly alert.

  “I was just talking to Detective Medeiros,” I said. “I wonder why he didn’t say anything about it.”

  “Detective Medeiros tells you what he wants you to know,” Pat said. “Nothing more.”

  “So when’s it supposed to start?” Emma asked.

  “In about a minute,” Harriet said. “I’ll pour us drinks.”

  “What about Nigel?” I asked. “Did he want to join us?”

  “He’s working on his manuscript,” she called from the kitchen above the rattle of glasses. “Been rather all he’s thinking about lately. I say, Barda, you have any proper whiskey glasses?”

  “I just have my Mahina stemware,” I called back. “Recycled furikake glasses. I’ll get some snacks. Pat or Emma, can you figure out how to get the TV working?”

  “Do you not know how to turn on your own TV?” Pat asked.

  “I used to, but it’s been so long I don’t remember now.”

  It took Pat and Emma a while to figure out how to tune in the local news on our living room TV. Donnie and I hadn’t watched regular television since Francesca was born. Our media consumption had been nothing but educational videos for the baby. These were regularly sent by my parents and generally geared towards children five to ten years older than Francesca. We had to watch them all from beginning to end, because my mother would call at random times (with my father hovering in the background) for a report on how Francesca liked the most recent one, what exactly she liked and didn’t like about it, and what exactly she had learned.

  Eventually, Pat and Emma got the regular TV working and found the right station.

  Edward Ladd’s interview was underway. We had missed the introduction. It looked like the interview was being filmed in a bland-looking office. But I recognized the setting as the library of our local jail. Ladd showed the wear and tear of his ordeal. The rims of his eyes were red, and he looked like he’d aged a few years.

  “He’s had a tough time,” I said. “Look at him.”

  “He’s just sorry he got caught,” Emma retorted.

  “Maybe not that sorry,” Pat said. “Look at the stack of books next to his left elbow. Our right, his left.”

  We all leaned in to read the writing on the book spines.

  “Rhyme and reason,” Emma read. “Oh, his stupid book.”

  “There’s a subtitle too,” Harriet pointed out. “A semi-autobiographical meditation on rationality and art. Oh I say, there’s a fellow with a lot of confidence.”

  “Is he seriously using his wife’s murder to promote his book?” I said.

  “It’s a good job Nigel’s not here to get any ideas,” Harriet said.

  The interviewer was a familiar-looking man wearing an aloha shirt. A local newscaster.

  “So your theory is your wife is still alive,” the man said, “and perhaps staying with friends. Do you have a particular group of people in mind, and if so, have you asked them about her whereabouts?”

  “We haven’t been on this island too long,” Ladd said, “but in the time we have spent here, Mahina has welcomed us with a great deal of aloha.”

  “What about the fire at your house?” the man countered. “Would you consider that an expression of aloha? Most people wouldn’t.”

  Ladd’s expression glitched like a bad TV signal.

  “Did you say fire?”

  “He’d no idea.” Harriet leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees. “Look at his expression. He’s only now learnt of it.”

  “Last night there was a fire at the house you shared with your wife Jandie Brand,” the newscaster said.

  Ladd opened his mouth and closed it again. He’d clearly been knocked off balance by the news.

  “I don’t know anything about it,” he said. “If the fire was deliberately set, it was the act of someone vicious and mean-spirited. Jandie would never want that. In fact, as I wrote in Rhyme and Reason, my semi-autobiographical—”

  “Listen to him, taking every opportunity to go banging on about himself,” Harriet exclaimed. “Right narcissist, he is.”

  “Exactly,” Emma said.

  Ladd set the book down and turned to look directly into camera.

  “Jandie, if you’re out there, please come home. Please. It’s...it’s time.”

  He appeared to blink away tears, shook his head as if he were embarrassed, and stood up. The camera followed him. It caught a few other people who didn’t seem to have planned to be in the shot. A lighting guy, a sound guy, and a tall man with a shock of red hair.

  “Isn’t that Howdy Howell?” I asked.

  “Yeah, it sure is,” Pat said. “He did a good job, getting in there. I didn’t even know this thing was happening tonight. I guess we’ll see his byline again in tomorrow’s County Courier.”

  The camera swiveled back to the anchor, who was arranging the pages of his script. He snapped to attention and improvised a wrap-up.

  “Poor Howdy,” Emma said.

  “Poor Howdy?” Pat said. “He’s getting a great scoop.”

  “Pat, his girlfriend’s in jail,” Emma said. “And those rumors about her and this guy? Ladd? if I was Howdy, I’d be sick to my stomach thinking about my girlfriend with that...soulless stick of beef jerky.”

  “Okay, but hear me out,” Pat said. “Wouldn’t a beef jerky stick with a soul be even worse?”

  “Kaycee one hundred percent denies having any kind of affair with Ladd,” I said.

  “Where’s the story coming from then?” Harriet asked.

  “Someone in the DA’s office had to figure out a motive for Kaycee Kabua killing a woman she barely knew,” Pat said. “That’s what they came up with.”

  “It was good enough to keep her in jail apparently,” I said. “Boy. I’ll feel better when I find out who set the fire.”

  “Or maybe you’ll feel worse,” Emma said. “Depending on what they find out. What if you’re the target? Hey, what if Linda Wilson did it?”

  “Linda Wilson is a bit cross with you,” Harriet said.

  “She’s one to talk,” I said. “Getting on my case for subletting and she’s doing exactly the same thing. Anyway, Linda’s been ‘cross’ with me ever since I came to Mahina State.”

  “It’s a Student Retention Office thing,” Emma said. “They all got a huge inferiority complex. You know how people are always talking about who’s the smartest person in the room? Notice how they never ask, who’s the dumbest person in the room? That’s cause everyone knows it’s always the person from the Student Retention Office.”

  “Do you ever think Linda felt you two were a little condescending to her?” Pat asked. “I mean, just a guess.”

  Pat’s phone rang.

  He got up quickly and left the room. When he returned, he said,

  “Wrong number.”

  Harriet stayed for quite a while after the broadcast ended. The four of us spent a little more time speculating about Jandie Brand’s disappearance. Then Harriet, Emma, and Pat moved on to dishing our colleagues and administrators. Mindful of the need to be a responsible department chair and role model, I didn’t participate. It occurred to me that with Nigel preoccupied with his publishing deadlines, Harriet might be starved for grownup social interaction. As amusing as Harriet could be, I was technically her supervisor. I didn’t feel like I could let my guard down around her, the way I could with Pat and Emma. Although I did enjoy sitting quietly and soaking up all the gossip.

  When the whiskey bottle was empty, Harriet bid us good night and left.

  As soon as she was out the door, Pat said,

  “That was Rainbow who called me. From the bakery place in Kuewa.”

  “Little Jack Horner’s,” Emma said.

  “Right. She called me about the interview.”

  “How come she called you?” Emma asked.

  “I left my card.”

  “Not how come she called you, Pat,” I said. “How come she called you?”

  “That’s exactly what I said,” Emma confirmed.

  “She told me if Jandie is alive, she’s not going to feel safe as long as ‘that man’ is running free.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Do you think Rainbow would’ve called you if she didn’t think Jandie was still alive?”

  “Yeah, what else does she know?” Emma said. “Did she say anything else?”

  “Not really,” Pat said. “She said she had to go, and she hung up.”

  “Maybe she’s just trying to find an excuse to talk to Pat,” Emma said. “I bet it gets lonely down there in Kuewa.”

  “Maybe she’s afraid they’ll just let Ladd go to avoid the bad publicity?” I said. “I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time that happened around here.”

  “Oh yeah, I bet you’re right, Molly,” Emma said.

  “Huh,” Pat said. “Maybe I should look into this a little more.”

  “Be careful,” I said.

  “Why would I be careful?” Pat retorted. “You don’t get good stories being careful.”

  CHAPTER 41

  THE INSURANCE AGENT’S representative arrived promptly at 9 on Monday morning. I was waiting for him by the rental’s burned-out front door. As he sauntered down the sloping lawn, clipboard in hand, I realized the round-faced young man looked familiar.

  “Micah?” I exclaimed. It was nice to see a familiar face. I used to feel awkward running into my former students, but by now I was used to it. College of Commerce graduates (and dropouts) have popped up at my doctor’s office, my credit union, and most of the places I shop. If you don’t like the idea of your former students knowing your bank balance, your wine-buying habits, or your age, weight, and current prescriptions, all I can say is don’t pursue a teaching career in Mahina.

  Micah closed in quickly and gave me a big hug before I knew what was happening.

  “Professor Molly, good to see you! Tough break, ah? No worries, we’ll get everything straightened out for you.”

  “Well this is a surprise,” I gasped as he released me. Micah always had a high level of energy and enthusiasm, and apparently upper-body strength to match. The local practice of greeting acquaintances with hugs instead of handshakes was something I was still trying to get used to. “You’re with the insurance company? I thought you were working down at the Maritime Club.”

  “Yeah, I’m still there, nights an’ weekends. It’s good tips, an’ nice people. But this has benefits, and I’m using my College of Commerce degree. You still teaching at the college?”

  “They haven’t fired me yet.”

  I had intended to be humorous, but Micah simply nodded and said,

  “Lucky. Okay, let’s see what we got here.”

  Instead of walking straight in through the front door opening, he went around the left side of the house, into the carport. I followed him up the steps to the side door. It was unlocked. Micah went ahead of me into the laundry room.

  “How does it look?” I immediately realized what a dumb question it was. “I mean, you can’t see any damage here. The smoky smell is everywhere though.”

  “I’m just here to do the preliminary. Depending on what I find, I might have to call in the arson people.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” I said.

  “Anyone been in here since the fire?” Micah poised his pen over his clipboard.

  “Me,” I said. “I know I shouldn’t have come in, but I wanted to see for myself what kind of damage there was.”

  “Anything of value in here that you know of?”

  “There’s a saltwater aquarium,” I said. “It didn’t look like it was affected by the fire, but I don’t really know. Does the aquarium count as valuable?”

  “Oh yeah,” Micah said. “Aquarium fish are big business. One of our commercial clients over on the west side, pet store owner, just got hit with a five thousand dollar fine for illegally collecting aquatic life. He thought we’d cover it as a business expense. I had to tell him his policy doesn’t cover illegal acts. We do sell policies like that, you know. But the premiums are higher.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Should you be telling me this? About one of your clients?”

  “We keep our client’s details in strictest confidence,” Micah said proudly. “You notice I never said the name, yeah?”

  From what Micah had just told me, I could hop online and find the man’s identity in five seconds. Which, I calculated, was about as long as it was going to take for the coconut wireless to be humming with the news of my own situation.

  Micah and I emerged into the kitchen. I was glad to see it was tidy, with no dirty dishes or food sitting out. The aquarium was still bubbling away on the counter. Brightly-colored fish darted around the undulating green fronds. A few paces beyond the aquarium was the burned-out hole where the front door used to be. The yellow “X” of tape still held in place.

  “I’ve never seen the tank from this side,” I said. “I’ve only ever come in through the front door. I guess it’s a creative way to separate the kitchen from the living and dining room, as long as you don’t need the counter space.”

  “This is a nice one,” Micah said. “It looks like the ones in those fancy kine Chinese restaurants in Honolulu.” Micah walked around the counter to the dining room side and stopped short, his eyes fixed on the floor.

  I came up behind him and saw what he was looking at: A man was sprawled face-down on the laminate floor. I recognized his palaka shirt and the combed-over black strands of hair clinging to his moon-like head.

  Micah took a step back, right onto my foot, and nearly took us both down.

  “Someone should check for a pulse,” Micah said.

  “Someone?”

  We looked at each other.

  I’m not particularly brave about this kind of thing, but I happened to know Micah was even worse in these kinds of situations than I was.

  “Okay. I’ll do it. Excuse me.” I set down my bag on one of the barstools and took out my hand mirror. I knelt down next to Mr. Henriques. His face was turned away, toward the base of the counter. I placed the mirror in front of his mouth to see whether he’d fog it. My wrist touched the side of his face.

  I dropped the mirror and scooted back, knocking Micah off-balance.

  “Is he alive?” Micah asked as soon as we’d both righted ourselves.

  “No. He didn’t fog the mirror. And he’s cold.”

  “How long has he been...da kine?”

  “Well, he was here yesterday. Alive. He was here, and alive. We should leave. No, we should call for help. Then we should...”

  I turned around to see Micah was already gone. I was alone with the late Mr. Henriques.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Henriques.” I could barely hear my own voice over the sound of the aquarium bubbling overhead. “I’m going to call Detective Medeiros. Whoever did this to you, they won’t get away with it.”

  l dialed Medeiros’s direct number and walked out the front of the house, ducking under the tape. I found Micah leaning against the side of my house, hands braced on his knees, still panting from his short sprint across the lawn.

  “I’m calling the police right now,” I said. “Micah. You look...why don’t you come inside and sit down?”

  Micah followed me into the living room and sank down onto the couch.

  I left a message on Medeiros’s voice mail, hung up, and called 9-1-1. I explained the situation to the dispatcher.

  “Someone is on their way,” she said. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

  “Me? Okay? No, not really. I was just talking to a dead body inside my burned-out house.”

  “I see. And was the dead body talking back, ma’am?”

  “No. It was just me talking. It was poor Mr. Henriques. He was my neighbor. He—”

  “Ma’am, get yourself a glass of water and try to relax. Someone will be there very soon.”

  Micah and I were sitting side-by-side on the couch drinking from matching glasses of tap water when Pat came strolling in.

 

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