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

 

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