The Fever Cabinet, page 8
part #9 of Professor Molly Mysteries Series
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.”
