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