The Black Thumb

by Frankie Bow

  The Black Thumb

  FRANKIE BOW

  Also by Frankie Bow

  Miss Fortune World: Hair Extensions and Homicide

  Once Upon a Murder

  Tabasco Fiasco

  Schooled

  Miss Fortune World: Supernatural Sinful

  Sinful Science

  Miss Fortune World: The Mary-Alice Files

  Mary-Alice Moves In

  Bayou Busybody

  The Vanishing Victim

  Aloha, Y'all

  The Two-Body Problem

  Black Widow Valley

  The No-Tell Motel

  Vampire Billionaire of the Bayou

  The Pajama Murder

  The Lost Weekend

  Professor Molly Mysteries

  Trust Fall

  The Musubi Murder

  The Cursed Canoe

  The Black Thumb

  The Invasive Species

  Mother's Day

  The Nakamura Letters

  The Perfect Body

  The Case of the Defunct Adjunct

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Also By Frankie Bow

  The Black Thumb (Professor Molly Mysteries, #3)

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Also By Frankie Bow

  About the Publisher

  Hawaiian Heritage Press

  THE BLACK Thumb

  Copyright © 2016 by Frankie Bow

  Published by Hawaiian Heritage Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the authors except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Edited by Maria de Pillis-Shintaku

  ISBN 978-1-943476-16-9 (e-book)

  ISBN 978-1-943476-18-3 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-943476-19-0 (hardcover)

  Library of Congress Control Number 2016938847

  DEDICATION

  For everyone who is trying to learn something new.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I could not have written this without the tireless support of my family. Thank you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN a lovely summer afternoon. Melanie Polewski and I were sitting in the back garden of the historic Brewster House, watching as our hostess, Mrs. Fontanne Masterman, demonstrated the correct way to strip thorns from a rose stem. Melanie had arrived in Hawai`i just a few days earlier and was eager to take in all of the sights. The town of Mahina didn’t have an art museum, an opera company, or a symphony orchestra, but we did have the Pua Kala Garden Society.

  “It’s so authentic here!” Melanie had enthused as I loaded her hot-pink designer-logo luggage into my trunk. “I feel like I’m in a third world country!”

  Melanie and I had gone to grad school together, and at the risk of sounding uncharitable, I don’t know how she made it through our program. Although, if I may risk sounding even more uncharitable, I do have my suspicions. Even in Mahina’s afternoon humidity, Melanie looked like a fresh-faced golden goddess. Sitting next to her I felt like a sweaty, frizzy-haired frump.

  My new shoes didn’t help. I had bought an inexpensive pair of gardening clogs for this occasion. They were dark green rubber, and shaped like thumbs. They didn’t go at all with my white cotton lawn blouse and black linen slacks, not that I could imagine what kind of outfit they would go with. Maybe a dinosaur costume.

  In any event, I hadn’t come to the Pua Kala Garden Society meeting to show off my new shoes, or to learn about de-thorning techniques. I was here because I wanted to buy the Brewster House.

  My goal was to make a good impression on Fontanne Masterman, the house’s owner and president of the Garden Society. The Brewster House was a nineteenth-century bungalow in the Old Russian Road neighborhood of Mahina. According to Leilani Zelenko, my real estate agent, Mrs. Masterman was open to selling, but didn’t want to list her residence on the MLS. She didn’t want looky-loos disrupting her daily schedule, scuffing the polished eucalyptus floors, or disturbing her cats. And she wanted the house to go to someone who loved it as much as she did.

  I was finding our hostess to be rather delightful. Mrs. Masterman was much better company than Melanie, who was being a condescending pill.

  “This Garisenda is a good climber, delicate-looking but very sturdy,” Mrs. Masterman was saying. “It’s ideal for a shady spot. You can see how well it’s doing on this north-facing wall.”

  The trellised roses did look lovely, glowing pale pink in the cool shade. I imagined my turquoise-and-white 1959 Thunderbird parked under the nearby porte-cochere, alongside Donnie’s charcoal-gray SUV. I would keep the rose trellises, I decided. Maybe we could even add a garage, if I could figure out how to do it without ruining the elegant line of the building. The Brewster House wasn’t in the Register of Historic Places. It probably should have been, but neither Mrs. Masterman nor any of the previous owners had bothered to file the paperwork. The only thing a Register listing bought you, according to my real estate agent, was a skimpy tax break and severe restrictions on remodeling.

  My dream was to get the purchase done in time for Donnie and me to move in right after our wedding. The thought of starting married life with Donnie made me glow with optimism. I’d miss my quaint plantation house in downtown Mahina, but I couldn’t share such a tiny space with another person on a permanent basis. Having a temporary houseguest was bad enough. My place had only one bathroom, not a promising recipe for marital harmony. And no way did I want to move into Donnie
’s place. It was a perfectly nice ranch house on a three-acre lot, and Donnie made us amazing gourmet meals in his top-of-the-line kitchen, but I always felt like a guest there.

  “The Garisenda comes to us from Italy,” Mrs. Masterman was saying. “Isn’t that right, Molly?”

  Everyone was looking at me now.

  “What? Sure,” I agreed.

  My name is Molly Barda. Barda is an Albanian name, but people assume I’m Italian. Even my fiancé, Donnie Gonsalves. I’d never gotten around to setting him straight. Donnie was a bit of an Italophile, and I’ve always hated to disappoint people.

  Melanie nudged me.

  “I can’t believe what a little country mouse you’ve become,” she whispered.

  I gave her a minimal smile and tried to pay attention as Mrs. Masterman described the use of a rose thorn stripper, a device that looked like little hand-sized barbecue tongs. The fragile-looking device was in fact powerfully spring-loaded, Mrs. Masterman informed us, but quite safe to use if one took the proper precautions.

  “That thing looks dangerous to me,” Nicole Nixon said. “It looks like you could hurt someone with it.”

  I wondered if Nicole was thinking about anyone in particular. I only knew her slightly, but I had heard the rumors. Nicole and her husband Scott had graduated from the same doctoral program, but Scott was the one who had received the tenure-track offer, and had quickly been promoted to chair of the Mahina State University English department. He taught a popular Jane Austen elective, so he was constantly surrounded by adoring female undergraduates, with predictable consequences.

  Having shelved her own ambitions to follow her faithless husband out to the middle of the Pacific Ocean, Nicole now worked as an adjunct lecturer, covering the basic comp classes none of the full-timers wanted to teach. The general sentiment was that Nicole Nixon had gotten a raw deal.

  The problem with beautiful views, I realized as I surveyed the garden, was they usually came with steep slopes. From the street, the Brewster House looked like a one-story building. The living room and the master bedroom were on the same level as the front door. To reach the back garden we had all entered through the front door, and then walked down three flights of stairs. The angle of the bank made for a thirty-foot drop from the master bedroom balcony onto the hard black lava rock flat where we garden club members sat in our wobbly wooden folding chairs. Just past the edge of the yard, the jungle grew untamed, and the ground dropped another forty feet. The Hanakoa River rushed along the bottom of the gorge, out of sight.

  Donnie had asked me if I thought the Brewster House might be unsafe for small children.

  “Why?” I’d replied, obliviously. “Do we know anyone with small children?”

  We probably needed to talk through the whole “having children” issue through a little more before we actually got married.

  Melanie leaned over and whispered,

  “Wow, anyone could feel like a big fish in a pond this small.”

  I replied with a bare nod. Earlier that afternoon I’d let it slip that I’d been promoted to interim chair of the management department, and it seemed she wanted to take me down a peg. I focused on the animated Mrs. Masterman as Melanie divided her attention between her laptop and her cell phone.

  At first, I had been glad to hear from Melanie. I hadn’t seen her since we had both graduated with our doctorates from one of the top ten literature and creative writing programs in the country. I don’t mean to brag. I’m putting it here as a warning to anyone thinking about getting a degree in literature and creative writing. My dissertation advisor had been devastated when I told him I had accepted a position in the Mahina State College of Commerce. I had pointed out the last full-time English department job I’d applied for had over a thousand applicants, and after a year of fruitless job-hunting, I needed to start earning a living wage. I was lucky to get this job.

  Melanie had been less fortunate than I. She had floated around after graduation doing freelance editing and, rumor had it, working for one of those villainous websites with a name like wedoyourhomework-dot-com. Using me as a reference, Melanie had managed to land a one-year visiting professorship in the Mahina State English department, and was staying with me until she could find a place of her own.

  I heard a “ping” from one of Melanie’s electronic devices. She balanced her glass of iced tea on the chair arm and glanced at her watch. “I have to use the bathroom. Could you hold my laptop, Molly?”

  She handed me a thin slice of brushed metal and I slid it into my bag, next to my own chunky computer.

  Melanie had a fetish about “staying hydrated.” Because of this, she had to go to the bathroom a lot. This was not the kind of detail I usually cared to dwell on, but since I was sharing my one-bathroom house with her, her fluid processing was impossible to ignore. As were her various allergies and sensitivities, which had apparently worsened since grad school.

  Melanie had forced me to clear my refrigerator and pantry of gluten, dairy, tree nuts, chocolate, peanuts, and the nightshade family, including tomatoes, eggplant and potatoes. I had protested I wasn’t going to make her eat any of these things, and a sealed jar of pasta sauce sitting on the top shelf of my pantry couldn’t possibly harm her, but she was adamant. The food bank, at least, had been delighted to receive my banished foodstuffs.

  One item Melanie did not excommunicate was my coffee. Far from it. In a few short days she had managed to deplete my precious supply of Kona peaberry, the one that cost you’ve-gotta-be-kidding-me per pound.

  “I think there’s a bathroom next to the kitchen, one at the first landing at the top of the stairs, and one off the master bedroom,” I whispered to her.

  “You were right. This is a nice house. Hey, I could buy it, and rent it to you. And then I could stay over whenever.” She nudged me as she stood up. “Maybe I could take care of Donnie when you’re too tired. Oh, come on, I’m just kidding.”

  I watched her stride back to the house on long, tanned legs, her tawny hair shimmering in the hot sun. This was going to be a long year, I thought.

  “Might one allow two or three leaves to remain?” asked Iker Legazpi, the only man at our little gathering. “As a natural effect?” Iker, a sweet and earnest professor of accountancy, was one of my favorite people, despite his sunny attitude.

  “I believe it’s good practice to allow an odd number of leaves,” Mrs. Masterman said. “A single leaf, or if one is feeling impetuous, three. Never two.”

  I had little to contribute to the discussion, so I sat and listened, enjoying the lovely garden. We were invisible from the main road, tucked away amidst fragrant roses and well-tended palms and ground cover sprouting vivid green patches on the black lava rock.

  There was no scream of anguish. The impact of soft flesh landing on the hard lava made no sound, at least nothing loud enough to be heard over the roar of the river below us. It took the assembled members of the Pua Kala Garden Society a few long seconds to register a young woman lying face-down on the lava in front of us. We sat frozen in place, staring at the earthly remains of Melanie Polewski.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FONTANNE MASTERMAN had the presence of mind to call 9-1-1 while the rest of us were still sitting and gawking at poor Melanie, sprawled at our feet. A contingent of Mahina’s Finest arrived within minutes, along with an ambulance which, unfortunately, turned out to be unnecessary.

  Unnecessary for Melanie, that is. Nicole Nixon, my unfortunate colleague from the English department, fainted and had to have oxygen administered. Iker Legazpi was the only one of us who stayed calm; he bowed his head, crossed himself, and then set about comforting the other Garden Society members. With his grave expression and round face, he looked more like a sad baby than a college professor.

  As I was the one who had brought Melanie to this gathering, I soon found myself in conversation with one Detective Medeiros.

  “Are you related to anyone at Mahina State?” I asked. “I’ve met two Medeiroses in campus se
curity.”

  “Yes. Is this the correct spelling of the last name of the deceased?”

  Detective Medeiros and I passed a few minutes going over the spelling of “Polewski.” Mahina had its share of Kamakas and De Silvas, Agbayanis and Nakamuras, but the consonant-heavy surnames of Central Europe were fairly uncommon. It was a good thing it had been Melanie visiting, and not my freshman-year roommate, Charlotte Szczepanski.

  “Did you notice that the deceased was depressed?” Medeiros asked.

  “No.”

  “Upset in any way?”

  “Not that I could tell.”

  “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary in her behavior?”

  “Not really.”

  “How was the deceased’s mood, as far as you recall?”

  “I don’t know. Smug?”

  “Do you have a local address for her?” Medeiros asked.

  “She didn’t have a permanent address yet in Mahina. She was staying with me. She just moved out from the Bay Area. She’s originally from one of those states that start with an I. Iowa? Indiana? Idaho?”

  Detective Medeiros glanced at his tiny notepad.

  “Ohio.”

  Maybe the notepad only looked tiny compared to the rest of him. Like his relatives in our campus security department, Detective Kaʻimi Medeiros was a large man. His chair was positioned due west of mine, so I was able to sit comfortably in his shade as we spoke.

  “Ohio,” I agreed.

  “Was the deceased having financial troubles, do you know?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. Not at all. Her family has piles of money. They make pig iron or cowbells or something.”

  Fontanne Masterman appeared from behind Detective Medeiros and handed him an amber glass of iced tea.

  “Would you like to top up, Molly?” She held up a pitcher.

  “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Masterman. Oh, the tea. This was Melanie’s glass.”

  I pointed to the glass Melanie had left balanced on the arm of her chair, not wanting to touch it and leave fingerprints. “Shouldn’t you test her tea?”

  I thought I felt Mrs. Fontanne Masterman glaring at me.

  “I mean, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with the tea, but someone might have slipped something into Melanie’s glass. Shouldn’t you check?”