by Frankie Bow
“And yet, here you are. Out and about, in public, just a couple blocks from Donnie’s Drive-Inn. Where you could run into someone you know.”
“Yeah, I’m not too worried. Sometimes people get so buried in their work, they don’t notice what’s going on right in front of them.”
Davison looked bewildered. “I’m not buried in my work,” he said.
“Of course not, honey.” She patted his muscled arm and handed him a set of keys. “Go wait in the car, ‘kay? I’ll be right there.”
“Look,” I said, when Davison was safely out of earshot. “I’m not judging or anything. I just need to know what’s going on. Does Donnie know you’re back in Mahina?”
“Nah. What’s the point? It would just bring up a bunch of bad stuff.”
If Sherry was telling the truth about not having seen Donnie, then maybe Donnie had been telling the truth too. Uh-oh.
“Donnie really doesn’t know you’re here.”
“Nope.”
“He doesn’t know you were in his house.”
“No way.”
“Well, that certainly explained some things. I knew the tacky black satin bathrobe couldn’t be Donnie’s.
“All right. Well, now maybe I am judging. Sherry, Davison is your stepson.”
She shrugged.
“I didn’t know it when I met him.”
She was telling the truth. When Davison had met Sherry as an adult, neither of them had had any idea they had been a family once. Sherry had eventually figured it out. Donnie never knew about any of it. I had kept quiet about the whole thing. I hadn’t wanted Sherry, who was my student at the time, to know I was dating her ex-husband.
“You obviously know who Davison is now.”
“It’s not like I watched him grow up or anything. I mean, he was only, what, six when I left.”
“He was eight, Sherry. You left on his eighth birthday.”
“Whatever. Anyway, I got over it. Listen, I gotta go.”
“Just one more question. I need to know who knows what, so I don’t put my foot in it. Does Davison know you’re his long-lost stepmother?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. I don’t think it ever really came up.”
“Right. I think I owe someone an apology.”
I climbed into my car, shut the door, and dialed Donnie’s number. It went to voicemail, so I hung up without leaving a message. I would catch him later at Donnie’s Drive-Inn and talk to him in person. I hadn’t figured out yet how I would explain away my accusations about Sherry.
On the way home I stopped by Natural High Organic Foods, where I could replace some of the delicious, allergenic foodstuffs Melanie had forced me to part with. I bypassed the gluten-free shelves and instead loaded up my shopping cart with sourdough bread, tomato sauce, peanut butter, chocolate, and aged cheese, then went to look at the fresh produce. I was admiring some overripe but wonderfully fragrant strawberries, when I saw Fontanne Masterman a little way off, examining fuchsia and green globes of scaly dragonfruit.
We exchanged ladylike cheek kisses. People in Mahina didn’t do the mwah-mwah California air kiss. A Mahina kiss had actual lip-to-skin contact. I still wasn’t used to it. Emma claimed I was overly fussy about germs. I needed to make my immune system earn its keep now and then, she said. I hoped she was right. What choice did I have? I couldn’t exactly walk around Mahina in a hazmat suit.
“Oh, Molly.” Mrs. Masterman set her basket down. “I feel so terrible about what happened. It’s absurd they arrested you. You were sitting right there in my garden the whole time.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry it had to happen in your backyard.”
“So are you coming to the next Garden Society meeting? I do hope you haven’t been put off.”
Whether I bought the Brewster House or not, I realized I should probably maintain my membership in the Pua Kala Garden Society. Now I was single again, it was important to have a social network. And I really did have a lot to learn about gardening. I was not one of those persons gifted with a green thumb. In fact, I seemed to have the opposite of a green thumb, whatever that would be. A red thumb? That didn’t sound right, although green and red opposed each other on the color wheel. A brown thumb? A black thumb? Was that racist? Maybe a skeleton thumb, like the Grim Reaper.
“I’ll be there. In fact I just ran into Iker Legazpi at Mass this morning, and he said he was planning to attend too. So the next meeting will be at the Brewster House?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Masterman said. “I suppose I won’t have moved by then, alas.”
I thought of suggesting if she were really eager to move, she could go ahead and list the Brewster House on the Multiple Listing Service, but then I selfishly held back. Why invite competition? I still wanted the Brewster House, despite its grisly history. I didn’t want to give up on the chance to live in a gorgeous landmark just because my wedding plans had fizzled.
“The police took my gardening shoes as evidence,” I said. “I’ll have to buy new ones.”
“Oh, just wear comfortable flats. We won’t be digging ditches.”
“I wish I’d known that earlier.” If the police hadn’t found those latex-laden shoes outside my house, I might not have a murder charge hanging over my head.
“Are you still interested in buying the house?” Mrs. Masterman asked. “One could hardly blame you for losing interest, considering.”
“No, I am still interested. Definitely. Oh, and speaking of that. Leilani Zelenko told me your house is haunted, of all things.”
“She did, did she?” Mrs. Fontanne Masterman picked up a spiny red rambutan, examined it, and dropped it into her basket.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“LEILANI TOLD ME SHE was required to disclose that the Brewster House was haunted.”
“People do claim the house is haunted. It’s silly and melodramatic, if you ask me.”
“I know. Even Donnie’s son—”
“I deplore the word haunted,” she continued. “So lugubrious. Of course the house is inhabited.”
She picked up another rambutan, sniffed it, and put it back.
“Inhabited?”
“Yes. I would have thought both of you might have known already. It’s common knowledge. Of course English isn’t Leilani’s first language, and you’re such a newcomer here.” Mrs. Masterman moved on to the avocados, picking one up and palpating it gently.
Davison’s ridiculous story about the Brewster House ghosts was common knowledge? Maybe Honey Akiona had been too quick to dismiss my idea of using the Brewster House’s past for my defense.
“Mrs. Masterman, do you think Melanie’s death had anything to do with your, um, inhabitants?”
“Oh, yes, I think so. The young woman Melanie was dreadfully rude. Well, I mean, did you see her? Gawping at her electric toys and not paying any attention at all to me, or to her surroundings. I think the girls were a bit put out by her behavior, if you want my opinion. And I can’t say that I blame them.”
“The girls?”
“Flora and Constance. Especially Constance, the baby. Well, they have no self-control, do they, at that age?”
“Constance Brewster. The six-year-old.”
The air conditioning in Natural High Organic Foods had never worked particularly well. But today, as the wall unit over the bulk bins rattled on in its usual ineffectual manner, I felt a chill.
“Quite so. Of course the prosecutor can’t admit to Flora and Constance having had anything to do with it, can he? It would be embarrassing. The Honolulu papers already look down so on us. They love to portray the neighbor islands as backward and superstitious. Do you know, it was only recently they stopped referring to us as the outer islands, as if we were utterly beyond the pale?”
“‘Neighbor islands’ sounds much friendlier,” I agreed.
“So this is where I’m afraid you got caught up in it, my dear. You’re an outsider, so it’s easy to make you the culprit.”
“Good to know.”
> “Our little gardening society has had such a time lately. And now I hear poor Nicole’s husband has run off.”
“I heard. Apparently no one can get in touch with him.”
“Well, I expect they’ll find him at the bottom of a flight of stairs somewhere,” Mrs. Masterman declared, “and I can’t say I would blame Nicole for a second, if you catch my meaning. Tuesday, then. Don’t be late. The girls appreciate punctuality.”
I went home and put my groceries away. It seemed like a good time to stop by Donnie’s Drive-Inn to deliver my apology; the lunch rush would have died down by now. My first priority was to get out of my sweater dress. The morning had been cool, but in the damp afternoon heat, vintage cashmere was sweaty torture. I showered, reapplied my makeup, and changed into jeans and a short-sleeved cotton blouse. Presentable, but casual. I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard.
Donnie seemed surprised to see me. Surprised, and wary. What he didn’t seem was happy. But he was polite enough to call notice of his five-minute break into the kitchen.
We sat at one of the Drive-Inn’s shiny red picnic benches. Donnie’s Drive-Inn only had outdoor seating. Despite the Drive-Inn’s location on a busy road, Donnie kept those picnic tables gleaming. Everything at Donnie’s Drive-Inn was clean and in perfect order. It almost made up for the mediocre food.
“Donnie, I have to apologize to you. I jumped to conclusions and made an accusation, which turned out to be completely untrue.”
Donnie studied my face, as if considering what to say.
“So I went to the behavioral health appointment. Just as you suggested.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Is there a diagnosis?”
“Why would you assume there’s a diagnosis?”
“I didn’t assume, Molly. I asked. All right. Is there any way I can help?”
“For your information, I have a clean bill of health, and you can ‘help’ by not dismissing me straightaway or calling me crazy. Even Dr. Spinner, who loves shoving pills into peoples’ hands, thinks I’m just under stress with the murder charge and everything.”
“Dr. Spinner?”
“Spiner. Gregory Spiner.” I couldn’t help thinking of him as “Spinner” thanks to his habit of spinning around in his chair during our sessions. I thought it was just me, but then one time I overheard the pharmacist call him “Dr. Spinner” and I wondered whether he twirled around at staff meetings too. “I explained everything to him, and he assured me it was the kind of thing that could happen to anyone. He told me he was sure my husband would be understanding.”
Spinner had actually advised me to come clean and tell Donnie everything about Davison’s ongoing affair with Donnie’s ex-wife. He’d gone on to state (rather rudely, in my opinion) that I needed to stop being so secretive with my husband. I’d countered that I knew denial when I saw it (I’d grown up Catholic, after all), and I wasn’t about to take it upon myself to pop Donnie’s bubble of willful self-deception.
Donnie still wasn’t saying anything. What was that suckup routine that Davison used? Ah, yes:
“You were right, Donnie. And I was wrong. I’m very sorry. My actions were inexcusable.”
“Molly,” Donnie sighed, “As much as I hate to disagree with a professional—and I have a lot of respect for Gregory—I have to believe you’re not fine.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s okay. We’re about to promise to stick with each other in sickness and health, and I’m going to honor that. I understand people don’t just get better overnight. There are good days and bad days. I’m willing to be patient.”
“Sure. That would be a very nice sentiment if I were unwell to begin with. But this was a simple mis—”
“Of course you’re unwell. It’s the illness talking. Molly. You would never make such hurtful accusations. Would you? I mean, you don’t honestly believe I’m capable of sneaking around with my ex-wife while we’re planning our wedding.” He shook his head, as if telling himself to snap out of it.
“Of course I don’t believe it, Donnie.” Not anymore.
“Exactly. Like I said, it was the illness talking. You just have to focus on getting better. Don’t worry, I’m here for you.”
He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. I wondered how I might have approached the situation more tactfully. Maybe there was no polite way to accuse one’s fiancé of sleeping with his ex-wife.
And now I was stuck. According to Donnie, whatever I had said was so unforgivably hurtful that the only way he could excuse it was to convince himself that it was my “illness” talking, not me. So my two choices were (1) unforgivable meanie, or (2) raving loon.
What if I followed Dr. Spinner’s advice and tried to tell Donnie the truth? In all likelihood Sherry would leave the island, Davison would deny everything, and I would look like I’d gone completely around the bend.
Even if I could get Donnie to believe I had seen Sherry swanning around his house in Davison’s satin bathrobe (yuck), it wouldn’t help. He would hate me for being the bearer of distasteful news. And he would still feel hurt by my assuming it was he who had been with Sherry. Keeping my mouth shut remained my best option.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“I HAVE BEEN THINKING about what you said.” Donnie reached over and patted my hand absently. “About Davison.”
“Really? What about him?”
“I don’t like how he’s been acting lately. He’s been evasive. Almost as if he’s hiding something from me.”
“He probably is hiding something from you. You should ask him about it.”
“His therapist says he needs structure in his life.”
“You got him a therapist?”
“Same one he’s had for the last couple years.”
“Oh, right. The court-ordered anger-management guy.”
“Anyway, I told Davison he had to start going to church. Either that or volunteer at hospice.”
“And he chose church?”
“How did you know?”
“I saw him at Mass this morning. I think church is a good choice for him. Much better than hospice.”
Inflicting Davison Gonsalves upon people in their final hours seemed unnecessarily cruel.
“You saw Davison there? Did you talk to him?”
“He sat next to me. We even shared a hymnal.”
Donnie’s face lit up.
“He didn’t make any trouble, I hope.”
At one point, Davison’s attention had wandered, and he suddenly realized he was still standing when everyone else was kneeling. He had then dropped down so hard onto the kneeling bench a loud crack had echoed through the sanctuary. Davison barely felt it, but St. Damien’s was going to have an expensive carpentry bill.
“Not at all,” I said. “Everything was fine.”
“I told him he had to apologize to you for his rudeness. Did he?”
“Yes. Eventually.”
Donnie squeezed my hand again and smiled.
“So how does this sound, Molly? No wedding for now. Not until you’ve dealt with your health and with your, uh, legal issues. We’ll just see what happens. No plans. No pressure. Sound good?”
It sounded sad, actually. I wanted there to be plans. But I just nodded.
“How is Honey Akiona working out?”
“Oh, thank you for hiring her. I wouldn’t have had any idea where to get a lawyer. I really appreciate it. All of your help. Thank you.”
I would have to budget to pay Donnie back for Honey’s legal fees. Maybe I could work out some really creative financing for my purchase of the Brewster House, one of those loans where the buyer gets a big lump sum up front to do remodeling or termite treatment.
“I have to get back,” Donnie said. “It was nice of you to come by, Molly.”
I walked back to my car with a hollow feeling in my stomach. I had been expecting a joyous reunion. Instead, I got a polite brush-off. No plans, no pressure. Donnie hadn’t been carrying on with his ex-wife
after all. And he was even trying to do something about Davison. But I had ruined everything by behaving like a crazy person. Thanks to me, our engagement was still off.
As I was getting into my car, my purse hummed rhythmically. I pulled my phone out. It was Atticus Marx from our IT department calling. Maybe this wasn’t going to be such a crummy day after all.
Atticus was already waiting at the Pair-O-Dice when I arrived. It wasn’t hard to find him; the only other customers in the dim bar were a leather-clad biker couple, sharing a pitcher of beer. The Pair-O-Dice’s wooden storefront and amateurish promotional window paintings weren’t exactly an enticement to passers-by, and those who did make it inside were rewarded with watery drinks served on sticky tabletops. Most days it was so empty, it was like a private club. (Trivia Thursdays were a notable exception.)
The Pair-O-Dice’s one point of pride was its custom neon sign, with Pair-O-Dice spelled out in curvy blue script, an animated pink pair of dice rolling underneath, and green and yellow neon palm trees on either side. Donnie could never understand why I liked the Pair-O-Dice; he thought it was a dump. The Pair-O-Dice was a dump, but as far as Emma, Pat and I were concerned, it was our dump.
Atticus lit up as I approached his table. “This place is great,” he exclaimed. “I love it.” He stood and gave me a big bear hug just as Pat walked in, with Emma close behind him. Atticus’ stubbly beard prickled my cheek as he held me close. Pat stopped and stared. Emma stared too, but she kept walking, right into Pat.
I made introductions as we got seated around the uneven wooden table.
“I wonder why they don’t invest in three-legged tables,” I said. “That way, no matter how crooked the floor was, at least the tables wouldn’t wobble.”
“Hey, great idea, Molly. You should suggest it to them. So is this your guys’ regular hangout?”
“Only on Sundays,” Pat said. “On weekdays we hang out in Molly’s office.”
“Molly has better coffee,” Emma added. “But no booze.”
“I’ve driven by this place,” Atticus said, “but I’ve always been kind of afraid to come inside. Thanks for inviting me, Molly.”
