The Black Thumb

by Frankie Bow

  “As Betty Jackson says, don’t thank me. Cite me.”

  I helped myself to the last Bushido Breakfast Bomb, and wondered what on earth Emma was up to.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  DESPITE MY RESOLVE of the previous Sunday, I could not wake up early enough to make it to seven o'clock Mass. Nine o’clock was the earliest I could manage. The pew Davison and I had occupied the previous week was taped off, still awaiting the repair of the kneeling bench. I spotted Iker Legazpi near the front of the sanctuary and went up to join him. We sat together and listened to a homily on forgiveness.

  “Do you think forgiveness is always the right approach?” I asked Iker as we walked out afterwards. “What if forgiving someone’s bad behavior only enables it?”

  “You are having trouble with forgiveness?” Iker asked.

  “I’m struggling with this idea of a blanket approach. Do you always have to forgive, in every single case? What if someone does something really terrible? Like falsely accuses you of something, for example. Are you just supposed to say it’s fine?”

  “Ah. If the accusation is true, then perhaps I am angry because the thing I wished to hide has been brought into the open.”

  “Well, the accusation is most certainly not true.”

  “Then it is my accuser’s error, not mine.”

  “A-ha. So the accuser is wrong.”

  “As we all have been wrong at times.”

  Iker’s compassion was infuriating. But he was right. I had assumed Donnie was back together with his ex-wife, when he hadn’t even known she was in town. But then Donnie had turned around and accused me of messing around with Davison, which was far worse. It was the royal flush of insults, as far as I was concerned.

  “What if they don’t even say they’re sorry? We’re not obliged to forgive the unrepentant, are we?”

  “Perhaps we need not ask whether we are obliged to forgive,” Iker said. “Here is another question: What is the effect upon my spiritual health, when I bear a grudge?”

  As I started my car, I heard my phone humming in my bag. The caller ID told me it was Donnie.

  “Molly. I’m calling to apologize. About Friday night. I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?”

  “Are you at the Drive-Inn?” I asked. “I’ll come over.”

  The early breakfast crowd had thinned out. Donnie brought over two Styrofoam cups of coffee and we sat at one of the gleaming red picnic tables.

  “So what made you decide to actually believe me?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry, Molly. It was being confronted with...I overreacted. Of course I believe you.”

  “Did you ever get the truth out of Davison?”

  “He didn’t deny your version of events.”

  “It’s not my version of events, Donnie. It’s reality’s version of events.”

  Donnie knew I liked cream in my coffee, so he had fixed my coffee up with a double dose of powdered creamer. I took a sip, and tried not to make a face.

  “I made an appointment with Davison’s counselor,” Donnie said. “This relationship with his stepmother seems unhealthy to me.”

  “Can’t disagree with you there. Well, it’s good she’s found a distraction for now, but what happens when he goes back to school? The next time Sherry gets bored, she’ll just go find him again.”

  “He’s not going back there,” Donnie said.

  “Isn’t he almost finished with his degree? And what about his scholarship?”

  “He lost his scholarship.”

  “He what? I thought he brought his grades back up.”

  Donnie sighed.

  “I didn’t tell you. He was caught cheating.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Good thing I was sitting down for that astonishing news.

  “Davison needs an environment with more structure,” Donnie said. “He needs boundaries.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I found a military academy that’ll take him.”

  “Military academy? Is Davison okay with getting packed off to military school?”

  “Davison doesn’t have anything to say about it. I’m paying the bills.” Donnie glanced at his watch. “I don’t want to make you late for Mass. I think Davison might already be there.”

  “I went to an earlier service. I guess I missed him this week. So we’re good, then?”

  “I hope so.” Donnie smiled at me and squeezed my hand. “Thank you for being patient with me.”

  “I don’t know Donnie. Should I forgive you for accusing me of fooling around with...ugh, I can’t even say it.”

  “I hope you will forgive me.” He gave me a wry smile. “I forgive you for accusing me of fooling around with my ex-wife.”

  “Yeah, touché. Okay, I’m going to meet Leilani pretty soon. She’s going to show me some other houses.”

  “So are you still thinking about moving into a bigger house?” Donnie asked.

  “Should I still be looking for a bigger house?”

  “Do you want to look for a bigger house?”

  “You’re really sending Davison to a military academy? Not another cushy private college?”

  “Davison needs a lot of guidance. Much more than I’ve been giving him. I know. You’ve been telling me and I should have listened. You were absolutely right.”

  “Well. When you put it that way. So should I postpone my appointment with Leilani? I mean, if we’re going to be looking for a house for both of us, you should probably be there too.”

  “I trust you, Molly. If you love it, I’ll love it.”

  Donnie stood and gave me a big hug—a real one, not just a polite embrace for show. I hopped into my car and sped joyously up the hill to my house. As long as I didn’t have any more interruptions, I would still have a few minutes to review Honey’s documents before I went out to look at houses with Leilani.

  But there was another interruption. Detective Medeiros was waiting on my front porch.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  DETECTIVE KA`IMI MEDEIROS was dressed in what appeared to be his Sunday best, an expansive green aloha shirt with a magenta monstera design. On a man of his size, it was quite a lot of color.

  “Good morning, Detective. My attorney has specifically instructed me not to talk to you. Sorry. Would you like a quiet cup of coffee?” I unlocked my front door, and he followed me in.

  “It’s okay. I like talk to you, Professor. We got Scott Nixon.”

  I turned around and raised my eyebrows.

  “Yeah, figured you might be interested.” He eased his bulk down onto my leather couch, the affordable one I had bought at Balusteros World of Furniture. It bowed alarmingly under his weight.

  “No need coffee,” he said. “Hot day.”

  “Let me call my lawyer.”

  Honey wasn’t picking up her phone, so I left a message.

  “Detective Medeiros is here,” I said after the beep, loud enough for Detective Medeiros to hear. “Please come and join us. I won’t say anything until you get here.”

  I had no idea whether Honey was going to get my message or not, but I wanted Medeiros to see I was acting on the instructions of my lawyer, and not being rude of my own accord. Also he should know I wasn’t born yesterday.

  “You get summer off, ah?” he said.

  “I get summer unpaid.” I figured I could say that much without incriminating myself.

  Medeiros nodded. “Scott Nixon too. So he blows outta town, leaves his lovely wife all alone in Mahina, but he hasn’t broken any laws. He hasn’t even violated his employment contract.”

  “Melanie had evidence Scott Nixon plagiarized one of his publications. Don’t you think his running away had something to do with that?”

  Technically I wasn’t supposed to be talking to Detective Medeiros, but I was simply stating the obvious.

  “We’ll ask him about it when we get ’im. We’re working with the Los Angeles County Sherriff’s Department right now.”

  “Good.”r />
  “But you’re still our suspect. Nixon is just a person of interest.”

  “Oh.”

  “You familiar with the work of Barry Staw? Escalation of commitment?”

  I nodded.

  “‘Knee Deep in the Big Muddy’,” Medeiros said. “Nineteen seventy-six. Hard to turn the ship around too quickly, Professor. If you’ll forgive my mixing metaphors.”

  My phone rang.

  “I’m in a meeting right now,” Honey warned me. “Don’t say a word.”

  “Detective Medeiros is telling me about Scott Nixon,” I said, so Medeiros could hear. “Scott is a person of interest, not a suspect.”

  “Hang on,” she ordered.

  I waited, and then:

  “I got two minutes. Put me on speaker.”

  “Okay. Here you go.”

  “Hello Detective,” my phone squawked, in Honey’s voice. “What’s so urgent you had to speak to my client without me?”

  “Counselor,” he replied mildly. “Glad you could join us. What’s urgent is Superintendent Pereira’s so mad he like pop outta his skin. How come some babooze wit’ a blog seems to know more about our case than we do?”

  “You’re referring to Patrick Flanagan, who shared with you a photograph he found on a publicly accessible social network?” Honey asked.

  “Yeah. An’ after Island Confidential ran it, the County Courier picked it up. That was salt in the wound.”

  “Oh, you mean ‘New Twist in Brewster House Death.’” Honey’s voice held a note of satisfaction.

  “I believe Superintendent Pereira took exception to the subheadline. ‘Police inaction in wake of developments.’ Now Pereira telling us we gotta put a lid on these leaks. Professor, you saw it?”

  I shook my head no. I had subscribed to the County Courier for a while, but my unread copies kept piling up. Taking the papers all the way down to the recycling station in a car that got eleven miles to the gallon and leaks oil hadn’t seemed like a net positive for the environment. The decline of the newspaper industry was probably caused by people like me.

  “How exactly would the Mahina Police Department put a lid on news outlets doing their job?” Honey’s voice asked acidly.

  “On that point, I agree wit’ you, Counselor. You get First Amendment and all da kine. And anyways, the music festival photograph was a big break for us. I don’t know if we woulda found Scott Nixon without it. So if you get anymore brainstorms, insights, whatevers? Send ’em my way. I’m always open to whatever new information.”

  “You didn’t have to ambush my client,” Honey said.

  “Not ambushing. Just stopping by to say hello, ah? You know Professor Barda is an avid fiction reader? Readers of fiction have a heightened understanding of the mental states of others. Interesting, ah? Some scientists proved it. So I thought Professor Barda might have some insight into my conundrum.”

  “What conundrum is that, Detective?” Honey’s voice asked. Even on my tinny little phone speaker, Honey Akiona had quite a presence. I was glad she was on my side.

  “It’s like this,” Medeiros said. “We need means, motive, and opportunity. Those are necessary but not sufficient conditions, ah? And it’s obvious, even to us knuckleheads in Mahina PD, Scott Nixon has a motive. Much more so than whatever catfight kine thing allegedly motivated Professor Barda.”

  “Catfight!” I exclaimed, forgetting I wasn’t supposed to speak. I could almost feel Honey Akiona glaring at me over the phone.

  “It’s the opportunity part where I’m kinda stuck,” Medeiros continued, “Melanie Polewski jumped June ten, ah?”

  I nodded agreement.

  “So my problem with Scott Nixon as a suspect is this.” Medeiros placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself slowly into a standing position. “Scott Nixon left the island June eight. Two days before.”

  “Detective,” Honey said through my phone, “I am asking you to discontinue this unauthorized search and leave my client’s property. And in the future, please refrain from contacting my client directly.”

  “On my way,” Medeiros said amiably. “But you should know, I wanna get to the bottom of this as bad as you do.”

  “When will you interview Scott Nixon?” Honey asked.

  “Soon as can. There’s a complication, though. When the LA Sheriffs found Scott Nixon, he was in bad shape. Someone had beat him up between when the picture was taken an’ when they found ‘em. We gotta wait till he’s recovered enough to be interviewed.”

  Detective Medeiros touched his forehead as if he were wearing a cap, and let himself out.

  “Are you still there?” I said to my speakerphone.

  “Yeah,” Honey said.

  “How awful about Scott Nixon getting beaten up.”

  “I’m not sure I believe Medeiros. They’re allowed to lie to you if they think it’ll get you to talk. Or it could be a case of plain old police brutality. You got any more ideas, Professor?”

  “Nicole Nixon was there with me at the Garden Society meeting. Do you think she might have been working with Scott to prevent Melanie from ruining his career?”

  “But Scott had just left her,” Honey said. “Why would she help her cheating husband by getting rid of his blackmailer?”

  “Unless Scott’s leaving, the note and everything, was a ruse to throw the police off.”

  “In that case, Nicole Nixon deserves an Academy Award. Anyway, I gotta get back to my meeting. You make it through those printouts?”

  “Of course. I’m practically done.” In truth, I had barely begun reading through the printouts, and it was already time to meet Leilani Zelenko for my real estate tour. I dropped the two thick stacks of paper into my bag and rushed out.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  LEILANI ZELENKO CLEARED out the front seat of her convertible for me, tossing fast-food wrappers, two folding umbrellas, a hairbrush, a sun-crisped newspaper, and a half-empty bag of candy into the back seat. I surreptitiously brushed the crumbs from the seat and barely managed to get buckled in before Leilani got up to cruising speed, with the top down and greasy junk food wrappers blowing out onto the road. We were headed toward the first house she wanted to show me. It was a little way out of town in a brand-new subdivision.

  She shouted something at me over the road noise. I leaned closer and cupped my ear. The combination of the blustering wind and Leilani’s Ukrainian accent made it difficult to understand what she was saying.

  “New house is for you only now?” she repeated. “Or you and Donnie sew things up? I have two bedroom, three bedroom, four bedroom. You tell me what is your need.”

  “Donnie and I did patch things up,” I shouted back. “The number of bathrooms is the most important. I can’t share a single bathroom. Leilani, can I ask you something? Why did Melanie want the Brewster House?”

  “Molly, I tell you before, I cannot talk about this. It is confidentiality.”

  “No, I understand. And I appreciate your discretion. But Melanie actually told me about it.”

  “Melanie told you?”

  I wished Leilani would keep her eyes on the road.

  “Sort of. She wrote about how much she wanted the Brewster House. It was in a book she was working on.”

  “A book?”

  “Yes. A novel.”

  “Ah. And did character in novel have helpful real estate agent?”

  “Sorry. I don’t think there was a real estate agent in her story.”

  “Is okay,” Leilani said. “My ego, is not big.”

  I reached into my bag and pulled out the stack of Melanie’s phone records, held together by a single binder clip. The papers rattled ferociously and then the wind snatched away the cover sheet. I watched it fly out of the car, flutter aimlessly, and settle on the side of the road.

  “Leilani, maybe we should stop and pick that up—”

  “Is no time. Paper will melt in the next rain and go into ground. Is no problem.”

  Maybe I should have postponed this house t
our until after my meeting with my lawyer. I would never finish my assigned reading at this rate. I dropped the stack of printouts back into my bag.

  “So you know about Melanie,” Leilani said. “But is not because of me. I did not break confidentiality.”

  “No. You were utterly discreet. Which I, as a client, appreciate. But now I’ve been arrested for Melanie’s murder, I need to find out anything I can about her.”

  “I tell you. I have many customers. Most are good people. Some are like you. Have trouble making up mind, very fussy, but nice person, okay to work with.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But this Melanie, she was bad customer. She thinks she is queen and boss.”

  “I know, right? Queen and boss. You described her perfectly. She just moves in and takes over. I have to tell you something, in grad school, I was doing my dissertation on punk rock, right? And I thought, well this looks fun, and how hard could it be? So I had an idea for some of us grad students to put a punk band together, and then Melanie started acting like it was her idea all along, and she made us pick this stupid name, and she couldn’t play an instrument so she ended up as the lead singer—well, I guess none of it matters now. But did she ever tell you why? Why she wanted the Brewster House?”

  “Melanie was strange girl. At first I think she wants beautiful house in Mahina. Then she wants only Brewster House.”

  “I suppose you could have gotten Melanie and me into a bidding war,” I said. “It was nice of you not to take advantage.”

  “No. Is not my way to take advantage. And also, Fontanne Masterman does not want Melanie to have Brewster House. Fontanne says to me many times, over my dead body you sell to that little trumpet.”

  “How did Melanie manage to make such a bad impression on Mrs. Masterman?”

  “Melanie does not appreciate beauty of Brewster House. Melanie wants Brewster House only because you want Brewster House. She does not want for herself; she wants to take away from you.”