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I FELT AN UNPLEASANT little flutter in my stomach. It had been only two weeks earlier that Melanie had plunged to her death from this balcony. I tested the metal railing; it seemed solid enough, but its apparent sturdiness did little to counteract the sensation of the house leaning toward the river, tipping me into Fontanne Masterman’s lovely little garden three stories below. Beyond the garden, the ground dropped off even further into the gorge where the Hanakoa River rushed toward the ocean, swollen and muddy from the recent rain.
“Isn’t this a magnificent view?” Fontanne Masterman exulted.
“Dizzying,” I agreed.
Atticus Marx would love this place, I thought. Unlike Donnie, Atticus seemed to appreciate classic style as much as I did. He had admired my 1959 Thunderbird, caressing the Bakelite steering wheel and marveling at the brilliant turquoise hue of my new-old-stock upholstery. Donnie had always treated my love for my T-Bird as an amusing quirk.
Atticus wasn’t crazy about his unchallenging job at Mahina State, I knew that. But he could probably build a satisfying career here, maybe by doing some kind of computer consulting on the side. The Brewster House had so many rooms; each of us could have our own little home office. And we wouldn’t constantly be bumping into each other.
I wondered what it would be like to spend every day with Atticus. He was awfully sweet, and he seemed quite intelligent, but he wasn’t exactly a compelling conversationalist. Maybe as I got to know him better, it would become easier to talk to him.
I felt my phone humming inside my purse.
“Mrs. Masterman, I’m so sorry. This is my lawyer. I should probably get this.”
“Of course. Come out and join me in the great room when you’re finished. And please, call me Fontanne.” She shut the door gently behind her to give me privacy.
I hoped she didn’t think I was being rude, taking a call in the middle of her home tour. Like those guys I used to see back on the mainland, shouting important-sounding phrases like “value proposition” into their phones while the people around them were trying to enjoy dinner. In my defense, I wasn’t going to be much use as a homebuyer if I ended up serving a life sentence for murder.
If I lived here, I probably wouldn’t want to sleep in the master bedroom. It was right there on the balcony that Melanie, poor Flora Brewster and Flora’s little sister Constance had all spent their last moments. Not that I was superstitious or anything, but being reminded of all those deaths might be depressing in the long run. Also, heights made me nervous.
I pulled the French doors shut and backed away from the magnificent view.
“Okay, first,” Honey said, “good news. I got your arraignment delayed again.”
“Why do we want another delay? The arraignment is where I just plead not guilty, right?”
“I’m trying to avoid escalation of commitment by the DA. We learned about escalation of commitment in your class, remember?”
“Of course. ‘Knee-Deep in the Big Muddy’ by Barry Staw.”
What if I sleepwalked right out through the French doors and toppled over into the garden? It was possible.
“I figure the less far along they get on your prosecution, the easier it’ll be for them to turn around and save face,” Honey continued. “It’s more of a psychological strategy than a legal one.”
“You know best.”
I wasn’t a habitual sleepwalker, but there had been one incident, in grad school. I was staying over at Melanie’s apartment. She had let me have her loft bed, and she was in a sleeping bag on the floor below. It had been generous of her, come to think of it. Anyway, I dreamed I got up to use the bathroom, and next thing I knew I was being woken up by angry yelling. Who, I’d wondered hazily, was shouting in the middle of the night like this? So inconsiderate!
“I finally got Melanie’s browser history sent over,” Honey said. “And they promised I’d have her phone records by tomorrow.”
The midnight yeller had turned out to be Melanie. I had woken her up by falling out of bed right on top of her. Fortunately there had been no permanent injuries.
“Her browser history. Wonderful, thank you. Was there anything that stood out to you?”
“She did searches on people at the university. You, the people in the English department, some of the administrators.”
“She was trying to get the goods on everyone. The same way she found everyone’s publications and ran them through the plagiarism checker.”
“Maybe. Or maybe she was just trying to learn about her new coworkers.”
“Was there anything else?”
“Lotta shopping, looks like.”
“No surprise there.”
“Also canoe paddling blogs, real estate sites, social networks, some activity on what I guess you call specialty dating sites, all consistent with what you told me about her. There was one thing kinda stood out to me, though. She was an English professor, right?”
“She was hoping to be.”
“She seemed to be doing research on rules for financial transactions. Seems more like something a finance or accounting professor would be interested in.”
“It does seem un-Melanie like. Oh, wait. That must have been Iker Legazpi’s research.”
“Professor Legazpi from accounting?”
“Iker told me Melanie had been asking him about his research. I think she was trying to get close to him. She wanted to become better friends with him than I was.”
“She must’ve really wanted to impress him,” Honey said. “She kept coming back to this topic over a period of several days.”
“You don’t suspect Iker Legazpi, do you?”
“Nah, nah. He has no motive. And he was sitting there with you and the other garden club members at the time of the incident, wasn’t he?”
“He was. Anyway, Iker Legazpi would never kill anyone.”
“Nah, I can’t see Professor Legazpi as a murderer,” Honey agreed.
“You know, it would be really nice to hear someone say that about me.”
Honey laughed, as if I had meant to be funny.