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I HAD PUT OFF TELLING my parents about my cancelled engagement. Now, as I pulled away from the airport curb, with my parents in the back seat and their luggage in the trunk, I wondered whether I should have mentioned something earlier.
“I realized what this reminds me of,” my father said as we made our way down the narrow, jungle-canopied road out of the terminal. “Oudomsay Airport. We flew out of there a few times when I was in the Peace Corps.”
“Of course you know that’s in Laos,” my mother interjected, before I could embarrass her with my ignorance by asking where Oudomsay Airport was.
“So Molly,” my father said, “You’re having a productive summer? Getting some time to relax and recharge?”
“Sure.”
As part of their new stress-reduction regime, my mother had put my father and herself on a news fast. Newspapers, television, and social media were off-limits. So they hadn’t read about Melanie’s death. Nor would they learn of my arrest when it became public. Or so I hoped.
“When are we going to meet your fiancé?” my father asked.
“Let’s talk about all this after we get you settled at the house.”
“Is Gonsalves a Brazilian name?” my mother asked. “Are you marrying a Brazilian man?”
“It’s a Portuguese name.”
“Didn’t you tell me he was Hawaiian?” my father asked.
“He is. Hawaiian, Portuguese, and some other things. Like a lot of people here. Basically a mixture of the original inhabitants of the islands, and the people who came in to work the sugar plantations. There are very few full-blooded Hawaiians left. So if you’re part-Hawaiian, you generally call yourself Hawaiian. Like Emma Nakamura does.”
“Melanie’s not still staying with you, is she?” my mother asked. “I don’t think your little house has room for all of us.”
“So how is it working out with Melanie?” my father asked. “I remember you two used to get on each other’s nerves when you spent too much time together.”
“No, Melanie’s not staying at my house. The guest room is vacant.”
“Are you sure?” my mother asked.
“Oh yes. I’m sure. Hey, let’s stop somewhere to pick up dinner.” Most of the items in my pantry had gone to the food bank, and I had nothing to eat at home.
Over takeout sushi at my little dining room table, I told my parents all about the Brewster House, and showed them photos I had taken when Leilani Zelenko had given me my first tour of the place. It was going to be a lot harder for me to afford the house without Donnie’s contribution, but if I could sell my current house, and renegotiate my student loan payments, and not eat out at restaurants or buy clothes or use too much electricity, I could probably swing it. Now I wasn’t planning a wedding anymore, moving into the Brewster House was one thing I could look forward to.
“Is your Donnie as excited about this new house as you are?” my mother asked.
“Oh, actually, I did need to tell you something. About Donnie.” My landline phone started to ring. I stood up to answer it.
“Honey,” I exclaimed. “What’s going on?”
“Must be him calling,” I heard my father whisper.
“Good news and bad news,” Honey Akiona said. “Good news is I’m hearing the prosecutor is having trouble building a solid case. You had to somehow get the latex from your shoes into Melanie’s system, and the fact she got all the way upstairs is hard to figure out. Anaphylaxis happens fast.”
“That is good news.” I placed the receiver against my mouth and ducked into my little office nook so my parents wouldn’t hear me. “Hang on. How do you know what they’re talking about in the prosecutor’s office?”
“On the other hand,” Honey continued, “the deceased is a pretty haole girl, and she died in a haunted house. High profile. So people are asking questions, and everyone’s gotta look like they’re taking action. No one wants a replay of the cockfight murders. Or the karaoke murders.”
“But there’s nothing to connect it to me,” I protested. “Why am I the suspect?”
“Have you read Melanie’s computer files?” Honey asked.
“Not all the way through. I did do some research on the Brewster House, though. Do you think we could use the history of the house to—”
“Nah. I don’t think I can sell them on little Constance Brewster throwing Melanie off the balcony.”
“Oh. You already know about the Brewster girls?”
“Yeah. Everyone knows that thing. They say baby Constance still mad at Flora, never gave her a chance to grow up that’s why, so the baby takes young wahine out to the balcony to push ‘em off. And on rainy nights, you can hear Constance crying.”
“Are there any other people who committed suicide in that house? Or any other notorious deaths?”
“You mean any way it’s the house’s fault an’ not yours, Professor?”
“Exactly.”
“Nah. Last time there was any suicides was in the seventies. Think it was 1974. But it was a hanging, not a jump.”
“Someone hanged themselves in the Brewster House?”
I peeked out of the office to make sure my parents were okay. My father was still sitting at the table, but my mother was up and busy straightening out my Felix the Cat wall clock.
“Anyway, Professor, I’ve been reading through the files. Melanie really had some beef against you. What did you do to her?”
“I don’t know.”
I really didn’t. Maybe Melanie’s antipathy toward me had taken root when our band got our photo in the local weekly and I was the one standing in front, even though Melanie was the lead singer. (It wasn’t my fault. The photographer had been intrigued with my hair and kept fluffing it out as far as it would go.) Or perhaps it was during the discussion in study group when I had opined that the American Midwest was referred to as the “Heartland” because it wasn’t where the brains were? I wondered whether Melanie had taken it personally.
“I can’t think of anything,” I said.
“Someone there? Can you talk freely?”
“Yes. No. My parents. I haven’t told them. I had to go into my office to get some privacy.”
“You don’t have privacy. None of us do. You got any idea who else is probably listening in on this call?”
Honey Akiona had always been attuned to issues of government overreach, even when she was enrolled in my intro class. Where most papers started off with a dictionary definition or a flavorless platitude like, “Throughout time, integrity has been an important factor in society,” Honey’s introductions ran along the lines of “The average American is unaware every detail of his or her life is stored for quick retrieval and sale to the highest bidder.”
“Are you saying I might have a wiretap on my phone?”
“No need for wiretaps anymore, Professor. All our communications are stored electronically as they’re created. There’s so much data, the government can’t analyze it all. Did you know when you take a photo with your phone and send it, the location information is embedded by default? One of my clients found out the hard way when he ended up in someone’s vacation picture and the police came knocking about an hour after it was posted. Anyway, call me later. When you can talk.”
I hung up the phone and went back to join my parents at the table. My mother was sitting down again, but the table had been cleared (except for my barely-touched plate) and my Frida Kahlo fridge magnets were now lined up perfectly straight.
“I’m really glad you both are here,” I said. “I hope you don’t feel like it’s a wasted trip.”
“Why would it be a wasted trip?” my mother asked.
I took a deep breath. It was time to rip off the bandage.