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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 security.”
“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?”
“Sure.” Medeiros made a slight head motion. The photographer appeared, focused his camera on the glass, and circled the chair as the automatic shutter clicked and whirred. When he had finished, a young woman in a light blue shirt and dark blue trousers spirited the glass away in her purple-gloved hands.
“Molly,” Mrs. Masterman said, “you were the only one sitting next to her. And I made the tea.”
“I...it was just an idea. Sorry.”
Detective Medeiros turned his head to watch Mrs. Masterman go back into the house, and then returned his gaze to me as if he expected me to say something.
“Um, Detective, was there anything else?”
He studied me for a few more seconds.
“Not right now.” He hefted his bulk up off of Mrs. Masterman’s wooden folding chair and lumbered into the house.
Mrs. Masterman returned without the tea pitcher, and sat down in the chair recently vacated by Detective Medeiros. The sinking sun lit up her magnificent mane of white hair, the kind that inspires younger people never to touch a bottle of hair dye. With her dark eyelashes and warm complexion, Mrs. Fontanne Masterman needed no makeup.
At half her age, I made liberal use of all kinds of cosmetic enhancements. Donnie assured me I didn’t need makeup, claiming I looked better without it. I would smile patiently when he said such things. Donnie had never actually seen me without makeup. What he really meant was he preferred fawn eyeshadow and peach blush to black winged eyeliner and scarlet lipstick.
I did go out in public barefaced once. My car had broken down, requiring me to make the forty-minute walk to campus to get to class in time. No one said anything, but later that afternoon I found a get-well card in my mailbox, signed by my students.
“Well,” Mrs. Masterman murmured. “I must say, this has been quite a day.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Masterman. This must be awful for you.” I watched the camera flash again and again as the photographer walked in a slow circle around Melanie’s body, then squatted to take close-ups.
Mrs. Masterman closed her eyes for a moment, collecting herself, or perhaps saying a little prayer.
“It’s hardly the worst thing that’s happened in this house. And please. Call me Fontanne.”
“Fontanne. Your house is so beautiful.” I immediately felt like an idiot. What kind of thing was that to say when we had just watched someone fall to her death?
“It is beautiful. I agree. But it’s a lot to take care of, now I’m here by myself. Are you sure you want to take this on?”
I blinked, taken off guard. “Sorry?”
“You’re here to look at the house, aren’t you?”
“I—I mean, um—”
She held up the little thorn-stripper gizmo, and handed it to me.
“What it the proper way to hold it?” she asked. “Can you show me what I just demonstrated?”
“Oh. Well, I would guess you just—it’s spring-loaded, right?”
She took the device back. “You weren’t paying attention at all. You were staring at my house the whole time.”
“Oh, no, I—”
“You’re the one Leilani was telling me about.” She smiled.
“Leilani Zelenko? Yes, she’s my real estate agent. She said you might be interested in selling, so I hope I wasn’t too—”
“I would love to sell.” Mrs. Masterman, I mean Fontanne, leaned forward. “I have a condo right outside of Waikiki, next to the largest outdoor shopping mall in the world. My daughter and my grandchildren are minutes away. My dearest wish is to move over there.”
“Really?”
I felt a brief surge of excitement, immediately quashed by guilt. I glanced over to see a covered stretcher being loaded into the ambulance as the various police officers, photographers and technicians packed up.
“The upkeep is getting to be too much for me. Roof repairs, repainting, refinishing, weeding, replacing the water heater, and now I’m going to have to get someone to come in and power wash...” Fontanne Masterman glanced over at the spot where Melanie had landed. “Are you married, Molly?”
“Not yet. I’m engaged, though.”
“Oh yes, of course. To Donnie Gonsalves. I heard he’d found himself a...yes, that’s lovely. One doesn’t customarily congratulate the bride, but our Donnie is quite a catch.”
“He is. So you haven’t found the right buyer for the Brewster House?”
“No.”
“What, uh, what qualities are you looking for?”
“A large suitcase full of cash.” My obvious confusion earned me a tolerant smile. “The Brewster House happens to sit in both a tsunami zone and a lava hazard zone. No loan underwriter will come near it. I only found out when I tried to take out a home equity loan.”
“I don’t have a suitcase full of cash,” I said wistfully. “I’m a college professor.”
“You seem like a smart young lady. I imagine if you and Leilani put your heads together, you’ll find a way. Leilani Zelenko is one of the top real estate agents on the island. She’s very good at her job. Let’s not give up yet.”
As I drove over the bridge from Russian Road, I probably should have been mourning Melanie Polewski. But the thought running through my mind was, Fontanne Masterman wants me to buy the Brewster House!