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PAT AND I SAT IN THE little-used microfiche corner of the documents room of our campus library, trying to find out what we could about the Brewster House. Pat knew how to wrangle the microfiche, which required the user to wrestle temperamental rolls of film onto uncooperative spindles. The trick was to keep the coiled film from springing out in all directions like snakes from a can. At one time, the library had gotten a grant to put all of the microfiche resources online, but ended up losing it when some ill-timed legislative penny-pinching choked off the required institutional support.
“This index isn’t very intuitive,” I said. “I don’t know how we’re going to find anything about the Brewster House.”
“All human errors are impatience.”
“Are you quoting Kafka at me?”
“That’s your bad influence, Molly. No one to blame but yourself.”
“So it wasn’t called the Brewster House back then?”
“No. Not until later.”
“There sure isn’t any shortage of tragedy in these old stories, is there? I just read about an elderly man who had been out for a walk, minding his own business, when he stepped into a lava tube, fell in, and died.”
“Like your student.”
“I know. It was so sad. And no one would ever have known what happened, if it hadn’t been for those hikers finding him.”
Lava tubes would form when an underground lava flow cooled and hardened around the edges, forming a large tunnel just below the surface. Often they left only a fragile crust where the ground used to be, a trap for the unwary hiker. Lava tubes were an excellent reason never to stray from the main path.
As Pat concentrated on the headlines in the old newspapers, my attention wandered. I caught sight of a lone figure on the other side of the little document room. I thought I recognized the distinctive roundness of his head.
“Iker.” I stood up from behind the microfilm reader and waved him over. I hadn’t seen Iker Legazpi since the tragic afternoon at the Brewster House. Pat greeted him briefly and went back to examining microfilms.
“Oh, Molly.” Iker clasped my fingers in his plump, dimpled hands. This was as physical as he got. Iker would never have intruded on my space by initiating a hug. “Such a terrible thing which has happened. But you are turning your mind to your work. It is the best way.”
Even though it was summer and we were off-duty, Iker was dressed, as always, to show respect for his workplace and his profession. He wore a long-sleeved light blue Oxford shirt and a dark blue tie. His side-parted brown hair was groomed so carefully it almost looked injection-molded. He reminded me of one of those little toy people you put into the tiny toy trucks, except for the dark blue sweat stains spreading under his arms.
“What are you doing in the documents room?” I asked.
Iker rewarded my inquiry with a detailed explanation of the archived financial transactions he required for the research paper he was working on. He enlightened me further on their relationship to some complicated new set of federal accounting regulations. And then he said,
“Poor Melanie, may she rest in peace, she was asking me many questions about this research.”
“Melanie was asking you about your research?”
“Yes.”
“Melanie was interested in your accounting research?”
“Such a sad young woman.” Iker was solemn. “It was good of you to be a friend for her, Molly. I am afraid I may have bored her, but she acted as very interested. She was so kind.”
“Melanie was kind? You’re talking about Melanie Polewski, right?”
“This is a surprise to you?”
Melanie didn’t care about Iker’s accounting research, I was sure of it. This was obviously part of her campaign to poach all of my friends and acquaintances, which started practically the minute she stepped off the plane. She insinuated herself into Emma’s paddling crew, she flirted with Donnie every chance she got, and I just discovered she’d been cozying up to Iker. The only person her transparent ingratiation tactics had never worked on was Pat, who had remarked, “She must think I’m as dumb as a post.”
“Your friendship with Melanie was difficult at times,” Iker said.
“I suppose it was. It seems petty to worry about it now she’s gone.”
“You must acknowledge it,” Iker said, “and then you must forgive her, so that you will have peace. It is our duty to turn the other cheeks.”
“Got it,” Pat shouted from the other side of the room. I’d almost forgotten he was over there at the microfiche viewer. Iker went off in search of his documents, and I sat back down with Pat to see what he had discovered.
“Friday, February 4, 1881.” Pat read from the flat screen as he turned the knob to advance the film. “Friday morning, message was received at the police station, Deputy-Marshall Parker left for the scene of the death on horseback, unseasonably stormy weather, blah, blah, blah. Here it is. After arrival at the residence of Asa and Mary Brewster, it took but a short time to ascertain the particulars regarding the tragedy. Their daughter Flora, seventeen years of age, had fallen from a height of some three stories, inflicting almost instant death.”
“Was she murdered, or was it suicide? Do they know?”
“Suicide. It’s a sad story.” Pat cranked the knob and the tiny print flew by until he reached the page he was looking for. “The older Brewster girl was diagnosed with leprosy. Then her younger sister woke up one morning with a pink spot on her cheek. Flora, the older one, was afraid they were both going to be sent to Kalaupapa, the leper colony.”
“Their parents were going to send them away?”
“No. Not the parents. The government.”
“They could do that?”
“Yes. Thanks to An Act to Prevent the Spread of Leprosy. The Board of Health was empowered to arrest any person suspected of having leprosy and to deliver them to a place of isolation. They finally settled on Kalaupapa, on the island of Molokai. It’s a naturally inaccessible peninsula.”
“They could take children?”
“Yup. The government would hire people to go out and look for patients. Sometimes they’d grab kids right out of school. The parents didn’t have anything to say about it. If you were ‘accused’ of having leprosy, they’d drag you into the hospital and make you stand on a platform naked, and a crew of medical men would peer and prod at you to decide your fate.”
“That would have been terrifying for a young girl. So what happened?”
“No kidding. ‘After a frantic search of several days, a deputy found the tiny and battered body of little Constance Brewster, six years of age, on the bank of the river below.’ Flora threw her younger sister and then jumped.”
“How horrible. Those poor girls.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think they suffered. The bottle of laudanum in Mrs. Brewster’s bedroom was found emptied. Flora made sure the younger girl’s death was painless. Flora probably helped herself to some too.”
“Would one bottle of laudanum be enough to put two people out?” I asked.
“Laudanum is tincture of opium. A couple of drops would have been enough.”
“Don’t they just treat leprosy with antibiotics now?” I asked. “Isn’t it called Hansen’s Disease?”
“Yeah. Any time someone brings up how much better things were back in the good old days, I like to remind them about things like antibiotics and vaccines.”
“Flora and Constance Brewster. What happened to the parents?”
“It doesn’t say. You still want the Brewster House?”
“Of course I want the Brewster House. I don’t believe in ghosts.”
I probably sounded more confident than I felt.