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“LEILANI TOLD ME SHE was required to disclose that the Brewster House was haunted.”
“People do claim the house is haunted. It’s silly and melodramatic, if you ask me.”
“I know. Even Donnie’s son—”
“I deplore the word haunted,” she continued. “So lugubrious. Of course the house is inhabited.”
She picked up another rambutan, sniffed it, and put it back.
“Inhabited?”
“Yes. I would have thought both of you might have known already. It’s common knowledge. Of course English isn’t Leilani’s first language, and you’re such a newcomer here.” Mrs. Masterman moved on to the avocados, picking one up and palpating it gently.
Davison’s ridiculous story about the Brewster House ghosts was common knowledge? Maybe Honey Akiona had been too quick to dismiss my idea of using the Brewster House’s past for my defense.
“Mrs. Masterman, do you think Melanie’s death had anything to do with your, um, inhabitants?”
“Oh, yes, I think so. The young woman Melanie was dreadfully rude. Well, I mean, did you see her? Gawping at her electric toys and not paying any attention at all to me, or to her surroundings. I think the girls were a bit put out by her behavior, if you want my opinion. And I can’t say that I blame them.”
“The girls?”
“Flora and Constance. Especially Constance, the baby. Well, they have no self-control, do they, at that age?”
“Constance Brewster. The six-year-old.”
The air conditioning in Natural High Organic Foods had never worked particularly well. But today, as the wall unit over the bulk bins rattled on in its usual ineffectual manner, I felt a chill.
“Quite so. Of course the prosecutor can’t admit to Flora and Constance having had anything to do with it, can he? It would be embarrassing. The Honolulu papers already look down so on us. They love to portray the neighbor islands as backward and superstitious. Do you know, it was only recently they stopped referring to us as the outer islands, as if we were utterly beyond the pale?”
“‘Neighbor islands’ sounds much friendlier,” I agreed.
“So this is where I’m afraid you got caught up in it, my dear. You’re an outsider, so it’s easy to make you the culprit.”
“Good to know.”
“Our little gardening society has had such a time lately. And now I hear poor Nicole’s husband has run off.”
“I heard. Apparently no one can get in touch with him.”
“Well, I expect they’ll find him at the bottom of a flight of stairs somewhere,” Mrs. Masterman declared, “and I can’t say I would blame Nicole for a second, if you catch my meaning. Tuesday, then. Don’t be late. The girls appreciate punctuality.”
I went home and put my groceries away. It seemed like a good time to stop by Donnie’s Drive-Inn to deliver my apology; the lunch rush would have died down by now. My first priority was to get out of my sweater dress. The morning had been cool, but in the damp afternoon heat, vintage cashmere was sweaty torture. I showered, reapplied my makeup, and changed into jeans and a short-sleeved cotton blouse. Presentable, but casual. I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard.
Donnie seemed surprised to see me. Surprised, and wary. What he didn’t seem was happy. But he was polite enough to call notice of his five-minute break into the kitchen.
We sat at one of the Drive-Inn’s shiny red picnic benches. Donnie’s Drive-Inn only had outdoor seating. Despite the Drive-Inn’s location on a busy road, Donnie kept those picnic tables gleaming. Everything at Donnie’s Drive-Inn was clean and in perfect order. It almost made up for the mediocre food.
“Donnie, I have to apologize to you. I jumped to conclusions and made an accusation, which turned out to be completely untrue.”
Donnie studied my face, as if considering what to say.
“So I went to the behavioral health appointment. Just as you suggested.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Is there a diagnosis?”
“Why would you assume there’s a diagnosis?”
“I didn’t assume, Molly. I asked. All right. Is there any way I can help?”
“For your information, I have a clean bill of health, and you can ‘help’ by not dismissing me straightaway or calling me crazy. Even Dr. Spinner, who loves shoving pills into peoples’ hands, thinks I’m just under stress with the murder charge and everything.”
“Dr. Spinner?”
“Spiner. Gregory Spiner.” I couldn’t help thinking of him as “Spinner” thanks to his habit of spinning around in his chair during our sessions. I thought it was just me, but then one time I overheard the pharmacist call him “Dr. Spinner” and I wondered whether he twirled around at staff meetings too. “I explained everything to him, and he assured me it was the kind of thing that could happen to anyone. He told me he was sure my husband would be understanding.”
Spinner had actually advised me to come clean and tell Donnie everything about Davison’s ongoing affair with Donnie’s ex-wife. He’d gone on to state (rather rudely, in my opinion) that I needed to stop being so secretive with my husband. I’d countered that I knew denial when I saw it (I’d grown up Catholic, after all), and I wasn’t about to take it upon myself to pop Donnie’s bubble of willful self-deception.
Donnie still wasn’t saying anything. What was that suckup routine that Davison used? Ah, yes:
“You were right, Donnie. And I was wrong. I’m very sorry. My actions were inexcusable.”
“Molly,” Donnie sighed, “As much as I hate to disagree with a professional—and I have a lot of respect for Gregory—I have to believe you’re not fine.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s okay. We’re about to promise to stick with each other in sickness and health, and I’m going to honor that. I understand people don’t just get better overnight. There are good days and bad days. I’m willing to be patient.”
“Sure. That would be a very nice sentiment if I were unwell to begin with. But this was a simple mis—”
“Of course you’re unwell. It’s the illness talking. Molly. You would never make such hurtful accusations. Would you? I mean, you don’t honestly believe I’m capable of sneaking around with my ex-wife while we’re planning our wedding.” He shook his head, as if telling himself to snap out of it.
“Of course I don’t believe it, Donnie.” Not anymore.
“Exactly. Like I said, it was the illness talking. You just have to focus on getting better. Don’t worry, I’m here for you.”
He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. I wondered how I might have approached the situation more tactfully. Maybe there was no polite way to accuse one’s fiancé of sleeping with his ex-wife.
And now I was stuck. According to Donnie, whatever I had said was so unforgivably hurtful that the only way he could excuse it was to convince himself that it was my “illness” talking, not me. So my two choices were (1) unforgivable meanie, or (2) raving loon.
What if I followed Dr. Spinner’s advice and tried to tell Donnie the truth? In all likelihood Sherry would leave the island, Davison would deny everything, and I would look like I’d gone completely around the bend.
Even if I could get Donnie to believe I had seen Sherry swanning around his house in Davison’s satin bathrobe (yuck), it wouldn’t help. He would hate me for being the bearer of distasteful news. And he would still feel hurt by my assuming it was he who had been with Sherry. Keeping my mouth shut remained my best option.