The Black Thumb

by Frankie Bow

  “Out of character,” Emma agreed. “You’ve been coming out with some real strange stuff.”

  Donnie nodded.

  “Stress can disturb your sleep,” Donnie said. “And when you miss enough sleep, the health consequences can be very severe. Sleep is crucial for physical and mental health.”

  It sounded like he was reciting something he’d read on an online health site.

  “No shame asking for help when you need it,” Emma added.

  “What do you mean, help?” I asked. “What kind of help?”

  “I checked,” Donnie said. “Your university health plan covers up to ten visits a year to your HMO’s Behavioral Health program. And I have some good names in private practice too, if you want. So if you’d rather see a female—”

  “Oh, I see what you’re doing.”

  “We’re trying to help you,” Emma said.

  “No, no. You’re not trying to help. This is more than just trying to help. Step One: Open With Affection. Step Two: Describe Specific Behaviors. Step Three: Detail the Physical Problems. Step Four: Outline Treatment Options. You’re following the intervention script! You brought me down to the Maritime Club so you could stage an intervention!”

  “Molly.” Donnie looked concerned. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But I still care about you and I want to see you well. I want you to know I’m here for you.

  “Step five!” I pointed an accusing finger at him. “Express Love and Support! Emma, Pat, how could you go along with this?”

  “Cause we worried about you, babooze,” Emma said. “You kinda stressed out, ah? Just wanna make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”

  “And Donnie, what is this, some kind of scorched-earth policy you have? You can’t just let us go our separate ways? You have to leave me gibbering in the corner, wondering what’s real and what isn’t?”

  “Molly, please. You told me you saw someone in my house who wasn’t there. Don’t you think—”

  “Why are you even here, Donnie? Don’t you have places to go and people to do?”

  Donnie stared down at his folded hands. He was clearly uncomfortable. So why was he going out of his way to do this? Just to get back at me?

  “We just want you to get better.”

  “Yeah, Molly,” Emma chimed in, “You gotta make an appointment to talk to someone.”

  “I know what I saw. Sherry was there. I talked to her and she made me tea. And unlike some people at this table, I have no reason to lie.”

  Emma tipped her chin up. The gesture was probably supposed to compensate for her being short, but it just made her look like a miniature Mussolini.

  “If you don’t make an appointment tomorrow,” she declared, “I’m going to get you committed.”

  “Step Six. Set Consequences. You guys are being ridiculously obvious. Anyway, you can’t have me committed. I have a lawyer.”

  Too late, I recalled with some embarrassment it was in fact Donnie who had paid Honey Akiona’s retainer.

  “Actually,” Pat said, “According to state statute, you can be involuntarily committed if you have a disorder or other disease which substantially impairs your mental health and necessitates treatment or supervision.”

  The three faces around the table were looking at me with concern.

  I actually had been meaning to make an appointment to talk to someone, not that I thought it was anyone else’s business. Witnessing Melanie’s death and then getting arrested for her murder was upsetting enough. Throw in a cheating, lying fiancé, and now we were talking about some real stress.

  “Fine. I’ll make an appointment tomorrow. They have the guy up at the clinic, with the gigantic candy jar of pharma samples on his desk. I’ll set something up with him. Is everyone satisfied now?”

  “Is he the one who gave you those samples last time?” Pat asked.

  “Yes. Can we order our food now?”

  “I think I’ll go.” Donnie rose from his chair.

  “Of course, Donnie. You don’t want to keep anyone waiting.”

  “I’ll stay.” Donnie sat back down quickly, and gave Pat a stiff smile. “Davison can fend for himself tonight.”

  Emma reached over and rubbed Donnie’s shoulder sympathetically.

  The dinner wasn’t quite as awkward as it could have been. Pat behaved himself, keeping his sarcastic comments to a minimum. Although Emma was a couple of years younger than Donnie, they had both grown up around Mahina. They spent dinner trading news (it was too bland to be proper gossip) of high school classmates and their families while I ate my baked turbot resentfully.

  Donnie gave me a brief, chaste hug as he left. I didn’t want the hug to end, and realizing that made me angry at myself. I watched Donnie’s charcoal-gray SUV drive out of the Maritime Club parking lot. Then I climbed into the passenger seat of Pat’s old Mercedes. Maybe Donnie really was concerned about me. A tiny spark of hope flickered, and then died. Of course he cared about me—as an acquaintance and business contact. But as far as romantic interest? He was already back with his ex-wife. And there was nothing I could do about it. I clicked the seatbelt shut and kept my eyes closed for the drive home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I CALLED FIRST THING the following morning to schedule an appointment with my HMO’s behavioral health department. Of course I was still annoyed with Donnie, Emma, and Pat for ambushing me the previous night. On the other hand, it meant my friends actually did care about me, and it felt nice to know that someone cared. I didn’t really get much of that being-cared-about feeling at work; our administration made no secret of how much they looked forward to the day they could fire all the professors and replace us with software.

  To my surprise, they were able to schedule me in for the first appointment of the day. I had been expecting a wait time of several weeks. I wondered whether Donnie had pulled any strings to get me to the front of the line.

  There wasn’t much to report about the visit itself. Dr. Gregory Spiner (whom I will never not think of as “Spinner”) twirled around in his chair as he quizzed me about my health habits, instructed me to get enough sleep, and admonished me to limit my alcohol consumption to one drink per day or less. Then he sent me off with a fistful of pharma samples and a set of prescriptions for various psychoactive drugs. I filled the prescriptions, even though I had no intention of taking them. I might find myself in a situation where I had to sedate a wild animal or something. You never know.

  I had only been back in my office for a few minutes when I heard a timid knock on my door. Nicole Nixon stood in my doorway. I invited her in and, seeing she was holding a mug, offered her fresh coffee.

  “I thought your coffee machine was broken,” she said. Was that the excuse I had given her? I hoped not. I didn’t want her to think I had been lying to her. After hearing about her husband’s disappearance, I was most unwilling to get on the wrong side of Nicole Nixon.

  “No,” I said, “I was out of coffee. Pat and Emma got me more.”

  “Do you have just hot water? I’m drinking tea.”

  “Sure.” I wondered if she had ever figured out the real reason I had stopped by the previous day. Of course, I was no longer interested in the full time position in her department. And if she asked me, I could truthfully tell her so. I didn’t need to come into a new job with built-in enemies. I could make all the enemies I needed on my own.

  Nicole sank into my visitor chair.

  “So you know why the police were in my office yesterday?” Nicole said.

  “No. What was it about?”

  She plucked a tissue from the box I keep on my desk.

  “Scott’s left.”

  “What do you mean, he’s left? Left his job?”

  “Left me. And his job. And the house I can’t afford by myself. Everything.”

  “What? What happened?”

  “Around two weeks ago. I didn’t tell anyone. I was hoping he’d realize what a stupid mistake he’d made and he’d come back a
nd no one would have to know.”

  “Was he . . . in an accident or something? Was that why the detective was in your office yesterday?”

  “Was Scott in an accident?” Nicole repeated. “I should be so lucky.”

  I wouldn’t call myself a master of tact or anything, but even I could tell this was a time to shut up and listen.

  “He left a note,” she continued. “One line. ‘Nothing ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like.’ It’s a quotation from Mansfield Park.”

  I had not known Scott Nixon well, but hearing this made me dislike him even more than I already had. What kind of thing was it to end a marriage with a snide little one-line note? At the very least, one owed one’s jilted spouse a good argument.

  “So why are the police involved?” I asked.

  “One of his little undergrads is gone too. Her parents are suing the university.”

  I wondered whether Nicole knew about Scott’s plagiarism. Now would not be the time to bring it up.

  “We’re being sued? Nicole, you’re not in trouble, are you?”

  “I don’t think so. But at this point I don’t really care. You know, the police asked me for Scott’s note so they could compare the handwriting. But I...”

  I nudged the box of tissues toward her as she started to weep.

  “Sorry,” she sobbed. “I shouldn’t be taking up your time.”

  “No, it’s fine. Take all you want. I always keep a couple of boxes around.”

  I considered my theory about Scott having been involved with Melanie Polewski. Nicole had tolerated Scott’s dalliances with college girls still in their teens, who would obligingly fade away when Scott tired of them. But Melanie Polewski was on another level; Melanie had no qualms about busting up someone’s marriage. Nicole certainly would have had motive to do away with both of them. But then how did the disappearing student fit into this?

  “Did the police tell you anything useful?” I asked.

  Nicole shook her head and glanced at her watch.

  “I have to get going. Sorry about all this.”

  Could Nicole have killed Scott, Melanie, and the student? And then why would she stop there? I wondered whether murdering people was like getting married and divorced; the more you did it, the easier it got and the more likely you were to keep doing it.

  “By the way,” I asked casually, “What were you about to tell me? The police asked you for Scott’s note, so they could compare the handwriting, and you were going to say..?”

  “What? Oh. The note. The bastard didn’t even write it by hand. He printed it out. In Papyrus font. Sorry, Molly. I really have to go.”

  She began to weep again.

  “Sure. Here. Why don’t you take this with you?”

  I handed Nicole my tissue box.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I ARRIVED EARLY FOR the start of Mass. So early, in fact, I encountered Iker Legazpi on his way out of the previous service. He stopped to chat and soon I was telling him about Scott Nixon’s plagiarism and his subsequent disappearance.

  Iker’s baby face creased with concern as he listened.

  “Molly,” he said finally, “you must be very careful with this.”

  “I’m not talking to anyone about the plagiarism,” I said. “Just you.” Along with Honey Akiona, Pat Flanagan, and Emma Nakamura, but Iker didn’t need to know that.

  “I am not speaking of your legal defense. I am speaking of your safety. We do not know why Melanie met this unfortunate end. We do not yet know what happened to Scott Nixon. It seems there is someone who wishes to keep a secret.”

  “Oh. Good point.”

  “You do not know whose ox is being goosed. If others were killed to keep a secret, it is a secret you are safest not to know. Ah, here. Mass is starting, Molly. I will let you go in.”

  “Right. Thanks. See you at the next Garden Society?”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Tuesday.”

  My punctuality had been entirely unintentional. Having missed Mass for the last few weeks, I hadn’t realized St. Damien’s had switched to their summer schedule. I usually tried to arrive late enough to miss the Passing of the Peace. This was where you had to stand up, try to catch a fellow worshipper’s eye, and then before they could get away, clasp their hand and exchange your greetings before moving on to your next target. For me, a confirmed introvert, passing the peace was about the least peaceful activity I could imagine.

  It was the last morning Mass, and the sanctuary was nearly full. I found a place near the back. As the entrance procession made its way up the center aisle, I picked up a flyer from the pew shelf in front of me. St. Damien’s was participating in an interfaith food drive, which was led by the Kuewa Unitarian church, and headquartered at the Mahayana Buddhist temple downtown. Also included were the Mahina Daijingu Shinto temple, the Hawaiian-language nondenominational church, the big-box megachurch that sat on fifty acres upcountry, and the Methodists down the street.

  St. Damien’s was far more ecumenical than the Byzantine-rite Catholic church I grew up in. As far as the church of my childhood was concerned, the Orthodox were heretics to be pitied and prayed for, and Buddhists, Shinto, Methodists and the like were simply heathens.

  Before I knew it, we had prayed the Our Father, and then came the dreaded announcement: “Let us offer each other a sign of peace.”

  I stood and readied myself to wander around the sanctuary and beam at strangers, when I felt a hand land heavily on my shoulder. The hand then gave me a far-too-friendly squeeze. This better be someone I know really well, I thought. I turned and found myself nose-to-chest with what appeared to be a tall male person wearing a black shirt, and stepped back to get a complete view of my assailant.

  “Davison? What on earth are you doing in church? I mean, how nice to see you in church.” He wore a tank top bearing the silhouette of an assault rifle and the legend, Defend Hawai`i. “Wow, okay, peace be with you. Against whom are we defending Hawai`i?”

  Davison laughed loudly at my question, the way you might laugh at your boss’s unfunny joke.

  “I know you prouda me I made it to church today, ah?” He lifted his arm and sniffed his armpit. “No time fo’ shower this morning, but. Got up kinda late.”

  “Well, what a pleasant surprise to see you here.” I made a mental note to come to the early service next time. “Anyway, I’ll just be—”

  “Yeah, Dad told me I gotta to start going to church,” Davison said.

  “Is your father here?”

  “Nah. Hadda work. Sunday’s busy at the Drive-Inn. Said he had dinner with you Thursday, but. You two cool now?”

  “Sure. Of course.” As cool as I could be with the ex-fiancé who bedded his ex-wife the moment he was a free man, and then tried to make me think I was crazy for calling him out on it.

  “Eh, lucky you’re here. Dad said I gotta apologize.”

  “Okay.”

  “I was just kidding around, ah? Didn’t know it was gonna make you so upset.”

  “I believe this is called a non-apology,” I said.

  “Nah, nah, nah. You’re right, Molly. I’m very sorry. My actions were inexcusable.”

  I’d seen this act before. So contrite when I caught him cheating on his assignment. So full of promises to do better next time.

  “Dad’s been real down since you guys been fighting,” Davison added.

  “I imagine he’s found some way to console himself.”

  I’d had it with both of them, Jerk père and Jerk fils. It probably wasn’t a very Christian thought to entertain during Mass, but I couldn’t help it.

  The congregants were taking their seats. The Passing of the Peace was over.

  “Eh, I sit here wit’ you,” Davison offered. He squeezed into my pew and wedged in next to me. At close range it was obvious he had ladled on a double dose of his cloying body spray. I tried to take shallow breaths and think kind, Christian thoughts as the choir sang “Beautiful Savior.”

  I was glad they had se
lected one of the classic hymns. I had never been able to find out what happened to devotional music around 1860. Before then, sacred melodies were composed to make the heart soar. But around the late nineteenth century, hymns all started to sound like they were written for a barbershop quartet.

  The congregation stood to sing.

  Davison nudged me. “How we know when we gotta stand an’ sit an’ stuff?”

  “Just do whatever the pew in front of you does.” I flipped through the hymnal for the correct page.

  “I never got a song book,” he said. “Can I look at yours?”

  I balanced the hymn book on the back of the pew in front of us, so we could both read it.

  “Fair is the sunshine,” we sang. “Fairer still the moonlight / And all the twinkling, starry host...”

  Davison nudged me again and pointed to the front of the sanctuary.

  “Eh, is that the twinkling, starry host?”

  “No. He’s the choir director.”

  I had hoped to sidle out unseen when the service ended, but Davison followed me out to the parking lot.

  “Do you need a ride?” I finally offered, with utter insincerity. I was feeling extremely short on Christian charity. I didn’t care for Davison’s company, and I did not want the stench of his awful cologne clinging to my Thunderbird’s new-old-stock upholstery.

  “Nah, I gotta ride. There she is.”

  I stared, speechless, as she approached us.

  “Hey, Molly,” she said. Then, to Davison, in an entirely different tone of voice: “Hey, doll.”

  Davison pulled his former stepmother close and held her tightly against his chest.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  SHERRY!” I EXCLAIMED. “What a surprise.”

  “Good to see you, Molly. We’ll catch up later, okay?” She pushed away from Davison and turned to go.

  “Nice to see you back in town,” I said. “So have you stopped in to see Davison’s father yet?”

  She paused, then turned back and winked at me.

  “Haven’t had the chance yet. Been so busy.”

  I looked at Sherry, and at Davison, and back at Sherry.