by Frankie Bow
The next message in my inbox was a glowing report of the previous day’s retreat, sent by the Student Retention Office’s Media Relations Department. With a chill, I read that Kent Lovely was the winner of the teaching award. There was no mention of Kent’s collapse or subsequent death. The press release had gone into the publicity pipeline before the event; the winner had obviously been chosen well in advance.
“Eh, Professor, you all set?”
It took me a moment to recognize him without his red baseball cap. My pleasant and voluble summer student, Micah, was manning the cash register.
“You ready, Professor?”
I cast a panicked look at the long line of people waiting behind me. I was trapped.
“Micah.” I stuffed my phone back into my bag. “Hi. So. You work here. Of course you do.”
I placed the small box containing the deflated yoga ball on the little counter. Then came the bottles of wine and the half-gallon of vodka. Finally, I pulled out the bras and scrunched them into the smallest possible pile.
“Sorry, Professor.” Micah grinned. “I gotta see your ID. ’Cause the alcohol.”
I pulled out my driver’s license and showed it to him, my thumb covering the weight and birth year. He reached for it, and a gentle tug of war ensued.
“Gotta scan ’em, Professor. I give it right back.”
I let go, and he slid the license through a slit at the side of the cash register. The machine beeped approval, and Micah examined the license before handing it back to me.
“Looks like you planning one big birthday celebration, ah Professor?”
He held up the half-gallon bottle and aimed the scanner gun.
“Oh, no, I—”
“If I had one student pull a leiomano on me, I probably be ready for a drink or three myself, guarantee. Eh, this vodka any good, professor?”
“I don’t drink that,” I said. “I put a spray nozzle on it and use it to clean things. You can use it to freshen clothes too.”
“You spray vodka on your clothes?”
“It’s a theater trick. I learned it from Stephen—from Professor Park. They spray down the costumes after every performance. It saves on dry cleaning.”
Micah scanned the wine bottles one by one. Then he picked up the first bra. I fixed my gaze on the cash register’s price display so I wouldn’t have to make eye contact.
“These ones are real popular,” Micah said. “All the wahine say how comfortable they are. We just got one batch in and they’re almost all gone already. Just the small sizes left. An good price, too.”
“Uh huh.” I remembered “wahine” meant “women.” I’d have to take a real Hawaiian language class one of these days. I looked around, but still didn’t see Emma anywhere. I did notice that Galimba’s had opened another register.
Micah frowned at the bra in his hand, then stared frankly at my chest.
“Eh, Professor,” he said, “Hope you don’t mind my saying. I think you wearing the wrong size bra.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You get too small a cup size an’ too big a band size.” Micah looked concerned. “’Lotta women make that mistake. Know how you can tell? The part in front, between the cups, gotta sit flat against your breastbone. If you can fit your thumb up in there, you’re wearing the wrong size.”
I crossed my arms defensively.
“That’s very interesting, but I—”
“No worries. I get you the right size. You wait here.” Micah scooped up the entire pile of bras and left me standing alone at the cash register.
“Those aren’t for me,” I protested. But it was too late, even if my lie had been convincing, which it wasn’t. I didn’t dare look back at the growing line of customers behind me.
“My auntie used to be a fitter at Foxy Lady Lingerie downtown,” Micah announced upon his return. He plunked down a pile of bras in an even weirder color assortment than the one I had originally picked out. Teal satin, rust with yellow trim, and chocolate zebra stripes had apparently not sold well at retail. “These’ll fit you more better. Give you one good silhouette, and more comfortable too. Guarantee.”
Micah untwisted a bra, shook it out and held it aloft as he searched for the price tag.
“Eh, Professor, I signed up for your Business Planning for fall semester. Is it gonna be hard?”
Micah found the price tag and scanned it.
“No, that’s not my class.” I was grateful for the change of subject. “Rodge Cowper teaches BP.”
“Aw, I rather take you than Doctor Rodge,” he said. “Coulda swore I saw your name in the fall course listing.”
“No, Business Planning is definitely Doctor Rodge’s class,” I said.
“Aw. I heard you don’t learn nothing in Dr. Rodge’s class.”
“Oh Micah, I wouldn’t say that.” It was true, but I wouldn’t say it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Micah held up another bra and aimed the scanner gun. Beep.
“Yah, Doctor Rodge? Get some high ‘need for affiliation’ him. Wants everyone to like him.”
“You remember your McClelland.” I beamed at him. “I’m impressed.”
Micah grinned proudly and continued to scan bras. Beep. Beep. How many bras were there, anyway? They seemed to be multiplying right there on the conveyor belt.
“An’, Professor, I think you get high achievement need, you.”
“Well. That might be true.” I was pleased Micah had remembered the lesson, and was flattered by his assessment.
“That’s how come I like take your class,” he said. “You make sure we all learn, yah? No excuses.”
I allowed myself a smile.
“You don’t care if anyone likes you,” Micah scanned the last of the bras.
Beep.
“Eh, was nice to see you, Professor. See you in class tomorrow.” He stuck the wine and vodka bottles into my recycled rice-bag shopping tote, and then stuffed the bras in around them.
“Right,” I gave Micah a stiff smile, signed for the purchase, and took my bra- and bottle-packed bag. “Terrific. See you tomorrow.”
Emma was already waiting in her car, with the motor running and the air conditioner on.
“Doesn’t it defeat the purpose of a hybrid to keep the motor idling like this?” I climbed in, buckled up, and checked the dash clock. “Oh great, I’m late for my hair appointment. I didn’t realize this was going to take so long.”
“That’s exactly how come I can idle my car with a clear conscious,” Emma said. “’Cause it hardly uses any gas.”
“Conscience,” I corrected her. “With an N.”
“No, it’s conscious, cause look, I’m conscious and not unconscious.” Emma tapped her temple. “Geez, I thought you were supposed to be an English major. Okay, I’ll take you back to campus so you can get your car. Then I’m gonna go home and set up my new coffee machine.”
The outsized box took up most of Emma’s back seat.
“You did buy one of those machines. I’m so envious. I wish I could afford one. Wouldn’t it be nice to have something like that in my office?”
“If you sold that big blue land yacht and bought a practical car, you might have some money left over for—”
“Oh, stop it. You sound just like my mechanic.”
“Oh yah? Maybe you should listen to him then.”
“Earl’s a competent technician,” I said, “but he has no imagination. So how is Jonah doing? Any developments?” I didn’t tell Emma about the email from my student, claiming that her brother had to give an emergency guitar lesson.
“Jonah’s not doing great.”
“What’s going on?”
Emma pulled out onto the road, cutting off a lifted pickup. I clutched the door handle.
“That was a little close, Emma.” The black truck’s grimacing grill and massive chrome bumper filled Emma’s back window.
“Serves ’em right for speeding. Eh, tailgating’s not gonna make me go any faster, babooz.”
She slammed the brake for emphasis. I saw the truck’s grill plunge. Emma accelerated, leaving the stalled-out truck behind. “Yah, so check it out. There’s a police cruiser parked on our street now, about two houses down, in front of the Murakamis’ house. A marked car, like fo’real. Not the kine where they jus’ stick the little light on top.”
A station wagon in front of us slowed to a stop, signaling a left turn into the gas station. Emma swerved into the bike lane and steered around the stopped car, and then back onto the main road. I braced my hands on the dashboard. The black truck had restarted and gained on us, but was now stuck behind the station wagon, too wide to fit into the narrow bike lane.
“I’m not in that much of a hurry, Emma. It’s okay to drive with all four wheels on the ground.”
“I feel sorry for those poor schlemiels that got stuck doing surveillance. Where are they gonna go to the bathroom? Unless they do like the taxi drivers in New York, keep a little jar under the seat.”
“So they’re just parked on your street?” I interrupted, not particularly keen to hear about the taxi drivers and their little jars.
“That’s after they came in an’ grilled us.”
“Oh. About what?”
“Like, do I know how to give someone kidney failure? What’s that, a trick question?”
“Seriously? Who would ever admit—”
“Easy that thing. The guy’d never know what got ’em.”
“I hope you didn’t tell them that.”
“Well not like bragging. I jus’ told ’em if I wanted jam up someone’s kidneys, I’d sneak some antifreeze into his sports drink.”
“Emma. You said that to the police?”
Emma slowed in front of the outdoor secondhand furniture store that used to be a gas station, and made a right turn toward campus.
“If I’d of played dumb, they’d of been suspicious,” Emma said. “Everyone knows about the antifreeze. That’s how you get rid of feral cats.”
“People poison cats with antifreeze? I’ve never heard of that.”
“Diethylene glycol tastes a little bit sweet. There was a thing back in the eighties where some winery put a little of it in their wine to give it the right flavor. Sometimes people try use it on rats, too, but that’s a mistake. Rats go die under your house, and it gets all stink.”
“So they think Jonah learned this from you, and then poisoned Kent? How do they explain the part about Jonah not even being at the scene?”
“DEG takes a few days to kill someone. Jonah and Kent shared an office. Plenty opportunity. Anyways, hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, and Jonah’s already getting calls from people cancelling guitar lessons.”
“I kind of suspected that was happening.”
“Eh Molly, why don’t you come over tonight?”
“Tonight? Well it’s nice of you to ask, but—”
“Jonah’s feeling kinda down. Maybe listening to your English-major jibber jabber would cheer him up. Like a babbling brook.”
“Emma, I can’t tonight. I have plans with Stephen. He’s taking me to dinner.”
I checked the time on Emma’s dashboard clock. I still had a good chance of making it to Tatsuya’s Moderne Beauty in time. Tatsuya is a nice man, but he does not tolerate tardiness.
“I know, it’s your birthday. That’s how come I said come over. It’ll be like a celebration.”
“Did you hear the part about Stephen taking me to dinner? What? What’s with the eye roll?”
“Okay. Well, when he flakes on you again, we’ll be there for you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Emma. Stephen’s not going to forget my birthday.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Holua Street Shopping Center, home to Tatsuya’s Moderne Beauty, has seen better days. Those days appear to have been the early sixties. To the left of Tatsuya’s entrance was Peggy-Ann Fashions. To the right was a vacant space where Mahina’s only comic book store had folded over a year before.
I locked up my car and pushed through Tatsuya’s gold-lettered glass door, setting unseen bells a-jingle. Inside the small salon, a row of pink hairdryer chairs lined one wall. The only other customer was an elderly Japanese lady. She sat in one of the hairdryer chairs, chrome bonnet lowered to eyebrow level, engrossed in a magazine. Tatsuya Masumoto hurried up front to greet me. Tatsuya was trim, with sharp cheekbones and smooth black hair.
“Ah, Miss Molly.” He was smiling. I was on time. “Let’s do something special for the birthday girl.”
He seated me in a worn pink salon chair, pulled out a pink cape and fastened it around my shoulders. The cape had gone through so many washings that the red Tatsuya’s dragon logo was faded and worn off in spots. The familiar ammonia smell of permanent-wave chemicals and hair dye was oddly soothing. I settled in to be pampered.
“I was just telling Trudy,” Tatusya said. “I do look forward to your visits.”
“You do? Why thank you.”
“You test the limits of my artistry, Miss Molly. I believe you have the most challenging hair in Mahina. So, did you have anything particular in mind?”
“Just work your magic.” I watched Tatsuya in the mirror as he deftly sectioned my hair. “This won’t take more than two hours, will it?”
“We’ll get you out in plenty of time.” Tatsuya started to comb a section of my hair, starting at the ends.
Tatsuya is expensive, but he’s worth it. One time, a few months ago, I tried to economize by getting my hair cut at the local beauty school. The stylist-in-training, a young woman with magenta hair and tarantula eyelashes, complained nonstop about my “hair from hell.” She cut it while it was wet and used thinning shears, two things I now know you’re never supposed to do to curly hair. I walked out of the beauty school looking like the back half of a poodle. That day I swore, Scarlett O’Hara-like, that I would never get a bargain haircut again.
The beauty school is gone now, replaced by a check-cashing store.
“So it looks like you and I are going to be fellow Business Boosters,” I said. “I saw the sticker on your door.”
“Trudy and I are both Business Boosters. We’ll be delighted to have you. Ohhh, have you been using that store-brand conditioner? Bad girl.”
Tatsuya was examining the ends of my hair disapprovingly.
“You can tell? Of course you can. I didn’t do any irreversible damage, did I?”
“No, we’ll just trim off these dead ends and everything will be as good as new. You will walk out of here looking absolutely devastating. Oh, I heard about what happened at your campus. Poor Kent Lovely. Did you know him?”
“I did know Kent. He was good friends with Rodge Cowper, who has the office next to mine. Did you know Kent?”
“Why, Kent and his friend Roger are customers.” Tatsuya’s voice assumed a confidential tone. “I do Kent’s weave. Did Kent’s weave, I should say. I still can’t believe it. Kent was a young man in his prime.”
“Rodge Cowper comes here? I sure wouldn’t have guessed.”
“Roger has such beautifully thick hair.” Tatsuya unclipped another section of my hair and started combing it out. “All he needs to do is keep it trimmed. He asked about color, but I told him not to dye it, the grey is so distinguished.”
The adjectives “beautiful” and “distinguished” didn’t jibe at all with my impression of Rodge Cowper. I supposed Tatsuya Masumoto’s job required him to find beauty in unexpected places.
“Kent colored his hair, though,” I said. “Obviously.”
Tatsuya lifted his hands in a don’t-blame-me gesture.
“He insisted on doing it himself. I think he was trying to save money. I certainly hope no one thought his dye job was my work.”
“I know it looked artificial,” I said, “but I can’t put my finger on why. What would you have done differently? I mean, your hair is black too, but it doesn’t look jarring, the way Kent’s did.”
“True blue-black is very hard to wear well,” Tatsuya touched his neat
coif. “Especially as we age. This shade I have is actually a dark brown, not a true black. It reads as black, but it isn’t the 01-level black-black. This is a three-A. That’s an ash tone, no brass. In any case, Kent was far too fair to wear a dark color. His hair was so much darker than his brows and lashes, it looked like a hat.”
“You lost me at three-A,” I said.
“Oh, it takes years to learn it all.” Tatsuya frowned and pulled a piece of my hair taut, then let it spring back into its corkscrew shape. Then he unclipped a piece of hair on the other side of my head and pulled both pieces straight at once.
“Speaking of hair color,” I said, “is there any kind of chemical in hair dye that could cause kidney damage?”
“Kidney damage?” Tatsuya stepped back. “Is that how Kent Lovely died?”
Whoops. I shouldn’t have said anything. The police might have been holding the information back. On the other hand, how much of a secret could it be if they told Emma about it?
“I don’t really know.” I shrugged under my pink cape. “It’s just one of the rumors going around. That’s all.”
“I’ve never heard of hair color causing kidney failure. Never. Skin irritation, perhaps. Unattractive results, certainly. But never anything as serious as kidney failure.”
Tatsuya excused himself to check on his other customer, leaving me to stare at my sallow reflection. There’s no better antidote to inflated self-esteem than overhead fluorescent lights.
“Trudy came up with an interesting theory,” Tatsuya said when he returned. “She asked if I thought Kent was blackmailing someone.”
“Blackmail. That’s interesting. Did she have anyone specific in mind?”
I wondered what had gone on between Kent and Vice President Marshall Dixon right before he kissed her manicured hand. Had he threatened to go to her husband? I thought about what Serena had said. Shame.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“So Trudy thinks Kent was blackmailing someone?” I asked Tatsuya’s reflection. “That’s interesting. He did seem like one of those guys who’s always looking for an angle.”
