by Frankie Bow
“She said it was nice to be nominated but she was actually relieved she didn’t get it. She already gets put on so many different committees and panels, she said if she got this teaching award, she’d end up as a full-time role model, and she’d never be able to get any work done.”
“Do you think they’re serious about using the website to evaluate us?” I asked.
“I heard it on Campus Spotlight this morning when I was driving to work,” Emma said. “But I thought it was one of their jokes!”
“What’s Campus Spotlight?”
“Campus Spotlight is the daily feature on the local radio—oh, I forgot, you only ever listen to NPR.”
“Not true,” I protested. “Sometimes I listen to the classic rock station. When they’re playing 80s music.”
As Emma gathered her papers together I noticed something that looked like a purchase order.
“Hey Emma, what’s that for? Why does it have the biohazard symbol? Is it dangerous?”
Emma knocked my hand away and tucked the paper away quickly.
“It’s nothing. Just some stuff for my lab. So, ready?”
“Are we going to your house now?”
“Yeah. Now’s a good time. Jonah’s gonna be at home. Hey Molly, you know I never butt into your private business, yah?”
“What? Are you kidding me?”
“Unless I have a really good reason. So listen. Now that you’re done with Stephen, an’ you’re free and single, you know who else is single?”
I shrugged. “Priests? Hermits? Guys on death row?”
“Nah. Jonah.”
“Emma, you can’t be—I mean, Jonah is very nice, but I’m perfectly happy just being his guitar student for now. You know how it is. I’m still not over Stephen.”
Stephen had nothing to do with it, but I was trying to be tactful. Attempting to make conversation with Jonah Nakamura was hard enough. I couldn’t imagine what kind of effort it would take to keep an actual relationship going. Actually, yes I could imagine it. Jonah would probably be fine with having a relationship, as long as I did all the heavy lifting and he was allowed to sit around and play guitar all day. No thank you.
“How could you not be over Stephen?” Emma demanded. “He’s a selfish jerk. He stood you up on your birthday, and never apologized. And was probably two-timing you the whole time with Stage Manager Barbie from the theater.”
“You really want Jonah out of your house so badly?”
Emma sighed. “Yoshi’s been kvetching about it nonstop.”
“So if Jonah were out of the house, you’re saying Yoshi would be happy?”
“Nah, probably not. If Jonah left, Yoshi would just find something else to complain about. Anyway, let’s go get Iker, and then we can go back to my house.”
“Maybe we should’ve asked Pat if he wanted to come along. He used to be a reporter. He might know what to look for.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Emma said. “We hardly know him.”
She was right. We weren’t really supposed to be poking around in Kent Lovely’s murder to begin with. It probably wouldn’t be the smartest move to start recruiting accomplices.
CHAPTER THIRTY
We arrived at Emma’s house to find Jonah on the living room couch, playing his guitar. He had his eyes closed, and was picking out a lightning-fast lead over a recorded rhythm section. It wasn’t exactly pleasant to listen to. To me, extended lead guitar solos are like the directors’ cuts of music, self-indulgent and interesting to no one except the artist—but I had to admire his skill.
Emma went to the sound system and punched the power button, cutting out the recorded music. Jonah played a few more notes before he realized the music was gone, and opened his eyes.
“So Yoshi’s out somewhere?” Emma said. “’Cause if he was here, you wouldn’t be making all this racket, ah?”
Jonah shrugged and resumed playing.
“You ready? We gonna go take a look around your office, see what we can find.”
“Fine with me,” he said, still noodling quietly on the guitar.
“We drove by your building on the way here,” I said. “There isn’t police tape on the door or anything, so I thought it might be okay for us to go in.”
“For the purpose of our financial investigation,” Iker added.
“Guess so,” Jonah said. “Oh. This just came in the mail.”
Jonah set his guitar aside, leaned forward, and pulled a piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans.
“Check it out.”
He started to hand the letter to me, but Emma grabbed it away before I could see it. Her mouth fell open as she read. She sank into a chair.
“Nah. They want you to teach Kent Lovely’s classes in the fall?”
Jonah shrugged.
“Sure didn’t see that coming,” Emma said.
“So it wasn’t retaliation,” I said.
“Guess not.” Jonah picked his guitar back up and played a funky bass line.
“Emma was absolutely convinced there was a conspiracy to get back at you for making that report about Kent,” I said. “Emma was in my office for a good hour, talking about it.”
“Not.”
“Yes, you were. You made me late for class.”
“Not my fault you walk so slow.”
“But now it turns out, it wasn’t personal after all,” I said.
“I never said it was personal,” Emma declared. “For it to be personal, they’d have to think of him as a person. Iker, sit down. You’re making me nervous standing there.”
Iker obeyed, sinking quietly into a chair.
“What does it say?” I asked. “Can I see?”
Emma handed me the letter.
“Dear Mr./Ms. Nakamura, we are pleased to offer you an appointment as an adjunct member of the faculty in the College of Arts and Sciences, Department of Music. Please note this appointment is for the Fall semester only and is not a guarantee of future appointments. This offer is contingent upon sufficient enrollment, satisfactory teaching evaluations, and continued course offerings. Upon acceptance of the offer, please contact the Department of Human Resources to schedule drug testing. This offer is also contingent upon the successful completion of a criminal background check.”
Emma reached down and shoved Jonah’s shoulder. “Are you gonna do it?”
“Nah.”
“’Course not. Why take a perfectly good job offer when you can sit around the house all day instead? Eh dummy, you gotta play while we’re talking?”
Jonah’s bouncy baseline squelched into a sour note and died away.
“Nah, I get it,” Emma said. “You’d never pass the drug test. Actually with the new testing requirement, I don’t know who they think they’re gonna get to teach guitar.”
“It’s not ’cause the drug testing, Emma.” Jonah sat up straighter. “I don’t teach computer music, that’s why.”
Emma and Jonah glared at each other. Iker quietly examined his folded hands.
“Um,” I said, “Jonah? Do you still have the key to your office?”
“Yeah, I do,” Jonah sighed. “You guys can go look around. Don’t get caught.”
“Come with us,” Emma commanded.
“Aw, man,” Jonah groaned, but he complied, and all four of us piled into Emma’s car.
Emma pulled into a spot shaded by a silvery-leafed kukui tree. We waited in her car until the rain subsided, then crossed the lower parking lot to the prefab buildings that housed Music and Fine Arts. Water vapor curled up from the hot asphalt and swirled around our ankles as we walked.
The portables had been installed decades earlier as a temporary solution for a rapidly growing campus. Subsequent budget cuts and our legislature’s increasing focus on “useful” degrees had put the kibosh on plans for a permanent music building, so the “temporary” structures had become permanent. The neglected Music portables have weathered so hard they now attract a particular type of photographer, the kind who works exclus
ively in black and white and specializes in images of decay.
I increased my pace and pulled up next to Jonah.
“Did you ever talk to Kent about his behavior?” I asked. “I mean, before you made the report?”
“Yeah. He blew me off.”
“Then you made the report?”
“Nah, I followed up with email.”
“That was very wise, Jonah.” Iker puffed as he struggled to keep up with Emma and Jonah. Jonah has long legs, but Emma doesn’t, so I’m not sure why she has to walk so fast. She’d probably claim that walking quickly was a habit she picked up in New York, and then she’d remind everyone once again that she got her PhD at Cornell.
“Then there is a paper trail,” Iker said. “It is not literally paper in this case, of course.”
“So did Kent respond to your email?” I asked.
“Nah. Just an autoreply. Check this out.”
Jonah pulled a cell phone out of his back pocket and tapped on the screen. Emma grabbed the phone from Jonah’s hand.
“Thank you for your email,” Emma read. “Sadly, it will be deleted.”
“To delete a message so thoughtlessly?” Iker said. “That is extremely impolite.”
“And completely in character for Kent,” I added.
“Wait, there’s more. He says, To regain sanity, I am taking a break from email until August 31. If still relevant, please email me again after that date.”
“Even from beyond the grave Kent manages to be infuriating,” I said. “Quite an accomplishment.”
“He’s got chutzpah for sure.” Emma handed Jonah’s phone back to him. “Jonah, Kent was an idiot. You should teach his dumb classes and take the money. No way you could do any worse than him.”
“Emma, I told you. I don’t know anything about computer music. It’d be so much prep just to teach a couple classes, it wouldn’t even be worth it. Oh, weird. His car’s still here.”
Kent’s red convertible was parked across two spaces, a can of energy drink still in the cup holder. The car had a single bumper sticker, from a local martial arts studio. A white karate gi was crumpled on the back seat, and miniature nunchucks dangled from the rear view mirror.
“Of course that would be Kent’s car,” I said.
“It practically screams Insecure White Guy,” Emma added.
“If his automobile is here,” Iker asked, “how did he travel to the Lehua Inn for the retreat?”
“Probably carpooled with Rodge,” I said quickly.
“Rodge rides a motorcycle,” Jonah pointed out. “Ever since his last DUI.”
“That’s right,” Emma exclaimed. “You guys remember when it was in the police blotter? In the County Courier? Yah, it was one proud day for Mahina State.”
“So if Rodge Cowper is riding the motorcycle,” Iker said, “how did Kent Lovely travel to the retreat?”
“Probably rode with Rodge on his motorcycle,” Emma said.
“I agree, Emma.” I nodded vigorously. “That sounds like the most likely explanation. Rode in with Rodge.”
“Feel the wind in your hair,” Emma said. “Right?”
“Plus, it’s easier to find parking for a motorcycle, compared to a car.”
I thought it was far more likely Kent had gotten a ride over with Marshall Dixon. I was sure that Emma was thinking the same thing.
“But it was raining on that day,” Iker said, “It was not a good day to drive a motorcycle.”
“So they gonna let Kent’s car sit here taking up two spaces until it rots?”
I mentally applauded Emma for changing the subject so deftly. “With parking on campus so scarce,” I added.
Jonah gave Emma and me a funny look, then resumed walking with his eyes fixed on the ground, hands in his jeans pockets. He could tell that we were holding something back, but I didn’t want to tell Jonah and Iker about Marshall Dixon’s indiscretion. And neither did Emma, obviously. It would be an embarrassing distraction, and I didn’t see how telling the guys about it would help to solve Kent’s murder.
“I believe that such property as this automobile is confiscated as a rule,” Iker said, “and then it will appear at the auction of Central Supply.”
“Well that car’ll be a great deal for someone,” I said.
“Sure,” Emma agreed. “Someone who wants to drive around looking like a huge putz.”
We approached the dilapidated portable building and stood aside to let Jonah unlock the door and let us in. He lingered for a moment, then turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” Emma demanded. Jonah shook his head and walked off.
“You’re not coming in?” I called after him.
“Nah,” he called back. “You guys have fun.”
“How is he going to get home?” I asked Emma.
“Probably hitchhike. Or just walk back.”
“Doesn’t he want to wait for us?”
“Nah. Look, the main road’s right out there.”
“Is it safe?” I asked.
“Oh yah. He’ll be fine.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The office Kent and Jonah had shared was even gloomier than mine. As in all the faculty offices, half the light tubes had been removed. The only daylight came from a single, small window, positioned high on the wall, under a light-blocking exterior eave. The walls were dark, covered with faux paneling, split and splintered over the years. The small space was chockablock with computers and cables and keyboards, both the computer and the music kind.
“Kent and Jonah didn’t share a single desk, did they?” I asked Emma. “Why is there only one?”
“There is the small one in the corner.” Iker pointed out. The tiny desk was buried under piles of sound cards, synths, cables, and several still-sealed boxes. Kent had claimed the entire space.
“I knew Kent was an inconsiderate schmuck,” Emma said. “But this… It’s like some creepy nature show dominance display. Like he was marking his territory, leaving his junk everywhere.”
“I’m so glad I don’t have to share an office.” I knocked on the wall, and got a flimsy “pock, pock” sound. There was no drywall underneath. The paneling had been installed over bare studs. The shortcut probably violated even the minimal building codes of the time.
“Me, too,” Emma agreed. “Sucks to be a part-timer, ah?”
“Wow, nice chairs, though.” I ran my hand over the back of one of the ergonomic chairs that faced the main desk. The black mesh looked gossamer light, but felt slick and solid. “Not bad for a university without a furniture budget.”
Iker sat down in the other chair, the one I wasn’t fondling, and pulled a binder out of his briefcase.
“Emma, have you been inside this office before?” I asked.
“Nah.” Emma went back behind the big desk and plopped down into what had apparently been Kent’s seat, a cushioned leather throne with a high back. “Even Jonah didn’t spend a lotta time here. Can’t blame ’im.”
“If Iker and I had seen this earlier,” I said, “we would have known exactly where to find the financial discrepancies. This is even more of a smoking gun than Kent’s portable sound system.”
“I wonder what they’re gonna do with this chair now. Now that Kent’s dead.” Emma regally surveyed the office, her head so far below the top of the chair she looked like a child emperor.
“It appears Kent did not buy these furnitures with his private funds,” Iker examined his binder, which was open on his lap. He ran his finger down a dense row of numbers on the printout. “These two ergonomic chairs have been purchased against the department budget. The large chair behind the desk, however, I cannot find a record.”
“It must be in there somewhere,” Emma said. “No way that gonif paid for this leather chair himself. Aren’t there keywords you can search for?”
“That’s a paper printout, Emma, you can’t search—Did you just say gonif? Never mind, I know. Cornell.”
“It is not so simple,” Iker said. “The me
rchandise description is often not straightforward. Purchases can be bundled in a special transaction. I purchase four chairs, I receive the table for no additional charge. It is like that.”
“I can imagine how frustrating this must have been for Jonah,” I said. “No wonder he didn’t want to come in with us.”
“Right? I mean, how much to you think this thing cost, all soft leather—”
Emma caressed the side of the chair and accidentally hit a button. The chair began to undulate around her. She yelped and jumped to a standing position.
“So it’s true,” I said. “He did have a massage chair,”
“What the—” Emma lowered herself cautiously into the still-churning chair.
“Kent Lovely bought himself a massage chair. And I just had to buy myself a yoga ball to sit on because we supposedly don’t have a furniture budget.”
“Molly,” Iker said “Such an anger is corrosive to the spirit. Kent Lovely is dead. You cannot kill him again.”
“What, me? I’m not angry. How ridiculous.”
“You know what Kent would say, Molly. Winners find a way. Oooooh. Hey, this isn’t bad.” Emma sank back into the chair and let it knead her head.
“I think it’s not adjusted properly for your height,” I said. “Can I try? I’m taller.”
“Just a sec,” Emma sighed, her eyelids at half-mast. “Settle down, Molly. You’ll get your turn.”
I stood up and prowled around the office. Iker studied his printouts and Emma luxuriated in the massage chair. A bright red binder on a shelf caught my eye. I pulled it down and examined the spine. On it, someone had written SOS with a black Sharpie.
“SOS.” I opened the binder and leafed through it. “Why do they have this here? Is this building in the tsunami zone, or—oh, wait. Sounds of Seduction? What the—”
Emma switched the chair off, leaned over the desk and reached her short arms toward me for the binder.
“What?” I said. “Use your words.”
“Gimme.”
“Fine. Enjoy.” I slid the binder over to her. She opened it and started reading. Her expression quickly changed from curiosity to disgust.
