The Case of the Defunct Adjunct: In Which Molly Takes On the Student Retention Office and Loses Her Office Chair (Professor Molly Mysteries Book 0)

by Frankie Bow

  “‘She should do something about her hair.’”

  Rodge shrugged. “Did they tell you what you should do?”

  “No.”

  “What else ya got?”

  “‘Luv watching her walk in that red skirt you know what I’ Yeah, not helpful. Next one: ‘Way to strick about riding. Give up now if your not a riding genus.’”

  “It’s all about confidence, Molly. You get your confidence up, and everything falls into place. Whaddaya say about that, Iker?”

  Iker was examining a framed poster on Rodge’s wall, an eighties-style graphic of a woman with white skin, black hair, and purple lips.

  “There is a proverb.” Iker muttered something in a language I didn’t understand.

  “What does it mean?” I asked. “Was that the one about the beard?”

  “It is not easily translated. Molly, you are an honest and dedicated teacher. I do not like to think any person of seriousness would listen to these impudent ravings.”

  “I’m sure there’s some good ones in there,” Rodge said. “Lemme see.”

  I handed him the envelope, self-consciously smoothed my skirt, and sat back down on the uncomfortable couch.

  “See, here’s a positive one right here. They said…Looks like another vote for your red skirt. Is it the one you’re wearing now?”

  I decided that we’d had enough chit-chat about student evaluations.

  “Listen, Rodge, you know what I was wondering? I never saw anything about a memorial service for Kent. Why is that?”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The metal rail in Rodge’s futon was digging into my backside. How did anyone manage to sit on this awful couch for more than a few seconds at a time? I sat and suffered, not wanting to risk cutting the conversation short by standing up.

  “I did ask if the university could have a memorial service for Kent,” Rodge was saying. “He didn’t have a family. I mean, there were his exes, but…Kent’s life was here, in the university.”

  I nodded.

  “Anyway, they told me they couldn’t do anything.”

  “Why not? We only have a few summer classes going on. It’s not like it would be hard to schedule a room.”

  “It is not beyond the ability of our university to offer a memorial event,” Iker said. “Recall it was at the distinguished and pompous award ceremony where Kent met his fate.”

  “Well, Kent was only a part-timer. They told me they didn’t want to set a precedent.”

  “What? Oh, you mean if they do it for Kent, the next lecturer who dies is going to demand a nice memorial service too?”

  Rodge sighed and slumped in his chair. “Pretty much.”

  “I’m so sorry Rodge. I know you two were good friends.”

  “Please accept my condolences as well,” Iker added.

  “At least I have some good memories. Did I ever tell you about the time we went to the all you can eat salad bar at Gavin’s? It was classic Kent. You know Gavin’s, down on Mamo street?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think I ever heard the story.”

  “Iker.” Rodge sounded jovial again. “Come siddown. You’re making me nervous pacing like that.”

  Iker relented and sat down next to me. He shifted uneasily as he tried, without success, to find a comfortable position.

  “Gavin’s has a salad bar?” I asked. “I didn’t know. I haven’t been able to find a salad bar since I moved to Mahina.”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s there anymore. Aw, I don’t know if you want to hear the whole story.”

  “Sure. I like stories.”

  I felt a pang of pity for Rodge. He’d described Kent as someone who didn’t have much of a life outside of work, but it seemed like a pretty good description of Rodge himself. His students appreciated the fact that he didn’t make them think too hard or do any homework or otherwise impose on their busy schedules. With Kent gone, was there anyone left who really enjoyed Rodge Cowper’s company?

  “It was kind of late for lunch, and Kent and me were both hungry, so we thought we’d try Gavin’s. We heard they had shrimp at the salad bar. So Kent had all these plastic sandwich bags in his pockets.”

  Rodge had picked up my stack of student evaluations and was fanning himself with them. I reached out and pulled them from Rodge’s hand.

  “I can take these.”

  “Paper cut,” Rodge yelped.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ve got disinfectant in my office. I’ll be right back.”

  I sprinted over to my office and grabbed the jumbo vodka bottle with the spray nozzle on top. I mostly use it to spray wrinkles out of my clothes and to clean up the occasional spill, but it’s a pretty good disinfectant in a pinch.

  Back in Rodge’s office, Iker sat impassively on the couch watching Rodge clutch the wrist of his injured hand. A bead of blood welled up from the webbing between Rodge’s thumb and forefinger.

  I aimed the spray nozzle and squirted Rodge’s injury. He opened his mouth in a silent scream.

  “No, no, no,” I tried to soothe him, waving my arms around in a sort of dance of appeasement. Our slapstick tableau was interrupted by the sound of voices coming down the hall.

  “Even during the summer,” said a woman in clear, accentless tones, “our faculty members are working on their research and preparing for their classes.”

  “Marshall Dixon,” Rodge hissed through gritted teeth. He was hunched over, clutching his wrist so tightly I could see his fingers turning purple. “Hide the air conditioner.”

  I quickly unplugged Rodge’s portable air conditioner and rolled it behind his desk, out of sight.

  “We’re going to meet Rodge Cowper, one of our best teachers,” wheedled a voice I recognized as Linda from the Student Retention Office.

  “Booze,” Rodge hissed.

  “What?” I stared at the giant vodka bottle in my hand, as if noticing it for the first time.

  “Oh, I tried signing up for his class last semester but there was a huge waiting list.” This was a girlish voice, a student, I guessed.

  “Well, Skip, let’s say hello,” Marshall Dixon said, her voice getting closer.

  “Skip Kojima. I can’t go into the hallway with this bottle.” I panic-skipped back and forth in the tiny confines of Rodge’s office, student evaluations in one hand, vodka bottle in the other. Rodge, still writhing in pain, managed to point to his bottom file drawer. I yanked it open, which set about half a dozen liquor bottles clanking and rolling. I pushed them back to make room for one more and slammed the metal drawer shut just as Marshall Dixon rapped on Rodge’s door frame.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Iker, Rodge, and I stood at attention. I quietly let go of my stack of student evaluation forms. They dropped into Rodge’s trash can with a thunk. Rodge’s evals were once again spread out proudly across his desk.

  Linda appeared in Rodge’s doorway first. She looked a little wilted in her long-sleeved muumuu. Next was Marshall Dixon, sleek in expensive beige separates, followed by a sun-browned man in his sixties. Skip Kojima wore jeans and black rubber slippers (or flip-flops, if you prefer). His chocolate brown polo shirt sported the Kojima Surfwear volcano-and-rainbow emblem.

  Bringing up the rear was a petite young woman wearing a Mahina State t-shirt in the official school colors as decided by student vote: red, green, and gold on a black background.

  “Hi Dr. Rodge.” The young woman gave Rodge a smile and a petite wave.

  “Heya,” Rodge said. I could tell he couldn’t remember her name.

  “May we come in?” Marshall led the party into Rodge’s office without waiting for an answer.

  “It’s nice and cool in here,” Skip said as the four of them crowded in. “Awful hot out there in the hallway.”

  “It does get a little warm in the summer,” Marshall said. “We have a comprehensive energy-saving plan we’ve implemented on campus, which includes right-sizing our climate control. We’re making a small sacrifice to save the environment. And
to save the taxpayers their hard-earned money.”

  Linda and Marshall shared a forced chuckle, and then Marshall made introductions. Iker stepped forward to shake Skip Kojima’s hand.

  “Mister Kojima, it is an honor to meet you. I understand your father was part of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team of the United States Army. The brave American soldiers who fought the Axis Powers in the Second World War, even as their own families were subject to internment at home. It is an inspiring example to me, the 442.”

  Marshall Dixon smiled and nodded.

  “Eight presidential citations and twenty one medals of honor.” Skip Kojima’s grin was radiant. “Now me, I just sell t-shirts.”

  “Mister Kojima,” the young woman piped up, “my dream is to be a famous fashion designer like you. You’re such a great role model.”

  “Well, the fashion industry isn’t all glitz and glamor,” Skip said. “I hope you’re ready for long hours and hard work.”

  “Oh, I am. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I have it all planned out. I’m gonna call my line Tokyo Rose. I already have an idea for the label. It’s gonna have the kanji letters for Tokyo, and a picture of a red rose.”

  The smile died out of Skip Kojima’s eyes. Marshall cleared her throat to get Skip’s attention.

  “Skip,” Marshall said, “did you have any questions for us?”

  “I do. Young lady, what is your name?”

  “I’m Ashleigh. Ashleigh Ueda.”

  “Ashleigh, however did you choose a name like ‘Tokyo Rose’ for your business?”

  “I don’t know. I thought it sounded pretty. My friends say I have a good feeling for this stuff. You know, fashion. And publicity.”

  Marshall was wincing. Linda beamed proudly.

  “And what is your major, Ashleigh?” Skip asked.

  “I’m majoring in history.”

  I heard Iker exhale with relief. Not a business major. She wasn’t one of ours.

  “You’re a history major.” Skip Kojima repeated.

  “Oh, it’s not like a regular history major. It’s so cool. We don’t get all caught up with boring stuff like names and dates. We get to choose what we want to study. It’s totally student-driven!” Ashleigh directed this last comment at Linda, who smiled approval.

  Skip Kojima remained cordial, but the temperature in Rodge Cowper’s office had plummeted, and it had nothing to do with his contraband air conditioner. Marshall pasted on a smile and hurried the party out of Rodge’s office, presumably to the next stop on their campus tour.

  “This was a very unfortunate woman,” Iker said.

  “Oh, Marshall Dixon?” I said. “I know. Did you see her expression? It was like she was watching dollar bills flying out of the window.” Emma was right about the Student Retention Office. They were a menace.

  “No, I do not refer in this case to Marshall Dixon. I mean the one known as Tokyo Rose. She was trapped in Japan during the wartime, forced to do the propaganda broadcasts. She was alone and without friends in a country that was not her own.”

  “Didn’t she get a presidential pardon?” I asked.

  “Only many years later,” Iker said.

  “I still wouldn’t bring her up to someone whose father was 442,” Rodge said.

  “Well, looks like Arts and Sciences won’t have to buy new letterhead after all.”

  Iker and I sat back down on Rodge’s uncomfortable couch.

  “So Rodge.” I smiled. “What did happen at Gavin’s salad bar?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  “Roger has many reminiscences about his departed friend Kent,” Iker said. By the time we finally left Rodge’s office, it was time to head home for the day. Iker was walking me down to the parking lot.

  “I didn’t see anything out of place in Rodge’s office,” I said. “Did you?”

  “No.” Iker agreed. “There was nothing of the ill-gotten gains.”

  Iker and I paused under the overhang of the College of Commerce building. Out in the rainy parking lot, my Thunderbird looked conspicuously turquoise among the white hatchbacks and black lifted trucks.

  “I have to say, nothing that Rodge told us improved my opinion of Kent. Kent hits himself on the head with a golf club and then claims to be injured just to get some free rounds of golf. Kent goes out on a blind date and pretends to be literally blind, because ha ha, blind date, get it? I don’t understand what Rodge saw in him.”

  “Perhaps Roger does not have other friends,” Iker said. “To have Kent was better than to have nobody.”

  “Good point,” I said. “But personally? I think I’d rather—oh, look, someone’s coming. She’s waving. Why does she look so familiar?”

  “That is our student, Margaret Adams,” Iker said. I recognized her then, from my spring semester business communications course. Margaret was an accounting major, quiet in class but remarkably driven. She used to visit my office almost daily to check on her grade. She needn’t have worried. Her straight-A average had survived BizCom unharmed.

  “Hi Margaret,” I said as she bounded up to us. “What are you doing on campus? Are you taking summer classes?”

  “No, I’m working. My shift’s starting pretty soon, but I saw you guys and wanted to say hi.”

  “You are doing the bookkeeping?” Iker inquired hopefully.

  “Oh I wish. No, just working the cash register. Down at Fujioka’s Music and Party Supply. I was lucky to get that, with that new off-island degree thing they’re putting in all the want ads now.”

  “Off island degree?” I asked. “What is that?”

  “Oh, they want you to have a college degree, but more and more of the employers think a degree from Mahina State’s too easy to get nowadays. So they’re looking for people who got their degree from somewhere else.”

  “You mean they’re telling our graduates, ‘Sorry, a Mahina State degree’s not good enough’? Mahina employers don’t want to hire Mahina State graduates?”

  “But that is terrible,” Iker said.

  Margaret looked flustered. “I’m sure you guys will work it out with the employers by the time I get my degree. And I got my foot in the door at Fujioka’s. So it’s working out okay for me, so far.”

  “Working at a music store sounds nice,” I said. “Do you get an employee discount?”

  “There is one, but I don’t play an instrument, I don’t really throw parties, and I can’t afford their jewelry. So it doesn’t do me much good. It’s kind of fun working there, though. Musicians are interesting people.”

  “They are,” I said. “So then what are you doing on campus?”

  “I heard the bookstore started getting textbooks in. I want to make sure I get mine before they run out. I don’t trust the online thing. I’ve known too many people who ordered books and didn’t have them come in on time.”

  “This is excellent planning,” Iker said.

  “It is. I’m impressed.”

  “So Dr. Barda, I saw you were teaching Intro to Business Management and Business Planning. I hope your textbooks aren’t too expensive. You know I calculated I spent more on textbooks last semester than I did on rent.”

  “Did you say Intro to Business Management and Business Planning? IBM and BP are Rodge Cowper’s classes. I’m not teaching those.”

  “Oh.” A troubled expression passed over Margaret’s fine features. “But the fall schedule has you listed as the instructor. I’ll double check at the bookstore. Anyway, have a great summer if I don’t see you.”

  Iker and I watched Margaret trot away in the direction of the campus bookstore. Even Margaret, slim as she was, had to push overgrown monstera and strawberry guava aside to make her way down the walkway. Ever since the administration had laid off most of our groundskeeping staff, the endemic vegetation had been reclaiming the campus, smothering buildings and crowding into the paths that crisscrossed the campus. Back where I come from, coaxing anything to grow up out of the bare dirt is an accomplishment. Here, on the wet side of the i
sland, gardening is largely a matter of beating back nature with propane torches and weed killer.

  “What were we talking about?” I asked Iker, when Margaret had disappeared from view.

  “We were discussing our visit to the office of our colleague, Roger Cowper,” Iker said. “We have heard many colorful tales about the late Kent Lovely. We have seen the careless words of a naive student costing our university a large donation. And you have inflicted a bleeding injury upon Roger himself. Yet we are no closer to finding out who murdered Kent Lovely.”

  “I wouldn’t call it an injury. It was a paper cut. Injury makes it sound like he needed medical—The pills.”

  “The pills?”

  “The pills, Iker. The ones on the top of his cabinet. The bottle of pills wasn’t there today, was it?”

  “You are speaking of the pills he hopes are not fertility pills?”

  “Oh, he got you too? Yes, those. He’s had them sitting out forever, and suddenly he throws them away. Why now?”

  “Perhaps it was a joke he shared with Kent, and the memory is painful.”

  “Maybe,” I mused. “But if you missed someone, would you throw away one of the few things that reminded you of that person? I don’t think so. You generally hang onto it.”

  The rain had let up. Out in the parking lot, down the Music portable building, I could see the roof of my T-bird glinting wetly in the sunshine. I hoped I’d remembered to roll up my windows all the way.

  “It has been a tiring day. I do not find it restful to be in the company of Roger Cowper.”

  “Yeah, I’m ready to head home.”

  “Yes,” Iker said. “But I must return a book at the library first,”

  “Did you say the library?” I hesitated. “Mind if I go up there with you?”

  I remembered the library’s computers didn’t require a login. I considered telling Iker what I was planning, but I decided against it. I wanted to do this anonymously, and I didn’t want to burden Iker with having to keep my secret.