The Cursed Canoe

by Frankie Bow

  We cleared off the table and started walking back toward the halau.

  “So it wasn’t about the race after all,” Emma said. “Or even that other woman.”

  “Other woman?” Pat’s voice had an urgent edge. “What other woman?”

  “Remember, Molly? The look-alike? The software found her when we were looking for Kathy?”

  “Who? Oh, the brown haired woman! What was her name?”

  “I can’t remember her first name,” Emma said. “I think her last name was Galvez.”

  Pat stopped walking.

  “What are you two talking about?”

  “I completely forgot about it until now. Molly and I were trying out that facial recognition software right after I finished the race.”

  “We found Kathy Banks’ supposed doppelganger on the mainland,” I added.

  “Molly means there’s someone who looks like Kathy—”

  “I know what a doppelganger is,” Pat interrupted. “Who is she?”

  “Just someone on the mainland who didn’t even look like Kathy,” I explained. “The software picked her up as a match.”

  “But it turned out to be someone else,” Emma added.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” Pat demanded.

  Emma and I looked at each other.

  “Because it wasn’t actually Kathy,” I said. “We were looking for a picture of Kathy for her online memorial, but she wasn’t in any of the team photos. The only one we could find was a candid Sherry had.”

  Emma and I resumed walking, and Pat quickly caught up.

  “Sorry for getting all snippy,” he said, “It’s just that I haven’t been able to find a single thing on Kathy Banks. She never got close to the other people in the Student Retention Office, so they can’t tell me anything. And everyone else has been stonewalling me. I wonder if maybe this other woman is related to her. Or is her.”

  “No,” I said, “It wasn’t Kathy Banks. I did think it was kind of an odd coincidence they had the same initials, though.”

  “The same initials?” Pat was losing patience again. “I thought you said this other woman’s last name was Galvez!”

  The name hovered at the edge of my mind—something-something, four syllables—and slowly came into focus.

  “Beckenbauer. Karolyn Beckenbauer! That was her name.”

  “What?” Pat fairly shrieked. “Emma, how do you get Galvez from Beckenbauer?”

  Emma shrugged. Pat pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket and started tapping frantically on the keys.

  “How do you spell Beckenbauer? Is it Karolyn with a K? Is this her? Wait a minute.”

  “Oh yeah,” Emma said. “That’s the other thing. Karolyn Beckenbauer is dead.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  EMMA HAD CAUGHT A RIDE down to the Bayfront with one of her teammates, so she rode back with me. Pat took his new cooking-oil-fueled Mercedes. We drove behind him, marveling at the french-fry smell from his exhaust.

  “You shouldn’t worry about Donnie,” Emma tried to reassure me. “He’s still a good catch. And his feelings about you haven’t changed. Aren’t you having dinner with him tonight?”

  “Tomorrow,” I said. “I already had lunch with him today. I can’t marry into that family anyway. Not after what happened at the hotel. I can’t spend the next forty years enduring Davison’s idiotic double entendres.”

  We drove past the dilapidated downtown mini-mall whose dying shops had, over time, been replaced by an array of social service agencies. This afternoon one of these was acting as a food bank.

  “Oh.” I felt a little sheepish now. “Listen to me with my first-world problems. Do you see that?”

  A line of ordinary-looking local people (what did I expect hungry people to look like?) stretched out the door and down the block, past the mortuary, the tattoo parlor, and the internet cafe, and almost to the fire station. I tried not to look at their faces as we drove past. It must be humiliating enough to have to stand in that line, without curious drivers gawking at you.

  “I shouldn’t complain. My love life is a dead end, but we have jobs, and shelter, and neither of us is starving—”

  “That’s for sure. Yeah, I guess it’s good to—hey, Molly, isn’t that your student? The one who works in the library?”

  I slowed down and scanned the line of glum faces.

  “It’s Micah!” I exclaimed.

  “What’s he doing standing in line at the food bank? That boy makes more than we do!”

  “Micah was always such a good kid,” I said. “I can’t believe he’s—”

  “Hey! Eyes on the road!”

  “Oh. Right. What is he thinking? We spent so much time in class on social responsibility and ethics. And look. There he is, standing in line to take food from people who need it! Maybe I should go talk to him.”

  “What, now?”

  “No, not now, but I can go find him in the library later.”

  “Molly, you’re not his mom. We teach them the best we can, but they have to make their own decisions.”

  “It’s so disappointing. Our university went out of its way to provide a good job for him when he couldn’t find anything else. And this is how he pays it forward? Ugh. I hate people.”

  “Yeah, speaking of hating people? Were you saying you and Donnie don’t have a future together? You’re sure you don’t want to ever marry him?”

  “I like Donnie just fine. Donnie’s not the problem.”

  “Isn’t his son doing archery?” Emma asked.

  “Mm-hm. I’m not sure how Donnie managed to arrange it, but yes, Davison’s attending one of the most expensive schools in the country, on an archery scholarship.”

  “Molly, think positive. With all those arrows flying around, you never know what might happen!”

  “No, no, no. I’m not wishing catastrophe and doom on anyone. Not even Davison Gonsalves.”

  We pulled into the parking lot near my building.

  “Do you want to stop for a cup of coffee before you go back up to your office?” I asked.

  “Sure. Molly, don’t write Donnie off. He’s about the best thing out there. I mean what are you gonna do, get back together with Stephen?”

  “Good point.”

  As Abigail Van Buren said, there’s nothing deader than a dead romance. Every time I see Stephen at the weekly department chair meetings, I wonder afresh what I ever saw in him. He claims to dislike being chair of the theater department, but he won’t give it up. Being department chair allows him to direct most of the theater’s programming funds to the annual production of his original three-hour Brechtian opera, The Drowning. I still can’t believe I ever tolerated his smoking. I don’t care what he says, clove cigarettes are still cigarettes. Also, using a cigarette holder doesn’t make them any less noxious, just more pretentious.

  I pushed open the door to my office and went behind my desk to set up coffee while Emma got comfortable in my visitor chair. The caffeine from Donnie’s espresso had worn off, and the adrenaline surge from my encounter with Sherry had left me feeling depleted. The Snack Shack does sell coffee, but it’s the kind that sits out on a burner in a glass carafe for hours, to be consumed in emergencies only.

  I turned on my computer and pulled up Island Confidential.

  “You do have the ad blockers on!” Emma exclaimed, and explained to me in detail how to turn them off, as if I didn’t already know. After adjusting various settings to allow ads on the site while still keeping some modicum of virus protection, I reloaded the page.

  The popups and floating banners I had feared were not in evidence. The Island Confidential site displayed a simple column of ads along the right-hand edge of the screen. There was one for a t-shirt company, and one for an independent bookstore.

  “These ads aren’t so bad,” I said. “Oh, wait. What are these?”

  The rest of the ads touted various for-profit educational institutions. Every one of them was a member of that embattled group of
universities currently defending themselves in the lawsuit.

  “Emma! Look at this!” I turned my monitor so she could read it. She leaned in and read,

  “Cherry Blossom Queen Controversy—”

  “No, not the articles, Emma, the ads! On Pat’s website!”

  “Hey, that’s messed up! They don’t want to let this girl participate because she’s ‘only’ half-Japanese? What’s wrong with being half-Japanese? I should go up there and kick someone’s—”

  “Emma, the ads. Look at the ads!”

  “That t-shirt’s kind of tacky. What about it?”

  “The other ads.”

  “Your future starts here...wait, isn’t that our slogan?”

  “No, Mahina State is Where Your Future Begins Tomorrow.”

  “Oh! Pat’s getting advertising money from, what did Bob Wilson call them, the predatory for-profits!”

  “I wonder if Pat knows,” I said. “He might not.”

  “Should we tell him?”

  “I don’t know. If we did, he might feel like he has to cancel the ads, on principle. I’m glad Pat’s getting some extra income out of it. Heaven knows he doesn’t make anything as a lecturer.”

  “Isn’t he supporting those idiots? By displaying their ads?”

  “In a way. But the way his website is set up, it’s probably pay-per-click. That means this for-profit bunch pays the ad network every time someone clicks the ad, and the ad network pays Pat.”

  “So every time someone clicks one of those ads, it costs those gonifs some money?” Emma asked.

  “It’s only a few cents, but—Gonifs?”

  “It comes out sometimes.”

  “Because you went to Cornell.”

  “Can’t help it. So then we should click those ads as much as possible, right?”

  “Well, there’s something called click fraud,” I said. “I mean, you’re not allowed to pay someone to click ads on your website in order to get the ad revenue, or set up some kind of automated clicking program or anything. But if a real customer clicks the ad out of genuine interest, there’s no rule against it.”

  “Oh, well. I’m very interested in investing in my future.” She reached over, grabbed my mouse, and started clicking.

  Pat burst into my office, brandishing a copy of the County Courier. Emma quickly pulled her hand back, and I turned my monitor so only I could see it. Pat was too agitated to notice.

  “Just picked up the evening edition on the way over. Your friend Sherry. She’s a piece of work.”

  Pat tossed the County Courier onto my desk. The top of the fold headline screamed, KUEWA MAN IDENTIFIED. Emma and I almost banged our heads together in our rush to read the story.

  The article was the follow-up to the item I’d seen at Donnie’s house, about the body found in the Kuewa jungle. The unfortunate victim was now presumed to have been jogging, not hiking. The most interesting development, though, was the accompanying photo.

  It was Glenn.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  I STARED AT THE PHOTO of Glenn.

  “Wow. When Sherry starts a job, she finishes it. You almost have to admire that kind of follow-through.”

  “Do you really think Sherry did this?”

  “Come on, Emma, what do you think? Do you think she’s going to let Glenn off the hook after what she did to Kathy?”

  Emma shook her head. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “Sherry was competitive, but I never thought she was vicious.”

  Pat interrupted, “Am I the only one who sees a double standard here? Let Glenn off the hook? Anyone remember what Sherry was up to the minute Glenn was out of town?”

  “No one’s excusing her,” I said.

  “Kathy Banks,” Pat said, “that’s one. A crime of passion, maybe. But Kathy and Glenn? Now we’re talking about a serial killer.”

  “It’s a shame,” I mused. “Glenn didn’t deserve that.”

  Emma was examining the article. “Glenn Anderssen. You know, I never knew his last name. Look. It says foul play isn’t suspected.”

  “She’s clever,” Pat said. “I wonder how she did it.”

  “I know Sherry and Glenn used to go out running together,” Emma said. “Maybe he had a running accident. What if it actually was natural causes?”

  She looked at Pat, and then at me.

  “Or, maybe not.”

  “Well, class sure isn’t as interesting without Sherry,” I said. “Double murderer or not, it was nice to have someone contributing to the discussion. With her gone, her study group sits around the table like a bunch of stuffed animals at a five-year-old’s pretend tea party.”

  “That’s one good thing about teaching biology, ah? No one has to sit in a circle and talk about their feelings. All they have to do is shut up and learn.”

  “We’re writing business plans,” I said. “Hardly the same thing as sitting around and talking about your feelings.”

  “Aren’t you two taking this seriously at all?” Pat said.

  “Of course I’m taking it seriously,” I said, “but we can’t do anything about it, can we?”

  “I still don’t believe Sherry is guilty,” Emma said.

  “Well, she pretty much told me she took care of Kathy,” I said.

  “Did she literally come out and say, ‘I killed Kathy Banks’?”

  “More or less.”

  “Two people have been murdered,” Pat said, “and I know who killed them but I can’t prove it. And as far as the police are concerned, there weren’t any murders at all. Only two unrelated accidents.”

  “Maybe they were two unrelated accidents. Maybe Sherry was just messing with Molly when she said whatever she said. Or maybe Molly misinterpreted. You know how she overreacts to everything.”

  “That is not true. If anything, I’m not paranoid enough.”

  “Emma,” Pat said, “do you think it’s a coincidence that Kathy keels over, Sherry admits she killed Kathy because Kathy was messing around with Glenn, Glenn drops dead, and Sherry disappears?”

  “Sure. Could be.”

  “The problem is, I can’t go and accuse Sherry of murder in print.” He brightened. “Oh, I know! Maybe I can write this up as—”

  “Don’t you dare write some kind of ‘Cursed Paddling Club’ thing, Pat. My club is already down to five. I don’t want you scaring everyone else away.”

  “Oh. Alright. Fine.”

  Pat brooded for a moment. “Aah, maybe I shouldn’t bother. I’m always saying I never give up on a story, but I’m about to give up on this one. It’s been like banging my head against a brick wall trying to get any information at all. The people up at the hospital are still acting like they’ve never even heard of Kathy Banks.”

  “Maybe they’re telling the truth,” I suggested. “Is that possible? The people you’ve talked to were working different shifts or something?”

  “No, I don’t think it’s possible, Molly. This is a small town with only one hospital, there’s no other ER within a hundred miles, and thirty-year-old women don’t drop dead in canoes every day. You’d think there would be at least one person who would be willing to talk to me.”

  “I think Kathy was a lot older than thirty,” Emma interjected.

  “They’re not allowed to share any patient information with you,” I said.

  “I know. But any halfway-competent reporter should still be able to get the information.”

  “You are a good reporter, Pat. The hospital employees are simply doing their job.”

  “I guess there are only going to be four people in the whole wide world who know the real story. The three of us, and Sherry. Not exactly a journalist’s fondest dream. Hey, Molly, what time is your class?”

  “Oh, shoot, I have to go. You guys can stay here if you want.”

  “We will,” Pat said.

  “Oh, Pat, I’m going to use your idea today.”

  “What crazy thing is Pat making you do?” Emma asked.

  “No, it’s not crazy
.” I gathered my handouts and books. “It’s a great idea. We have a chapter on persuasion and charisma, and the examples in the text aren’t that helpful. I mean, most of it is about an airline most of these kids have never even heard of. So I’m going to try to bring the chapter to life by showing them this movie Pat told me about.”

  “It’s called The Goebbels Experiment,” Pat said. “Kenneth Branagh narrates from Joseph Goebbels’ journals. In the film, you see Goebbels develop the prototype for our current political discourse.”

  “I think my students will love it. It shows the dark side of charisma. I think it’ll be a nice corrective to all the smiley-face hero worship in the textbook.”

  “Do business textbooks contain anything but smiley-face hero worship?” Pat asked.

  “The textbooks, yes. They actually have research and some historical perspective. They’re not the same thing as those business books you see at the airport.”

  I checked around my office to see if I was forgetting anything, and chugged the rest of my coffee.

  “Mach schnell!” Pat called after me as I rushed out the door.

  I reached the classroom with two minutes to spare before the start of class. I could have set everything up and started the discussion on time, except for one thing. The whiteboard was covered with Rodge Cowper’s space-hogging scrawl. In sprawling script that filled the whiteboard, Rodge had written,

  “If you can't you must, and if you must you can.”

  And under that,

  “If you do what you've always done, you'll get what you've always gotten.”

  And finally,

  “Every problem is a gift - without problems we would not grow.”

  I was not in the mood to clean up Rodge’s mess today. I was still reeling from my encounter with Sherry, and upset about poor Glenn. Pat had dismissed Glenn as “cute as a button, and nearly as intelligent.” Glenn couldn’t help it, though. Not everyone can be on the right-hand side of the distribution. Glenn’s only fault was his trusting infatuation with Sherry. Why couldn’t Sherry let him go and move on? Killing Kathy and then Glenn was like murdering someone and doing away with their pet guinea pig. It was gratuitous. Sherry certainly had other options in the romance department. Why couldn’t she walk away?