by Frankie Bow
THE MUSUBI MURDER
THE MUSUBI MURDER
FRANKIE BOW
FIVE STAR
A part of Gale, Cengage Learning
Copyright © 2015 by Frankie Bow
Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc.
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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Bow, Frankie.
The musubi murder / Frankie Bow. — First edition.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-4328-3074-8 (hardback) — ISBN 1-4328-3074-0 (hardcover) — ISBN 978-1-4328-3085-4 (ebook) — ISBN 1-4328-3085-6 (ebook)
eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3085-4 eISBN-10: 1-4328-3085-6
1. College teachers—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.O8953M68 2015
813'.6—dc23 2015008334
First Edition. First Printing: July 2015
This title is available as an e-book.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3085-4 ISBN-10: 1-4328-3085-6
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Printed in the United States of America
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THE MUSUBI MURDER
CHAPTER ONE
Our guest of honor, Jimmy Tanaka, may have been “The Most Hated Man in Hawaii,” but he was also the biggest donor in the history of the College of Commerce. We were in no position to be picky about the moral character of our benefactors. Not after the latest round of budget cuts.
I had never seen the cafeteria this dressed up: white tablecloths, a wall-length refreshment table laden with stainless chafing dishes and platters, and extra security. I felt out of place, a drab little sparrow (and a sweaty one) in my dark wool suit. Everyone else sported Aloha Friday wear, cool cotton prints with colorful hibiscus or monstera designs. Something was making my neck itch. It was either the humidity or the plumeria-spiked floral centerpiece.
I was the only professor at the table. We had been evenly dispersed around the cafeteria to encourage (force) us to mingle with our Friends in the Business Community. The arrangement had the added benefit of keeping Hanson Harrison and Larry Schneider separated. Our two most senior professors are like fighting fish, flaring their gills at each other when they get too close.
I’m constantly telling my students how important it is to network. What I don’t tell them is that I, personally, hate doing it, and, furthermore, I’m not very good at it. Mercedes Yamashiro, the only person at the table I knew, was deep in conversation with the woman next to her.
Bill Vogel appeared at our table, looking even more sour-faced than usual. Put him in a lace mantilla, and my dean could do a passable impression of Queen Victoria. “Mercedes,” he barked. “Do you have any idea why Mr. Tanaka would be delayed this morning?”
“Oh, hello, Bill. No, I haven’t seen Jimmy since he checked in last night.”
He gave Mercedes a curt nod and stalked off without so much as a glance in my direction. I was the only person at the table who actually worked for him, but I was of no immediate use. Vogel would remember my name well enough when it was time to delegate some unpleasant task.
The good-looking man on my right was studying the contents of a manila folder. Even if I had the nerve to interrupt him, I couldn’t imagine what I would say. I certainly couldn’t open a conversation by telling him how much I liked the way he smelled, although that would have been the truth. He had a pleasant aroma of soap and cedar. Maybe I could comment on the weather. Hey, have you noticed it’s raining outside, ha ha, what are the chances? It only does that like three hundred days a year in Mahina. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him, and I certainly didn’t want to volunteer the fact that I had forgotten his name. I wished that whoever had planned this breakfast had thought of providing name tags. I stared at the exit sign over a side door.
Exit. I dearly wished I could.
A flicker of motion under the sign caught my eye. I thought I saw a flash of baseball caps and sunglasses. I blinked at the empty doorway, and wondered if I had seen anything at all.
A shriek, followed by a metallic crash, startled the entire cafeteria into silence. At the refreshment table, two blackaproned servers stood wide-eyed, staring down at the wreckage of the dropped fruit platter. One held his hands over his mouth; the other clutched a round, stainless steel cover. Something round and white rolled to a halt on the floor, where it rocked gently among the translucent pineapple wedges and flabby melon chunks. Security guards converged on the object, conferred briefly, and sent the skinniest one sprinting out.
“It’s okay, Molly.” Mercedes Yamashiro patted my arm. “This kine stuff follows Jimmy around. I cannot even remember how many times he’s had blood thrown at him, or people make one human chain to keep him out of somewhere. Not your guys’ fault that people can be so rude. What was that thing? Not a bomb, I hope.”
“Look over there,” I said. “Our dean seems really upset. This is very unfortunate.”
I had been secretly hoping for a minor disruption like this—something that would let me get out of there and back to work as quickly as possible. I could see Vogel now across the room, shouting into his cell phone, his jowly face wobbling like an enraged blancmange.
“Eh, this is late, even for Mr. Big Shot Jimmy Tanaka.” Mercedes glanced around, then lowered her voice to a whisper that only a few tables around us could hear. “I wen’ knock on his door this morning to see if he wanted to drive up with me but no answer. I left him alone ’cause I thought he got a ride with someone else, but now I think he was probably hungover in his room.”
I glanced over at the refreshment table. The spilled food was being swept up, and a replacement fruit platter had already been set out.
“Do you want to call Mr. Tanaka and check on him?” I asked.
“Too late.” She shook her wrist to clear a tangle of gold and jade bracelets out of the way, and checked her slender watch. “Even if he left now, he wouldn’t get here till after ten. Probably for the best. Eh, Molly, you no like the food?”
Mercedes gestured at the Spam musubi congealing on my plate.
The Spam musubi, Hawaii’s favorite snack and Merrie Musubis’s signature dish, is a cube of sticky rice topped with a slice of fried Spam, and then wrapped in a strip of dried seaweed. From a distance, musubis look a lot like oversized pieces of sushi. Up close, they’re delicious.
Unfortunately, my appetite had been damped by the stench of our ancient air conditioning mixed with the greasy breakfast smells and cloying plumeria scent. Also, I’m a little self-conscious about stuffing my face in front of attractive
strangers.
“Of course I like the food,” I said. I stole a sidelong glance at the nice-smelling man, and wondered if I could pocket the musubi without anyone noticing. I could eat it later, in my office. “It’s just, I’m not usually up to breakfast this early.”
That was a dumb thing to say. This town still runs on plantation time, and no one around here thinks nine in the morning is early. The Farmers’ Market opens before sunrise, or so I hear.
The handsome man closed his manila folder and tucked it into the briefcase next to his chair.
“Good idea to have Jimmy Tanaka’s restaurant cater the breakfast,” he said, with an easy smile. Who was he? He seemed to know Mercedes, which wasn’t any help. Mercedes knows everyone.
“I do like Merrie Musubis,” I said. “I think their food is actually pretty decent. Especially compared to most of what you find around—”
“Oh, Molly!” Mercedes interrupted me. “Speaking of food! When are you going to invite Donnie to come talk to your class about the restaurant business?”
Donnie! Now I remembered who he was. I was sitting next to Donnie Gonsalves, owner of Donnie’s Drive-Inns, Home of the Lolo Lunch Plate, and the Sumo Saimin Bowl. Merrie Musubis’ main competitor.
“Oh!” I squeaked, “That’s a great idea!You know my students really—”
“Shh!” Mercedes waved her hand to quiet me. “Here’s your dean. He’s gonna say something now.”
CHAPTER TWO
The room hushed as we watched Bill Vogel stride up to the podium. Vogel was tall, as deans tend to be, and his gleaming mahogany coif added extra height. He thanked everyone for coming, expressed his regret that our guest of honor had been unavoidably detained, and apologized for the unfortunate incident and for any inconvenience. He reaffirmed the university’s commitment to both free speech and civility, and assured the guests that while we welcome diverse voices, the unfortunate demonstration that had just occurred in no way represented the views of the College of Commerce. He finished up by inviting our Friends from the Business Community to stay and enjoy breakfast and coffee, which was apparently everyone’s cue to get up and clear out as quickly as possible.
As Vogel stepped down from the podium, he caught my eye and motioned to me. I looked around and behind me, and realized that he really did want to speak to me. I excused myself from the table and trudged up to meet him.
“Molly,” Bill Vogel said, “Security wants to interview all of the faculty. And then I need to see you when you’re done.”
Officer Medeiros, with his dewy complexion and faint moustache, looked barely old enough to be a student here, much less head of the security department. He was big, even taller than Bill Vogel, and about twice as broad.
“I thought I saw some people in black in the doorway over there,” I said, “but I’m not really sure. I couldn’t tell you who they were.” I stepped back so that I could look Officer Medeiros in the eye without craning my neck. “Was it a bomb?” I asked.
“Follow me,” he said. Officer Medeiros’s voice was surprisingly high-pitched. I realized I had expected a booming bass, like a cartoon giant. He led me through the swinging double doors back into the kitchen. On the stainless steel counter, nestled in a white dishtowel, sat something that looked like a replica of a human skull.
“Oh!” I said. “Is that the thing that was on the ground?”
“Someone put it in the fruit tray,” he said. “Had to have been some time this morning. Do you remember seeing anything unusual?”
“I bet it came from the prop room,” I said.
“You know where this came from?”
“Well. I can make an educated guess. I’m sure if you check with the theater department, you’ll find a missing Yorick.”
“A missing what?”
“A prop skull,” I started to explain, but Officer Medeiros cut me off. “Oh yah, Yorick. The churchyard scene from Hamlet. How come you think it came from there?”
“The theater department chair, Stephen Park?” I said. “He never locks it. He’s supposed to, but he always forgets. Last year when they put on the Vagina Monologues, some frat boys went in and stole this giant—well, anyway, yeah. You guys should talk to Stephen Park.”
I gave Officer Medeiros Stephen’s cell phone number. I still knew it by heart. I tried to slip back to my table without attracting Bill Vogel’s attention, but he intercepted me.
“Molly. I have an opportunity for you.”
“An opportunity?” I repeated, without enthusiasm. Oh, good. Next comes the part where he tells me to be a “team player,” and then dumps some tedious task on me.
“It’s a chance for you to show that you can be a team player,” Bill Vogel said.
“Wonderful,” I said. “What is it?”
“As you saw, Mr. Tanaka was unavoidably detained today, and was unable to join us.”
“Well, it was probably for the best, considering what happened with the fruit tray.”
“I’m in dialogue with our security department about that. This event was supposed to be limited to invited guests.” He shot a glance at Officer Medeiros, who was on his walkie-talkie. “Anyway, we need to keep the momentum going on this. I’m asking you to write up the press release announcing Mr. Tanaka’s gift to the college.”
“Me? A press release? You know, that’s not really my area of expertise.”
I glanced around at the thinning crowd, hoping that Donnie Gonsalves had stuck around. It was easy to spot Mercedes in her brightly flowered muumuu, chatting with a pair of men in reverse-print, tucked-in aloha shirts. Bankers, probably. I didn’t see Donnie Gonsalves.
“You teach business writing,” Vogel said.
“I used to teach business communication,” I said. “But I haven’t—”
“You’ll need to get in touch with Mr. Tanaka before you write it. Get one or two quotes from him. You have until next week.”
“I have a week?”
The Campus Dining Center was nearly empty. The refreshment table had been cleared. Only the bases of the chafing dishes remained.
“You can email it to Serena,” he said.
The last thing I needed at the beginning of the fall semester was one more thing on my to-do list. But the other last thing I needed was to antagonize my dean.
“Sure,” I sighed. “No problem. Something like, controversial donor sparks anonymous protest?”
“This is not the time for humor, Molly. Please approach this assignment with some maturity and do not mention the incident.”
“What? I wasn’t trying to be—fine. I’ll get right on it.”
I couldn’t bring myself to call him either “Bill,” which would signal friendly familiarity, or “Dr. Vogel,” which would imply respect.
Too bad that skull wasn’t yours, I thought.
Emma Nakamura and Patrick Flanagan were already in my office when I got back. They were drinking what I assume was my coffee. The Arts and Sciences building is on the other side of campus, but Emma and Pat manage to turn up here on a regular basis. That’s what I get for setting up an espresso machine. They may look different—Emma is short, brown, and solidly built, while Pat is gangly and fish-belly white—but when it comes to mooching my coffee, they are as one.
“Well, that’s over, finally.” I slammed the door shut behind me.
“Oh, poor thing,” Emma pouted. “Had to go to one fancy catered breakfast with all the high makamaka movers and shakers.”
“Ugh,” Pat grimaced and hunched over in the plastic visitor chair as if he was going to be sick. “You couldn’t pay me enough to hang out with those corporate weasels.”
“They’re not corporate weasels, Pat. They’re our Friends in the Business Community. Except for my terrible dean. He—hey, what is that?”
“What do you mean? We thought it was yours,” Pat said.
“It’s not?” Emma added.
“No. I’ve never seen it before.”
Pat and Emma exchanged glances. Pat shrugged
.
CHAPTER THREE
The suitcase was shabby, black, and—except for the fact that it had suddenly materialized in my office—unremarkable. I edged past it to get behind my desk, doing my best not to touch it, and picked up my phone. Serena, the dean’s secretary, would know what was going on. Unfortunately, Serena wasn’t answering. I left a message.
“Open it!” Emma demanded.
“What? Ew. No.”
I plopped down on my yoga ball. We don’t have any budget for office furniture, so when my old office chair collapsed, I replaced it with an off-brand yoga ball from Galimba’s Bargain Boyz. It’s the nicest piece of furniture in my office. My desk is a hand-me-down of rusted metal and peeling walnut-grain veneer. We removed half of the fluorescent light tubes in the building last year to save on our electric bill, so it’s now too dim in my office to see where my particle-board bookshelf has swollen and split from the humidity.
“Hey, speaking of things turning up in my office,” I said, “how did you guys get in here?”
“Your door was unlocked,” Emma said.
“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t—”
“We tried to catch you before you went to the breakfast,” Pat said, “but Serena said you were in a meeting with your dean. Was it about your online ratings? Sorry about that.”
“No,” I said, “I think we’re the only ones who read those. No, it was about my cheaters.”
“Expelled?” Emma asked hopefully.
“Not even close. Vogel is making me give them a do-over. Without any penalty.”
“What?” Emma’s eyes widened. “Auwe! Your dean is making you reward them for cheating!”
“I know! What can I do, Emma? If I try to make a report to the Office of Student Conduct, Vogel won’t sign it. You know what else he said? ‘Consider it a teachable moment.’ ”
Pat laughed. “A teachable moment? Right. Don’t upset the ‘customers’ and don’t bother the dean. There’s your lesson. Did he talk about silos?”
