The Musubi Murder

by Frankie Bow

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Emma and Pat were waiting by the campus theater’s ticket window when I arrived. It was rare to see Emma in anything dressier than her usual t-shirt and jeans, but tonight she looked chic in a simple sleeveless black dress and black platform mules. Pat, as usual, was dressed like a homeless lumberjack.

  “I got us awesome seats,” Emma fanned out our three tickets like a poker hand as we made our way into the theater.

  “Not the front row, right?” I asked.

  “And get splashed again? No, we’re in row twenty.”

  We found our seats and edged in. I can never decide whether to face front or back when I’m squeezing into a row of seats; which intimate body part does the average theatergoer want hovering inches from their face? Someone should do a survey.

  Emma and I seated ourselves on either side of Pat.

  “Nice outfit, Molly!” He picked something out of my hair. “You look like you’re about to conduct a séance.”

  “Thanks?”

  “No, seriously, you look fab! I love the velvet. How did you get termites in your hair?”

  “They were swarming at my house,” I said. “I kept the light off as long as I could, but as soon as I turned it back on they were all over the bathroom. I tried blasting them away with the blow dryer but I guess I missed one.”

  Emma leaned across Pat to talk to me:

  “You came kinda late, yah, Molly? Not looking forward to seeing Stephen?”

  “She had termites at her house,” Pat said.

  “You try turning the lights out?” Emma asked.

  “I still can’t believe there’s no bug spray or bomb or anything like that that you can use to keep the termites away,” I said.

  “Just turn the lights out is all,” Emma said. “The light is what attracts the swarm.”

  “I know that. I was just telling Pat, I actually showered in the dark. That’s harder than it seems.”

  “Tell me about it,” Emma said. “Especially if you wanna shave anything. Hey, is that true someone was gonna make a movie out of The Drowning?”

  “Well, that’s what Stephen claims. I guess an operetta based on the aftermath of the tsunami, in the style of Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill, could be a commercial blockbuster.”

  “I can’t believe a major Hollywood studio hasn’t snapped it up already,” Pat said.

  “Hey,” I said, “guess what happened when I was leaving work today! Vogel’s office door opened, and these two police—”

  Someone plumped heavily into the seat next to me. It was Honey Akiona, my Dr. Rodge–quoting student. I’d have to save my dean-related gossip for later. She comfortably filled the seat and both armrests. I placed my hands in my lap.

  “Eh, Professor!” she said. “You was married to da kine, ah?” She pointed at the stage.

  “No,” I answered truthfully. Stephen and I had not married. The coconut wireless doesn’t get everything right.

  “Oh.” She scrunched her brow as if she were calculating a math problem. Then she turned to whisper something to two young women next to her. All three glanced over at me.

  “Are we going to the Pair-O-Dice afterward?” Pat asked. I didn’t answer. I had no desire to discuss my social plans in front of my students or their friends.

  “I have to get home to Yoshi after this,” Emma said. “Otherwise he’ll get grouchy.”

  “Invite him along!” Pat said. “It can’t be worse than sulking in the house like he always does.”

  “That big katonk would never go near the Pair-O-Dice,” Emma said. “Too low class for him.”

  I glanced over at Honey and her companions. They were absorbed in their own conversation. I leaned over to Emma.

  “Stephen liked going there,” I said, “and he was pretty particular. Yoshi might actually enjoy it.”

  Pat laughed. “Stephen liked the Pair-O-Dice because it was . . . authentic.” He mimicked Stephen’s delicate hand wave, pressing his forefinger and middle finger together to suggest the presence of Stephen’s cigarette holder.

  “Pat!” I hissed. “Shh!”

  “He’s not going to hear me out here,” Pat said. “Hey, I have an idea! Let’s invite Stephen to come out with us after the show. Cheer him up.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said.

  The musicians started up the vertiginous oom-pa, oom-pa of the overture as the heavy velvet curtains parted to reveal a bare stage. I knew there was supposed to be an actor standing downstage holding a pail. The Messenger, who muses on the nature of Time and Eternity from the point of view of a wave traveling across the ocean at six hundred miles an hour. The curtains closed again, and the music trailed off. Then we heard muffled yelling, and the curtains parted once more to reveal Stephen Park in profile, screaming at someone offstage.

  I watched, stunned, as Stephen railed about self-respect and commitment to the craft. I had never seen this side of Stephen. I was watching a stranger. I glanced over at Honey and her friends. One of the girls had her phone out. I wondered if she was recording Stephen’s outburst, or just bored and checking her messages.

  It had been a while since I’d seen Stephen last, but I didn’t remember him being so skinny. His legs looked like sticks in his pants. Certainly the lighting wasn’t doing him any favors. His cheekbones jutted and his eyes were pools of black shadow on his pale skin.

  Emma leaned across Pat and whispered to me, drawing out each word: “You dodged a bullet!” I nodded, and then glanced over to make sure Honey wasn’t watching. She was. I gave her a weak smile.

  “Professor Park get one temper, yah?” she said, as casually as if she were commenting on the surf report.

  “We’re in his class,” her friend added. “We get extra credit for come watch the dress rehearsal.”

  Stephen finally ran out of steam and stood panting for a few seconds. Then he stalked off, eyes fixed on the floorboards, ignoring the audience. The curtains closed. After a long pause, the music started up and the play began again, from the top

  I’d forgotten how long The Drowning was. By the time the performance was finished, we were all too tired to go out to the Pair-O-Dice. I no longer had any desire to confront Stephen about sending Officer Medeiros after me. I drove home and hung up the fancy clothes that I hardly ever wear. I brushed termite wings off my bed, switched off the light, and climbed under the comforter. Watching Stephen’s meltdown hadn’t given me any satisfaction. It just made me feel embarrassed and sad.

  The night air was still warm and close. I kicked the comforter off my legs and picked up my phone from my nightstand to check my email one last time. To my intense annoyance, Isaiah Pung had sent a message asking to meet me again, as soon as possible. I had already been forced to give him a penalty-free rewrite thanks to my utterly unethical, I mean “student-centered,” dean. What more could this kid possibly want? I dashed off a terse reply suggesting that he come see me on Monday during my scheduled office hours.

  My heart thumped when I saw the next email—Donnie Gonsalves had already written a response to my thank-you note:

  “my pleasure. hows your schedule look this week or next? let me know anytime but lunch hour.”

  I winced at the punctuation mistakes, but on the plus side, Donnie Gonsalves wanted to see me again. My mother would have advised me to decline. A lady always turns down the first offer, lest she appear too eager. On the other hand, my mother was three thousand miles away, and what was so bad about being eager to see someone you liked? I typed, “Do you like trivia? How’s Thursday night at the Pair-O-Dice?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I arrived on campus just in time to get one of the last two spaces in the close parking lot. As I pulled in and parked, I saw Rodge Cowper starting up the walkway to our office building. I decided to wait a few seconds to put some space between us; making small talk with coworkers is stressful for me, even when I haven’t overheard their embarrassing self-affirmations.

  A gigantic black truck with dark-tint
ed windows rolled into the spot next to mine. The driver’s-side door swung open and Davison Gonsalves climbed down. He did a double-take at my Thunderbird and gave me a grinning thumbs-up, then moved toward me, apparently intending to engage me in conversation. I acknowledged him with a polite smile, and hurried to catch up to Rodge.

  “So Molly,” Rodge said, “are ya workin’ hard, or hardly working?”

  “I’m managing. Just fifteen weeks to go.”

  “How’s your little friend? What was her name, Ella?”

  Rodge knows very well what Emma’s name is. I’m genuinely bad at remembering names, but I am under no illusion that this is in any way charming.

  “Emma’s good,” I said. “She and her husband just got back from the mainland.”

  Rodge also knows that Emma is married. This doesn’t dissuade him in the least. He seems to think that trading Yoshi in for him would be a step up for Emma. Emma doesn’t think much of Yoshi, but she thinks even less of Rodge.

  “They were visiting Yoshi’s parents,” I added.

  We walked in silence for a few moments. That conversation with Honey Akiona had me wondering. When she told me that Rodge Cowper had handed out a Wikipedia entry to the class, I assumed that he was taking credit for someone else’s hard work, but what if Rodge himself was the original author? Maybe I had underestimated him. I decided to give him a chance to exonerate himself.

  “Hey, Rodge, I wanted to tell you, I’ve been hearing a lot of positive things about your class.”

  This was technically true. Every semester I hear students say things like, “I’m so glad Dr. Rodge doesn’t have any midterms” and “Dr. Rodge’s class saved my GPA,” and “Why do you give us so much homework, Miss Barda? Dr. Rodge never assigns homework.”

  “Good to hear,” he said.

  “One of my students showed me a handout she got from your class. On integrity?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I had an assignment in Intro where the students had to write about what integrity means to a future business leader.”

  “Yup,” Rodge said.

  “So what you gave the students was very useful. It looked like a lot of work went into it.”

  “You betcha.”

  “You know what I thought was interesting?” I said. “The Erhard, Jensen and Zaffron piece. I’d heard of Erhard, but I wasn’t familiar with his work in business ethics.”

  “What was that?” Rodge looked perplexed.

  “Erhard, Jensen and Zaffron. ‘Integrity: A Positive Model that Incorporates the Normative Phenomena of Morality, Ethics, and Legality.’ Two thousand nine. One hundred and twenty-six pages. Remember? You cited it in your handout.”

  If Rodge had written the original article, he would know the papers he had cited. He didn’t say anything until the path split off. Instead of continuing to our office building, he veered off to the right.

  “Well,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away, “nice talking to you Molly, gotta get going. Have a good one.”

  “Rodge, aren’t you going to your office?” I called after him.

  “Gotta pick up my clubs. I’m taking my class golfing.” He took his leave with a wink and a finger-gun. “See ya back in the salt mines!”

  I picked up speed as rain spattered the concrete walk. My conversation with Rodge had only confirmed my most uncharitable assumptions, and the thought of what the rain was probably doing to my hair blackened my mood even further. It would have been a pleasant surprise to discover that Rodge Cowper had hidden depths: a scholar of ethics, a selfless contributor to public knowledge. Nope, just someone who copied an article from the Internet and handed it out as his own work. Is there a word for that awful realization that your colleagues are as bad as your students? There should be. Gedämpfteerwartungenenttäuscht or something like that.

  The odor hit me the instant I pushed my office door open. It smelled like coffee mixed with decay.

  “How did you get in here before me?” Pat and Emma looked up, surprised to see me.

  “This is early for you,” Emma said. “Eh, what happened to your hair?”

  I edged around the desk and settled onto my yoga ball. “Does it smell funny in here to you?” I brewed myself a fresh cup of coffee, but the aroma couldn’t mask the stench.

  “You’ve been brainwashed by the fragrance industry,” Pat said. “Everything doesn’t have to smell like flowers all the time.”

  “It smells okay in here to you?” I asked.

  “I’m trying to train myself not to be bothered by natural odors. You know there’s a whole industry of—”

  “Oh, shut up, Pat. You were just complaining about it before she got here. Molly, it’s true. Your office is stink. Your AC’s been broken so long, I bet something crawled in there and . . .”

  All three of us looked at the big, black suitcase. Then we all looked at each other.

  Emma broke the silence.

  “So you ever find out what’s in there?”

  “No. I never opened it,” I said. “It’s not my property.”

  I stuck my nose into my coffee cup and inhaled.

  “Nate Parsons brought the suitcase up from the Cloudforest and dropped it off,” I said into my cup. “Remember? Pat? You met him when we were down there this weekend. He’s one of your devoted fans.”

  “Oh, yeah. The nervous kid. Yeah, he brought up a suitcase from the Cloudforest, and then your dean gave your secretary a suitcase to give to you. We can’t assume it’s the same suitcase.”

  “Ooh, that’s true!” Emma exclaimed. “And even if it is the original suitcase, someone coulda switched what’s inside it. Molly, you should open it.”

  “Look, you guys, my dean entrusted me with the personal property of the biggest donor in the history of the college. I can’t just—”

  “Don’t be paranoid, Molly. We can do it right now. Pat?”

  Pat reached back and yanked my door shut.

  Emma crouched down by the suitcase. She gingerly took hold of the zipper tab and tugged it gently. The tab moved. The suitcase was unlocked. But instead of opening it, she stood up, rubbed her hands on the back of her jeans, and took a step back.

  “You’re the reporter, Pat. Go ahead. There’s a story in there. Open it.”

  Pat didn’t budge from the plastic chair. “You’re the biologist,” he said. “You’re the one who’s equipped to deal with this kind of thing.”

  “Wait,” I said. “What kind of thing? Why do we need a biologist?”

  “This is Molly’s office,” Emma said. “Maybe it’s her kuleana.”

  My cowardice was overcome by curiosity.

  “Oh, for crying out loud, fine. I’ll do it. Emma, when did you suddenly get all squeamish?” I bounced decisively up from the yoga ball into a standing position.

  “I was kidding!” Emma cried. “I’ll do it!”

  “No, no, no, too late. I’m not some dainty hothouse flower. Step aside.”

  I tipped the suitcase over to lay it flat. Emma backed away. The bag was heavier than I’d expected. I couldn’t slow its fall, and it smacked hard onto the floor.

  My bravado deserted me, but it was too late to back down.

  “Nice job, Molly,” Pat said. “Now you broke him.”

  I braced my left hand against the side of the suitcase, pressing hard to still the trembling. With my right hand I grabbed the zipper tab, took a deep breath, and pulled. My hand was so sweaty it flew back empty. The zipper stayed put.

  Emma shouldered me out of the way and unzipped the suitcase. I held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut. The foul odor swelled. I clapped my hands over my face.

  Emma squealed. Pat started to laugh, and then Emma joined in.

  I opened my eyes. The smell was coming from something that used to be a sandwich. On one side the sandwich had liquefied. Black goo oozed through the plastic wrap. I tottered back behind my desk and lowered myself carefully onto the yoga ball, my heart pounding.

  The sandwich rested on
an unremarkable aloha shirt, a blue-and-gray reverse print of the type favored by local bankers and businessmen. Beside the shirt was a transparent plastic bag containing a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a crumpled tube of Brylcreem. Aside from those two items, the suitcase was full of glossy magazines—hundreds of copies of the latest issue of Island Business. The cover featured a photo portrait of Jimmy Tanaka. He was posed at a slight angle against a white background, his arms folded and his chin tilted up, in a flattering shot that promised an equally flattering story inside.

  Emma pulled a paper towel from the stack on my desk and plucked the leaky sandwich out of the suitcase. She propped my door open on her way out. Pat and I sat staring at the open suitcase.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” I said, at the same time that Pat said, “That’s disappointing.”

  “I’m relieved too,” Emma said as she came back in. “Pat, what’s wrong with you?”

  Pat pulled out one of the magazines and flipped through it, then set it on my stack of unread mail.

  “This interview has a lot of information about Tanaka,” he said. “You could probably put together most of your quote–unquote interview from this.”

  He zipped the suitcase back up and pushed it back to its former standing position. He was just in time.

  Dan Watanabe knocked on the open door and then stuck his head into my office. “Molly, can I have a word?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Come in.”

  “Is it bad?” Emma asked.