The Musubi Murder

by Frankie Bow

  “That sounds fascinating.” Pat stood up and pushed his chair back.

  There wasn’t room for both of us behind my desk, so I squeezed out and Pat sidled in. He tapped away at my keyboard for several minutes, pausing occasionally to ask me to spell CNC. Finally, he said, “Molly, you might want to have a look at this.”

  He turned the monitor so Emma and I could see it.

  “June first,” Emma read. “Merrie Musubis files hundred million dollar lawsuit against—oh! Donnie’s Drive-Inn over Non-compete Agreement.”

  “Well, that sounds unpleasant,” I said. I was perched at the front of the plastic chair, leaning to one side to avoid getting pinched by the crack.

  “So Molly, are you gonna talk to him about it? Or do you think it’s too dangerous?”

  “Talk to Donnie?” I said. “About this lawsuit? Why?”

  “Donnie has a motive now,” Pat said.

  “To kill Jimmy Tanaka,” Emma added. “Are you going to ask him if he did it?”

  “Okay, look. If I really thought Donnie was a murderer, I would not ask him, ‘Are you a murderer?’ But this doesn’t really mean anything. Businesses sue each other all the time.”

  “How come Donnie never told you? He should’ve,” Emma said. “I think you’re just intimidated. You weren’t afraid to confront Stephen because he’s a skinny little twerp and you know you can totally take him. Donnie is a whoooooole ’nother story.”

  I didn’t know what irritated me more—the obvious admiration in Emma’s voice, or the word “ ’nother.” Also, calling Stephen a twerp seemed kind of mean.

  “This is the only motive we’ve seen so far that makes sense,” Pat said. “It’s the only one that’s urgent. Remember we were asking, why now? How about a giant lawsuit? Isn’t that a good enough reason?”

  “That’s right,” Emma said. “Losing that amount of money would probably destroy Donnie’s Drive-Inn.”

  “It’s the company, Merrie Musubis, that’s suing Donnie’s Drive-Inn,” I said, “not Jimmy Tanaka as an individual. A company is its own legal entity. Tanaka’s death wouldn’t change anything.”

  “Speaking of urgent,” Emma said, “Donnie’s Drive-Inn has been around for years. If Donnie signed the noncompete thing way back when he quit Merrie Musubis, why is Tanaka suing him now?”

  “Companies do that kind of thing to each other constantly,” I said. “Remind me to give you my patent troll lecture sometime.”

  “Oh, corporations abuse the legal system to fatten their bottom line?” Pat said. “Color me shocked.”

  “Here’s what’s scary,” said Emma. “Donnie’s on the College of Commerce Community Council. He’s going to be at your house for that Four-C party.”

  “It is not scary, Emma. Don’t be ridiculous. Pat, can you email me that article? My students might as well see it. It’ll be interesting for them because they’ve already had Donnie come in as a guest lecturer.”

  “Isn’t that invading Donnie’s privacy?” Emma asked.

  “It’s a published article from June,” Pat said. “The information’s already out there.”

  “Okay,” I said, “I’ll go buy plates and stuff for the potluck, and then I’m going home. To bed.”

  “Don’t forget to buy more coffee,” Emma said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I had purchased all of the plates, cups, and utensils I needed for the potluck, along with a giant bag of frozen peas. My plan was to go home and lie in bed with the bag of peas on my head to calm the throbbing behind my eyeballs.

  Unfortunately, I was sitting in the middle of our version of rush-hour traffic. We don’t have any freeways on the island, but with single-lane roads and few turn lanes, one left turn can back traffic up for a mile. I tried to ignore the wet burbling from my idling engine, a symptom of a potentially expensive valve problem about which I preferred to remain in denial. I read the tattered bumper stickers on the sun-beaten green hatchback in front of me.

  Free Tibet

  Coexist

  If we live green, we don’t have to die for oil

  So maybe my 352 Special V-8 Cruise-O-Matic gets eleven miles to the gallon, but on the other hand I live close to campus and my commute is only a few minutes, so that’s easy on the environment, right?

  Until we stop harming all other living beings, we are still savages.—Thomas Edison

  We learn about Edison in Intro to Business Management. To demonstrate the “danger” of alternating current (and of course the relative safety of direct current, from which he was collecting patent royalties), Edison publicly electrocuted animals using alternating current. Stray dogs and cats, horses, cattle, even an elephant named Topsy, whose filmed execution you can find online. If my end-of-semester evaluations are to be believed, the one thing my Intro to Business Management students will always remember about my class is poor Topsy the elephant.

  A few hundred feet up a red pickup truck made its left turn into the parking lot of Galimba’s Bargain Boyz, and the traffic started moving again. At that moment my laptop bag started humming. I waited until the next stop sign to take my phone out. I didn’t recognize the number. The area code was 424, wherever that was. Probably a misdial, or someone trying to sell me identity theft protection. Or maybe it was my alma mater calling to ask for money. They had some nerve. If they called again, I’d make sure to ask them if they had any ideas about how I might pay off my student loans within my lifetime.

  My landline phone was ringing when I walked into my house.

  “Oh, hey Molly! I tried calling your cell phone but you didn’t answer.”

  The voice was familiar, but it took me a few seconds to register the caller’s identity.

  “Stephen? Where on earth are you?”

  “I’m in Malibu.”

  “What’s the four-two-four area code? I thought Malibu was three-one-zero.”

  “Yeah, they have both area codes here now. It’s been that way for the last few years.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone in Malibu would stand for being assigned some no-name area code. So are you still at the, uh, facility?”

  “Yes. I’m making good progress. That’s why they’re letting me use the phone.”

  “Stephen, that’s great!”

  “The whole place is nonsmoking, though.”

  “Ah. That must be a challenge.”

  “Indeed. Anyway, Moira told me what you did. I wanted to thank you.”

  “Thank me? What did I do?”

  “She said you arranged to get me into treatment.”

  I sank down onto my leather couch and flung my head back with exasperation.

  “Stephen, you were there.”

  “I was where?”

  “You were there when I called your parents. I drove you to the airport. You didn’t have any luggage. Moira met you at LAX. Don’t you remember?”

  “Oh. Sure. Yeah, I remember.”

  “Were there any problems with you traveling out of state? I remember you said the police told you to stick around.”

  “No, our lawyer said that I’m only a person of interest, not a suspect, so they couldn’t prevent me from leaving.”

  I got up and went into the kitchen.

  “I’m putting you on speaker now.”

  I poured myself a glass of wine.

  “Are you in the bathroom?”

  I ignored that. “Listen, Stephen, do you remember the conversation we had when you came over to my house that day? Any of it?”

  “I don’t know. What were we talking about?”

  I lowered my voice and glanced around, which was silly. I was alone at home.

  “Did you kill Jimmy Tanaka?”

  “What?”

  “You told me that you couldn’t remember whether you killed him. Remember? Jimmy Tanaka? Murdered? Skull from your prop room?”

  I took my wine over to the couch.

  “Oh, that! Yes, I remember. No. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t even know he’d been in town. Why wou
ld I want to kill Jimmy Tanaka?”

  “Because he was going to make your movie—sorry, film—and then he changed his mind?”

  “Oh. That wasn’t completely his fault.”

  “It wasn’t Jimmy’s fault?”

  “He was just trying to put the deal together,” Stephen said. “He was the middleman.”

  “Well then, whose fault was it?”

  I had assumed Stephen was the innocent victim. I should have known better.

  Stephen mentioned a famous name, an actor more notorious in recent years for his tumultuous personal life and his obvious plastic surgery than for his movies.

  “He was going to finance it,” Stephen explained, “but he insisted on playing the part of Pythias, the Sun Guide. Try to imagine that, if you will.”

  I had seen Stephen’s musical more than once, and I had even read through the script at one point, but I still couldn’t keep all the characters straight.

  “That’s the one with the opening monologue?” I asked. “The guy holding the bucket?”

  “No, you’re talking about Malakbel, the Messenger. And he carries a pail, not a bucket.”

  “Oh. A pail. Sorry.”

  “Pythias embodies radiant youth. His physical presence literally illuminates the narrative. Otherwise, the story makes no sense.”

  “Right.”

  “I told Jimmy I’d rather not make the movie at all than be responsible for unleashing some nonsensical farce whose sole purpose was to gratify the ego of some pretentious idiot.”

  “Of course.”

  “Jimmy couldn’t understand. He told me I was being difficult, if you can imagine that. Talk about projection. I wasn’t angry at him, though. I felt pity more than anything else. His perspective was completely poisoned by money.”

  Stephen certainly wasn’t in danger of contracting money poisoning anytime soon. I wasn’t surprised that he’d walked away from a promising deal like this. Stephen’s Uncompromising Artistic Vision was a fragile flower that could bloom only in the rich and forgiving soil of his parents’ income. The money for his high-end rehab sure wasn’t coming out of his theater professor’s salary. I fought back the urge to lecture him about passing up what sounded like a good opportunity, to tell him that someday he was going to have to learn to make a few compromises in order to survive in the real world.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me this before?” I asked.

  He sighed. “I don’t know. I thought you would give me some lecture about how you have to make compromises to survive in the real world.”

  “Stephen, you should know me better than that.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have told you. So what’s new? You know, they try to keep us away from the news here. They say we heal better without the stress.”

  “Well, let’s see. I didn’t tell anyone about you going back to the mainland. I assume you worked things out with whomever you needed to. The theater department is still there. Everything will probably be just like you left it when you come back.”

  “I’m in no hurry to get back to teaching the intro class. Teaching nonmajors is soul-sucking. And no offense, Molly, but your commerce majors are the absolute worst.”

  “Really? I know Honey Akiona was in your class. I think she’s pretty good.”

  “Honey’s one of yours? That’s a surprise. She has a lot of promise. No, there was another one that was making me crazy. It was as if he’d had his personality surgically removed. I couldn’t get a thing out of him.”

  “It wasn’t a kid named Joshua, was it? I have a Joshua who went to my dean to complain because I wouldn’t move the class deadlines for his convenience.”

  “No. Let’s see. Isaac. No, not Isaac. Isaiah. Isaiah Pung.”

  “Isaiah Pung?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I . . . yeah. I do.”

  “Trying to work with him was so frustrating. There were times I wanted to strangle him.”

  “You what? That’s just a figure of speech, right?”

  “Listen Molly, they’re telling me I have to go. I just wanted to check in with you. And say thank you.”

  I didn’t say anything about Isaiah’s body being found in the lava tube. I told myself that Stephen didn’t need to deal with that right now. He needed to rest and go to his counseling sessions and eat his spa cuisine and heal the holes in his memory and dream of the authentic cinematic adaptation of his chef d’oeuvre. And maybe I just wanted to change the subject.

  “It was nice to talk to you, Stephen. I’m glad you’re doing well. Call back when you can.”

  I set the phone down and leaned back against the cool leather of the couch. I wondered if Stephen’s memory would recover. And what might happen if it did.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Emma and Pat came over Saturday morning to help me set up for the College of Commerce Community Council potluck. We readied my house fairly quickly, which left plenty of time for me to fret about everything that could go wrong. Emma and Pat sat at my kitchen counter while I paced.

  “You know,” I said, “just attending this event would’ve been enough to give me a panic attack. But having to play hostess makes it so much worse.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” Emma said. “It’s potluck. Your guests will be bringing the food. And you know most of them from Business Boosters anyway, don’t you?”

  I looked around for something else to clean. “What if someone cooks something without washing their hands? Or cuts raw chicken and then uses the knife on something else?”

  “That could happen at a restaurant,” Pat said.

  “Well, thank you for that comforting reminder,” I said. “But the difference is that when it happens at a restaurant nobody blames it on me.”

  “We’ll be here for you, Molly,” Emma said. “Jeez, you need to relax.”

  “Stephen called me,” I said. “Pat’s source was right. He’s in rehab.”

  “Rehab!” Emma exclaimed. “It’s about time. He’s been looking pretty bad.”

  “Moira emailed me,” I said. “She said she didn’t recognize him when she met him at the airport, he’d lost so much weight.”

  “Who’s Moira?” Emma asked.

  “His sister,” I said.

  “What kind of Korean name is Moira?” Pat asked.

  “Moira’s not a Korean name,” I said. “Why would it be a Korean name?”

  “Yeah, Pat,” Emma said. “Stephen’s not a Korean name either.”

  “Why would Stephen be a Korean name?” I asked.

  “I didn’t say that Stephen is a Korean name. I said it’s not a Korean name.”

  “All right,” I said, “why would you say it’s not a Korean name?”

  Emma made an impatient, palms-up gesture.

  “Because it’s not?”

  “Why do you keep talking about Korean names?”

  “Um, because Stephen Park is Korean?” Pat said.

  “No, Mr. know-it-all, Stephen is not Korean.”

  “Park?” Emma asked. “Is not Korean?”

  “Half Korean,” Pat said.

  “No,” I said. “Not Korean at all.”

  “Really?” Emma said. “I always thought he was half Korean. You know, one of those beautiful, useless hapa boys?”

  “His father’s from Scotland,” I said. “And his mother’s maiden name was Schwartz. I’m sure he’d love it if people thought he was hapa, but he’s not.”

  “Molly,” Emma said, “you seem even more stressed out than usual. Is it ’cause Donnie’s coming over today?”

  “Now that we know he probably killed Jimmy Tanaka,” Pat added.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I said. “A lawsuit isn’t a motive for murder. Besides, you know Donnie. Have you ever met anyone less impulsive?

  “Exactly!” Emma said. “He’s a planner. Careful. Methodical. And deadly!”

  “That’s absurd,” I said. “Why focus on Donnie at all? Jimmy Tanaka had lots of enemies.”
/>   “Like your crackhead ex-boyfriend Stephen,” Pat said.

  “My meth-head ex-boyfriend,” I corrected him. “I don’t think he’s guilty either.” I didn’t mention what Stephen had said about wanting to strangle Isaiah Pung.

  A knock on the door made me jump.

  “The guests aren’t supposed to be here yet. Why are people showing up early?” I noticed a cabinet door ajar and ran into the kitchen to shut it. “What am I supposed to do now? I’m so glad both of you—”

  “Aaand, that’s my cue to leave,” said Pat. “These business types give me hives. No offense, Molly.”

  Pat opened the door, nodded a greeting to whoever was outside, and was gone. Donnie Gonsalves walked in.

  I smiled brightly. “Hi, Donnie!”

  “Hi, Donnie,” I heard Emma echo. Her voice had an edge to it. She came and stood beside me, blocking Donnie from going farther than the middle of my living room. She was probably trying to smile, but to me it looked more like a grimace.

  Donnie stood facing us, holding a salad bowl covered with plastic wrap in one hand and balancing a large foil tray on the other. He looked from me to Emma and back again, and then said, “Hi! Where can I put these down?”

  “Right over there on the countertop.” I stepped out of his way. “I’m glad you came early! I’ll get everyone a glass of wine.”

  “I don’t know,” Donnie said. “It’s a little early.”

  “I’ll have red,” Emma said.

  “All right. I’ll have a glass too,” Donnie said. “Thanks. Hey, I have some pork here from one of Davison’s pig hunts. I smoked it over kiawe wood.”

  Donnie watched me tear open the package of disposable wine cups I had purchased for the event.

  “No furikake glasses this time?” Donnie said.

  “No, I don’t have enough for everyone. I don’t really like the idea of disposables, but I found these biodegradable cups. They’re made out of corn or something.”

  “Corn isn’t that environmentally friendly,” Emma said. “It needs a lot of water and fertilizer.”

  “Yeah, but at least it’s not as bad as those petroleum-based foam containers that all the fast f—anyway, how about that meat? It looks delicious!”