The Black Thumb

by Frankie Bow

  There was a long pause, and I thought Donnie had hung up on me.

  Then he said, “Molly, I know you’re under a lot of stress right now. Maybe I could—”

  “Could what? Maybe you could recommend a good shrink? Listen, you don’t have to answer to me anymore, and what you do in the privacy of your home is your business. But don’t you try to gaslight me!”

  I punched the disconnect button on my phone much harder than necessary.

  I was too distracted and upset to work on my conference paper. I really should have started reading Melanie’s files. But I couldn’t bear to slog through Melanie’s writing. (It would have been like traveling through the “jaw” of Hell, as it were). But maybe I could look at Melanie’s other campus accounts, as Atticus had suggested. I couldn’t imagine there would be much there, as classes weren’t due to start for several weeks, but it would be good to check. Just to be thorough.

  I logged on to Melanie’s Learning Management System account, wondering whether Atticus could see my activities in real time, or if he just looked at some kind of log at the end of the day. Either way, I told myself, it was fine. He’d already said he didn’t mind my poking around, right?

  It didn’t look like Melanie had done anything on the LMS. All of the settings were at default, and no files or assignments had been added to the course shells. I was about to log out when I saw a separate tab for the plagiarism checker. That was new; the two modules used to have two separate logins. After years of professors complaining about the inconvenience of our setup, someone had finally integrated the two into one system. I would have to figure out how the new interface worked before the start of fall semester. I might as well have a look now.

  Melanie, or someone, had added a course to the plagiarism checker. Under the course tab was a single folder labeled Papers. It seemed very unlike Melanie to prepare for her classes so far in advance of the start of her semester. But she had been working on something.

  I clicked the folder open.

  The files were named with two letters and a number. The results of the plagiarism check would be indicated with different colored flags next to them, showing the percentage of non-original content. A green flag meant very little of the paper’s content was found elsewhere, either on the internet or in the company’s repository of student papers. Yellow might mean the paper relied too heavily on direct quotations. A red flag signaled a problem. It meant most of the paper’s content was identical to something else.

  My eye caught a folder called MB1. For Molly Barda? I clicked to open it.

  Melanie had uploaded a paper I had published last year, apparently to check whether I had plagiarized. I hadn’t, of course. My little flag was green. I backed out, looked down the complete list, and scrolled to the bottom.

  I clicked on the entry labeled SN1.

  The author was Scott Nixon. Chair of the English department, official advisor (and unofficial heartthrob) of the Jane Austen Club, Nicole Nixon’s husband. And, according to what I was seeing, red-flagged plagiarist.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I CLICKED THE LINKS in Scott Nixon’s paper to follow the plagiarized content to its source. It was a student assignment from Mahina State University, dated two years earlier. Scott Nixon had apparently taken the work of one of his students, changed a few details, and published it as his own.

  No wonder Melanie thought she had a shot at the full time job in the English department. She had the goods on the department chair. If word of this got out, his career would be over.

  Maybe Melanie threatened Scott with exposure, but promised to keep quiet if she got the full-time position, the one Scott’s wife Nicole wanted. Scott might have found out in casual conversation with Nicole that Melanie would be attending the Pua Kala garden society meeting.

  It seemed plausible.

  Scott secretly followed Nicole to the Brewster House, watched as his wife and the other aspiring gardeners went inside and downstairs, then entered the house himself through the unlocked front door. He hid in the house, and waited for Melanie to come back inside.

  But how did he know Melanie would come back inside?

  Her overactive bladder, of course. Scott Nixon had probably noticed Melanie’s obsessive hydration habits. Who wouldn’t? All he had to do was wait. Maybe he had slipped on latex gloves to avoid leaving prints. He might have grabbed her, only to see her experience an allergic reaction to the latex. It would have been a happy surprise for him. Now all he had to do was carry the limp Melanie into the master bedroom, throw her over the balcony, toss her cell phone out into the river, and scram, taking the gloves with him.

  I picked up my office phone and called Honey Akiona. As I waited for her to answer, I took a screenshot of the plagiarism report. I emailed it to Honey, with a copy to myself. That way, if Melanie’s account got wiped, I would still have the evidence.

  To my surprise, Honey didn’t accept my theory uncritically.

  “You expect them to believe the chair of the English department planned and committed a murder?” she asked.

  “Well, I’m the chair of the management department. Don’t they already think I planned and committed the murder?”

  “Yeah, you got a point. I guess no one expects business professors to have a moral compass, that’s why. Okay, I’ll follow up on this. I’m still waiting on the browser search history and the phone records. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

  I browsed through the rest of the papers in Melanie’s plagiarism checker, but there were no further bombshells awaiting me.

  I sent an email to Atticus in the IT department: Thanks for the advice. It was very useful. Best, Molly.

  It was nice to have a friend in the IT department.

  I was wondering whether to call Pat or Emma next, when they both pushed into my office.

  “Is the coast clear?” Pat asked.

  “We saw you guys go up for coffee,” Emma added. “Girl, he couldn’t take his eyes off you. It was like he found the woman of his dreams or something.”

  “Does he know you’re a murder suspect?” Pat asked.

  “Strangely enough, he does. Were you guys spying on me the whole time?”

  “We were at the burrito place,” Emma said. “Right across from the cafe. So I guess you’re not in trouble after all, yeah?”

  “I think he just wanted to make sure I wasn’t up to anything nefarious. He said he didn’t mind if I looked at Melanie’s accounts before they delete them. In fact, I was just looking at Melanie’s LMS account. And guess what I found.”

  I told them about Scott Nixon’s plagiarized paper and my theory of Melanie’s murder.

  “It’s a little far-fetched,” Pat said.

  “Yeah,” Emma agreed. “You really think anyone’s gonna believe the chair of the English department committed a murder?”

  “So” Pat said, “does Groovy McHipsterbeard have a name?”

  “Atticus Marx.”

  “At least you’re not wasting any time pining over Donnie,” Pat said.

  “No. I’m not. In fact, I dropped off his key yesterday.”

  “I dunno, Molly,” Emma said. “One argument about his dimwit son and you’re ready to give up and run off with the computer guy? Maybe you should talk to him first.”

  “It was more than just an argument about Davison. Guess who I ran into at Donnie’s house? Sherry Di Napoli. Fresh out of the shower.”

  “Ouch! Must’ve been awkward,” Pat chuckled.

  Emma shook her head. “I like Sherry. But that woman does not make good life choices.”

  “In a way, I can’t really blame her. I mean, you have to admit. On paper, he looks pretty good. And he is awfully handsome.”

  “Really?” Emma gave me a funny look. “You think so?”

  “You know, when I saw Sherry walking out in her bathrobe? I mean, it was obvious what had been going on. And I have to admit, I was thinking, it could’ve been me. Why did I bother to be such a goody two shoes? W
hy didn’t I take the opportunity when I had it?”

  Emma looked horrified; she probably wasn’t used to my speaking so frankly.

  “If you’re through with the locker room talk,” Pat interrupted, “We have something much more important to discuss. Namely, how are we going to keep Molly off death row? Any more clues?”

  “Have you guys been reading Melanie’s files?”

  Pat and Emma looked at each other.

  “I’ve been busy with my book,” Pat said.

  “I couldn’t do it,” Emma said. “I had to stop. Her writing was so junk. It was killing my brain cells to read it.”

  “Well Honey just told me it looks like Melanie was after the Brewster House.”

  “Melanie wanted the Brewster house?” Emma asked.

  “It was probably only because Molly liked it,” Pat said. “Did you ask your real estate agent about it?”

  “I did. She wouldn’t tell me, because she prides herself on her discretion, apparently. But she didn’t deny it, which in my opinion probably means yes.”

  “Does knowing Melanie wanted the Brewster House get us any closer to finding out what happened?” Pat asked.

  “Doubt it,” Emma said. “Unless someone else wanted it bad enough to kill for it.”

  My phone rang. I answered it.

  “Honey. Any good news for me?”

  “Maybe it is good news. So Scott Nixon, ah?”

  “The police are going to bring him in for questioning?” I asked hopefully.

  “They are interested in talking to him.”

  “Finally.”

  “One problem. No one knows where he is.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I HUNG UP AND TOLD Emma and Pat about Scott Nixon’s disappearance.

  “Weren’t you just talking to Nicole this morning?” Pat asked.

  “Let’s go over there now.” Emma stood up from the visitor chair. “Maybe Nicole’s still there.”

  “Why should we go over there?” Pat asked.

  “Because the police aren’t gonna follow up on this,” Emma said. “They already have their suspect.”

  “Emma, badgering Nicole isn’t going to help anything.”

  “I do not badger people, Pat.”

  “We can just wander over there,” I said. “Under the pretext of admiring Pat’s fabulous hairdryer chairs.”

  “Now that’s a convincing reason. Yeah, okay. Let’s go see what we see.”

  We walked over to Pat’s building, taking the long way around so we could stay on the covered walkway and avoid getting soaked by the afternoon downpour. The adjuncts’ office door was ajar, as before. I stuck my head in and stopped short. A hulking figure sat next to a sobbing Nicole, holding her hand.

  They both looked up.

  “Well, this is a coincidence,” Detective Medeiros said.

  “Sorry,” I stammered. “We just—”

  Pat appeared next to me.

  “Nicole, here’s my number. Call if you need anything.”

  Pat produced a card and set it on one of the empty desks. Detective Medeiros took it and handed it to Nicole. As antisocial as Pat was, he could really come through when the occasion demanded.

  We all backed away from the door and then picked up speed as we made our way down the hallway.

  “Did she ever say anything to you about Scott going missing?” I asked Pat.

  “Nope. But I don’t really get included in the girl talk.”

  “She seemed like she was about to tell me something earlier,” I said. “But then she changed her mind.”

  “Do you think she’s in on the murder?” Emma asked. “Hard to imagine. She seems all frail an’ fragile.”

  “Fragile,” Pat snorted. “That’s the exact type you have to watch out for. If I was Medeiros I’d get a warrant and go dig up her begonias.”

  “Maybe Scott killed Melanie because of the blackmail and then Nicole killed Scott for his infidelity,” I said.

  Emma’s eyes were wide. “Ooh, now things are getting interesting.”

  “My getting arrested for murder isn’t interesting enough for you?”

  “Hey,” Pat asked, “you guys have dinner plans? It’s Trivia Night at the Pair-O-Dice. Half price drinks and free pupus.”

  “My social calendar’s empty,” I sighed. “I’ll go.”

  I wondered what delicious meal Donnie was making tonight. I contemplated all of the penne puttanesca, veal Milanese, and Caprese salads I would never eat.

  Then I imagined having to eat those things with Davison Gonsalves sitting next to me at the dinner table, ruining the meal with his stinky cologne and his horrible manners. No, no regrets. I had made the right decision. I did miss Donnie himself, not just his cooking, but I’d get over him. Eventually.

  “How about you, Emma?” Pat asked. “Want to invite Yoshi?”

  “He won’t want to come out. He’s got a gig.”

  “A gig,” Pat exclaimed. “He’s adjusting pretty well, huh?”

  “Knock wood.” Emma rapped on a random office door as we walked past.

  Emma’s husband Yoshi had moved to Mahina with her when she landed her tenure-track job in the biology department. And he hated it. It was impossible for a newly-minted Ivy League MBA to signal his status. He complained that after he’d bought a drawerful of designer ties for his job interviews, he’d ended up living someplace where nobody wore ties. (We did have the one math professor who sported a different tie for every day of the week, but those were bow ties.)

  Unexpectedly, Yoshi had found two absorbing pastimes: canoe paddling, and art. He still had no regular employment, but he did the odd graphic design job when he wasn’t down at the Bayfront with his canoe paddling buddies.

  “Doesn’t he just want to take some time out to eat something?” I asked.

  “Nah. This is one of those rare times when his old work ethic resurfaces. I don’t want to break the momentum.”

  Emma’s phone rang. She gave it a double take, and then stepped out of earshot. Pat and I walked and talked while she whispered behind us.

  Then she came trotting up to Pat.

  “The Maritime Club,” she said resolutely. “Let’s have dinner at the Maritime Club. Trivia Night at the Pair-O-Dice is too noisy.”

  “Sure.” I liked the Maritime Club, and was happy not to have to go back to my empty house quite yet. I didn’t even have anything decent to eat at home. I’d have to stop off at the convenience store to pick up a forlorn end-of-the-day bento box.

  “Why the Maritime Club?” Pat asked. “It’s a longer drive, and more expensive.”

  Emma reached up as high as she could to place her hand on Pat’s shoulder. She yanked him down to her level and whispered something in his ear. He glanced at me.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “I don’t think she’s gonna—”

  “Shh,” Emma hissed.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” Emma glanced at her watch. “We can start out now and meet at the Maritime Club. Pat, you drive her.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Save gas,” Pat said.

  I shrugged. “Can’t argue with that.”

  The only problem I had with riding in Pat’s car was it burned recycled vegetable oil, so it smelled like delicious French fries and always made me ravenous. Since we were already going to dinner, it wouldn’t be a too much of a problem.

  The Maritime Club had plenty of tables available. Rainy Thursday evenings aren’t their most popular time.

  “Table for four,” Emma instructed the man at the maître d station.

  “There are only three of us,” I pointed out.

  “It’s the same size table,” she snapped. “Stop nitpicking. Why do you always have to criticize everything?”

  We seated ourselves near a window, with the black surf churning below us. It was nearly dark; the outside lights of the Maritime Club illuminated the white foam.

  I picked up a menu.

  “I don’
t see prime rib.”

  “They don’t have it today,” Emma said. “It’s not the weekend.”

  “Darn. I was looking forward to prime rib. I guess I don’t usually come here on Thursday.”

  I was surprised by Emma’s brusque tone. She seemed on edge, waiting for something to happen. Weren’t we supposed to be relaxing?

  “I know.” I reached for the wine list. “Why don’t we get a bottle of—?”

  “There he is,” Emma interrupted.

  Donnie Gonsalves, my ex-fiancé, was walking over to our table.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  DONNIE APPROACHED OUR table and hovered uneasily at the vacant chair. He was dressed appropriately for the Maritime Club, his perfectly pressed aloha shirt tucked into black slacks. He really was quite good looking, unfortunately. I tried to bestow a distant but gracious smile on him. It probably looked like a rictus.

  Pat acknowledged Donnie with the barest politeness. Pat and Donnie had never really gotten along.

  “Hi, Molly.” Donnie’s tense expression made him look older. Emma watched him expectantly; Pat examined the menu.

  “You know I—” Donnie paused. “Here, let me sit down. If you don’t mind.”

  He pulled out a chair and seated himself. A waitress appeared with a table setting and a menu, and then spent several minutes cheerfully reciting the daily specials from memory. Then she whisked off to the kitchen, leaving behind a bleak silence.

  “Molly,” Donnie said, finally. “I care about you a lot.”

  “Thank you. Right back at’cha.”

  What on earth was this about? Did this have something to do with the strange phone call Emma got earlier?

  “You’ve been—” Donnie and Emma said in unison.

  “Go ahead, Emma,” Donnie said.

  “Molly,” Emma said, “you’ve been acting weird.”

  I looked around the table.

  “I’ve been acting weird. Okay.”

  “No, seriously, Molly. You’ve been saying things that are, Pat, what would you call it?”

  “Out of character,” Pat said.