The Invasive Species, page 12
part #4 of Professor Molly Mysteries Series
“Where’s my wooden soap box?” I asked. “The Twelve Trees, whatever it was?”
“I have it. It’s in my trunk. Jeffrey cleaned off the dust. He also rewrapped the silver items in this special tissue paper he has, and preserved the original newspapers the items were wrapped in.”
“How much did it cost?” I realized how ungrateful I sounded, so I added, “Thank you, Pat.”
“Here’s your bill, and an estimate of the values.” Pat handed me a printout.
“Seems like a lot just to unpack a box.”
“It’s a lot of work.”
Emma snatched the invoice from me.
“Is this how much Molly’s silver is worth? It seems like it should be more.”
“It’s free money out of nowhere,” Pat said. “I wouldn’t complain. The pieces are silver-plate, not solid, but they’re in good condition. Jeffrey says you should keep the collection together if you want to sell any of it. It’s worth more that way. And you don’t have to count on the Mahina market. He’ll auction them online and get you a better price. Or you can try to sell them yourself.”
I held out my hand, and Emma returned the paper to me. I scanned down the valuation list and made a quick mental calculation. Jeffrey had thoughtfully taken a photograph of each piece, and placed a thumbnail image next to each line item. I saw a coffee pot, a teapot, an ice bucket, a creamer and sugar bowl, several teaspoons, a small cup, and a tray. The silver was so tarnished the pieces were nearly black.
“Well, this isn’t bad. If I manage to sell this, I’ll get something like a third of what Earl Miyashiro wants me to pay him to fix my front end.”
“Pat’s right,” Emma said. “It is money you didn’t think you had. So you shouldn’t look so disappointed.”
“I know. It’s kind of a letdown. Here was this mysterious long-hidden box, unearthed through a quirk of fate and bad weather.”
“So what did you want, a genie to pop out?” Emma asked.
I pulled the box toward me and lifted out one of the wrapped pieces. It was about the size of a baseball, probably a sugar bowl or creamer.
“Those’ll look nice once you polish them,” Pat said.
“Yeah. That’ll be a fun project for a rainy day. Maybe I will keep them. I don’t have any nice dishes or glassware or anything like that.”
“There’s something else. Jeffrey said he doesn’t want to carry this in his shop, or sell it online under his store name. But he says someone out there might be willing to pay a lot for it.”
Pat produced a large manila envelope and pulled out a plastic bag containing a folded piece of newspaper. Jeffrey Voorhees had painstakingly unfolded, smoothed, preserved, refolded, and sealed it.
“Here.” Pat placed it in front of me. Even after the treatment, the paper inside the plastic was as brittle as piecrust. I picked up the bag by the edges and tipped my head until I could read it without interference from the reflected light from the window. It was an editorial cartoon.
“Ugh.” Emma reached out to grab it. “Burn it.”
“Wait.” I pulled the cartoon out of her reach.
It was ugly, no question: a caricature of Queen Liliuokalani, the last queen of Hawaii, dressed in a getup that looked like a showgirl costume for an African-themed Vegas show. The half-naked queen was offering the “crown” of Hawaii to a fish-lipped, hook-nosed pawnbroker.
“When was the overthrow of Liliuokalani?” I asked Emma.
“The coup was January 17, 1893.” Emma reluctantly withdrew her hand.
“The date on the newspaper is February 3,” Pat said.
“That’s why the pawnbroker in the cartoon tells her the crown isn’t worth a wisp of hay,” I said.
“The kingdom was lost by then.” Emma frowned.
“These caricatures are horrible.” I set down the bag. “Did anyone think they were clever?”
Pat nodded. “What, no drunken Irishman? I’m feeling kind of left out here.”
“So this is actually worth something?” I asked. “Who would want to pay for this thing?”
“It’s rare. Jeffrey told me there are no microfilms of this paper before 1901. There was a big fire. The building burned down, and the newspaper’s archives were destroyed.”
“So this might be the only copy of the cartoon?” Emma stared at it again.
“That’s right. Molly, you were lucky it was stored in your house, away from sunlight. Because of the post and pier construction, you had circulation under the house, so it must not have been too damp.”
“Please don’t tell anyone about this cartoon,” I said. “Either of you. I mean, it has historic value, so I don’t want to throw it away, but I really don’t want to be associated with it, either.”
“I don’t blame you,” Pat said. “Jeffrey felt exactly the same way. Oh, one more thing. The signature’s visible, and the artist might be someone of interest to collectors, so he offered to do some research on it if you want.”
“How much would he charge? Never mind, I’m sure it’s reasonable. Sure. Why not?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“It seems like we just had one of these university things last week.” I was trying on various outfits in Donnie’s big master bedroom in front of the mirrored closets.
“We did,” Donnie said. “The Halloween party.”
“Was it just last week? I guess I repressed the memory. Well, I’m not going to wear a cockroach costume this time. My fashion philosophy for tonight will be: try not to frighten small children or big donors.”
Donnie sat on the edge of the bed and watched me twist my hair into different configurations. His eyes met mine in the mirror, and he sucked in his breath as if preparing to say something.
“What?”
“I’m really sorry, Molly. I can’t go with you tonight.”
“The donor dinner? You told me you were coming. What do you mean you can’t go?”
“I have a deadline coming up. I need to work on it tonight.”
“I have to go by myself? Donnie, I RSVP’d for both of us. You said you’d be able to go. Victor Santiago’s going to have me in thumbscrews when he sees an empty chair at the donor dinner.”
“Already taken care of. Davison’s going with you. No, it’s okay. He wants to go. I’m not forcing him.”
“Davison? Seriously? Donnie, this is the donor dinner. The whole point is to make a favorable impr—look. These things aren’t fun. You have to be on your best behavior the whole time. You know how to handle yourself, but are you sure Davison wants to be under this kind of pressure? I mean, he came back home to relax, not to work, right?”
“Molly, he’ll be fine, and it’s good practice for him. He needs to learn how to network. You have to admit, he’s been well behaved this trip. Hasn’t he?”
“Depends what you mean by well behaved. Ever since he stepped off the plane with his buckle hat and his blunderbuss, he’s been lobbying to have me burned at the stake.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s all Mister Scoldy-Preachy now. He keeps telling me I need to cut down on my drinking.”
“It’s because he cares about you. He wants you to be healthy. At least he didn’t warn you about getting middle-aged dad gut.”
“And he’s acting all judgmental about me living in my own house. Did you tell him I was going back up there tonight? Because he just brought it up. Again.”
“Well, he wants his family to be together. I don’t like it that we’re living apart. Do you?”
“Of course I’d prefer it if you and I lived together, Donnie. We just need to work out the details.”
I loved my husband, but I also loved having my own place. Sure, Donnie’s house was gorgeous with its gleaming wood floors and its perfectly placed quarter-sawn oak side tables and its professional kitchen. And its museum-quality pieces like that celadon vase I’d been afraid to go near ever since I found out it was worth more than a year’s worth of student loan payments. But I liked coming home to someplace of my own, even if the decor was nothing more than chili-pepper Christmas lights and a Felix the Cat wall clock and an affordable living room set from Balusteros World of Furniture, and where my little electric oven had no higher purpose other than storing my extra shoes.
“Seriously, Donnie, you’re not coming with me? Is there any way I can change your mind?”
“I thought I’d be able to get everything done in time, but I miscalculated. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”
I tried on the fanciest thing I had handy at Donnie’s, a pair of loose-fitting silver silk trousers I hadn’t worn for a year. At least I remembered them as loose fitting. To my dismay, I could barely get them up over my hips.
“Something wrong?” Donnie asked.
“I think the dry cleaner did something to these pants.”
I had imagined somehow when I got married, I’d shed the last ten or fifteen pounds. My new husband was a gourmet chef, and I loved to eat, so I’m not sure where that idea came from. Wishful thinking, probably. I found a flowing ivory silk top to pair nicely with the pants. With my hair twisted up into a sort of victory roll, and a bold pair of earrings, I decided I was presentable.
I was never going to look like Donnie’s ex-wife Sherry, who, as far as I could tell, maintained her spare figure with a diet of 7-and-7s and Virginia Slims. Donnie came up behind me and ran his hands over my hips, their embarrassing heft highlighted by the shimmering grey silk of my too-tight trousers.
“Come back and stay with me tonight,” he murmured into my ear.
“Sounds tempting, except we won’t have any privacy.” Unlike the other night, Davison was going to be a few feet down the hallway. “Anyway, it’s time to get going. You’re sure you can’t come?”
“I’ll drive you both up to campus. I can get my work done at the university library.”
Davison was waiting for us in the living room. He wore a decent looking aloha shirt, a print of laule`a leaves in pale blue on a black background. He stood up wordlessly and followed us out to the garage.
Donnie opened the passenger door for me, but I urged Davison to sit shotgun. I opened the back door and slid all the way in until I was sitting behind Donnie.
“It’s fine. You two hang out. I’ll be happy back here.” My mother, who started her medical career in the emergency department, refers to the passenger seat as the “death seat.” The phrase has always stuck with me.
Our drive to campus was uneventful until we were almost at the parking lot. A tree-trimming rig had blocked the right lane, abruptly narrowing the two-lane road to one. A dark blue BMW jumped in front of us from the blocked-off lane, forcing Donnie to slam on the brakes. Donnie simply shook his head.
Davison, on the other hand, couldn’t let it go. He reached over between Donnie’s arms and leaned hard on the horn.
The BMW slammed on its brakes, and the driver stuck his arm out and made an obscene gesture.
Davison muttered something. I only caught the last word: haole.
“Davison.” Donnie briefly took his eyes of the road to glare at his son.
“Oh. Forgot. Sorry, Molly.”
“Well,” I said from the back seat. “I sure hope that wasn’t one of our big donors. Oh look, he’s making a left into the university parking lot.”
“Is there another way in? I don’t want a confrontation right before your event.” Donnie spoke these words emphatically in Davison’s direction.
“Needs to learn some respect,” Davison grumbled.
“Take it easy, Davison,” Donnie warned.
“Keep going straight, and then make a left at the next intersection. We’ll park up near the Student Retention Office and walk down. That way, we won’t have to meet this guy in the parking lot.”
I watched the blue BMW pull in and park across two spots. Donnie was focused on driving, but I saw Davison staring at the parking lot, too. Randy Randolph from Seed Solutions climbed out of the car.
“Eh, I know that guy,” Davison said.
“Who is that?” Donnie asked. “I can’t look. I’m driving.”
“It’s Randy Randolph,” I said. “He was one of the speakers at the community forum.”
“The Seed Solutions community liaison?”
“The very same. Every bit as charming as I remember him.”
Donnie pulled into one of the visitor spaces at the Student Retention Office, right next to Vice President Marshall Dixon’s platinum Lexus.
“Where will we meet?” I asked.
“You two come get me in the library when you’re done. Your dinner’s not going past ten, I assume.”
Donnie departed for the library, and Davison and I headed down to the Campus Dining Center. During the day, it was our main cafeteria. But for special events, it was dressed up with white tablecloths and real metal utensils instead of the flimsy low-bidder sporks we got at lunchtime. Inside, Serena Castro, the dean’s secretary, manned the reception table.
“Eh, Serena.” Davison brightened when he recognized her. “Howzit? Long time, ah?”
Serena stood and clasped him in a hug.
“Aw, all grown up, you. I heard you’re at West Point now.”
“Nah. Not West Point.” Davison seemed pleased Serena might think so. “Military academy, but.”
“You miss Mahina.” This sounded more like a statement than a question.
“Feels good to be home. East Coast school. I’m the only one in my class from Hawaii. Even when I was in Cali, was plenty Hawaii kids.”
Serena examined the guest list. “So, where’s your father?” Then to me: “Donnie couldn’t make it tonight?”
“He’s at the library. He said he had some things to take care of for work.”
“Here, Davison, I print you one name tag.” She typed something into her laptop, and a few seconds later, pulled a printed paper name tag from the miniature printer next to it.
“Nice setup,” I said.
“Yeah, there’s always some unexpected changes to the guest list, or someone’s name spelled wrong. And these high maka maka kine, you don’t wanna hand ’em a Sharpie and tell ’em do ’em yourself. Well, lucky Davison could fill in tonight.”
“Yes. I feel very fortunate. Serena, are you going to get a chance to eat?”
“I’ll make a plate after. You two are sitting at the table over there. You’re with Victor Santiago and Randy Randolph.”
“Randy Randolph?” I repeated, helplessly.
I heard Davison suck his breath in, as if he were puffing himself up for a fight. Great.
“We want to make sure Mister Randolph has a nice time tonight,” Serena said. “He’s from Seed Solutions, that big agricultural company. I hear they’re considering making a major donation to our university.”
“Serena, we don’t have to take the best seats. I’m sure there are plenty of people who are dying to sit with someone as important as Randy Randolph. You can put us somewhere else. We won’t mind.”
I was already dreading an evening of socializing with strangers. Now I had to keep my hotheaded stepson from getting into a brawl with a major donor.
“No, they were very particular about the seating chart. And you have a good table, not too far from the podium. Go. Have a good time.”
Of the six seats at the table, only one was occupied. Victor Santiago had taken the least desirable place, the one facing directly away from the podium. He was examining a printout. Probably the results of his office’s latest marketing survey, or a list of tonight’s guests and their net worth. When we approached, Victor stood up to greet us and shook Davison’s hand cordially. He probably would have preferred to have had Donnie there, but fortunately, he didn’t seem upset at the bait-and-switch.
“Donnie’s Drive-Inn has been a great friend and supporter of our university.” Victor gave Davison a pointy-bearded grin, which showed lots of lower teeth. We got seated, and I noticed to my immense relief that two of the places were reserved for Pat Flanagan and Emma Nakamura.
Pat walked up, carrying a tiny ceramic coffee cup and wearing his usual getup: Gleaming shaved head, beat-up plaid shirt with a white Danzig t-shirt underneath, ratty jeans, and big black boots. Victor glanced up and greeted him, then handed him a page from his stack of reports. I was amazed Victor made no attempt to whisk Pat out of sight before his appearance offended some donor. Maybe the marketing office really was serious about wanting to project an “edgy” image.
“Eh, Mister Flanagan.” Davison offered Pat a fist-bump.
It didn’t seem fair. To Davison, Pat and Emma were still Mister Flanagan and Professor Nakamura, while I had been demoted to “Molly.” On the other hand, it would be weird to have Davison calling his stepmother “Professor.”
“So are you officially the social media person now?” I asked.
“That’s me.” Pat placed his coffee cup next to his name card and then seated himself. “I’m in charge of curating Mahina State University’s brand on those newfangled social media platforms the kids like these days.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. What do you mean, you’re curating our brand? You’re just sticking random trendy buzzwords together.”
Victor Santiago looked to be on high alert. He was scanning the room, probably checking to make sure the donors seemed happy and the tables were filling as planned.
“Aw, Mister Flanagan,” Davison said. “You get a new job, that’s how come no more Island Confidential?”
“Davison, you read Island Confidential?” I asked.
“Nah. But Crystal does. She says it’s the only place to get real news. Cause the County Courier is just paid advertising for big companies or something.”
Emma joined us next, bringing our table’s count to five: Me, Pat, Emma, Victor Santiago, and Davison. The charmless Randy Randolph of Seed Solutions had parked himself at the open bar.
Victor quietly cleared his throat.
“Molly, Emma, uh Davidson, Seed Solutions is shaping up to be a very important partner for the university. We’re looking at significant development potential.”
“We have to be extra nice to Randy Randolph, is what you’re saying?” Emma asked.
