The Invasive Species, page 13
part #4 of Professor Molly Mysteries Series
“Yes.”
Vice President Marshall Dixon strode to the podium, causing the conversation in the room to quiet. She made some welcoming remarks, namechecked the big shots in the room, and then introduced our chancellor.
“Is that our chancellor?” Emma whispered.
“I don’t know,” I whispered back. “I guess that guy sort of looks like the picture on our website.”
Emma leaned over and whispered something to Pat. He looked up at the podium and whispered something back to Emma. She socked him in the shoulder, so I inferred whatever information he’d given her wasn’t very helpful.
Randy Randolph remained at the bar until the chancellor’s comments were finished, then staggered over and plopped into the remaining vacant seat, which was right next to me.
“Hey, it’s Professor Mindy,” Randy slurred, blasting me with alcohol breath. He leaned close and squinted at my paper nametag.
“What’s an ass professor?”
“That’s Assistant Professor,” I corrected him.
“Randy,” Victor jumped in. “Let me introduce you.”
Victor did a good job of acting like we were all his close friends. He’d never even met Davison before this evening, although you wouldn’t know it from his easy introduction. The only problem was Victor kept pronouncing it Davidson, with an extra “d.” Pat, Emma, and I did nice-to-see-you-agains. Davison gave Randy a clenched-jaw nod paired with a white-knuckle handshake that made Randy’s hand bones crack.
Even in his impaired state, Randy recognized the challenge.
“Hey there, Chief.” He pulled his hand back to safety. “You like older women, huh?”
Emma’s eyes widened. Pat stared down at the white tablecloth. Davison glowered so fiercely he was practically incandescent.
“Davison is my stepson,” I said. “I think you’ve met my husband. Donnie Gonsalves. Donnie’s Drive-Inn.”
“Oh yeah?” Randy’s gaze remained locked on Davison. “I wouldn’t let my wife step out with some young buck.” The last word was drawn out with a long belch.
“Randy,” Victor interrupted. “I think all of us would like to hear about Seed Solutions’ plans for an exciting new scholarship program.”
“Sure. Seed Solutions knows students are our future. Hey.” He addressed Davison again. “You ever think about college, sport?”
“Davison is attending a private university back east,” I said. “I’d love to hear more about your scholarship program. It sounds fascinating.”
The arrival of our salads broke the tension. As white-jacketed culinary students set out our plates, Randy recited the particulars of Seed Solutions’ proposal, which included paid summer internships at Seed Solutions, textbook subsidies, and a housing allowance. It sounded like a good deal for our students. Even Emma thought so.
The student servers brought us our main course (seared ahi heaped with shredded carrots and something purple—beets, maybe?) and kept our glasses full. Randy kept talking, moving from the topic of the scholarship program to farming and the debate over biotech and then his own career and the marriage that didn’t survive his move to Mahina. The rest of us ate quietly as he rambled on. I tuned him out. Until he said,
“I’ve never been in a place with so little amount of white people. Look at this table, for example. Just you and me, Pat. And maybe you, Misty. What are you, Italian?”
“Albanian,” I muttered, not wanting to be part of this conversation.
“Looks like us Caucasians are a rare and endangered species. You better hang on to this one, son,” he belched in Davison’s direction, grasping my upper arm. “Fast as you people are breeding, gal like her’s gonna be a collector’s item pretty soon.”
Davison was fairly vibrating with rage. His black eyes beamed pure hate at Randy Randolph. I fully expected a brawl to erupt if someone didn’t do something soon.
Pat went for the nuclear option.
“Randy. Did you see this morning’s paper? About the murder at Art Lam’s farm? The victim was Primo Nordmann. You must’ve known him.”
A server came by to refill water glasses. The ice clanked loudly in the silence. Victor Santiago said nothing. His eyes darted from person to person. I held my breath.
Finally, Randy spoke.
“It’s a darned shame, what happened.” I wondered whether Randy had seen Primo’s last blog post trumpeting Randy Randolph’s DUI arrests, the details of his divorce, and other humiliating private information. Of course he had. As had Primo Nordmann’s ten thousand followers.
“Very tragic.” Victor assumed a mournful expression.
“Look,” Randy sputtered. “Seed Solutions does not condone violence. We embrace and encourage civil discourse.”
A student server quietly placed another tall glass of Kona Longboard in front of Randy. Victor used the interruption to jump in and change the subject to the culinary program, and to praise the food and the service. Davison glowered quietly for the rest of the dinner and left his dessert untouched. I hoped it was because of his weird diet, and not because he was too furious to eat.
When it was finally time to leave, Randy handed me his card, oblivious to the fact that he’d already given me one at the public forum two days earlier.
“I didn’t forget about our interview, Masie. We need to talk some more, you and me.”
“Oh, we’ve put our research on hold for now. Um, haven’t we?” I looked to Victor for guidance.
“Officially, yes. The study is on hold for the moment.” Victor nodded.
“Seems kinda unfair.” Randy was slurring his words, and drenched with sweat. I hoped he wasn’t planning to drive himself home. “We’re always the bad guy. We never get to tell our side of the story. ThassallIwant, tell our side of the story.”
“Well, I’m sure Emma and Molly are both willing to dialogue with you,” Victor said. “As are Pat and I. Mahina State’s door is always open.”
“Good man.” Randy turned to Davison. “Hey buddy, you gotta good set a guns.” He aimed a manly punch at Davison’s upper arm, but missed and nearly toppled over. “You work out? I got a private gym. You gotta come up and check it out.”
I thought I heard Randy telling Davison he could bench press four hundred pounds, but I must have misunderstood.
“Well, goodness,” I exclaimed, “look at the time.”
I had to get out of there before Randy and Davison started bashing antlers. I said hasty goodbyes to everyone at the table and exited the Campus Dining Center quickly, hoping Davison would follow. (He did, but grudgingly and at a distance, as if I were dragging him on a leash.)
I had hoped to catch Donnie in the act (of what, I wasn’t sure), but he was waiting just outside the library’s glass doors for us.
“How was dinner?” Donnie asked as the three of us started for the parking lot. “See anyone you know?”
“Emma was at our table. That was nice to have her there. And Serena, the dean’s secretary? She was glad to see Davison. The food was all done by the culinary students, and I think they did a nice job.”
I was lightly editing the evening’s events for Donnie’s benefit. Or curating them, as Pat might say. Not that I had anything to hide, but Donnie had never been crazy about Pat Flanagan.
Donnie’s antipathy to Pat wasn’t conventional jealousy. Even Donnie had to admit it was unlikely Pat would switch teams just for me. Pat was like a brother (or so I’d imagine, never having had actual siblings), but it meant I was close to Pat in a way I’d never be with Donnie. Donnie didn’t like that.
“Pat Flanagan was at our table,” Davison volunteered. “Molly, forgetful you, ah? Cannot even remember your best friend.”
Tattletale.
“Yes. Thank you for reminding me, Davison.”
“Maybe you drinking is why,” Davison persisted. “Gonna rot your brain, you drink all that wine.”
“And speaking of that, Randy Randolph was sitting with us too. Fortunately he didn’t seem to recognize us from our little road rage incident.”
Davison muttered something not worth repeating.
“I don’t like him either, Davison. But unfortunately, we have to be nice to our donors.”
“You don’t gotta be nice to him,” Davison snorted. “Everyone kissing up just ’cause he got money. Made me wanna puke.”
“Language,” Donnie warned.
“So you think you’ll never to have to ingratiate yourself to anyone, Davison?”
“That’s how come I’m getting my degree. Don’t wanna end up like Curtis, all tied down, gotta clock in and li’dat.”
“I have news for you. A degree’s not some kind of magical armor. I have as much education as a person can possibly have. And did you not see me in there just now, forcing myself to be polite to that awful man? Unless and until you’re independently wealthy, you have to kowtow to someone. That’s just how the world works.”
“Nah, Molly. I’m gonna work for myself. I’m gonna be a entrepreneur. Like my dad. I don’t wanna answer to a boss.”
“Being in business for yourself doesn’t mean you don’t have a boss,” Donnie said. “It means you have a lot of bosses. The health department. The zoning commission. Every one of your customers. So did you two manage to make a good impression?”
“I think so.” I hoped Randy wouldn’t pursue his idea of my interviewing him. Maybe the notion would evaporate along with his booze buzz.
The ride back down to Donnie’s house was quiet. I dozed in the back seat, Davison sulked in the front, and Donnie concentrated on the dark road. He stopped the car when we reached his driveway, and Davison jumped out to get the mail.
“Letter for you, Molly.” Davison climbed back into the passenger seat and handed back a thin envelope. The printed return address was the Mahina State University administrative office.
“What’s that?” Donnie asked.
“I don’t know.”
I stared at the envelope, afraid to open it. No news was good news. That’s what everyone told me about the tenure application process. And this looked like news.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Donnie let us in to the house, and Davison lumbered off to his room. I sat down at the kitchen counter and tore open the envelope, not even bothering to find a pair of scissors to slit it neatly.
It was exactly what I was afraid it would be: notice of a not-completely-favorable vote from my departmental tenure committee. The vote had been three for and only one against, so it could have been worse, but my application was going forward without unanimous support from my own department.
Which one of my colleagues, the ones I saw every day, had voted against me? Dan Watanabe, the interim dean, who had always been a mentor? Rodge Cowper, who was pretty much phoning it in by this point, and scarcely seemed to care enough to hold a grudge against anyone? Who would have cast a no vote, knowing the tenure decision was up or out? If I didn’t make it, my academic career was over.
I felt Donnie’s arm around me. “Bad news?”
“Not great. Someone in my department voted against my tenure bid.”
“You said it was risky being department chair without tenure.”
“I didn’t ask to be department chair. I was forced into it. This negative vote could kill my chances, Donnie. What am I going to do?”
Donnie pulled me close.
“You’ll be fine. We’re in good financial shape. You don’t need to work. You can stay home.”
“So I should just end my career? After making it through a top ten Ph.D. program, and switching fields, and publishing my brains out, and twisting myself into pretzel knots to provide the right level of ‘customer service’ so I can get decent student evals?”
“I didn’t say you should end your career.”
“No? How does that not end my career if I stop working and stay home? What kind of cold-blooded thing is that to suggest? How would you like it if you couldn’t work? How would you feel if someone took away your livelihood? Your only outlet for achievement?”
“Molly, I was just—”
“Does it sound like fun to you to be under house arrest for the rest of your life? How would you like to have to beg for money for every little thing you wanted to buy, as if you were a child? Because that’s how it would be, Donnie. ‘Molly, don’t you already have a dress just like it? Molly, are you sure you need another pair of shoes?’ You already say stuff like that to me, and I’m buying those things with my money.”
“I’m trying to be supportive. You’re worried about what happens if you don’t get tenure, and I’m just telling you we’ll be okay no matter what happens. I’m on your side. What do you want me to say?”
“I know. You were trying to make me feel better. I’m just—this past few days, I’ve had to be so careful not to take up too much space or get in anyone’s way. Davison has his own entire room in this house. I don’t even rate a foot of closet space. I can’t imagine how much more of a nightmare it would be if I were financially dependent on you.”
Davison emerged from his room, avoiding eye contact with us. He beelined to the fridge and got himself a sports drink.
“I’m not here.” He zoomed back to his room.
“I thought you didn’t allow food or drink in the bedrooms,” I said.
“You feel like being married to me is a nightmare?”
“It’s not what I said, exactly. But it’s interesting how you let Davison take his drink back to his room. Remember what happened the one time I took my coffee—”
“Is that what you want, your own room? I thought a married couple was supposed to share a bedroom.”
“We’re not sharing a bedroom, Donnie. I’m staying in your bedroom. Believe me, I can tell the difference.”
“I know I need to clear out the closet to make room for your things. But there’s no point in getting all ready for you to move in if you have no intention of doing it.”
“Chicken and egg, Donnie. I’m not going to move in when in your entire huge house, there’s somehow no room for me.”
“Molly, this whole house is yours, too. I’ll give you as much closet space as you want. Just say the word. Oh, that reminds me. That cockroach costume was taking up too much room in the closet. I moved it.”
“Of course you did. Where’d you put it?”
“Davison’s closet.”
“Listen, I think I’m going to drive back home tonight.”
“Really? I was looking forward to you staying here with me.” He moved closer, and buried his face in my hair.
“I should spend the night in town. I need to be close to campus.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday. Why do you need to be close to campus?”
“Fine. You caught me. I just want to spend the night at home. It’s been a few days, and I want to make sure everything’s okay there. And thank you for calling Konishi Construction to come fix it. It was very thoughtful of you. We’re still on for tomorrow night though, right?”
“As long as you’re not mad at me. Molly, please remember, I’m not the one who voted against you. I want you to get tenure. I really do.”
“Really?”
“Really. Because imagine how cranky you’d be—hey, whoa, I’m kidding.”
I went out to where my car was parked, half on the narrow road and half on Donnie’s lawn. I buckled in, started the engine, pulled out my cell phone and called Pat, hoping he hadn’t gone back up the hill yet.
“Pat. I’m glad I got hold of you. You and Emma want to come over? To my house?”
“Aren’t you spending the night with your husband?”
“No. We both agreed it would be a good idea for me to spend the night in town, make sure everything’s okay there.”
“I figured you would’ve had enough of your happy little family by now.”
“Are you coming over or not?”
“Want to go over to Molly’s?” Pat asked.
“Sure,” I heard Emma reply.
Pat and Emma were sitting on the couch in my living room when I got home. I smelled coffee.
“You guys are drinking coffee now? Isn’t it kind of late? And did Konishi leave my door unlocked?”
Pat and Emma exchanged a look.
“You need to replace the box of cabernet,” Emma said. “I drank the last of it. So what’s going on?”
“I didn’t get a chance to tell you guys what happened when we were driving to the donor dinner.” I related the story of Randy Randolph’s cutting us off and his subsequent bad behavior on the road.
“Yeah, Randolph’s a schmuck,” Emma said. “No news there.”
“But think about it. Don’t you think he could’ve been the one who killed Primo Nordmann?”
“I don’t know.” Pat looked thoughtful. “Whoever committed the murder was somewhat competent. Randy Randolph is a drunken buffoon.”
“Maybe it’s a cover,” Emma suggested.
“He obviously has a temper,” I said. “And you both saw at dinner how he is. He’s clearly a narcissist and a sociopath. And totally lacking in empathy. Did you see how he was winding Davison up?”
“You think just ’cause someone likes to quote Ayn Rand, they’re automatically a narcissist and a sociopath?” Pat said. “Oh wait. I’m the one who thinks that.”
“I thought Davison was gonna snap his neck.” Emma sounded disappointed that he hadn’t “I wouldn’t blame him, either. So what then? What should we do?”
“Let’s tell Detective Medeiros.” I poured myself a cup of coffee and joined them on the couch.
“We can do better than that,” Emma socked my shoulder. “Randy Randolph gave you his card. He’s willing to talk to you.”
“It was actually the second time he gave me his card.”
“He gave you his card twice?” Pat smirked. “Randolph is clearly willing to do something with you. Not sure it has much to do with talking.”
“Molly, you should call him and set up another interview. Pat, you—”
“Not me.” Pat held up a hand. “I have a good-paying gig now. I’m not gonna go around spying on our donors.”
“Fine, Captain Sellout. We don’t need you. Molly and I will do it.”
