The Invasive Species, page 16
part #4 of Professor Molly Mysteries Series
“Donnie, you need to talk to Davison. Maybe you can convince him to go in and see Medeiros voluntarily.”
“You don’t think Davison had anything to do with this, do you?”
“These forensics people, it’s amazing what they can find. If Davison was in Randy Randolph’s apartment, they’ll know. Even if he was wearing gloves, people shed hair and skin cells.”
“How would Davison have gotten into Randy Randolph’s apartment in the first place?”
“Oh, that’s easy. At the dinner, Randolph invited Davison, challenged him actually, to work out with him. So, he could’ve gone over that morning, and Randolph would’ve let him in. Or even if he didn’t go there by himself, his girlfriend, Crystal, said she was Randolph’s personal trainer. Maybe Davison got in through her, got the access code from her or something.”
Donnie put his fork down on his barely touched mound of linguine. Maybe he hadn’t really wanted a detailed and plausible case for Davison’s guilt.
“As a single father, you always feel guilty about something. If you’re at work, you feel bad because you should be spending time with your kid. And when you’re with your kid, you feel bad because you should be out working to bring in money.”
“Donnie, I think you did a—you’ve done the best you could.” I reached over and rested my hand on his. “I think you’re amazing. Where is Davison, by the way? Is he out with Crystal again?”
“I think so.”
Excellent. Donnie and I would have the evening to ourselves.
“It’s hard for a boy to grow up without a mother.” Donnie looked at his plate, but I didn’t think he noticed the food. “Sherry is the closest he’s had. And she didn’t stick around very long. Well, he has you now.”
Great. A romantic evening where I get to hear my husband reminisce about his ex-wife. Nothing personal against Sherry, but I hated when Donnie brought her up. It was bad enough when people told me I looked so much like Sherry I must be her long lost twin. Her fatter long lost twin. What galled me was Donnie married Sherry first. Years after she ran off with someone else, he’d decided to throw his lot in with me. It made me feel like the consolation prize. Especially when he would slip and call me “Sherry.”
“Is there anything you haven’t told me?” Donnie looked up at me. “About what went on between Randolph and Davison?”
“I think you have the basics. Randolph was drinking. A lot. And he’s an ugly drunk. Was an ugly drunk. I don’t know how a guy like that ends up with a job as a community liaison.”
“The Mahina assignment might not have been one of Seed Solutions’ most desirable postings. You seem to like it here so far, but for a lot of people from the mainland, it’s a backwater. It’s why they usually end up leaving after a couple of years.”
“It’s no excuse for Randolph’s behavior.” I shook my head. “He was awful. If I had the upper body strength, I might’ve been tempted to drop a barbell onto his neck myself.”
“Molly.”
“Sorry.”
I took a gulp of wine, an earthy Albanian merlot. It tasted like it had been fermented in a stable. I wasn’t going to complain. Donnie had gone out of his way to special order it from Hagiwara’s, thinking I’d appreciate the nod to my Balkan heritage.
I had assumed when Donnie, an inveterate Italophile, found out I wasn’t really Italian, he’d lose interest. In fact, not only did he not break our engagement, he took the news quite well. He’d even tried cooking Albanian cuisine (which was as unfamiliar to me as it was to him). It was sweet of him. Donnie really was a catch. Too bad about the rotten stepson.
“We all had to sit around with pleasant smiles pasted on our faces while he was being as boorish as could be, just because Seed Solutions has money. The whole thing was revolting.”
The front door burst open, and we heard two adult voices, giggling like children.
“Davison,” Donnie called out. The voices shushed, and Davison peered around the corner to see Donnie and me at the dinner table.
“Oh, hey, Dad. Hey Molly. Crystal’s here.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Yeah. We’re just gonna hang out.”
“You take in the propane tanks like I asked you?”
“Aw, forgot. Too dark now. I get to it tomorrow.”
“You get your closet sorted out?”
“Yeah, we go do that right now.”
“We need to talk to you about something,” Donnie called after Davison. “Later, when you don’t have company. And remember to lock the front door.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Donnie and I had a comfortable after-dinner routine. While Donnie looked over the Drive-Inn’s daily sales reports, or perused Pacific Business News or Hospitality Hawaii, I settled on Donnie’s genuine Sottsass sofa and graded papers or caught up on my journal reading. We had been engaged in this agreeable activity for about twenty minutes when a muffled giggle broke the quiet.
“Sounds like Crystal’s still here.” I stopped reading and looked at Donnie.
“As long as he keeps it in his room.”
“Don’t you have a ‘not under my roof’ rule for Davison?”
“He’ll be fine.”
“Let me ask you this, Donnie. What if we had a daughter? Would you let her have a guest in her room?”
“What? Of course I—I’m not answering that question. Anyway, Davison’s a grown man. What am I supposed to say to him?”
“Look, we both know the horse is out of the barn. Maybe I could’ve phrased that better. But I think we should at least officially disapprove of overnight guests, shouldn’t we? I don’t think it’s good for parents to condone premarital sleepovers.”
“It would be a little hypocritical, wouldn’t it? What about the time you and I—”
“We don’t need to discuss this anymore. Davison’s your son, I’ll defer to your judgment. I need to get my lecture ready for tomorrow. They came out with a new edition of the Intro textbook, again, and scrambled all of the chapters around, so I can’t use last semester’s notes.”
“Intro’s the one Davison took from you, right? He told me he liked your class.”
“Marvelous.” What my stepson undoubtedly liked about it was the fact I wasn’t allowed to do anything about his flagrant cheating, thanks to my “student centered” former dean.
Intro to Business Management reminded me of one of those ten-cities-in-seven-days European bus tours, where you went careening from one business field to the next, covering everything in a single semester. The current topic was financial ratios, which for me—to stick with the European bus tour analogy—was the equivalent of visiting Oslo in February.
The giggling from Davison’s room abruptly escalated to a shriek. A door slammed. Crystal burst out of the hallway, stormed through the living room, and pushed out the front door, letting it bang shut behind her.
“Aw, c’mon baby.” Davison’s voice followed her exit. “Don’t be mad. It’s funny.”
Davison emerged into the living room wearing the cockroach costume. The glossy brown carapace covered only his torso, exposing his hairless, muscular limbs. He looked like some kind of arthropod superhero.
We heard a car start outside and screech away. Davison stood and stared at the front door, his antennae bobbing forlornly.
“Davison, why are you wearing my costume?”
“Was in my closet.”
“You didn’t hook the extra set of arms on.” I set my notes aside and stood up to adjust the costume properly. “They’re not just supposed to hang. There’s a loop you attach to your wrists. Like this. See? Now when you move your own arms, the other two move with them.”
“Aw, that’s cool.” Davison waived his arms.
“It seems like she didn’t appreciate the costume.”
“But it was funny, Dad. Cause look.” He spread all four of his arms out and waggled them again, as if to say, see?
“What’s funny to some people doesn’t always work for other people.” Donnie shrugged.
“Aw man. Now what? I gotta go kiss up, huh?”
“Davison, language.” Donnie frowned.
“Sorry. I gotta go suck up, I mean.” He sighed and adjusted his carapace. “Eh, Dad, you said you wanna talk to me? Guess I get some time now.”
“It’s about Randy Randolph,” Donnie said. I watched Davison’s face for any sign of guilt, but I saw only confusion.
“Did you hear anything about it?” Donnie asked.
“About what?”
Donnie looked at me. “Molly, do you want to tell him?”
I placed my pencil in the textbook to save my place, and briefly related the morning’s events.
“Nah,” Davison said, with as much delight as disbelief. “You saw ’em wheeling ’em out?”
“We saw a zipped-up body bag. According to Detective Medeiros, it was Randolph.”
“Stupid to bench press without a spotter. Four hundred pounds?”
“Right. Two hundred pounds on each side. Remember, it was exactly the weight he told you he could press.”
“I remember. Liar. No way he could press that much. Two hundred each side is more than four hundred pounds, too. ’Cause the bar by itself weighs forty-five pounds. Eh, I didn’t have nothing to do with it.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Donnie looked relieved.
“Between us, though? Baga had it coming.”
“Go change into normal clothes,” Donnie said. “There’s still a lot of your organic pemmican left if you’re hungry.”
Davison turned and plodded away down the hall.
“That really is a good costume,” I said to Donnie. “Whoever constructed it actually went to the trouble of making a segmented abdomen. It’s very realistic.”
“You want it back now?”
I thought about it for a moment.
“And wipe down inside of that costume with rubbing alcohol before you put it away,” I called out after Davison. “Other people have to wear it.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
It was the end of the workday, and I was relaxing in the back seat of Donnie’s car while he braved the traffic. Davison and I had both caught a ride into town with Donnie that morning. I thought I’d give carpooling a try. Gas wasn’t getting any cheaper and my Thunderbird got eleven miles to the gallon. Every trip between Mahina town and Donnie’s house out in Kuewa cost me real money.
Davison had tagged along at the last minute, hoping to find Crystal at work and patch things up with her.
“It’s nice to be a passenger,” I said, as we idled on the single road out of town, stuck in the remains of Mahina’s evening rush hour. “I can relax and look out the window.”
“At what?” Davison groused from the passenger seat. “All the brake lights in front of us?”
Apparently, things hadn’t gone as planned with Crystal.
“Donnie, how did your restaurant inspection go today?” I asked. “I’ll bet you got a perfect score. It’s my favorite thing about Donnie’s Drive-Inn, you know. It’s always sparkling clean.”
“You mean the food isn’t your favorite thing about it?” He caught my guilty expression in the rear view mirror and smiled. “I know it’s not really your taste, all the fried meat and the big scoops of rice.”
The traffic began to flow again, and I saw what the problem had been. One car had been waiting to make a left turn onto a small side street. Mahina’s planners (assuming there had been planners at some point) apparently didn’t believe in left turn lanes.
“I’m still not used to getting rice and macaroni salad on the same plate,” I said.
“It’s not just the Drive-Inn. Every place with plate lunches does it. Merrie Musubis, all those guys.”
“It’s how come everyone getting so fat now, with diabetes an’ da kine,” Davison said. “All the rice an’ mac salad an’ soda. Killing people.”
“Are you saying I’m killing people with the food I serve at the Drive-Inn?” Donnie asked.
“Nah. Just handing ’em the loaded gun.”
“Just because you’re in a bad mood, Davison, you don’t have to take it out on everyone.”
“So what happened with the inspection?” I asked.
“We passed, with a ninety-nine.”
“Not a hundred?”
“It was Norris this time.”
“Oh, the one you were telling me about? Never smiles?”
“He won’t give anyone a perfect score. I think he wants to look like he has high standards. Anyway, ninety-nine is good enough. We can keep our green placard. So it was a good day. How about you?”
“Class was fine. I’m a little worried about Lars Suzuki. My extra chatty student. I think you met him at the Halloween party.”
“The one who wore his pants really long?”
“Yes, him. Today in class, he was contributing a lot to the discussion, which was fine, but then he got up, walked to the front of the room, stood next to me, and started lecturing the other students. I had to tell him to sit back down.”
“Do you think he’s dangerous?” Donnie asked.
“No, but his behavior’s odd. I think I might send in a referral to the counseling center. Oh, and I got some bad news today.”
Donnie slowed down and moved over to the grassy shoulder.
“I’m not sure it’s so bad you need to stop driving,” I said.
A police cruiser screamed by, lights pulsing.
“Sorry.” Donnie moved back onto the road. “What’s your bad news?”
“You already know one of my department members voted against my tenure package.”
“But you told me you meet the criteria.”
“Right. Or so I thought. Well, you know the senior faculty in my college. Apparently, last year they got together and voted to increase the requirements to get tenure. And they were supposed to send out a notice, but someone forgot. So, even though Hanson Harrison hasn’t published anything except letters to the editor in the last three decades, and Rodge Cowper’s never written a blessed thing as far as I can tell, I apparently have to clear this new bar. It’s amazing how people love to have high standards as long as they’re applied to someone else.”
“But you have a lot of publications, don’t you?”
“Well, I thought I had enough, but now, with the new rules, it’s kind of a squeaker. It turns out being a co-investigator on a Federal grant gives me just enough points to meet our brand-new benchmark.”
“How come we’re pulling over again?” Davison grumped.
Two yellow fire engines zipped past us, sirens wailing.
“What kind of unlucky person has a fire in the middle of rainy weather like this?” I looked after the emergency vehicles.
“Could be a grease fire,” Donnie said. “Or an electrical fire. Water only makes those worse.”
“Molly,” Davison said. “You get tenure, it’s a sweet deal, ah? Guaranteed job for life?”
“It’s not a guaranteed job for life, but it does mean you get some form of due process. So at least they can’t fire you without making up a reason first.”
Donnie pulled slowly back out onto the road.
“And you know what’s really infuriating? Hanson freakin’ Harrison who voted for the new guidelines decided to vote against my tenure bid anyway. Because he doesn’t like the way I approach my research, even though my research got me onto a grant, the presence of which ensures that I meet the guidelines he voted for—gah, this is making my head hurt.”
“This Hanson Harrison seems to have it in for you,” Donnie said. “What’d you do to him?”
“Nothing. He’s been difficult from the minute I was appointed chair. At our first department meeting, he started blathering on about how everyone in our department should start using some teaching method he liked, and according to him, I, as the new department chair, was supposed to come up with the money to send everyone to this expensive training. So then Larry Schneider claimed the method had been totally discredited, and no one should be using it at all, much less spending taxpayer money on it. So I said, ‘Look, if you want me to get money for something, you’ll have to help me make a case to the administration. Back up your claims with evidence, just like we always tell our students.’ So Harrison started huffing and puffing about how we’re living in a postmodern world now, and my empiricism was outdated and misguided. Meaning, basically, he didn’t want to have to justify his demand for the money. So I told him, ‘Look, Hanson, you can’t just come in here like, I’m Silverback McGreybeard and everyone has to do what I say because I’ve been teaching here for a hundred years. If you want something, you need to do your homework just like everyone else.’”
“Well,” Donnie said carefully, “whatever the outcome of this tenure application, I’m here for you. We’re in this together.”
“I appreciate it,” I said. “Thank you.”
Donnie slowed down and signaled a left turn. Now we were the ones backing up traffic. We had no choice. There was no other way onto his street, and the highway didn’t have a left turn lane. A space cleared in the oncoming traffic, and Donnie gunned his Lexus through.
“Anyone smell smoke?” Davison asked.
“This is where all the fire trucks were headed.” I said. “Your street. I mean our street.”
We pulled up behind the line of emergency vehicles, which surrounded the smoldering ruin that had been Donnie’s house.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Donnie’s home was a blackened heap. The gorgeous living room with its hardwood floors, the paintings, the lithographs, the quarter-sawn oak side table with the jaw-droppingly expensive jade green bud vase, the wine collection, and the designer aloha shirts in now-discontinued patterns—all crushed under the remains of the charred metal roof.
Donnie climbed out of the driver’s seat and stood, one hand braced on the roof of his car, watching yellow-jacketed firemen finish hosing down the already sodden ruins. The rain had subsided to a mist. The wet smell of burned wood filled the air.
I went around the car and quietly stood next to Donnie. Davison got out of the car and waded directly into the rubble. Surprisingly, no one stopped him. Far down the street, past the fire trucks and police cars, my turquoise and white Thunderbird sat where I’d parked it, apparently still intact.
