The Invasive Species, page 3
part #4 of Professor Molly Mysteries Series
I stopped myself before I said something irreparable. Donnie’s first wife, Sherry, had walked out on him years earlier, leaving Donnie to raise Davison alone. Their history worried me a little, to be honest. At moments like this, I wondered if I would end up following suit.
“Molly, I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. I—I’m very proud of you. You should know that.”
I sank back down onto the couch.
“Sorry for getting snippy. This really hasn’t been a good day.”
“I know.” Donnie put one arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze. “Go to your yoga class. I’ll get dinner started.”
“I don’t really have the energy now. I don’t want to get back in the car and drive all the way back up to town. And I still have a pile of papers to grade. Oh, can I help with dinner?”
“No, no,” Donnie said quickly. “Get your grading done. I’ll take care of dinner.”
Chapter Six
The strains of Khachaturian’s “Masquerade Waltz” broke through my sleep. I spent a few disoriented moments trying to figure out where I was. Once I had established I was in Donnie’s bedroom, I quickly located my cell phone on the mango wood night table. Donnie had left for work already. I was alone on the vast platform bed.
“Molly,” my phone said, in Pat Flanagan’s voice. “Where are you?”
Pat used to be a crime reporter for the County Courier, before the layoffs. He now taught composition part-time at Mahina State, which was how I knew him. His adjunct position paid poorly, but it provided access to our library’s news and market research databases. He made his real living from Island Confidential.
“I’m just waking up.” I groaned.
“Emma and I are at the Pair-O-Dice. When can you be here?”
“I’m still down at Donnie’s.”
“She’s still at Donnie’s.” I heard Pat’s voice.
“Tell her to catch a ride with Donnie,” Emma said in the background. “Oh, maybe he starts work early.”
“Earlier than you can imagine,” I said. “I think he left hours ago.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that he’s always at work?”
Pat, whose Irish Catholic parents stuck it out until death parted them, was not a fan of the institution of marriage. His wedding present to me had been an early edition chapbook of Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper.
I sat up.
“I really can’t complain about the hours Donnie puts in. I think the only reason Donnie’s Drive-Inn does so well is because Donnie’s always down there supervising and helping out. If you want to make a restaurant work here, you have to be single-minded and detail-obsessed, the way he is. Those poor souls who get into the restaurant business because they love cooking and playing host? They’re the ones who are out of business in two months. You’re having breakfast at the Pair-O-Dice?”
“After a fashion,” Pat said. “So what explains the fact that this place isn’t out of business yet?”
“A very good question. Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
The Pair-O-Dice Bar and Grill in Downtown Mahina was the kind of place most sensible people would drive right by. Donnie didn’t like it, of course. He thought it was a dump. The bar looked more impressive at night when its custom neon sign was illuminated. Pair-O-Dice was spelled out in curvy blue script, an animated pink pair of dice rolling from left to right, and green and yellow neon palm trees swaying jerkily on either side. During the daytime, the place had zero curb appeal and almost no customers. It was like having our own private club. As long as it stayed in business (and how it did was a mystery) Pat, Emma, and I were happy to spend time there.
Sitting together at one of the Pair-O-Dice’s wobbly wooden tables, Pat Flanagan and Emma Nakamura looked like a living tableau meant to illustrate Human Diversity. While Emma was short, sturdy, and brown, Pat was well over six feet tall and gaunt. His Irish complexion fairly glowed in the penumbra.
“So what’s for breakfast?” I took my seat, plucked a paper napkin from the chrome dispenser, and rubbed at a sticky stain on the table in front of me. It didn’t help. The napkin stuck and then shredded, the pieces rolling into tiny white pills.
“I was telling Pat he’s getting shaggy,” Emma said.
“I don’t know. To me it barely looks like a five o’clock shadow.”
Pat rubbed his head. “Yeah, might be time to break out the razor again.”
As part of his ongoing austerity project, Pat had decided to stop paying for haircuts and simply shave his head instead. To his surprise (but no one else’s), a rumor immediately sprang up among the students that Pat was a skinhead. In fact, Pat was a stalwart pacifist, and as progressive as they come.
“I was telling Pat what happened to us down at Art Lam’s place yesterday,” Emma said.
“Have you found out anything from your friends in Mahina PD? I was kind of hoping you’d tell us what was going on, Pat.”
“They’re not telling anyone anything,” Emma said.
“No. Not until they’ve notified next of kin.”
“Did Art Lam have any next of kin?” I asked. “I heard his wife died years ago, right?”
“Yeah,” Emma said. “And no kids, either. Hey, I’m still hungry. I’m gonna get another Breakfast Bento. Molly, you want one?” A stack of black plastic bento boxes sat on the bar, each one fastened with a tan rubber band.
“They’re just sitting out unrefrigerated,” I said. “Are they safe to eat? Won’t bacteria grow?”
“Yeah, it’s probably like a microorganism zoo in there.” Emma got up and helped herself to one.
“Can you get me one?” Pat asked. “Thanks, Emma.”
“I’ll just have some coffee,” I said.
“I’d like to interview you two,” Pat said when Emma returned with the bento boxes, “and get your story about what happened yesterday. I’ll keep your names out of it if you want.”
“I don’t think we’re supposed to talk,” I said. “Couldn’t it mess up the investigation? Sometimes they keep some details out of the paper on purpose.”
“Yeah, Pat, try wait a couple days,” Emma said. “What’s the rush?”
Pat blew out a sigh. “I gotta put up some clickbait, stat. For the ad revenue.”
“We know how it works,” Emma said. “Molly’s a business professor.”
“Anyway, Island Confidential could really use a grisly murder. All I’ve had up lately is a bunch of stuff about the proposed waste incinerator. There wasn’t even enough hurricane damage for more than one story.”
“The waste incinerator articles are good journalism,” I said. “People care about the issue. Or they should, anyway.”
“I don’t have the luxury of waiting for peoples’ taste to improve,” Pat said. “My landlord’s selling my place, and I need a down payment to rent an apartment.”
“Someone’s buying that—I mean, your house?”
Pat lived off the grid twenty miles out of town, halfway up one of the five volcanic mounds comprising our island. The tiny cabin he called home sat at the end of a private dirt road that turned to muck whenever it rained. It wasn’t my kind of place, but Pat liked the seclusion and the affordability.
“Who would wanna live all the way out there?” Emma chimed in. “Is it some nutcase with a truckload of canned food and guns?”
“Worse. Some overpaid idiot who wants to tear the whole thing down and build himself a swingin’ bachelor pad.”
“Isn’t there anything else you can do for money, Pat?” Emma opened the bento box. “How about another section of comp?”
“Too late in the semester. My only option is the Faustian bargain.”
“What Faustian bargain?” I asked.
“A job in Administration. Vice President Marshall Dixon’s office.”
“Really? Doing what?”
“Selling out,” Emma offered.
“Is that the job description in its entirety?” I asked.
“She wants me to be the interim social media manager. I’d actually be working for her new marketing guy. Victor Santiago.”
“Santiago’s the guy with the little devil beard,” Emma explained.
“He does have that Grand Inquisitor vibe, doesn’t he?” Pat chuckled.
“Actually, Tomás de Torquemada was tonsured and clean shaven. You think of him as having a sinister goatee, but he didn’t.”
“You just happen to know that?” Emma challenged me. “About Torquemada’s beard?”
“I said no beard. Pat, I think you should take the job. You’d be good at it. Look at the job you’ve done with Island Confidential.”
“I think they’re buying him off,” Emma said. “If he’s on the university’s payroll, he’s gonna hafta stop reporting. He won’t be able to do any more stories like the one he did about the library workers.”
“Exactly,” Pat said. “I can’t do that.”
“Good point. Just out of curiosity, what’s the pay like?”
“If I took the job for just one year, I’d be able to buy a place in town, not just rent.”
“Really?”
“What?” Pat asked, “Are you saying I should take it?”
“Of course. But I don’t have any problem with selling out. I’m the one who went to work for the business school, don’t forget.”
“Smartest thing you ever did. You don’t even want to know what’s going on in the English department right now.”
“What is it with Mahina State’s English department, anyway?” Emma asked. “You guys always have some mishegas going on.”
“It’s not just Mahina State,” I said. “My dissertation advisor used to say that hell has two English departments.”
“There’s something about studying the Greatest Expression of That Which is Human that brings out the worst in people,” Pat said. “Speaking of which, I need to go teach my class.”
“I have to get going too,” I said.
“You didn’t even have any breakfast.” Emma proffered the remains of her bento box: gravy-stained rice, and a congealed fried chicken wing. “Here, eat something.”
“Thanks anyway, Emma, but I’m not really hungry.”
Chapter Seven
It wasn’t like me to sign up for yoga lessons, much less commit to six months’ worth. But apparently some busybody government agency with too much time on its hands had come up with a set of completely unrealistic physical activity guidelines and sent them to every physician in the country. Including mine. At my last checkup, Dr. Cha urged me to start getting serious about exercise and stress reduction.
As soon as Emma caught wind of my doctor’s diktat, she tried to recruit me into her paddling club. I knew better than to fall into her trap. Emma was the crew captain and extremely competitive. She was disappointed when I (once again) turned her down, but I wasn’t keen on spending my afternoons getting yelled at by my best friend about my poor form and pitiful upper body strength. That would not have helped my stress level at all. To get Emma off my case, I bought a package deal from Laughing Lotus Yoga, which occupied the storefront left vacant when Tatsuya’s Moderne Beauty closed.
Traffic had been smoother than I had expected, so I arrived a little early. I pulled in and parked in one of the strip mall’s many vacant parking spots. The studio was flanked by an open-by-appointment dress shop, which never seemed to be open, and a new check-cashing store.
I signed in at the reception area and walked through to the main studio, planning to use the extra time to get myself “centered.” This was real progress for me. A few months ago, I would have gone crazy thinking of all the ways I could have put that extra five minutes to better use. Unfortunately, I happened to walk in on a tense discussion between Sharon and Sharla, the studio’s co-owners. The sisters were recent transplants to Mahina, and had brought along both their New England business savvy and their Boston bluntness. I tried to make myself invisible as I smoothed my yoga mat onto the sweat-pungent wooden floor.
“Molly, what do you think?” This was Sharon, whose deeply tanned, fat-free physique reminded me of those roasted chickens from Safeway. Her Southie accent flattened the vowels in my name to “Mah-ly.”
“Shouldn’t I be able to leave the money box out without worrying about someone stealing the cash?” Sharon demanded.
I looked around at the few other women in the space, rolling out their yoga mats, stretching, drinking water from stainless steel bottles. Why pick on me?
“I’m not sure I’m really the one who would—” I began.
“You’re the business professor, right?” Sharon accused. “Don’t you think you have to show your customers you trust them?”
“Someone did steal the money,” Sharon’s sister and business partner, Sharla, interrupted. Sharla had the same sun-worshipper’s leathery complexion as her sister, but a plumper shape. While skinny Sharon sported form-fitting yoga pants, Sharla’s modest batik skirt reached almost to the blurry dolphin tattoo on her deeply tanned ankle.
Fortunately, the sisters seemed to forget about me, and launched into a battle of truly impressive swearing. If that’s what it’s really like to have a sister, I thought, maybe I should call my parents and tell them how grateful I am to be an only child.
As more students filtered in, I carefully laid out my yoga mat, paying particular attention to keeping its edges parallel to the studio walls.
Sharla—who had been scolding her sister for leaving the cash box unattended—finally stormed out. She couldn’t slam the door, because it was a beaded curtain, but she left a furious clacking in her wake.
The instructor came in through the swaying beads. She wore snug yoga pants, an abbreviated tank top, and an amethyst crystal suspended from a black leather choker. She was still young enough to sport a tan without looking weatherbeaten.
“Crystal.” Sharla pointedly checked her watch. “Good. You made it. You got a full class, hon. Better get started.”
Crystal led us through a number of moves that ranged from easy to impossible, gently encouraging us the whole time. I followed along to the best of my ability, even though to me the typical yoga class felt like this: Bend over and touch your fingertips to the ground. Now, put your right hand behind your back, leaving the fingertips of your left hand in contact with the earth. Now lift both your legs off the ground. The class was challenging, but when it was finally over I felt so calm I packed up my things in slow motion.
Crystal caught my eye. Suddenly I felt a little less relaxed. I had nothing against her personally, but conversation with strangers was always stressful. Unfortunately, it was too late to roll up my yoga mat and dash. We’d already established eye contact.
Chapter Eight
“Hi, Crystal. Great class.”
I was usually bad at names, but “Crystal Phoenix” was pretty easy to remember. It evoked a striking mental image.
“I’ve never seen so many people in class before. When we did the half-moon, I kept worrying that I was going to kick the lady next to me.”
“That wasn’t a half-moon,” she said. “I never called it a half-moon. It’s a bending starfish. It’s my own move.”
“Sorry. I thought Primo called it a half moon when he—”
“Primo stole my move. It’s okay, you wouldn’t know. Watch. A half-moon looks like this.” She bent to the side and lifted one leg in the air. “My bending starfish looks like this.” She then did what, to me, looked like exactly the same move.
“See the difference?” she asked.
“Sure.” I nodded.
“The earlier class was canceled.” Crystal effortlessly straightened to a standing position. I wondered if I would ever be that graceful. “That’s why it was so crowded. The extra students who couldn’t go to the other class. You look a little tired, Molly.”
“Oh, I’ve earned it. I’ve had a tiring couple of days.”
“Are you drinking the supercharged water I told you about?”
As if to demonstrate the correct hydration protocol, Crystal unscrewed the bottle she was holding and drank from it. It was stainless steel, overlaid with a lacy black mandala pattern.
“Well, I—”
“I always bring some with me,” she said. “You should get into the habit. Don’t ever drink tap water. It’s full of poisons.”
Mahina’s water tasted pretty good, actually. And according to Emma, who was trustworthy on matters of molecular biology, it was perfectly safe to drink.
“Most of the water I consume is in the form of coffee,” I said. “That should count as supercharged, shouldn’t it?”
“Molly, you’re so funny.” Crystal said it in the way people do when they know you’re trying to be funny, but they don’t really think you are.
The conversation went quiet. I supposed it was my turn to speak.
“So,” I ventured, “what’s new with you?”
“Oh, life is totally amazing right now. I’m going through a major change.”
“Really?” I was genuinely surprised. I doubted Crystal was even thirty.
She rolled up her mat and slid it into its canvas carrier. “I’ve cleaned up some important issues, you know, and I think I’m ready for the Universe to send me a soulmate. Someone who can share my path.”
“Ah.” So she wasn’t talking about menopause.
“So your stepson?”
“Stepson? I don’t have a—oh, wait. Sorry. Yes, I do. Davison.” I felt my serenity slipping away.
“I met him one time when your husband brought him into Natural High looking for calendula cream.”
“That must have been when Davison was getting ready to go away to his new school. His father made him get his tattoos lasered off before he went. Apparently, it’s not a painless process. So you have two jobs?”
“I have my own business, too.”
We were in the reception area now and no one was behind the desk. “They don’t like me to promote it here, but I do life coaching, including personal training and massage.” She reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a small stack of rainbow-hued cards. “Here. Share them with your friends. Did the skin cream work out for him?”
