The Influencer, page 4
part #10 of Professor Molly Mysteries Series
“What’s the rush?” Emma shook me off and straightened out her t-shirt as we walked back toward the house.
“You were going to do something bad to him.”
“Molly, I know the difference between poisonous and venomous. I said poisonous for his benefit.”
“I know.”
“It’s like if I knock on your door, and you say who is it, I don’t say it is I. I say it’s me. It’s casual conversation, I’m not in front of a classroom. It’s da kine, what’s that thing you English majors call it?”
“Maybe he was trying to be helpful. He doesn’t know you’re a biology professor.”
“Putz. Him, not you. Know what? I think he killed Jandie.”
“You think he murdered his wife? Because he corrected you?”
“Because he’s a freakin’ psychopath. And I know that’s not a real thing and it’s actually called antisocial personality disorder so don’t correct me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Emma, you go on inside. I’m going to pick up the mail. I know I shouldn’t say this, because they prepaid a six-month lease. But I don’t really like him either.”
CHAPTER 9
ON THE WAY TO THE MAILBOX I noticed a folded piece of lime-green paper tucked under one of the windshield wipers on Emma’s car. I plucked it out and brought it inside.
Emma was already set up at the kitchen counter with a box of wine and two full glasses.
“Eh, no look at me all judgmental li’dat Molly. It’s...hang on a second.”
She pulled out her phone and frowned at the screen.
“Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty nine, okay, now it’s after noon.”
“You got mail.” I handed her the folded flyer. It turned out to be a “friendly” warning from the Uakoko Street Homeowner’s Association. Emma gulped her wine and plunked the glass down aggressively on the paper, right over the clip art of the smiling sun.
“Since when am I not allowed to park on the grass?” she demanded. “What, I’m supposed to park on your narrow little street and block traffic?”
“I guess so, because apparently if you don’t, I have to pay a fine. Dangit. When did they become so zealous? Honestly, I didn’t even know we had a homeowner’s association. I mean, not an active one. This is the first time I’ve ever seen anything from them besides the postcard in the mail reminding me to pay the annual fee.”
“Maybe it’s cause you get Jandie living here.”
“Well joke’s on them, because Jandie’s missing. Seriously, you think they’ve gone all activist about keeping cars off the lawns just because we have a minor celebrity living here?”
“Not just a celebrity, Molly. An influencer. Her whole shtick is taking pictures and sharing them with the entire world. Maybe your association thinks a car on your lawn’s bad for the neighborhood image.”
“Image? Uakoko Street? I mean, I like living here, but I think I’d describe it as ‘unpretentious’ at best.”
“You got a better explanation?”
“I guess not. Hey, since it is actually lunchtime, you want something to eat?”
“Are you cooking?” Emma asked suspiciously.
“No. Donnie left us a bunch of frozen food from the Drive-Inn.”
“Oh, yeah that sounds perfect. Eh, I forget to tell you Pat’s on his way over.”
“Pat Flanagan? Is on his way here?”
“Yeah. I texted him about da kine, Ladd. Turns out his editor thinks an article about a washed-up cartoonist living in the backwoods of Mahina sounds interesting. Go figure.”
I checked the oven to make sure it was empty (an old habit from before I was married, when I used the oven as shoe storage overflow). I set it to heat and selected a tinfoil pan from the freezer. Chicken katsu and teriyaki beef, according to the masking-tape label.
“Do you want to invite Yoshi and Jonah to join us?” I asked Emma.
“Nah. Yoshi’s got a thing with his paddling club and Jonah’s going with him. I can set the table.”
Emma got up and started clearing away the glasses and the empty bottle.
“Oh, thanks for clearing that off.”
“Yeah, I don’t need Pat getting all judgey about us day drinking.”
“Yoshi and your brother aren’t going paddling in this weather, are they?”
“Nah, they’re going down there to move the canoes away from the bayfront. In case there’s a storm surge. Afterwards they’re all gonna go back to the house and party.”
“Sounds festive.”
“Yeah, after a couple drinks the ukuleles come out and then the singing starts.”
“It sounds nice,” I said.
“Sure, it is. For the first seven or eight hours.”
“Do you want to stay here tonight?” I asked.
“Oh yeah, that’s a good idea. We can catch up with Pat and not worry about driving home in the bad weather.”
“I’d offer you a spare toothbrush but I’m guessing when you went home this morning you brought back a packed overnight bag.”
“You know me so well. Seriously, though, I owe you. If there’s one sound that’s worse than Yoshi snoring, it’s him trying to sing ‘Hawaiian Superman’ after a few beers.”
Pat showed up at my door about half an hour later. His head was still shaved but he’d grown a goatee, which I was surprised to see was graying. I’d always thought of Pat as young.
“I forgot how much I hate riding in the Sampan,” was the first thing he said as he walked in. I watched the open-air wagon waddle back down the street.
“I like the Sampan,” I said as I closed the door. “It’s old-timey, and it’s very Mahina.”
“Pat hates it cause his legs are too long.” Emma came out of the kitchen. “Eh, Pat, good to see you.”
Pat hugged Emma, then me. His leather jacket smelled wet and cold.
“Sure it’s okay if I stay over?” he asked. “Donnie doesn’t mind?”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t. Go put your stuff in the guest room, come back and we’ll have lunch. I hope you’re hungry.”
When he’d gone into the guest room I remembered Emma was spending the night too.
“Sorry, Emma, you can have the nursery. I’ll bring an air mattress in.”
“No worries. I like the couch. Eh, Pat looks good, yeah, with the beard?”
“He looks distinguished,” I said. “Unsettlingly so. Huh. I wonder whether he’s seeing someone.”
“I’m right here,” Pat said as he seated himself at the table.
“That was fast,” I said. “So are you seeing someone?”
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. Hey, they did a good job, whoever built your rental unit. The style matches your house.”
“Konishi Construction,” I said. “They’re the only game in town, so good thing they know what they’re doing.”
I pulled the pan out of the oven and carefully positioned it on the three potholders Emma had placed on the table. I’d asked her to set out four, one for each corner of the pan, but she’d insisted three was more stable, like a camera tripod.
“Oh, the food looks great,” Pat said. “All I’ve had to eat today is an overpriced airport muffin.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Reheated katsu and teriyaki beef served in its original foil pan, just as nature intended. Nothing but the best for my guests.”
“It’s from Donnie’s Drive-Inn,” Emma assured him.
“Oh right, in case you were afraid it was something I’d made.”
“So how’s it going with your celebrity tenants?” Pat asked.
“The wife’s missing,” I said.
“Jandie Brand,” Emma added.
Pat set the serving tongs down and straightened up from his customary slouch.
“Missing? Officially?”
“They went out for a drive, and only the husband came back,” Emma said. “And then we went over this morning and he admitted she was missing.”
“In the middle of a hurricane and a flash flood warning,” I added.
“Is anyone gonna look for her?” Pat asked.
“The husband said he was gonna get help,” Emma said. “I’m not sure I believe him.”
“So you think he’s the Tedd Ladd, huh?” Pat downed his coffee went to the kitchen to brew himself another.
“Maybe?” I said. “It’s hard to tell. Edward Ladd is a common name. And it has to be ten years since he was actually famous. Pat, how can you drink coffee all day? Doesn’t it keep you up?”
Pat came back and set down his coffee.
“Come on, doesn’t that smell great? Ten years ago? Try twenty. That’s when Tedd Ladd was in his heyday.”
“Twenty years? Are you sure? Wow, we’re old.”
“Yeah, I can’t see it being the same guy,” Emma said. “Jandie’s husband just seems like some middle-aged loser who likes to stare at his fish tank.”
“It’s a pretty spectacular fish tank,” I said. “It takes up the entire kitchen counter.”
“Worried about water damage in your new rental unit?” Pat asked.
“Why would you assume that would be my main concern?”
“It tracks though,” Pat said. “Ever notice how many celebrities get sick of dealing with people and decide they’d rather be around animals instead?”
“I don’t think I ever heard of this guy Ladd before,” Emma said.
“He might not have been that popular in Hawaii,” Pat said. “You think he’s involved in his wife’s disappearance? It’s usually the spouse.”
“Yes,” Emma said.
“No,” I said.
“He’s a has-been and can’t stand his wife’s success,” Emma said.
“Emma doesn’t like him. Emma, I thought you just said you didn’t think he was the famous Tedd Ladd. How can he be a has-been?”
“Who cares?” Emma retorted. “He’s old enough to be her dad. And he looks like a jerky stick with glasses.”
The roar of a motorcycle stopped abruptly outside my front door.
“Now, old boy!” somebody was saying in a plummy voice. “Steady, old chap! I've got something for you.”
CHAPTER 10
I LOOKED OUT THE FRONT window and saw our business law instructor, Harriet Holmes, dismounting her 1966 Triumph Bonneville. She bent down to reach something on the ground. I realized she was feeding something to one of the neighborhood’s feral cats.
“Why is Harriet here?” I said. “And how does she know where I live?”
“Harriet Holmes?” Pat asked. “Wow, I showed up at the right time.”
Pat Flanagan had never met Harriet Holmes, but he knew very well who she was.
Harriet Holmes’s arrival in Mahina had coincided with certain events newsworthy enough to make the national media outlets. Harriet currently taught law and ethics in the College of Commerce. Recently retired from Oxford, she thought teaching in “the tropics” (Mahina) would be a “jolly wheeze.” As chair of the management department, I was technically her supervisor, to the extent anyone could “supervise” Harriet Holmes.
She bounded up the steps and hammered on the door. As I opened up she barged inside.
On first impression, Harriet Holmes is not glamorous. She is in late middle age and squarely built, with chopped mouse-gray hair that perpetually looks like it’s been squashed under a hat. (Because it has.) Harriet eschews cosmetics, reeks of pipe tobacco, and dresses like she’s on her way to muck out the stables. Men find Harriet irresistible.
“Ah, what ho, Barda, Nakamura.” Harriet removed her flat cap and stuffed it in one of the pockets of her field coat. “Hullo, who’s this fair Fenian?”
Pat sprang up from the dining table so fast he practically knocked his chair over.
“I’m Pat Flanagan. It’s great to meet you.”
“Tea?” I offered. Harriet cheerfully (if unflatteringly) replied, “I’ll make it.”
I helped Harriet locate the kettle and our rarely-used supply of loose tea. Having exhausted my usefulness in the matter, I left her to it. Pat, Emma, and I seated ourselves at the counter so we could converse while Harriet worked her tea magic in my kitchen.
“Harriet, this is such a nice surprise,” I said. “What brings you by?”
“Nigel and I are looking to let a cottage,” she said, “We’ve found something just up the street. Would be jolly fun to be neighbors, eh, Barda? We can ride to work together. Save you a bit on petrol.”
“Now there’s an idea.” That I planned never to follow up on. I imagined myself riding on the back of Harriet’s skinny-wheeled Triumph, splashing through muddy potholes while hanging on for dear life.
“What’s wrong with the place you got now?” Emma asked. “You’re right on the Hanakoa River. How come you wanna move?”
“The river’s beastly at the moment. It’s all muddy water and debris churning past, not pleasant to look at in the least. Nigel says he feels he’s about to tip straight into it every time he steps out onto the lanai. Oh, and he doesn’t get on with Clyde.”
Emma reached under the counter and nudged Pat’s knee.
“Clyde Hamamoto.” Emma whispered. “Harriet’s good friend from the motorcycle club. He’s their landlord.”
Pat nodded knowingly.
“Uakoko Street suits us both down to the ground,” Harriet was saying. “Nigel’s taking ages to finish his manuscript. He needs to be somewhere quiet where he can write without the rushing water breaking his concentration.”
“What’s Nigel writing?” Pat asked.
“His prison memoir,” Harriet replied proudly. “The location’s perfect. One couldn’t hope for quieter neighbors than yours.”
I was confused for a minute, as I didn’t think the residents of Uakoko Street were particularly noiseless.
“She means the cemetery, Molly,” Emma said.
“Right. I knew that.”
“Nigel rather fancies living next to a graveyard.” Harriet poured the boiling water into the teapot, refilled the kettle, and switched it on again. “He plans to have it as the background of his author photo. On the book jacket.”
“You’d also be living near a celebrity influencer,” Emma said. “Jandie Brand and her husband are renting the house next door.”
“Oh ah, now that you mention it, it’s possible I’ve heard of her,” Harriet said a little too casually. “It might be handy, mightn’t it, to know an influencer when it comes time to publicize Nigel’s book.”
The electric kettle clicked off and Harriet filled the teapot for a second time, this time with the tea leaves in it. “He’ll have to do it all himself, you know. Publishers don’t lift a finger these days for their authors. Shocking, really.”
“Jandie’s missing, you know,” Emma said.
“Missing?” Harriet brightened. “How exciting. Perhaps we should organize a search party.”
“Listen, everyone,” I said, “let’s not go barging into their business. Maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”
“Maybe the husband’s topped her,” Harriet countered.
“That’s what I think,” Emma said.
“It’s usually the husband,” Pat agreed.
“She could be moldering under the floorboards right now,” Harriet added cheerily as she came over and poured tea.
“Or he cut her into pieces and fed her to his fancy fish,” Emma said.
“That’s an angle,” Pat said. “Ha! So to speak.”
Emma socked him in the shoulder.
“Good one, Pat.”
“Everyone, please do not harass the tenants,” I pleaded. “The only reason they’re here is because they wanted to live in a quiet neighborhood.”
“Not much of a quiet neighborhood, is it?” Harriet handed me a brimming teacup. “What with everyone going round murdering each other.”
CHAPTER 11
HARRIET PERSUADED US to walk up the street and give her our opinions on the house she was considering. The rain had started up again, so I handed out umbrellas from the spare-umbrella basket we keep by the front door. Emma and Pat each took one, but Harriet chose to walk under Pat’s instead of taking one for herself.
The house Harriet was interested in looked very much like the other early twentieth-century plantation houses on the street. It had dark green vertical plank siding, white trim, and a corrugated red metal roof. It was on the same side of the street as my house, and like mine, it overlooked the cemetery. The drop-off from the backyard was a steep fifteen or twenty feet. We walked to the low retaining wall and looked out over the rolling lawn. It was vibrant green—no sprinklers required in Mahina—and dotted with glistening gravestones.
I caught a whiff of smoke. Harriet was puffing away on her pipe. I moved away to avoid breathing too much of it in. The smoke didn’t seem to bother Pat, who was still sharing an umbrella with her. They were talking about something, but I couldn’t hear over the sound of the rain pattering on my own umbrella.
I sidled back in close enough to hear the conversation.
“Easier to plant a hedge or something,” Emma said. “You could do it yourself.”
“Yeah, a landlord springing for an actual safety improvement?” Pat said. “What was I thinking?”
“Hey now,” I said. “We’re not all evil exploiters. Some of us try to take good care of our renters. Are you guys talking about the retaining wall?”
“Nigel and I won’t be out here dancing on the precipice,” Harriet assured us. “We’ve loads of space in the screened-in lanai.”
“Ooh, screened-in lanai sounds nice,” I said. “Imagine sitting outside without having to douse yourself in bug spray first.”
“I never get bitten when I’m at your house,” Emma said.
“Yeah, me neither,” Pat added.
“That’s because I’m there,” I said, “and they’re biting me and not you. Next time you guys can try sitting out there by yourselves.”
“You must be giving off loads of carbon dioxide, Barda,” Harriet said. “Best we keep moving then.”
We followed Harriet and her trail of pipe smoke around the side of the house. Pat, who was by far the tallest member of our little party, tried to use his phone flashlight to peer into the windows, but the glass jalousies had a pebbled texture that made it impossible to see inside.
