The Invasive Species, page 4
part #4 of Professor Molly Mysteries Series
“I guess so. I didn’t examine him or anything. Listen, I really need to run.”
“I want you to introduce us,” she declared.
“Crystal, you’re a lovely young lady. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble meeting someone decent.”
I did not want to get involved with playing matchmaker for Donnie’s shiftless spawn. I pushed through the glass double doors in the front, into the warm and heavy air outside. Crystal followed me.
“I know I won’t have any trouble.” She smiled. “Because I’m putting my desire out there for the Universe to answer me.”
“Okay.” I gave her a noncommittal smile. Even if I hadn’t been acquainted with the Biblical observations about the innocent suffering and the wicked prospering, not to mention the couple of millennia of martyrdoms, to me it was pretty self-evident that the Universe was neither just nor benevolent.
“The next time Davison comes home, you should bring him in with you for a free lesson.”
“Sure.” I scanned the parking lot. “That sounds like fun.”
I had no trouble finding my turquoise and white convertible among the lifted pickup trucks (mostly black) and Japanese hatchbacks (mostly white) in the parking lot. I was the only person in Mahina who drove a 1959 Thunderbird. My competent but judgmental mechanic, Earl Miyashiro, made sure to remind me of this every time he had to special-order a replacement part for me.
I slid into the driver’s seat, pressed the button down to lock the door, and started back to campus.
Serena, the dean’s secretary, accosted me as I reached my office door.
“Molly, do you ever check your voice mail?” She waved a handful of message slips at me.
“Sorry, Serena. I still haven’t figured out the new system.”
“You need another copy of the voice mail instructions?”
“No, I’m sure I can find it.”
“Eh, terrible, that thing that happened down at Art Lam’s place, yeah?”
“Yes. It was terrible.”
“Chopped down his papaya trees too, then went broke his window. Can you imagine? So destructive.”
“A broken window? Where did you hear about that?”
“Anyway,” Serena said, “he’s been trying to get a hold of you.”
“Who has?”
“Art Lam.”
“I’m sorry. Did you say Art Lam? The poor man who just—”
“That’s what I said. He wants to talk to you.”
“But I thought he was—”
Serena handed me the message slips.
“He just wanted to make sure you got his message.”
I let myself into my office. Sure enough, the light on my phone was flashing. I dug through my email and found the instructions for retrieving voice mail messages. There were several from the Student Retention Office, dating from the start of the semester. I deleted them.
The first message from Art Lam was timestamped October 28 at 5:12 a.m., the same morning Emma and I had gone down to his place.
“Hello professor, this is Art Lam. Sorry for the late notice, but something’s come up and I have to go off-island today. I won’t be able to make our interview this morning. Please give me a call to reschedule.”
I pressed 9 to save the recording.
Then:
Yesterday. 6:22 pm.
“Hello again Professor, this is Art Lam. Just got back in. Heard you ran into some trouble at my place this morning. Give me a call when you get a chance. I still wanna do the interview, got a few things I wanna say.” (Here a short, raspy laugh quickly devolved into a hacking cough.) “Anyways. You girls call me, we talk story.”
Today. 9:14 am.
“Hello, Professor. Art Lam calling again. My attorney says I cannot talk to no one about da kine, even you university guys, so gotta cancel the interview. Eh, sorry, ah?”
Chapter Nine
The Chancellor’s Welcome and Halloween party was scheduled for Friday night, at the lavish and taxpayer-funded Chancellor’s Residence. I had been planning to skip it, but Dan Watanabe, the interim Dean of the College of Commerce, had waylaid me in the hallway to encourage me to attend. He made a very convincing case that, as I was going up for tenure this year, I needed to look like a “team player.”
“You’re a department chair now,” Dan said. “It’s going to be obvious if you aren’t there.”
“I’m only interim department chair,” I countered.
“Still, you should attend. You don’t want to snub the Chancellor when your tenure application might be sitting on his desk.”
He’d convinced me. I trusted Dan. Dan Watanabe had always had my best interests at heart and had come through many times with support and good advice. (Unlike some other members of the management department. Not to name any names but Hanson Harrison, for all of his liberal posturing, clearly couldn’t stomach the idea of a young-ish, female person serving as his department chair. If anything, I would have expected trouble from Rodge Cowper. Rodge, after all, had been the original inspiration for the Rodge Cowper Rule, the one that mandated faculty must keep their office doors open at an angle of at least forty-five degrees when a student was visiting. But Rodge hadn’t been a problem at all. It was Hanson, the grandfatherly progressive, who had reflexively opposed me on everything from classroom assignments to final exam schedules to parking permits. At our last department meeting, he’d even publicly stated his opposition to a motion he’d introduced at our previous meeting, the only possible explanation being I had just spoken in favor of it.)
I had no idea where to find a costume on such short notice. Fortunately, Stephen Park, in the theater department, came through for me with a cockroach costume that had been constructed for a student production of Kafka’s Metamorphosis. I had dated Stephen briefly, before I met Donnie. I’d heard rumors Stephen hadn’t taken the news of my marriage well, so I was relieved that he seemed to harbor no ill will and was eager to help me out.
Donnie agreed to accompany me to the Chancellor’s Welcome and Halloween party, but he refused to wear a costume. Instead, he dressed in his usual, conservative going-out clothes: crisply ironed navy blue and white aloha shirt tucked into black slacks.
Donnie’s instincts, as it turns out, were correct. No one at the Chancellor’s Welcome and Halloween Party was wearing a costume. Except for me. Even the wait staff made their champagne and canapé rounds in black trousers and white dress shirts.
I tried to blend in, although this was difficult when my ensemble included a solidly-constructed exoskeleton, a headpiece with long, waving antennae, and a third pair of limbs that sprouted from the waist and were wired to move in sync with my arms.
Of course, no one acknowledged my fashion faux pas. Everyone was far too polite. Even Donnie kept a straight face and said nothing. At least none of my students is here to witness me trying to be inconspicuous while dressed as a giant arthropod, I thought.
“Hey, Professor Barda.”
I turned (cautiously, as my costume had many moving, waving parts) to see my student Lars Suzuki, dressed in too-long black trousers and an oversized white dress shirt. Donnie detached himself and went over to chat with our athletic director, who happened to be an old schoolmate of his.
“I’m supervising the caterers,” Lars announced happily. “That’s how come I get all dressed up.” Lars had tucked his shirt in, which caused the excess fabric to balloon over the waistband. He was carrying a metal clipboard.
“Very nice. All you need now is a stopwatch.”
He grinned.
“Frederick Taylor kine, ah? Eh, the costume’s cool. Really realistic. I saw you and thought, ho, das one big cock-a-roach.”
“Well, I thought it would be fun to get into the spirit of things. It is Halloween, after all, exactly the day when one might expect people to show up in costume.”
“Eh, you get one extra pair of arms,” Lars exclaimed. “You could probably hold four champagne glasses at one time. Hang on, I go get ’em, we try.”
“No, no, it’s not necessary.” I imagined throttling Stephen Park with all six of my legs. “Listen, Lars, I see more guests coming in. I should probably let you get back to—”
“You know, I really like this job, professor. Keeping everything running, making sure everyone got their food and drinks and everything. I think I like work in hospitality when I graduate. You know, last summer I worked on a cruise ship?”
“I think you mentioned it. I’ve never been on a cruise ship. It sounds very glamorous.”
“I wouldn’t say glamorous. Lotta stomach flu going around. It gets kinda nasty.”
“I can imagine.”
“Worst thing, though, is you get people disappearing at sea. Either they jump overboard, or someone goes push ’em. And if no one sees it happen, cannot do nothing. Eh, if I was gonna murder someone, I’d do it on a cruise ship.”
“Well, I’ll certainly keep that in mind.”
“Molly.” Emma had just come in, looking elegant. She wore a simple black dress instead of her usual jeans-and-free-conference-t-shirt ensemble. Her black hair was brushed back from her face and fell in loose waves around her shoulders.
“Where’s Yoshi?” I asked.
“At home. He didn’t want to come. He just wanted to stay home and be a lump. How come you’re dressed like a big cock-a-roach?”
“Because it’s Halloween?”
“Did Stephen Park talk you into wearing it? He did, didn’t he?”
“He didn’t talk me into it. I asked him for ideas because I got summoned to this on such short notice. How did you know it was Stephen?”
“Because number one, who else would have a giant-size cock-a-roach costume sitting around, and number two, he’s passive-aggressively getting back at you for getting married.”
“Why would he care? We’ve been broken up for years.”
“What kind of robot planet are you from, Molly? He’s upset. You ended up in a serious relationship, and he didn’t. Anyways, you gotta get out of that thing.” She rapped my hard shell with her knuckles. “People are gonna think you’re making fun.”
“How was I supposed to know this wasn’t a costume event?”
“This is the chancellor’s house. Does this look like the kinda place you wear a giant bug outfit?” Emma gestured across the spacious, marble-tiled living room toward the floor-to-ceiling picture windows. Far below, the whitecaps of Mahina Bay glowed in the moonlight.
“I’ve never been to the chancellor’s house before. I have no frame of reference.”
“Let’s go into the bathroom and get you out of that thing,” she said. “What do you got on underneath?”
Chapter Ten
“All I’m wearing under this is a pair of brown tights and a bra,” I said. Emma looked over my shoulder and waved her hand to shush me.
“It’s Professor Barda,” said a familiar (and disapproving) voice. “I should have known.”
The voice belonged to Marshall Dixon, whose ensemble gave no hint of Halloween unless you counted the fact that her Italian knit taupe cardigan was trimmed with black bugle beads. As always, Marshall was an exemplar of subdued elegance, a living illustration of the advice that the wearer should be remembered, not the clothes. A wizened little woman in a purple shawl clung to Marshall’s arm. The stranger wore her white hair pulled back in a loose bun, secured on one side by a giant purple rose.
“Miss Pfaff,” Marshall Dixon said gently, “this is Molly Barda, from the College of Commerce, and Emma Nakamura, from Biology. They’re working on a grant together. Molly, Emma, this is Miss Dorothy Pfaff. She has arranged to donate several important works, and we’re working on plans for a new library wing for preservation and display. Miss Pfaff has so many wonderful, innovative ideas. By this time next year, we may have in place a new scholarship fund for students in creative fields. And possibly an endowed chair in the Arts.”
Translation: This is an Important Donor. Don’t embarrass me, you idiots.
“I told Marshall I had to meet the giant Palmetto bug,” Miss Dorothy Pfaff cackled. “Love your costume, Hon.” She reached up to pluck at one of my antennae.
“Are you related to Mary Pfaff?” Emma asked.
“Mary Pfaff?” I exclaimed. “The Beatrix Potter of Hawaii?”
Dorothy beamed, obviously pleased that we knew about her famous grandmother. Only then did Marshall allow herself to smile, too.
“Sorry, Miss Pfaff, I didn’t mean to gush. But I love Alice Mongoose.”
“It’s true,” Emma said. “Molly’s a huge fangirl. She wore her Alice the Mongoose t-shirt till it got all full of pukas, and now she sleeps in it.”
“It’s Alice Mongoose, Emma, not Alice the Mongoose. It’s not Peter the Rabbit, right?”
Marshall murmured something and steered Miss Dorothy Pfaff away from us and toward a canapé-bearing waiter.
“I’m not sure everyone needed to know that about my t-shirt, Emma. Oh, good. Here’s Donnie. Maybe he’s ready to go home.”
“Where’s Pat?” Donnie asked us. “I thought he’d be here.”
“Pat’s a part-timer,” Emma said. “They’re never invited to these things.”
“I forgot you know our athletic director. What were you two discussing over there?”
“Excuse me. I see champagne.” Emma hurried off.
“Buck was bending my ear about the legislative budget cuts,” Donnie said. “Having to do more with less. Same kinda thing you’re always talking about. Are you ready?”
“Very. Let me grab my purse. Yeah, I love how they cut our appropriations, so we try to make up for the lost money by raising tuition, and then they get up and rack up political points by denouncing us for raising tuition and cut our budget even more.”
My purse had fallen off the chair and ended up square underneath it. I tried to retrieve it by bending at the waist, then at the knees, but thanks to my stiff carapace, I was unable to reach the ground.
“I’ll get it. Buck said something about steering a course between Scylla and Charybdis. What does that mean?” He retrieved my purse and handed it to me.
“It means trying to make your way between two evils without getting hurt by either one, like navigating a ship between a rocky shoal and a whirlpool. If you get far enough from one, you get too close to the other.”
Donnie was quiet on the ride home. It wasn’t until I had removed and bagged up the cockroach costume, showered, and climbed into Donnie’s big bed that he finally spoke.
“Does it bother you that I don’t have a college education?” Donnie asked.
“What? No. Seriously, no. Why should it bother me?”
“I’m not as educated as you are,” Donnie said.
“No one’s as educated as I am. Wait, that didn’t sound right. I didn’t mean it to sound like bragging. I’m just saying I rode the education train all the way to the last stop. Ph.D. And I have the student loan payments to show for it.”
“Emma’s husband has an MBA.”
“Yoshi? Donnie, you are better than Yoshi in every possible way. I’m amazed at what you’ve accomplished, building your own business. I mean it. Especially since I got stuck teaching the business planning class. Ever since I was assigned the business planning class, I’ve realized how hard it is to do. How much goes into it. And how unlikely it is that a business will survive past five years. Anyone who can make it work has my admiration and respect. I couldn’t do it.”
“Scylla and Charybdis. What kind of class would you learn that in?”
“I’d say a literature class. Something that covers either Homer or James Joyce.”
“It seems like everyone has a college degree now.” I couldn’t see Donnie’s face in the dark, but from the tone of his voice, I could tell he was frowning.
“Actually, only about a third of American adults have a four-year degree.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. But look, if it’s something you want to do, sign up for night classes at Mahina State. You could go part time and get your bachelor’s in six years.”
“No, I can’t do that,” Donnie said.
“Why not?”
“I can’t afford the stigma of a Mahina State degree.”
“What? The stigma? Of having a degree from the place where I’ve made my career?”
“Sorry, Molly, I didn’t mean it that way.” He stroked my hair. The gesture seemed condescending, like a pat on the head. “I’m really proud of what you do there. But you know what I mean. Image is important in my business. I can't have a degree from a college that advertises on television.”
“Where did you hear that you’re not supposed to get your degree from somewhere that advertises on TV?”
“From you, Molly. Don’t you remember? When we were talking about where to send Davison?”
“There’s nothing wrong with Mahina State,” I insisted.
“Of course not.” Donnie and I were close, our noses barely an inch apart. “How are you feeling, Molly? Are you tired?”
“I’m not tired. But I am kind of grumpy now.”
“Aw, that’s a shame,” he murmured. “Let’s see if we can make you feel better.”
Chapter Eleven
“So tell me again.” I frowned at Donnie. “Why are we buying offal and bones now? Has your son joined a cult?”
Donnie and I were in Natural High Organic Foods, stocking up in anticipation of Davison Gonsalves’ arrival in Mahina later in the day. I normally enjoyed shopping at Natural High, mostly for the gourmet snacks rather than for any particular health benefits. Tamari almonds, California rolls, blueberry smoothies, that sort of thing. Donnie claimed he could always tell when I’d been shopping there because my clothes would reek of dried ginseng.
“Not quite a cult.” Donnie assessed the offerings. “He’s on a big health kick. Some of the guys in his class got him into this whole foods thing. He says he’s gotten good results so far at the gym.”
