The Invasive Species, page 9
part #4 of Professor Molly Mysteries Series
Chapter Eighteen
Randy Randolph of Seed Solutions sat alone in his metal folding chair at the front of the lecture hall.
“Hi, I’m Molly Barda.” I extended my hand. “I teach in the College of Commerce here. I just wanted to say hello, and thanks for coming out to talk to us.”
He took my hand and squeezed it briefly. I thought I caught a whiff of booze breath. Maybe he’d gone out to dinner before the forum.
“You’re a teacher here? Should I call you Professor?” He snickered, as if there were something humorous about my being a professor.
“Just call me Molly.” I settled into the folding chair next to him. “So you mentioned in your intro you’re new to Hawaii. I just moved here a few years ago myself. Are you adjusting?”
When I had been watching Randolph from the audience, the pineapple pattern of his aloha shirt had masked the stains spreading under his arms. Sitting beside him now, I could see he was drenched with sweat.
“Trying to buy a house. Takes forever to get things done around here. Some ridiculous holdup with a tenant.”
“I’m doing some research about attitudes toward biotech,” I said. “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind if I recorded—”
“One down, a thousand to go,” he said.
“I’m sorry? What was that?”
“I’ve been at way too many of these things already, and it’s just the beginning.”
He seemed willing to speak candidly. This was better than I’d expected. I’d already asked his permission to record our conversation, right? I was set.
“Why do you say too many?” I asked.
“’Cause everyone’s got their minds made up already. These things are all the same. When my boss told me I was going to Hawaii, I was expecting sandy beaches and beautiful hula girls. Instead I get a bunch of old hippies from California spouting off about the keiki and the `aina and all that crap.”
He looked around, as if he were about to impart a great secret to me.
“And then—I probably shouldn’t say this. But every single time, some chunky Hawaiian chick stands up at the end and says, ‘Oh, I don’t know about DNA or anything, but my grandmother taught me about fish ponds.’ Then she goes off about her ancestors and Pele and blah blah blah.”
So much for my scientific objectivity. I did not like this guy at all. Chunky? That woman wasn’t any bigger than I was.
“Hey, you’re not writing any of this down, are you?” he said.
I held up my hands to show him I wasn’t holding any writing instruments. Over on the other side of the lecture hall, Emma and Pat finished their conversation with Councilwoman Zabek and made their way toward the upper exit. (We were in one of the newer classrooms, which had been built with two doors. In the event a mad gunman came in through one, people had a chance of escaping through the other.)
Emma paused when she reached the door, turned around, and made a rude gesture meant for my eyes only. Maybe it was a good thing I’d come to talk to Randy Randolph by myself. He might not have been so forthcoming with his opinions about the natives had Emma been standing right there. Also, Emma probably would have punched him by now, which would have been hard to explain to our Human Subjects Board.
“So what do you think of Art Lam?” I asked.
“Art’s a good man,” Randy said. “He’s rational. Orientals are very practical people. Alls he wants to do is grow food to feed people, and he has to sit there and listen to these loonies accuse him of poisoning the land.”
“Councilwoman Zabek?” I asked.
“Typical politician. Just does whatever the crazies in her district tell her to.”
“What about Primo Nordmann, who was scheduled to be your fourth panel member? What do you think of him?”
Randy Randolph’s expression went opaque, like a shutter being pulled down over a storefront.
“You probably need to talk to one of the organizers about him. I gotta get going. Hey, nice to meet you, Melody. Give me a call if you want to talk some more.”
“It’s Molly.”
He pressed a Seed Solutions card into my hand—green ink on cardstock the color of a grocery bag—and left, trailing a tang of alcohol and flop sweat. I tucked the card into my bag and made my way over to where Davison and Crystal were still chatting.
“I hope you didn’t believe everything Randy Randolph told you,” Crystal said.
“Do you know him?” I asked.
“He’s a client.”
Davison’s face clouded. “You’re massaging this guy?”
“We just started Randy on a strength training program. I’m doing personal training and life coaching for him.”
“So what happened to Primo Nordmann?” I asked. “The fourth panelist? Why wasn’t he here tonight?”
“Who?” Davison asked.
“Primo Nordmann. He was a student here. Maybe you knew him when you were here?”
“Nah,” Davison said. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”
“Come to think of it,” I said, “I haven’t seen Primo around the yoga studio lately. Is he okay?”
Crystal flicked a glance at Davison, and then at me.
“You don’t know,” she said.
“Know what?”
“Neither of you can say anything about this.”
“I won’t,” I assured her.
“Primo attracted some bad energy.” Crystal paused to make sure we understood how significant that was.
“How did he do that?” I asked. “What happened?”
Crystal motioned us to come closer.
“Didn’t you hear about that body found in Art Lam’s papaya field? It was Primo.”
“That was Primo? Primo is dead?”
“Oh, the papaya field guy,” Davison exclaimed. “Molly, he’s the one you—”
Davison caught my panicked look. Fortunately, he was smart enough to catch on and change the subject.
“Yeah, I heard about it,” he mumbled.
It wasn’t common knowledge that Emma and I had discovered the body. Detective Medeiros had asked (ordered) Emma and me to keep it quiet, and we were more than happy to comply. We didn’t need the celebrity, and we didn’t want to mess up the police investigation.
“Crystal, how did you find this out? About Primo?”
How did Crystal Phoenix the yoga instructor/ personal trainer/ life coach/ masseuse/ supplement saleswoman know who the murder victim was, when Emma and I had no idea? When we were the ones who discovered the body? Some kind of researchers we were.
“The police came and talked to all of us at the studio. But they told us not to tell anyone. Molly, you can’t say anything, okay?”
“Who would do something like that? I mean, I know Art Lam is kind of a grumpy guy, but if he caught someone cutting down his trees, I think he’d just yell at them and call the police. He doesn’t seem like a—” I was going to say he doesn’t seem like a dismembering kind of guy, but I remembered just in time no one had said anything about Primo’s manner of death.
Davison was looking from Crystal to me and back to Crystal, as if he were watching a tennis match.
“Sometimes it isn’t ours to know,” Crystal said. “Some secrets belong to the Universe.”
“How horrible,” I said. “Poor guy.”
Having Primo Nordmann as a student hadn’t exactly been the highlight of my teaching career. In class, he often showed up without having done the reading, and then “made up” for it by pursuing class participation points with extra vigor. He derailed and dominated the conversation with his anti-corporate rants, which was not particularly helpful to the other students in the business planning class. Outside of class, Primo was an office-hours pest, lobbying me to convert to his all-fruit diet and trying to get my approval for a number of insane business ideas. (My favorite: smashing global capitalism by setting up an alternate worldwide supply chain for all manufactured goods.)
But even at his worst (which I’d have to say was when he filed a grievance against me for insensitively eating cheese in front of him during my office hours) I just hoped he would chill out a little and stop hectoring me. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to kill him, much less going about it so viciously.
“It’s getting late. And cold. I’m ready to go home. I have class tomorrow, and I have to finish prepping my lecture.”
I rubbed my upper arms to generate some warmth. “Davison, do you need a ride back, or…?”
“I’ll take him home,” Crystal purred.
“Great. Thanks, Crystal. Davison, I’ll let your dad know you’ll be home whenever. No rush.”
Chapter Nineteen
I drove back down to Donnie’s place, slipped my shoes off at the front door, and let myself in to the empty house. I figured something must have come up at Donnie’s Drive-Inn to keep him working so late. I showered and changed into a comfortable t-shirt and sweatpants, got myself a glass of wine and a murder mystery, and went back to the master bedroom. I slid into the ultra-high-thread-count sheets of Donnie’s platform bed and got comfortable.
I must have fallen asleep, because I woke to the bumping sensation of someone trying to crawl into bed without disturbing me.
“Hey,” came a voice from somewhere in the dark. The rain was making a low roar on the metal roof and blocking out the moonlight. I felt Donnie lean over to give me a minty kiss.
“You were out late,” I groped around for my book, and found it on my chest. I placed it onto the night table, almost knocking over my glass of wine.
“Sorry about waking you up,” Donnie said. “Maybe we should look into getting one of those memory foam mattresses.”
“Your hair’s wet. Did you already shower? I must’ve been fast asleep.”
“It’s nice to come home and find you here.” I sensed Donnie settling in to his side of the bed.
“Well that’s sweet,” I said. “I was kind of hoping you’d be home when I got back.”
“I didn’t see Davison. Did he come back with you?”
“You’ll be glad to hear he’s with Crystal Phoenix. She said she’d give him a ride home.”
“Who?”
“Crystal. The one you wanted me to set him up with. You met her at Natural High organic foods when we were buying Davison’s weird food for him. Blonde hippie girl? The one who was flirting with you?”
“Oh, her. Sorry, I didn’t make the connection. She was at your biotech meeting?”
“She actually introduced the speakers. She definitely caught Davison’s eye.”
I heard Donnie sigh.
“You know, we flew him all the way back here from the East Coast so he could spend some time with his parents.”
“Donnie, Davison didn’t want to come back with me. What was I supposed to do? Throw him over my shoulder and carry him back to the car? I think it’s fine. He doesn’t need to spend every waking second with us.”
“I hoped he’d be able to spend a little more time with you.”
“Donnie, is this you lecturing me on how I’m doing everything wrong? Again? You were the one who wanted Davison to find nice girl his own age, remember? Now you’re mad at me because things worked out exactly the way you wanted?”
“No, Molly, it’s not what I—”
“Anyway, when he was talking with her, it was maybe the first time I’ve really seen him look happy this whole trip. If that means anything to you.”
“I was just trying to—did you get some good research done tonight?”
“Oh, speaking of research. Guess what I found out? The body in Art Lam’s papaya grove? It was Primo Nordmann.”
“Who?”
“My former student? The one who was working at the yoga studio?”
“Oh. The yoga teacher. The one who was so impressed with the way you could put your legs—”
“That’s the one.”
“He’s dead?”
“According to Crystal. He was actually scheduled as one of the panelists tonight, and he didn’t show up. Poor guy. What a horrible way to go.”
“That’s why Ka`imi Medeiros has been asking me so many questions about you,” Donnie said.
“Detective Medeiros? What kind of questions?”
“It’s probably because of your history with the murder victim.”
“My history? Donnie, I do not have a history with Primo Nordmann.”
“Wasn’t he the one with the cheese? He filed a complaint about you, right?”
“Oh. That history. So what, Medeiros thinks I hacked up my former student and a bunch of Art Lam’s papaya trees and then left all the parts strewn around because what? Because I was holding a grudge about that stupid cheese thing?”
“Ka`imi has to be suspicious. It’s part of his job.”
“He doesn’t have to be that suspicious. It’s pathological, if you ask me.”
“Molly, neither one of us has worked in law enforcement. We don’t know what it’s like. Ka`imi sees the worst of human nature every day.”
“That’s what he thinks. He’s never served on a General Education committee. Hey, I met your friend Randy Randolph, from Seed Solutions.”
“What did you think of him?”
“He did not make a good impression on me. He’s like if you took the spoiled rich-boy bully character from every teen ’80s movie, and added a couple of decades and a drinking problem. He told me he was disappointed when Mahina wasn’t full of beautiful hula girls. Reducing a centuries-old art form to some trivial erotic diversion.”
“That’s surprising. My impression of him was he plays his cards close. He doesn’t seem to say what he’s really thinking.”
“Yeah, maybe not to you. Lucky me. I got the white person all-access pass to his inner thoughts. So, speaking of meetings, where did you go tonight?”
“Oh, just something I had to go to,” Donnie said.
“No, really. Where were you? I know the Drive-Inn closes at—”
“Molly.”
Donnie moved closer. I smelled toothpaste and shampoo, and his warm, wet skin.
“Seriously, Donnie? You think I won’t notice you’re changing the subject to avoid answering my question?”
“Is it working?”
“Are you going to tell me where you were?”
“I will,” he murmured into my hair. “I promise.”
On the one hand, I was annoyed at Donnie’s evasiveness. On the other hand, we had some privacy with Davison out of the house, and Donnie was rather effectively pressing his suit, as it were.
“You know I’ll find out.” But I had already lost interest in whatever it was we’d been arguing about.
Chapter Twenty
The next morning, Emma and Pat came by my office, as they often do. I’d like to say it was because they enjoyed my company, but I think it had more to do with my fancy coffee machine than with my engaging personality. And of course, I had enough chairs for everyone to sit down.
Budget cuts had eliminated funding for faculty office furniture, so we all had to pay for our own desks and chairs. When Tatsuya’s Moderne Beauty went out of business, Pat bought a set of attached hot pink vinyl hairdryer chairs for twenty-five dollars. They took up half his office, and would have been reasonably comfortable had the chrome hairdryer bonnets not still been attached.
Emma’s office was even less welcoming than Pat’s. Emma refused to spend her own money to buy work furniture, so her office had no place for visitors to sit. The rare student who got up the nerve to visit her in her office had to stand and stare at the brain in a jar she had sitting on her file cabinet.
Emma pushed in to my office first. She claimed my more comfortable chair (which I’d scrounged from one of the Student Retention Office’s remodels) and handed me her coffee mug. It bore the logo of a well-known and widely vilified chemical company.
“You carrying this around just to annoy the anti-biotech people?” I brewed a dose of coffee into the mug.
“What? I got it at a conference. I’m supposed to turn down free stuff now?”
Pat unfolded the metal chair I had leaning against my wall.
“So what’s the latest?” he asked as I took his mug, the big one with the C-Span logo.
“Oh, this is huge. Right after you two left the biotech forum, I found out the body in the papaya field was Primo Nordmann.”
“Oh yeah,” Emma said. “I knew that.
“What? How did you know?”
“Pat told me,”
“Pat, you knew?”
“Not a hundred percent. But I knew the police had been asking around at the yoga studio. Primo Nordmann was the only instructor there who hadn’t shown up for his classes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Pat?”
“They actually warned me not to say anything to you.”
“Who is they? And why not?”
“Medeiros guys,” Emma said.
“Et tu, Emma? What, the stupid cheese incident again?”
Pat shrugged. So it was the stupid cheese incident.
“What do they think happened? What exactly is their working hypothesis here?”
“They’re just being cautious,” Pat said.
“It’s not like you’re a suspect, exactly,” Emma added.
“Exactly? I shouldn’t be a suspect at all. What is wrong with people? I can’t believe Medeiros doesn’t trust me. I’ve been nothing but helpful and law-abiding. When have I ever caused him any trouble?”
“What about when you had to be rescued this summer?” Emma asked.
“Oh, yeah.” Pat chuckled. “He was telling me they had to divert most of the island’s emergency vehicles—”
“That could’ve happened to anyone.”
I handed Pat’s mug back to him and finally set my own onto the platform, impatiently watching the stream thin and peter out as my cup filled.
“So what are the facts so far? You two go out to Art Lam’s farm to do research on attitudes toward biotech. You show up, not knowing Art has conveniently been called away to testify at the Ledge, of which he has video proof.”
“I bet one of those enviro-nuts killed Primo Nordmann,” Emma said.
“But Primo was one of those ‘enviro-nuts’, Emma. He was scheduled to speak on the anti-biotech side at the forum, remember? Now, if the victim had been Randy Randolph from Seed Solutions, you’d have a point. But who would want to get rid of Primo Nordmann?”
