The Musubi Murder

by Frankie Bow

  I was about to check the pantry when I spotted a large cockroach sitting next to the kitchen sink. I retrieved my hand vac from its charging station, crept up slowly, and then with one swift action I sucked the cockroach in with a decisive “thwack.” After I’d shaken the angry insect into the toilet and flushed six or seven times, I got out the rubbing alcohol and wiped down every surface in the kitchen. My kitchen smelled like an infirmary, but at least it was clean.

  I was still washing my hands when I heard a knock on the door.

  “I thought it might be a little late for coffee,” Donnie said. “So I took the liberty of bringing some wine.” He strode in, gave me a strong one-arm hug and cheek kiss, and headed into the kitchen. “Do you have a corkscrew?” He sniffed the air.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “Fine. It smells really . . . clean in here. Do you have wineglasses?”

  “Wineglasses. Not exactly. I’ve been using furikake jars. It’s sustainable. Reduce, reuse, recycle, right?”

  I retrieved two of the small cylindrical glasses and set them on the counter.

  “By the way,” I said, “the locomoco was really good. Thanks.”

  The rice had been pebbly, and the meat patty was full of gristly bits, but Donnie hadn’t let me pay for it. I watched Donnie take the corkscrew down from the wall hook and open the wine.

  “You seem to know your way around,” I said.

  He smiled as he glanced around at the compact space. “I grew up in a house a lot like this. Listen, Molly, I want to thank you for what you did for Davison.”

  “What I did?”

  “You helped him out with his deadlines. He told me you were very understanding.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “I can see why you’re one of his favorite teachers.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. There’s really no need to mention it.”

  Donnie poured wine into the two small glasses, filling them to the top.

  “It feels comfortable here,” he said. “I like it. You have good taste.” Donnie brought the glasses over to the couch, sat down, and moved to make space for me right next to him.

  “I suppose I do have good taste,” I smiled as I sat down.

  We clicked glasses and sipped.

  “So,” I said.

  Now what? The last time Donnie and I were together, we were occupied with preparing lunch, and we talked about food. If Emma and Pat were here, there would be no lack of conversation. We could discuss Emma’s solvent-sniffing lab tech, my corrupt dean, Pat’s survivalist neighbors, or even Jimmy Tanaka’s murder. That’s the problem with the still-trying-to-impress-someone stage of a relationship. Negative topics are off the table, which leaves you very little to talk about.

  “So,” I repeated, “what’s new at the Drive-Inn?”

  That worked better than I’d expected. We were deep into a discussion about the breakdown rate of frying oil when my cell phone began to buzz on my desk. The metal surface resonated like a drum, but I ignored it. I didn’t want to be one of those people who interrupts a conversation to answer the phone. The humming paused, and then started up again. A moment later, someone started banging on the door. A series of odd clicking sounds followed, and then the door swung open. Emma and Pat crowded in.

  “Molly!” Emma shouted, “where—oh! You have company!”

  Emma came over and grabbed Donnie’s wine bottle from the coffee table. Pat followed her into the kitchen.

  “Why don’t you come in?” I said. I got up and closed the door behind them.

  “You weren’t answering your phone,” Emma called back over her shoulder. “Did you forget we were coming over?”

  “No, of course not. Kind of. Yes.”

  Pat returned to the couch holding a cup of coffee. He gripped Donnie’s hand briefly and then plopped down on the couch between Donnie and me.

  “I have it,” he announced. “The smoking gun.”

  “What’s the smoking gun?” I asked.

  He put his cup down on my coffee table. I picked it up and slid a coaster under it.

  “The permits on record for the rebuild of the Hanohano are completely fabricated,” Pat said. “They’re in the county files, but they don’t have the stamps.”

  Emma came over holding my treasured Chicken Boy coffee cup.

  “Emma, you don’t have to use that. I have glasses for wine.”

  “No you don’t. You have furikake jars. They’re way too small.”

  “That’s a sixteen-ounce mug,” I said.

  “Yeah, so?”

  Emma squeezed onto the couch between Pat and me, so that Donnie and I were on opposite sides.

  “Fine,” I said. “Use the mug. Hey, how did you get my door unlocked?”

  “I think it was already unlocked,” Emma said.

  “I’m sure my door was not unlocked. I always lock my door.”

  Emma looked over at Pat. Pat pretended he didn’t notice her. “It’s more than just the sketchy permits,” he continued. “There’s bribery, and nepotism, and even negligent homicide.”

  “Is anyone else covering this story?” I asked. “It seems kind of important.”

  “No. The Honolulu paper isn’t interested in some old news from the outer islands.”

  “What about the County Courier?” Donnie asked.

  Pat winced at the mention of his former employer. “They don’t really have investigative reporters anymore. They’re down to one or two guys cutting and pasting the AP news feed in between the car dealer ads. Not to blow my own horn or anything, but Island Confidential is pretty much it for real news reporting on this island anymore.”

  “Not to blow your own horn or anything,” Emma said. “Hey, guess what though. Pat thinks Nehemiah Silva might of killed Jimmy Tanaka.”

  “That’s brilliant, Pat,” I said. “Who is Nehemiah Silva?”

  “That’s the police officer I told you guys about,” Emma said. “The one who went looking for Jimmy Tanaka when his wife reported him missing, and then found him, and then lost his job, remember? It’s the same guy.”

  “Emma,” Pat said, “You’re not supposed to—”

  “Did you know that story about Nehemiah Silva and Jimmy Tanaka?” Emma asked Donnie.

  “I believe I did hear something about it.”

  “Silva still had friends in county administration, though,” Emma said. “That’s how he ended up working at the county building. Um.”

  And then, dispelling any possible doubt over the identity of Pat’s confidential source, she added, “Oops. Sorry, Pat.”

  Pat sighed deeply.

  “Could Silva get in trouble for giving you that information?” I asked Pat.

  “He didn’t give me anything,” Pat said. “He just told me what to look for. I could find it myself from those links your student gave you.”

  “Your student?” Donnie leaned forward to make eye contact with me. “Molly, your students are involved in this?”

  “Oh, no,” I said, “nothing like that. One of my students did a paper on stages of moral development, and her bibliography had a link to this website full of government documents, that’s all.”

  “So that’s one possible motive for Tanaka’s murder,” Emma said. “Payback for ruining Silva’s career. Although it still doesn’t explain why it would happen now.”

  “Opportunity, maybe?” said Pat. “Tanaka doesn’t come to this island that much anymore.”

  “All of that was years ago, though,” I said.

  Pat shrugged, “Never underestimate the power of a grudge.”

  “So why would Tanaka try to bypass the permitting?” Emma asked. “Why take that kind of risk? I mean, he was already really well connected. I’m sure he could get things done more or less by the book if he wanted to.”

  “He had to speed it up,” Pat said. “A few days’ delay, and the Hanohano would’ve gone on the Registry of Historic Places. Once the building was registered, Tanaka wouldn’t be able to d
o anything with the property.

  Emma drained her mug of wine.

  “Silva was too cooperative,” she said. “I don’t think he was the killer. I think it was Isaiah Pung.”

  “Isaiah Pung!” Donnie exclaimed.

  “Sure,” she said. “Both his parents lost their jobs when Jimmy Tanaka bought the Hanohano, and then his father was killed during the rebuilding. Isaiah Pung has a pretty good motive.”

  “No,” Donnie said. “I’ve known Isaiah since he was a kid. You’re right. He’s gone through some real hard times. But he’s not a murderer.”

  “Isaiah is a good friend of Donnie’s son, Davison,” I said, directing a warning glare at Emma. “Anyway, I agree with Donnie.”

  “Of course you do,” Pat snorted.

  “No, really. Isaiah is my student. I’ve spoken with him. I can’t picture it.”

  I couldn’t imagine the diffident Isaiah masterminding a cold-blooded revenge killing. Or masterminding much of anything, really.

  We spent the rest of the evening discussing murder and corruption and local politics. Eventually Pat stood up and said something about his long drive home, and we all looked at our watches and our little party drew to a close.

  Donnie was last out the door. “This was fun,” he said “Next time, let’s have a proper dinner at my place. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds great!” I said.

  “I really should get going though. It’s late. Davison’s probably home by now, and he’s going to wonder where I am.”

  “Of course,” I said. Let’s not forget about Davison.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The next morning saw Emma, Pat and me sharing an unusually low-key coffee break in my office. I had the blinds closed to keep the sun out. The only sounds were the hum of the desk fan and the quiet coffee-slurping of three slightly hungover college professors.

  I had barely finished my second cup when Dan Watanabe knocked on my door frame, and then stuck his head into my office. We all mumbled, “Hey, Dan.” He nodded in response and came in. He sucked his lips in as if he had bad news that he was unwilling to give.

  “Molly,” he said. “It was—that fan’s kind of loud, isn’t it?”

  I reached over and turned the dial to the lowest setting. Immediately the humid air closed around me and beads of sweat popped out on my upper lip. Emma snatched a magazine from my bookshelf and fanned herself with it.

  Dan cleared his throat. “Molly, it was decided that you should host the academic year’s first College of Commerce Community Council get-together this Saturday.”

  “It was decided? In the passive voice?”

  “Well, we”—Dan peered at Emma’s makeshift fan—“Search and Destroy?” Emma stopped, looked at the cover, rolled her eyes, and resumed fanning.

  “Oh, yeah.” I shrugged. “That’s one of the old punk ’zines I used for my dissertation. Anyway, Saturday is the day after tomorrow. I’m guessing I wasn’t the first-choice hostess?”

  “It is a little last minute,” he said, “but it shouldn’t be too much work. It’s potluck. Friendly and casual.”

  “Wow Dan, that’s . . . that’s quite an honor. I’ve never even been invited to the CCCC. I don’t even know who all the members are. I mean, I know Mercedes and Donnie.”

  “Make sure to have plates, cups, utensils, and drinks. Don’t worry about invitations. Everything’s set. People will start arriving at three.”

  As soon as Dan left, I turned the fan back to the highest setting.

  “Can I see that Search and Destroy?” Pat asked.

  Emma handed the ’zine to Pat.

  “You can borrow it if you want,” I said. “You guys are coming on Saturday, by the way.”

  “We’re not invited,” said Emma.

  “Of course you’re invited. It’s my house.”

  “This means you’re still on the administrative fast track, doesn’t it?” Pat said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. I hope not.”

  “Meaning your dean is probably still under suspicion for Jimmy Tanaka’s murder, right?” he said.

  “Yeah, speaking of suspicion. I didn’t really want to bring this up in front of Donnie.” I summarized Margaret Adams’s strange story about Nate Parsons.

  “I wonder how Vogel fits in to what Nate Parsons heard,” Pat said. “That would be around the time that Vogel and Tanaka would have come back from dinner.”

  “I tried to imagine how the voice could’ve been Bill Vogel’s,” I said. “I couldn’t really come up with anything plausible.”

  “What do the police think?” Emma asked.

  “Not much progress after they ID’d the skull,” Pat said. “I think they’d really like to find the rest of Jimmy Tanaka. You should know, Molly, it doesn’t look good for Stephen Park that he left town.”

  “I’m sure he had a good reason,” I said, feeling a little defensive.

  “Why would the dean of the College of Commerce want to kill Jimmy Tanaka?” Emma asked. “That doesn’t make any sense at all. Tanaka just gave you guys a bunch of money.”

  “Maybe Tanaka was thinking of backing out?” I said. “Still, that doesn’t seem like a motive for murder. Unless Vogel is a complete psycho. Which, believe me, I wouldn’t necessarily rule out.”

  “It’s too bad Emma had to blab to your friend about Isaiah Pung,” Pat said.

  “Oh, shut up,” Emma snapped. “I didn’t say anything I wasn’t supposed to.”

  “You brought up the idea of Isaiah as a suspect,” Pat said. “Now Donnie can warn him.”

  “Warn him about what?” I asked.

  “The police want to talk to him,” Pat said.

  “So why don’t they?” Emma asked.

  “They can’t find him.”

  “Come to think of it,” I said, “I haven’t seen him in class recently.”

  “He must not make much of an impression,” Pat said, “if you’re just realizing that now.”

  “He’s kind of quiet,” I agreed.

  Pat leafed through the Search and Destroy. “Bringing the head onto campus to make some kind of statement is consistent with a revenge motive. Look at this. Patti Smith, the Ramones, this is probably worth something.”

  “I do want it back at some point,” I said. “Don’t go selling it on eBay.”

  “Wait a minute,” Emma interrupted. “Was it Jimmy Tanaka’s head, or his skull? Pat just said ‘head.’ Which one is it?”

  “It was a skull,” I said. “I saw it. In fact, I thought it was fake. Ew, a head? That would’ve been horrible.”

  “A skull’s not horrible enough for you?” Pat said, without looking up from the photocopied pages. “I wonder whatever happened to the Weirdoes.”

  “Something’s wrong with the timeline, though,” Emma said. “Jimmy Tanaka goes out to dinner with your dean. The very next morning his skull shows up at breakfast, all polished and clean. How does that happen so fast?”

  “I was wondering the same thing,” I said. “What if there’s an impostor Jimmy Tanaka, and the real Jimmy Tanaka was murdered like a year ago? And the head of the real Jimmy Tanaka has been festering in Stephen’s prop room unnoticed, which believe me, could totally happen. Oh! And the whole thing was orchestrated by Bill Vogel so he could get impostor Jimmy Tanaka to give us a big donation out of the real Jimmy Tanaka’s money.”

  “So where’s fake Jimmy Tanaka now?” Pat asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I got it,” Emma said. “Fake Jimmy Tanaka double-crossed Bill Vogel.”

  “I like that,” I said.

  “He played along until he realized he’d have to be at this breakfast with a bunch of people who had known the real Jimmy Tanaka for years. So he grabbed a bunch of the real Jimmy Tanaka’s money and skipped town.”

  “How did he fool Mercedes, though?” Pat asked. “She saw him when he checked in to the Cloudforest, remember?”

  “Maybe Mercedes doesn’t know him that well,” E
mma said. “I still think Isaiah Pung has something to do with it. It’s kinda coincidental that he disappeared when he did, isn’t it?”

  “Where would Isaiah go?” I asked. “We’re on an island. He can’t get on a plane without ID.”

  “Maybe one of those little commuter flights to Oahu,” Pat said.

  “Then he’s stuck on Oahu,” I said.

  “There’s a million people there,” Emma said. “Easy to blend in and get lost.”

  “Maybe he snuck onto a cruise ship,” Pat said.

  “Sneaked,” I said. “You know, Isaiah emailed me.”

  “Recently?” Pat asked.

  “No. When we were at Stephen’s dress rehearsal. I saw his email when I got home. I had just met with him and told him to revise his paper, but he wanted to meet with me again. Why would he be worried about his grade if he was planning to disappear?”

  “Maybe he sent that to throw everyone off,” Emma said. “He mighta been already gone by the time he emailed you.”

  “Time! I almost forgot!” I glanced at my watch. It was later than I’d thought. “I’m going to be late for Business Boosters if I don’t leave right now.”

  I stood up to signal that it was time for all of us to leave, and picked up my bag.

  “We’ll be fine here,” said Emma. “Pat and I will think of ideas for your party.”

  “Have fun kowtowing to the plutocrats,” Pat said.

  “Pat, Business Boosters is hardly some cabal of robber barons. They’re insurance agents and pet store owners.”

  He held up the copy of Search and Destroy and cast a meaningful look at me.

  “You’re seriously going to Business Boosters,” he said.