by Frankie Bow
“My `okole’s bigger than yours, Molly, and I fit in the canoe. You’re just making excuses.”
“You found me out, Emma. I am making excuses. Because I don’t want to paddle.”
I went into the kitchen to make fresh coffee.
“Eh, you freaking out about Melanie, or what?” Emma called after me. “You don’t look too good.”
“I didn’t sleep too well last night. I’d been looking forward to having my house to myself again, but I sure wasn’t counting on it happening like this. I hope the rest of my summer is less eventful. Maybe it’s a good thing my summer classes didn’t make.”
“Yeah, I’m not teaching either. I’m gonna be in the lab full time, though.”
“And I’ll be working on my book,” Pat interjected.
“You’re writing a book?” I asked.
“You gonna write about the karaoke murders?” Emma asked.
“I’m not writing true crime. I’m writing a career advice book.”
“You? Writing a career book?” Emma snorted, displaying her usual level of tact (none). “Well, hey, if that big fat fraud Doctor Whatsis can write a diet book, I guess an unemployed newspaper reporter can write a career book.”
“That’s the idea.” Pat shrugged.
Pat used to be a crime reporter at the County Courier. After the layoffs he took a part-time position at Mahina State, teaching introductory composition. He kept a hand in journalism with his newsblog, Island Confidential.
“So do you have any career advice for me, Pat?” I asked.
“What about me?” Emma chimed in.
“You don’t need advice, Emma. You just got tenure.”
“Was kinda close, but.”
It was true. Emma Nakamura was a good teacher and an amazingly productive researcher and grant-getter. But she was also outspoken enough to have made some enemies. It was probably her NSF grant that saved her. No one in the administration wanted to lose Emma—or more to the point, her 50% returned overhead on half a million dollars a year. As Pat pointed out, a quarter-million dollars a year was nearly enough to pay for another assistant coach for our last-place football team.
Tenure wasn’t a guarantee of a job for life, but it did mean the administration couldn’t fire you without making up a reason first. At Mahina State, you had to go up for tenure after six years. At that point, it was up or out. If you got tenure, great. But if you didn’t, there was no do-over. You were out of a job, period. And if you didn’t make tenure at Mahina State, good luck finding employment anywhere else.
I was still untenured. And I didn’t have any grants, so I had to be nice to everyone.
“I have some advice for both of you,” Pat said. “Based on a whole bunch of research. For maximum career success, make sure you’re tall, WASP-y, and male—”
“Well, lucky you’re covered, Pat.”
“Patrick Cathal Flanagan is not WASP-y,” I corrected Emma.
“Really, Emma. Anglo-Saxon Protestant? I think you just mortally wounded me.”
“Any other advice?” I asked. “That doesn’t require me to wear stilts and a fake moustache?”
“Be an extrovert. Extroverts are better at getting raises and promotions.”
“Well, that’s it,” I sighed. “I’m out. Where are you finding all this depressing stuff anyway?”
“In the library. Your management journals, in fact.”
“Well I’m not a tall WASP-y guy. I’m a neurotic lady introvert. Anything else?”
“It helps to have a wife and a couple of kids. Not more than two children, though. Otherwise people might think you’re some kind of dirty Catholic.”
“I hope your book’s gonna be more helpful than this,” Emma said.
An impatient knock on my front door interrupted our conversation.
Detective Medeiros, along with a young policeman in uniform, had come to collect Melanie’s effects.
“Help yourself.” I walked over to the guest room, tried unsuccessfully to fling the door open (it caught on a stray boot), and let the two men take in the chaos. Melanie’s hot pink luggage was heaped in the corner, clothing was piled on the bed, water bottles teetered on every flat surface, and shoes and boots were scattered all over the floor.
It was just like Melanie to bring woolly boots to Hawai`i. Melanie wouldn’t bother to read the weather report. Why would she, when the world and its climate systems revolved around her?
“Pretty much anything you can pick up and carry out is Melanie’s,” I said. “Just the furniture and the bedclothes are mine. Here, we can help.”
Emma, Pat, and I helped the two officers carry Melanie’s things out to the car. Even with five people working, moving Melanie’s belongings out of the spare bedroom and the bathroom (and the living room and the rest of the house, where she had scattered her things) took several trips and the better part of an hour. Fortunately the police car was a large American make with a spacious trunk.
“What about those shoes?” Emma whispered to me. “The platforms with the ankle strap? They look like your style.”
“Emma, how could you? Steal shoes from a dead woman? Besides, they’re way too small. I can’t even get them on my feet.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“SO WHERE WERE WE?” Emma asked. Detective Medeiros and his silent sidekick had left. Emma, Pat, and I had reseated ourselves at my kitchen counter.
“We were getting career advice from Pat.”
Emma got up, went to my refrigerator, and poured herself half a glass of vodka.
“Emma, it’s not even noon.”
“I’m making myself a Bloody Mary. What? It’s a respectable breakfast drink.”
“I don’t have any Bloody Mary mix.”
“How about tomato juice? You got tomato juice?”
“Why on earth would I have tomato juice? Anyway, Melanie made me get rid of everything with tomatoes in it.”
“Orange juice, then?
“Sorry.”
“Oh well.” Emma sat back down next to Pat and brandished her glass at him. “Wanna sip?”
Pat shook his head. “No thanks. Enjoy.”
Emma did exactly that. I certainly wouldn’t have been able to consume undiluted alcohol as quickly as Emma was doing and remain coherent, but Emma had a lot of muscle mass. As short as she was, she outweighed me by a good margin, and could crush me at arm-wrestling.
“Molly,” Pat asked, “do you remember what happened yesterday? Right before Melanie jumped? If it’s not too soon for you to talk about it.”
“It’s not too soon. I’m fine.” I closed my eyes and tried to recreate the scene. “Let’s see. Melanie had her laptop and her phone out. I thought she was being kind of rude. Anyway, she said she had to use the bathroom and she put down her tea and handed me her . . . laptop!”
“What about her laptop?” Pat asked.
“I still have Melanie’s laptop. I need to call Detective Medeiros and—”
“Wait,” Pat interrupted. “You have Melanie’s laptop? Go get it. We need to see what’s on it.”
“Break into her computer? Won’t they be able to tell if someone’s been poking around?”
“It’s not against the law to look at her computer,” Pat said. “And you have to protect yourself, just in case anyone decides to sue you or something. Make a backup of the files. Then you can give it to the police.”
“That’s a great idea.” Emma dealt Pat an extra-hearty back-slap. She had already made significant headway on her tomato-less Bloody Mary.
“I don’t think we’re supposed to look at someone’s private information without their permission. Isn’t that against the law or something?”
“She’s dead. So it’s moot.”
“Emma, you’re not a lawyer.”
“We don’t have to tell anyone,” Pat said. “Who’s gonna know?”
“Two against one,” Emma declared.
“Fine. But if I get in trouble for this, you guys are taking the blame.”
“Any ideas?” Pat asked.
“Let me try something.” I typed in phallusinwonderland. It worked.
“What was that?” Emma asked.
“Our old band. ‘Phallus in Wonderland’. The name was Melanie’s idea.”
“The punk band you guys were in?” Pat asked.
“The same. It was so long ago. Wow. It’s like Melanie peaked in grad school. That’s kind of sad.”
“What’s this file from yesterday? ‘Flower Club’?” Emma reached in front of me and clicked to open the file.
“Those must be the notes she was taking. Flower Club? Come on Melanie, it’s the Garden Society, not the Flower Club.”
“You’re being a little harsh, Molly,” Pat said. “She is dead.”
“She never could be bothered to pay attention if something didn’t immediately interest her. Peoples’ names. MLA format. Deadlines.”
“Fontanelle Masterson is the hostess,” Emma read. “Very old. Too hot and sticky here. Tea is warm. Boring lecture about stems. Molly seems entertained. Doesn’t take much. Better than sitting around her house with no air conditioning.”
“Hemingway-esque,” Pat said.
“It is not Hemingway-esque,” I protested. “Our hostess’s name was Fontanne Masterman, not Fontanelle Masterson. A fontanel is the soft spot on a baby’s head. Sheesh.”
“Let’s back up the files first,” Pat said. “Then we can read all we want.”
I found a disused drive, and copied Melanie’s documents to it.
“Perfect timing,” I said. “Her battery’s almost dead, and I have no idea where the charger is. Now should I call Detective Medeiros and tell him to come back and get the laptop?”
“I’ll drop it off down at the station. I was going to go down there anyway. I still have some loose ends to tie up on a story I’m working on.”
“Great. All yours.” I handed Pat the laptop and made a show of dusting off my hands. “Glad to be done with this.”
“Not so fast,” Emma interjected. “I still need another paddler on my crew to replace Melanie. Then we’re done. Molly, alls you gotta do is sign the forms and pay the dues, and show up tomorrow morning for practice.”
“No.”
“Oh, come on Molly. It doesn’t hafta be—”
“No.”
“Shoot.” Emma folded her arms. “Maybe I’ll try call Sherry Di Napoli. I bet she misses paddling. I could probably talk her into coming back to Hawai`i.”
“Are you serious?”
“This is getting interesting,” Pat remarked.
“You’re still in touch with Sherry?” I asked.
“You got something against Sherry?”
“Of course not.”
It was true. I got along with Sherry Di Napoli, despite her being one of those people who seemed to attract trouble. What made things awkward for me was Sherry happened to be Donnie Gonsalves’ ex-wife. To make matters worse, there was apparently enough of a physical resemblance between the two of us that people would comment on it. (Except, they’d invariably add, Sherry was much thinner.)
Of course I trusted Donnie. And I knew there was nothing deader than a dead romance.
Still.
“You don’t have to call Sherry,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
“You’ll do it?” Emma made a convincing show of surprise.
“Yes. I’ll paddle with you guys.”
“Right on. I knew you’d come around. I have some old board shorts you can use, and you can even wear my jersey from last year’s Labor Day Race. Don’t look like that, Molly. You’re gonna love it.”
CHAPTER SIX
MY FIRST CHALLENGE was to keep my borrowed swim shorts from falling down, which I accomplished by combining intermittent waistband-hitching with a long cowboy stride. I stepped into the foaming waves with knees akimbo, as five other women and I pushed the four-hundred-pound, six-seat fiberglass canoe out into the bay. I was immediately submerged to my knees, then to my waist, and soon we were hanging onto the sides of the canoe and treading water. I tried not to think about the contents of Mahina Bay churning around inside my shorts.
Once we were all chest-deep in the foaming surf, our next task was to get ourselves inside the boat. I grasped the undulating canoe and hooked one leg over the side. This brief triumph was followed by several minutes of me clinging to the side, one leg still dangling in the water.
“Just roll in,” Emma shouted at me. “Roll!” Powerful hands gripped my upper arms and I felt myself being hoisted up into the canoe. Someone handed me a paddle.
A cut on my shin poured watery blood, but I was otherwise unharmed, and managed to get into position on the narrow bench seat. Emma was the steersman, in seat six, right behind me. She would be able to scrutinize me at close range and criticize all of my mistakes afterwards.
“Ma Kau Kau!” Emma called.
“Ai!” the crew shouted in response.
I held the paddle as Emma had instructed, hands at a distance from the blade to maximize leverage.
“Huki!” Emma bellowed, at a volume that made my eardrums rattle. It was our signal to start paddling. I dug my paddle into the water to the rhythm of the caller, counting twelve strokes on one side before she yelled Hut, Hoe! and we moved our paddles to the other side. To my amazement, I did not drop my borrowed paddle into the ocean and lose it forever beneath the churning waves.
We skimmed rapidly over the water. The ocean horizon was on our right; Mahina’s Bayfront, with its pastel storefronts and glittering cars, lay to our left. With six of us paddling in sync, the four hundred pound canoe felt weightless.
It was actually kind of fun. Only the incessant stinging of my lacerated shin kept me tethered to reality. After what seemed like mere minutes, it was time to paddle back to shore, hop out into the brackish water, push the heavy boat back up onto the beach and put it away.
“That was a real experience,” I said to Emma, as we were hosing down the canoe. “I can see how it could be really appealing for people.”
Emma looked me up and down.
“So should I call Sherry?” she asked.
“Yeah. You should probably do that.”
“You don’t have a lot of upper body strength, do you? Hey, wanna come to the Pair-O-Dice with us?”
“Thanks anyway. I think I’ll go back to my office.”
“Your leg’s still bleeding. You should wash the cut so it doesn’t get infected. Here.” She aimed the hose at my wounded shin. It hurt like blazes, but she did get all the blood rinsed off.
“The cut’s tiny,” I exclaimed. “Why was there so much blood?”
“Yeah, shins bleed a lot. It’s one of our most common newbie injuries.”
I was not expecting to find a large man sitting on the yoga ball behind my desk when I limped back into my office. He was silhouetted by the light coming through the window behind him, so it took me a moment to recognize him.
“Detective Medeiros?”
“Your secretary let me in.” He launched himself up to a standing position. A loud clang sounded through the tiny room as he banged his knee on the underside of my desk.
“I don’t have a personal secretary. It must have been Serena. She’s the dean’s secretary. Maybe you’d prefer the visitor chair?”
“Sounds good,” he wheezed, limping out from behind my desk. “What’s the ball for?”
“My office chair broke.” I traded places with him, making my way behind my desk and lowering myself onto the still-warm yoga ball. “Our university doesn’t have a budget for replacement furniture. Anyway, these are supposed to be good for toning your core muscles, and it was pretty inexpensive. The chair you’re sitting in? I managed to grab it when the Student Retention Office remodeled to match the new school colors.”
“Red, gold and green,” Medeiros said.
; “As decided by student vote. Yes. Anyway, what can I do for you?”
“I’ve been talking to some of your old band mates, Professor.”
“Oh. Why don’t we close the door? It’s okay. The Rodge Cowper Rule only applies when we have students in our offices.”
“The what rule?”
“We have to keep our doors open when we have students in our office.”
“Rodge Cowper, the professor next office over, ah?”
“The very same, yes.”
Medeiros was able to reach out and close my door without even getting up. He produced his tiny notepad from his shirt pocket.
“Just double checking. The name of your band. The one you played in with the deceased. Over in California. You remember?”
“I, uh, it was a long time ago.”
He checked his notes. “Phallus in Wonderland?”
“I can explain. It was Melanie’s idea. She was really into Lacan at the time. I don’t think she actually understood Lacan, but she liked working phalluses into the conversation at every possible opportunity. Anyway, I didn’t vote for that name.”
“I understand your most popular song was called Judy Butler Did It. The words didn’t make no sense cause it’s all about the performance.”
“Performativity,” I corrected him.
Medeiros half-smiled.
“Yeah. Performativity. I like Judy Butler.”
“You do?”
“Her da kine, about gender. Gender is a stylish repetition of actions. Makes sense, ah? Like when we pick up da kine, downtown, walking up an’ down Ala Koa Street, look jus’ like wahine, ah? Like real ladies. That’s where you see it in action, the thing, the stylish repetition of actions.”
I nodded. I didn’t generally frequent that part of town at night, but I knew what he was talking about.
“The humanities are very valuable.” Medeiros tapped my desk with a beefy finger. “Shame nowadays everyone just wants to get their business degree. No offense, ah?”
“None taken. In fact, my Ph.D. happens to be in literature and—”
“Professor, you read fiction?”