by Frankie Bow
I took the phone into the steamy kitchen. My parents stayed in the living room, examining the label of the Albanian wine Donnie had somehow managed to procure for the occasion.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
I HOPED MY PARENTS wouldn’t ask me any more questions on the drive home. Recounting the details of my temporary entombment had been surprisingly stressful.
“Well,” my father said from the back seat. “Donnie seems like a real nice guy.”
I felt like a chauffeur, with both my parents sitting in the back. My mother refused to sit in the front passenger seat, which she called the “death seat,” and she wouldn’t let my father sit there either.
“I don’t care for that son of his,” my mother said. “He seems creepy to me.”
“He sure can put away the wine,” my father agreed. “You should keep an eye on him, Molly. You don’t want your stepson turning into an alcoholic.”
“He’s going to start military academy in the fall. Donnie thinks he needs a more structured environment. And I agree.”
“Are you and Donnie planning to have children?” my mother asked. “I hope so. I think you and Donnie can do better than that Donaldson character.”
“His name’s Davison. I think Donnie and I might try for our own. One or two, no more than two.”
“Make sure to go for genetic counseling first,” my mother said. “Have them do the DNA analysis. Not the old-fashioned thing where someone sits down with you and tries to recreate your family tree.”
“That’s right,” my father added. “The whole story’s in the DNA. It’s much more reliable than trying to extrapolate from family history. It’s perfect for you, Molly, because we don’t have your birth parents’ medical records anyway.”
“Check your benefits to see if your insurance covers it. If not, we can help you pay for it.”
“I should get Emma to do it for me for free. Oh. Speaking of Emma. And DNA. I wanted to ask you guys something.”
I was sure Emma had made a mistake when she analyzed the hair sample Donnie had given her. On the other hand, Emma never made mistakes. Not according to her, anyway.
“What is it, sweet pea?” my father asked.
“I know I’ve asked you this before, but is there any possibility at all I had an identical twin?”
“The agency never told us anything about it,” my father said. “I don’t think they’re allowed to.”
“I suppose anything is possible,” my mother added. “But why does it matter? What matters is you’re our daughter.”
“You’ll always be our baby.”
“With identical twins, though, their DNA is identical too, right?”
“That’s right. I tell my students identical twins are nature’s clones.”
“Oh my goodness, twins run in families, don’t they?”
“Fraternal twins do,” my mother said. “The tendency to hyperovulate appears to be genetic. It’s not the case for identical twins. These are the kinds of things you’ll want to ask the genetic counselor. Make sure you set up an appointment before you start having unprotected sex. You’re not having unprotected sex already, are you?”
“Mom!”
“Did you ever hear about the Twin Jims?” my father said. “Amazing story. They were twins separated at birth and adopted by different families. They grew up not knowing about each other. They’d both been married twice. The first wives were both named Linda, and the second wives were both named Betty.”
“No way.”
“It’s true,” my mother said. “I remember learning about the Twin Jims in medical school. They did have quite a few odd similarities. They’d both had heart attacks and migraines, and they were both chain smokers.”
“But Sherry and I aren’t alike at all,” I protested. “I’ve never even smoked.”
“Who?” my mother said.
“Sherry Di Napoli. Donnie’s ex-wife.”
“Donnie is a divorced man?”
“She already told us, Sara. That’s why he has the son.”
“Davison’s hanai too,” I said. “Adopted. He was actually Donnie’s sister’s baby.”
“Donnie has a sister?”
“She lives in the Bay Area now. I’ve never met her. Anyway, here we are. Let’s go in and get you settled.”
I got out of the car and unlocked my front door.
“I’ll come back up tomorrow to get you for breakfast,” I said.
“Where are you going?” my father asked.
“I was going to go back down and spend the night with my new husband.”
“With that awful son there?”
“Well, Mom, I guess I could bring Donnie back up here to stay the night. It’s kind of small for four people, though. Just one bathroom, remember.”
“No, you go ahead,” my mother said.
“See you tomorrow,” my father added.
“I can tell he makes you happy.” My mother surprised me with a big hug.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
I’VE GIVEN UP HOUSE hunting for now. A couple of thirty-something Silicon Valley retirees bought the Brewster House with cash, and my former real estate agent has fled the country.
Leilani Zelenko’s disappearance may have helped to get the murder charges against me dropped. Also helpful: Donnie’s contribution (the maximum allowable amount) to the re-election campaign of Prosecuting Attorney Jay Shiroma.
Davison seems to be fitting in well at his new school. At first, I didn’t even recognize the clean-cut kid in the picture Donnie showed me.
“Where did he get the scar on the side of his face?” I asked. “Did he get burned?”
“That’s where the cobra tattoo used to be. I sent him to Dr. Hashizaki to have it lasered off. You were away at your conference, so you didn’t have a chance to see him before he left.”
“Did she do the neck and hands too?”
“Face, neck, hands, everything. Why?”
“Face, neck, and hand tattoos are the ones our career center calls the Unemployables. Did you say everything? You made him get all his ink lasered off?”
“Davison needed a fresh start. Cost me a fortune, though. He had a few I didn’t even know about.”
“Ouch.”
“Did you know he had a—”
“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Faced with the evidence of Scott Nixon’s plagiarism, the administration decided not to renew his contract. Scott moved back to the mainland to look for another job, and this time, Nicole did not follow him. I hear she’s on the short list of candidates for that full-time position in the English department.
As a going-away present, Pat gave Scott Nixon a copy of his new book, Professor Plausible’s Career Advice for the New Depression. Pat and his publisher had finally agreed on a title. It’s a handsome volume, with a WPA-style illustration on the front cover showing a line of glum-looking workers filing into a factory.
Scott Nixon’s departure has created another opening in the English department, but I’ve decided not to apply. There’s nothing wrong with working in the College of Commerce and trying to be a good role model for our students. Being too image-conscious is a trap, I’ve decided.
Sherry Di Napoli is probably not my long-lost identical twin after all. Emma had had her graduate assistant run the test, and he admitted he might have accidentally used the same sample twice, as both reference and comparison. It was a huge relief; I already feel a little bit like Sherry’s clone as it is. Donnie’s accidentally called me “Sherry” twice now. Both times he apologized immediately, but still.
Donnie and I are still fine-tuning our living arrangements. Donnie’s house is more spacious than mine, and he has a magnificent master bedroom, but we end up spending most nights at my house. It’s just a few blocks away from Donnie’s Drive-Inn, which saves Donnie almost an hour of commuting each day.
One morning I woke up to find Donnie already in my kitchen, making coffee. He turned to me and then his face fel
l. He rushed over.
“Molly. You look terrible.” He pressed his wrist to my forehead, and then guided me over to the couch.
“You’ve been working so hard preparing your fall classes.” He tenderly brushed my hair back from my face. “Lie down and rest. I’ll call the doctor.”
“Donnie, I’m fine. Don’t call the doctor.”
I got up, went into the bathroom, and locked the door behind me.
“Are you going to be okay?” Donnie called through the door.
“Never better.” I opened my makeup drawer. “Just give me a few minutes.”
It was the first time Donnie had seen me in full daylight with no makeup on. I decided it would also be the last.
I might still be just a little image-conscious.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LIKE PROFESSOR MOLLY, Frankie Bow teaches at a public university. Unlike her protagonist, she is blessed with delightful students, sane colleagues, and a perfectly nice office chair. She believes if life isn't fair, at least it can be entertaining. In addition to writing murder mysteries, she publishes in scholarly journals under her real name. Her experience with academic publishing has taught her to take nothing personally.
Thank you for taking the time to read this book. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated.
Mahalo, Frankie
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Also by Frankie Bow
Miss Fortune World: Hair Extensions and Homicide
Once Upon a Murder
Tabasco Fiasco
Schooled
Miss Fortune World: Supernatural Sinful
Sinful Science
Miss Fortune World: The Mary-Alice Files
Mary-Alice Moves In
Bayou Busybody
The Vanishing Victim
Aloha, Y'all
The Two-Body Problem
Black Widow Valley
The No-Tell Motel
Vampire Billionaire of the Bayou
The Pajama Murder
The Lost Weekend
Professor Molly Mysteries
Trust Fall
The Musubi Murder
The Cursed Canoe
The Black Thumb
The Invasive Species
Mother's Day
The Nakamura Letters
The Perfect Body
The Case of the Defunct Adjunct
About the Publisher
Hawaiian Heritage Press publishes Hawaii's finest classic and modern literature.