The Case of the Defunct Adjunct, The Musubi Murder, The Cursed Canoe, and the short story Trust Fall are available on audio. Coming up next: The Black Thumb!
#MidweekMystery Coming this fall: The Influencer, a new Professor Molly mystery
The Influencer, the latest Professor Molly mystery, is coming this fall. To celebrate and add a bit of fun, I’m raffling off the chance to name a character. The contest only goes for one week, and it’s free to enter.
Trust Fall #SampleSunday
Trust Fall
It looks like it’s going to be another boring faculty retreat at Mahina State University, “Where Your Future Begins Tomorrow.”
But then the Trust Fall exercise goes horribly wrong. Is it murder, or just the worst meeting of the semester?
Excerpt
Kyle Stockhausen, assistant professor of digital humanities, strode up to the Trust Fall Chair. The Trust Fall Chair wasn’t one of the red, gold, or green conference room chairs (the new school colors, as decided by student referendum). Those chairs all had wheels, and anyway, I’m sure the administration didn’t want us stepping all over the seat cushions with our dirty shoes. No, the Trust Fall Chair was plain, straight-backed, and made of wood. It had probably been ordered online and shipped from the mainland, just for this event.
“Thank you for volunteering, Professor Stockhausen,” Jake nodded at him.
“Please. Call me Kaila.”
I heard Emma snort. Emma, who grew up just a few miles down the road from Mahina State University, had definite opinions about “white people who move here from Nebraska and give themselves Hawaiian names.”
“Mahalo nui loa, brother,” said Kyle/Kaila Stockhausen as Jake helped him up onto the wooden seat. He slowly stood, his spiky blonde hair almost brushing the ceiling.
“Come on, everyone move in closer.” Jake motioned us forward. “You’re all going to have to come together to catch him when he falls. Kyle, sorry, Kaila, turn around and put your arms out.”
He did, displaying the black courier lettering on the back of his pale yellow t-shirt: Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid. –Albert Einstein
“Einstein never said that,” Emma muttered.
“Now the rest of you, move in. Closer, you have to be right underneath so you can catch him.”
“I have to apologize for my colleagues,” Stockhausen said over his shoulder. “They don’t yet realize what a privilege this is. I appreciate the value of these high-touch team-building activities. In fact, I use many of these exercises in my own classes.”
This was the limit for Emma.
“Give it a rest, Stockholm-syndrome,” she shouted. “You teach all your classes online.”
Before anyone could react to Emma’s outburst, the exit door at the far end of the room flew open. Everyone turned toward the welcome distraction. A man wearing shorts and a t-shirt stood silhouetted in the doorway.
“Am I late?” the newcomer asked.
“Here’s our ag person,” Jake said. “Come in, come in. You’re just in time for the—”
Jake’s sentence was cut short by the scrape of wood on marble, and an ugly thud. We all pushed forward to get a look.
Kyle Stockhausen lay face up on the polished marble floor, blood spreading behind his head like a crimson halo.
Trust Fall is free on all e-book platforms.
NOW ON KU: The Fever Cabinet #SampleSunday
The Fever Cabinet
Through no fault of her own, Professor Molly just got promoted to department chair at Mahina State University ("Where Your Future Begins Tomorrow").
She has to mentor the department's new star, the prickly Fiona Spencer. The Student Retention Office has her buried in paperwork. Her college has just relocated to a former asylum, her budget is being slashed, and the air conditioning is broken. At least nothing else can go wrong.
Until Fiona finds a body in her office.
More info →I don’t usually look forward to budget meetings, but today I welcomed the break. I was drenched in sweat after spending most of the day in my un-air-conditioned top-floor office, and hours of grading freshman writing had made me cross-eyed. At a quarter till, I locked up my office and went down the four flights of stairs and across the utility road to the main hospital building.
Our meeting was scheduled in the dining room on the ground floor. It’s a gorgeous space, the same room where they held the donor banquet when the university first took over the old hospital complex. You’d think it was originally a grand ballroom, with its lofty stamped-tin ceilings and its tall French doors leading out to the terrace. In fact it had been a tuberculosis ward, before the discovery of antibiotics, when the state-of-the-art treatment was healthful quantities of sunlight and fresh air. With the French doors propped open to let in the trade winds, the temperature was actually tolerable.
Serena, the dean’s secretary, was the only other person there. She was setting up the room, so I jumped in to help, shoving tables out of the way and unfolding metal chairs.
“This is so much nicer than our old building,” I said.
“Hm,” Serena said. “If you ask me, the university should’ve asked a few more questions before they moved us in here. Sorry, that’s just my opinion.”
“Why?” I asked. “Is there something wrong with the new space?”
“No,” she said offhandedly. “Unless you mind your workplace being haunted.”
“You mean the ghost of Constance Brigham?” The Brigham family heiress was rumored to roam the old hospital complex, occasionally tossing people out of windows or off balconies.
“Nah, not that,” Serena said. “The thing about Constance Brigham was made up in the seventies to scare tourists. I’m talking about the baby’s cry.”
“The what?” I asked.
“If you’re on the hospital property and you hear the baby’s cry, it means something’s gonna happen to you. You only hear it if you did something bad, though. You should look it up.”
Two of the marketing professors came in, and Serena put them to work unfolding metal chairs.
By the time the meeting started, everyone in the management department was present—except Fiona Spencer. It’s not like she’d get lost in the crowd. We only had a couple dozen faculty in the College of Commerce, and only a few women. I started to get concerned.
Worried for Fiona, of course; while she seemed to have gone off on the motorcycle willingly, it was no guarantee she was safe. But I was also concerned for myself, which I realize sounds a little selfish. I was afraid Dan Watanabe, my dean, would blame me for Fiona’s absence. Not only was I Fiona’s department chair, I was her assigned mentor, and the first in my college to participate in the new campus wide Encompassing Mentoring Initiative. Which meant I was singlehandedly responsible for cultivating Fiona’s Sense of Community and Belonging at Mahina State University. And also in a position to embarrass the whole College of Commerce if I failed.
It’s not false humility to say when Dan chose me as Fiona’s mentor, he couldn’t have picked a worse candidate. I have such a low tolerance for unstructured social interaction that on Sundays I time my arrival at Mass to avoid the Passing of the Peace.
But Dan didn’t have many alternatives. I’m the only woman in the management department, and I’m also apparently the only one Dan can trust to take on extra work and do it properly. So I’m the one who gets to check in daily with Fiona to make sure she is feeling Fully Integrated into the Life of the College.
Fortunately for me, Dan Watanabe seemed to have more important things to do today than hassle me about the Encompassing Mentoring Initiative. Dan always looked kind of gray, with his graying hair, silver-framed glasses, and gray-and-beige reverse-print aloha shirts. But today he looked like his own ghost.
“Thank you for coming, everyone.” Dan’s weary voice rang and echoed in the great room. “You may have heard the rumors about an unexpectedly large budget cut coming down. Well, the rumors are true.”
He looked around to make sure he had everyone’s attention. He did.
“It seems,” he went on, “the construction on this building has cost more than anticipated.”
Outraged grumbling arose from the assembled faculty.
“This was entirely predictable, Dan.” Hanson Harrison stood to speak. Hanson, one of the management department’s senior members, was from old New England money. He looked the part: Tall, with patrician posture and silver hair. “You may recall before the county ‘gifted’ the old Mahina Memorial Hospital site to the university, the Mahina State faculty senate budget committee passed a resolution asking for a detailed estimate of the costs required to bring the buildings up to code. It was sent up to the chancellor’s office, where, like all resolutions from the Faculty Senate, it sank without a trace.”
“This is exactly why the county dumped it on us,” Larry Schneider added. Larry was the other senior member of the management department. Unlike Hanson, he was slight and tenacious, and hailed from an unfashionable borough. If someone ever decided to make a movie about the College of Commerce starring dogs, Hanson Harrison would be a Weimaraner, and Larry Schneider would be a terrier mix. “They didn’t want to pay for the remodeling. This place is still unfit for use, and all we’re doing is lining the pockets of Konishi Construction, not to mention—”
“Thank you for your comments, Larry,” Dan interrupted. “And Hanson. I understand the procurement process isn’t always as transparent as we’d like. That’s exactly what I’m here to talk about.”
I sensed my colleagues settling down a bit. Despite being a dean, Dan Watanabe had for the most part managed to retain his integrity. We didn’t always like his decisions, but we could count on him to be honest with us.
“Now, I’m going off the record here. It seems parts of these old buildings are valuable to collectors and restorers. Doorknobs, pieces of molding, even some of the old medical equipment. Konishi Construction’s just throwing it out as they go, and…nobody write this down, please.”
Serena, Dan’s secretary, set down her pen. As did Iker Legazpi, from the accounting department, who always diligently took notes for his own edification.
“I’m not saying I officially approve of this,” Dan continued, “in fact, I don’t. But if we all work together, we can figure out a way to at least buy enough copy paper and toner cartridges to get us through the end of the fiscal year. Not through the university budget system, of course. But the Finance Club has agreed to help us out, in exchange for a small percentage.”
“Are you saying we have to sell off pieces of our building simply in order to do our jobs?” Hanson demanded.
“Meanwhile our crappy football team spends two million dollars a year traveling to the mainland to get their butts kicked,” Larry grumbled.
“What’s the alternative?” Dan asked them. “Just keep an eye out for anything that looks unusual or collectible and bring it in to the dean’s office. If it’s too big to move, let Serena know.”
I guiltily recalled the silver absinthe spoon I’d found in the unmarked space adjoining my office. The hidden room wasn’t on any of our building plans. Neither Facilities nor Konishi Construction seemed to know about it.
I might turn in the spoon. But I wasn’t going to breathe a word to anyone about my secret room. The extra space would only be confiscated and used for storage, or given to some favored administrator. They certainly wouldn’t allow me to stay there.
“We need to get the word out to all our faculty and staff,” Dan went on. “Is anyone missing?”
Serena, Dan’s secretary, said
“Fiona Spencer. Management department.”
Fiona was the only one who didn’t show up? Even Rodge Cowper was here? Yes, there he was, by the window. Playing some game on his phone by the looks of it, but physically present.
“Molly?” Dan asked me. “Where is Fiona? Did you tell her about the meeting?”
“Yes, I did.” I tried my best not to sound defensive. “I emailed the department, of course, and I phoned Fiona earlier today to remind her. She said she’d be here, but it seems something came up. I can let her know what we discussed.”
I felt the resentful stares of my colleagues. Thanks to the latest round of budget cuts, the College of Commerce only got one new hire this year. The management department—my department—had landed the coveted faculty line.
And now, almost as soon as we hired Fiona Spencer, we’d gone and misplaced her.
“This is why we can’t have nice things,” one of the marketing professors quipped.
“That’s not necessary,” Dan admonished him. “Molly, I understand. You can’t force Fiona to attend. Just make sure she comes to the next meeting.”
“I’ll do my best.”
I braced for what was coming next:
“Remember,” Dan said, “it’s our responsibility to ensure our junior faculty are fully integrated into the life of the college.”
By this time I could say it along with him, although I didn’t, of course.
The Perfect Body #SampleSunday
The Perfect Body
Excerpt
It was only after we were all seated that I noticed Stephen looked different. His black dress shirt was snug over his shoulders, and his neck was thicker (either that or he’d shortened his bolo tie). He looked like he’d been lifting weights, something I’d never known him to do before.
Aside from the new muscles, he was the same old Stephen Park. His jet-black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, as always. Defying the usual order of things, his hairline had advanced, rather than receded. Stephen’s parents owned Park Beverly Hills Aesthetic Center. Each time he flew to Southern California to visit them, he came back looking a little younger.
But I noticed glints of silver at Stephen’s roots. The eternally-youthful Stephen Park was finally going gray.
It had been a long time, I realized. Years. Maybe it was time to let old resentments go.
“We’re very lucky tonight, Bee,” Stephen started in as he reached for the bread basket. “We get to sit with the world’s happiest couple. Isn’t it marvelous?”
Apparently not everyone was letting things go. Stephen liked to poke fun at my “bourgeois conformity.” I had moved on and gotten married, he hadn’t, and this was his way of getting back at me. Well, I wasn’t going to take the bait. The only thing to do was to maintain a dignified silence.
“Wow, Stephen,” I said, “it looks like you lost all of that weight you gained after rehab. Between that and the gray hair, I almost didn’t recognize you.”
The Perfect Body is available online or in your local bookstore
The Nakamura Letters #SampleSunday
The Nakamura Letters
Fortunately (?), Emma’s best friend Molly has news shocking enough to take Emma’s mind off the hauntings. Now Emma and Molly have to rely on their strong reasoning skills and a weak internet connection to figure out how a body ended up in Molly’s backyard.
Excerpt
Emma Kano’opomaika’i Nakamura <[email protected]>
to: Molly
By the way, not like you asked for my advice, but unless you’re going for sainthood (that’s a thing Catholics do, right?) I don’t think you should have to keep teaching your classes while you’re on maternity leave. If your department doesn’t have the money to run the classes your students need, that’s the administration’s problem, not yours. If you keep doing unpaid work for them, they’ll just keep expecting it.
Of course I’m one to talk, look where I am. For sure no one’s paying me extra to spend my sabbatical up here on the set of Friday the 13th:The Wilderness Years.
I was wondering whether I should tell you this or not so here goes: Last night when it was raining I thought I heard someone crying outside.
I’m sure it was a feral cat or something, but it kind of freaked me out. Just goes to show how your mind can go all weird on you when you’re isolated.
OK, time for me to go to bed in complete darkness, and try not to think about all the people who died in this house. I’ll write again as soon as I can cause I don’t want you to go crazy bored at home and end up sticking your head in the oven. I don’t need you haunting me on top of everything else I have to deal with.
Emma Nakamura, PhD
Professor of Biology
Mahina State University
mahina.edu
—————–
A ship in port is safe, but that’s not what ships are built for.
Grace Hopper (1906-1992)
The Nakamura Letters is available on these platforms
Mother's Day #SampleSunday
Mother’s Day
Excerpt
I could never remember Victor Santiago’s actual job title. As far as I could tell, his duties involved cozying up to potential donors and scolding faculty members whose unruly behavior threatened to tarnish our Institutional Image.
“Professor Barda.” Victor half-rose as I entered his office and shook my hand, in precisely the way you’d greet someone you could barely stand. “Please. Have a seat.”
I sat down as directed and stared at the plaque on Victor’s desk, trying (once again) to memorize it:
Victor Santiago, (M.Ed., MBA) Vice-President for Student Outreach and Community Relations.
Alas, I’d forget it (again) as soon as I walked out the door.
“We’re rolling out an exciting new program,” Victor said, without any excitement whatsoever. Victor did not waste his charm on faculty members. “We call it the Young Leaders Program. It’s a targeted, high-touch, boutique program for our valued student stakeholders.”
“Sounds great.”
“We’re piloting the program this semester with a student named Jeremy Brigham. You’re familiar with the Brigham family, I assume.”
I shook my head.
“Jeremy’s late father was Alexander Brigham, a direct descendant of Hiram Brigham.”
“Hiram Brigham, of course.” I vaguely recalled something about a planter son of a missionary who had married a Hawaiian princess. The confluence of money, land holdings, and political connections had catapulted the Brigham family into Hawaii’s elite.
“Jeremy Brigham has had to withdraw from his classes due to illness.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Fortunately, under our new Young Leaders Program, Mr. Brigham will receive daily tutoring sessions to keep him on track for graduation.”
“That sounds like a great idea,” I said. “Very compassionate.”
What does all this have to do with me? I wondered. If Jeremy Brigham were a management major, I’d know his name by now.
“Is Jeremy Brigham a management major?” I asked.
“No. Psychology. But they can’t spare anyone, so we’re inviting you to serve as Mr. Brigham’s tutierge.”
“Me? Excuse me, his what?”
“Tutierge. Tutor-Concierge.”
“I see. Well, that’s immensely flattering. But I’m the chair of the management department. Why would you choose me for such an important job?”
I wondered how Victor would manage to answer this question without saying anything positive about me. He did not disappoint.
“Your elective didn’t fill. Your participation in our pilot of the Young Leaders Program gives you a way to discharge your teaching obligations. Without having to pay part of your salary back.”
“Pay my…what? I thought I just had to do more research or something if my class didn’t make. I have to pay my salary back if my class is canceled?”
“Your union agreed to the terms, Professor Barda. To those of us without tenure or summers off, it seems more than fair.”
I didn’t bother to reply that my summers were unpaid, which was very different from having summers off. Especially when I always got stuck doing work over the summer anyway. And tenure was great, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t get fired. It only meant the administration had to put in a little more paperwork to do it.
“No, that sounds great,” I said. “I’d be thrilled. What am I teaching him?”
“Statistics.”
“Stats? I’ve never even taken a stats class, let alone taught one.”
“It won’t be a problem for you. It’s the intro class. I’ll have my assistant send over your schedule and textbook. You and I will make the initial visit together. And remember, Professor Barda.”
Victor fixed me with his unsmiling gaze.
“Your students don’t care how much you know, until they know how much you care. We’ll start on Monday. Meet me here at my office at seven-thirty.”
“In the morning?”
“Yes. In the morning.”
Mother’s Day is available on these platforms
The Invasive Species #SampleSunday
The Invasive Species
Excerpt
I drove the short distance back to my house and went inside. Branches protruded into the house through the window. The floor underneath was covered with water, leaves, and broken glass. I swept up as much of the mess as I could, then pulled some clean towels from the linen closet and wiped the floor until it was merely damp. That was as good as it would get. In Mahina’s humid climate, nothing ever gets completely dry.
I checked my computer for new email messages. The only one that required an immediate reply was from the Student Retention Office. Linda (they all seem to be named Linda) was asking me to make the required readings in my Intro course optional. I could just imagine how her bright idea would go over with those students who actually had bought the textbook and done the assigned work when class started two months earlier.
Linda had also attached a list of students who “needed” to be excused from the upcoming writing assignment. These exemptions, she explained, were based on results from the new Foundation-funded software connected to our Learning Management System and designed to track student progress in real time.
We hadn’t yet achieved the administrators’ dream of replacing the faculty with software, but we were getting closer.
I wrote back, politely telling Linda the suggested changes were not possible at this time, what with the semester already half over, and thanking her for keeping me “in the loop.” The university’s legal department (blessings upon every one of them) had ruled that because of academic freedom, the Student Retention Office couldn’t require us to dumb down our classes, although they were free to ask us to do so. This verdict had been greeted with wailing and gnashing of teeth on the part of the administration, and much rejoicing by the faculty.
I made sure my reply was sent, packed up my computer, and retrieved my overnight bag from the wrecked carport. I went to my bedroom and collected a week’s worth of outfits, a few items of jewelry, my makeup bag, my special comb for curly hair, and my Alice Mongoose sleep shirt. I took one last look around before I left, to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything. It was both liberating and discouraging to realize how little I had worth stealing.
The Invasive Species is available on these platforms
The Black Thumb #SampleSunday
The Black Thumb
Excerpt
At first, I had been glad to hear from Melanie Polewski. I hadn’t seen her since we had both graduated with our doctorates from one of the top ten literature and creative writing programs in the country. I don’t mean to brag. I’m putting it here as a warning to anyone thinking about getting a degree in literature and creative writing. My dissertation advisor had been devastated when I told him I had accepted a position in the Mahina State College of Commerce. I had pointed out the last full-time English department job I’d applied for had over a thousand applicants, and after a year of fruitless job-hunting, I needed to start earning a living wage. I was lucky to get this job, even if it was just “teaching a room full of slack-jawed baseball caps how to pad their resumes,” as my advisor put it.
Melanie had been less fortunate than I. She had floated around after graduation doing freelance editing and, rumor had it, working for one of those villainous websites with a name like wedoyourhomework-dot-com. Using me as a reference, Melanie had managed to land a one-year visiting professorship in the Mahina State English department, and was staying with me until she could find a place of her own.
“You were right,” she whispered. “This is a nice house. Hey, I could buy it, and rent it to you. And then I could stay over whenever.”
She nudged me as she stood up. “Maybe I could take care of Donnie when you’re too tired. Oh, come on, I’m just kidding. Now where did you say the bathroom was?”
I watched her stride back to the house on long, tanned legs, her tawny hair shimmering in the hot sun. This was going to be a long year, I thought.
I had little to contribute to the Garden Society’s discussion of rose-arranging, so I sat and listened, enjoying the lovely garden. We were invisible from the main road, tucked away amidst fragrant roses and well-tended palms and ground cover sprouting vivid green patches on the black lava rock.
There was no scream of anguish. The impact of soft flesh landing on the hard lava made no sound, at least nothing loud enough to be heard over the roar of the river below us. It took the assembled members of the Pua Kala Garden Society a few long seconds to register a young woman lying face-down on the lava in front of us. We sat frozen in place, staring at the earthly remains of Melanie Polewski.
The Black Thumb is available on these platforms
The Cursed Canoe #SampleSunday
The Cursed Canoe
Excerpt
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Emma do a double-take at the wine shop.
“Actually,” Emma waved her hand to get my attention, “don’t call back. Let him wait. You don’t want to look too eager. You know he’s there and you have his room number, right? I have a plan.”
“A plan? Why does there have to be a plan? What are you talking about?”
“You don’t want to grow old alone, do you? Here’s what you do. You know what kind of wine Donnie likes?”
“I think so.”
“Go in there and pick something out you know he loves. We’ll get checked in, you go shower and clean up, and bring the bottle of wine to his room. Let nature take its course.”
Emma took my arm and moved me toward the door of the wine shop.
“I don’t know, Emma—”
“It’ll be perfect. It’s exactly like the story of Ruth and Boaz.”
“I don’t think Ruth stopped by Boaz’s hotel room with a bottle of Vino Nobile di Montepulciano.”
“No, but she waited until he was asleep, and climbed under the covers with him.”
“What?” I protested. “No, she didn’t! I mean, not the way you’re making it sound.”
“Oh yes she did, Molly. She let him know she was interested. She didn’t leave any doubt. She got cleaned up, put on some nice perfume, and snuck into where Boaz was sleeping. And her mother in law was the one who put her up to it.”
A woman inside the wine shop stepped out from behind the counter and beckoned us inside. We smiled at her and entered the narrow space. It was stacked floor to ceiling with bottles.
“What do you know about Ruth and Boaz?” I whispered to Emma. “You’re Buddhist!”
I scanned the shelves for something reasonably priced that I could buy for myself. They didn’t offer much in my preferred price range, and certainly nothing that came in a box.
“So?” she whispered back. “Aren’t you the one who said an educated person should know about the world’s different belief systems?”
“When did I say that?”
“At our last General Education Committee meeting.”
“Oh. Maybe you’re right. I guess it sounds like something I might say.”
“You did say it. In fact, Molly, what do you know about Buddhism?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re an educated person. Tell me something you know about Buddhism.”
“Buddhism? Uh, well, there’s Nirvana, and you have a…”
I knew there was some kind of wheel. Wheel of fortune? That couldn’t be right.
“Oh, this is childish, Emma. It’s not a competition. Come on, help me pick out the wine.”
The Cursed Canoe is available on these platforms
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