The Case of the Defunct Adjunct: Professor Molly Mysteries

By Frankie Bow

"Follow your dreams, and you'll never work a day in your life. Because that field's not hiring."

When a serial harasser collapses face-first into his haupia cheesecake, the Student Retention Office's summer retreat goes from dull to disastrous. Now Professor Molly has to fight to keep her best friend Emma out of the worst kind of trouble — and herself off the unemployment line.

The Case of the Defunct Adjunct is an instructive and edifying tale of passion, pilferage, and petty politics in the middle of the Pacific.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hawaiian Heritage Press
• Release date: Nov 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781943476008

Frankie Bow

Frankie Bow teaches at a public university and writes two mystery series: The Professor Molly Mysteries, and licensed works in the Miss Fortune World. Unlike Professor Molly, Frankie is blessed with delightful students, sane colleagues, and a perfectly nice office chair. She thinks if life can’t be fair, at least it can be entertaining. From the author: Thank you for taking the time to read this book. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends and posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated. Sign up for Island Confidential, Frankie's mystery newsletter, at subscribepage.com/ProfessorMolly

Book preview

Chapter One

IT WAS ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL Mahina morning. A pale mist veiled the lawn; dewdrops glittered on the hibiscus hedges along the walkway; the tall palms by the library building swayed and bounced in the wind. I barely noticed any of it. I had one minute to make it to the old Health building, way out on the edge of campus. I felt so harried and damp that I was tempted to skip class and go home. Unfortunately, as the professor, I didn’t really have the option.

A fat raindrop hit me in the eye as I reached the shelter of the language building. A cluster of students chanted their Mele Kāhea, the sung request for permission to enter the classroom. As I hurried by, the kumu opened the door to let the students file in one by one. Class was starting. I abandoned my dignity and broke into a sprint.

My business communication students had dispersed themselves around the room like gas molecules, expanding to fill their allotted container. The only two who sat near each other were the twins. In the back row, as far as possible from everyone else, was Bret Lampson. As usual, Bret stared through me, focusing on something far beyond the walls of the classroom. From the first day of class, Bret had tripped my internal danger alarm. The Student Retention Office had been unmoved by my concerns, reminding me that it was my job to honor each student’s unique learning style.

Apologies for being late. I placed my stack of papers on the desk and smoothed my skirt, trying not to let on how winded my hundred-yard dash had left me. The air tasted sour and musty. I hoped I wasn’t breathing in asbestos particles and black mold.

No worries, professor. The round young man in the front row pushed up the brim of his red baseball cap. We all human. Anyway, we can’t leave until you’re more than fifteen minutes late.

Well, I certainly hope I never keep you waiting for fifteen minutes. I couldn’t imagine getting to the point where I was as cavalier about deadlines and due dates as some of my senior colleagues. I felt bad enough about having ruined my perfect on-time record, even if it was only by ninety seconds.

Professor Harrison’s always late, the girl twin volunteered. Last semester he kept forgetting we had class. Someone hadda go get ’im from his office. Her brother nodded agreement. They looked like characters from a Japanese comic book, with pale skin, big dark eyes, and spiky black hair.

Well, I said quickly. Let’s get started.

As instructive as it might have been to listen to my students dish my fellow faculty members, I had to nip this conversation in the bud. My class would happily spend the entire period complaining to me about their other professors. Just as they complained—I was certain of it—about me when I wasn’t around.

Everyone brought in their first-draft elevator pitch? We’re going to—yes? Is there a question?

Today your birthday, Miss?

I’m sorry?

You could take the day off, the boy twin said. No need work on your birthday.

Actually, my birthday is tomorrow, not today. Right now there’s nowhere I’d rather be than here in class, with all of you. Okay, let’s see what you have. I started collecting papers, heartened that everyone seemed to have something to hand in. I glanced at the boy twin’s paper as he handed it to me. Elevator pitch, I whispered to him.

His sister shoved him triumphantly.

Told you, babooz. No such thing as a escalator pitch.

The young man in the red baseball cap twisted around in his chair.

Eh Professor, you going out wit’ Professor Park for your birthday?

Oh yah, Miss, a young woman exclaimed. You gotta get ’im to take you to Gavin’s down on Mamo Street.

Tomorrow is Tuesday, someone else chimed in. That’s when they get all you can eat prime rib night. Like Vegas.

I’ll take it under advisement. Thank you. Now, does everyone remember why it’s called an elevator pitch?

The classroom fell silent.

Anyone? No? Okay, we did talk about this last time, but just as a reminder. I kept talking as I moved from desk to desk collecting papers. It’s called an elevator pitch because in a tall office building, you may run into someone important on the elevator. You have their attention for about thirty seconds. Only thirty seconds to convince that person to hire you, or invest in your business, or even—

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the girl twin shoving her brother again. He pushed her back, and I shot them a look before they escalated to a full-on slap fight.

I had one more paper to collect. Bret Lampson stared through me as I approached the back row.

Bret. I spoke as gently as if I were waking him from surgery. Do you have your assignment?

He blinked, focused, and shook his head no.

Couldn’t put it on paper.

Well, if it’s a matter of computer access, some students prefer to handwrite—

’Cause of those people who want my ideas. I already told you.

I lowered my voice to a whisper, aware that the rest of the class was watching us. Remember what we talked about before? If you want to keep your best idea to yourself, then just give me your second-best idea.

It’s not that easy. I have to, I have to...

Now he was staring right at me. I stepped back.

Bret. My hand was shielding my neck. Do you have anything for me?

Uh-huh. Keeping his eyes fixed on mine, he reached down into his backpack and pulled his hand out. He held something that gleamed dully under the fluorescent light. It took me a few seconds to figure out what it was—a leiomano, a vicious-looking polished wooden club studded with sharks’ teeth. Behind me, students were rising out of their seats and crowding through the single door in the front of the classroom.

Chapter Two

MY HANDS FLEW INTO a defensive posture and I stepped back, half-aware of the students stampeding out behind me. Bret remained in his seat, gazing serenely at the weapon, running his fingers dreamily over the jagged teeth. I stumbled backwards until I reached the classroom door. Then I grasped the jamb, swung out, and broke into a run. I reached the emergency call station on the other side of the building and pressed the big silver button. Silence. I looked back over my shoulder. No one was chasing me. I mashed the button again. This time I heard a dead click. The emergency call station was out of order. I reached into my laptop bag for my phone, only to remember that I had left it back in my office, charging.

I ran down the concrete walkway, past the language building, all the way to the College of Commerce building. I passed the out-of-order elevator, sprinted up the stairs and down the hall, fumbled for my keys, unlocked the door to my office, pulled it shut behind me, and stood, hands braced on my desk, wheezing.

The air conditioning in my building was out again. Sucking in the warm, heavy air was like trying to quench my thirst with a milkshake. When I had recovered enough breath to speak, I called security. No one was answering the phone, so I gave up and called Emma.

Emma Nakamura from the Biology Department was my best friend at Mahina State University. She would know what to do.

Unfortunately, Emma wasn’t picking up her phone either. I didn’t leave a message on her voice mail because I know she never checks it.

I pulled a pocket mirror out of my bag, dabbed the mascara smears from under my eyes, and smoothed down the curly hair-tentacles that had sprung free from my ponytail. Then I went down the hallway to talk to my department chair.

I knocked on the door frame of Dan Watanabe’s office, and he motioned me in. Dan already looked weary, and I didn’t like adding to his burdens. He had to know, though.

I parked myself in his visitor chair and told him what had happened in class.

That young man needs to be referred to counseling, I concluded. And he needs to be removed from my course immediately. For everyone’s safety.

I’m sorry, Molly. I wish I could do something, but I don’t have the authority to remove a student from class. For something like that, you’ll have to talk to the dean.

Please, Dan, there has to be some other way.

Dan reached for the gigantic jar of antacid tablets he keeps on his desk and shook out a handful. I thought he was going to offer me one, but instead he stuffed them all into his mouth.

Look. He took a few seconds to chew and swallow. You should give Bill a chance. He’ll do the right thing.

No he won’t. He’ll just tell me to try to work it out with the student.

Dan shrugged. I don’t know what to tell you, Molly. He’s the boss. You’ll have to take it up with him.

I thanked Dan and trudged down the hall to the dean’s office. Serena, the dean’s secretary, looked up quickly when I came in.

Aw, you okay, Molly? Heard about what happened in your class. Terrible that thing. At least one person seemed sympathetic.

Serena, it’s so frustrating. I propped my forearms on the wood-grain Formica counter, enjoying the momentary coolness. Dan says I need Bill Vogel’s permission to remove a disturbed student from my class.

Well, don’t get your hopes up. Serena swiveled her chair around to face her computer. You know the dean doesn’t like to turn away paying customers.

I know. It seems like no one’s going to do anything until there’s a classroom massacre or something.

Probably not even then. Didn’t do anything after the last one. Serena tapped on the keyboard. Okay Molly, I got you one appointment with the dean for four o’clock, right after the retreat. It’s starting soon, you know. You’ better get going.

Oh, I wasn’t planning to go to the retreat. I have all those textbook evaluations to do—

It’s not optional. Serena swiveled her chair back to face me.

How can it not be optional? It’s summer. My paycheck stopped on May fifteenth.

You’re here teaching summer school, Serena said. And you’re working on that other thing too.

Yeah. Remind me never to volunteer to do that again.

Sorry, Molly. Student Retention Office told us it’s mandatory. Not so bad, you know. You get coffee and free food, and the banquet room has a nice ocean view.

Where was it again?

Lehua Inn ballroom. You’ better get going. You don’t want to miss it when they hand out the campus teaching award.

No, wouldn’t want to miss that.

And you know who’s a finalist this year?

Is this going to make me feel better, or worse?

Serena grinned mischievously. 

Chapter Three

LINDA WILSON, ACTING Associate Dean of Mahina State University’s Student Retention Office, presided over the registration table. She wore her blonde hair pinned back by a pink silk hibiscus, which echoed the florid print of her muumuu.

Emma Nakamura nudged me. Eh Molly, look. It’s the Queen Bee—

Shh. Not so loud.

Linda from the Student Retention Office was Emma’s nemesis. One of them, anyway.

What? She can’t hear us. We’re all the way in the back of the line.

A nervous young man, whose crisply-pressed aloha shirt was too big around the neck, assisted Linda. As each attendee signed in and filled out a name tag, the young man handed over a folder and delivered what looked like a practiced speech.

Aw, this line is gonna take forever. Let’s just go to the bar. Look, it’s right over there.

I wish. I bet the Lehua Lounge is nice and cool inside. I shook the hem of my shirt to get some airflow around my skin. What I want to know is, how does Linda wear those long-sleeved muumuus every day without passing out?

She’s cold-blooded, that’s why. Like a snake.

I see she has another new assistant. She doesn’t seem to keep them very long.

That’s ’cause every full moon, she mates with them, then devours them headfirst.

Stop it. Do you think I should tell her about what happened this morning with Bret Lampson? You know, I already tried to tell them that I was concerned about him.

Wouldn’t do any good. She’ll just come up with some reason why it’s your fault.

Yeah, you’re right. Hey, guess who’s a finalist for the teaching award.

You?

Seriously, Emma? You think the Student Retention Office would nominate me?

Okay, who then?

Your brother’s office mate.

My brother’s former office mate, you mean. Jonah’s classes got cancelled, remember.

Oh, that’s right. Sorry.

No way. Emma socked my shoulder to demonstrate her incredulity. Kent got nominated? Fo’real? Who told you?

The dean’s secretary.

Kent Lovely? That stringy little schmuck—

Shh. Not so loud. Hang on, I’m going to grab something to read.

We were inching past a polished koa stand stacked with tourist brochures and free newspapers. I stepped out of line and grabbed a copy of Island Confidential.

Ugh. Kent? He’s even worse than his buddy Rodge. Seriously, the teaching award?

Kent is not worse than Rodge. Rodge is the reason we have to keep our doors open when we have a student in our office. That’s why it’s called the Rodge Cowper Rule—wait, did you just call Kent a schmuck?

Oh, maybe you forgot that I earned my Ph.D. at Cornell.

You would never let anyone forget you went to Cornell, Emma.

It’s in New York.

They say schmuck in Ithaca? Seriously?

We had reached the front of the line. I started to write my name on the sign-in sheet. Emma picked up a glossy flyer from the table and waved it under my nose.

Look, Molly. Wowing Your Students with Extraordinary Customer Service!

Linda’s young assistant recited his lines. Good afternoon, ladies. Today, you’ll learn about some Best Practices to help you generate peak customer satisfaction.

Linda caught sight of Emma and placed a hand on the young man’s arm, as if to say, I’ll take it from here.

Hello, Emma. Molly. How nice to see you two here today.

Hi, Linda. I smiled pleasantly, finished signing in, and offered the pen to Emma.

Of course we’re here. Emma snatched the pen from me. No choice. They told us it was mandatory.

Emma scribbled her name and phone number on the sign-in sheet, and then we each took a paper name tag and a felt-tip marker. I wrote Molly Barda—College of Commerce on mine. Emma wrote Emma on hers.

Linda, I said, this customer satisfaction thing—you know, when we keep telling the students that they’re the customers, some of them interpret that to mean the customer is always right, and they can do whatever—

The customer framework is a transformative paradigm, Linda interrupted. New ways of thinking are going to disrupt education as we know it, with improved modalities of engagement. We’ll be going over that in our session today.

Yes, I’m sure it will be very helpful and interesting. All I’m trying to say is—if all I focused on was customer satisfaction, why wouldn’t I just, I don’t know, throw away the syllabus, let the students miss as many classes as they want, and then give them all As?

Emma snorted. Linda looked startled. Maybe I had gone too far.

Why Molly, Linda said. I’m pleasantly surprised.

You are?

That’s very out-of-the-box thinking.

It is? Oh, no, I didn’t mean—

Linda turned to Emma.

It would be wonderful if all of our faculty were as open to fresh thinking as you are, Molly. Some of your colleagues are afraid to give up control in the classroom. They’re threatened by change.

Emma folded her sturdy arms.

Maybe some of us don’t want to change into Clown College.

We’re not trying to start an argument. I grasped Emma’s elbow and steered her away from the registration table.

Yes we are, Emma protested.

It was so thoughtful of the Student Retention Office to arrange this for us, I called back. I know you put a lot of work into it. Thank you, Linda. Thanks, uh—

I didn’t know the new sidekick’s name and hadn’t noticed a name tag.

Have a great afternoon, ladies, Linda said. Enjoy the retreat.

Chapter Four

THE ROUND TABLES OF the Lehua Inn’s banquet room were filling up with Mahina State faculty. The men wore subdued aloha shirts and khaki trousers. The women dressed by discipline. Colorful Guatemalan bags, gauze skirts, and flowing gray hair marked the social sciences. Humanities favored bold eyeglasses and hair colors not found in nature. My few female colleagues in the College of Commerce sported a nonthreatening business-y look that might be described as Beverly Hills real estate agent. T-shirts and shapeless jeans indicated the natural sciences.

Emma Nakamura was an accomplished biologist, and looked it. Her wavy black hair was pulled back into an indifferent ponytail. Her face, browned and lightly freckled from hours of canoe paddling, was bare. Her idea of dressing up for our offsite retreat was to wear a seed company t-shirt she’d picked up for free at a conference.

I didn’t fit in anywhere.

Not surprising, I suppose, for a literature Ph.D. teaching in a business school. At some point I’d have to modify my vintage wardrobe if I was going to survive in humid Mahina. I imagined my heatstroke-reddened corpse, stylish in a vermillion wool Lilli-Ann coatdress and opaque tights.

Friggin’ Student Retention Office. Emma pressed on her paper name tag as she beelined to the refreshment table. They’re about as useful as a MRSA infection.

You know Emma, Clown College is actually very hard to get into.

What?

You told Linda you didn’t want us to change into Clown College.

Why does anyone listen to those Student Retention Office idiots? You see Linda was wearing her flower on the right? But she’s married, ah?

She is married. To Bob Wilson, in the History Department. The way you wear the flower in your hair signals your relationship status?

Yeah. Left side means you’re taken, like wearing a wedding ring on your left hand. Moron. Her, not you.

Emma glared back toward the banquet room entrance, where Linda and her assistant were still signing in attendees.

Well I didn’t know that about the flower placement, Emma.

Yeah, don’t worry about it. You’re not the one trying so hard to go native.

And Emma, you shouldn’t antagonize the Student Retention Office.

Why not?

If you get on their bad side, they’ll wish you into the cornfield. Like they did with the Philosophy Department.

They’ll what with the cornfield now? What are you talking about?

You know that Twilight Zone episode? Didn’t you ever watch Twilight Zone reruns when you were a kid?

We only got one channel where I grew up, Emma said. And that wasn’t on it. Are you telling me something happened to the Philosophy Department? I never heard any—whoa.

What are you—oh my goodness.

Through a side doorway, in our line of sight, we could see music instructor and teaching award nominee Kent Lovely. Standing next to him, hip to hip, was our elegant and intimidating vice president, Marshall Dixon. We watched Kent take Marshall’s hand and raise it to his lips.

Classy, Emma said. "He didn’t even

Reviews for The Case of the Defunct Adjunct

[jetangen4571 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

snarky, amateur-sleuth, hawaii, professor, humor, women-sleuths I was out of my element as far as Hawaii and professorship, but the mystery and snarks were so good that I enjoyed it immensely! Nicole Gose did an excellent job as narrator. Got it as Whispersync on the cheap after being alerted by Book Gorilla.

[bookwyrmm_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A solid mystery, but a little too much tangential elements.