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SHARON, THE SKINNY sister, was leading the yoga class. Attendance was sparse. Perhaps the rain, heavy even by Mahina standards, encouraged people to stay home. Maybe Sharon’s paint-peeling Boston accent didn’t engender feelings of serenity. Or possibly word of Primo Nordmann’s demise was getting around, and people didn’t want to catch his bad karma.
I wondered how Emma was going to manage to strike up a conversation with Sharon when we were through, but it turned out not to be a problem. As soon as the class was over, Sharon zoomed right over to Emma, asked if she was new, and complimented her upper body development.
“Are you a canoe paddler?” Sharon asked. “I’m thinking about joining one of the clubs.”
And they were off. Emma’s crew was perpetually one or two women short, so as the rest of the students packed up and left the room, Emma laid on a sales pitch about the many benefits of canoe paddling. When we were the only three people remaining in the room, Emma wrapped it up by inviting Sharon to come out and paddle with her crew.
Rapport thus established, Emma abruptly stopped talking and looked at me expectantly. This was where we were supposed to circle around to the real reason we had come tonight.
“I was so sorry to hear about Primo,” I said.
“Did they make it public already? The police came in and grilled us about it, but they told us not to say anything.”
“Do you think he had bad karma?” Emma asked. “I heard a rumor about it, that’s why. Cause he must’ve done something bad to someone.”
“No,” Sharon protested. “Primo? Ridiculous. He was a little lamb. I don’t know anyone who would wanna hurt him.”
“Then why would someone say he had bad karma?” I asked.
“Aw, that’s not hard to figure out.” Sharla, Sharon’s sister, entered the studio, carrying a broom and dustpan. “You all finished in here, Shar? It’s okay. You guys don’t have to leave.”
Sharla started sweeping the edges where the wooden floors met the molding.
“People can’t get their heads around the fact that some maniac can come along outta nowhere and chop you into little pieces. Sorry, I know people don’t like hearing it, but sometimes, bad stuff just happens for no reason. And you couldn’t have done anything to prevent it. Nothing to do with karma, or the balance of the universe, or anything like that.”
“Primo was so dedicated.” Sharon slid her rolled-up yoga mat into a hemp shopping bag and slung it over her shoulder. “He’d go to yoga conferences with us, pay his own way. He’d attend the other instructors’ classes, just to learn from them.”
“And steal their poses, supposedly.” Sharla continued to sweep. “I can’t believe some of the dumb stuff people can bicker about.”
“Did Primo steal anyone’s poses?” Emma asked.
“No,” Sharla said, looking directly at Sharon. “Because there’s no such thing in yoga. It’s about sharing. And supporting one another. Right, Sharon?”
“Oh, whatever. I gotta go get cleaned up.”
Sharon turned and pushed through the clacking beaded curtain. Her sister seemed to have managed to push her buttons in the special way only family members can. I grew up without siblings, but I do have two parents, so I have some idea what it’s like.
“I did the same thing when I first came to Mahina State,” I said, to keep the conversation going with Sharla. “Visited the classes of the other professors in the management department.”
“It helps, right?” Sharla said.
“It might’ve,” Emma said, “if her department wasn’t such a freak show. Hey, you ever see Primo Nordmann’s website?”
“Oh, the banana wrangler?” Sharla laughed. “We gave him a lotta grief about the name.”
“Do you think he had a stalker or something?” Emma asked.
“The police asked us the exact same question. But as far as any of us could remember, nah, he never said anything about a stalker. It didn’t seem like there was anyone he was scared of. I mean, people were always arguing with each other in the comments. And Primo loved to take potshots at the big companies, like Monsanto and Seed Solutions. But those big guys aren’t gonna go after some little guy like Primo. Listen, girls, don’t wanna run you off, but I’m gonna have to sweep that side now.”
Emma and I made sure to talk about nothing important as we left, just in case we were overheard.
“That was a great workout,” I announced a little too loudly.
“I will definitely come to Laughing Lotus yoga studio again,” Emma agreed.
Only when we were safely inside my car did we feel comfortable speaking normally.
“You’re a terrible actor,” Emma said.
“I don’t think either of us should quit our day jobs.”
“Monsanto’s not even doing anything on this island.” Emma buckled in. “How come everyone keeps bringing them up? Hey, you finally got new seatbelts.”
“The ones I had were rotting. I had to mail order these. Finally got them in. The shipping and installation cost even more than the actual seatbelts.”
“How come you didn’t just go down to Lanakila Auto Parts? They got seatbelts. And they’d probably put ‘em in for cheap. What’s so special about these?”
“They’re perfect reproductions of the originals.”
The seatbelts in question were simple turquoise webbing with a rounded buckle.
“Oh, and that’s so important ’cause why? ’Cause the Ghost of 1959 is gonna come audit you or something?”
“So did we find out anything useful about Primo? Other than the fact that he was really into yoga?”
“Nah. Waste of time.”
I backed out of the parking spot with great care, glancing from my side mirror to my rear-view mirror and back. The parking lot was dark. The closest light was burned out, and the moonlight was obscured by clouds.
“What about the papayas?” I suggested. “Do you think Primo meant to kill the papaya trees? Or steal the papayas? Or both?”
“Kill, maybe. Steal, no. Those genetically modified papayas were ‘contaminated’ as far as he was concerned. He wouldn’t want to ‘poison’ himself by eating them.”
“It seems like Primo was pretty well-liked at the yoga studio. No stalkers from his website as far as we can tell. Who would want to do him in?”
“Randy Randolph from Seed Solutions, of course,” Emma said. “Primo humiliated him, posting his arrest records and divorce papers and everything.”
“Maybe. I’d like the murderer to be Randolph because he’s such a jerk.”
“Hey, I never knew about you going into the other professors’ classes. For real, did it help?”
“Dan Watanabe’s class was good.” I stopped at the spot where the parking lot opened onto the dark road, looking both ways several times just to make sure I’d be safe pulling out into traffic. Mahina did have streetlights, but they were the dimmest possible kind, designed so light pollution wouldn’t interfere with the telescopes on the mountain.
“Dan has this nice way of explaining to the students why things in his class are set up the way they are,” I continued. “He tells them about how all this research on attention and learning goes into how he designs his assignments. I think the students appreciated it, knowing they weren’t being asked to do things for no reason.”
“Dan seems like he would be a good teacher,” Emma said.
“The other classroom visits weren’t quite as helpful. Hanson Harrison just walked in and started pontificating about something he’d heard on NPR that morning. His students were all texting each other or dozing off. Hanson either didn’t notice or didn’t care.”
“He’s like that in meetings, too,” Emma agreed. “He just goes on and on and doesn’t realize half the table’s falling asleep.”
“And Larry Schneider—he talks fast. You know he has a New York accent, and when the class started to fall behind, he’d say something like, ‘My next comment is addressed to the two individuals in this classroom who actually belong in college.’ It seemed a little harsh to me.”
“Is that your phone?” Emma asked.
“In my purse. Can you get it?”
“It’s Pat. I guess he’s decided he’s speaking to you again.”
“Put it on speaker.”
“Molly.” Pat sounded excited, which was unusual for him. “I got your box back from Jeffrey, the antique dealer. Do you have some time tomorrow?”