Fatal Fried Rice

by Vivien Chien

  I mentally rewound to when I entered the classroom and the chain of events that followed. I’d stopped and assessed the room, but I’d been so nervous walking in, I hadn’t focused on many details. All I could remember was the blonde woman in the front row who’d asked me if I was the instructor. And then me proceeding to the back of the room as quickly as possible. The next thing I could remember distinctly was the woman with the sour expression on her face who’d been sitting near the front. And, of course, chatting with Bridget during our bathroom break.

  I drummed my fingers on the hostess stand in front of me, zoning out to the rhythm I was inadvertently creating. Think, Lana, think.

  A sharp rap on the glass door jolted me from my thoughts. When I looked up, Peter was waving and sticking his tongue out at me.

  I got up to let him in. My alone time was over.

  “Were you in dream land or what, man?” he asked as he entered the restaurant. He adjusted his baseball cap, which always sat low over his eyes, his shaggy black hair sticking awkwardly out of the sides. If I was in a more playful mood, I might tease him about needing a haircut.

  “Yeah, just got a lot on my mind this morning. No biggie,” I replied. Peter wasn’t a huge fan of my propensity to investigate, so I didn’t want to start our morning with an argument.

  “Is it girl related?” he asked, turning to face me. “Because you know I can’t deal with the girl stuff conversations. But if it’s anything else, then I’m your guy.”

  “Yeah, it’s girl problems,” I lied. “Nothing to worry about. I’m sure I’ll be fine later.”

  He gave me a thumbs-up. “Well then I’m off to my cooking cave. Gotta get ready for the Matrons.”

  The Mahjong Matrons were our most loyal customers and they arrived at nine o’clock sharp every day. They were never late, and they never altered their order. See? Groundhog Day.

  I glanced up at the clock on the wall—only ten minutes before we open. Peter was later than usual this morning.

  I returned to my stool as he walked away. A mix of feelings ranging from wanting to get this day over with to not wanting it to begin were having a full-on battle in my head. I began to mentally prepare myself for the necessity of “turning it on.” The customer-service voice and smile would have to come out, and Detective Lee would have to take a back seat for the time being.

  Then again, maybe the Mahjong Matrons could enlighten me with some information. They were, after all, the eyes and ears of this community.

  CHAPTER 7

  Helen, Wendy, Pearl, and Opal, our beloved Mahjong Matrons, filed into the restaurant at nine o’clock sharp. The four widows didn’t bother to pause at the hostess station for a seating assignment. They had their own table they occupied every morning, always sitting in the same spots. When I’d first started working full time at the restaurant, I’d bring them menus as a formality. They really didn’t need them as they ordered the same thing without fail, day in and day out. After a while I gave up on bringing the menus and just headed straight for the kitchen to place their order with Peter and prep their tea.

  When I returned to the dining room and approached their table, the elderly women turned to greet me with pleasant smiles and twinkles in their eyes.

  “Good morning, Lana,” Helen sang in a cheerful voice.

  “Good morning, ladies,” I returned, giving them all a smile as I set the teakettle down in the center of the table.

  Helen, who often acted as mother hen, reached for the kettle, and as the women flipped over their teacups, she filled each one to the brim. “Have you heard the latest news?” she asked, setting the kettle back down.

  “The latest news?” I thought it best for right now to pretend like I hadn’t heard. Anyone who knew me was well aware of the fact that I did not read the newspaper or watch the news. I was usually the last person to know about current events unless they went viral on some social media platform. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about what was going on in the world, but my sensitive nature had grown tired from trying to keep up with what always seemed to be bad news.

  Pearl, Opal’s older sister, leaned forward and whispered, “Yes, the news about Margo Han. She was killed last night. Stabbed in the back!” She lifted her hand, balled it into a fist and made a stabbing motion.

  I paused for a minute realizing my potential error. If the case continued, there may be a point where it would come out that I was the one to find her body. Then the Matrons would know I lied to them and probably be furious with me. “Oh, that news.” I replied. “Yes, I did happen to hear about that. Such a shame. Did you ladies know her?”

  Wendy, whose sensibility often kept the group from going overboard, was the next to speak. “We only knew her a little bit. She was a nice woman, but did not seem to be close to anyone. She was not married, and did not have any children.”

  “How did you know her then?” I asked the group.

  Opal was the next to reply. The petite woman was so dainty in even her speech, that sometimes it could be hard to hear her if you weren’t listening closely. Barely above a whisper, she said, “She would come to the hair salon sometimes on Saturday mornings. She asked a lot of questions about mahjong and we tried to have her come play with us, but she always said no.”

  I tucked that information away in my brain. Interesting that she had visited the salon, yet I had never seen her. Which reminded me that she had mentioned she’d been to Ho-Lee Noodle House on a few occasions. But I couldn’t place her.

  “So, what do you ladies think about what happened to her?” I asked.

  The four women glanced at one another, then Helen answered for the group. “We think she probably made somebody mad at the school. From what we know, all she did was work.”

  The bell in the kitchen rang, which signified that Peter had completed the Matrons’ order. I excused myself to retrieve their food.

  I returned to the table and set down their daily breakfast choices: Chinese omelets with chives, century eggs, pickled cucumbers, and a large bowl of rice porridge.

  Right before I turned to return to the hostess station, Wendy glanced up at me and said, “Usually the ones who look innocent have the most to hide. I bet someone like Margo Han was keeping a secret or two.”

  * * *

  When the lunch rush had died down and Nancy had things under control, I decided to take my break and head over to the salon to find out if anyone there had some information on Margo Han. If she didn’t have a husband or kids, I wondered who her next of kin would be. I vaguely remembered her saying that her family owned a dry-cleaning business. Were her parents still living? Maybe she had siblings who ran the business? Or maybe a secret boyfriend no one was aware of. Usually women liked to chat about those sorts of things while getting their hair done, so I was hoping there’d be some knowledge to gain.

  I opened the door to the salon and was immediately met with acrylic-nail fumes and Chinese pop music.

  Yuna, the salon’s receptionist, was jamming out to a song playing over the salon’s speakers, singing into a round hairbrush she’d probably plucked from the shelf of hair supplies they sold. Her normally pin-straight, long hair was now wavy and mermaid green with a few braided strands wrapped around her head. Metallic turquoise clamshells dangled from her ears and complemented her aquatically themed hair perfectly.

  The young twenty-something showed no signs of embarrassment as she realized that I’d walked in and caught her in mid-refrain. “Oh, hi, Lana. Did you come to join the party?” She held her makeshift microphone out toward me.

  I held out a hand in protest. “Oh no, trust me, you don’t want me to sing. Not unless you want the whole place to clear out.”

  She giggled in return. “Really? Come on, you can’t be that bad. We’re all going to the Bamboo Lounge tonight after work. Jasmine wants to start having monthly outings as a team. I’ve been warming up my vocal cords since this weekend! You should totally come along and hang out with us.”

  I had to admire
her enthusiasm for life. Yuna was always in a cheerful mood and ready to take on whatever challenge you threw at her. “Well, if Jasmine is going to sing, maybe I should stop by,” I joked.

  Jasmine Ming was the owner of Asian Accents, my personal hair stylist, and the only person I trusted near my head with a pair of scissors. A few years back, I’d had a disaster of a haircut at another salon. It was so bad I’d contemplated wearing a paper bag over my head. After my mother scolded me for not supporting the plaza to begin with, I decided to give Asian Accents a try. I’ve never looked back or thought about going to another salon since.

  “Is Jasmine here?” I asked, peeking around the wall of product that separated the cutting stations from the reception area. “I need to ask her something.”

  “No, she actually stepped out for lunch. She should be back in an hour if you want to try her then. I can tell her you stopped by.”

  “Actually, maybe you can help me,” I suggested, stepping up to the reception desk. “Does the name Margo Han sound familiar to you at all?”

  She tapped her chin with her index finger. “Han … Margo Han … hmmm.”

  “If it helps, she’s middle-aged, about yay-high.” I held my hand up a little below my own head. “Thin … kind of plain … is a cooking instructor.”

  “A cooking instructor?” Yuna repeated, her face lighting up. “I think I do know a Margo who comes in who’s a cooking instructor. She’s kind of quiet and doesn’t get much done. Usually just a trim or something. Definitely no frills like you and me.”

  “That’s probably her then,” I said with a nod. Even though I’d only met her once, she struck me as a plain sort of person. “Do you know anything about her?”

  “Like what?” Yuna asked, tilting her head.

  “Something more on the personal side. Like if she has a boyfriend, a brother … what she did in her spare time.”

  Yuna’s eyes widened. “Like why? Did something happen to her? Are you doing one of your investigation thingies?” She started to bounce with excitement.

  I glanced around to see if anyone was in earshot. Thankfully no one was close enough to hear our conversation. “Um, kinda. I don’t know what I’m doing yet, so please don’t say anything. It could really complicate things.”

  “Don’t worry,” she put her hand up to her lips and acted as if she were zipping them up. “My lips are sealed. But you have to tell me what happened.”

  Checking over my shoulder again, I leaned in and whispered, “Margo was murdered last night after one of her cooking classes. Right now, the police have no real suspects and the whole thing just bugs me. I thought if I could find out something about her, it might lead to a helpful clue that could help the police track down who did this.”

  Yuna gasped, covering her mouth. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah…” I left out the part about me being there because even though Yuna promised to keep this conversation between us, she was almost as bad as the Mahjong Matrons. I knew the first person she would tell would be Jasmine, and I was okay with that. I’d just rather tell Jasmine the details myself.

  “Wow … that sucks. She always seemed like a nice lady. I didn’t really know much about her though. She did mention she had a sister one time. But she never said anything about a boyfriend or whatever.”

  “Do you remember the last time she was in?”

  Yuna shook her head. “No, but I can look.” She turned to the computer on her countertop and started typing away on the keyboard, her eyes narrowing as she skimmed the screen for details. “Okay, it says here that her last appointment was about three weeks ago. She was due in next week for a trim.” She sighed. “I guess I can cancel that appointment.”

  “Who cuts her hair?” I asked. “Does she always go to the same stylist? Or did she just take whatever available appointment she could get?”

  “Hmmm … let me see.” Yuna clacked away on the keyboard again and then tapped her fingers on the counter as she waited for the information to load. “Well, it looks like she gets her hair done by Nicole. There was only one time she had her hair done by Jasmine, and that was over a year ago.”

  “Great.” My eyes scanned the salon. “Is Nicole here today?”

  “No, but she’ll be in tomorrow. She comes in at two o’clock.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll be back in tomorrow then,” I said.

  “Do you want me to tell Jasmine you stopped in?”

  “That’s okay. I’ll try to catch her when I stop by tomorrow.”

  We said our goodbyes and I headed back to Ho-Lee Noodle House. I was hoping that Nicole could tell me a little more about Margo’s personal life, and maybe point me in the direction of her sister. It wasn’t much to go on, but maybe if I could track down Margo’s sister I’d be able to learn more about Margo herself.

  CHAPTER 8

  The afternoon went slowly and gave me the opportunity to get caught up on all my managerial duties. With everything taken care of, I was able to spend the rest of my day in my office running potential scenarios. I considered that Margo might have had an affair and that’s why she didn’t have a known boyfriend. Or maybe she had an angry student lurking about who wanted revenge. I also thought about the fact she may have made an enemy out of another faculty member.

  One thing I knew for certain is that I needed to go back to Barton’s and do some snooping around. Earlier in the day, I had received an e-mail from the school letting me know that a tragic event had taken place and that the class would currently be cancelled. We had options of receiving a refund or applying the money spent to the next class they would offer. At this point, I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I had really wanted to take this class in particular, but it seemed fate was working against me.

  I had no plans that evening, so what better time to check out the learning center and see what I could find out. I sent a text to Megan letting her know what my ideas were and asked if she wanted to tag along.

  As luck would have it, she didn’t have to work that evening. I told her I’d pick her up when I was finished at the restaurant.

  Around five thirty, I pulled into the parking lot of our apartment building and texted her: I’m here.

  A few minutes later, she poked her head out the door, waved, and jogged to the car.

  She hopped into the passenger seat. “Kikko was going bonkers as I was heading out, so I left her with a bone. I think she knows something is up.”

  I chuckled. “Most likely. She was doing laps around the apartment this morning.” I put the car in reverse and pulled out of the parking lot, heading for the main road. “I’m feeling kind of jittery myself.”

  “Who can blame you?” she replied, her attention directed at the scenery outside the window. “Have you found out anything useful at the plaza?”

  “Not really,” I admitted. “It’s a lot of general information. I do have a potential lead at Asian Accents tomorrow with the woman who used to do Margo’s hair.”

  “Good call on that. Most stylists are honorary therapists. Margo must have told her something at some point in time.”

  “Let’s hope.” I paused as I entered on to the freeway ramp. “It seems as though she kept her personal life pretty close to the chest. But I may have just talked to the wrong people.” While we drove, I filled her in on the conversations I’d had earlier that morning.

  When we arrived at the school, we took a moment in the parking lot to come up with a game plan.

  I turned the engine off and stared at the glass building. “I figure what I’ll do is pretend that I have no idea that an e-mail was sent about the class cancellation and see what I can find out that way.”

  “What should I do?” she asked.

  “I’d like for you to go to the actual classroom. I’m not sure if it’s sealed off or not. But take a look and tell me what you think about the layout. I want another opinion on what the scenario could have been that night.”

  She gave me a thumbs-up. “You got it.”

  We he
aded into the school, and after I directed Megan on where to find the classroom, we separated and promised to meet near the main doors.

  I knew from the few classes I’d taken here in the past that the administration office was open until seven o’clock to help any students who took night courses, but the staff was cut in half after the majority of classes were done for the day.

  I was so focused on my next steps that I hardly noticed the cheery blonde waving at me as if I were a family member she hadn’t seen in ages. It took a moment to place her as the woman who’d been in my cooking class, front and center, and who’d asked me if I was the instructor.

  “Hey there.” She stopped abruptly in front of me, and put her hands on her hips. “Fancy running into you here. Lena, wasn’t it? I’m Jan.”

  I returned her chipper attitude with a cordial smile. “Hi. It’s Lana, actually.”

  “Right, Lana. That’s it. I apologize, I’m terrible with names.”

  “Oh don’t worry about it,” I replied. “How are you?”

  She blew a raspberry and threw her hands up. “Oh, just trying to find something else to sign up for. None of the classes I’d like to take are at the right times, and I really like my away time from home. Moms need time for themselves too, you know.”

  A bell dinged in my head. “Do you take classes here often?”

  “Oh sure.” She nodded. “I take at least one a quarter—two, if I can swing it. Especially when the kids get back in school.”

  “Did you happen to know our teacher, Margo Han? Prior to this cooking class, I mean.”

  Jan tsked and shook her head. “Shame what happened, isn’t it? I can’t imagine what her poor family must be going through. I’d taken some of her other cooking classes in the past, yes. I think that woman could cook just about anything under the sun.”

  “Did she have any children that you know of?” I asked

  “She definitely didn’t have children. And no husband, I can tell you that too.” She leaned in and raised an eyebrow at me. “And it seemed as though she wanted to keep it that way.”