Mimi Lee Gets a Clue

by Jennifer J. Chow

  As I opened the door to leave for the day, Marshmallow budged in front of me with his nose in the air. He squeezed through the gap and out to the pedestrian-friendly paved plaza. Worried that he’d run away, I bent down to snatch him up, but the cat seemed content to sit there crowd-watching. People meandered around the stores, popping into the fresh juice bar around the corner and checking out the boards on display in the surf shop closer to the pier.

  A gentle sea breeze blew, making the palm trees, planted in two parallel rows, wave their green fronds at me. I gulped in the salt-tinged air floating to me from the beach a few blocks away to center myself.

  It had to be sleep deprivation. I’d gotten little rest while preparing for the big opening of Hollywoof. Or maybe it was the stress from this afternoon after seeing Sterling move like a glacier. His slowness struck me as very strange for the feisty Chihuahua breed, and I worried about the little guy as I headed home.

  * * *

  • • •

  The drive on the 405 was as good (or bad) as usual. The major freeway ran north and south through Southern California, and people joked that it was well named because traffic moved at “four or five” miles per hour.

  The pulsing sea of red brake lights before me and the rushing headlights speeding down the other side of the freeway put me in a sour mood. Though traffic wasn’t bumper to bumper, I still appreciated the great gas mileage on my Prius. We finally reached home sweet home.

  Seaview Apartments didn’t live up to its name. No ocean view existed. In fact, it was miles away from any body of water. However, the nearby 405 offered ongoing traffic as a white noise substitute for ocean waves. The stucco walls of the modest complex had seen better days. I think the original color had been a cheerful peach, but now it looked more like a faded urine yellow.

  Oh well, at least the rent was cheap. I could afford a one-bedroom in this area and not need to move back into my parents’ ranch house.

  “End of the line,” I told Marshmallow as I unbuckled his carrier and lifted it out of the back seat.

  At least I lived in one of the ground-level units. I’d hate to manhandle the cage up a flight of stairs.

  In my apartment, I struggled to take Marshmallow out of his carrier. He didn’t move and instead roared at me. I couldn’t tell if he was carsick or hangry, but I was glad he was using a normal cat noise to express himself.

  Pulling out a silver dish, I placed it on the linoleum floor of my cramped kitchenette. Marshmallow got a bowlful of kitty food while I slapped together an Elvis sandwich. Mm, peanut butter and banana.

  Starving, I didn’t even bother to sit down at my IKEA particleboard dining table. Instead, I chewed, leaning over the cracked porcelain kitchen sink. A glob of peanut butter slipped out of my sandwich and onto my top, a black T-shirt with a cartoon dog saying, “I PAWS for no one.”

  Time to do laundry. In fact, the wicker hamper in my bedroom was already overflowing. In the tiny space that held only a nightstand and a bed, the dirty clothes had taken over half of my full-size mattress.

  I shucked off my T-shirt and put on a pair of faded plaid pajamas, the only clean outfit left in the apartment. After transferring the dirty laundry to a fabric bag, I grabbed a roll of quarters off my cluttered nightstand.

  Dragging the stuffed sack out of the bedroom and past the kitchen, I noticed Marshmallow curled up in a ball.

  “See ya later,” I said.

  He gave me a slow nod as I exited. I saw his empty dish and understood: Food coma. Good, because I needed a break.

  When I emerged outside, I saw a brilliant orange and pink sunset, courtesy of L.A.’s air pollution. The vivid colors made even the inner courtyard of Seaview look pretty. The rectangular patch of artificial grass with its ferns in scattered pots seemed more inviting.

  I whistled as I headed to the laundry room. Time for some quiet. The area held three sets of washers and dryers, but I had yet to run into anyone in my few months of living at the complex.

  Maybe it was because the machines were crazy clunking old. Or how they took only quarters. Perhaps people hauled their laundry to proper Laundromats instead. Plus, the whole complex housed a mere fourteen units—

  “Alamak!” my mother had exclaimed upon hearing the number. “Very unlucky.”

  “Fourteen?” I’d said, clutching the apartment key with sweaty fingers.

  “Number like meaning for sure die.”

  Remembering, I shook my head. Ma with her superstitions and old beliefs. You would’ve thought marrying outside her race meant a more modern mind. Guess she’d taken emotional baggage along with her physical luggage when she emigrated from Malaysia.

  I stared at the laundry room. An unusual sight—the door had been propped open with a rock. Someone was inside sitting on a plastic chair and reading a huge book. A cute someone.

  Even from the threshold, I could tell. His dark brown hair flopped down, hiding his face as he read, but I still saw his lean body.

  He wore a white tank top with cargo shorts, and I could see his biceps move as he flipped the page. I felt my cheeks ignite. If only I wasn’t wearing these frumpy pj’s.

  I backed up, but my heavy laundry sack hit the side of the door. The loud thwack made the stranger look up. Ack. He was even cuter when I saw his face uncovered: intelligent, dark brown eyes, kissable lips, and a small dimple as he grinned up at me.

  He beckoned me forward. “Come on in.” He gestured to the row of unused washers. “I’m up for grabs. I mean, they’re up for grabs. My stuff is in the dryer.”

  “Uh, okay.” I marched in with a straight back, trying to appear taller and also less ridiculous in my plaidwear.

  I stuffed my delicates into the machine first, hoping the handsome stranger would remain engrossed in his book. After I’d finished, I turned around to find him staring at me with those dreamy eyes.

  He waved. “Hi, I’m Josh Akana. Moved in about two weeks ago.”

  My mouth felt dry, and I swallowed. “Mimi Lee,” I said. “Not related to Bruce.”

  His thick eyebrows rose up. The unasked question lingered in the air.

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “People think I know kung fu when they hear my last name. The thing is my dad’s white. Joke’s on them.” I babbled when I got nervous. This was why I worked with animals. Zero social skills.

  “I wouldn’t have assumed that.” He closed his thick book and motioned for me to sit next to him.

  Oh my gosh (or Josh). Did he want to keep talking to me? I sat down and peeked at his book. “So, what are you reading?” That was my opener?

  He swept his bangs out of his eyes. “A casebook. Boring law stuff.”

  “Are you a lawyer?” He looked around my age. “Or maybe a law student?”

  Josh coughed. “I was a 3L last year.”

  “Meaning . . .” I tucked my frizzy hair behind my ears.

  He reached into his wallet. Pulling out a business card, he waved it in the air before placing it on top of his book. “I’m an attorney now. Last year I finished law school at USC.”

  Don’t say it, I told myself, but it was like a Pavlovian response. “USC. University of Spoiled Children.”

  He chuckled, a fun laugh I wanted to continue hearing.

  I kept dishing it out. “Or University of Second Choice.” I clapped my hand over my mouth.

  He stared at me with widened brown eyes.

  Ugh. I’d insulted his alma mater twice. The Bruin had come out in me. Rivalry between UCLA and USC ran deep. Then again, my alma mater had its own nickname: University of Caucasians Lost among Asians. Ma had loved the moniker, thinking I might graduate with an MRS degree instead of a bachelor’s.

  Before I could fix the situation, my phone piped out “Chapel of Love,” as though thinking of her had summoned Ma like a genie. I’d chosen the tune tongue in cheek to symbolize
Ma’s ultimate goal for me.

  I held up one finger to Josh. Ma would go paranoid if I didn’t pick up. She worried about me working by myself in the shop at nights all alone.

  I hit the speakerphone button, letting Josh know it was a harmless conversation. Me? No boyfriend. Single and free. I held the phone up with my left hand, facing it toward Josh, so he could see my empty ring finger.

  “Hi, Ma,” I said, chirping out her name.

  “Mimi. Where you are, eh?” Ma’s voice came out bold, like a lioness.

  “I’m home, safe.”

  Ma kept yell-talking. “I at store. Need anything?”

  Boy, was she loud. Should I take her off speakerphone? But then maybe Josh would think I had something to hide. I edged closer to the running washer to muffle her volume.

  “No. Actually, I’m busy.” I glanced over at Josh, who’d opened his book again, at least pretending to give me some semblance of privacy.

  “I need tell you: Date at kopi tiam in two days. Starbucks.”

  I hazarded a glance at Josh. He hadn’t flipped the page, and his body was angled toward me.

  “Ma, now is not the time.”

  Nearby, the dryer dinged. Josh got up to put his clean laundry away.

  Ma’s voice rose an octave in excitement. “Ah, guess what I find on sale? Perfect for you. Rubbers.”

  I slapped my forehead. The tips of Josh’s ears turned red, and he shoveled his clothes into the basket.

  Covering the phone, I said, “That’s not what it sounds like.”

  “No need to explain.” He scurried away with his full basket, grabbing his book on the way out.

  While Ma gabbed about prices, I shouted at Josh’s back, “I’m not that kind of girl.”

  He must have heard I had a date. Then Ma talked about rubbers. He put one plus one together.

  “Ma, how many times do I have to tell you? They’re called erasers in America.”

  “Sorry lah. I forget.”

  No matter how long she lived here, Ma still held on to some funny English. I blamed it on Malaysia’s roots as a British colony.

  “You need or not?” Ma continued. “Good for bookkeeping. If you need erase number . . . Or maybe Daddy come help you.”

  I blew out a long breath. “No, I can do it myself. Let Dad enjoy retirement.”

  She gave me a kiss over the phone. “Don’t forget. Kopi date.”

  “I don’t even drink coffee, Ma.”

  “Have fun,” she said and hung up.

  A few seconds later, my phone pinged with a text giving me the Starbucks details.

  Ma had too much free time on her hands. Dad golfed as a hobby after retiring. Ma match-maked. And she told me she’d up her efforts now that I had turned twenty-five, claiming that after rounding up, I was practically thirty.

  Well, I could find guys on my own. Or not.

  I looked at the empty chair Josh had vacated. Something small and rectangular lay on the ground beneath it. His business card. He’d probably dropped it while running away from me.

  Aiyaa, my love life sucked. At least four-legged mammals adored me (with the possible exception of Marshmallow). Animals gave me sanctuary, and I looked forward to a peaceful day at Hollywoof tomorrow. What could possibly go wrong in that safe haven?

  CHAPTER

  two

  I WOKE UP GRUMPY. Maybe last night at the laundry room had been a bad dream. But I saw Josh’s business card peeking at me from the nightstand.

  To top it off, Marshmallow had crept under my covers. And as his blue eyes peered into mine, I heard: “Where’s my breakfast, Owner?” I had thought the delusion would stop after a good night’s rest.

  I groaned and covered my ears. Somehow I managed to feed us and get out the door.

  We arrived at the store at ten on the dot. A few minutes later, a woman looking like a Bollywood star waltzed in. Except she wasn’t wearing a single piece of jewelry, not even a wedding band, and wore workout gear.

  She had on black spandex pants with a leather fanny pack and a sweat-wicking top. The exercise clothes didn’t diminish her star quality, though. Long, flowing raven locks framed a slim face of high cheekbones, luscious lips, and doe eyes. A fashion designer’s model face.

  “Can I help you?” I asked. Had she come in by mistake?

  “Lauren recommended your place because you did such a great job with Sterling.”

  Then I noticed the leash trailing from her hand. At her feet sat a very quiet and well-behaved Chihuahua. I smiled at the dog and said, “I see you’ve brought in—”

  “Ash. And my name is Indira.”

  “Nice to meet you both.” I peered at the brown Chihuahua. “Wow, Ash could be Sterling’s double.”

  One of Indira’s groomed eyebrows curved up. “Except she’s a girl.”

  “Fraternal twins, then.” I held out my hand for the leash.

  “Ash needs a bath.” Her full lips pressed into a thin line. “No need for frivolous accessories like a headband or bow.”

  I nodded several times. “Got it.”

  Indira peeked at her Apple Watch. “Can’t stay. I have an errand to run.”

  “Sure, no problem,” I said as she finally relinquished the lead to me.

  I brought Ash to the back. She was a quiet thing with an odd limp that troubled me.

  I made sure to plug her ears with cotton to protect the ear canals. Then I placed her on the mat in the sink and turned the water to lukewarm. Shampooing Ash, I reveled in the foamy suds as I massaged her body. When I rinsed her off, she stayed stoic. She didn’t even look tempted to try and shake off her fur.

  Even when I moved her to the finishing area and turned on the high-velocity dryer, she didn’t balk. A lot of dogs would’ve been startled by the sound.

  As I returned to the front with a groomed Ash, the bell above the door jingled. Indira showed up, reaching for Ash’s leash. She inspected her dog from head to toe, even sniffing at Ash’s body. Thank goodness I’d used a “classic fresh” scent.

  Indira gave me a brief nod before heading over to the cash register.

  “Biscuit?” I said, pushing the half-full glass jar on the counter forward. I remembered Lauren’s buying spree.

  Indira looked at the price tag. “Not for two dollars a pop.”

  “They’re homemade.”

  She shook her head. Before she opened her bag, she paused. “And don’t forget to give me the grand opening discount.”

  All right, lady. Like you can’t afford it. I gestured to her bag. “Love your fanny pack.”

  She unzipped it with a hard tug. “It’s a fitness fashion pack.”

  “Oh, I see. Hands-free. Quite useful for athletes.” I rang her up and gave her the total.

  She checked the prices against the ones listed on the nearby board and seemed to calculate the sum in her head. Then she forked over her gold credit card.

  “Indira Patel,” it read. Underneath her name: “Indira’s Designs.”

  “What kind of company do you own?” I asked.

  She tapped her leather fanny pack. “Luxury bags for the woman on the go.”

  “Very fashion forward.” I stuck the card into the machine.

  As we waited for the chip to process, she said, “I can expense all sorts of things, even this grooming, because Ash is the company mascot.”

  “She’s a lovely dog.” I gave her the receipt. “Where’d you get her?”

  “From a breeder I found in the classifieds.”

  “What city?” Imagine if I could make a networking connection. I might expand my customer base.

  Indira waved her slender hand around. “Somewhere in the Valley. Funny thing is the breeder had two first names.”

  “Could it be Russ Nolan?” I asked. The same breeder Lauren had used?

&
nbsp; She shrugged. “I can’t recall.”

  Sterling had been lethargic, and now Ash was limping. It didn’t seem like it could be a coincidence. I frowned and said, “I wanted to tell you before, Indira—Ash has an odd limp. I think you should go to the vet pronto.”

  “She’ll be fine. The breeder said that’s normal. Besides, vet bills add up.” Indira looked at her Apple Watch. “I have to go. My meter’s almost out of time.”

  Though parking did cost an arm and a leg in this area, her comment sounded more like an excuse. I needed to say something to save the conversation and keep her as a customer. “Glad you came by. And say hi to Lauren for me.” I put my palms together. “Namaste.”

  Her lip curled like she’d tasted durian, the rotten-smelling spiked fruit.

  “Er, aren’t you yoga sisters?” I fiddled with the buttons on the cash register. “I thought Lauren mentioned something.”

  “We’re yoga parent-mates. Our dogs are in the same Mommy-and-me class.”

  She tossed her lustrous hair and exited the store, pulling Ash along.

  Watching the Chihuahua leave, I shook my head. Something was wrong with the dogs I’d groomed over the past two days, and I intended to find out what.

  I googled Russ Nolan and found an address in the San Fernando Valley. The Valley was close to the mountain ranges of Southern California, north of the urban skyscrapers that made up the downtown L.A. skyline. People lived in the Valley because it offered affordable housing and greater acreage—at the unfortunate expense of hotter weather.

  If I left now, I could avoid the dreaded five o’clock rush hour. Because another play on the name for the 405 was “four or five” hours to get anywhere using it.

  As I drove, Marshmallow batted at the bars on his crate. “Where are we going?” he kept asking.

  I hummed something to tune out the voice. My mind needed to remain clear for the task at hand.

  Although I’d imagined a rural plot of land fit for a farm, complete with open spaces for puppies to run wild, I instead found Russ Nolan’s neighborhood near the freeway exit. The residential street held a number of old-style bungalow houses clustered together. All the homes looked worn-out, with their cobwebbed porches and weed-filled lawns. One towered above the rest due to an additional but lopsided second floor.