Here goes my second chance at a first impression, I told myself. What could I use for my new line? Hey, Josh. I’m actually a great catch—just ask the cops. Shaking my head, I pushed through the skyscraper’s glistening glass doors into the enormous lobby.
A rush of frigid air hit me in the face as I entered. Shivering, I jostled the oversized Hello Kitty tote bag on my shoulder.
A soft growl came from inside the giant purse. “Watch it,” Marshmallow said. “And where am I anyway? Feels like a meat locker in here.”
I shushed him. “The building’s got heavy-duty air-conditioning, I guess.” Checking the business card, I saw that Josh’s office was located on the fifth floor. I headed toward the brass elevators and called for one.
When it arrived, I breathed out a sigh of relief. “All clear,” I said, stepping inside the empty elevator car.
Marshmallow popped up his fuzzy head for a breather once the doors had slid shut. “Do you know how cramped it is in there?”
“Well, I can’t waltz into a fancy law firm with a cat in my arms.”
Using the reflective interior walls of the elevator, he proceeded to preen himself. “I still can’t believe you stuffed me into a Hello Kitty bag.”
“It’s the biggest purse I own,” I said.
He twitched his whiskers. “Did you know that Hello Kitty isn’t even a real cat? No mouth. I mean, how is she supposed to eat? Or talk?”
“Doesn’t stop some cats I know,” I mumbled as the elevator dinged. When we arrived at our destination, the doors started sliding open, and Marshmallow crouched back down into the tote with a grumble.
I walked down a long hallway with plush carpeting until I found the unit number. Heavy wooden doors barred entry into the illustrious law office. To the right of them, I saw an impressive-looking bronze plaque tacked onto the wall. “Ooh, it’s the firm of Murphy, Sullivan, and Goodwin,” I said. “Good win—that’s a positive sign, right?”
“Too bad that’s not Josh’s last name.”
I brushed Marshmallow’s comment aside and entered the auspicious law office. Right away, I felt overwhelmed. People wearing sleek dark suits scurried left and right. They seemed to weave around one another in a purposeful and coordinated dance.
I took a deep breath and made my way to the walnut reception desk, where a middle-aged blonde reigned. She sat there with erect posture, her hair tucked into a prim bun, and spoke into a headset.
When she saw me hovering, she held up her hand. She continued listening to the person on the other end and said, “I see. I’m transferring you over now. One moment, please.”
Then she completed a complicated maneuver with her fingers, pressing various buttons on the phone with a flourish.
Finished, she turned to me. She scrutinized my appearance before asking, “Do you have an appointment?”
I rubbed my sweaty palms together. “I’m here to see Josh Akana.”
She blinked at me with her ice blue eyes. “Who? I don’t recognize that name.”
I bit my lip. Pulling out his business card, I showed it to her.
She examined it and flicked her polished nails at me. “Must be an associate. Fresh blood. You won’t find him in one of the actual offices. He’ll be sitting at one of the tables in the open area.” She gestured behind her at the straight rows of desks.
“Associate?” Marshmallow said. “He’s not even a proper lawyer yet?”
“Associates are real lawyers,” I said.
The receptionist raised her overplucked eyebrows at me. “Of course, dear. I’m sure your boyfriend is quite the catch.” Then the phone rang. She squeezed the bridge of her nose and waved me away.
I’d been mistaken for his girlfriend. Josh and me together? The thought made my heart flutter as I walked past the receptionist’s large desk.
The main room held row after row of solid oak tables, though I spotted a side hallway that must have led to more private senior offices. Placed back-to-back, the desks didn’t offer much privacy, though tall hutches did block each lawyer’s view of their opposite neighbors.
The tables took up so much space, only a narrow corridor of a few feet separated them from the walls on the side. Instead of artwork, framed mirrors were spaced along the wall, perhaps to give the entire area a more spacious feel. I moved down the tight aisle, looking for a familiar flop of dark brown hair at one of the tables.
I found Josh five rows down, his back toward me. I could recognize those muscular shoulders anywhere. But he sat slouched with his head in his hands. Nearby lay a crinkled fortune cookie wrapper. Its accompanying slip of paper read, “A smile uses less muscles than a frown.”
I stepped closer to him. “Josh? I’m sorry to bother you, but . . .”
He lifted his head and registered me. Even under the fluorescent lighting, his eyes appeared a heady shade of brown.
His nose wrinkled. “Mimi? Did you tell me you were coming? I haven’t had a chance to check my voice messages yet.”
Oops. Guess I should have called first. Being accused of murder had made any sense of etiquette disappear.
The tips of his ears started turning pink. I wondered if he was reliving the last time we met, the awkward scene in the laundry room. “Er, sorry about the other day,” I said. “My mom was really talking about erasers. She uses British terms sometimes as a force of habit. I don’t really need rubbers for, um, other uses.” Nervous babbling had overtaken me. I chewed the inside of my cheek to stop talking.
He held up his hands. “Hey, I don’t need to know the intimate details of your private life.”
I took a deep breath. “Actually, I’m here for legal advice. A cop showed up at my work and started questioning me about a murder. I panicked and rushed right over.”
“Uh-oh. You’re involved in a homicide investigation?” He drummed his fingers against the table. Hmm, he had the nice long fingers of a pianist. I bet he had a gentle touch.
Marshmallow whispered to me. “Psst, say something. Otherwise, he might think you’re guilty.”
“Um.” I stopped watching Josh play his fingers against the burnished wood. “I didn’t do it, of course.”
That’s probably what every guilty person says. I tried batting my eyes at Josh, and he stopped moving his fingers.
Instead, he stood up and brought his face close to mine. Was he about to kiss me? “Mimi,” he said, “are your eyes okay?”
“What? Um . . .” The batting must have confused him. I rubbed my eyes. “A loose contact. It’s back in place now.”
“Look, even if I wanted to”—Josh gestured at a teetering stack of file folders—“I’m really busy right now.” The whole pile seemed ready to crash into a nearby glass jar filled with wrapped fortune cookies. Did he collect those?
I wrung my hands. “I’ve never been in trouble with the police before. Not even a speeding ticket. Please help me out. Maybe I could give you something in return for your legal help?”
He seemed to choke at my words.
“Gosh, you’re direct,” Marshmallow said.
I felt my face burn up. “I mean, I groom animals for a job. Perhaps you have a pet?”
He shook his head. “No way. I used to kill schools of carnival goldfish. And that’s only a slight exaggeration.”
“Or . . . I could do your laundry sometime?”
“No thanks. Plus, maybe you wouldn’t want me to represent you anyway . . .” His shoulders slumped. He picked up his fortune and reread it but, despite the advice, continued frowning. “In fact, you actually caught me at a horrible time. Just came back from court, where I lost my first case in ten minutes flat.”
Marshmallow piped up. “You sure know how to pick ’em, Mimi.”
I swung my bag toward the desk, stopping just shy of hitting the wooden surface.
A hiss erupted from the tote.
I hid the bag behind my feet so he couldn’t look inside.
“No pets allowed in the office,” Josh said. “Only service animals.”
“Sorry. It’s because I came straight from my shop.”
Marshmallow huffed. “What a load of kitty litter. It’s clear you can’t focus around lover boy and need me here. Now, go get his legal advice.”
Right. I clasped my hands together. “Can you help me out, Josh?”
He pointed an elegant pianist finger at the Hello Kitty tote. “I think you’d better leave now. The partners will have a fit if they find an animal, and then we’ll both be in deep trouble.”
Josh hadn’t answered my question. He wouldn’t help me, then. I’d messed up. I had driven away not only a talented lawyer, but someone I really liked, all through one conversation. “Um, I’ll see you around the apartments,” I said.
Josh didn’t respond and focused on organizing his teetering files. I slunk away from the open area—and not a moment too soon.
Because near the front desk, my phone started blaring out “Chapel of Love.” The receptionist placed a finger against her lips, and I silenced the ringing.
After I went down to the lobby, I called my mother back. “You called, Ma?”
“Finally use hand phone,” she yelled. “Fast come home. Help me make dim sum.”
I spluttered. “You’re calling me about your food cravings?”
Sometimes Ma’s spontaneous calls involved satisfying her taste buds. She often got a hankering for crisp roast duck or a sugar-crusted pineapple bun. Then she phoned me, because she hated eating by herself. If she ate with a partner, she could call it “bonding time,” not “gorging.”
“I’m really busy, Ma. You can’t even begin to imagine.” I paced back and forth by the brass elevators.
“Aiyaa! You not understand. Food not mine, for your meimei.”
My little sister. “Alice wants dim sum?” I said as I stepped out of the law building and braced myself to walk the several blocks over to the exorbitantly priced parking lot. “I don’t follow, Ma.”
“She call me. Sound so sad.”
I stubbed my right toe against an uneven ridge in the concrete sidewalk and flinched.
Ma continued, the pitch of her voice swooping high in victory. “I know how make better. Dan tat her back to happy.”
Egg tarts would cure my sister’s sorrow? Though, truth be told, they were her Achilles’ heel. She never passed up a dim sum cart laden with the sweet pastries.
Those fresh homemade egg tarts took time to craft, too. Ma’s recipe required a precise method of making the dough to create the exquisite crust.
“Why is Alice sad?” I asked.
“No say much. School trouble,” Ma said. “So, help me can?”
I froze at the edge of the parking lot. Something had happened at Alice’s workplace. Did it have anything to do with my emergency call to her classroom? Was she in trouble because of me?
A hot flush of shame bloomed in my body. “I’ll be right over,” I said as I sprinted toward my parked car.
CHAPTER
five
MA PUT ME to work in the kitchen making the egg tarts. The filling required whisking together sugar, eggs, vanilla, salt, and milk. However, the crust took more fine-tuning. Creating the extra flakiness required two dough mixtures: the first used all-purpose flour combined with oil, salt, and water; the second mixed together low-protein flour and oil. Then the two versions were flattened and rolled together and folded multiple times before being shaped into circles and fitted into cuplike molds.
After putting the tarts into the oven, Ma made sure to also brew a pot of strong tea. She placed the full red ceramic teapot embellished with a serpentine dragon on the lazy Susan. She’d made sure to add the portable spinner to the Formica dining table, the better to serve family meals. A spiral of steam came out of the teapot’s spout, bringing with it the fragrant floral scent of chrysanthemum tea.
The timer dinged. Ma and I moved to the oven door. As she pulled out the baking sheet of egg tarts, I said, “Those turned out well.” Each tart, about the size of my palm, featured a crimped buttery crust and a smooth golden center of egg custard. After they had cooled, I organized them onto a platter with double happiness symbols and added it to the lazy Susan.
Footsteps sounded near the front door. We heard a key turn in the lock.
I recognized those heavy, sturdy steps. Not my sister’s, but those of—
“Dad,” I said, flinging open the door.
He dropped his black bag filled with golf clubs on the threshold. “Princess Number One,” he said, enveloping me in a big bear hug. His familiar scent of cedar and spice washed over me. Even though I was full-grown, he towered over me by about a foot, and I still felt as secure in his arms as I had as a child.
After he let go, he strode across to Ma and pecked her cheek. “Hello, love.” He spotted the full plate of egg tarts on the table and said, “I see Alice hasn’t shown up yet. Guess I made it back in the nick of time.”
When he made to pilfer a dan tat, Ma swatted his hands away. “Alice get first pick.” She eyed his clothes. “Anyway, you need change, Greg. Quick lah.”
“Winnie, what I’m wearing is fine.”
Dad wore his usual golfing outfit: belted shorts and a striped polo—generic, of course. From far away, the symbol on his shirt looked like a player on a horse wielding a stick. On closer inspection, though, the horse turned out to be a unicorn. “Same material, half the price,” he often boasted, highlighting his figures-oriented accounting mind.
“No, you wear wrong. Like dis, do more style.” Ma smoothed down her own batik dress. The special customized fabric from Malaysia featured hand-painted butterflies flitting around in a garden.
The physical contrast between my parents seemed striking at first glance, but like their love, the fusion worked. Their unique combined style even invaded our home through the decor. Lucky goldfish sketches hung on our Benjamin Moore muted-color walls. Fancy brocaded silk throws decorated our long leather sofas.
The doorbell rang, one sharp chime.
“Too late now,” my dad said as he stuffed his golf bag into the hall closet.
Ma wagged her finger at him even while she shuffled over to the door and opened it. “Alice,” she said. “Why you ring bell? I always say no need guest air.”
My sister walked in with plodding, weary steps. “It’s only polite. I don’t live here anymore.” She rolled her neck to get a kink out. “I’ve had such a horrid day. Thanks for letting me come by, Ma.”
She slipped her shoes off in the foyer and froze as she spotted Dad and me standing across the way near the dining table. “What are you guys doing here?”
“Ma wanted to surprise you,” I said. “We showed up to provide moral support.”
Dad gave Alice a big wink. “Actually, I’m here for the dan tats.”
“Ooh.” Alice made her way over and grinned at the display on the table. “For me?”
I dusted my hands against my slacks, leaving a streak of white flour behind. “Ma and I baked them fresh.”
“And I stopped in the middle of a great golf game,” Dad added. “We love you, Princess Two.” He engulfed Alice in his arms.
Then, once we were all seated at the table, I poured out the tea for everyone in the matching red dragon cups. Although it was tradition to have the youngest serve the elders, I figured Alice needed a break.
For a few minutes, we munched on delicious egg tarts and didn’t say a word. Enjoying the creamy sweetness of the custard, I reveled in the bites. Joy also spread wide across Alice’s face as she licked crust crumbs off her fingers.
I saw Ma nudge Dad with her elbow, probably hoping he’d broac
h the topic of Alice’s sadness. He, in turn, stared at me. “Psych major,” he mouthed.
Clearing my throat, I spoke up. “So, Alice, is there anything you’d like to talk about?”
She took another dan tat and placed it on her plate.
“Sometimes it helps to process your feelings,” I continued. Ack, the words seemed ripped right from one of my old college textbooks.
She split her egg tart in half with a strong twist of her hands. An earthquake-like fissure severed its golden center. “Work is stressful right now, but I’m sure I’ll manage.”
“Um . . .” I poured her more tea. Wasn’t the chrysanthemum flower known for its calming properties? “Does the stress have anything to do with a phone call?”
“How did you—” She stopped and took a sip of tea. Then she touched the tip of her pinky to her chin, our sister promise to keep things mum from our parents. “Never mind. It wasn’t because of any phone call. I got in trouble when a new kid with an IEP acted up in class.”
Ma gasped. The teacup shook in her hands, and she spilled a few drops. “Kid make classroom explode?”
Dad placed an arm around Ma’s shoulder. “No, love. That’s an IED, improvised explosive device. An IEP is . . .” He faltered and raised his thick eyebrows at Alice.
“An individualized education program. Some kids need certain adjustments to learn better. They usually have an aide, but the assistant called in sick at the last minute.”
“The principal got mad at you about a child acting up? Come on, it’s school,” I said. “What does she expect to happen?”
“Principal Hallis was in my classroom observing my teaching today. The kid started screaming and throwing a tantrum. Afterward, the principal said I couldn’t control my classroom and that ‘any teacher worth her salt’ would be able to maintain an ‘optimal learning environment.’”
Alice started biting the fingernail on her thumb, a nervous habit she’d never outgrown. “The principal said the school might have some budget cuts soon.”
I sat upright in my chair. “She doesn’t mean . . .” Could the principal be threatening Alice’s job?
Mimi Lee Gets a Clue Page 4
