Milkshakes and Murder

by Christy Murphy

  "What's going on?" Mom asked her best friend.

  "Nothing."

  It was a kind of nothing that absolutely meant something. I figured it had to be something to do with Mom and the milkshake. It's the only type of gossip that Wenling would hide from Mom.

  Mom pretended to let it go and went on to talk about absolutely nothing in an attempt to get Wenling off guard. The mental chess game progressed with Wenling answering coyly to each of Mom's questions about family and business.

  Mom gave up dancing around the subject. "Why did you let Jennifer leave during lunch rush time?"

  Wenling avoided Mom's gaze. "Jennifer said that she heard there might be a big lunch event at the school."

  "There's no event at the school," Mom said.

  "Fine." Wenling put down her chopsticks and took a deep breath. "Everybody came in yesterday to get the gossip, so I guess they're all tired of Chinese food today."

  Mom nodded, but I could tell from her expression that she didn't entirely believe Wenling’s answer.

  A few minutes later, Jennifer rushed back into the restaurant talking to her mother in Chinese again.

  The look of concern on both of their faces made me worry something horrible had happened.

  They continued to talk in a flurry of words I couldn't understand until Mom interrupted.

  "Dead?" Mom asked. "Who died?"

  Wenling and Jennifer looked at Mom stunned.

  "You said dead twice."

  "You don't speak Chinese," Wenling said.

  "I know the word for dead."

  "In Chinese there are lots of words for dead," Wenling protested.

  "Just tell me," Mom said.

  "Brent Cryer," I guessed.

  Wenling and Jennifer gave me a stunned look. "How do you know?" Wenling asked, confirming my guess.

  "No wonder he was acting strange yesterday," Mom said. "He was sick."

  Jennifer shook her head no. "They say he died of a concussion."

  "You can't die from a concussion," Mom said.

  Wenling nodded yes and said, "Remember we saw it on TV? That forensic show where an intruder got hit on the head with a vase and then died later."

  "So they think he died from hitting his head on the sidewalk?"

  Jennifer nodded. The table was quiet. And then Mom said, "Well that's too bad."

  "But there's more," Wenling said, and then she turned it over to Jennifer.

  Jennifer said something in Chinese to her mother. Wenling answered back, "You're the one who heard it. You tell her."

  My stomach churned. "Everyone in town thinks that Jo's cooking is what's been killing people. It's the third time in just a few months that someone has died after eating her food."

  Mom scoffed. "The people who died were murdered! They didn't even get to eat my food before they croaked."

  "Rick Heller had your apple margarita," Wenling said.

  "He fell out of 17th story window!" Mom said. "And before you say it. Harold Sanders did not die from eating my food. He died upstairs before he even got to the party, and he was 85 years old. Everyone was here when I solved the case. Even the police believe me."

  "We haven’t had one customer all day," Jennifer said.

  "Not one?" Wenling asked, her face surprised. "I heard the bell."

  "Just deliveries," Jennifer said.

  "This is ridiculous," Mom said.

  "Some say you're cursed. Others say our kitchen must be contaminated to make the man so sick he died."

  "It’s just people gossiping. We’ll sit tight and tell everyone the truth. They’ll be back," Mom said. Wenling nodded in agreement with Mom but Jennifer didn’t seem so sure.

  I finished updating Mom’s catering website after entering last month's expenses into Quickbooks. I glanced at the time in the corner of my screen and realized it was already after ten, just enough time to get my second cup of half-caff coffee and get dressed for The Lucky Dragon.

  It felt odd living in my childhood home when I moved back after my marriage fell apart, but Mom had redecorated our modest tract home after Dad died and all three of us kids moved out. With her changes, and more time spent moving in my things, living here felt like home now. The view of the mountain in our back yard still reminded me of when I was a kid, but in a good way. It's funny how all I wanted as a kid was to grow up and move out, and now, I look back and see how happy life had been then.

  I was eager to get back to The Lucky Dragon and find out what really happened to Brent Cryer. It surprised me that Mom wasn’t interested in getting to the bottom of what happened. I wondered if she felt guilty. The restaurant had been a ghost town all yesterday afternoon and even into dinner service.

  I got up from the desk and opened the door to find Mom standing there getting ready to knock.

  "Good, you’re done. I need you to drive me," Mom said.

  "Another audition?" I asked.

  "No, this is business," Mom said. "It’s not too far. Just in Van Nuys." Before I could ask Mom what business she had in Van Nuys she announced she was going to grab her purse and change her shirt. "We can leave in fifteen minutes," she said, which was Mom's way of telling me to be ready in fifteen minutes. A part of me hoped we were looking more closely into the death of Brent Cryer. The way he’d entered the restaurant swaying and discombobulated made me think he had to have been sick from something earlier that day or maybe even the day before.

  With only fifteen minutes to get ready, I decided to forgo the cup of coffee and get dressed. Before I even reached my dresser, the doorbell rang.

  "Can you get that for me?" Mom yelled from her bedroom. "I'm not dressed."

  I assumed it was a delivery man. Mom’s habit of buying gadgets from the Shopping Channel made our house a regular stop for delivery guys in the area. Mom, of course, had tried to match me with several of the drivers, but to my good luck, all three regular drivers were married. I found it a relief not to have to worry about being presentable each time the doorbell rang.

  I opened the door expecting to find Kostas, the mailman who usually came at this hour, but instead found myself, no makeup, face to face with Detective DC Cooper, my crush. Of course.

  "Good morning," he said. "Late night?"

  My brain didn't function around this man. He had that whole cleft chin, dimples, square jaw, blue-eyed, salt-and-pepper hair thing going on.

  I must've made a confused face as I stood there saying nothing, because then he said, "The pajamas. It's after 10 in the morning, and you're still in your pajamas."

  The comment smacked of disapproval. For as good looking as he was, DC Cooper and I often seemed to butt heads. "I like to do my computer work in my pajamas. It feels less like work."

  "I don't have that luxury," he said.

  Awkward silence.

  "Why are you here?" I asked, my voice coming out a lot more cranky than I'd expected. I shouldn't have skipped that second cup of half caff.

  Mom entered the living room and came to the door. "DC! Come in! So glad you're here."

  Duh. I should've invited him in. Mom motioned for DC to take a seat in the living room. I could almost see Mom measuring DC up for a wedding tuxedo. I'd eloped the first time.

  The three of us sat in the living room Mom had redecorated. White carpet, white sofa, minimalist glass coffee table. It's the kind of living room that you'd want to have, but could never have with three children, and a husband who liked to eat Cheetos.

  "I'm sure you figured out why I’m here," Detective Cooper said.

  Mom shrugged her shoulders, which surprised me. It wasn't like Mom to not have a theory about anything.

  "It's about Brent Cryer right?" I said.

  Before DC could answer, Mom said, "He died of a concussion. People think it's food poisoning, but I'm sure you figured out it was something else."

  Judging from DC's expression, I could tell he was surprised by Mom's reaction. If anything, I’d have to pry her away from any kind of mystery. But she didn't seem intere
sted in this at all.

  "The coroners office has yet to determine food poisoning, but I was wondering if you had any samples of that milkshake," DC said.

  "Food poisoning doesn't onset that fast," Mom said. "And we washed the glass after he left."

  "Did you make the ice cream here or at the kitchen?" DC asked Mom.

  "I tested the recipe at home first, but the ice cream and milk I used for the milkshake served at The Lucky Dragon I made there. If you're going to serve food commercially, you have to make it in a commercial kitchen," she said.

  "The inspectors are going over Wenling’s kitchen now," DC said.

  "Wen's kitchen will check out. Then this will all blow over," Mom said.

  "I did want to ask you a few things about the incident," DC said. "Between your knowledge of the town and Christy's memory thing, you'd be the best witnesses."

  My "memory thing" is this weird brain tick where if I find something uber stressful, like something embarrassing or traumatic, my memory kicks into high gear. It makes it harder to just "get over" certain painful aspects of my life. I can still recall in intimate detail the time that I wore all white and got caught in the rain on a school field trip. My entire outfit became see through. The other kids teased me for having a bra and underwear with blue flowers on them.

  "I don't know if it's traumatizing enough for her to remember anything," Mom said.

  "Every time I have to call 911, Mom, it’s memorable."

  "You’ve done it so often lately, I didn't think it was a big deal anymore," Mom said.

  "That does seem to be your MO," DC said. His voice had a playful tone.

  "I think calling 911 in a crisis is a good thing," I said in my defense. Boy, not having a second cup of coffee sure did make me grumpy.

  "Do you remember anything odd about Brent's demeanor during the judging?" DC asked me.

  "He was staggering around like he was drunk," I said.

  "His blood alcohol level shows he hadn't been drinking," DC said.

  I looked over to Mom. Surely that anomaly would trigger her sleuthing reflex. But still nothing.

  "Did you notice if he entered with anyone he had argued with?" DC asked.

  The question surprised me and I jumped in to answer. "He came in with Todd Fletcher, and they were friendly. What makes you ask that question?"

  "Just routine follow-up," DC said.

  "It's a pretty specific question," I pressed.

  DC didn't respond. "Is there anything else that you noticed, Jo?" DC asked.

  DC was pumping Mom for leads. He must believe there was more to Brent Cryer’s death than slipping and falling.

  "If there’s food poisoning, there's a chance that Al from the Fletcher Diner might have sabotaged my milkshake," Mom said. "You should check his kitchen too."

  Mom's reaction surprised me.

  "What makes you say that?" DC asked.

  "Al stormed into the kitchen just before the judge got there. He had a few seconds close to my milkshake. He might’ve slipped something in it," Mom said with her arms folded.

  "I'll look into that," DC said. But I could tell from his voice he was disappointed. He looked over to me. "Anything to add?"

  "If he wasn't drunk, something wasn't right with him," I said. "And he fell really hard on the sidewalk. Everyone was there."

  "With your memory, I trust you can make a list of all the people in the diner," he said.

  "I don't know everyone's names," I said.

  "If you don’t know I might, and your Mom would probably know the rest," DC said.

  "OK, I'll help Christy make a list later, but right now we have to go. We have an appointment," Mom said.

  "I appreciate your help," DC said, standing up. He turned to me and smiled. DC Cooper rarely smiled, but when he did, wow. For the first time in my life, I understood what women meant when they say their knees went weak. Our eyes locked, and I couldn't help but grin like an idiot.

  "You guys will be at the Lucky Dragon tomorrow?" he asked.

  "Yes," I managed to croak out.

  Mom jumped in to save me. "You can come join us for lunch."

  "I'll be on duty, but can I pick up the list then?"

  Rats. He wasn't making plans to meet me. He was making plans to collect evidence.

  "Sure," Mom said, her voice showing disappointment.

  "I’ll try to come for lunch, though," he said. And then he smiled again while looking at me.

  I made a mental note to wear something more presentable to the Lucky Dragon tomorrow—just in case.

  Betrayal and Burritos

  The city of Van Nuys has a reputation in Los Angeles for being unseemly. Not all the bad PR is justified, but this particular section of Van Nuys Mom and I were currently cruising through thoroughly lived up to its reputation. It was the kind of neighborhood where you could buy cheap liquor, browse a pawnshop, and visit any number of bail bondsmen without having to cross the street.

  Mom hadn't told me much about this "meeting," which made me suspect I wouldn't enjoy it. I pledged to keep patient, and tried to remember that Mom never steered me wrong even when she gave roundabout directions.

  Mom is the adventurous and open type, and I was not. Sometimes I wondered if I got any genes from my mother. Life would be so much easier if I were more like her.

  I parked our catering van on the street. The parallel parking went a lot easier than normal. The lack of other cars helped.

  "Mom, are you sure you got the address right?"

  Mom read aloud from her telephone. "1307 Leadwell Lane. Suite 107."

  We climbed out of the van, and I dug in my pocket for change. But to our good fortune, the graffitied parking meter was out of order. Free parking. How nice! The savings would offset the cost of our van being stolen.

  "Siri says it's this way," Mom said, heading down the sidewalk. To Mom all the information on her phone was from Siri.

  "Wait!" I said rushing after her. "This doesn't seem like a safe neighborhood." Mom did the thing that she always does when I say something that she doesn't want to talk about, she pretended like she didn’t hear me.

  I clutched my purse close to my side and followed Mom to the shabby building with the numbers 1300-1320 etched onto a dirty window next to a set of old, glass double doors. It was one of those buildings that was built in the 70s, with the outside made to look like a rock face, if a rock face was tacky. The dated façade and window storefronts filled with nothing made the place look abandoned.

  "I don't think this is it," I said to Mom as she opened the door and walked inside.

  I had no choice but to follow her, but my pledge to be patient had already fallen to ruin. "Mom, what exactly are we here for?"

  Mom walked past the shabby staircase. "It's a Suite 107, so I don't think that we need to go up the stairs."

  We headed down the hallway, past "suites" 101 through 106, which looked deserted, except 105. Suite 105’s door was closed, but it sported a tattered poster featuring a depressing photo of a clown. It read "Lucky's Entertainment: children's parties, bachelors parties, and more."

  At the very least, we weren't here to hire a clown. My day was looking up. Mom had made her way to the end of the hall while I'd been distracted by Lucky's poster. She stood in the doorway of the last office in the hall next to the emergency exit.

  "Hi," Mom said as she waved to whoever was in the office and entered without me. "Sorry we're late, but we ended up talking to DC."

  "How is he?" a woman's voice said as I entered the doorway.

  "He's fine," Mom said.

  I sat down in the chair next to Mom. The office was small, but looked so much nicer than the rest of the building. It was hip and retro like something out of an old movie, complete with the rotary telephone and an antique record player. I instantly liked the place and the young woman behind the desk.

  "This is my daughter, Christy," Mom said. "Christy this is Edie."

  "Eddie," the young woman corrected.

 
; "Sorry, I thought your Mom said Edie."

  "Its a typo on my birth certificate," Eddie explained. "It says E-d-d-i-e on the certificate, and I found it works better in my line of work. How do you know my mom?"

  "DC said she was Filipino, so I asked him what her name was, and it turns out... ."

  Mom went on to do the elaborate relative/friend math that I could never keep up with. Filipinos in Southern California seem to all be related to each other, even though as a kid growing up in Fletcher Canyon I never saw another Filipino person (except Mom). It wasn't until I went to college that I suddenly was around Asian people.

  Eddie looked to be in her mid-20s. It surprised me that she had a Filipino mom, because she looked very Caucasian, large eyes, long brown hair, long nose. Not a big nose, but that great movie star-like nose that looks good in a profile picture. My profile picture is all cheeks and double chin. I have a half-and-half nose, a little wide at the nostrils, but not too small. Mom's nose is so small that when she tries to put on her reading glasses, they rest on her face instead of just on her nose.

  Mom and Eddie made small talk, and I let my mind wander, looking at cool things in the office. I'd forgotten to even think about what we were doing here until I heard Mom say, "So what did you find out about Robert?"

  "Wait, what?" I blurted out.

  Eddie turned to me and said, "Your mom hired me to look into your husband's financial prospects and assets."

  "Mom!" I protested.

  "Let's just hear what she has to say. DC recommended her. She must be very good."

  My mind flashed back to when Mom, Wenling, Celia and I were working on a case for Barbara Turing, and DC had suggested that Barbara should hire his friend, an actual licensed private investigator. I guess that was Eddie Harlow. As much as I liked her, I didn't like Mom meddling in my failed marriage. She should have told me.

  "Let's go to La Fogata," Mom said as we headed back to the van after our meeting. She knew I was angry and upset, and La Fogata was one of my favorite Mexican places. It was rare for us to be in the neighborhood.

  Mom and I climbed into the van, and as I drove down Van Nuys Boulevard in the direction of La Fogata, I stewed in silence. I didn't know if I was mad because of what I learned about Robert, or because Mom had hired a private investigator without talking to me about it. It was my failing marriage. Shouldn't I have been the one to decide what I wanted to do about it?