Milkshakes and Murder

by Christy Murphy

  All I saw was mud.

  "It’s dried up even more than I remember," Wenling said.

  Mom walked around the mud. Wenling and I followed. As we got closer, I could see the outline of what must’ve been a pretty wide river. We walked carefully along what would have been the old embankment. My foot slipped in my floppy shoes. I stumbled, but didn’t fall.

  "Look for signs of digging or camping," Mom said.

  We all fanned out to scour the area, but after an hour of searching, we found nothing.

  Hot Chocolate and Hot Water

  Mom poured hot chocolate into three big mugs. I admired the way she could pour from the pot without making a mess.

  "This better be good," Wenling said as she came into the kitchen wearing Mom's pajamas with a towel wrapped around her freshly washed hair. She took a seat across from me at the kitchen table. She’d borrowed some of Mom’s slippers and nightclothes.

  Mom ignored the comment and went to the cupboard to get a bag of marshmallows.

  I grabbed a handful of marshmallows and packed it into my hot chocolate before eating a few on their own. Wenling did the same except with fewer marshmallows.

  Our trek into the mountains had yielded nothing but sore feet and disappointment. Although, I had to admit the hot chocolate and warm shower made me feel a lot less dejected than I had been when we came home. We all sat and drank in silence for awhile.

  "Should we go back tomorrow with my gun?" Wenling asked.

  "Not yet," Mom said, and by not yet I hoped she meant never. "What if there is no gold?"

  Wenling and I looked up from our hot chocolate.

  "Who else could have killed him?" Mom asked.

  "His wife maybe? Howard?" I asked.

  Mom took a sip of her hot chocolate, lost in thought. "What about his mistress?"

  "Maybe they had a lover’s spat, and she tried to kill him in a crime of passion," Wenling said, her eyes wide with glee.

  The new idea did give me hope. "That would explain the concussion," I said.

  Wenling turned to me with a questioning look. "DC said that he died of a concussion."

  "That would explain why he was acting drunk," Mom said. "They got into a fight that morning before the judging, and she hit him with a vase or something."

  "The hat!" I exclaimed. "He was wearing that stupid baseball hat with the word judge on it, and the hat was really loose. Maybe he used the hat to cover the bump."

  Wenling smiled. "We solved it!"

  "Well," Mom said. "We have to find out who his mistress was."

  "Oooh," Wenling said. "We’re going to the seedy hotel. Maybe —"

  "No," I interrupted. "You shouldn’t bring your gun."

  The next day, we pulled up to the Moonlight Motel on Foothill Boulevard. I’d expected the place to be seedier, which didn’t speak well of the places I’d stayed while on the road with Robert.

  "The parking lot looks small," I said as I slowed down.

  Mom rolled down the window and leaned out of it to get a closer look. Wenling had her hands over her eyes, as was now her habit when she rode in the van with me for more than five minutes. A car behind me honked as it passed. I had my turn signal on, but I’d paused too long. Wenling pressed her hands tighter against her eyes.

  "Turn right onto that side street after the hotel," Mom said, and I lurched forward to get out of the way of traffic.

  Sure enough, maybe three yards from the hotel there was a spot on the street. I pulled up to the curb with a sigh of relief.

  "We’re here," Mom said. Wenling removed her hands from her eyes and looked around. "It’s back there." Mom said, pointing toward the hotel as she opened the door.

  Wenling said something under her breath in Chinese and got out of the van. The three of us walked toward the Moonlight Motel, and I wondered what the plan was to find out the identity of Brent’s mistress.

  Mom had brought a copy of a back issue of Fletcher Weekly that had Brent’s picture in it, but I hoped her plan wasn’t to knock on doors at the hotel and ask if anyone had seen him. Mom watched a lot of shows on the crime network, and "canvassing" was the thing that police officers did often. But I doubted that would work for us, especially at this motel.

  A man in a wrinkled suit carrying his tie emerged from one of the rooms and headed in our direction. He’d apparently opted to park on the street as well.

  "Sir!" Mom said rushing up to him, holding the paper. Wenling followed. I froze with embarrassment.

  The panic in the man’s eyes was apparent even from a distance. He held his hands up in the surrender position. His tie flapped in the wind. "I don’t want any trouble."

  "Okay," Mom said. "Have you seen our friend?" she asked shoving the paper into his face.

  The man pushed the paper away and sprinted to his car.

  Wenling laughed. "So fast! Quick! Like lightning!"

  Mom laughed with her, and the two headed back toward the motel. My stomach sank. This couldn’t be the plan, could it? Were we going to just randomly ask people at a seedy motel if they’d seen Brent Cryer?

  I rushed to catch up to them, hoping to convince them to rethink their plan, but by the time I caught up with them they were already accosting a well-dressed woman sweeping the front walk just outside the lobby. I’d been in such a panic to stop Mom and Wenling that it didn’t strike me as odd at the time that the woman was wearing a tiara and cleaning.

  Mom and Wenling helped hold open the plastic garbage bag for her to empty the dustpan. As I got closer, I noticed she was an usually tall woman, and that she looked Filipina.

  Mom spoke to the woman in Visayan, the dialect from my mother's home island. The woman’s painted eyebrows shot up to her hairline, and she spoke back to Mom in the same dialect. They continued to speak in rapid Visayan for a while until Mom exclaimed in English.

  "Are you little Dar-dar, Maria’s son?" Mom pronounced Dar-dar much like the name Jar Jar (as in Jar Jar Binks.)

  "Yes!" a very not little Dar-dar said, his Filipino accent apparent in just one English word.

  That’s when I noticed Dar-dar’s rather large feet and Adam’s apple. Within a few minutes, we were following Mom’s new friend into the lobby of the motel and behind the desk.

  "Do I call you son or daughter now?" Mom asked.

  "I’m still a son. I just like to look good," Dar-dar said.

  "So when did you get here to the U.S.?" Mom asked.

  "A year ago. A friend of Mom’s auntie owns the hotel and sponsored me. He’s a very nice man."

  "I like your thing," Wenling said, motioning to the tiara.

  "Thank you," he said. "I won it in a beauty pageant in Cebu before I came here."

  Beauty pageants gay and straight are very popular in the Philippines. My Uncle Nunoy, who still lived in the Philippines, did hair for some of the pageants.

  "Your mother must have been so proud!" Mom said.

  "Yes, but not papa," Dar-dar said. Mom patted Dar-dar’s well-manicured hand. He put his hand on hers. "That’s when we thought it was best I come to the United States, and look how great it turned out!" Dar-dar said, waving to the surrounding room.

  The sitting room behind the counter of the hotel was way nicer than what I expected. "I really like the way the place is decorated," I said.

  "I did it myself. Reupholstered all the furniture. Fixed the dry wall. Painted. Everything."

  Wenling looked around. "Very nice."

  "It’s a gift," he said.

  "Listen," Mom said, unfolding the paper. "Our friend’s dead husband had a mistress and we’re trying to find her. She found a receipt from this hotel in his jacket pocket."

  "Men are dogs," Dar-dar said, reaching for the paper. "But nothing bad is going to happen if I tell you, will it? The wife won't come and shoot up the place."

  "No, but the husband was murdered, and we’re trying to solve the mystery," Mom said.

  "Oooh," Dar-dar said, reaching for the paper with renewed interest and looking a
t the picture. "I know him!" Dar-dar said. "He came here a bunch of times, but I don’t think he had a mistress."

  Mom and Wenling traded looks.

  "He had a manstress," Dar-dar said.

  We all were shocked. "I never would have guessed," Wenling said.

  "Neither would I, girl," Dar-dar said. "Even the guy who came with him. They looked straight as an arrow to me."

  "What did his manstress look like?" Mom asked.

  "He usually waited in the car, but I saw him leaving the room once while I was sweeping the parking lot. Never saw his face. He had long, frizzy hair. Skinny. No butt."

  "That’s not a lot to go on," Mom said.

  "I’m sorry. But at least you know you’re looking for a man instead of a woman," Dar-dar said. "And speaking of mysteries, did you ever figure out what happened to your sister?"

  My mouth dropped open. It hadn't occurred to me when we found out that Dar-dar was from Mom's small village that he'd know about Aunt Lalaine. But he'd just come to the US, of course he'd know.

  I held my breath waiting to hear Mom’s response. But then Dar-dar's eyes snapped to the television monitor. "We have to go!" he said, jumping out of his seat.

  That’s when I looked at the monitor myself. Several police cars had pulled up to the motel.

  The four of us rushed to the front door of the lobby. "Wait!" Dar-dar exclaimed as he stopped at the window, causing a four-person pile up. I was impressed that he didn't fall off his stilettos. "They’re parked on Foothill. Let’s sneak out the side entrance," he said, rushing back behind the counter and opening a door to what looked like a small bedroom with a microwave.

  "Is this your place?" Mom asked, marveling at a painting on the wall.

  "Yes," he said, opening a door along the far wall and peeking out of it. "Quick," he said as he grabbed an almost luggage-sized handbag off a nearby table, "the ghost is clear." We all knew what he meant, but I suspected I was the only one who knew he'd gotten the phrase wrong.

  We followed him out the door and walked away from the hotel.

  "Where to?" Mom asked.

  "We'll stand on the sidewalk and pretend we’re just passers-by being nosy."

  "What are the police here for?" Wenling asked.

  "It's a raid," he said. "They've been here before, but we cleaned up the place. Barely any funny business at all."

  "Won't they recognize you standing out here?" Mom whispered to Dar-dar.

  "You guys stand in front of me and I'll blend in," he said, but the man was at least six feet tall and wearing stilettos on top of that. Mom and Wenling came up to just above his waist, and I barely made it to his armpit. The sequined evening gown didn't help with the "blending in" either.

  "This isn't going to work," I said. "Our van is over there." I pointed to it parked on the street. "Can we just leave?"

  Dar-dar sprinted for the van which I took as a yes. The three of us chased after him. I rushed over to unlock the passenger door and then ran around to get in the driver's seat.

  But when I opened the door, I realized that the three of them couldn't fit. "Somebody's gonna have to go into the back," I said.

  "I'll hide back there," Dar-dar said as he attempted to slide across the bucket seat to exit the driver's side. His sequined dress hiked up to his waist revealing his large, control-top undergarment, and his long legs got stuck on the stick shift.

  The sound of police banging on doors of the motel spurred us on. Dar-dar flipped his legs onto the dashboard and his high heels slammed into the windshield with such force I thought it was going to crack.

  "My shoes are stuck!" he said, his voice taking on a deeper tone. Mom and Wenling grabbed an ankle each and undid the delicate buckles of his stilettos to remove them.

  "Harriet Stanley's," Wenling said, noting the designer.

  Mom made a face that showed she was impressed.

  "Guys, we have to hurry!" I said.

  Mom and Wenling pushed on Dar-dar's feet to help him pull them across the dashboard. They were stuck for a moment, but slid free with such force, I had to jump back to keep from getting kicked in the face.

  Dar-dar snatched his purse from Wenling's lap and leapt out of the van with a dismount that Gabby Douglas would've admired.

  I dashed to the back of the van, unlocked it, and Dar-dar jumped inside. I heard the sound of a car turning onto the street. I acted calm as I walked back to the front of the van.

  "The cops just blocked the street," Mom said, looking out her side view mirror.

  "Then I'll go straight," I said, pulling myself into the driver's seat and attempting to remain calm, despite being in a full-blown panic.

  I fastened my seatbelt, took a deep breath, and started the van. I drove a few yards, only to find I couldn't continue straight and had to make a right-hand turn. Turning right, I found I'd driven us into a cul-de-sac. So much for my getaway plan.

  "Do we just wait here until they're gone?" Wenling asked.

  "I don't know," Mom said. "Could take a while. What do you think, kid?"

  I forced myself to act calm, but my insides shuddered like a wet, cold chihuahua. I couldn't handle pretending to be calm for much longer.

  "I think we'll just turn around and drive home," I said, impressed with how calm my voice came out.

  Mom and Wenling nodded their okay, and I executed a three-point turn with unexpected ease. I smiled to myself. Maybe that's what people meant when they said "act confident." I'd never been able to pull it off before. Chalk one up for personal growth!

  I drove the van right to where the police cars blocked half the street. An officer motioned for us to stop and approached the window. That's where my newfound confidence decided to abandon me.

  "Ma'am," the officer said. The use of the word ma'am and his tone rattled me. At 35, I hadn't come to grips with being in the ma'am stage of life.

  "Yes, officer," I said, my voice, high and tight. This was my chance to handle conflict. I needed to rise to the occasion.

  "May I ask why you drove the other way and then headed back here?" he asked.

  "I thought I could get out that way, but I couldn't," I stammered, a lump growing in my throat.

  "And what were you doing parked on this street?" he asked.

  I glanced over to Mom and Wenling and saw a Mr. Toodles sign in the window. Man, I could go for one of their roast beef sandwiches.

  "Ma'am, I asked you a question," he said, his voice even harsher.

  I turned back to face him, and his partner was walking up to the van with his hand on his gun!

  That's when I, for the second time that week, burst into tears. Minus 10 points for public crying.

  The officer turned his attention to Wenling. "What's wrong with her?"

  Wenling spoke to the man in Chinese.

  "What's wrong?" his partner asked.

  "This one is hysterical, and the other two don't speak English," he said.

  "Miss," his partner said, his use of the word "miss" deemed him the nicer of the two partners in my mind. "Are you okay? This isn't a good part of town to be in."

  "Mr. Toodles," I managed to squeak out. Somehow my tear-drenched brain had latched onto that fast food joint like it was a lighthouse of safety in my current poop storm. But then, like magic, the soothing thoughts of tasty sandwiches gave my mind enough breathing room to cook up an alibi.

  "What's that, ma'am?" the nicer one asked.

  "I parked here for Mr. Toodles," I said as I wiped my tears and nose with my hand and then realized I had nowhere to wipe my hands except my jeans. "The parking lot seemed too crowded for this van. It's so much bigger than my Honda."

  And my half-truthful confession of driving incompetence seem to be a credible enough reason for our current location that the officers let us go.

  "Great thinking, Kid," Mom said as we cruised down Foothill Boulevard.

  "I think the crying helped," Wenling said.

  "I think so too," Mom said.

  I couldn't be sure wh
ether they were saying that to make me feel better, or if they believe my tears were chosen as a tactical advantage. Either way, I figured I'd take this as a mark of progress. Sad progress, but progress.

  We rode the rest of the way in relieved silence. I exhaled as I turned the street to our house. Safe. That's when I spotted the sports car in our driveway.

  "Does Martin have a new car?" I asked Mom. Martin was Mom's new boyfriend.

  "No, he's still out of town," Mom said, but she didn't have to answer me. As I drove closer, I saw him leaning against the car waiting like the self absorbed, wannabe rock star he was–Robert.

  I pulled the van in next to his stupid car in our driveway. He'd barely left enough room for me. Mom and Wenling hopped out of the passenger's side closest to Robert. Not knowing what to do, I got out of the van and went to the back to let Dar-dar out.

  I opened the doors and was surprised to find Dar-dar with all his makeup removed wearing a pair of shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops.

  "I thought I'd change just in case the po-po caught up with us. But girl, you ditched them good," he said crawling out of the back of the van holding his blonde wig, heels, and sequined dress in one hand and handbag in the other.

  Mom and Wenling joined me at the back of the van.

  "Presto change-o," Wenling said.

  "I man up pretty good," he said, putting his purse on his shoulder and patting down his dark crew cut.

  I shut the back door, and not being able to stall anymore walked over to Robert.

  "Finally," he said as I got out of the van.

  "Is there a problem here?" Dar-dar said, his voice full of bass that I didn't know he had, as he stood beside me. His height and biceps looked so much more intimidating without the sequined dress and makeup. The only trace of his former beauty queen self was his long, bejeweled nails and well-groomed arched brows.

  "It'll be okay, Dar," I said to him.

  "Okay, girl," he said with his regular voice and an elegant wave of his hand. "Yell if you need us."

  Mom paused to make sure she should leave, and I nodded to her that it was okay.

  "Who the hell was that?" Robert said after they went inside.