Coconuts and Crooks

by Christy Murphy

  “We have to wait until we have enough passengers,” Mom said.

  “Can we just pay him for the empty seats so we can leave now?” I asked.

  Mom shushed me and shook her head. “It won’t take long.”

  Mom was right. Within five minutes, three women—each carrying a live chicken wrapped in a cloth—boarded the bus, and we had enough passengers to begin our journey.

  I couldn’t be sure how long we’d been riding in the jeepney. The discomfort made time move slowly, and I was so squished there wasn’t room to reach into my pocket and check my cell phone for the time.

  “Are you okay, kid?” Mom asked. “This isn’t like traveling in the States.”

  “I’m fine. Fire exits and safety regulations are overrated,” I said.

  Mom laughed. So did Wenling.

  “How about you, Mom? Are you okay?”

  She knew I was talking about last night and the fight with Auntie Chooney. Mom had been quiet ever since.

  “Yeah,” Wenling said. “Tell us what happened last night. It’ll take my mind off of the smell of this chicken.”

  “What does your chicken smell like?” I asked. The chicken next to me smelled like hay and poop.

  Wenling stopped to think. “Cornflakes and poop.”

  “Cornflakes!” Mom said, and we all laughed.

  Mom opened up and told us about last night. “She just kept insisting that she’d done nothing wrong. I told her that it was wrong of her to sell my share of the land, but she kept saying the other side said they had the power of attorney. I told her she knew I was in the United States and that I didn’t want to sell, but she wouldn’t listen. She told me I was being greedy. But she’s the greedy one. She’s always been like that.”

  “What was the part about her being haunted by your sister?” Wenling asked.

  “She said that I need to forgive her so that Lalaine’s ghost will stop haunting her. I told her she needed to confess so that her conscience would stop haunting her,” Mom said.

  “I told you Filipinos believe in ghosts,” Wenling said.

  “I don’t,” Mom said. “But I guess people here are still superstitious.” Mom sighed. “After Papa died, Auntie Chooney moved in with her daughters to help us. She says I should be grateful, but I told her she should be grateful. I spent most of my most of my childhood cleaning up after her and her daughters. I was the one who had to administer her diabetes medication and rub her stupid feet.”

  “Rub her feet?” Wenling said. “Did she work a lot?”

  Mom shook her head. “Never. She watched TV and ate chocolates all day, which made her diabetes worse. Her feet were so gross,” Mom said, and laughed remembering them. “As kids we hated it so much that we would promise each other our dessert if the other one would rub her feet that night. Auntie Chooney said she needed to keep the circulation going in her feet so that the diabetes didn’t get her.”

  “Maybe it worked,” Wenling said. “She still has both her feet.”

  Mom laughed.

  “How much longer is it?” Wenling said. “I’m getting thirsty and hungry.”

  “Not too much longer,” Mom said. “We didn’t get you a Coke Light, kid. You must be dying.”

  “I’m kind of glad I didn’t have anything to drink or eat,” I said. “I don’t have to worry about going to the bathroom.”

  “We should have worn those diapers today,” Wenling said. We all laughed.

  One of the ladies knocked on the top of the bus. I gave Mom a questioning look.

  “That means they want to get off,” she said.

  The jeepney pulled over, and the three women carrying the chickens all got off. I used the extra space to stretch my legs.

  “It’s not much farther,” Mom said. “We’ll eat first, and then we’ll find Dolpo, the driver.”

  A half hour later, Mom knocked on the top of the jeepney, and we all got off.

  My legs had gone to sleep, and the pain of the blood rushing to them made me hiss.

  “Are you okay, kid?” Mom asked.

  “Pins and needles,” I said.

  Mom pointed out a nearby food stand with a picnic table in the shade, and we headed for it. It was a small stand that served grilled chicken. We feasted on grilled chicken and rice and recharged our energy. The owner of the place pointed us in the direction of Dolpo, the pedicab driver’s house.

  Mom decided to buy a roasted chicken to go so that we wouldn’t show up empty-handed.

  The three of us headed down the dusty road with sun at our backs and a gift chicken in tow, determined to solve this mystery.

  We walked for over a half an hour in the hot sun. Mom mentioned how far away the house was, but now that Mom was in the Philippines she spoke in kilometers, which meant I had no idea what she was talking about. We came to a fork in the road.

  “Did she say for us to go left or right?” Mom asked.

  “I think it was left,” Wenling said.

  “You don’t speak Visayan,” Mom said.

  “I think I might understand some of it,” Wenling said.

  I noticed a very lean, dark-tanned, teenage boy jogging in flip-flops behind us. Mom, Wenling, and I all turned around to look at him.

  He waved. “Are you looking for Dolpo?”

  “Yes,” Mom said.

  “Are you the one with the sister who died?” His English was choppy and heavily accented.

  “Yes,” Mom said.

  “Are you angry?” he asked.

  Sensing his difficulties with English, Mom reassured him in Visayan that we weren’t angry.

  He looked doubtful, but Mom showed him the chicken and it seemed to convince him. I guess angry people don’t come bearing chicken.

  “Promise, no mad,” he said one last time.

  We all nodded, and he led the way.

  It wasn’t that much farther to Dolpo’s house. We arrived five minutes later to find a shack-like wooden house. I didn’t see any power lines nearby, and I doubted that they had pocket Wi-Fi like Gurley’s house. The teenage boy told us to wait, and he ran into the house.

  A man with an eye patch and a cane came to the door. He was in tears and spoke to Mom with a shaky voice.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked Mom.

  “It’s okay,” Mom said, soothing the man and then remembering to speak in Visayan. She hugged the man and then turned to me.

  Mom’s voice shook. “He says he wants us to forgive him,” Mom said.

  A lump lodged in my throat as I fought back tears. This poor man.

  Mom calmed the man, and he invited us into his house. There were only two chairs in the room, and the old man motioned to the boy who I assumed was his son. The teenager returned with two additional chairs that he’d taken from another room.

  We sat down and Mom and Dolpo talked. He looked older than his years, and I noticed that his right arm was covered in scars. He must’ve been injured in that accident.

  Mom had dug a piece of paper out of her purse along with the pen, and they were diagramming the accident. I heard Mom use the word truck, and Dolpo replied, “Shilane truck.”

  “Shilane!” Mom said.

  She turned us. “Shilane is the gas company that people use to get gas for their stoves. If it was a one of their trucks, we’ll have an easy time figuring out which driver it was.”

  “Did you ask him about the briefcase?” Wenling said.

  Mom asked him, and he shook his head yes that he’d seen it. We all got excited, but then the man shrugged his shoulders.

  “He said it must’ve been stolen from the scene of the accident like his money box when he was taken away in the ambulance.

  “What was in the case?” the teenager asked.

  Mom didn’t hear him because she was busy talking to Dolpo again, so I answered the young man.

  “My aunt had a case with important papers in it. We can’t find it, but we think she had it when she died,” I said.

  The boy nodded and then listened to M
om and his father.

  “Mercury Drug?” Mom asked.

  Dolpo nodded. Mom had him point to the paper diagram some more. The conversation wound down, and Mom said that we needed to get going to catch a bus.

  “Wait,” the boy said. He turned to his father and said something. Dolpo’s expression turned stern.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Dolpo spoke to Mom, and Mom turned back to me. “His son has the case.”

  “I found it when I went back,” the boy said. “I was hoping to find Papa’s money box. I saw a…” the boy struggled to find the words so he spoke in Visayan. “They were all over, and it led to the case and…” the boy’s voice trailed off.

  He handed the case to Mom.

  Mom looked into the case and found a manila envelope. She rushed to open it and found papers. My heart jumped into my throat. Mom’s hand began to shake.

  “This is it!” Mom said. “These are the documents.”

  “Are they signed?” Wenling asked.

  “No,” Mom said. “It says my name printed, but the signature line is blank. They didn’t even bother to forge it.”

  Mom hugged the young boy and his father.

  “The money and candy,” the boy said, his voice shaking and tears flowing. “I steal.”

  Dolpo shook his head and looked disappointed in his son.

  “It’s okay,” Mom said. “You saved this for me. It’s your finder’s fee,” she said.

  Mom spoke to Dolpo. I could tell she was making sure that he didn’t punish the boy too much. Mom explained that if he hadn’t kept the papers safe all of this time, Mom may have never found out the truth about her inheritance. Mom pushed some money into Dolpo’s hand. He tried to give it back, but Mom insisted.

  We’d found it! Proof. The three of us said our goodbyes and headed for the bus back to town.

  I woke up the next morning with sore legs. I didn’t know if they were sore from walking so far to get to Dolpo’s house or being crammed into that jeepney for all those hours. Mom had finally shown me how the hot water worked, and it was nice to have a hot shower. I didn’t linger though. Today was a big day. I brushed my teeth, got dressed, and exited the bathroom so Wenling could have her turn.

  As I brushed my hair, I noticed Mom was looking over the paperwork that we found yesterday. “So are we ready to go to the gas company and find that driver?”

  “No need,” Mom said. “What do you think about taking it easy and going to Bo’s Coffee and seeing a movie?”

  “Don’t you want to solve the case?”

  “Don’t tell Wenling, but I think I might already have,” Mom said. “I just need to think a little more.”

  I nodded. I knew Mom liked to do the big reveal and would let us all know.

  But I couldn’t help but wonder what had changed between last night and this morning.

  8

  Balut and Boyfriends

  It didn’t take Wenling long to get ready, and we were downstairs and out of the hotel in no time.

  “Where is Buboy?” I asked Mom.

  “I asked him to run a few errands for me,” Mom said. “We’ll have to catch another pedicab to Robinson’s.”

  Mom flagged down another cab, and we headed to get some coffee and see a movie. It was weird not being in the Mystery Machine. The shocks in this particular pedicab were much better, but I’d come to enjoy our usual bumpy ride. In a weird way the hotel room, the palm trees, the Mystery Machine, and the view on the Boulevard had started to feel a bit like home.

  “Why aren’t we going to find that truck driver?” Wenling asked.

  “We have an appointment with the lawyer tomorrow, and I want to be focused and relaxed to negotiate with Kim Lim for my share of the land,” Mom said.

  Wenling nodded, but I could tell she was disappointed.

  “And a friend of mine might know where they have balut,” Mom said. “We could go visit him.” Wenling beamed with happiness, and I knew all was forgiven.

  We arrived at the mall and had our coffees. The barista put a “W” for Wenling in the foam of Wenling’s latte, and she took a photo for her Instagram.

  We relaxed over coffee and then headed up to the movies. I’m not sure how I’d forgotten that my cousin was the manager of the theater.

  “Auntie Jo,” Gail called out as she rushed over to us.

  “Tell your grandmother that I’m ready to forgive her. Tell her to show up at this address tomorrow, and my sister’s ghost won’t haunt her anymore.” Mom handed her a slip of paper.

  My cousin tried asking Mom questions, but Mom turned the tables on Gail and tried to pressure her into giving us free tickets to the movies. Gail made a quick exit after that.

  “You didn’t really want free tickets,” I said, knowing what Mom was up to. Mom smiled.

  “I did,” Wenling said.

  “My treat,” I said, and bought us our tickets. I was happy to find out that they had a movie in English playing. Sure, it was a superhero movie that had been out in the States three months ago, but I’d missed it while watching depressing documentaries with a certain detective.

  “You only wanted to come here so that you could make an appointment with Auntie Chooney,” I said to Mom.

  “I like going to the movies. It’s just too expensive in California,” Mom said.

  “Me, too,” Wenling said. “This is fun.”

  It was fun seeing a movie with Mom and Wenling, but I was more excited about what was going to happen tomorrow.

  It was 1:30 p.m. in the afternoon, and Buboy had driven us to the same office building where we found the judge dead. Wenling turned, excited when she recognized the building. “We’re back on the case,” she said.

  A police car pulled up. Captain stepped out of it.

  “Rats,” Wenling said.

  We got out of our pedicab. Mom told Wenling not to worry. “I asked Captain to come.”

  “You said you wanted to see me,” Captain said.

  “Let’s go into my lawyer’s office,” Mom said.

  “You’re not going to start any trouble, are you?” he asked.

  “No. I’m going to settle everything,” Mom said as she led the way.

  The office building bustled with activity now that it was a regular workday. Mom led us to the office next door to the judge’s. I was surprised to find Attorney Torres, the one who clerked for the judge, waiting for us. Upon seeing Captain, the lawyer stood.

  “I didn’t know you were coming,” he said. Then he gave Mom a pointed look.

  “I just wanted everyone here so that there would be no rumors,” Mom said.

  “I have the document,” Mom said, and handed it over to the lawyer. “Kim Lim will be here to negotiate the price of my part of the land. I want you to be here for the negotiation as a witness, and then later to draw up the contract for me.”

  “These are the documents the judge gave to your sister,” Attorney Torres said, looking at the document. “I see the name of the lawyer who prepared these papers despite there being no signature.”

  “Who was it?” Captain asked.

  “Attorney Attienza,” Attorney Torres said.

  “Was he a crook?” Wenling asked.

  “He’s in jail,” Captain said.

  “And disbarred,” Attorney Torres said.

  “That explains it,” Mom said. “Did Judge Hernandez have many cases with Attorney Attienza?”

  “A few,” Attorney Torres said with a sigh.

  “The judge was hoping to make peace with all of those that he’d wronged in his early career,” Mom said. “Despite being very smart, he was superstitious. Wasn’t he?”

  Attorney Torres didn’t answer.

  “Everyone at the courthouse thought that he was having an affair, but he wasn’t.” Mom paused to check and then continued. “Some Filipinos believe that sickness comes from wrongdoing—especially the kind that affects the mind. Judge Hernandez wasn’t going to Cebu every week to see his mistress. He wa
s going to see the neurologist. I talked to the head of neurology at a hospital in Cebu. He spent a lot of time with the judge, and you every week.”

  Attorney Torres didn’t say anything, but the expression on his face was one of resignation.

  “The doctor wouldn’t say anything to me about Judge Hernandez. I thought he was covering for him at first. Then I realized he couldn’t talk about a patient of his with anyone, but perhaps he could with a member of law enforcement,” Mom said, turning to Captain. “What were you doing in Cebu, Captain?”

  He nodded and smiled. “I couldn’t say.”

  Mom smiled back. We all knew she was right.

  “He was a brilliant judge,” the lawyer said.

  “Yes, he was. But not later in life,” Mom said. “You were doing all of his work for him. Weren’t you?”

  The lawyer looked down at his desk and said nothing.

  “He started noticing the symptoms about ten years ago. That’s why even though you graduated from law school, you continued to clerk for him.”

  “It was a pleasure to serve a man with such a brilliant mind,” Attorney Torres said.

  “You want to protect his legacy and avoid having all of his cases overturned,” Mom said. He didn’t respond. Mom continued. “The symptoms started about ten years ago. That’s when he started going to Cebu to see the head of neurology. But just in case medicine didn’t work, the judge hoped that if he made right with all the people he wronged, that it might cure him. But it didn’t help, did it?”

  The lawyer shrugged his shoulders.

  Mom turned to Captain. “You haven’t arrested anyone for shooting the judge, because there was no murder.”

  “He was shot in the head,” Wenling said.

  “But remember the position of the gun,” Mom said.

  My mind flashed back to the scene of the crime. I instantly knew what Mom was talking about. The gun was on the right side of the judge just beneath his own hand.

  “The judge waited until everyone was out of the office for the parade. He wanted to do it here so that his family wouldn’t find him,” Mom said. “He’d retired from being a judge because he couldn’t handle faking it anymore, and he didn’t want to live.”