Apple Pies and Alibis

by Christy Murphy

  Perfect. Big cooking day. And I can’t cook.

  “Are we making beef and pork ribs, Mom?” I asked, worried about the latter.

  Mom nodded. Great. I don’t know how to cook, but I do know people can die from ill-cooked pork. I just turned our police ally into an enemy, and being a bad cook, I might kill someone with a rib. Mom must be glad she convinced me to move in to “help” her with the catering business now.

  Thank goodness Mom thought to schedule the “lunch” to be a “late afternoon” party. We’d stayed up late last night at the Lucky Dragon preparing the individual apple pies. Mom had done the ribs in the pressure cooker, and we’d finished them off on a grill Mom bought off Kurt from Kitchen King’s show. It was exhausting. I chopped a lot of apples and rolled a ton of dough. I was glad that Celia and Wenling had chipped in, and that we’d gotten to sleep late.

  Since it was a lunch, Mom and I opted not to don our tuxedo shirts, and went in white T-shirts, dark pants, and our aprons and catering hats. After a diet soda and a half-caf, Mom and I jumped into the van to head out to the Lucky Dragon to load up. Wenling had offered to do the reheating at the restaurant, so all we’d have to do is load up the food and keep it warm.

  I hadn’t realized when I traded my Honda for this beast of a van how terrifying driving could be. I pretended to play it cool, and Mom pretended like I was competent enough to get us to the gig without killing us both. That’s the kind of love and support one can only get from family—the willingness to put your life on the line in mutual delusion.

  Mom watched me back into the loading dock. The wall looked way too close in the mirrors as I backed in, but I continued slowly and hoped I didn’t crash into the building. That might be difficult to explain. (Officer, it came out of nowhere.)

  I went as far as I dared, put the van in park, set the emergency brake, and stepped out to take a look. Two pro basketball players could lie end-to-end in the gap I’d left.

  I swung open the back door of the van while Mom went ahead into the kitchen. I grabbed the first of our two rolling carts from the back of the van and pulled it out. These carts were the coolest thing ever. The legs collapsed like a hospital gurney and rolled effortlessly into the van and when pulled out, they dropped down and locked. There was one wheel on each that pulled to the side, but that’s how we got them cheap.

  We loaded the van, and that’s when I found out Wenling was riding to the gig with us.

  “I can ride in the back,” she said.

  I looked at the two racks chock full of equipment and food. Yes, we’d strapped them down, but with my poor driving and Los Angeles’s potholed and mangled roads, I had doubts. “That seems dangerous and illegal,” I said, not knowing if the latter was true or not. It occurred to me that I knew very little about the legalities of the catering business. I’d have to do some Googling. Maybe I could buy a book.

  “Ride in the front. There’s a third seatbelt,” Mom said.

  Wenling said in an almost childlike voice, “You’re going to make me sit on the hump, aren’t you?”

  “Do you want to come or not?” Mom said.

  I walked to the front of the van, not wanting to get involved. Mom and Wenling followed. When I looked inside at the front seat, it did seem big enough for us all to fit. No wonder I’d had such a hard time maneuvering this thing; it had to be a million miles wider than my Honda.

  We’d been so happy to get the deal that I hadn’t stopped to inspect the vehicle much. Mom had already picked it out. The thing had been converted from something else, but looking at it, I wondered how old this van was.

  Wenling and Mom slid onto the bench seats, and Wenling indeed had “the hump,” but it wasn’t really too much of a hump. Thank goodness she was short so I could maneuver the stick shift. This couldn’t be the original front seat to this vehicle.

  “Are we all ready to go?” I asked, ignoring my discomfort with the age of our van.

  Mom turned to Wenling. “You might want to close your eyes.”

  “You’re going to have to pull up to the loading dock, kid,” Mom said.

  “Where?” I asked, my knuckles clenched around the steering wheel.

  Wenling, who’d removed her hands from her eyes after we’d gotten off the freeway, put her hands back over her eyes.

  “Around the back,” Mom said, pointing to my left.

  It looked less crowded heading to the loading dock on the side of the building. My heart slowed down from its pounding to a mere flutter. “This isn’t so bad,” I said. Wenling removed her hands from her eyes and smiled.

  I downshifted, turned the last corner, and smack in our path was a huge eighteen-wheeler. I jerked the wheel to the right and proceeded to stall the van.

  “I don’t want to die!” Wenling warbled as she covered her eyes again. Frantic to get the van to start, I pushed in the clutch, shifted back into first gear, and turned the ignition key.

  If I hadn’t been in such a panic to restart the van I would’ve noticed two things: 1) The semi truck that I thought was headed right for us had actually been only going two miles an hour and had parked. 2) When I veered to the right, I put us on a collision course with a chain-link metal fence.

  The van started, and I looked up just in time to watch us glide into the fence as I slammed on the brakes and stalled the engine again.

  Wenling didn’t take her hands off of her eyes, but did part her fingers just enough to see us hit the fence. Our van slow-mo crashed into it. The collision made an embarrassing rattle.

  The clang of us smacking into the fence, along with the jolt from me slamming on the brakes, garnered an high-pitched “Aye!” from Mom.

  “At least we didn’t die,” Wenling said as I ground the gears trying to find reverse.

  The semi-truck was unloading furniture and a million pallets of supplies. I parked behind him, and we all jumped out to unload.

  Mom unrolled the first cart, and I reached for the second cart. She stopped me.

  “Wenling will get that. You run ahead and get all the doors,” Mom said.

  “Yeah,” Wenling said a little too quickly.

  I think after I crashed the van they didn’t want to risk I’d wreck the food cart, too. I grabbed the bags with the tablecloths and other miscellaneous items and led Mom and Wenling up the ramp to the service elevator. The hallway at the top of the ramp was crowded with supplies from the semi. Thank goodness we didn’t have that much to unload.

  I caught the flash of a man ahead of us turning the corner for the elevator.

  “Can you hold the elevator for us?” I called out to him.

  “No problem, sweetheart,” he said, his voice drenched in condescension.

  When I turned the corner, I recognized the back of that condescending man’s head. It was the same jerk who’d made me trip in the rotating door. He sped to the elevator, jumped in, and lunged for the elevator button. The doors whooshed shut without me getting a glimpse of Mr. Selfish’s face.

  The lobby was empty when we arrived at the Turing Tech office. Mom and Wenling wheeled up to the center of the office, where they’d cleared away some of the desks and set up two long tables. I whipped out the tablecloths and skirting and began setting up. Celia would be here in a half an hour with the margarita machine and karaoke. I winced at the thought of karaoke. Maybe they all wouldn’t want to sing. I glanced around at the employees hunched over computers. They certainly didn’t look like karaoke types.

  Barbara rushed out of her office and over to Mom. “I need to talk to you both about the party in my office.”

  Wenling looked disappointed, but Mom whispered something into her ear. Wenling took the tablecloths from me and motioned she would start setting up.

  Mom and I walked behind Barbara. I could almost feel the tension in her shoulders. Something was up, and it wasn’t good. I’d never seen her this angry.

  “I haven’t even had time to plant the false leak, and there was a real leak tweeted just as you guys arrived! Tina
told me neither has left their desks all day. I need to get to my lawyer to draw up termination papers for both, and I’ll just issue one. Can you figure out which one it is today?”

  “We wouldn’t want the wrong person to be fired,” I said.

  “Of course,” Barbara said. Her lips pulled downward.

  “I think we’re close, though,” Mom said. “Are you sure neither of them slipped by Tina?”

  “I also had the security guard in the lobby keep a lookout. Neither of them left the building since coming in this morning.”

  “We’re on the case,” Mom said.

  Barbara gave a weak smile. “Don’t wait for me to get back to start the party,” she said and left.

  “Looks like we need to talk to Rick Heller,” Mom said as she led the way out of Barbara’s office and headed straight to Rick’s office, which was on the other side of the conference room. She waltzed into the CTO’s office without knocking. We found Rick Heller squatting next to a large potted plant by his windowsill. He stood up and whipped around at the sound of the door, but I recognized that back of the head. He was the jerk from the rotating door, and the freight elevator.

  “Who are you, and why didn’t you knock?” Rick said taking a seat behind his desk. The office smelled like air freshener.

  “So sorry,” Mom said. “We’re here to set up party. What karaoke songs you want us to have for you?” My mother’s Filipino accent is very apparent, but sometimes, particularly around arrogant, angry men, she lays it on a little thicker and screws up her grammar. I’m not sure why it works, but it does.

  “Oh,” he said. “I heard you talked to everyone but me about the menu. Why wasn’t I consulted?”

  “You not here. Probably engaged in very important business,” Mom said. “Do you not like the menu?”

  He smiled and his condescending jerk face morphed into a benevolent jerk face. He’d had something in his hand, and he set it on his desk. It was breath spray like Madison had. Rick leaned forward and crossed hands on his desk. “It’s fine. And I don’t care about the karaoke,” he said smiling. His teeth were unnaturally straight and white like I imagined Tom Cruise’s teeth would look like in person.

  “Will you be here for party? Or will you be gone like earlier today?” Mom asked. Mom was trying to get him to confess he’d left. She didn’t see him in the hallway, but it was a smart move.

  Rick’s forehead wrinkled with rage. “What do you mean gone?” he asked.

  “We thought we saw you leave and come back when we were loading up in the back,” I added.

  “I’ve been here all morning,” he said, his voice icy.

  “So sorry. You should sing. It’s good for morale when important businessman spend small time with ordinary worker,” Mom said, laying on her Asian-woman-from-a-fifties movie stereotype. He ate it up.

  “True,” he said with a nod and paused to think about it. “Anything by Nickelback will be fine.”

  Nickelback. Of course.

  We got up to leave, and I contained my excitement as we left Rick’s office. I couldn’t wait to tell Mom that I’d seen Rick get onto the service elevator. As soon as we shut the door to Rick’s office, Mom whispered to me, “It’s him, kid.”

  How did she know?

  The office lunch was ramping up into party mode. The employees chowed down on food. Voice volumes escalated and laughter grew more frequent. Celia set up the karaoke machine while Mom and Wenling opened the apple margarita station. Madison and Rick exited their offices and approached the mini-buffet tables at the same time. I got a whiff of his obnoxious aftershave. It was so strong I wondered why I hadn’t noticed it in his office. Rick and Madison traded a glance and perfunctory hellos, but their interaction seemed stiff and awkward. Did they not get along?

  “What’ll it be?” I asked them, tongs in hand.

  Rick glanced over the food and then headed over to the margarita machine without a word. Madison looked at the food. I knew she was tempted. “I’ll have just one rib. And a salad, no dressing.”

  “It’s Waldorf salad,” I said as I placed one very large rib on her plate. She stared at me as if she didn’t understand the concept of Waldorf salad. “It comes pre-dressed,” I explained.

  She stared harder.

  “It’s a yogurt-based dressing with other spices, of course,” I said leaving out the mayonnaise. “Do you have allergies?” I asked, wanting to be sure that withholding the mayo info wouldn’t have dire consequences.

  “No,” she said.

  “I’ll just put a little on your plate, and you can have a taste,” I said. I gave her a heaping two scoops and told her it was a half serving, which was true. If I were serving myself, I’d eat twice as much.

  Madison smiled as she took her plate. “Thanks. Salad servings are usually large, right?”

  “Yes. It’s salad after all,” I said. Happy to have a lot of food, she headed to Mom and Wenling for her margarita.

  Tina came around the reception wall and joined the party. I noticed she wasn’t smiling, and her slumped shoulders made her look like a downtrodden waif.

  Rick called out to her before she could get to my station. “Hey Tina! Where’s Barbara?”

  “She had to dash off to her lawyer. She didn’t say when she’d be back,” Tina mumbled without turning away from the food.

  Rick’s face tightened. He finished his margarita in two gulps, grabbed a second cocktail, and went straight to his office.

  Tina approached the food table. Her expression seemed stressed and sad. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I brought my lunch, and it got stolen again,” she said.

  “At least we have lunch here.”

  “It’s the principle of the matter,” she said.

  Mom left the apple margarita machine and came over. “I have something special for you to try.”

  Mom opened the cooler by my table that held the extra salad and pulled out something wrapped in tinfoil and a small, plastic container that we used to hold duck sauce at the Lucky Dragon.

  “What’s this?” Tina said, unwrapping the tinfoil.

  “A chicken breast sandwich with lettuce and tomato, and this,” Mom said, handing her the little plastic container, “is the ranch chili mayo on the side.”

  Tina took her sandwich, and I gave her a plate with one rib for her to try. She headed to the conference room to eat with some of the others.

  “That was nice, Mom,” I said.

  “Keep your eye out for that sandwich thief,” Mom said and headed back to the margarita machine.

  “I will,” I said to Mom. The rib station slowed down as the margarita station sped up, and then Celia fired up the karaoke.

  “Who’s ready for some fun, fun, fun?” Celia said into the karaoke mic. “Let me hear you go ‘woo’!”

  The crowed went “woo.” My hopes of karaoke failure were dashed.

  My plan for the later hours of the party was to slow down the drinking, wait for Barbara to arrive, and pack up before property was destroyed. But Mom and Wenling’s love for operating the margarita machine foiled my plan. The Razor scooters appeared out of the ether and sped around the office. Any time there was a karaoke lull, Celia was quick to fill it with her own song. She’d walk around with the mic and hand out copies of the song lyrics. For the shy people, she held group sing-a-longs.

  The surprise star of the office was Henry Ruiz, the head programmer. He stunned everyone with his amazing ability to sound exactly like Morrissey. Ivan Myers, the sales rep, did an impressive Elvis even though he had a thick accent I couldn’t place. Mom and I hadn’t gotten time to talk to him. He spent most of the party at a desk filling out his expense report. His receipts were all fingerprinted with barbecue sauce. He loved the ribs.

  Celia cracked out one of her favorites, “Wrecking Ball.” I worried it might inspire the destruction of property. I checked the ribs and went to talk to Mom. That’s when the man on a scooter yelling in Klingon almost sideswiped me. A minute later,
Barbara returned and stormed over to talk to Rick.

  About ten minutes later, I was outside in the parking lot as the fire alarm wailed, and the safety orange poncho-like plastic on Rick Heller’s dead body flapped in the wind.

  4

  Complications and Questions

  The fire department arrived first, followed by an ambulance. I went to the side parking lot and spotted Mom, Wenling, Barbara, and Celia. Celia had carried her beloved karaoke machine down seventeen floors to save it from the fire.

  “Kid, did you see?” Mom asked me as I approached.

  “I was facing the other way and turned when I heard the sound of something fall,” I said.

  “Somebody fall,” Wenling said, emphasizing the word “body.”

  I meant to clarify that I’d heard something else drop first, but Barbara interrupted. “I swear to you, I didn’t push him. I didn’t even know the window opened more than a few inches.”

  Wenling whispered in my ear, “Maybe if you push someone through it really hard, it does.”

  Barbara continued. “Let’s not tell the police about him selling secrets. They’ll think I had motive.”

  “The entire office heard you fight,” Mom said.

  “He yelled, ‘Don’t push me,’” Wenling said.

  That sounded pretty damning. I wondered if Barbara had pushed him.

  “It’s an expression. He said it all the time.” Barbara’s voice and face were tight with worry. “When I left he was sitting at his desk.”

  “Who was it that discovered he’d fallen?” Mom asked.

  “Wasn’t it the Morrissey singer and the pretty lady?” Celia said.

  “Maybe one of them did it,” Barbara said.

  “Or both together,” Wenling said.

  “There’s a door on either side of the conference room,” Barbara explained. “One leads to my office, and the other leads to Rick’s. Maybe someone went in after I left and pushed him.”

  “There were a lot of people in the conference room eating and looking over the book with all of the karaoke songs,” Celia said.