"By the way, Mom. How did you get Harold Sanders to agree to the party?" I asked as I reached for one of the large pans filled with broccoli beef.
Mom didn’t answer. Something in the van distracted her. I turned and bent down to see what she was looking at. I didn't see anything, so I kept moving toward the pan. Suddenly a loud shrieking noise pierced my ears, and two seconds later something leapt out at me! I screamed and jumped, spilling broccoli beef all over myself and the van.
* * *
Wenling and Mom covered their mouths as they laughed. "It was so funny!" Mom choked out. "The cat shrieked, and then Christy made a noise worse than cat." Mom’s accent, and her dropping of prepositions becomes more pronounced when she talks to Wenling.
It was a slow day at the restaurant. We’d allegedly come for lunch, but it was almost four in the afternoon, and we were just drinking coffee. Well, Wenling was drinking tea. Everyone kept stopping by to hear about "the murder," and no one wanted to listen to my more boring theory that Harold Sanders died of natural causes. Mom held back on her theory about the brother and most of the "good stuff" just in case my boring theory held true. She spent most of her time talking about how that tuxedo cat had enjoyed scaring me so much at the Sanders’ house that he stowed away in the van to frighten me again.
"We should go back and check with Margaret in case she knows who the owner is," I said.
"I think we should keep him," Mom said.
"He got beef broccoli all over our van," I said.
Mom and Wenling laughed some more. "She has good taste in food!" Mom said.
"It’s a he," I said trying not to laugh, but the whole thing was just so stupid.
Before I could get up to refill my coffee, Jennifer returned from running her afternoon errands. "Did you hear the news?"
The urgency in her voice gripped our attention, and our eyes snapped to Jennifer. It was so odd to see her all grown up. I used to babysit her, and now she had a child of her own.
"What happened?" Wenling asked.
"Celia got arrested for murder!" Jennifer answered.
All three of us were stunned.
"When?" I asked.
Jennifer shook her head, "Sometime this afternoon."
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"I was at the dry cleaners, and Mrs. Lim told me," Jennifer answered.
"Aye! It must be true," Mom said. "Her son works as a court reporter."
"Why?" I asked.
Wenling jumped in. "The courthouse is right across the street from the police."
Jennifer nodded. "Mrs. Lim’s son saw her being taken out of the police car when he was taking a smoke break."
"He should stop smoking. He’s so good looking. It will ruin his skin," Mom said.
Wenling agreed.
"They could have been just taking her there for questioning," I said.
"Mrs. Lim said her son told her that Celia was in handcuffs," Jennifer said.
"Then it’s true," Wenling said, and Mom agreed.
"This has to be a mistake," I said. Sure, I didn’t always like my cousin, but she couldn’t be a murderer. She just couldn’t be.
"It’s such a shame," Mom said.
"I know," I said. "Celia doesn’t deserve to be arrested."
"No, she doesn’t," Mom said and then added, "and I don’t think we’ll be catering the funeral, even though I promised Miss Sanders a good price."
* * *
The next day I woke up in the room I’d shared with my older sister growing up. Except, instead of listening to the radio and trying to figure out a way to get my sister to let me hang out with her cool friends, my thoughts were consumed by the murder. Celia hadn’t done it. She’d been at the party the whole time. Even when I came downstairs after calling 911, she was still in the living room where I’d last seen her.
I squinted at the radio alarm clock on my bedside table before giving up and grabbing my glasses off the nightstand. It was almost ten in the morning. That old alarm clock used to be in my parents’ room. I smiled as I remembered sitting on their bed while they got ready for work. I missed the smell of Dad’s aftershave. Celia had comforted me so much after he died. She understood what I was going through, having lost her Mom. There’s no way Celia would ever kill anyone.
The more I thought about it, the more I was sure that Mom was right. It had to have been the son, George. On Harold Sanders’ desk along with the checkbook, I remember seeing a business proposal for Margaret’s Memorial keepsakes. Between George’s hatred of his father over going to jail, and the jealous way he reacted to the idea that Harold Sanders might fund Margaret’s new business, George probably snapped. We needed to talk some sense into DC Cooper.
My thoughts were interrupted by the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen. I’d inherited my coffee addiction from my mother. Of course, both of us had recently switched to half-caff. Between my divorce and the dozen or so cups I drank a day, I’d developed heart palpitations and an eye twitch. Mom switched in solidarity.
I resolved to grab a cup of coffee before getting dressed and heading down to the police station. DC Cooper would have to listen. I stumbled to the kitchen without bothering to brush my hair or my teeth. Everything could wait until after coffee. Mom made the best cup of coffee. I don’t know how she did it. She used the same cheap coffee from the store and a normal coffee pot, but it just tasted better. Maybe the tap water in Fletcher Grove was better than the water in Hollywood, I didn’t know.
I entered the kitchen and found Mom at her usual place at the kitchen table reading the paper. She’d always skipped over the news and checked the obituaries to see who was dead. I didn’t see why she had to check today. We already knew. I’m not a big talker before my coffee, so we enjoyed a comfortable silence. Two sips into my morning joe, the doorbell rang.
Mom jumped up to get it. I assumed she was waiting for a package. She liked to order weird stuff off the television all the time, and I wasn’t dressed suitably enough to meet the delivery man. I sipped my coffee and woke up a little, but I wasn’t at the point of being a fully coherent human yet. That wouldn’t happen until my second cup. A male voice boomed at the front door.
"Have a seat. I’ll go get her," I heard Mom say and seconds later she entered the kitchen. "Kid, he’s here."
"Who’s here?"
"DC. He needs to ask us some questions."
Absolute. Total. Panic.
"Mom, I’m not dressed yet."
"Well then get dressed," she said.
"Is he in the living room?"
"Yes, hurry up."
"How am I supposed to get to my bedroom without him seeing?" Our cozy three-bedroom house wasn’t like the huge mansion that the Sanders' lived in. There was only one way from the bedrooms to the kitchen, and that was to walk through the living room.
"Is there a problem?" DC asked as he walked closer to the kitchen.
Did I mention that our kitchen doesn’t have a door? It’s right off the dining room, where Detective Cooper was standing now. I ducked behind the kitchen counter so he wouldn’t see me.
"You look fine," Mom said.
For the first time in my entire life, I could tell my mother was lying. But there was no way to get out of this. So I stood up, rinsed my morning coffee breath in the sink, and patted down my hair. I told myself I could handle this with dignity as I headed into the living room wearing my torn pajama bottoms and a baggy t-shirt with no bra. Just the outfit any plus-sized woman would love to greet people in!
* * *
I wished we were sitting down on the couches, but Detective Cooper "preferred to stand." I attempted to angle my body to the right so he wouldn’t see the huge tear by the left pocket of my pajama bottoms. But each time I did, the infuriating man shifted his position so he was right in front of me.
"What made you suspect Celia?" I asked.
"I’m the one who asks the questions, ma’am." I wished he’d stop with that ma’am thing.
"Call her Chris
ty," Mom called out from the dining room as she pretended to drink her coffee and read the paper.
"Now, you said earlier that Celia was with you the entire day, with the exception of the time just before you found the body. Is that right?"
"Yes," I said. It took a lot of willpower to answer succinctly, but I noticed that anytime I complicated answers in any way, he would insist on clarifying them. I wanted to get through his questions so I could tell him about the brother.
"If I understand correctly, you and Celia are cousins. Have you known each other your whole lives?"
"I didn’t know her personally my whole life, but I knew of her. What I mean is, her family moved to California from the Philippines about twenty years ago. We went to the same high school. So sort of, yes."
"Just to clarify, you’ve known Celia for roughly twenty years. Is that correct?" he said.
I wanted to slap the man, and he didn’t seem to like me that much at this moment either. This interview was going to take forever. I forced myself not to roll my eyes and then I realized he was waiting for an answer. "Yes."
"So that makes you what, 34? 39?" he asked. His voice sounded surprised.
"She’s 35, but looks young for her age," Mom called out. "She takes after me." I wanted to throttle her. Thirty-five is not old at all. Then, I noticed for the first time the detective cracked a smile and nodded his head. But then his face turned serious again.
"Has Celia ever spoken about her work to you?" he asked.
Celia bragged about her job all the time and about how much the Sanders Family, especially Mr. Sanders, loved her. Then a horrifying thought struck me. Celia had even bragged about the probability she would wind up in the will.
"Miss Murphy?" he said.
"Christy," Mom corrected.
"I was just trying to remember," I said trying to cover my tracks and then answered, "Yes."
"Yes, what?" he asked, annoyance crept into his tone.
"Yes, she spoke of her job to me."
He shot me a look. When I wanted to give longer answers, he didn’t like them, but now he was annoyed that I’d answered simply. “And?" he asked pointedly.
"She talked about how much they liked her. How good she was at the job. She’d even been invited to the birthday party as a guest," I said avoiding the will entirely.
"Did she ever talk about her duties on the job? Like did she administer medication to Harold Sanders?"
I gave a sigh of relief. He didn’t know about the will. "I don’t know for sure, but I would guess so. She’s a registered nurse, and she’s been with the family for over five years. She’d take him to the hospital, the pharmacy, and things like that," I said. I didn’t know where he was going with this, but he seemed pleased with my answer, which I didn’t like.
"Has your cousin mentioned having any knowledge of Harold Sanders’ will?" he asked.
Oh no! He knew!
"Shall I take that shocked look as a yes?" he asked.
Shoot! My panic showed. I couldn’t lie now, could I? "She’d mentioned it."
"Did she also talk to you about coming into some money soon?" he said, pausing to flip through his notes, “like going on a vacation to Europe?"
Oh no! Celia bragged all over town that she might go to Europe. This wasn’t looking good for Celia.
"Does your cousin have a taste for expensive jewelry?" he asked.
"Her jewelry is fake," Mom called out from the dining room.
He nodded at Mom’s answer and turned to me for a response.
"I don’t know." I said.
"In the twenty some odd years you’ve known her, would you say she wore jewelry daily?" he asked.
I sighed. "Yes."
"Did she wear the same stuff or different stuff?" he asked.
"Different,” I said.
"More than one piece at a time? Like a ring and a necklace?"
"What’s all this about?" I asked. "What does this have to do with the murder?"
"It’s my job to–"
"I know, I know," I interrupted. "It’s your job to ask the questions. Yes she wore different pieces at the same time."
"Have you noticed her wearing a new necklace lately?"
"I’ve been busy with some personal stuff, so I’ve only seen her a few times in the last year or so. I don’t remember what she was wearing the other times, but on the day of the murder she wore her wedding ring, a gold chain with a cross around her neck, and diamond-stud earrings, but I doubt they were real diamonds."
"And you remember the murder day, because of this memory thing? But you don’t remember anything from before that?
"I remember some things, just not as many details." Geez.
"Do you remember seeing her wearing an antique pearl necklace with a jade and diamond clasp?" he asked.
"I didn’t see," Mom answered. "And if it were real pearls, I’d notice."
He turned to me. "Me neither."
"That necklace, which belonged to the Sanders’ family, was found in your cousin’s home last night."
My mind flashed back to the argument Margaret and Mr. Sanders had the day of the murder. Margaret had yelled about her father misplacing an antique pearl necklace. This couldn’t be a coincidence.
"I see you remember something," he said.
Geez Louise! He caught my look again. I sighed. Why couldn’t he be like those bumbling detectives in the movies? "I remember overhearing Margaret and her father arguing before the party. She said something about him misplacing a necklace." What I didn’t want to tell him, and I wouldn’t if he didn’t ask, was that Mom had specifically asked about the necklace, and Celia had ignored the question. Celia was always a bit sneaky, but I’d never thought she’d steal.
"About this argument," he began as he flipped through his notebook to check his notes. "That would be before the party. Where were you?"
I knew he’d written down on his pad that I was in the kitchen with Celia. Was he checking to see if my story was consistent? "Like I told you before," I said, "I was in the kitchen with Mom and Celia."
He nodded, but for a brief second I saw him smile. He knew that I knew that he was double checking my story. The man had a handsome smile. It almost made me forget how annoyed with him I was.
"Tell me about this argument," he said.
"I’m sure Margaret or Celia must’ve mentioned it."
"I wouldn’t say if they had, but let’s talk about what you know."
I realized that anything was better than talking about that necklace. At least this might get him looking into other suspects. So I told him about the fight, and how that gave the daughter motive to kill her dad. Then, Mom piped in and told him about the brother’s motive, and how George blamed his father for being sentenced to prison for two years. DC made notes, but he didn’t seem as interested in our theories.
"Okay, thanks," he said closing his notebook.
"Can we visit Celia at the station?" I asked.
"No," he said.
"Why the heck not?" I snapped.
He held up his hands in surrender. "Now, don’t get upset just yet. She made bail late last night, so I assume she’s at home. Okay?"
"Fine," I said as I adjusted my glasses, completely forgetting that I was supposed to be holding closed the gaping hole in my pajamas, until I felt the telltale coolness on a part of my outer thigh I’ve chosen to keep secret from the world since I was sixteen. I gasped like an idiot and grabbed at my leg.
"What’s wrong?" he asked.
I cursed myself for being such a spazz. He went to look at my leg. I turned away, and something rubbed against my ankle. I screamed.
That darn cat shrieked and tried to claw up Detective Cooper’s pants to safety.
I jumped away just in time to hear the masculine and competent DC Cooper yelp and jump around, trying to dislodge our new furry friend.
Mom laughed. I tried not to, but couldn’t help myself.
Maybe we should keep this cat.
CHAPTER FIVE
>
Mom and I waited at Lucky Dragon Palace for Celia to meet us. The restaurant was crowded for the daily lunch special, so we had to sit in the small office adjoining the kitchen instead of our usual booth. We kept the door open for ventilation and to keep the room from becoming too claustrophobic. My chair was half in the doorway and half in the kitchen.
I didn’t mind being crammed in the back, even though it was a tight fit. It was more private. Everyone in town wanted news about the murder. Fletcher Canyon had always been the kind of place that knew everybody’s business, but information about Celia’s arrest travelled faster than any other news. People had even called our house trying to get any bit of the juicy details.
"I think it’s why the restaurant even more busy today," Wenling said to Mom.
"If I knew murder was so good for business," Mom joked, "I would’ve asked Celia to kill Christy's husband."
"Wait," Wenling said. "You told me that Christy was a widow."
My brain remembered Celia, and Todd from the newspaper, saying they were sorry about my husband. "Mom, have you been telling people Robert died?"
Mom laughed.
"Mom, that’s not funny," I said.
"It’s kind of funny," Mom said.
I saw the back door open, and Celia stepped through it wearing giant Jackie O-style sunglasses, a scarf over her head, and her collar popped up. She was so dramatic. She closed the door, took off her glasses, and rushed over to us.
"My dear family! Thank goodness I got here. The press and the people," she said, "they won’t leave me alone."
I wanted to roll my eyes, but I didn’t. She looked like a Filipina version of Audrey Hepburn in "Charade." I admired how she pulled off "the look." My hair always fell straight. I could put it back in a pony tail or put it back with barrettes. That’s it. No messy buns, up dos, braids, perms, ever looked right. And if any hairstylist could pull it off, the look crumbled within days.
"What happened?" Wenling asked, patting the open seat next to her. She didn’t hide her excitement to hear the news, but Celia didn’t mind.
Mango Cake and Murder Page 4
