by Ovidia Yu
The room where Allison Love had died was clean and drab and without any trace of blood or sinister atmosphere. It looked small for two people but was carefully, if blandly, styled with cream walls, beige curtains, and brown carpeting. Aunty Lee found the chemical odor of industrial-strength cleaner depressing.
Allison had clearly died in the bed closer to the door. The bedding and mattress had been removed, but there were dark stains seeped into the wooden slats of the bed frame and carpet beneath. It did not look like blood. Probably her bladder and bowel sphincters had relaxed in death. Aunty Lee sniffed and decided to leave analysis to the forensic technologists. Bodily fluids were fine, good, and necessary as long as they were inside the body, but once they emerged they were considered disgusting and repulsive. Aunty Lee shared this aversion, though it did not make sense to her. Perhaps it was survival instinct. Your insides were only on display outside of you if something terrible had happened. And that was probably why some people felt uncomfortable showing their feelings. For them feelings were also private things meant to be kept hidden, and for them to be displayed meant their lives had been torn apart.
“They must have decided to bring in a new mattress after all,” said Jacky. He was clearly both relieved and disappointed. “We had a discussion about it. The old mattress was less than a year old and was still under a cleaning contract, but her bowels . . .”
Aunty Lee stood at the entrance and looked around the room. It was much easier to get a sense of someone from a home they had designed than from a hotel room they had only just checked into before getting murdered, but she was sure she could pick up something. This was a small, functional room with two single beds against one wall and a television on a cabinet containing a small fridge against the wall facing them. There was a built-in cupboard housing a safe at the entrance where Aunty Lee stood, and the window in front of her looked into the windows of the neighboring office block. Even without any other furniture there was barely room enough to walk around the beds. The door to the shower and toilet was at right angles to the room door. There was no sign of anything that might have belonged to the Love sisters.
“There’s nowhere to sit and read,” Aunty Lee said.
“Oh, people who come here don’t do much reading,” Jacky said. “Mostly day-rate people just come and dump their stuff here and then go to the casino or go shopping or whatever. Then they come back to dump their shopping and shower and go out to party. The hour-rate people only use the beds, if you get my meaning. The only reading they do is the 4D, TOTO, and racing results.”
“Jacky, were you here the day Miss Love was killed? It must have been so awful for you.”
“Oh yes, so shocking!” he said with relish. “It’s the first time anything like that ever happened to me. There I was, sitting in the downstairs office, when right on top of me somebody was being killed. I can’t believe it, I tell you!”
“Did anyone hear anything? Any of the people in the other rooms? Or underneath? You know people are always complaining about noise coming through their ceilings.”
“There was nobody in the room underneath. Like I said, nowadays we are not full most of the time. And most of the time when you hear funny things around here you don’t pay much attention, if you know what I mean. Plus they said very strictly they did not want to be disturbed. That’s why I had to say no to the phone caller.”
“What’s that?”
“Somebody phoned for Miss Allison that day. It went to the switchboard because the caller didn’t know what room she was in. But before going out Miss Vallerie had said Miss Allison had a bad headache and didn’t want to be disturbed, so the girl put it through to me to take a message, and wow, I got such a shelling from the caller. All the bad words coming out.”
“It was somebody local? Or was it a foreigner? Male or female voice?”
“Oh, a local woman for sure. Well, could be Malaysian also I guess. That’s also partly why I didn’t put it through to the room. I knew it wasn’t Miss Vallerie or one of her friends calling for her.”
“What time was this call, do you remember?”
“I don’t know. About two songs into the HOT 30 Countdown, which starts at ten A.M. . . . so I guess sometime before eleven?” Jacky lowered his voice. “Of course I only found out later that Allison Love was Allison Fitzgerald the puppy killer.”
“You heard about that? You must have been quite young.” He did not look much more than eighteen, but Aunty Lee suspected Jacky was really in his mid- to late twenties—quite old enough to appreciate being called young.
“My whole family was following the puppy killer business. Allison Fitzgerald’s son used to attend the playgroup that my aunt’s sister-in-law was running. My aunt used to help out there, and when the news came out Aunty Joanne said she wasn’t surprised, because that ang moh was the type that could be one minute happy happy, smiling smiling, the next minute got bad temper, shouting, swearing, threatening to sue like a big shot. One time, because they gave all the children some pineapple tarts to bring home before the Chinese New Year break, Mrs. Fitzgerald accused them of trying to poison her!”
“Poor woman,” Aunty Lee said politely. “Sounds like she had quite a temper.”
“It was not just a bad temper. Later Aunty Joanne told us that Allison Fitzgerald got diagnosed with bipolar. She followed the story online, even after they ran away from Singapore. You know what some women are like. Everything also want to know.”
“Bipolar?” said Aunty Lee, another of the women who liked to know everything.
“That means one day depressed enough to kill yourself, next day so angry you want to kill everybody else,” Jacky explained. “I know because we have a kitchen staff with it here. Very frightening when there’s knives or hot soup around. But on medication she’s okay. We keep an extra set of meds here in case she forgets to take in the morning.”
“Medication for things like that no use,” Aunty Lee said firmly. “Makes everybody addicted so that they have to go on taking the medication, that’s all. She should just eat better, exercise out all the bad energy!” This was Aunty Lee’s standard response to all ills, and if it worked for her, there was no point in arguing.
“And of course I donated to the puppy killer fund. Everybody did, right? Foreigners should not come here and kill our dogs anyhow. But Allison Fitzgerald was very quiet when she was staying here. Miss Vallerie was the difficult sister, not Miss Allison. Miss Allison stayed inside their room most of the time, in fact. Didn’t even want to let the cleaners in. I think she wasn’t feeling well.”
“I wonder why Vallerie didn’t mention that.”
“And Miss Vallerie was always complaining.” Jacky lowered his voice on mentioning complaints. “She already complained five times in the week they were here before her sister was killed.”
“They were here a week?” Aunty Lee was surprised.
“Oh yes. And changed rooms twice. The first one was too small and the second one was too expensive—she wanted to pay the rate for the first size of room while staying in the second. Oh, she made such a fuss!”
“Allison? The sister that got killed?”
“Oh no. The one downstairs. Your friend—the pink fat lady.”
Aunty Lee warmed to Jacky as he pointed out the cleaning equipment storeroom, lifts, and other exits in response to her queries.
“Latest upgrade—we installed lift indicator lights so you can see how long you have to wait.” Both lifts were on the ground floor.
Aunty Lee was impressed. “What about the staircases?” she asked.
Jacky explained that the fire exits were locked (contravening fire regulations but conveniently in this case), but the service stairwell leading down to the car park could be accessed from all floors.
“When the staircase to the outside is open, too many guests walk out without paying. But if they go down the stairs to the lobby or car park, there’s security there so it’s all right.”
“Was there a lot of stuff
besides the luggage downstairs?”
“There was quite a lot of food that we had to throw away. Shall we go back down and join your friend?”
Aunty Lee asked about the cleaners who had packed up the room after the police left. “We should thank them. They did such a great job.”
Jacky said he was sure he could find them.
“And the cleaners who took care of Allison and Vallerie’s room while they were staying here. Can I talk to them?”
Aunty Lee had been slightly apprehensive for Melvinia. However, not only had the slight receptionist survived, but Vallerie seemed resigned to the condition of her belongings. Mel was tougher than she looked, Aunty Lee decided.
“Your toilets are so small—they remind me of toilets on board a plane,” Vallerie was saying as Aunty Lee and Jacky rejoined them. “Economy class.”
“Oh, we had a special Japanese architect come and design for a small space. The main thing is to have everything within reach and easy to keep clean.”
“If it’s too small for your guests it’s useless,” Vallerie snapped.
“I’ll be sure to give your feedback to the management,” Mel chirruped with a sweet smile, reminding Aunty Lee of Cherril when her partner was in stewardess mode.
Jacky was less customer-sensitive. “We call them our restrooms rather than toilets. They all have flowers, not just artificial air fresheners—I make a point of that. There’s no reason to separate the essential and the beautiful. I helped to design the lighting and the tiling myself. And in our hotels the gents’ are all designed with as much attention as the ladies’.”
Aunty Lee thought of something. She got her phone out and fumbled with the buttons, finally handing it to Jacky. “Can you find my photos? Somewhere there I have a shelfie of me and Josephine. I want to show you something—”
Vallerie looked up sharply at the mention of Josephine’s name, but Aunty Lee did not give her a chance to speak.
“Show me—yes. That’s right. Jacky, tell me, have you seen any of these people here in your hotel?”
Though Vallerie had made her distaste for the flamboyant Jacky very clear by keeping her distance, rolling her eyes, and twisting her mouth, even she drew closer as Jacky squinted at Aunty Lee’s phone gallery.
“Well you, obviously. The others, not really. Wait—he looks familiar.” Jacky took the phone from Aunty Lee and swiped the screen larger. “Yes, I’m sure I’ve seen him before.” He giggled. “In the loo, actually. I was thinking just my luck. Alone in the loo with a guy like that and it had to be the hotel loo. Tùzi bù chī wō biān cǎo.”
“Rabbits don’t eat the grass around their homes,” Mel translated, seeing Aunty Lee was baffled by Jacky’s sudden switch to Mandarin. “Means ‘don’t shit where you eat’; in this case, no messing with guests.”
“What’s Mr. Handsome’s name?”
“Brian Wong,” Aunty Lee said absently. She had taken her phone back and was sending Salim a quick text. This was just one of the things she thought he would be interested in. And in return, she asked him to do her a small favor and join them at the hotel.
18
Café
Cherril was surprised how smoothly the café and kitchen were running, even without Aunty Lee keeping an eye on everything. The systems and routines set up by her boss were in place and worked, and the momentum carried them on. In fact it was almost easier without Aunty Lee sitting in the busiest areas (leg raised on a stool when there were no customers), keeping an eye on things and almost tripping you up when she wanted a closer look at what you were doing. And of course there was always Nina. Nina, who always knew what needed to be done and did it before anyone noticed. Of course there was that mountain of overripe mangoes in the cold room that everyone was pointedly not noticing . . .
If she were ever to branch out on her own in the food business, Cherril wondered whether Nina might be persuaded to join her . . . but of course she would not worry about that until and unless she could not persuade Aunty Lee to expand.
And Cherril had to admit Selina was a real help during the mealtime rush. Though she gave nonstop instructions about organizing things that were already organized, she could get down to work when she had to. In fact there was less tension when Aunty Lee was not there, because Selina now talked to Aunty Lee as though she were a not very bright child, as though her fall had damaged her head rather than her ankle. This always provoked Aunty Lee into choruses of “Don’t so silly lah, Silly-Nah.” Entertained as she was, Cherril realized she had unconsciously been acting the same way toward Aunty Lee. It was too easy to treat the physically weak as though they were stupid.
Now in the afternoon bog between the last lunch customers and the first afternoon tea people, Selina had gone to run errands and Cherril had the place to herself. Later, teatime would merge into people buying food to take home for dinner and that would be the real work of the day. Many places simply closed down between the last lunch order and six so the staff could have a break and clean up. But at Aunty Lee’s Delights they cleaned up between customers anyway and there was little more to do.
Of course she could have left things to Nina and the two temporary helpers. But Cherril preferred to spend slow afternoons in the shop rather than back at the Peters house. Mycroft would be at the office and his father seldom left his study. And while Anne Peters was charming and properly kind to her son’s wife, she was not exactly someone whom Cherril was comfortable sitting and chatting with. Despite the comfort and luxury of the self-contained little cabin built on the grounds of the Peterses’ bungalow, Cherril Lim-Peters was lonely there. It would be different once children arrived, she reminded herself. If children ever came, but she tried not to think about that.
For now she had the café. And there was Nina, always quietly practical, coming out with a stack of takeaway boxes to be folded. She put them in front of Cherril, who said as she started on them, “I don’t like to get involved, but I don’t like seeing Josephine with that guy.”
Nina looked at her. Cherril looked back, expectant.
“You don’t want to get involved then don’t get involved lor.”
“It’s already too late. She asked me to help her—actually she more or less forced me to help her, but that’s just the way Josephine is. She makes you feel it’s easier to just do whatever she wants. But I know that if things go wrong she’s going to turn around and blame me.”
“Maybe things won’t go wrong.” Nina pulled out the bags of fresh vegetables that had gone straight into the walk-in chiller without sorting that morning. That was kitchen life; there was never enough time in the mornings and always something to do in the afternoons.
“It’s not going to work, right? It’s not bad enough that he’s been married before. He can’t have very good memories of what happened to his family in Singapore. The minute everything goes wrong between them he’s going to blame her and Singapore,” Cherril burst out. “And Josephine—when she gets angry it’s scary!”
Nina spread out a few sheets of newspaper and started sorting the kangkong and removing the few wilted leaves. The water spinach had been standing in a bucket of water and most of it was well hydrated. It would be crisp and juicy when stir-fried that evening.
“Plus they come from totally different backgrounds. It’s difficult enough marrying a man with so much baggage, let alone one that comes from a totally different background!”
“You’re not being fair to your friend, Madame Cherril.”
“I only want to help.” What she really wanted was a way to distance herself from the disaster she could see coming. She did not want to be dragged into another of Josephine’s dramas.
Nina rinsed a basket of red chilies and started slicing them into thin rings. These would be put into the freezer and served as “fresh”-cut chilies in soy sauce. Some of them would be cut into thicker rings with most of the seeds and all the fiber removed. Since it was the soft, pale fibers that gave chilies most of their heat, these would be for peo
ple who liked the sweet warmth of chili peppers without too much fire. There was no point in telling people the best chilies were those spicy enough to burn a layer of skin off your tongue. Some people preferred as little excitement as possible in their lives and on their plates.
Cherril pulled out another chopping block to help.
“Gloves are in the drawer.” Nina was already wearing disposable latex examination gloves. These were fine enough that you could still feel what you were doing, unlike the thicker washing-up gloves.
“That’s okay. I’ll wash my hands after.”
“You wash your hands ten times and rub your eyes, your eyes will still be pain and turn red and Aunty Lee will scold me.”
“I won’t rub my eyes. And I won’t tell Aunty Lee.”
“Wear gloves or don’t touch!”
Cherril took the gloves. She did not think she needed them but there was no point antagonizing Nina for nothing.
“Why would anybody marry somebody so different?”
Nina looked at Cherril suspiciously, but her boss’s new partner was clearly following her own train of thought. Cherril had never been a top student, but she was good at solving problems because once she latched on to something she held on till it gave way or she was shaken off. The disadvantage, of course, was she missed anything going on outside her focus of interest. But Nina was glad of that right then since the same issues were very much on her mind. But unlike Cherril, the more important something was to Nina, the less likely she was to discuss it.
“You did, madame.”
“Me?”
Nina nodded, her eyes on her hands, which were still busy.
“That’s not true. Me and Mycroft?”
“Different race, different religion, different background.” Singaporeans were conditioned to believe it was impolite to mention such things, as though they did not notice them. Of course this just increased the size of the elephant in the room. But Nina was not a Singaporean. And Cherril, touchy as she was about the social differences between her and Mycroft’s birth families, could tell Nina meant no offense.
