“Not at all,” said Paul. “I know it’s not usual to let people in the kitchen. But I’d really appreciate it . . . .”
“Sure,” the girl piped in, giving Paul a smile her mother could not see. “It gets boring in here with nobody to talk to except my brothers and my mother. Come watch the expert. I bet I’ve made ten thousand egg rolls this year alone.”
The girl’s mother, who had never halted her movements for a second, tossed the shrimp, some steamed rice, and vegetables in a wok. From bottles next to the stove, she dashed a bit of this and a bit of that, watching poker-faced as Paul stepped up to stand beside the girl.
“I’m Colleen,” said the girl, giving her red lawn a toss.
“I’m Paul.”
“Don’t shake my hand unless your girlfriend is crazy about onions.” With her knife, she pushed a heap of fixings into a bowl and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. “Nothing gets rid of this smell.”
Nina had been dreaming about her fee again. She had moved on to a fantasy of buying a lakeside home with a dock and a fine boat on which she and Bob could learn to water-ski and sail. She would replace Matt’s lousy boat with a new one, top of the line for him and Andrea and the cousins. Then she would buy the Starlake office building, renovate, and take over the top two floors, hiring associates and promoting Sandy to supervise people besides Nina. Paul would not bug her about marriage. Their wild fling would go on for years and years until Nina decided unexpectedly to settle down or have another child, at which time he would settle into complete fidelity and become a marvelous father.
Content to play in her imaginary landscape for a while, some time passed before she realized Paul had not returned. Puzzled, she checked the restaurant’s restroom, finding it empty. As she walked back to the table she spotted him hunched over a plate of steaming noodles. The table was suddenly covered with dishes.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Fine, fine,” he chortled. “C’mon. Dig in. They really know how to cook here. Good food.”
She picked up her chopsticks and pointed them at him. “Where were you?”
“In the kitchen, learning how to assemble egg rolls,” said Paul. “It’s a family business. Mom supervises the kitchen. The two oldest sons, Tan-Kwo and Tan-Mo, clean up and serve. They use only the freshest cabbage in their rolls,” he said, biting down on one. “Mmm.”
“But you hardly ever cook. You grill. And then, only steak.”
“That’s true.”
“So?”
“So guess what? Dad had a heart attack two years ago. They’ve cleaned up their act. No more greasy bad stuff. Only fresh. And only pure.”
Nina tried to keep her patience. “What are you talking about?”
“Pure canola.”
She threw her napkin on the table, continuing to hold her sticks aloft. “Are you going to tell me what you’re talking about?” she said. “Don’t force me to torture you.”
“This restaurant catered Clifford Wright’s last meal,” said Paul. “Doc Clauson said he must have eaten peanuts in some form. They said they didn’t use ’em. He thought they were lying.”
“And?”
“They don’t use peanut oil anymore. They don’t serve anything with peanuts. They only use cashews.”
Nina heard the bewilderment in her own voice. “But aren’t cashews nuts?”
“He wasn’t allergic to nuts. He was allergic to legumes, and that includes peanuts.”
“How do you know that?”
“Various sources.”
“So . . . so he accidentally ate peanuts from somewhere else. What difference does it make?”
“Nina, if he didn’t have an allergic reaction to the lunch, what killed him?”
She pushed her plate away. “Paul, no. No, no, no.” She put a hand to her forehead and shook her head.
“Tan-Kwo in the kitchen says Clifford called the restaurant to check about the use of peanut oil in cooking before he touched his lunch. Wright told them then how serious the allergy could be, but they already knew about it.
“In spite of sounding like he’s just off the boat, that’s just an act. For most of the year, Tan-Kwo is premed at UC Berkeley.”
“Paul . . . you’re . . . you’re . . .”
“I spoke to Clifford Wright’s family this morning. They’re very distraught. They’d like to know more about what happened.”
Nina sat very still, her thoughts beating around in her mind like Ping-Pong balls. “If someone tampered with the jury, the judge will throw out the verdict. We’d have a mistrial. You’re suggesting someone spiked his food with peanuts.”
“Just considering the possibility.”
“You really think there’s something to find out?”
“It just doesn’t feel right to me.”
“Why can’t you just let this alone? Paul, if this verdict is set aside I am in so deep I might never be able to dig my way out. I bet everything on winning. I’m in hock up to my eyeballs.”
It was a plea. Paul’s brow furrowed.
“So, what are you going to do?”
He took her hand. “You tell me.”
31
They had an uncomfortable ride back to Nina’s car at the courthouse, during which she pled exhaustion and turned the radio up and closed her eyes to drown him out both visually and aurally. She gathered her things to get out of the car and stepped out. She held the door open and leaned in.
“Okay, Paul, do it. Damn you. I won’t sleep until you tell me you’re wrong.”
“That’s my Nina,” Paul said.
She slammed the door in his face.
Paul headed straight for the South Lake Tahoe police department to root out an old acquaintance, Sergeant Cheney.
Cheney welcomed him with a smile, motioning him to sit. He had a phone glued to his head, and a pen scribbling in one hand. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Yep.” This continued for several minutes, while Paul examined the photographs on Cheney’s desk, especially the one of his wife, a lovely toasty-brown-colored woman with hair lighter than her skin, looking much younger than the overweight Cheney.
Finally, Cheney hung up. The phone rang. He ignored it.
“Haven’t seen you around in a while,” he said. “If you don’t count the fact that you’ve been involved in two out of the five deaths I’ve investigated in the past coupla years.”
“I can see you’re busy,” said Paul. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me. I’ll keep it short.”
“Let me help you along,” said Cheney. He looked down at his papers. “Clifford Wright, white male, thirty-two. Died from a severe allergic reaction called anaphylactic shock, presumably from ingesting some form of peanuts. Have I got it so far?”
“Well, yes,” said Paul, utterly taken aback. “How did you know I was here about Wright?”
“I’m a detective, remember,” said Cheney, “and then there was that phone call just now from Doc Clauson. He says you came nosing around the medical examiner’s office this a.m. You got the Doc’s curiosity bump itching. He’s asked me, unofficially, to look into a couple of things.”
“Such as?”
“They use peanut oil at the Five Happinesses or not?” asked Cheney. “I’ll probably mosey over there this evening. I feel a hankering for kung pao prawns. They have that over there? You know?”
“I didn’t notice.”
Cheney clapped his hands together. “Figured you’d already been. Bet you noticed a bunch of things about peanuts.”
“Like, they don’t use them or peanut oil.”
“Seeing you here, figured they might not.”
“I guess you’ve already answered my question.” Paul got up to leave.
“Which was?”
“How final is the medical examiner’s ruling on Wright’s death? Legally, I mean. The family is hiring me to find out.”
“Now, how’d you hook up with them?”
“Called with my condolences and happened to mention t
hat insurance companies don’t pay as well for a natural death. They’ll inherit more if somebody else hurried him along. Turns out Wright had a hefty life insurance policy. If I come up with some proof that Wright’s death was less than kosher, how hard will it be to get Clauson to change his ruling on the cause of death?”
“Oh, his report’s final. Unless he changes his mind.”
“He can change it.”
“Yep. Quick as popping one of those sticks of gum he’s always got lying around these days. But the real answer is, our files on that case remain open. And now you’ve opened up a brand-new direction for our ongoing inquiries. Keep in touch, why don’t you?”
“Be glad to,” said Paul.
Back in his car, he punched numbers into his phone. “Sandy,” he said. “Any idea how I could reach Wish?”
“He’s right here.”
“Put him on.”
“Why?” asked Sandy.
“I have some work for him.”
The phone must have flown to Wish, because he answered only a second later. “How,” said Wish, “Chief Wish Whitefeather here,” and that greeting was followed by a thumping noise, then an “Ouch.” Sandy’s son had a sense of humor about being Native American his mother apparently didn’t appreciate.
“So you’re a chief now,” said Paul. “Too important for me to corner you for a couple of hours for a project I’m working on?”
“I’ll check my calendar.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” said Wish, hurt. “I’m taking classes at night, you know. Police administration.”
“Oh. Sorry,” said Paul.
“When do you need me?”
“Today, possibly into tomorrow.”
“What are we doing?”
“Interviews.”
“You running the show?”
“Nope. You’ve been promoted from assistant to detective-in-training.”
“Outstanding! But . . . how will I know what to ask? Are you going to fill me in on what’s going on?”
Paul did.
“Okay, let me see if I have this straight. You think someone put something into the Chinese food this juror ate right before he tossed in his chopsticks.”
“Yeah, someone out for a puff, or a stretch. Someone went out there and took care of our friend Clifford Wright.”
“How do you know that’s what happened?” asked Wish, sounding dubious. “I never heard anything about him being killed by someone.”
“I don’t know it. Yet. It’s just a hunch.”
“Oh,” said Wish.
“I spoke very briefly with one of the jurors this morning already, Grace Whipple. She said the bailiff brought lunch in a little late, at about twelve-fifteen. They jumped on that food like prisoners of war. Said it was a real high point in a nasty morning. They had all probably been thinking about it for at least an hour. Nobody could have fiddled with anything in full view of the rest of the jury under those circumstances.”
“So you think it happened when the food was out in the hall for about fifteen minutes after it arrived, before anyone ate, and all the jurors were coming and going.”
“Well, it was outside the anteroom in a private hall that leads to the clerk’s offices and the judge’s chambers. That hall is locked. You have to have business with the court, or work there, to get in.”
“So you think it was one of the jurors.”
“If anyone. Only they knew what was happening in that jury room. At this point, I don’t know anyone did anything. I’m just intrigued.”
“Do you really think someone planned to kill this guy by giving him an allergy attack?”
“Not really. It’s more likely, if this actually is the case, someone got angry, saw an opportunity, and grabbed it without knowing how serious the consequences might be. Maybe they just thought it would temporarily put him out of commission.”
“Where would they get the peanuts?”
“Apparently, most of them brought snacks.”
“I really don’t get this.”
“What?”
“Nina won the case. Why does she care about that juror?”
“She told me to go ahead and check it out, Wish.” Paul had known she would. Ultimately, the truth was too important to Nina, even when it might work against her. “She doesn’t expect us to find anything.”
“But if one of the other jurors offed him, Nina’s verdict will get put aside, won’t it?”
“We’re a long way from that happening, Wish. Right now, our role is to gather information, not to worry about what might happen.”
“Okay. Who do I go see?”
Paul decided to assign Wish the bulk of the jurors, those who had supported Mike in the beginning, and those who had been persuaded by Cliff to go with Mike later, according to exit interviews conducted by the media, which had pounced on the jury after the verdict. They would have less cause to want to harm him. Paul would take the ones that opposed Wright—Diane, Mrs. Lim, Courtney, and maybe Sonny. And then he might want to talk with Lindy. She had the most to gain, although how she could know what was happening in the jury room was a problem, unless she had a confederate.
“So I need your help on two fronts. Before anything else, the first thing I want is, I need you to . . . um“—some of this was tricky; he didn’t want Wish to break any ethical rules to get him what he needed, but it was the lazy way and the sensible way to keep this investigation short—”get me the jury’s addresses, phone numbers, everything. Nina will cooperate on that front.”
“Easy!” said Wish enthusiastically. “I’m sure we’ve got a list right here somewhere.”
“Good, good. And then“—now here came the important part, the part Nina might not embrace so eagerly—”if you come across anything relevant, of course . . .”
“I’ll keep my eyes open,” said Wish. “Of course, I can’t bring you anything really private.”
“Of course not,” said Paul, hoping nevertheless that Wish might, in his helpful innocence, stumble on something useful.
“I won’t let your faith in me down,” said Wish.
“Who taught you to talk like that?” Paul asked.
“That would be me,” said Sandy. “Just a little motherly advice. And there’s more. Find yourself another flunky.”
“You just eavesdropped on a private conversation between me and your son,” said Paul. “Nina won’t like hearing that.”
“He’s underage. And I’ll tell you what Nina won’t like. Nina won’t like you using my son to weasel your way into our private files.”
“That’s insulting,” said Paul. “Wish would never do that and neither would I. Besides, Nina wants this investigation to be over as much as I do. She won’t mind us getting what we need quickly and efficiently, and getting on with it.”
“Really?” said Sandy. “Hang on while I ask her about that.”
“Oh, don’t bother. We can get the jurors’ names from public records. Now, if I promise not to ask Wish to take advantage of his position at your offices to grub through trash cans or something, can I please borrow him for a few hours?”
“For how much?” asked Sandy.
“Lindy?”
A silhouette opened the door to Lindy’s trailer and stood there, irresolute.
Lindy came from the little kitchen, wiping her wet hands on a washcloth, calling, “Alice?”
“It’s me.” She saw Mike, the sun behind him, making a fuzzy halo of his hair.
“I, uh, hoped you’d let me come in. No phone, so I couldn’t call first.”
“What do you want, Mike?”
“Can I come in?”
She was so bewildered to see him that she found herself stepping aside to let him in, saying, “I can’t believe you remembered the place.” He followed her into the trailer and she motioned toward the table with its built-in benches. “I was just making some coffee.”
“No, please. Don’t bother,” Mike said. He sat down and leaned on the tabl
e on his elbow and scratched his head, familiar actions.
The room felt smaller with Mike in it. She hadn’t broken her solitude over the past months with any guests. A long time ago, they had lived here together for a short time. She could barely remember.
Lindy went to the window, looked out for traces of a lawyer or a sheriff or Rachel, but Mike’s black Cadillac sat all alone in the turnaround. The cloud of dust he’d raised still drifted in the breeze. Besides Comanche’s stall and the storage shed, the landscape, all rock and high scrub desert, was silent and shadeless at midday.
“I see you’re packing up,” Mike said. “You never should have come out here to this lonely old place anyway.”
“Where else would I go?” Lindy said. Something in Mike’s face stopped her from going on and saying what she had a right to say about that. “Dad loved it out here,” she said instead. “It hasn’t been so bad.”
“Reminds me of when we lived out here for a while, you remember? Tumbleweed Flats, we called it. No phone, no TV. Damn, it got hot. It’s sure hot out here today, isn’t it?”
“Why did you come? You could see me tomorrow in your lawyer’s office.”
Mike looked out the window at the rolling brown flank of the mountains silently, chewing his lip.
“Did he send you all the way out here to soften me up?” She went back into the little kitchen and came back with a couple of beers. She didn’t care if that was why he had come, that was how glad she was to see him, but she wasn’t going to let him know that, he didn’t deserve to know that, so she slapped down the beers and said, “Here. I’m having one anyway.”
“You got every right to say anything you want, Lin.”
Looking like a man with his head in a guillotine, his face was resigned and frightened. He’d screwed up his courage to come out here and try to tell her—what? “You look terrible,” Lindy said.
“You look great. No wonder. You beat the pants off me. You did.”
She had a long drink from the bottle. “I like beer out here. It cools me off better than wine.”
BREACH OF PROMISE Page 34
