Aunty Lee's Delights

by Ovidia Yu

  Dedication

  In loving memory of Christina Sergeant

  (1955–2013)

  Contents

  Dedication

  Part 1 Introducing Death and Detectives

  Prologue

  1 Aunty Lee’s Delights

  2 Wine Dining

  3 Where Is Laura Kwee?

  4 Laura Kwee on the Beach

  5 Carla Saito’s Story

  6 Family Dinner

  7 Putting Information Together

  Part 2 Middle

  8 Waiting for Police Interviews

  9 Marianne Peters

  10 Carla Saito and Marianne Peters

  11 Meal Planning

  12 At the Café

  13 Waiting Room

  14 Collecting Ingredients

  15 At the Hospital

  16 Cover and Simmer Over Low Heat

  17 Making Tea

  18 Aunty Lee’s Wrap-up

  Acknowledgments

  Aunty Lee’s Amazing Achar (easy home version)

  P.S.

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Also by Ovidia Yu

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part 1

  Introducing Death and Detectives

  Prologue

  First Body

  It was early morning and the rain had stopped. The grass was still wet. They walked across it to the sand and then right up to the water’s edge. The beach was not private to the hotel but there was no one else there at that hour. The combination of dawn and low-tide debris gave the impression of old secrets washed up, ready to be revealed. A light breeze came across the water, bringing the smell of salt and distant decay as well as—this being Singapore—whiffs of industrial chemicals being fired and antimosquito fogging.

  Tired as they were, being so close to the water cast its spell on them. Even if the sea before them was blocked from the ocean by Indonesia and East Malaysia and crowded with tankers and cruisers, it was still a boundary and a reminder that somewhere in the beyond surrounding them there was a vital ocean and living planet. Like many other city- and computer-bound people, the two were unfamiliar with the experience of being exposed to the wind, the waves, and physical space.

  Holding hands and their footwear, they walked barefoot along the shoreline talking about the past and their future. They were not yet twenty-four hours into their newborn marriage and found it fascinating. The Sentosa beach might have been artificially constructed but it was all the more romantic for that, with the best-quality, daily swept sand and line of carefully placed shallow rock pools marking low-tide boundaries.

  “Look, a hermit crab!”

  “I already noticed you in Junior College, you know . . .”

  “I noticed you before that. Why do you think I decided to go to Anglo-Chinese Junior College with Hwa Chong at my door step? My parents thought I was crazy!”

  “Do you think we’ll ever be here like this again?”

  “We can come back every year if you like. Every anniversary.”

  “It won’t be the same. You’ll be playing golf and busy and maybe there’ll be children—I mean, maybe not but—” She broke off awkwardly, embarrassed to have mentioned children. But he was equal to the subject.

  “Of course there’ll be children. Lots of children. Your parents and my parents can fight over who gets to look after them, but once a year, every year, we’ll come back here, just the two of us, okay?”

  “There’s something over there!” she said then, squinting over the beach. It was the most romantic thing he had ever said and she did not want to spoil it just yet by pointing out that she expected anniversary trips far further abroad—Europe, or America, maybe. “Over there. It looks like a jellyfish; is it? It’s huge!”

  “It’s not a jellyfish. It’s just a plastic bag . . .”

  “Yes, it’s a jellyfish—I can see its body and its legs and everything. Can’t you see? I think it’s dead. Are there poisonous jellyfish around Sentosa?”

  They smelled it before they saw it was no jellyfish.

  She screamed. He was sick on the sand. Then they put on their gritty sandals and ran back to the hotel to call the police.

  1

  Aunty Lee’s Delights

  “Now they are finding bodies on the beach! I tell you, that place is bad luck! Do you know it used to be called Pulau Blakang Mati? That means ‘Island of Death.’ Before your time, of course, but everybody in Singapore will remember. Crazy, right? Go and build a tourist resort in a place called Island of Death.”

  “But now it is called Sentosa, right? And the meaning of Sentosa is ‘happy peacefulness’?” Nina kept her eyes focused on her work. Now she was efficiently threading thin, diagonally cut slices of chicken thigh meat onto bamboo skewers, pressing them well together before returning them to their marinade.

  “So? They can call it whatever they want—they still found a dead body there, true or not?”

  “Ma’am, they also find dead body in the HDB water tank, in the Singapore River, in Serangoon Reservoir. You cannot say all these places got bad luck.”

  “I would say all those people had bad luck. But at least we know who they were, right? This one is supposed to be unidentified!”

  News that an unidentified woman’s body had been found washed up on a Sentosa beach in a plastic bag had not made it into any of the Singapore morning papers, but it had been the hottest news online and over the radio all day. For once, the radio in Aunty Lee’s Delights had been turned on all day, switching between local stations for updates.

  Aunty Lee’s Delights was a small café shop in Binjai Park, less than five minutes’ walk from Dunearn Road. It was well-known for good traditional Peranakan food and famous for the achar and sambals Aunty Lee had been selling out of her house for years. Aunty Lee’s Delights was also equipped with the latest modern equipment. Though she was revered for cooking the traditional standards, strange dishes occasionally popped up because Aunty Lee loved experimenting. In her view, anything cooked with local ingredients was local food. In fact the shop was very like Aunty Lee herself. Another passion of hers was reverse engineering dishes (and occasionally people) to figure out how they had come about and how they might be better adjusted. She called her kitchen her laboratory for DIY-CSI, the television in there testifying to her two passions, for food and news.

  Aunty Lee was a short, precise Peranakan lady of certain age and even more certain girth. The image of her fair, plump, kebaya-clad form smiling on jars of Aunty Lee’s Amazing Achar and Aunty Lee’s Shiok Sambal was familiar to most Singaporeans and probably anyone else who had been on the island for any extended length of time. Today Aunty Lee was wearing a turquoise kebaya top with matching pants so flared that she looked like she was wearing a skirt when not in motion. Her sneakers that afternoon were turquoise with bright yellow laces. Aunty Lee believed in tradition but even more in comfort.

  Aunty Lee was also well-known and a bit of a headache to many of the island city’s food suppliers. Through letters to the Straits Times, she had exposed several cases of food fraud (“organic” kailan that had been sprayed with insecticide, “free-range” chicken with the flaccid thigh meat of cage-bound animals). All thanks to her unerring ability to pinpoint when something was “off,” in food or in life, and being kiasu enough to fixate on it. Kiasu, or fear of losing out, was a typical Singaporean characteristic and one that Aunty Lee embodied to the extreme.

  All day Aunty Lee had been following news reports on radio and television and had even sent Nina round to the 7-Eleven to pick up the afternoon papers, but she hadn’t learned any more about the body that had been found. She and Nina had overdosed on DJ chatter and
music (which Nina had quite enjoyed when Aunty Lee was not changing channels hoping for more news), but all she had gotten were news updates without new information and speculations from phone-in callers. Was it the body of a gambler from the casino? An illegal immigrant dropped off a boat who had failed to swim in to shore? Or an unlucky sailor? Had it been an accident, a suicide, or—most exciting of all—murder?

  Naturally Aunty Lee was all in favor of suicide or murder. She did not find accidents very interesting. To her, accidents were the result of carelessness and poor planning, and she had very little interest in or patience with careless and lazy people. She found them boring.

  “They should let us know what is happening!” Aunty Lee said. “How can they keep people in the dark like that. It’s not as though they are preparing for an election or something—a body on Sentosa is serious, it affects all of us. What if tourists start to worry and stop going to the Integrated Resort there to gamble? It’s going to affect all of us!”

  “They can also go to the other resort to gamble, ma’am,” Nina said practically. Very little upset Nina Balignasay. “Anyway, nowadays they find dead bodies in Singapore quite often.”

  “Do you think they’ve found any more bodies? Turn on the TV again. Go to CNN. Sometimes, if it’s big enough, Singapore news comes out there before it reaches Singapore.”

  “If they find more bodies, then it is more likely accident, ma’am. Maybe it is a boat sinking.”

  “Or a mass murder!” Aunty Lee said with relish. “One of those serial killers. After all, if you are going to go through all the trouble of arranging to throw somebody into the sea, why stop at one body, right?”

  As she spoke, Aunty Lee was rapidly cutting up cucumbers with all the attention she normally paid to cooking, which was not much. She cooked the way some people drove—while carrying on conversations, applying lipstick, and texting messages—trusting the instinct that came with long practice and only focusing on the main task when something unexpected came up or went wrong.

  Fortunately Aunty Lee did not drive.

  “Who do you think it was? The news said unidentified female body. That means nobody reported her missing, right? What kind of relatives don’t report a missing girl!”

  “Her relatives may not know she’s missing yet,” Nina observed calmly.

  In many ways Nina Balignasay was the opposite of Aunty Lee. Nina was slim, dark, and generally prided herself on minding her own business. Though she had not known how to cook or drive when she arrived in Singapore, she had since learned to do both proficiently, thanks to Aunty Lee’s help-others-to-become-good-at-helping-me philosophy. And since keeping Aunty Lee comfortable was her main business, Nina’s own powers of observation had also sharpened considerably.

  She had also learned not to worry that her employer would lose a finger or an eye as she speed-sliced and waved her knife around to emphasize whatever point she was making. After all, Nina was nothing if not adaptable. She had been trained as a nurse in the Philippines (even if her nursing degree was not recognized in Singapore) and would have been able to stanch the bleeding. And she had learned it was dangerous—and pretty much impossible—to try to stop Aunty Lee from doing what she wanted to.

  “You think so? How can relatives not know?”

  “How often do you see your relatives, ma’am?”

  Aunty Lee paused in thought. Though equipped with an extensive social network, she had few close relatives left alive.

  “Call Mark,” she said to Nina. “Call Mark and ask him whether that wife of his is around.”

  Mark Lee was the son of Aunty Lee’s late husband and his first wife. Aunty Lee had gotten along fairly well with both M. L. Lee’s children for years. Mark was already studying in Australia and Mathilda in the UK when their widower father finally remarried, and they had appreciated the energy Aunty Lee brought into their father’s home and life even if the richness of her cooking gave him gout in two years. As Mathilda said, their mother had been dead for over fifteen years, so neither she herself nor Mark had showed any antagonism toward the plump, fair “aunty” who began appearing by their father’s side at family and social functions. Indeed, when M. L. Lee married Rosie Gan, as Aunty Lee had been called before the marriage, his two children had congratulated themselves that there would now be someone to keep their father fed and occupied, thus freeing them to focus on their own families. “We don’t have to feel bad about not staying in Singapore to keep an eye on poor old Pa!” as Mathilda said.

  Mathilda had married an Englishman and settled in Warwick not long after the wedding, comfortably assured that her father was taken care of. However, things had changed after Mark married and M. L. Lee died of a heart attack—unrelated events that had taken place in the same month almost five years ago. Mrs. Selina Lee had never forgiven her late father-in-law for interrupting her Italian honeymoon by dying (they had been in the Prada café in Montevarchi waiting for her turn to enter the factory outlet when they got the news of his death) or for leaving all his earthly possessions to his second wife.

  Aunty Lee privately believed that if Mark had married anyone other than Selina, M. L. Lee would probably have left a great deal more to his son than he did. The late M. L. Lee had had a bias against women with loud shrill voices like his new daughter-in-law. This was perhaps unfair to Selina, who had been deliberately louder (and shriller) in M. L. Lee’s presence since his habit of not answering her convinced her that the old man was going deaf. Selina Lee was also convinced that Aunty Lee had stolen her Mark’s inheritance from him. Aunty Lee knew that Selina had already been to two different law firms to try to find someone willing to help her contest the will. Aunty Lee might have told Mark that she would leave M. L. Lee’s property to him and Selina, which would have made things much more peaceful, but she had not. Instead, she had already agreed to make several loans, of considerable amounts of money, as requested, which Selina now referred to as “presents” and which Mark had already lost in previous business ventures. Running a wine import business was his latest attempt at entrepreneurship.

  “What do you want to say to Ma’am Selina?” Nina continued with what she was doing, making no move toward the phone.

  “I don’t want to talk to that Silly-Nah. I just want to make sure she’s still alive. You are the one who said I don’t know whether my relatives are missing or not!”

  “I never say that, ma’am. Anyway, they will be coming here soon. And if Ma’am Selina is missing, Sir Mark will call the police, right?”

  “Who knows?” Aunty Lee grouched. “If she’s not there to tell him how to pick up the phone and how to dial, you think he’ll know how to do it?”

  But she left the subject. Of course, Aunty Lee would have done everything in her power to comfort her stepson if it turned out to be his wife’s body that had just floated up onto that Sentosa beach. Aunty Lee would probably miss poor dead Selina, if such were the case—Selina made life more interesting, in the same way as chili padi spiced up a dish. But it was all wishful thinking. Selina, very much alive and still bossy, would soon arrive with Mark for that evening’s wine dining event.

  It was the dining portion of that evening’s wine dining that Aunty Lee and Nina were currently preparing. Usually dinner was not served at Aunty Lee’s Delights. The café specialized in lunches with an all-day snacks and tea menu that covered everything from late breakfasts to high tea, but it closed at six to allow Aunty Lee to get home for her own dinner. In the old days, dinner had been prepared throughout the day in the shop kitchen and collected, along with herself, by M. L. Lee on his way home from work. M. L. Lee had worked right up to the day of his death. Their Binjai Park bungalow, deeper in the estate, was a fifteen-minute walk from the shop. But even a fifteen-minute walk was not easy in the Singapore evening heat, especially with tingkats full of dinner.

  Aunty Lee had not realized how much she missed cooking those dinners till the wine dining sessions began. Serving Aunty Lee’s local Peranakan dishes accompani
ed by fine wines chosen by Mark had been Selina Lee’s idea. But in spite of this, Aunty Lee enjoyed them very much indeed. She had cut herself off from social life after her husband’s death, preferring to cook small dishes rather than make small talk. But she was looking forward to tonight’s session; with an unidentified body, there would be more than small talk around the table.

  “It could be some foreign diplomat got drunk and ran over somebody then dumped her body into the sea,” Aunty Lee mused. “Do you know if the Romanian embassy sent over a new guy yet?”

  “Even if the newspapers say ‘unidentified,’ it could mean that the police know but didn’t tell them, right?” Nina suggested calmly. “Maybe they want to inform the family first.”

  “Maybe.” Undeterred, Aunty Lee branched off on a new track. “And now also, just before Chinese New Year—must be somebody on drugs or on holiday . . . that’s why nobody reported her missing yet. They didn’t say where this woman is from, right? Tell you what, Nina. Go and phone them and ask whether it is somebody you know. Tell them a friend of yours is missing, then maybe they will tell you whether the woman is Chinese or Indian or ang moh . . . but make sure you sound upset, otherwise they will want to get information from you instead . . . Phone now before people start coming for the dinner.”

  “Ma’am. My hands are dirty now. And I got to finish making dinner before the people come.”

  “Maybe she went to Sentosa to gamble and lost all her money and she was running away from loan sharks and fell into the sea . . .”

  “Yes, ma’am. Do you want me to put the pork on the sticks also?”

  “Yes, Nina. Are there enough sticks? Good. Those loan sharks can be so terrible. But they should realize that if they go around killing people, they won’t get their money back, right? Unless, of course, they killed her as a warning to other people who owe them money. But if I were a loan shark, I wouldn’t kill somebody who really owed me money—I would pick somebody who didn’t and just tell everybody she did. That would be enough to frighten them. So that poor girl could be a total stranger to them . . . but maybe it wasn’t loan sharks at all. Maybe it was those expat traders who get drunk and beat up taxi drivers. Maybe it was a female taxi driver and she jumped into the sea to get away from them.”