Death by Dumpling Read online

  “I’ll get your tea, and put your order in, ladies,” I told them as they shuffled into the booth.

  The smallest one, Opal, looked up at me. “Oh, thank you, Lana,” she said in her soft voice. “This is a sad morning for us, we are grateful for your kindness.”

  The others nodded and I hurried to the kitchen to get their tea. It was hard to see the four of them so out of sorts.

  Breakfast came and went. The Mahjong Matrons barely spoke two words as they picked at their food. The rest of the morning crowd was light and most everyone that came in already had heard the news that Mr. Feng passed away. I tried my best to remain cheerful for their sakes, but whether or not I was successful was another story.

  My mother showed up around 11 A.M. and didn’t say much as she passed by. She mumbled something about going to look over the books and was gone before I could ask how she was holding up.

  A little after noon, I made a cup of tea for her and knocked on her office door. She didn’t respond, but I decided to go in anyway. I opened the door a crack and poked my head inside. “Mom?”

  “What?” She kept her eyes fixed on the ledger in front of her.

  “I brought you some tea.” I held up the cup, inching my way through the door. “Do you want me to ask Peter to make you something?”

  “No, I am not hungry.” She glanced up briefly. “You eat?”

  “Yeah, I had some noodles for lunch.” I stepped farther into the office, setting the cup of tea on the edge of her desk away from her stack of papers.

  She eyed the teacup. “Good.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I am sad for Donna,” my mother explained. “She is too young to lose her husband this way. Now life will be hard for her, she has two kids and no husband to help her.”

  “We can help her though.” I attempted an upbeat tone, hoping it would rub off on my mother. “She has lots of friends.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not the same, Lana.”

  “I know … I’m just … Who do you think will take care of the plaza now?” I asked, thinking about Peter’s concern.

  My mother looked up at me and the blank expression on her face told me that she hadn’t thought of it either. “Maybe Donna…”

  “What about Ian Sung?” I suggested. “Maybe he’ll take over?”

  She made a face. “I don’t know if he is good for this plaza.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She reached for the teacup. “You are too young to understand. You just worry about you, take care of yourself.”

  I sighed. “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you always say the same thing, you are fine.” She waved her hand with exasperation.

  “Well … I am,” I replied defensively.

  “You don’t have boyfriend…”

  I groaned. She liked to remind me of this fact more than necessary. “Mom … I don’t need a boyfriend to be fine. I’m perfectly fine alone.”

  “You can’t be alone all the time.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Being single is no big deal.”

  “You need to be more like your sister. If you were more like your sister, I wouldn’t worry.” She said this as if it were common sense.

  “She doesn’t have a boyfriend either. How come you don’t nag her about the same thing?”

  “She’s busy with her schoolwork. When she is done, she will be a lawyer. Then she can worry about a boyfriend. You are not that busy.”

  “I had a boyfriend, who was a jerk, remember?” I cringed at the memory of finding my ex-jerk strolling through the mall with his “other” girlfriend. “I need some time by myself to clear my head.”

  “You clear your head for nine months now. Mommy can pick a good boyfriend for you to marry one day.” She pointed at herself. “You are getting too old to keep waiting.”

  “Mom! I’m twenty-seven … Anna May is thirty! How am I the old one?”

  “That is different … she is busy…”

  “Yeah, busy with her schoolwork. Isn’t she just so great?” My voice rose an octave. “Well, you know what?”

  My mother looked at me expectantly, daring me to challenge her.

  “Never mind. I gotta go check on the front.” I shut the door behind me and stomped through the kitchen.

  Before I even had a chance to cool down, I realized there were customers waiting for me. Or, at least, that’s what I thought until I made my way to the hostess station. Two men stood waiting for me in the front lobby. One was drop-dead gorgeous and looked to be in his mid-thirties with eyes that reminded me of vibrant jade. And the other was a borderline attractive man in his early forties with thin lips. The handsome one, standing a little bit in front of the other man, looked around absorbing the room, almost as if he were cataloging everything in sight. Aside from being cute, he was well dressed in a dark blue suit and matching tie. His short reddish-brown hair was slicked back and the color complemented the green of his eyes.

  He noticed me approaching the podium and our eyes locked on each other for a brief moment. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks as a thought leaped through my mind. Now him … I wouldn’t mind making him my boyfriend …

  “Excuse me, miss?” His voice was deep and gravelly; there was no smile on his face or in his voice. The way he watched me made my hands tingle. I hadn’t experienced such an intensity since … well, okay, I was having a hard time focusing right now. But it had definitely been a long time, if ever.

  My voice struggled to find itself. “Yes, can I help you?”

  “We need to speak with the owners.” He looked behind me toward the back of the restaurant. “Are they here?”

  “My mother is here. Is there a problem?”

  He handed me a business card without saying another word. It read: DETECTIVE ADAM TRUDEAU, FAIRVIEW PARK POLICE DEPARTMENT.

  I looked up at him, confused. “Is everything okay?”

  His partner stood next to him with his hands folded in front of him. He didn’t offer an explanation and he wasn’t smiling either.

  “I think it would be best if I spoke with your mother first, miss.”

  “I can take you to the back.” I pointed to the kitchen door. “She’s in her office.”

  He nodded and the two men followed behind me as I led them through the dining room. I felt like I was being escorted on a death march. The air hung heavy with tension and my mind raced with such potential disasters as unstoppable fires, public shootings, and fatal car crashes.

  As we passed through the kitchen, Peter watched us, a question mark on his face. Who the hell are they? he asked with his eyes.

  I shrugged and opened the door to the back room. Whatever was going on, my mother was not going to be happy.

  After I introduced the two men, his partner, the one who hadn’t spoken yet, turned to me. “Miss, we need you to go back to your hostess booth for the time being.”

  Without waiting for me to respond, the two detectives piled themselves into my mother’s tiny office and shut the door.

  Fifteen minutes later, the two men came out of the kitchen with Peter in tow. He had his head down and refused to look at me. “What the heck is going on?” I asked as they proceeded toward me.

  The officers remained stone-faced, neither one of them bothering to answer my question.

  As they walked past me, Peter, still with his head down said, “Call my mom and let her know that I’m down at the police station.”

  Detective Trudeau stopped while his partner and Peter left the restaurant. He looked down at me, the expression on his face all business. “I’m going to need you to come down to the station in a little while.”

  “For what exactly?” I asked.

  “We’re looking into the death of the property owner, Thomas Feng, and we’d like to ask you a few questions. Shouldn’t take too long.”

  “I’m not sure how I can—”

  “We can discuss it further when you get
there,” he said, interrupting me. “I already let your mother know that you would need to leave work for the rest of the day. You’ll probably need time to wrap up. Can you be there in an hour?”

  My mouth went dry and I could feel my teeth sticking to my lips. I nodded without saying anything.

  “Good. I’ll see you then.” He gave a curt nod, and left.

  I stood there in a daze for a solid five minutes. What just happened?

  The tinkle of the door chimes shook me out of my trance. Charles An from the Painted Pearl, an Asian art store, poked his head in the door. He looked around the empty room. “Is everything okay? I just saw two men leave with Peter.” Though his English was good, his accent was thick and he spoke with care.

  Shaking my head, I responded, “I’m not sure.”

  He stepped into the restaurant, letting the door close behind him. He was a short man, and age was heavy on his face. The tan short-sleeved, button-down shirt he had on made him look old-fashioned and kind of washed out. Concern was set in his features as he neared me. “Do you need to sit down?”

  “Maybe…” I glanced at the hostess stool, and decided he was right. I hoisted myself up, leaning my body weight on the podium.

  “Is Peter in some kind of trouble? He did not look so good.”

  “They didn’t say much,” I told him. “I have to go down to the police station for questioning. I guess I’ll find out more then.”

  He nodded. “I should not bother you right now. Please let me know if you need anything.” With a small bow of his head, he left the restaurant.

  I stared at the bells above the door as they slowly stopped swaying back and forth. All I could think was, This can’t be real.

  CHAPTER

  4

  About a half hour later, I made it to the police station. I had only passed by, had never had reason to go inside, and I wasn’t looking forward to it now.

  An attractive-looking woman in uniform greeted me as I walked in, and after I told her who I was, she led me to a room down a hallway where I was instructed to wait for the detective.

  I stood near the doorway, tapping my foot, until he came in.

  “Have a seat, Miss Lee,” he said, gesturing to the chair as he shut the door behind him.

  “You can call me Lana.” I sat down on the edge of the metal chair. “What is this about, Detective?”

  He sat down across from me, placing a pad of paper and pen on the table. “There’s been an unfortunate situation that’s come up with Thomas Feng’s death.” He stared at me as he said it.

  I matched his stare. “What type of situation?”

  “From what I understand, you were working the day of the incident, along with Peter Huang. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, I was there. What type of situation?” I asked again.

  The detective pulled a zipped plastic bag out of his pocket and laid it on the table, smoothing it out. He slid it toward me. “Does this look familiar to you?”

  Inside the bag was a copy of a takeout receipt from the restaurant. It read: steamed pork dumplings, chicken and broccoli with white rice, and one spring roll. I stared at the receipt, my mind spinning in a million directions. It was Mr. Feng’s receipt, he ordered the same thing every week so it was forever ingrained in my memory.

  “Do you recognize this?” Detective Trudeau asked again.

  I nodded and looked up at him in confusion. “Yes, this is the receipt that we staple to the takeout bags. But I don’t understand why—”

  He scribbled a note on his pad. “Miss Lee, were you aware that Thomas Feng had severe allergies to shellfish?”

  “Lana,” I reminded him. “And yes, everyone in the plaza knows that.”

  “So that would imply that Mr. Huang is also aware of this same fact?” His tone went rigid as he questioned me about Peter.

  “Yes…” I could hear the intimidation in my own voice.

  “And are you aware that the dumplings you delivered were not actually pork dumplings like it says on the receipt? The ones you delivered contained shrimp in them. Were you aware of that?”

  I think my eyebrows must have touched. “Excuse me? Can you say that again?”

  “The dumplings you delivered to Thomas Feng … had shrimp in them.” He paused. “This caused Mr. Feng to go into anaphylactic shock.”

  “That’s impossible!” I protested, leaning forward against the table. “There’s no way that anyone at our restaurant would ever dream of giving Mr. Feng anything with shellfish of any kind.”

  He scribbled on his pad. “So, you’re saying that you were not aware that the bag you brought him contained shrimp dumplings and not pork dumplings?”

  “Of course not!” I screeched. “The dumplings I brought him were most certainly not shrimp dumplings.”

  He jotted down another note. “I can assure you, Miss Lee, that Thomas Feng did have shrimp in his stomach contents. And I can also assure you that the dumplings in the takeout container had shrimp in them.” He stopped writing and looked up at me. “Is it a possibility that you accidentally picked up the wrong to-go order?”

  “No, Peter handed me the order.” I folded my arms over my chest. “Besides, Mr. Feng’s orders are always specially marked. We use different cookware for him and everything.”

  “Is it possible that Mr. Huang made a mistake and put the wrong order in the bag?” he suggested. His pen hovered over his notebook, waiting for my reply.

  “No,” I said with resolution. “Peter is without a doubt one of the most meticulous people I have ever worked with. There is no way that he would make that kind of mistake.”

  “Accidents can happen,” he replied.

  I stood my ground and refused to argue the point. I stared back at him, waiting for him to ask a different question.

  “Were you aware of any verbal altercations between Thomas Feng and Peter Huang?”

  “Verbal altercations?” I repeated.

  His lips pursed. “Yes, verbal altercations. You know, did you hear them arguing at any point in the recent past?”

  My eyes narrowed and I could feel my nostrils start to flare. “I know the meaning of verbal altercations, Detective. And no, I was not aware of any verbal altercations between the two of them.”

  Again, he scribbled on his notepad, flipping the page carelessly and then continuing to scribble some more.

  My body tensed in the chair. “Detective,” I started. “Can you please tell me what exactly this is all about? Why did you need me to come down here? Am I being accused of something?”

  The detective put down his pen and folded his hands neatly in front of him. “Right now we’re just asking a few simple questions to figure out what exactly happened that day.”

  “These don’t seem like simple questions.”

  “Trust me when I say that they could be a lot more difficult.” His expression remained flat.

  “Are you saying that Mr. Feng was murdered?” By the time it came out of my mouth, I wished I hadn’t said it.

  He closed his eyes for a few seconds. In his head, I imagined him counting to ten. “On Tuesday afternoon, Thomas Feng died from anaphylactic shock caused by an allergic reaction. Originally, the coroner had assumed it was an accident, but when I went to talk with Mrs. Feng, she assured me that her husband would do no such thing. He was very careful with his allergies and always carried an EpiPen with him.”

  I nodded. “I remember seeing one in his shirt pocket when I dropped off the food. He did have it.”

  He scribbled that down in his notebook and then looked up at me. “No EpiPen was found on him or in the office. The death is being considered suspicious and we’re looking into a few things while we wait for the rest of the autopsy results to come back. Can I say conclusively that he was murdered intentionally?” He flattened his hands on the table, spreading out his fingers. “No, but I intend to find out.”

  “So all of this somehow naturally makes Peter and me the guilty ones?” My voice peaked with defensiven
ess. I was definitely not a killer. And I had known Peter for way too long to ever suspect him of something this horrible.

  “Between the receipt and our conversation with Mrs. Feng, we are led to believe this requires a bit more attention. And you and Mr. Huang directly handled the dumplings,” he stated. “Like I said, we’re checking some things out.”

  “I see.” My shoulders relaxed a little bit. It was just procedure. Just something they had to do while they waited for the rest of the autopsy results. This whole mix-up would be behind us before we knew it. Then why did I feel so bad?

  “Can you tell me if anything out of the ordinary happened that day?” He picked up his pen and positioned it back on the paper.

  “Like what?”

  “Was Peter acting strangely, or did he seem angry about anything?” The detective gestured with his hands as he spoke.

  I shook my head. “Nothing that I can think of…” I stopped myself and thought back to that day.

  The look on my face must have given me away because the detective said, “Miss Lee, if you know something…”

  “It’s nothing really,” I said. When the detective refused to stop giving me the look of death, I continued. “I don’t normally deliver the takeout orders, that’s all. And that day, Peter asked me to deliver Mr. Feng’s food so he could keep cooking. He was working on a big rush order that just came in for another takeout request.”

  The detective scribbled away. “Did he deliver that order himself?” He glanced up at me. “Or did you deliver that one as well?”

  I sat silently, inspecting my fingernails. I knew that what I would tell him next wasn’t going to sound good.

  “Miss Lee … Lana…” Detective Trudeau urged. “Like I said before…”

  “No,” I mumbled.

  “No?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t deliver that order.”

  He stared at me. “So, Mr. Huang delivered it himself?”

  “I’m not sure,” I mumbled.

  “So you’re saying that it’s possible the other order was never delivered?” His pen flew across the paper.

  “Well, I’m not really sure. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”