Death by Dumpling Read online

“What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know. There’s some people who think Peter is totally innocent. And then there’s some that think Peter is super guilty. And then there’s some…”

  “Some what?” I asked, folding my arms over my chest.

  She looked away. “Some that think you were in on it.”

  I groaned. Hearing this only gave me more reason to get involved. I couldn’t let this whole situation tarnish my reputation or that of the restaurant.

  “But you weren’t, right?” She looked at me from the corner of her eye. “It’s not like you’re an accomplice or something, right?

  “Vanessa!”

  She cringed. “Sorry, I’m just asking.”

  “Of course I had nothing to do with it. And neither did Peter.” My stomach clenched. I could only imagine what types of rumors were flying through the plaza among the other shop owners. “Like I said, do not say those things to anyone. It’s better if you stay out of the whole thing altogether.”

  “Okay, okay. Sorry, just thought you should know.” Her high-shine, glossed lips formed a pout as she turned from me and walked away.

  I thought back to my encounter with Ms. Yi from that morning. Was that why she had snubbed me in the parking lot? Did people really believe that I had something to do with Mr. Feng’s death? How could people who’d known us for so long believe something like that?

  CHAPTER

  8

  After work, I walked down a few storefronts to Asian Accents, the best nail and beauty parlor in town. It was also a great place to get information. Next to the Mahjong Matrons, the salon heard the most plaza gossip and I needed to find out the scoop from my stylist.

  Jasmine’s great. She gets me. And she gets my hair. Hair’s important to me. It’s a statement. Hair and shoes. If you have those two things going on, you’re pretty much solid.

  I can’t tell you the number of bad haircuts I’d gotten before coming to Asian Accents. The whole “being mixed” thing left me with less-than-manageable hair. After I blow-dry my hair, it looks similar to what would happen if you stuck your finger in a socket. Thank God for flatirons and superhold hairspray.

  I pulled open the door and a symphony of Chinese pop music mixed with blow-dryers came rushing at me. The receptionist, Yuna, smiled at me. “Lana! So good to see you, girl!” She beamed at me over her podium. “Jasmine’s finishing up with a client … it’ll be about five minutes. You want anything to drink?”

  “Nope, I’m good.” I sat down in one of the plastic chairs that lined the wall.

  She rested her elbows on the podium and cupped her chin with her palms. “Sucks about Mr. Feng, huh? I feel like … I don’t know; it always happens to good people like that.”

  I sucked in a breath, thinking about what Vanessa had said to me earlier, and wondered which story Yuna was siding with and what information she might have already heard.

  Without skipping a beat, she asked, “Have you seen Donna at all? She must feel awful. She and Thomas were fighting like cats and dogs a few days before he died.” She whispered the last bit.

  “You saw them fighting?” I sat a little straighter in my chair.

  She shook her head, her enormous hoop earrings swinging with the motion. “No, I overheard them when I was passing by the office. She was crying her eyes out.”

  That was peculiar. Mrs. Feng wasn’t an overly emotional person. Even seeing her at her house the day after everything happened, she was so well put together. But before I could point that out, Jasmine came floating up front with a client in tow.

  Obnoxiously beautiful, she is the type of girl you see and know that she must be into cosmetology. “Lana Lee! Give me a freaking hug, girlfriend!” She giggled as she held her arms out and wiggled her fingers.

  She wrapped me in a tight hug, my face buried in her reddish-brown locks.

  “I’m so glad you kept your appointment,” she said with relief. She ran her fingers through the sides of my hair. “You’re completely overgrown.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” I asked her.

  “Well, you know.” She winked a smoky shadowed eye and nodded in the direction of Mr. Feng’s office. “All the talk that’s been going on…”

  The client and Yuna stood watching us, waiting for my response.

  Jasmine noticed and grabbed my hand. “Come on, let’s get you shampooed.” And she dragged me away. “I love Yuna,” she whispered. “But she is always gossiping about everything and I can’t talk about this stuff in front of her or the whole plaza will know. I shouldn’t have even brought it up, but honestly I didn’t think they were paying attention.”

  “Oh, it’s okay. I don’t know that it matters anymore,” I said, defeat dripping in my voice.

  She turned to me and frowned. “Why would you say that?”

  I sat down in the shampoo chair and let Jasmine cover me in a cutting cape. “When Vanessa came into work today, she told me how everyone in the plaza thinks that Ho-Lee Noodle House is involved with Mr. Feng’s death somehow.” I didn’t feel comfortable coming out and saying specifically myself or Peter. Just on the off chance that Jasmine hadn’t heard these theories. No need to put ideas in her head that weren’t there yet.

  “Lean back…” She pushed on my shoulder and I scooted my butt in the chair to stick my head in the sink. “First of all,” she said, “don’t listen to that girl. She is just as bad as Yuna. The only allowance I give her is that she’s still a teenager. They live for this stuff.”

  “True,” I said, considering that fact.

  “Second, not everyone in the plaza believes those rumors.”

  “Really?” I asked, hope trying to break through my cloudy disposition.

  “Really. I mean, there are a few…”

  I groaned, closing my eyes.

  Jasmine shampooed my hair, rinsed and repeated, adding extra conditioner to help with my hair’s coarseness, my lifelong burden. Before I knew it, I was in the styling chair and looking at my reflection. I could see the general sadness all over me. My shoulders were slumped forward and the look on my face spoke of discontent.

  She grabbed a plastic comb from her drawer and stared off as she pulled it carefully through my wet hair. “You know what the problem is?”

  “Hm?”

  “It’s that detective. Detective Truman … he’s your problem.”

  “Trudeau.”

  “Oh right, well, whatever his name is, he’s your problem right there. He was all over the plaza asking people to come down to the station if they saw or knew anything. It definitely sparked everyone to start talking … just not to him.”

  “Did you talk to him?” I gulped.

  She shook her head. “No. I haven’t gone yet, but I don’t know that I really need to. I mean … I don’t legitimately know anything.”

  “So you don’t believe the stuff you’ve been hearing around the plaza?” I asked a little too eagerly.

  She grinned in the mirror. “Relax, like I could ever believe for a minute that you’re capable of murdering someone. Please. I can’t even bring myself to think that way about Peter.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad to hear you say that. I don’t know why Mrs. Feng would accuse Peter like this.” I looked down at my shoes as if they would hold the answer to everything. They didn’t.

  “There has to be something we don’t know.”

  “The detective asked me if I knew anything about a fight between Peter and Mr. Feng, but honestly, even if they did fight, I can’t see Peter killing him over it. Have you heard anything like that?”

  “Not that I can remember. I can try and ask around though. It’s all anybody’s talking about.”

  I sighed, watching her reflection in the mirror.

  Jasmine pursed her lips. “Something doesn’t add up.” She focused on my hair, sectioning off portions with little jaw clips. “Where the heck was Mr. Feng’s EpiPen? Didn’t he carry one around with him? You know, just in case something like that should hap
pen?”

  I nodded. “He did carry one on him, and I could swear I saw one in his pocket when I brought him his lunch that day. But Detective Trudeau said they didn’t find one on him.”

  “That’s kind of weird, don’t you think?”

  “It was to me.”

  “And you know what’s terrible?” She pointed her tiny comb at my reflection. “Poor Cindy Kwan was the one to find him. What if no one had had a meeting with him that day? How long would he have been there like that?”

  I cringed at the thought. “I don’t even want to think about that.”

  Jasmine finished trimming my hair and took a step back to inspect her work. “I wonder how Donna is holding up. From what I heard, they were having problems. I hope they didn’t leave things on bad terms.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Yuna, of course.”

  We were silent while she had the dryer on and it gave me time to think about the things she’d said. I began to wonder if there was more to this than I originally thought. Donna was an expert at pretending that things didn’t bother her, so if she and Mr. Feng were having problems, she wouldn’t necessarily be a dead giveaway. But what Yuna had said to me about hearing Donna crying still didn’t track with her personality. However, that didn’t change the fact that she’d heard a woman crying in his office. Something must have made her think it was Mrs. Feng who was in there. I would have to make it a point to talk to Yuna about it before I left.

  Jasmine finished drying my hair and started rummaging through her styling products. She appeared thoughtful as she went through cans and tubes of hair goop. “You know, Lana, I bet this whole thing is going to blow over, and once that detective finally gets his head on straight, he’s going to see that this has nothing to do with you … and hopefully Peter.”

  I sighed. “I really hope you’re right about that.”

  “It’s just too bad about the dumplings being from your restaurant. In a way, that kind of keeps you in the mix until this whole thing is sorted out.”

  Yeah, those dumplings. They really did ruin everything.

  * * *

  Yuna was at the reception podium finishing up with a customer. After the woman left, Yuna gave me a once-over, nodding with approval. “Looking great, Lana. No purple yet, I see.”

  I laughed. “No, maybe next time.” I pulled my wallet out of my purse and waited while she rang up my sale. “I have a question for you,” I said, handing over my credit card. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure, what’s up?” She slid my card swiftly through the card reader and punched in a few numbers.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the … situation with Mr. Feng.”

  Her eyes widened. “Yeah?”

  “I was wondering how you knew it was Mrs. Feng that he was arguing with in his office that day.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, I guess just because it sounded personal. It didn’t seem like you’d have a conversation like that with someone you barely knew, you know?”

  “Could you hear what they were saying?” I asked.

  She thought a minute, and then shook her head. “No, mostly I heard the crying, that’s what stopped me.” She stared at me. “What does it matter anyway?”

  “But you never actually saw Mrs. Feng?” I prodded.

  “Who else would he be fighting with?” She handed me a receipt and pen.

  “Kimmy Tran, maybe?” I suggested.

  “The voice sounded older, but I have seen Kimmy in and out of his office a couple of times looking not too happy. One time I saw her and that Mr. An guy come out of Mr. Feng’s office and they were both red in the face.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “About a month ago?” she answered, sounding unsure. “They talked with each other for a few minutes outside the office and then went their separate ways. Whatever they were talking about looked pretty intense.” She stopped, eyeing me suspiciously. “Is the reason you’re asking me all this stuff because of the rumors going around the plaza?”

  I sighed, signing the receipt. “It might be.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t believe any of it for a minute. I’ve known you, like, forever! And Peter is just too much of a pussycat to do anything that awful.” She paused. “If you want to know what I think…”

  “Yeah…”

  A throat cleared behind me. “Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but I’d like to check in for my appointment.”

  When I turned around, a tall, well-dressed Asian man with short, spiky hair was standing behind me. He was wearing a burgundy dress shirt, black tie, and an Italian-cut suit jacket. His dark denim jeans probably cost more than anything I owned and his dress shoes looked just as expensive. His face was narrow and his lips were thin, making him look a little sinister as he smiled at us.

  “Mr. Sung, so good to see you!” Yuna said from behind me.

  Ian Sung, the other property owner, was a young thirty-something who’d landed the partnership based on his father’s relationship with Thomas Feng. Prior to his joining Mr. Feng in his business endeavors, he had been some big-shot executive in Chicago. At least that’s what I’d heard from the Mahjong Matrons.

  “I’m sorry, miss, were you through checking in?” he asked politely.

  It snapped me from my trance and I nodded.

  He smiled to himself and stepped around me.

  “I’ll let you get back to work, Yuna,” I said over Ian’s shoulder.

  “No problem, Lana, stop by and see me sometime next week. Maybe we can get tea or something.”

  “Lana?” Ian repeated, turning around to face me.

  “Yes?”

  “Lana Lee? From Ho-Lee Noodle House?”

  “The one and only.”

  He extended his hand. “Ian Sung. I’m so glad to finally meet you. I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”

  I shook his hand. “I don’t think so either,” I responded. I didn’t know Ian aside from the few times I’d passed him in the plaza.

  “Do you happen to have some free time during lunch on Monday? I’d like to talk with you if that’s possible.”

  “Sure, would you like to come by for lunch at the noodle house?”

  He grinned. “Actually I was thinking we could meet at the Bamboo Lounge, maybe have a drink or two. Around noon?”

  I blushed, feeling Yuna’s eyes boring into the back of my head. “Um, I don’t think they open until late afternoon…”

  “I’m sure they’ll make an exception for me.” He seemed to relish that for a minute. “See you Monday then?”

  “Sure, is this about the restaurant? Should I bring my mother with me?”

  He shook his head. “No, that’s not necessary. Just your presence is required.” He winked at me.

  “Okay, see you then.” I gave a final wave to Yuna who gave me the thumbs-up. I tried for a sincere smile, but I have a feeling it didn’t pan out.

  When I got to my car, I sat there collecting myself, staring out the front windshield at the plaza entrance. What could Ian Sung possibly want to talk to me about?

  CHAPTER

  9

  I’d overthought the entire scenario with Ian Sung on my way home. I was stopping to walk Kikko and grab a quick change of clothes. Tonight, I was heading out to the Zodiac. Megan insisted it was necessary for me to get out of the house and spend some time socializing with someone other than my dog. Maybe she was right. Of course, I wasn’t going to tell her that. So, I gave in without much of an argument. It was Friday night, after all, and I had just gotten my hair cut. How could I not? Plus, I wanted to tell her about the conversations I’d had and get her opinion.

  It was still too early for a crowd when I arrived at 9 P.M. and there weren’t very many cars in the parking lot. Most nights, business at the Zodiac didn’t pick up until after midnight.

  The Zodiac, a rock bar, themed in—you guessed it—astrology, prided itself on its black-and-white décor, its wall space dedicated to dep
ictions of zodiac symbols and stories that portrayed the twelve signs. To boot, they had a great menu and one of the largest cocktail selections in the city. Megan had started bartending there shortly after college ended and I still hadn’t tried all the drinks they had to offer.

  I sat down at the bar, picking a stool closest to the door, and threw my purse on the bar top.

  Megan saw me and waved. She walked over and leaned across the bar to give me a hug. “I’m so glad you came.”

  I hugged her back. “Well, you made me feel guilty for sitting at home another night. Plus, I know I’ll just sit there and think until 3 A.M.; might as well do it here instead.”

  “That’s the spirit!” She slapped the bar. “Your first drink is on me.” She walked away without asking me what I wanted, and busied herself with picking liquor bottles from the shelf behind the bar.

  While I waited, my eyes roamed around the bar, looking at the small crowd that was beginning to form. A group of college-aged guys started to congregate around the pool tables and dart boards while a group of girls sat close to the bathrooms in the back, giggling and talking loudly, fighting to hear each other over the volume of the music.

  Megan came back with my drink, placing the glass on a napkin with the bar’s name on it. The liquid was purple and almost looked glittery. I gave her a cautionary glance. She pursed her lips at me. “It’s a Purple Virgo. Just try it.”

  In general, I was leery of drinks that were blue or purple. They usually meant trouble. I took a tiny sip and shrugged my shoulders. “It’s not bad.”

  She gave me a once-over. “Your hair looks nice.”

  “Thanks,” I said, fluffing the hair on the sides of my head. “I feel ten pounds lighter.”

  “I’m surprised they haven’t convinced you to dye your hair purple yet. I know you said that one girl goes on about it every time you’re there.”

  I took another sip of my drink, this time a bigger one. “Surprisingly, no. She mentioned it, but everyone was more interested in talking about what happened to Mr. Feng.”

  “Oh?” Megan leaned in, propping her chin in the palm of her hand.

  “Yeah … both of them had some interesting things to say and it got me wondering.” I twirled my straw around the ice cubes in the glass.