Fatal Fried Rice

by Vivien Chien

  I checked the time on my cell phone, and we had about five minutes before class started. I was subconsciously tapping my shoe on the footrest, which must have been driving Kimmy crazy because she put a strong hand down on my thigh and glared at me.

  “Sorry,” I mouthed.

  While we waited, I skimmed over the other people in the class. A few looked familiar, and I noted that the angry woman who I’d seen in the first class was back. Only now, she seemed less angry.

  It was two minutes after seven, and I was beginning to think that Stanley wasn’t going to show. Wouldn’t that be a stroke of luck?

  But no such fortune came our way because just as I was starting to feel like we were in the clear, the bald, lanky chef, Mr. Stanley Gao, walked in with a flirtatious smirk that he flashed toward the women in the room.

  “Gag me,” Kimmy whispered.

  “Hey everyone, I’m Stan.” He saluted the room with his free hand. “And tonight, we’re gonna get into some Asian goodness. Who’s ready?”

  His enthusiasm was a little overboard for the participants in the room, and only a few people replied with a cheerless “yeah.”

  He set his things down on the counter and pulled out a manila folder from a black backpack that he’d removed from his shoulder. “Okay, let’s get started with roll call.”

  He began calling names in alphabetical order. When he got to Bridget’s name, I made a mental note that it was Hastings.

  When Stanley got to the Ls, he paused and let out a chuckle. “Lana Lee?”

  I cringed. “Here,” I said, waving my hand.

  He followed the sound of my voice to the back of the room. “Whoa … Lana. You continue to surprise me with your random pop-ups.” He squinted. “Hold up, is that Kimmy Tran back there with you?”

  Kimmy waved. “Hi, Stan.”

  “Whoa.” He laughed. “Okay, ladies, see me after class.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Stanley was a showman of sorts. He liked to flash his impressive cooking techniques by flipping spatulas and igniting high flames on open grills any chance he got. Also important to him was plate presentation. He considered food to be art and always took great care in strategically designing his dishes as if they were going to be displayed at the Cleveland Metropolitan Museum of Art at any given moment. In truth, Stanley was the perfect choice for a replacement instructor, but I was disappointed for my own selfish reasons.

  He came from around the back of the cooking island and leaned casually against the station, folding his arms across his chest as if he were getting comfortable for a nice long chat with a group of his closest friends. “So, from what I’ve reviewed from your previous instructor’s itinerary, the next class was supposed to be hands-on learning with some fried rice. But I know due to the circumstances, none of you really knew what would go down next. I decided we’re going to keep her schedule intact.”

  A woman sitting in the front row raised her hand. “We didn’t bring any supplies with us though. How will we cook anything?”

  He held up his index finger. “Ah, but never fear! If you guys weren’t already aware, I’m the owner of Wok and Roll, which by the way, if you haven’t come by before, you really need to check it out.” Stanley winked at the woman. “I’ve very graciously agreed to donate the needed supplies for this class since I figured there would be no time for you guys to get them beforehand.”

  The woman who’d raised her hand began clapping, which sent the rest of the class to follow suit. Kimmy and I clapped half-heartedly.

  Stanley bowed dramatically, without a doubt soaking up all the attention he was getting. What an ego boost, I thought.

  When he was finished with his theatrics, he clapped his hands together. “Since I’m supposed to demonstrate how to make orange chicken afterward, let’s get started so you have plenty of time to watch a master in action.” His eyes fell on Kimmy and me, and he smiled wide. “Ladies, would you mind being my assistants and help pass out the ingredients and utensils to get started?”

  Kimmy muttered something under her breath as we both got up to make our way to the front of the class. I really didn’t like being the center of attention, but I thought this might be a good chance to look everyone in the face without having to obviously stare.

  Stanley pulled out a large plastic tote container that he’d had stored behind the counter. He removed the lid and instructed us to pass out a box to each student. I had to say that I was impressed with his organizational skills. In separate boxes, he had provided everything each person would need almost as if it were a meal kit. It would have taken someone an entire day to put all of these together. Though I had a sinking suspicion that he had his employees handle it for him.

  While I walked around the room, I noted the thin blonde woman from the first class who had thought I might be the instructor. I headed over to her and she smiled at me as I handed her a box. Again, she was seated next to the lady who’d had an attitude. I paused as I stood in front of her, trying to search her face for something that could explain what her deal was. But there was nothing. She was an attractive woman with messy curls of strawberry blonde hair that hung well past her shoulders. I couldn’t guess at her age because it was clear by the rigid skin around her mouth and eyes that she’d had some work done. Her outfit, which consisted of tight stonewashed jeans and a low-cut top that accented her cleavage, spoke not only of her generational peak but also of the attention she craved. A rose tattoo poked out from behind her scandalous neckline. My eyes traveled down to her black stiletto ankle boots that were a little much for an evening cooking class.

  She noticed me checking out her footwear, and flared her nostrils while extending her hand. “Hello?”

  I blanched, my gaze traveling up to meet hers. “Sorry, I was just admiring your shoes,” I said. “I love them.”

  She glanced down at her boots, and shifted her foot as if to model them for me. “They are pretty badass, aren’t they?” The outer side of the boots had chains that connected to a zipper and made a tinkling sound as she wiggled her foot.

  “Totally,” I replied, attempting to sound as if I were gushing.

  The woman found this acceptable and gave me an approving smile. I returned it with a polite nod and kept on moving until I’d distributed all the boxes I was holding.

  Kimmy and I made it back to our seats and exchanged a look before sitting down. Here we were … the moment of truth. I glanced down at my box as if it were my worst enemy.

  Kimmy did the same. “How hard can this be? I mean … tons of people make fried rice, right?”

  “Uh-huh. Piece of cake.”

  We opened our boxes simultaneously and began pulling out the contents, setting them up in front of us.

  Frying pans had been provided and sat on the solitary burners at our stations. I twisted the knob to ignite the flame, and began heating my pan.

  Kimmy unwrapped her stick of butter, which had been divided into the appropriate amount, and flung it into her pan. “You know,” she said, watching the butter begin to sizzle and melt, “this is kind of dummy proof, if you think about it. He has everything separated and divided into the correct proportions.”

  I added my own butter to the heated pan. “Hey, I’m not complaining.”

  She smirked as she dumped in her container of mixed vegetables. “I’m going to get an A. This might be a first.”

  “We don’t get graded,” I told her.

  She elbowed me in the side. “Don’t ruin my happy moment.”

  We went about our cooking lesson, adding the ingredients as Margo had showed us the first time around. Stanley walked around the room, observing and giving people helpful tips about making sure to keep the rice moving so it didn’t burn or cook unevenly.

  When I looked up to see who he was talking to, I noticed that Anthony, the last person I’d seen with Margo before her murder, was standing outside of the classroom, looking in. I couldn’t tell exactly whom he was making eye contact with, so I scanned the room
.

  Bridget had stopped stirring her rice and was staring at him, but her face was a blank. I realized that he was looking at the woman with the rose tattoo. The only reason it became obvious to me was because of her body language, which appeared flirtatious, at least from this angle. You didn’t see many women gyrate their hips in a cooking class.

  Anthony’s line of sight transitioned and it took me a minute to realize he was now looking at me. I could tell that recognition was trying to form in his mind. Then his eyes darted to Bridget and he disappeared from sight.

  I watched Bridget furiously begin to stir her rice around the pan.

  Without realizing it, I had let my rice sit, and I heard a cracking sound coming from my workstation. When I looked down, I realized that the flame had been too high and the butter had dried out, leaving my rice stuck to the pan.

  Kimmy looked over at the burner and giggled. “Even fried rice you mess up. Are you sure you’re Asian?”

  I scowled at her and removed my pan from the burner. “Shut up, Kimmy, just shut up.”

  * * *

  Once everyone was finished with the cooking portion of the class, it was time for us to sample our own work, and I would be going hungry that night. My distraction had led to a predominantly overcooked experiment. I sampled a few bites, but all I could taste was burnt butter and salt.

  Kimmy handed me a small serving of fried rice from her pan. “Taste this A-plus dish,” she said with a sense of pride.

  I ate her offering with a scowl.

  Stanley called for a break while he set up his cooking island to show us how to make orange chicken. I, of course, had to run to the bathroom, so I scurried away leaving Kimmy to her own devices.

  On my way out of the restroom, I noticed the woman with the rose tattoo standing behind one of the brick columns, talking with someone who was out of my line of sight. She was leaning against the brick with her hip jutted outward, and as I neared her position, I thought I heard her giggle.

  Before I could get any closer, Bridget stepped in front of me. “Hey there. Sorry about your rice. Maybe the next dish will work out better for you.”

  My body sagged at the mention of my failed cooking attempt. “Yeah, I was a little distracted. Hey, do you know that lady over there?” I pointed to the woman with the rose tattoo. “She looks familiar.”

  “Oh her?” Bridget scoffed. “Just another desperate housewife, I’m sure. I mean, could your neckline be any lower?”

  “She was in the first class, right?” I knew that she was, but I wanted to see what Bridget would say.

  She tilted her head. “Um, yeah. I think. Anyhow, wanna get back in there? I’m excited to get started. Orange chicken is my favorite Chinese dish.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I agreed, sensing I wasn’t going to get rid of her. I wanted to see who the woman was talking to, but I couldn’t think of an excuse to ditch Bridget.

  We walked back into the room together, and I spotted Stanley and Kimmy talking to each other near our cooking station. When Kimmy and I made eye contact, I saw her shush Stanley, and he turned around to acknowledge Bridget and me.

  “Hey there, Lana,” Stanley said with a wave. “Kimmy and I were just catching up.”

  Bridget smiled politely and shimmied her way between the cooking stations to sit back down. She didn’t seem to be too interested in our conversation.

  “Good to see you, Stanley,” I said. “It’s been a while.”

  “Right? Since that craziness with the noodle contest.” His eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Absolute madness. Glad things have settled down for everyone.”

  “Uh-huh,” I replied. Things hadn’t really settled down for me, but I wasn’t going to point that out at this particular point in time.

  We exchanged a few more pleasantries about the restaurant business and then he asked how my family was doing. I confirmed that everyone was doing just fine, and then he excused himself to continue the class.

  The entire group huddled around the main cooking island just as we had during Margo’s class. I wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention because I was too preoccupied watching the woman with the rose tattoo and how she was acting. Didn’t seem as if she cared much either because her attention kept traveling to the door. When I turned around to see what Bridget was doing, I noticed she was staring at the woman just as I had been.

  The hour of demonstration ended, and I was relieved because I was becoming very restless and my legs were starting to hurt from standing in the same place. Kimmy and I planned to rush out of the class and head straight to the art studio where we’d attempt to interrogate Phyllis Ubert.

  We hurriedly packed our things after Stanley dismissed us and beelined for the door. Stanley called out before we could get away.

  Kimmy let out a loud groan. “Oh my god,” she exclaimed. “Just go on without me. I’ll take care of Stanley.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’ll meet you there. Just go before she can leave.”

  I nodded in agreement, gave Stanley an apologetic wave as Kimmy distracted him, and rushed out of the room before Bridget could stop me.

  CHAPTER 27

  The art studio was on the second floor, and I rushed up the stairs noting how quickly I lost my breath. I really needed to start working out.

  Because I was so distracted by trying to find the classroom, according to its placement on the map, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking and ran right into the lady with the rose tattoo, stepping on her foot.

  She yelped, and a curse word flew from her now cherry-painted lips. “Ow! Watch it!”

  “Sorry,” I said, taking a step back. “I’m so sorry.”

  She glared at me, but softened when she realized who I was. “Oh, it’s you. What’s your rush, honey? There’s no fire.”

  “I, um, needed to catch someone before they left for the night. Sorry, again. I hope I didn’t hurt your foot.”

  “Don’t sweat it, honey. But look, don’t apologize so much. It’s unattractive on a woman, you know? Just say sorry once and move on. Especially with a man.”

  I tried to appear appreciative of her advice. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Also, you may want to practice your cooking skills, darlin’. You know what they say, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” She gave me a wink, patted me on the shoulder, and moved past me to descend the stairs.

  Someone else in recent history had said those same words to me. I mean, I knew it was a common expression, but how many people actually say it?

  I shook the thought away because I didn’t have time to worry about it, and continued to look for the art studio. The room was listed as 205 on the program, which was to the left of the staircase. The door was open, and I could see a woman with wild curly black hair gathering open paint containers and straightening up her work area.

  When I stepped farther into the room, I noticed a straggler student packing up their things. The curly haired woman lifted her head when she realized I’d entered the room. “Hello, can I help you?”

  She had on thick glasses with large black frames that reminded me of the 1950s musician Buddy Holly. A floral-print scarf was tied in her hair, though it didn’t seem to serve the purpose of keeping her hair out of her face.

  “Are you Phyllis Ubert?”

  She nodded, straightening up and abandoning her paint supplies. “Yes, that’s me. My class for this semester is full if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “Actually, I was here about—” I stopped, glancing to the student who was loitering nearby. “Margo Han,” I continued in a lower voice.

  Phyllis looked over at the student, then toward the door, and signaled me with her eyes to step out of the room. I followed her to a remote corner in the corridor right outside her class.

  “Now, what’s this about?” she asked, scrutinizing me. “Are you a family member?”

  Taking a moment, I considered lying about who I really was. B
ut it wasn’t a risk I was currently willing to take. Should she find out that I wasn’t who I said I was, she could end up reporting me to the police and I’d look more suspicious than ever. I opted for the truth, and as calmly as possible, introduced myself and told her the story from start to finish about my involvement in finding Margo’s body.

  She cradled her chin in the palm of her hand, and stared at the floor as I spoke. She didn’t comment in between my pauses, and when I was finished, she took a few minutes to reply. “Well, Miss Lee, as luck would have it, I’m not a fan of the police … actually any law enforcement really, but that’s a story for another day. Which is a good thing for you because had I been someone else, I might have taken this wackadoo story right to the cops.”

  I swallowed back some anxiety and tried to appear humble. “I know it sounds pretty crazy.”

  “Oh, it’s beyond crazy, my friend,” she said, brushing some curly strands from her cheek. “But I’m more apt to believe what you’re saying instead of that crackpot detective who’s been running around here interrogating everyone about that poor janitor.”

  “You mean Robert Larkin?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that poor SOB,” she said with a shake of her head. “He’s just trying to get his life together. Margo really felt sorry for him, and she’d go out of her way to be nice to the man any chance she got. If anyone could even dream of killing someone who was that nice to them, they’d be crazy.”

  “So, you don’t think he’s capable of doing anything to harm her?”

  Phyllis laughed. “Not at all. But do you want to know who I think is capable of being a total slimeball and murderer?”

  She said it kind of on the loud side and I flinched, reflexes causing me to glance over my shoulder. “Please tell me.”

  “That scumbag, Anthony Bianco … that jerk.”

  My mouth dropped. “The Italian instructor?”

  “Oh, so you’re familiar with that sleazeball? I’d bet my money on his guilt any day.”

  “You clearly have no love for the man. Can I ask why?”