We finally reached the Lucky Dragon. Mom opened the door. The gust of air conditioning and the sound of the running water on the small fountain next to the hostess station greeted us. My mind flooded with memories. We ate here every Saturday night when I was a kid. The restaurant had two sections. The left side, which was closed during the slow times like now, and one to the right that remained open all the time. Mom headed straight to the closed section and waved to Wenling seated in the back booth. Wenling waved back, but once she spotted me she jumped up for a hug. "Christy! You came. I was worried when it took so long."
Wenling is even shorter than my Mom, who is only 5’1". Like Mom, she has dyed black hair, but Wenling's was cut into a short bob, whereas Mom's hair was long and pulled back in a high pony tail. I hugged Wenling carefully, to go easy on her small frame. Sometimes I worried if I hugged her too hard, I’d break her. Mom is small framed as well, but feels less fragile when we hug.
"You look great!" Wenling said as we walked back to the booth. "So healthy!"
For the record, I knew I looked awful, and I secretly believe Wenling has the words "hefty" and "healthy" mixed up. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard her use the phrase "healthy trash bags" before. I’ve always been a bigger girl. Mom is great about it. She says it’s very trendy to be a "big girl" these days. I guess I’m getting better with it. I figure I got my "healthy" shape from my father’s genes, and, of course, food.
"What do you want to eat?" Wenling asked.
"Broccoli chicken," I said. After a month of Pete’s Burger, I craved vegetables big time.
"I’m not too hungry," Mom said, "But maybe some rice and a side of mixed vegetables I’ll share with the kid," Mom added. Wenling smiled and left to put in our order.
I looked at Mom with surprise. "How did you know I was craving vegetables?" I'd developed a mean junk food habit in the last two years as my marriage fell apart.
Mom laughed. "You've always like vegetables when you were a kid. You’d eat them without even thinking about it."
"Mom, I ate everything," I said.
"You’ve eaten greasy burger for a month. I’m surprised you can even poop with that kind of diet."
I had no comment.
Wenling came back from the kitchen and cleared the portable television off the table. Mom hung out at the restaurant most afternoons with Wenling watching crime shows and folding wontons. Mom used the restaurant's kitchen for her catering in exchange for helping out and making desserts. The health department only allows certain foods to be homemade, so having an inspected "commercial kitchen" made things easy for Mom.
It was a little after four in the afternoon, a slow time for the restaurant. The lunch special ended at four, and the dinner rush didn't start until six. That's if things hadn't changed much since I'd last visited.
"So you're going to help out your Mom," Wenling said as we sat down. She'd brought me a diet soda even though I hadn't asked. I smiled. It was just what I wanted. I'd forgotten how nice it was to be around people who'd known me for most of my life. "Jennifer runs the restaurant for me now. Maybe one day you'll take over the catering now that you've moved back."
I hadn't thought of this as a career move, and I wasn't sure what Wenling meant by "moved back." I’d decided to stay at Mom’s for a few days, but I wasn’t sure that I would stay any longer. I might get a part time job just to have a little more money to afford an apartment sooner.
The bell over the front door jingled, interrupting my thoughts.
"Tita Jo! Are you here?" my cousin Celia called out.
"Over here," Mom called back.
"We don't have time to play Marco Polo!" an angry, male voice croaked.
Celia peeked around the corner. "It’s okay, sir. We found them." Celia was thin, but tall. She had a job as a nurse for a prominent home healthcare agency. Being in the medical profession is a big deal in Filipino culture. When I'd scored high in math and science testing in middle school Mom had big hopes for my future as a doctor. Let's just say she's had to scale back her expectations.
"It’s not like you’ll let me eat this food today, anyway," the man growled back.
"You’ll have a special treat for your birthday," Celia assured her charge.
"It better be real food. Not that low sodium stuff," the man barked back.
Celia ignored him. "Guess whose birthday is this Saturday?" Celia said to us.
"Happy birthday, Harold," Mom said to the older man. Wenling and I said happy birthday, too.
"Don't kiss up now. I’m not going to bother updating the will and you're not in it," he said, and then turned to back to Celia. "Tell the one that makes the cake that I want that cake. It's got to be the one from Christmas, or I don't want a dang party or any of it."
"Sir would like to have you cater his birthday party, Tita Jo. We'll need your mango cake for 25 guests,"
"The one you gave me a slice of at Christmas! It was orange colored," he said.
"I remember," Mom said.
"And of course we'll have Chinese food. I wrote down Ma'am Margaret’s number. She's organizing the party." She handed Mom the paper with the phone number of Harold Sanders' daughter Margaret. Underneath, in huge letters, were the words "low sodium menu." Celia added with a quick wink, "Make the Chinese food like you normally would."
"No low salt! And use that MSG if it makes it taste good," Harold interrupted.
"Yes," Celia said with a smile, while shaking her head like don’t do what I’m saying. "No low salt and lots of tasty MSG."
"And a full bar," he said. "Those people will need a stiff drink if they are forced to talk with my nut job of a daughter."
"The party is this Saturday," Celia said. "I know it's last minute. Ma'am Margaret said she'd pay the rush fee. You can do it, right?"
"No problem," Mom said, but I caught a doubtful look from Wenling that I couldn't decipher.
The bell over the front door jingled again. "Yoo-hoo!" a female voice called out. "Did I just see you, Celia?"
Celia rolled her eyes. I’d never seen her do that before. "Yes, Jess. I’m here."
A woman with black hair, overdrawn eyebrows, and bright red lipstick approached us. "There you are. I just came to ask what you’re going to bring to the church’s charity auction. I’m donating a week at our Colorado cabin with airfare for two. Naturally, you can’t afford to do that, but perhaps maybe you can put together something."
Jess’s haughty demeanor caught me off guard. I admired that Celia kept her cool.
"I’ll let you know at church on Sunday. I haven’t had a chance to work it out just yet," Celia said. "Us career women," she said pointing to Mom, Wenling, and me, "have so much to balance. I’m not sure you’d understand."
Wenling and I traded glances. What a burn!
"How quaint!" Jess replied. (Who says that any more?) "I’ll tell the committee to expect your answer this Sunday," she continued and then turned and left without saying goodbye.
Mr. Sanders looked at his watch and tugged at Celia's arm. "We're late. We need to get to the pharmacy."
"Ma'am Margaret said to call and set up a time to go over the details on Thursday," Celia said as she waved goodbye and headed to the door.
"Maybe we'll run into someone we can invite to the party," Celia said, smiling at the man.
"All my friends are dead," he barked back as they left.
"Isn't it great, we have a gig! I told you business is booming," Mom said to me. "Let's eat our lunch, it's getting cold."
Wenling's expression told me something wasn't as "great" as Mom said it was. "But what about the van? Clifford and his family are moving on Friday. How can you cater without a van? You don't even drive," Wenling said to Mom.
Mom did that thing where she ignored the question and changed the subject. "We need to go shopping early tomorrow and pick up stuff for the party," she said. Perhaps Mom did need a little help–especially with this van situation.
CHAPTER TWO
Although our new
van had air conditioning, I realized how smart Mom was to keep our shirts hanging. If I’d worn my tuxedo shirt during the drive, it would’ve been soaked. Driving up to the top of the ever-winding Marple Drive, I was wetter than a baby diaper, and my muscles were tighter than my bank account.
Mom was uncharacteristically quiet as I negotiated the road.
I'd traded in my Honda as a down payment on our new van. Now, we just needed to make sure we booked enough gigs to make the payments. But as worried as I was about our ability to afford the van, my more immediate concern was not killing us both driving this giant vehicle.
Having driven an automatic, compact car my entire life, I'd never realized how thin and twisty a mountain road can be, and how death defying going uphill with a manual transmission might feel. I pulled onto the private road, punched in the gate code, and found the driveway of what I hoped was the house of our eighty-five-year old "birthday boy’s" party. Mom sprang out of the van, eager to be on solid earth, and headed for the front door. I took a deep breath, triple-checked the van was in park and made sure the emergency brake was engaged. Then I slid out of the van and jogged up the walk to catch up with Mom.
"Every day an adventure, kid," Mom said when I got to her side. She’d snapped back to her usual happy self. Mom’s ability to move on was the polar opposite of mine. I was kind of a dweller, but I’m working on it. We strode up the long front walk to ring the doorbell. Before we even got to the door Celia came out.
"We’re here!" I said to my cousin. It felt like an achievement that required an announcement. Celia did not seem impressed.
Before she could speak, I heard yelling, and from the look on Mom’s face, she did, too. Celia closed the door behind her.
"Um," Celia said. "We might want to wait before you bring the stuff inside."
Mom gave Celia a questioning look. "Did the tables and chairs not arrive? Is that why they’re yelling?" Mom asked.
Celia walked a few steps further from the house. "No, they came, but you might have to wait, because there might not be a party."
"No party!" Mom exclaimed.
Celia put her finger to her lips to indicate we should be quiet. "Ma’am Margaret and Sir are fighting. He said ‘no party’."
"He did not," Mom argued as if she knew.
Celia nodded with a grave face that indeed he had. "Come around the side door and wait inside," Celia said as she led us across the lawn.
"We’ll wait there for the air to clear so they can change their mind," I said.
"No, but we’ll hear the fight better inside,” Celia answered.
* * *
"Nice kitchen," Mom said as we entered through the side door.
"It’s okay," Celia said, pretending it was no big deal. She'd been like that ever since she'd came to the United States from the Philippines. "I have another family that has a kitchen twice the size and a full-time chef."
Mom made a face that said she was impressed, but I found it annoying. My mother's family had some very lean years after the death of my grandmother. They'd been well off before then, and Celia had always acted as if she'd grown up rich. I knew better.
The arguing continued in another part of the house, but we couldn't make out what they were saying. A few minutes later, the shouts grew louder. I felt uncomfortable eavesdropping, but Mom and Celia were totally absorbed. They listened as if it was a soap opera.
"You’re a thief and you know it!" Harold yelled.
"That’s ridiculous! You probably forgot that you wrote those checks, just like you forgot where you left Mother’s antique pearl necklace!" Margaret responded.
"What checks?" Mom whispered to Celia.
"Sir Harold went to his checkbook this morning to pay for the party, and he noticed that there were other checks that he didn’t write in the book. He thinks Ma’am Margaret forged the missing checks."
"What about the necklace?" Mom asked.
Celia shrugged her shoulders, and we all went back to listening to the father and daughter argue.
"We can talk about this later," Margaret said. "We have to get ready for the party."
"I told you. There isn’t going to be a darn party! I didn’t want to host your freak show in the first place!" He yelled back.
"Mom," I whispered, my gut sinking knowing that our first gig together might end in disaster. "When you finalized the agreement with Margaret on Thursday, did you mention a fee or policy regarding last-minute cancellations?"
Mom looked back at me, her eyes wide with a combination of surprise and remorse. "No."
The three of us remained quiet as we leaned against the granite countertop.
Celia broke the silence. "The party would've been weird anyway." She turned to Mom. "Aunt Jo, can we eat some of the food while we wait for the fight to end? I'm hungry."
I was hungry, too, and I loved Mom's mango cake. Even snobby Celia knew it was the best.
"By the way," Celia said, turning to me. "Sorry to hear about your husband."
I wanted to ask her what she meant by that, but a slamming door distracted me.
Mom, Celia, and I traded glances. We all heard the stomping of feet getting closer. An older, trim woman in her sixties with long, hippy-like gray-streaked hair stormed into the kitchen. It surprised me she could stomp that loud considering her tall, graceful frame.
"Who are these people, Celia?" she asked.
"Ma’am Margaret. This is my aunt and her daughter for the catering."
"Oh." The woman’s anger subsided, and then she burst into tears. "I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you," she said to Mom. "So sorry, but there isn’t going to be a party. And my dreams for my new business will be dashed."
Mom shot me a questioning look, and I gave a slight shrug to let her know that I didn’t know either. We both assumed the older man's birthday was the sole reason for the party.
"Maybe we can have the party without him?" Celia suggested.
"He has the checkbook. He’d never pay for it now," Margaret wept. "And I took so much time getting ready for the party."
My hopes for a cancellation fee sank.
"It’s okay," Mom said, walking up to Margaret and patting her on the back. "I’ll talk to him, and we’ll have a party."
The woman sniffed. "Really?"
I had the same thought. Why was Mom so sure she could convince the grouchy man to have a party?
Mom assured Margaret that she would take care of it, and Margaret believed her. "My daughter," Mom said, "will help with the decorations, setting up the bar, and then show her where to start loading in the food."
Margaret smiled. "That sounds great. Thank you."
"Where do I go to talk to your father?"
"Sir’s in his study," Celia said. "Up the stairs at the back of the kitchen, down the hall, and to your right."
Mom left. Margaret turned to us. "Now that that’s settled, let’s get ready for the party!"
I didn’t think it was settled at all, but I didn’t have time to dwell on that, as Margaret led us into the living room that she’d cleared and "decorated" for the party.
I blinked three times, unsure of what I saw.
"I told you the party was going to be weird," Celia said. Weird didn't quite cover it for me.
* * *
Mom somehow convinced Harold to agree to go on with the party plans. He even helped us move the catering van to the side entrance near the kitchen. And by helped, I mean he hopped into the van, popped it into reverse, and expertly backed it right up to the door in five minutes.
Celia, Mom and I took a quick break and watched him. Mom drank coffee, and I had my second diet soda of the day.
"Thank you!" I said to him as we walked into the kitchen.
"Women can't drive. It's to be expected," he said.
"Hey, can I have some of that?" he asked pointed to my soda.
"I can do better than that, I’ll get you your own can," I said.
Harold Sanders almost smiled, but thought better of it. I ha
nded him a glass of ice and a can. Celia didn't look too happy. I guess it was the sodium. Harold saw Celia's disapproving expression, clutched the glass to his chest, muttered a few choice words, and left.
Mom stayed in the kitchen and rushed to prepare the trays for the hors d'oeuvres. Celia and I set up the chafing dishes on the buffet table in the living room. Margaret had had the company who brought the table and chairs move the larger sofas into another room for the party. We lit the burners and covered the trays to keep the food warm until meal time. The food would be served after the presents were unwrapped. I set up the bar for Mom and then dashed back into the kitchen.
With the drama delaying our prep time, Mom and I changed into our tuxedo shirts in the kitchen and snapped on our pre-tied bow ties just as the doorbell rang. Mom rushed to the living room to get behind the bar while I grabbed a serving tray.
"Aye!" I heard her scream, and I remembered that Mom hadn't seen Margaret's special art / new business venture.
I entered the living room just as Margaret was showing off the taxidermic raccoon with a balloon tied around his paw to the first stunned guest.
"Bandit was a beloved backyard pet," she said, "and now he can be enjoyed by generations." She went on to introduce Hootie, the owl with festive streamers tied around his neck, and finally, Duke, a Great Dane sporting a party hat.
I looked over to Mom, who'd scooted around the edge of the living room to get behind the bar. She widened her eyes in a way they let me know we that Mom would not be a future customer of "Margaret's Memorial Taxidermy." Margaret assured her guest, an older man, that taxidermy would be the next "big thing".
The man seemed disturbed. I offered him some crab wanton, but he passed me by and headed straight for Mom at the bar.
Mango Cake and Murder Page 2