Dim Sum Dead
A Madeline Bean
Catering Mystery
Jerrilyn Farmer
To Evelyn Kobritz and William Sarnoff,
my role models—
for Evelyn’s beauty and strength
and Bill’s jazzy spin on life
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Acknowledgments
Praise for Jerrilyn Farmer’s Madeline Bean Mysteries
Other books by Jerrilyn Farmer
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
“I hate surprises.” I do. Hate ‘em.
My best friend and partner, Wesley Westcott, had just arrived at the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market to meet up and buy supplies. He pulled off his backpack and propped it up next to a dark forest of fresh romaine and a spiky rustle of gray-green endive.
“You always say that,” Wes said, “but this one is different.”
“I don’t think so.”
Our breath misted when we spoke. Southern California in January. Who said we don’t have seasons? But, of course, the day would warm up. As soon as the sun burned through the fog, we’d make it up to seventy degrees, warmer inland.
I put a crisp Chinese cabbage back down upon a perfect pyramid display of similar heads. “Really, Wes. I hate surprises.”
Wes began to unzip the black bag now resting on the outdoor vegetable cart. “Stop saying ‘hate.’”
“Okay. I don’t want to be negative. Negativity sucks. But…”
A small man, examining some chard, looked up. His dark eyes gave me a once-over before they returned to their careful examination of greens.
I lowered my voice. “I just want to point out that surprises are highly overrated. In my opinion.”
“You just like to know everything ahead of time. That’s the control freak in you.” Wes pulled out a large package and began unwrapping it.
“Control freak? I am not.” Really.
I picked up one perfect bunch of basil from the large selection of fresh herbs on display. This stand was but one of hundreds that made up the vast Farmer’s Market held near Arizona and Second Street every Wednesday and Saturday morning. All around was a feast for the eyes. Ripe and juicy and picked at the peak of flavor only hours before up in central California’s Conejo Valley, this produce rocked the senses. But then, you can probably tell I am wild for fresh ingredients.
Wait, now. There, on one inner basil leaf, was a teeny, tiny brown spot. I put the minutely damaged bunch of basil into a plastic bag anyway. Control freak? I think not.
The chard shopper shot another quick glance my way. I noticed the sun glint off his gold ring as he put down another tightly banded bunch of chard.
I shifted my shoulder bag. I looked at the plastic bag. Quickly, I untwisted the twist tie and removed the slightly imperfect bunch of basil.
Wes caught my eye. “You were saying…”
“I just have rather high standards for things, that’s all.”
“Right,” Wes said, with his basketball-size surprise just about unwrapped. “Excuse me. Totally different thing.”
Aha! My eyes were always darting around at the Farmer’s Market. Who could tell where the next treasure was hiding? Now here was the perfect basil. The rich green, purpleveined leaves were large and moist, full and soft. I raised the thick bunch of basil to my nose. The heavenly aroma of the Mediterranean was intoxicating. I popped it into a fresh plastic bag, cheerfully twisting and tying.
I looked up.
Wesley stood there looking back at me, a breeze whipping his long brown hair back. Wesley Westcott is my best friend—my business partner, actually—and an excellent gourmet chef. Together, we have started a catering and event-planning firm called Mad Bean Events, which Wesley insisted we name after me. I thought we should call it Madeline Bean Events, because, you know, it sounds more dignified. He didn’t think dignity “sells” particularly well here in L.A. Perhaps he’s right, because we are doing just fine as Mad Bean Events, catering Hollywood parties and planning a kicky range of ultra-high-end special events.
For Wesley and me, the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market is one of our Wednesday morning rituals. It’s something we’ve done since we moved down to L.A. from Berkeley nine years ago. We both love food and we both love to shop—so this was just about heaven for us, if you didn’t mind thousands of other shoppers elbowing you aside to get the last ripe Haas avocado.
The early-morning bustle on Third Street, closed off to car traffic, was getting thicker by the minute. Tight throngs of well-dressed Westside gourmets scoured the finest and freshest fruits and vegetables of the season. One could people-watch for hours.
There were the young couples, holding hands, their heads close together as they whispered about dinners they would share. There were men, serious home cooks, who shopped in silence. There were lots of attractive women—young moms pushing tots, and media career types, and others we like to call forty-and-holding—everyone carrying designer water bottles and dressed casually, perhaps on the way to workouts with their trainers. All over the Market, you’d see them, lifting a melon up for a quick sniff, squeezing a lemon lovingly, and tucking their dawn buys into the latest lavender Kate Spade totes.
Shopping along with the neighborhood regulars, of course, there were a goodly number of us professional chefs, and we all knew each other. The outdoor Market was a natural place to meet and gossip in the chilly, overcast mornings, and then to vie like schoolyard bullies for first pick and special buying privileges from our favored grower/vendors.
“Excuse me.” A young mom stepped up to the stall and grabbed a bunch of basil, and resumed talking a kind of baby talk to the infant she had strapped to her chest in one of those contraptions. “La-la-la-la-la” this young woman burbled to the infant. I looked closely at the baby. He or she seemed like every other baby. Big round head, that sort of thing. I know the sight of babies makes many women weak in the knees. But I guess my knees were built steadier. Like I tell people, I’m too young. I’m not ready.
Wesley looked down at me from his six-three height and just waited, bringing back to mind his threatened big “surprise.”
“Maddie,” he said, “I dragged this thing over here this morning just so I could show it to you.”
“Okay.” I was resigned but gracious. “Let’s see.”
He pulled off that last piece of newspaper wrapping and revealed a small wooden chest—quite an old-looking thing with a brass handle. “Is this not cool?”
At last, Wes had caught my attention. “Oh!”
But life at the Market goes on. At that moment, Maria, who works behind this particular produce counter, left her last customer and smiled up at me. My turn.
Wes continued his story as I took care of business.
“You’ll never guess where we found this.”
“Where?” I handed Maria a five and turned back to Wes.
“In the master bedroom. Raymond had just pulled back the wa
llboard—you know that awful stuff that covered the west wall? And behind that old ratty board was a fireplace.”
“You’re kidding.”
“We saw the double flue in the chimney, so it only made sense. There had to be another fireplace. And it’s original. Can you believe anyone in his right mind would want to board it up and hide it? Poor house.”
Wesley’s latest passion was an amazing older home he was renovating in the Doheny Estates area near Beverly Hills. The house had been designed by Paul Williams, famous architect to the stars. Wesley often had a rehab project going on the side, but this house was the largest and most financially draining project to date.
Maria counted out my change and then I gave the beautiful discovery my full attention. I touched the smooth surface of the old rosewood case. “You actually found it hidden behind a false wall?”
Wes nodded.
I noticed it was covered with Chinese designs and lettering. “This,” I said, studying it, “is very cool.”
Wesley leaned the box on a corner of the vegetable stand. He fiddled with the brass lock for a second, then slowly raised the lid. I moved closer.
There, inside the dark case, were stacked dozens of beautiful small white tiles, about three-quarter inch by one and a half inches. They looked like bone or ivory. Hand-etched and colored on the face of each tile was a Chinese character, or a number, or a lovely Asian picture.
“A mah-jongg set.” I held out my hand and pulled the brass handle on one of three slender drawers. It slid easily to reveal more of the lovely tile pieces. “And it looks very old.”
Wesley smiled.
This happened to be a sweet stroke of serendipity. For the past six months, Wes and I had been catering the very private Sweet and Sour Mah-Jongg Club up in the Hollywood Hills. You may remember mah-jongg if you have any old aunts of the Jewish or Chinese persuasion—in which case, you are now shaking your head. I know. But it turns out the kitsch old game of mah-jongg has become the new hipster obsession. Perhaps it’s the hint of the Orient, or the intricate strategy, or the luck, or the gambling. Whatever. Our young clients were hooked.
They had organized a weekly MJ party, which they held at a large estate belonging to a hot young music video director, Buster Dubin, the leader of their pack. They played mah-jongg. Mad Bean Events provided the gourmet grub. It had become one of our smaller but steadier gigs.
I touched the mah-jongg case and picked out one of the tiles. It was exquisitely smooth and cool to the touch. Etched in red on one side was a Chinese pictogram of a sword.
“Wes, this is beautiful.”
“The Red Dragon. Yes. I didn’t have time to check out the entire set. We just found it an hour ago.”
“You were doing demo all night?”
“We’ve got the plasterer coming in two days. Our schedule is tight. I’ll crash on the weekend.”
I played with a few more tiles. Beneath the top row, there was a second row of tiles. “Is this set complete?” I asked.
“I don’t know anything about it. I was just shocked as hell when the crowbars came crashing down and there was this fully intact fireplace with a masonry surround waiting to be discovered. We were pretty stoked. And then I noticed it. Sitting there, right in the center of the fireplace, was this box, wrapped up in a blanket. You know, I think someone put it there to hide it. Although I can’t imagine why.”
As Wes talked, he pulled open the second drawer and picked out another mah-jongg tile. In the ancient game of mah-jongg, these small ivory tiles are used as game pieces. Like cards, the tiles are marked in suits. He showed me the Green Dragon tile, with its pictogram of an arrow about to leave the bow.
I pulled open the bottom drawer, getting into it now.
“This is odd,” I said. “Doesn’t it seem like this drawer is deeper?”
“Let me see.” Wes pulled out a handful of tiles and put them in his jacket pocket, then he began emptying out the rest. But between my pulling out the drawer and Wes reaching in, the lovely old chest began to tip off its perch.
“Wes!”
He grabbed the box before it fell. Unfortunately, I grabbed for the box, too. The almost empty bottom drawer fell to the sidewalk.
“Oh, no.” I knelt quickly, gathering up the fallen mah-jongg tiles and righting the overturned drawer. And then I saw that a tiny patch of wood had been dislodged. There was a false bottom to the drawer, and I pulled it out.
“Did it break?”
I stood up, bringing the drawer to show Wes.
“Wow,” he said.
Inside, something other than a row of bone and bamboo tiles glinted in the morning light. It looked like a slim, silver box engraved with Chinese Dragons. Wesley lifted the silver box from the deep recess at the bottom of the drawer. It was about nine inches by five inches and only about an inch high. Beneath it, at the bottom of the drawer, was a small book, possibly of mah-jongg instructions, bound in red leather.
“What if it’s a jewel box filled with diamonds?” I asked.
Wes tried to loosen the silver lid of the box, but couldn’t. He shook it and we heard the muffled clank of metal on metal.
“Does it have a lock?” I asked. A few people in the crowd around us began to take an interest.
There was no lock that either of us could see. I told Wes to hold the small silver box steady, and I edged my thumbnail under the rim of its tightly stuck lid. As he braced the silver case, I pushed up on its lid as hard as I could.
With all that prying force, the lid swung back on its hinge and out flew the contents, landing at our feet. I looked down.
A drop of blood flecked the pavement. And then a few more.
“Maddie, you’re hurt!”
“I am?”
I looked at my ankle and noticed the thin red gash, felt the throbbing pain, watched as the drops of blood splashed down on my Nikes. It was true. I had been cut.
A woman a few steps away gasped.
On the pavement lay the object that had fallen from the silver box. It looked very old. It had a long curved blade. It
Chapter 2
The noisy crowd of shoppers seemed to back up and quiet down.
“Are you all right?” Wes went down on one knee and checked my ankle, and I sat down on the pavement beside him.
“A little blood. A cool scar someday. Nothing major.”
Wes picked up the dagger lying there and quickly shut it away in the silver box. Then, he put the silver box and all the tiles he’d unloaded before back in the mah-jongg case drawers and hooked them all shut.
“I was just thinking—” I started.
“You want a doctor to take a look? St. John’s is closest.”
Wes was taking this way too seriously.
“No. It’s okay, Wes. It barely scratched me. I was just thinking that the dagger could be worth something. Do you know anything about Chinese antiques?”
“So you’re okay?” Wes asked. And we both stood up.
“Yes. Fine. Recent tetanus shot. Don’t worry so much,” I said. The shoppers nearest to us had been openly eavesdropping, so I said it again, loudly and with perfect enunciation. “I’m fine.”
They took the hint and went back to their own business.
“But maybe…” I took note of the splotch of red on the bottom of my jeans. “Maybe, I should be getting back to the house.” Our business was located in the bottom floor of my house, and that was where I was headed anyway.
And then something magical happened. My focus abruptly shifted from my ankle to my left hand as something lovely and warm clamped onto me in a tight, hot grasp.
I looked down. A perfectly beautiful, towheaded child of about three was hanging on to me for dear life. The child had simply grabbed on as he looked around the open-air market, his attention fastened to the large Gala apples on the stall beside us. I was astonished. Did children this little really have such strength? Such heat?
Just then, the boy looked up into my eyes. His were a clear and bri
lliant shade of soft denim blue. I looked down in surprise on his lovely face.
His expression froze. I was not his grown-up. His mother, paying for some purchases a few feet away, must have been the intended target of that tight little hand. He let go of me fast, and the electricity in our connection vanished. I watched him, blond and angelic, as he quickly found his mommy, and she soon felt the warmth of her baby’s hand.
Wesley, missing that little scene, was staring at me. “You look weird, Mad. You sure you’re okay?”
Was I? I was having a strange moment, that’s for sure. But it had nothing to do with the nick to my ankle. So, is that what some women feel about babies? That fierce thrill? I had to wonder.
“Wesley?”
We both turned. The voice belonged to a friend of ours, Jody Silva, a grower with a stand a few steps away.
“You got a minute?” Jody asked. She had come out from behind the stall. She was a young woman who was built on a heavy frame, but a strong one. Her muscles had been developed not on a weight machine but by lifting crates at her family’s farm and loading them into her truck. “We’ve got a lady customer. She bought a case of potatoes for this camp she runs for sick kids. We give her a real good price, but she needs to get the load over to her pickup.”
“Would she like a hand?” Wesley asked, looking up and spotting the customer, standing by her crate of potatoes not far away.
“Could you do her this favor?” Jody asked.
“Of course.” Then Wes turned back to me. “But you need to get home,” he said.
“Why don’t you meet me back at the house,” I said, improvising. “I’ll take care of this stuff.” I waved at the mah-jongg case and the backpack.
“You’ll be all right?” he asked. “With your ankle?”
“Yeah. Right. I’m hobbled.” I smiled at him. “You moron. Go and do a good deed for sick children.”
We gave a little hug, because I’m a hugger, and Wes, after nine years of me, has gotten used to being hugged in public.
I watched him walk off, noticing a few other pairs of eyes following his lean body in his perfectly hanging khaki cargo pants. Well, this is L.A. We watch. Wes picked up the crate with one strong move and then trudged off through the crowd as the thankful woman accompanied him off to some distant parking spot.
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