Dim Sum Dead

by Jerrilyn Farmer

  It was there. My box. Wesley’s box. The hidden-behind-a-wall box. The stolen box. I had it back at last.

  Chapter 3

  “Something was definitely wrong about that guy,” I said as I moved around my kitchen looking for a big bowl.

  Holly looked up. “Yeah, I’ll say.”

  Holly Nichols, tall and fair-skinned and currently platinum blond, has been our full-time assistant almost from the beginning. Over the past seven years, she has received frequent promotions and various impressive job titles because she has proven to be indispensable. Holly is that perfect catering chameleon. No matter the party need, she ably tends bar or twists balloon animals or sallies forth to collect a delinquent bill with awe-inspiring enthusiasm.

  Holly, wearing hot pink capri pants and a pair of stacked platform thong sandals, gave me a look. “Like, he stole your stuff.”

  “More than that,” I said.

  “Okay.” Holly paused in front of the glass door to the large pantry. “Like he stole your stuff and then left it in the trash.”

  “Well, it’s obvious. He saw the dagger and the silver case. That’s all he wanted. So he had to ditch the mah-jongg set. He just hid it in that department store bag until he could find an inconspicuous place to dump it.” I looked over at Wes, who was brooding as he worked. “What do you think, Wes?”

  “I think I was crazy to bring that stuff to the Farmer’s Market in the first place. I was excited, and I wanted you to see it.”

  “Aw, Wesley…” I knew he was feeling bad.

  “I didn’t want to leave the case in my parked car,” Wes continued. “I figured someone might see it and break into the station wagon. Great thinking.”

  “You can’t blame yourself,” I said. “We were out in public in daylight. No one can predict random crime.”

  “I hadn’t expected we’d find a knife inside. So I didn’t realize…”

  Wes felt bad for getting me in trouble, and I felt bad for getting him in trouble.

  “I’m sorry I lost your stuff, Wesley.” Guilt is a really bad feeling.

  “That stuff wasn’t even mine, really,” Wes said. “I was planning to give it back to the home’s previous owner.”

  We’d been talking about this most of the day.

  “Maybe we should put this aside for a minute and get back to work,” I suggested.

  “Right. You’re right.”

  Wes resumed measuring ingredients for the Chinese Turnip Cakes we were preparing. Tonight, being the first night of the Chinese New Year, seemed to demand we create something extra-special for the mah-jongg club.

  We were gathered, as we so often are, in the kitchen of my old Spanish house in Whitley Heights. I live in a historic area that straddles the Hollywood Freeway near the Cahuenga off-ramp. In the twenties and thirties, celebrities and film people built Mediterranean mansions and modest Craftsman-style bungalows side by side over the low brown-green foothills. These days, it’s still a cool neighborhood, home to an eclectic mix of dog lovers and gay couples and studio folk, from art directors to musicians to that woman who does all the cartoon voice-over work.

  Unfortunately, in the past fifty years, downtown Hollywood has taken a nosedive in class. The streets below Whitley Heights have become funky and colorful. Someone more sensitive to grime might even describe them as dirty and dangerous. But I like to think of the transitional nature of these streets as a blessing in disguise. To those of us who couldn’t afford to buy a house in any other upscale section of the Hills, nearby Hollywood has kept home prices down. And here’s the genius part. This area is poised to make a comeback soon. Really. I know I’ve been saying this for years but, believe me. And then who will have the prime real estate investment, eh?

  My house is set up on its hillside perch amid old California Live Oaks. It has a lovely old red-tile roof and a rounded stucco wall and a dozen steps up to its arched front door. It was built years ago by Ben Turpin, the silent film comedian who was wildly popular for his “googly eyes.” A few years ago, Wesley helped me remodel. After knocking out walls and running wild through a secondhand restaurant supplier, the meager-sized kitchen has been transformed. It is now one capable of producing professional quantities of our gourmet chow.

  I looked over the kitchen, my spiritual center, really. The workspace was neatly fitted with brushed aluminum appliances, its walls a clean graph of white ceramic tiles, its counters made from yards of genuine butcherblock we’d recovered from an old bakery going out of business. And while I know it’s not cool to become overly fond of inanimate objects, I have a crush on my refrigerator. It’s one of those Traulsen restaurant units—the kind you see in some delis. The door is made of glass so you can see inside, and it’s lighted. Wes tells me I like to keep an eye on my produce lest it go limp on me.

  “So what about that chard guy?” Holly asked.

  “The cops never found him,” I said, as Wes pulled out his recipe book. He had less curiosity than a mushroom.

  “Well, it’s not like it’s a big mystery.” Holly had sifted a huge sack of flour out onto her work surface and was now pushing up the sleeves of her thin sweater. At close to six feet tall, she was narrow as a breadstick. She was letting her stick-straight whitish blond hair grow out these days, and then clipping it back in odd, off-balanced little tufts, with several tiny barrettes in various hues. “I mean, didn’t you say the police took that old antique case so they could fingerprint it?” she asked, making her point. “They’ll figure out who the chard guy is.”

  “Maybe.” I looked up, struck again with guilt. “But I doubt we’ll ever see that old Dragon dagger again. Or the silver case. I’m so sorry, Wesley.”

  “Please, Mad. I told you. It was my fault.”

  Wes and I had spent most of the afternoon at the Santa Monica police station giving descriptions of what we could recollect. In the end, we were told to go home. They would keep the box, probably just overnight, and dust it for prints. They’d get in touch if they needed more information. One of the department’s clerical people looked at my ankle. She had a first-aid box and gave me some disinfectant cream and a Band-Aid. And that was that.

  As Wes and Holly kept reminding me over and over since we came home, muggings happen every day. I know that. It’s just shocking, that’s all. It’s shocking when crime brushes against you, even petty crime. But we had a party to prepare for this evening. I had to readjust my focus. And so, we got back to work.

  As befitted the Chinese New Year’s holiday, our host requested a special feast. Buster Dubin asked us to prepare dinner for twenty. He expected to have four games of mah-jongg going at once, and was ready to set up a fifth if necessary.

  “Holly, I think that’s plenty of rice flour,” I said.

  She looked up from her work and said, “Cool.” And then she sat down on a tall stool nearby. “So tell me all about this Chinese New Year’s thing.”

  I deferred to Wesley, a man with too many advanced degrees and the kind of memory for detail that can be infuriating when he’s remembering to the word what you said to him nine years ago, but in all other regards is quite a lovely resource. While Wes explained Chinese New Year, I turned on the computer at my corner desk and found the website I was looking for.

  “Chinese New Year is like a combination of Easter and Thanksgiving,” Wes said.

  “Except, without the turkey, Pilgrims, or cross,” Holly guessed.

  “True. But food has high significance. Everything that is eaten during this two-week Chinese holiday holds auspicious meaning. Imagine that everything you eat or drink in the next two weeks will influence your life for the next full year.”

  As I clicked a few links on my computer screen, I quietly set down my can of Diet Coke.

  Holly stared at her half-bitten peanut butter cup. “Gosh.”

  Wesley laughed.

  I found what I was looking for on the ‘Net. It was a clever little site that allows you to send a virtual fortune cookie by e-mail in honor of the C
hinese New Year. I typed in my message and chuckled. This would be fun. The recipients will check their e-mail before the party. They’ll see a picture of a little golden fortune cookie. They click on the cookie and the animated cookie cracks open and reveals the fortune.

  I tried it first before I sent the e-cookies out. My evil little message: Be willing to taste anything once. Well, what would you expect from me?

  “By the way,” Wes said, walking over and noticing what I was up to, “there is nothing Chinese about the fortune cookie. The fortune cookie is an American invention.”

  “But it’s a lot of fun,” I said, turning my mind back to predictions of the future. “It will put all the players in a good mood. And I’ve got a more authentic Chinese fortune-teller coming to the party—Lee Chen.”

  Lee was an old friend of mine. I could hardly wait to see her. She and I met several years ago, and although I hadn’t seen her lately, I always felt a special bond with Lee.

  “So,” Holly asked, looking up at Wesley, “we’re making…New Year’s Turnip Cake?”

  She had the list of ingredients and was measuring and setting them up on the kitchen’s center island. She read off the ingredients to make sure she had them all. “ ‘Eight Chinese dried mushrooms,’ check…‘one-half cup Chinese dried shrimp,’ check…‘two teaspoons Shao Hsing rice cooking wine,’ got it…‘one teaspoon sugar and two cups rice flour,’ got it.”

  “Good.”

  “Now, what all is this?” Holly squinted at the page with my slanty scribbling on it. “‘6 ounces lop yok, store-bought or homemade…’” She looked up. “Do we have to make some lop yok now?”

  “I stopped in Chinatown. Look in the fridge.”

  “For?” Holly asked.

  “Lop yok is Chinese bacon.”

  “Excellent.” She brought over the raw bacon, along with a large glass pie pan that we needed to steam it before slicing.

  “And the main ingredient?” Wes asked.

  Holly scooted over to the list and read: “A two-pound law book.” She grinned at him.

  “That’s law bok,” Wesley corrected promptly. “Chinese turnip.”

  Sometimes, whilst cooking, I do believe Wesley may on occasion lose his sense of humor. Holly and I shouldn’t tease him, but it’s so damn tempting to get a rise out of the guy.

  “Not a law book? You’re sure?” Holly looked at him.

  “Turnip cake,” he continued, “is made with Chinese turnip which is called law bok. It’s a type of daikon radish. There is also a daikon radish called Japanese daikon radish, which is similar to the Chinese turnip in appearance.” Wes snickered to himself. “Actually, to make matters even more confusing…”

  “Could they be?” Holly whispered to me.

  “…translated into English, law bok means turnip. Some produce vendors do not realize there is a distinction.”

  I could imagine the illuminating lectures to which Wesley Westcott must treat such poorly informed vendors and smiled.

  “Is it this ugly thing?” Holly asked. She held up a mottled whitish root, about ten inches long and four inches around.

  “Right, Holly. The Chinese turnip is more blemished-looking than the Japanese daikon.”

  Holly looked at the root, perhaps to memorize it.

  I turned my attention back to the lop yok, quickly cutting the raw slab of bacon into thirds. Some people remove only the rind of the Chinese bacon, leaving all the fat. But I find this too rich. I discard the layer of fat under the rind as well. Steaming for about twenty minutes makes it soft enough to dice finely.

  “So, Wesley,” Holly said, “why do we serve law bok cakes on Chinese New Year?”

  I loved to hear Wes talk food talk as we worked together in the kitchen.

  “Eating cake is a ritual at Chinese New Year—very symbolic—but turnip cakes are a little more like fried polenta than your basic chocolate layer.”

  “That’s the only trouble I have with Chinese food,” Holly said, as she began to grate the fresh law bok. “Who can embrace a cuisine that doesn’t glorify chocolate?”

  “When our turnip cake is cooled,” Wes continued, “we’ll cut it up into bite-size pieces. Then we’ll pan-fry it fresh when we get to Dubin’s house, and serve it Dim Sum style, sizzling hot with oyster sauce.”

  “So what is the special meaning behind turnip cake?” Holly asked, putting a little more arm muscle into her grating.

  “Ah, well. Rice flour symbolizes cohesiveness.”

  “Who couldn’t use a little more cohesion,” Holly commented. “That’s nice.”

  “The round shape represents unity of family.”

  “Cute,” Holly said.

  “And the slight rising of the cakes indicates rising fortune,” Wes finished.

  “Wesley Westcott, you are freaky!” Holly said.

  I nodded. Well, he is.

  And I added, “That’s what makes Chinese New Year’s Turnip Cake the perfect dish to serve the mah-jongg group tonight. Gamers are so superstitious.”

  Carefully, I lowered the bacon on its glass plate into the boiling pot and replaced the lid. Meanwhile, Holly joined me at the stove. She placed all the grated Chinese turnip along with a quart of water in a heavy pot, and then set it on medium-high heat.

  Wes was finishing up with the dried mushrooms and shrimp, placing each in a bowl of water for the thirty minutes it would take to rehydrate them.

  I cleaned up a bit and worried a bit, too.

  No matter how hard I tried to distract myself with work and cooking and friends, I couldn’t shake the disturbing events of the morning. Surely, on the dawning of the Chinese New Year, this mugging must have some deeper meaning. And, as we finished preparing the Chinese Turnip Cakes, I hoped the signs for our own good fortune might be more auspicious.

  “Did you ever get a call back from the police?” I asked Wesley.

  He shook his head.

  I thought it over one more time. The chard guy got rid of the mah-jongg game as soon as he could, but the dagger and the silver box were missing.

  I felt really bad, and I couldn’t tell what was making me feel worse—the idea that I had allowed myself to be ripped off in broad daylight at my favorite outdoor market, or the thought that another punk in this big, bad city had his hands

  Chapter 4

  Party planners are like vampires. We tend to be pale. We’re willing to drink odd things. All right, I might be stretching it a bit. But we do stay up all night. We work late catering dinners, and wake up at strange times depending on if we want to catch the before-dawn arrival of fresh tulips at the flower mart or sleep in late after throwing an after-hours soiree. It is lucky that Wesley and I operate rather well on less sleep than most people do.

  Our prep work for the upcoming Chinese New Year’s party was completed by four and that left us a few hours before we had to set up the party at seven-thirty. Holly was going to run out and do some errands. It doesn’t matter what time of the day or night she finds a few spare minutes. She knows exactly which hardware store, dry cleaners, and Bed, Bath, and Beyond are open twenty-four hours. Later, our bartender Ray would meet her back at the house to pack up for the party.

  In the meantime, I had promised Wesley I’d go over to the new place he was remodeling on Wetherbee. We took his station wagon—caterers tend to drive cars and vans that can schlep platters and coolers—and we drove west from my place.

  As we cruised slowly in rush hour traffic, we watched the low-rent stretch of Sunset Boulevard metamorphose from grungy industrial to tacky motels. Here, naughty street corners had been known to lure idiot superstars to self-destruct. I might mention I almost never see hookers when I drive by, which I find vaguely disappointing from a purely sightseeing perspective.

  In only a couple of miles, however, the street turned trendy. There’s a sudden pop-culture rush of giant billboards featuring three-story-high movie posters, or building-sized faces of rock stars. Wes calls this stretch of Sunset “bright lights/big egos.
” Only when you see a sixty-foot-high painting of Puff Daddy’s nose on top of Tower Records do you really know Sunset has fully morphed into the Strip.

  To the right of us as we drove slowly west, the Hollywood Hills rose in lumpy prominence. Their winding roads and exclusive neighborhoods were filled with celebrity neighbors. Having survived our bumper-to-bumper drive up Sunset, Wes turned his Mercedes wagon up Doheny. We left the city below for a quick jaunt into the hills.

  I looked out my window. Large homes were crammed right next to larger homes on either side of Doheny Drive. Many of the hillside communities placed a premium on land. In this neighborhood, you could buy a house that needed work for a million, and—if you fixed it up—sell it again for a million-three, or a million-five. Lots of upside potential here, the real estate brokers liked to say. I couldn’t wait to see Wesley’s fixer.

  Wes turned onto Wetherbee, one of the narrow side streets that wound up to the right.

  “It’s a mess,” he said. “We’re doing everything—new electrical, new plumbing, new roof, new kitchen. We’ve been ripping the hell out of it. We just pulled out all the cabinets—these sad yellow plywood things put in in the fifties.”

  “Demolition is fun,” I said.

  Wesley loved houses. He hated to see a bizarre den addition or bathroom remodel from the dreaded sixties or seventies make a fool of a beautiful old home. It hurt him to discover some lovely early twentieth century architectural gem that had been anachronized over the years by owners who had “modernized.”

  Wes pulled his car into the driveway of a large Tudor-style house. Against the darkening sky, I could make out the metal Dumpster at the curb. After Wesley’s busy week, I had no doubt with what the truck-size bin was filled: the debris of the home’s remodeling errors-past and the detritus of several decades of out-of-date add-ons.

  Wes turned with a smile. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead. I want your advice. And remember, Quita McBride is coming here at six.”

  Quita McBride. This was going to be tricky.