Dim Sum Dead

by Jerrilyn Farmer

  As soon as the group arrived in the dining room, they crowed and hooted and brayed in delight. Well, that’s how it sounded to me, like a barnyard of elderly farm animals at feeding time. I was immensely pleased. I enjoy cooking, but I also enjoy getting a big reaction.

  The savory aroma of the freshly prepared Wild Cherry Fettuccine was hard to resist.

  “Look at this!”

  “I need a refill on Tommy Collins!”

  “How beautiful, Beall. It looks too pretty to eat!”

  As they were getting settled in their seats at one end of the mammoth burl walnut dining table, I stepped forward.

  “I prepared a West Indian Calabaza Soup,” I said, and removed the lid of a splendid Royal Doulton soup tureen. Steam curled up.

  “What is that, Beall?” Rosalie Apple had taken a strange liking to me, and it evidently had something to do with my new nickname.

  “Please, sit down with us, Madeline,” Catherine Hill said. “Sonia, bring a place setting for Madeline.”

  I sat down as instructed. “It’s a fresh tomato-and-calamari soup.”

  “Ah.”

  “And there’s a risotto cake that floats in it, you see.” I served a bowlful to the hostess as her guests looked on greedily.

  “Well, this sure beats the hell out of corned beef and tongue sandwiches on rye,” Eva said, crossing her long dancer’s legs beneath the table.

  The bright afternoon light filtered through creamy French lace curtains at the tall windows. Beyond, I caught glimpses of a pool, a pool house, gardens, and stone paths winding among tall trees. If only Wesley could have been here. He’d have loved it.

  The five of us sat clustered at one end of a stunning French antique dining table that could seat sixteen. The room became quiet, as is often the case when guests make serious the effort to get spoon or fork to mouth. I enjoy the quieting down as almost nothing else. Success.

  “So you came bearing gifts,” Rosalie said, looking up at me and catching my eye. Her short-cropped gray hair gave her a businesslike appearance, unlike the three actresses she sat with. “So what’s the catch?”

  “My word. That’s blunt,” Helen said, sipping at her spoonful of Calabaza soup.

  Catherine Hill, in her golden turban, and blond Eva were the two biggest names in the room, and they both turned to see how I would answer.

  “I am looking for information, ladies.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Helen, crestfallen. “You’re not with the Enquirer, are you?”

  Catherine Hill set down her forkful of fettuccine. “I had better not eat any more of this delicious bribe, then, until I know what I am expected to reveal.”

  “No, it’s nothing about any of you. I’m not a reporter, but I could use your help.”

  “You’re an actress?” Rosalie asked, crestfallen.

  “No, not that. But I could use a personal favor. It has to do with Quita McBride, the one who died. The police are treating her death as an accident. She had been drinking, and then she fell down stairs. But I am worried.”

  “Why?”

  “I think she was troubled about something. It may have had to do with a book she was looking for. She said Dickey McBride had been writing a novel.”

  “Dickey couldn’t write a to-do list, let alone a novel,” Rosalie said.

  The other women continued to eat, but paid careful attention to my story.

  “The sad part is, Wesley and I actually found a book.”

  “You did?” Helen looked intrigued. I wondered if her old gal Friday role to Mike Heller, Private Eye was kicking in on a subconscious level.

  “Yes. It was hidden in Dickey’s old mah-jongg case. But, unfortunately we lost it. The mugger dropped the mah-jongg case but took that book.”

  “How mysterious,” Eva said.

  “That last evening I talked to Quita, she talked about you, Miss Hill, and your mah-jongg group, and she said that Dickey wanted you to have the set when we got it back from the police. That’s why I brought it to you today. I was wondering if any of you know anything at all about that book?”

  They looked at one another, but no one seemed to know anything.

  I was finished here. I’d charmed and gushed. I’d wheedled and gossiped. I’d brought gifts and cooked, and then out-and-out begged. But I had nothing at all to show for it.

  “I’m sorry, Madeline,” Catherine Hill said, picking her fork up again. “We don’t have the answers you are looking for. I hope you are not too disappointed.”

  “Thanks for listening,” I said.

  “You look so upset, my dear,” Eva James said as she finished another Tom Collins.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get the dessert,” I said.

  “Dessert. How splendid!” Catherine beamed at her guests. “I knew we’d have fun today. My horoscope said so.”

  As they talked and teased each other, I went back through the butler’s pantry, the little room which led to the large blue-and-white tiled kitchen. The sound of a lawn mower droned from outside. I peeked out between the white plantation shutters that covered the butler’s pantry’s one small window. In the intense afternoon sunlight, I could see the tractor mower moving across the side yard. The gardener was driving away, but as he turned to come back again, the sun glinted off of the man’s hand. The flare caught my attention, just as I was turning away.

  There, on the mower driver’s hand, there must have been a piece of jewelry that just caught the light as he turned. The gold ring. I looked at the man as he worked his way across the lawn toward the house. He couldn’t see me, behind the shutters, but I saw him. The guy driving across Catherine Hill’s lawn was the chard man.

  I forgot to breathe. The chard man. Here. What was going on?

  I realized there was one method of getting information I had been a little too ladylike to try. I moved away from the window and tiptoed back to the door to the dining room.

  “…brilliant chef. I think we were quite lucky.” That was Eva James, probably praising the lunch. I frowned and listened.

  “Yes, and she didn’t press us about Dickey’s book. Thank heavens.”

  Oh my God.

  “If she knows about that, does she know about the payments?” That had been Rosalie Apple’s voice. I tried to quiet my breathing, and in my sudden excitement, I became superconscious of myself, scared I’d accidentally bang against the door.

  “This is too dangerous. What if she suspects?” Helen was speaking.

  “She’d be even more suspicious if we tried to keep her away. And what was I supposed to do? She just showed up here with Dickey’s mah-jongg set. I had to let her in.”

  “But she knows about the book.” That was Eva.

  “She knows nothing.”

  “And you have it here, Cath? Is it safe?”

  My stomach felt queasy with anxiety. They had all been lying to me. All this time. And the book. Here?

  “It’s in a safe place. Trust Mama,” Catherine Hill said. “All your secrets are submerged.”

  “We all have secrets, Catherine. I’m sure there are things about you in Dickey’s diary.”

  “Everyone has secrets. Dickey taught me that. Even her.”

  “Yes, we all put up the money. We should burn the book together.”

  “I can understand why you would want to burn it, Rosalie. Dickey wasn’t a fool. He kept financial records, dear. And your bookkeeping was not…”

  “Enough, Cath! She’ll be back any minute. I wish she’d just leave us alone.”

  “What?” Catherine Hill sounded aghast. “Play your parts, my dears. I, for one, would be very disappointed to miss dessert.”

  On either side of the narrow butler’s pantry, glass-front cabinets reached to the ceiling. They displayed enormous collections of fine china and crystal. As I waited silently in the small room, I began to feel suffocated by Catherine Hill’s wealth and possessions. Eavesdropping made me feel anxious, sick, and nauseous. There was a pause in the conversation on the othe
r side of the door, and then Catherine Hill’s voice spoke up.

  “Did you hear about Bella? Her daughter had another baby.”

  “No!” several voices responded.

  The conversation had moved on. I had too many unanswered questions. What money had they all paid? And had these old women sent the gardener AKA chard man to steal that red book? They must have. I was unable to form one cogent thought.

  “This is her fifth,” Eva’s voice was saying, “and that’s just too many children…”

  The women continued to prattle on about their friend’s grandchildren, so I left my awkward lurking spot. Quickly, I walked across to the opposite door, the one that led into the kitchen, and shoved it open. Sonia looked up at me, startled. She was eating lunch while standing at the black-granite countertop.

  “Oh, Miss Madeline,” she said, smiling shyly. “This is delicious. Thank you for making a plate with the duck for me.”

  “Do you like it? I’m so glad.”

  But while I made the proper small talk with Sonia, my mind was racing. I had to find that book. It was here, somewhere. I had to think.

  I should do the right thing, I told myself. I should call the police. The red book was stolen property and thanks to Santa Monica Bike Patrol Officer Stubb, we had the police reports to prove it. I could call Honnett. He could get a search warrant and then…

  But, no. He hadn’t cared much about recovering that book of McBride’s. And, even if he was convinced, it wasn’t so easy in this star-sensitive town to get a warrant to search a celebrity’s palace, let alone search the mansion of old Hollywood’s “most intoxicating beauty.” Catherine Hill had more power in Los Angeles than any police detective. She’d block it somehow. Or she’d destroy the book before they could serve the warrant.

  I opened the brushed-aluminum door of the large Sub-Zero and picked up the heavy cut-crystal bowl containing my Tiramisu. I’d prepared it that morning and had just popped it into Hill’s refrigerator an hour earlier to chill.

  Where would the book be, I wondered? I shook the dessert slightly to test the firmness of the custard. If I were an old red book, where would I…? Catherine Hill had said something about all their secrets being “submerged.” Could she be hiding the book out in the pool area? That made no sense at all. I thought about it as I turned.

  Silent, standing just behind me, was Eva James.

  “Dear, I’m just going to give you a little hint,” she said to me while handing her empty Collins glass to Sonia. The young woman got up immediately to prepare a fresh one.

  “Yes?” I stood there, my breath coming a little heavily, holding the chilled bowl of Tiramisu.

  “That book that you are interested in…”

  “Yes?” I put the bowl down on the counter.

  “Dickey had many affairs. Some ended badly, of course. I remember a girl named Jade, I think. Dickey was engaged to her back in the old days. Now what was her name…” Eva thought about it. “It might have been Jade something or other. And then, the first name might not have been Jade, at all.”

  Now what was all this about? Was she just blowing smoke? I had enough to keep straight without being thrown off the scent by Eva James and her story of some old affair.

  “You should ask Cath. She knew all about that affair. Cath was working with Dickey at the time. In the Orient, I think. Was that East Meets West? No, it was another one. The one where Cath sang. Oh, Lord, that was awful. God love her, they had to dub over every damn note. Marni Nixon did it. She did all of the singing in those days. But not for me, of course. Honey, God gave me a throat, and I sang like a bird.”

  I tried to get Eva back on track. “And that’s when Dickey McBride was having a hot romance with a woman whose name might or might not have been Jade? Okay.” Good try, Eva. I think not. I smiled pleasantly. “Well, thanks. That might help.”

  Sonia quietly returned with Eva James’s fresh drink and set it down on the counter. Just then, Catherine Hill entered the kitchen, her famous face floating above that large turquoise muumuu. She looked concerned. “So here you are.”

  If food has power, dessert has the most. I was counting on it. I had a plan.

  “It’s time,” I said, “for Tiramisu.”

  “Yes?” Catherine perked up immediately. “Oh, goody.”

  And then, into the kitchen walked an amazingly fragile old lady, the size of an elf. Her snow-white hair wisped down around her small head from a gold turban. She was dressed exactly like Catherine Hill, down to the gold ballet slippers and flowing turquoise shift.

  “Is it time for dessert?” she asked.

  “Mama? Are you up from your nap dear? Meet our new friend, Madeline. She’s a very clever cook. She made the girls a marvelous lunch.”

  “Is that dessert?” the tiny old woman asked again.

  How totally bizarre. Mother and daughter, dressed as twins.

  “Sonia,” Catherine called out. “Let’s set another plate for Mama at the table.” She turned to her mother. “Mama, go get a seat, honey.” Catherine spoke loudly into her mother’s hearing aid.

  The old woman smiled, revealing a little too much of her toothless gums, her head bobbing without a pause. Sonia led Mama through the butler’s pantry and on to the dining room.

  “Mama’s ninety-three. Doesn’t she look fabulous?” Catherine asked.

  “She’s amazing.”

  “The girls call her minimom.” She laughed loudly. “Get it?”

  I had no trouble getting the nickname, and then I had an idea.

  “She lives here with you?”

  “Oh, yes. She had an entire wing upstairs, but she began to get tired climbing all the stairs up to it. We had to give her Sonia’s room, but then Sonia lives out now, so it’s worked just fine.”

  “How nice,” I said. And I was amazed at how sincere I sounded, when inside I was raging.

  “And doll,” Catherine said to me, as we walked together toward the dining room, “I wouldn’t believe everything you hear from Eva James. That lush has been sipping Tommy Collins since ten-thirty this morning.”

  After I made sure the old gals were seated and dessert was served and lavishly praised, I rushed back through the kitchen. I remembered what Catherine Hill had said to her friends when they wanted to know where the book was being kept. She had said, “It’s in a safe place. Trust Mama.”

  Trust Mama.

  At the time she said it, I’d thought Catherine Hill was saying “trust me.” But that was before I met Mama.

  I found a door just off the kitchen and turned the knob. A bedroom, just as I had expected. This was the location of the maid’s room in every old house I’d ever worked in, right off the kitchen, perfectly situated for the help. And now, I knew, it was Mama’s.

  I slipped into the room and shut the door behind me. The room wasn’t large, but it was pretty, decorated in a soft shade of peach and neatly kept. The heavy peach damask bedspread showed only the slight indentation made, I was sure, by the body of a napping woman who could only weigh eighty pounds.

  Where would they hide the book? I pulled up the peach dust ruffle and checked under the bed, I tried opening a few dresser drawers. No dice. I walked across the small room and entered the adjoining bathroom. It, too, was decorated in the same shade of peach. The sink and the toilet and the tub, everything the same. The little room was perfectly clean. On the sink was a glass holding Mama’s dentures.

  Their secrets. Their secrets were submerged. What did that remind me of? It was a line. A line from a movie. It was a line in one of Catherine Hill’s movies, but which one? I thought it out. I had rented a bunch of old films not long ago. Holly and I stayed up late watching them. Yes! Heavenly Girls in the Forbidden City. Teenaged Helen Howerton was hiding teenaged Catherine Hill’s diary from the nuns. And where did she hide it?

  The toilet. I picked up the heavy peach porcelain top and moved it slightly ajar.

  Astounding. There, taped to the inside of the tank, submerged in cold water
, was a large clear plastic storage bag, the kind famous for its airtight seal. Catherine Hill watched those commercials.

  I pulled the bag out of the tank and dried it using one of Mama’s fluffy peach terry-cloth bath towels. Inside the bag I could clearly see the prize.

  With one quick unzip, I had my hands on Dickey McBride’s red-leather book. I was high with my triumph. Here, too, in fact, was even the silver case that held the dragon dagger. I had lied, eavesdropped, and prowled, but I was victorious.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t have another second to enjoy the thrill of espionage. For at that moment, I heard a noise. I looked up. The knob on the door to the little peach bathroom was turning.

  Quick, before even the shock wave of fear reached my heart, I rezipped the plastic bag, and stuffed the entire package into the back of my short designer skirt, down between the waistband and my back.

  The door began to open.

  I spun and sat down, fully clothed, on the toilet, praying the book wouldn’t fall in.

  When the door swung wide, there stood minimom.

  I glared at her with an intensity that required no acting on my part, whatsoever. I hissed, “Excuse me, this room is being used.”

  She stopped and stared, extremely alarmed. Her old eyes caught the completely unexpected sight of a young woman, me, using her loo. She gasped with such force, I feared for her heart. Her toothless mouth formed in a wobbly “O.” Catherine Hill’s ancient mother sucked in air until I wondered if she would ever remember to exhale.

  But unfortunately, her befuddlement was so great, she simply couldn’t manage to move.

  “I’ll be right out,” I said, “if I could just have a little privacy.” I had snaked one of my hands behind me and used it to hold on to the book, which was snug and stiff against the small of my back, and quite uncomfortable. I realized the porcelain top to the toilet tank was just ajar. Hell, if minimom stood there gasping much longer, she just might notice.

  “Oh.” She found her voice at any rate. “Oh, my.”

  Just leave.

  “How embarrassing,” she said, still rattled and trying to find her way. “I…you see…I forgot my teeth.”