The Misfortune Cookie ed-6

by Laura Resnick

  “Ted’s film?” I repeated.

  John replied, “Benny’s nephew, Ted, is shooting an indie film here in Chinatown. I’m doing the hair and makeup for it. I’ve had a lot of practice at that kind of thing.” Looking at me as if concerned about how I’d react, he added, “I do most of the hair and makeup on the customers here.”

  I realized he meant corpses, but something much more important had caught my attention.

  “Ted’s shooting this film now?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  Max said to John, “In order to review this matter thoroughly, I need to know what has become of the—”

  “Have all the parts been cast already?” I asked.

  “Well, when I say now,” John said, “I guess I’m wrong. Between Benny’s death and Mary breaking her leg, we haven’t filmed for the past few—”

  “Does anyone know,” Max asked, “what became of the—”

  “Who’s Mary?” I asked.

  “Mary Fox,” said John. “She’s one of the two female leads. Well, she was. Now that she’s laid up with a broken—”

  “Is she Chinese?” I asked urgently. I’m versatile, but there was no way I’d be cast as a Chinese character.

  “No, Mary’s white. The lead character in the movie is an ABC who’s trying to choose between two women. One of them is—”

  “ABC?” I repeated.

  He smiled. “American Born Chinese. Like me.”

  Max said, “About the fortune that was in this cookie . . .”

  “So Mary Fox was playing the white girl?” I said. “And now that she’s broken her leg, the role will have to be recast?”

  “Um, I don’t know. I would think so,” said John. “But that’s Ted’s call. And he’s got a lot on his mind right now, since—”

  “Yeah, Benny’s death,” I said. “Whatever. Look, John, I’m an actress.”

  “A professional,” Lucky added helpfully. “Esther’s been on TV.”

  “Oh?” said John with interest. Then: “Oh.”

  “Can you introduce me to Ted?” I asked.

  “Of course,” said John. “I’m sure he’s here tonight. The deceased is his uncle, after all.”

  “Oh. Right.” That sank in now. “Sorry. I should have . . . I mean, this might not be the best time for me to ask to read for his movie.”

  “Oh, it’s probably all right,” said John. “To be honest, Ted won’t miss Benny—just his money.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Benny was backing Ted’s film.”

  “Ted’s lost his backer?” I asked in dismay.

  “Well, there’s still cash left from Benny’s initial investment,” said John. “And Ted is optimistic about getting more investment.”

  “Okay. Good. I’d like to meet him. Right away.” I stood up.

  So did John. “All right.”

  “Does anyone know,” Max asked loudly, “what happened to the fortune that may have cursed Benny Yee with death?”

  “Oh, sure,” said Lucky, looking surprised by Max’s volume. “I got John to ask Mrs. Yee for it today.”

  John said wearily, “He really did get me to do that.”

  “I figured you’d want to see it,” Lucky said to Max. “And since handling it after Benny’s death didn’t kill the missus, I didn’t think it would kill us, either.”

  “She kept it?” I asked curiously.

  “When she saw it, she wasn’t sure what to make of it,” said John. “She thought it must be something to do with the Five Brothers. So she took it home with her.”

  “In case it turned out to be evidence?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe just to keep it out of strangers’ hands. I’m not sure.”

  While John was speaking, Lucky was retrieving a sealed plastic bag from a drawer in one of the desks. Inside the transparent bag was a slip of black paper, barely an inch wide, maybe three inches long. Lucky didn’t open the bag when he showed it to us. The black paper had a single Chinese character on it, painted in delicate white calligraphy.

  “White,” murmured Max. “The color of death.”

  The symbol looked like expressionist art to me, like a few random brush strokes arranged in a pleasing shape. It was hard for me to see why it would have inspired fear in Benny Yee.

  “What exactly does this character mean?” I asked John.

  “It depends on context,” he said. “Which we don’t have here. But the meaning can be die, dead, death, condemned to die. Any of those.”

  “I’m going with ‘condemned to die,’” said Lucky. “It’s a curse!”

  “May I take this back to my laboratory to study it?” Max asked.

  “Yes. In fact, I’d prefer that,” said John. “I don’t consider myself superstitious, but I wish Uncle Lucky hadn’t insisted on having this thing here, and I’ll be glad to get rid of it. It was written with malice, and it led to someone’s death.”

  That much seemed certain. The question I knew Max was pondering, as he studied the item in the bag, was whether it had inflicted Benny’s death. If so, then we needed to figure out how and when the next victim would be chosen. Because if this was mystical murder, then there would certainly be another victim sooner or later—probably sooner. Max always said that Evil was voracious, and events had repeatedly proved he was right about that. So although I thought John’s interpretation of Benny’s death was reasonable, I knew that Max had to investigate, in case Lucky was right.

  “Before you take that home with you, though,” said Lucky, “you gotta check out the suspects.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Benny’s wake.” Lucky jerked his chin in the direction of the Chinese funeral parlor. “If you mingle, maybe you can spot the killer there. I’d bet fifty grand that he’s here tonight.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Attending your victim’s wake seems unnecessarily melodramatic.”

  “Not to mention being in questionable taste,” added Max.

  “People do it all the time,” Lucky insisted. Which made me realize he might have done it.

  John met Lucky’s eyes. “Uncle Lucky might be right. Whoever sent Benny that cookie must have known him. And everyone who knows Benny is bound to turn up for his send-off.”

  “Well, then.” Max slipped the death curse into his pocket. “Let’s go meet the visitors. Come, Nelli. The game is afoot!”

  “Um, Dr. Zadok,” said John. “I don’t think you can bring a dog to the visitation.”

  “Oh, I really think I should,” said Max. “It would be advantageous for Nelli to examine the corpse for remnants of mystical influence, in the unlikely event that any such residue lingers now that the deceased has been prepared for burial.”

  “Huh?”

  “And if there are demonic or mystical beings present, she may well be able to detect them.”

  “O . . . kay.” John looked to me and Lucky for help.

  “It’s best to go along with this,” said Lucky.

  I nodded my agreement, though I felt sorry for John, who’d have to explain to his father, his brother, and probably the Yee family why he had allowed an enormous dog (and not a particularly well-behaved one) to prowl around the wake.

  “You two go ahead,” said Lucky. “There’s something I need to discuss with Esther in private. She’ll catch up.”

  John nodded. “Dr. Zadok and I are the only two people at this wake who you know, Esther, so we should be pretty easy to spot when you come through the door.”

  I nodded and watched them exit the room, with Nelli stepping lively as she accompanied them out the door. Then I turned to Lucky. “What’s up?”

  “I got a little additional problem that I need your help with. I don’t like to drag you into this, but it’s important,” he said. “And most of my resources ain’t available for the time being.”

  “I’ll help you in any way I can, Lucky.” As long as he didn’t ask me to break the law, that was. “What is it?”

  He blew out his breath with his lower lip. “Well,
your boyfr . . . I mean, Detective Lopez is poking around Chinatown.”

  “What?” I blurted in surprise. “Do you think he suspects you’re hiding here?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to find out enough to be sure. It don’t seem like he’s looking in the right places, but I can’t think of why else he’d be in Chinatown right now.”

  “Oh, no.” I realized what this favor was. “You want me to find out why Lopez is here?”

  “And you need to do it without him knowing that’s what you’re asking. Because he’s the type who’ll figure out real quick why you’re asking, once he realizes what you’re asking.” Lucky asked, “Do you think you can do it?”

  “Oh, man,” I said grumpily. “This means I’ll have to talk to him, Lucky.”

  He frowned. “I know you had a big fight with him at Bella Stella, and he wound up arresting you. But maybe . . .” Lucky sighed and shook his head. “Wait a minute. Forget it. What was I even thinking? I’m sorry, kid. If I wasn’t climbing the walls here, I wouldn’t even have asked. I know better. I shouldn’t be sending you to talk to that guy after—”

  “No, no, it’s important,” I said quickly. “And I want to help you. And the Chens, too, who I’m sure you don’t want to put in danger.”

  “No way do I want them to get in trouble because of me.”

  “So I’ll just have to talk to Lopez,” I said firmly. “For your sake. And theirs.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked with concern.

  I lifted my chin. “I can do this. Don’t worry about me, Lucky.”

  God, you’re pathetic, Esther. And despicable.

  I had no idea how I was going to approach Lopez, let alone how I’d manage to sound casual while quizzing him about his activities in Chinatown and/or the hunt for Lucky Battistuzzi. But at least I’d get to talk to him. Once I could think of a suitable pretense for it, that was.

  You swore you’d stop thinking about him. You swore you’d move on!

  Especially after the god-awful events of New Year’s. When I tried to imagine how that night could have been any more humiliating, I came up blank.

  Yet here I was, volunteering—more or less—to get in touch with Lopez.

  I didn’t even know why I wanted to see him.

  To demand an apology from him? To get an explanation for his behavior? To say all the cutting things to him that I only thought of after the squad car had pulled away from the curb that night?

  Or maybe I’d tear off his clothes, indulge in hours of steamy sex with him, and then just not call him—not even after promising to call.

  Okay, stop right there. There will be no removing of clothes and no indulging in sex. Are we agreed? If not, then you can’t get in touch with him. I absolutely forbid it.

  Well . . .

  Agreed or not?

  Oh, fine, then. Fine. No sex. Clothes stay on. Agreed!

  “Maybe I should just bring him a misfortune cookie,” I muttered.

  “Don’t even joke about that,” said Lucky. “I’m telling you, I got a real serious feeling about this. Benny Yee was cursed with death. And you know what that means.”

  I nodded. “I know.”

  “The killer ain’t gonna stop with Benny.” After a moment, he added, “You better go join them at the wake. Oh, and I forgot to tell Max—keep Nelli away from the food.”

  “They’ve got food?” I asked. “At a wake?”

  “Offerings to nourish the spirit of the departed. It’s a Chinese thing.” Lucky added, “We can’t have our favorite familiar stealing food from a corpse. It won’t make a good impression.”

  7

  Filial piety

  Respect and veneration for one’s parents and ancestors.

  Benny Yee’s wake was so crowded that I thought the odds were good that John and Lucky were right about the killer being here—simply because half of Chinatown seemed to be here.

  Well, “killer” if the misfortune cookie had inflicted Benny’s death; “malicious prankster” if his reaction to reading that menacing fortune had led to a fatal but mundane accident in a moment of distracted anxiety.

  The latter possibility was making me think about how uncertain life was. Anyone’s candle could be snuffed at any moment. Just by tripping and cracking open your head, for example. As I searched for John and Max in the crowded funeral hall, phrases like carpe diem and “live each day as if it were your last” kept running through my head.

  Since Chen’s Funeral Home was in a downtown Manhattan neighborhood, rather than in a sprawling modern suburb, it was too small for such a big send-off. But people here were accustomed to that, so everyone just crowded in without reserve, shoulder to shoulder, cheek by jowl. A lot of people had shown up this evening to pay their respects to Benny Yee. Traditional music was playing on the sound system, but with so many people here, I could hardly hear it, though most of the mingling visitors kept their voices respectfully muted as they chatted. As I squeezed my way through the throng, I felt glad I’d left my coat and belongings in the office with Lucky, since the collective body heat was making this hall rather warm.

  The Chinese side of the L-shaped funeral complex was decorated in elegantly somber shades of gold and red. Several large, beautiful tapestries hung on the walls, as did some banners that displayed graceful Chinese calligraphy. I assumed the latter were blessings or prayers for the departed. There was an alcove in which several tables, all draped in white linen, were covered with offerings. Lucky was right about the food; there were plates and baskets of prettily wrapped candies, little Chinese egg tarts (my favorite), mooncakes, dried mushrooms, bright orange clementines, and dark purple plums. Several people had left bottles of liquor for the deceased.

  Fortunately, Nelli didn’t seem to have been here. Everything appeared to be tidy and intact, and there was no sign of drool.

  I wondered whether the person who’d left a basket of fortune cookies here knew how Benny Yee had died. In any case, these were the small, plain sort of cookies that you could find in any Chinese restaurant, not the elaborate, chocolate-drizzled, gourmet variety that someone had sent to Benny.

  Still searching for John and Max, I continued making my way through the gathered mourners. As John had predicted, they were all dressed pretty much the way I’d have dressed if I had known I’d be attending a wake this evening. Most of the men were in suits, most of the women wore skirts or nice slacks, and the dominant colors were black and navy blue. In my brown slacks and dark green sweater, I looked a little casual compared to most of the people here, but not out of place—well, except for the fact that Benny didn’t seem to have known many Caucasians. Max and I were apparently the only white people in attendance. However, we were in contemporary New York City, not imperial Peking, so no one noticed me, let alone did a double take, as I made my way through the crowded hall.

  Or so I thought.

  Just as I stumbled on the guest of honor, so to speak, lying in his open casket, I heard someone near me say in an oily voice, “Hey, pretty lady, are you here all by yourself?”

  I kept my gaze fixed intently on the deceased, fervently hoping that the voice was not addressing me.

  Benny Yee had been a man of modest stature, probably in his early sixties, with a receding hairline, snub nose, and thin lips. He wore a gray suit, a gold wedding ring, and an expensive wristwatch. A large framed photo of Benny was displayed near his corpse; I noticed that he hadn’t really looked that much more animated in life.

  “You look lonesome,” said the same oily voice, closer now.

  The coffin was lined in white silk and elegant white drapes hung behind it, with additional heavy white swags framing the area around the casket and the profusion of funeral wreaths and floral tributes surrounding it. A small altar near the coffin held a statue of the Buddha, chubby and laughing—a portrayal I always found very comforting, compared to Yahweh’s dour attitude throughout the Old Testament or the suffering Jesus nailed to a crucifix in Catholic churches. Ther
e were also small incense burners from which aromatic smoke was wafting, as well as special offerings, skillfully fabricated from brightly colored paper, of the things Benny had evidently enjoyed in life and wouldn’t want to be deprived of in death: cars, money, a house, gold ingots, airplanes, more money.

  “I think you need some company, cutie.” The guy with the oily voice wasn’t going away, despite being ignored.

  There were more baskets of food on the altar, too, filled with fresh fruit, fortune cookies, and Chinese pastries. I was glad I had eaten before paying my respects, or this wake would be torture for me.

  Visitors who approached the coffin to pay their respects crossed themselves as they gazed down at Benny, or they pressed their palms together and bowed three times; some people did both things. Many of them also paused at the altar beside his casket. Then they moved on to the group of people seated nearby, in two rows, most of whom were wearing black armbands. They must be Benny’s family. An older woman with well-styled hair and a drab black dress seemed to be the focal point of this group, and her face bore an expression of stoic grief, so I figured she was Benny’s widow.

  I wondered if one of those mourners was Benny’s nephew, Ted the filmmaker. I needed to find John and get an introduction.

  “How well did you know Benny, doll face?” the oily voice asked.

  Doll face? Oh, please.

  With a sinking feeling, I looked at the speaker. Sure enough, he was staring right at me.

  “I came here with friends,” I said coldly, knowing full well that a little coldness was never enough to get rid of guys like this.

  His rather stupid face contorted into a predatory smirk. “So where are these ‘friends?’”

  “Mingling.”

  “I’ll take care of you while they do that.” He winked at me.

  He spoke with a slight Chinese accent, and he appeared to be about my age. His long hair was slicked back and tied in a pony tail, he sported a little mustache and goatee that didn’t suit him, and he was dressed so inappropriately for a funeral that I didn’t want anyone here to think I knew him. He wore blue jeans, boots decorated with silver studs and chains, a garish shirt, and a black leather jacket.