Hello Kitty Must Die (23 page)

“Isn’t Ghirardelli Square spectacular at nighttime?” Sean asked, his eyes sparkling.

“I’ve never seen it look so pretty before. I can’t take my eyes off of it.”

And I didn’t.

I kept my eyes on the glittering lights of the Wharf, the dark shapes of houses, trees, cars below the huge Ghirardelli sign, while Sean shuffled around in the shadows behind me. He was moving objects on the starboard side, partially hidden by the main sail.

Splash.

Sean had pushed something over the side of the boat.

I ignored the sound. “Have you ever been to that restaurant at the top of Ghirardelli Square, Sean?”

“No, is it any good?”

Splash.

“Remember Laurie from my old firm? She said that place has the best strawberry milkshakes.”

“You like milkshakes, Fi?”

Sean kicked at something with his foot. It rolled over and fell into the water. Splash.

“No, I hate milkshakes. It’s like drinking snot. Strawberry ones are the worst. They’re Liquid Tylenol-flavored snot.”

He laughed. “Then we won’t go to that restaurant.”

“Sean, I’m hungry. I had too much wine at the Big Four. I need some food.”

“What’s open this hour?”

“Chinatown restaurants. I know a great one.”

“Cool. I’m getting cold anyway. Let’s turn back into the harbor.”

So we did.

COLD AND WET, WE
arrived at Yuet Lee, a cheap seafood restaurant in Chinatown that stayed open into the wee hours of the night.

I ordered jook, Chinese breakfast rice soup. But this savory rice porridge is not only for breakfast. It’s perfect for a midnight meal and for curing the common cold. It’s our version of chicken soup. It’s soul food, especially if you add a little seafood, pork, and slices of pickled egg.

A satisfying meal for anyone after a hard night of doing God’s work.

“So what do you have planned for the holidays, Fi?”

“Well, next week, I have Katie’s funeral in L.A. Then I might stay down there to see what becomes of poor Peter.”

“Sounds like fun. But who’s going to take care of your bird?”

If I was away from Pepito for too long, he would feed me his doughnuts as punishment for ditching him. Or worse yet, he would die of neglect. “Crap. Nevermind. I’ll just go for the funeral. Knowing my aunt, it’ll be a full-blown Chinese affair. In other words, it’ll just suck.”

“Don’t they serve Peking duck or shark fin soup at the wake?”

“You wish. It’s cheap Chinese food.”

“Maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll do it American style.”

I RETURNED HOME LATE
. My parents had left the hallway light on for me. I love them.

“You want some hot water?” my mother asked. She had heard me come in.

Boiled water. Healthy boiled water with only dead bacteria.

“No thanks, Mom. I’m going to bed.”

“Okay.”

She didn’t even ask where I had been or whether I was drunk. Guess Katie’s death convinced her to let me have some fun.

Because poor Katie didn’t. She got married and got killed.

No fun.

Too bad Katie didn’t live here and use our Laundromat. I could have done her and Peter a big favor. I could have saved her life with a pair of lacy panties or a cherry lipstick smear.

But thanks to her, I would get a couple of days in Los Angeles.

“Remember not to mention anything about Peter, Fiona,” my father instructed me on the plane.

Duh. Like he really needed to tell me not to talk about Peter at Katie’s funeral. A total no-brainer.

“And don’t speak to Peter’s family,” my mother said.

“Peter’s family is going to be there?”

“Yes, they flew over from Hong Kong yesterday.”

To be with their son while he went on trial for murdering his wife.

“Is Peter going to be there, Mom?”

“I don’t think so. I think the police still have him.”

Oh.

“Fiona, did you bring one of your nice suits?”

“No, Mom. I brought a cheap skirt and blouse.” In case we had to torch my outfit so Death didn’t come home with us.

“Did you bring shoes?”

“Yes.”

“And hose?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.”

My father remained quiet until the plane landed. When we got off the plane, he turned to me, looking as if he just remembered something.

“And Fiona.”

“Yeah?”

“Remember to wear lipstick.”

K
ATIE LAY IN A SHINY COFFIN,
looking like an anorexic geisha in a purple Zac Posen dress.

She would have loved the way she looked. Of that, I was certain. The mortician did a fantastic job with her pasty makeup. Saint Peter would not be able to chastize her for being too dark or too fat when she arrived at the Pearly Gates. If she was any whiter or thinner, he would be welcoming a skeleton in a kabuki mask.

Aunt Lydia spared us the horrors of a customary Chinese burial so she could openly mourn her daughter. God bless the woman. I would not have to burn my clothes.

But the manner of Katie’s death ruined all the good energies of her All-American funeral for me. Instead of the usual grief and satisfaction, anger hung in the heavily-scented air of the funeral home. Hatred and resentment oozed from the pores of Katie and Peter’s families.

“Don’t look at them,” my father whispered.

“I’m not.”

“Don’t talk to them.”

“They’re not even looking at us, Dad.”

“So don’t look at them.”

“I’m not. I’m looking at my shoes.”

“Go sit next to Aunt Lydia while I talk with your uncle.”

I didn’t want to sit next to Aunt Lydia, who was crying and seething with bad energy, but I did so anyway.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Aunt Lydia.”

“Thank you, Fiona. You are such a good girl.”

Uh huh. Of course I am.

So I sat there next to my aunt in front of Katie’s coffin until a fight broke out in the waiting room next door. Aunt Lydia sprang to her feet and joined in.

“Your son killed my daughter!”

“No, he didn’t. It was an accident.”

“It was no accident! He pushed her!”

“She was clumsy. She tripped over her own feet. It’s not his fault.”

“Of course it’s his fault!”

“She was a terrible wife!”

“What? She was wonderful to him. And he murdered her!”

“If she was so great, they wouldn’t have fought, and she’d still be alive!”

I got up and sauntered into the waiting room for a peek. My uncle thrashed his arms at someone cowering in a corner. My father held him back. A woman shielded the other man from my uncle.

“Fiona, go back in the other room.”

Hai, Daddy.

But I didn’t.

I wandered off to explore the other rooms of the funeral home, leaving the fight behind.

“Excuse me, where is the ladies’ room?” I asked a young woman in the front office.

“That way, to your right.”

I love checking out the restrooms at restaurants, hotels, funeral homes. Restrooms tell you a lot about a place and the people who work there. Whether they value cleanliness, aesthetics, utility, atmosphere, décor, quality. Because restrooms aren’t the first things patrons see. They’re the places where you can skimp or neglect. And most places do.

It’s like people who dress up to the nines but go around in dirty underwear or with untrimmed toenails. No one can see those things. So they don’t care.

The funeral home’s bathroom smelled like lemons. Plain, but clean and cheery with its baby yellow tiles. A large bouquet of daisies in a clear glass vase sat on a whitewashed wooden stand. Even the hand soap had a citrus scent. The stalls boasted clean walls, toilets which had a powerful flush, and plenty of toilet seat covers and quilted toilet paper. The floors were free of paper towels.

We are a no-nonsense, practical, cheery, and sanitary funeral home. Clean like lemons. That’s what the bathroom said.

Shouting voices assaulted me as I stepped out of the peaceful bathroom. My uncle and Peter’s parents were still fighting. Their voices carried down the carpeted hallway.

“I hope your son rots in jail!”

“I hope your daughter rots in hell!”

So I kept exploring.

At the end of the hall, a large sign read “RESTRICTED.” Morticians prepared the dead for their big day beyond that point. It would be rude to walk in on the dead in their indecent state while they were getting a manicure or haircut.

I wondered if the morticians gave their clients pedicures. After all, no one would ever know.

Urns. A whole table full of them stood in a room on my right. Marble, silver, gold, porcelain. You name it. Different sizes, different shapes with little tags on them.

SYLVIA LYNN BRETON

NORMAN JERROLD KRAMER

BURT ALAN SMITH

I switched all the name tags around. Ashes to ashes. It’s all the same. Might as well send them all on a final adventure. Never too late to have some fun.

Farewell, Sylvia.

Rest in peace, Norman.

Godspeed, Burt.

“You are not supposed to be in here.”

The funeral director, a middle-aged Chinese man wearing a black suit and gray tie, stood at the entrance of the room.

“Oh, sorry, I got lost. I’m waiting for my cousin’s service to begin.”

“This way, miss.”

Katie’s funeral service put everyone in a foul mood. We sat on one side of the room. Peter’s family sat on the other. My delicate porous psyche suffered from the terrible mounting tension. Not even the delicious pecan pie at the wake could dispel the tidal wave of bad energy.

Still, I helped myself to two slices. And talked to the two homicide detectives who attended Katie’s funeral. I failed to realize their presence until one of them approached me, interrupting my second slice of pie.

“Were you a friend of Katie’s?”

“Cousin.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. I’m Detective Dubler. I’m looking into your cousin’s death. That guy over there is my partner.”

Detective Dubler. Big, tall, white guy. Ex-military build. Moustache. Middle-aged. Definitely not green and not too jaded to get after the truth.

“You mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure. Why not? I’m Fiona.”

“Fiona, were you close to your cousin?”

“Not really. I live in San Francisco. I only visited her a couple of times. L.A. is not my kind of town.”

“I understand. Did you know her husband, Peter?”

“About as well as I knew my cousin.”

“Did they get along?”

“I don’t know really.”

“So you never heard about any issues that they might have had?”

“Detective, every couple has issues. But no one’s died until now.”

“Did Peter ever lose his temper or become violent?”

“I wouldn’t know. But then again, I wasn’t married to him. He had to be nice and polite to me.”

Detective Dubler chuckled and then quickly recomposed himself. He was at the wake of a possible murder victim, after all.

“Fiona, you don’t seem very upset that your cousin is dead.”

“Like I said, we weren’t very close. And she wasn’t that nice to me the few times I visited her.”

“No? Now why is that?”

“Just a tad bit snooty. NorCal girl versus SoCal girl kind of thing.”

“Was she ever snooty with Peter?”

“Dunno. You’ll have to ask him.”

“What about your aunt? Did she like Peter?”

“She liked him enough to let him marry Katie, but beyond that, I don’t know. Ask her.”

“Okay, thank you, Fiona. And again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“You really don’t think this was an accident, do you, Detective?”

“I don’t know about that. I do know that they were arguing right before Katie died.”

Right.

And because most of the time, it’s not an accident. Just like Don Koo, Nicole Brown Simpson, Laci Peterson. I couldn’t blame Detective Dubler for not thinking otherwise.

“One more thing, Fiona. Did Katie ever talk about whether she wanted children?”

“Not to me.”

Short and sweet. A good rule of thumb for speaking with the police. Never go into a narrative or tell them how you hated your cousin for calling you dark and fat. Or how she had been asking for it, just like Don had been asking for it. They’ll think you had something to do with the death. Or worse yet, they might think you’re a valuable witness. Then you’re really screwed.