HOT POT MURDER by Jennifer J. Chow
Berkley Prime Crime | Available Now!
Excerpt
Nik came and greeted us with a half-hearted wave. Although it appeared like he’d just woken up, I knew his signature bedhead look took meticulous styling. He’d mastered the effort in high school and then added bleached strands and a goatee to the hair mix post-college.
He pushed the door open to let us in. “If it isn’t the deadly Yee duo.”
“Very funny,” I said, although I hadn’t seen any humor in the situation when I’d literally run into a dead body with my food cart during the night market event around Halloween. “Can’t believe you wrote that I made ‘brutal boba.'” Nik had run a column in his Eastwood Village Connection blog about how the night market had turned deadly, perhaps due to my fatal recipe.
“Who are you to complain?” he said. “People were lining up at Canai and Chai last weekend for your signature drink.”
I stopped a sigh from escaping my lips. Who knew what would catch people’s fancy? Night market-goers did like ordering my grapefruit green tea with boba, those chewy tapioca balls, for the fun of it. Maybe they felt like they were daring death, even though the police had cleared my drink of any suspicion after they’d arrested the real killer.
“Ho’s Small Eats didn’t do so badly either,” I said, referring to the food stand Nik and his mother ran, a neighboring stall to our own. I’d seen a line snaking before them, people eager to eat spiced popcorn chicken and enjoy freezing-cold shaved ice.
Celine dropped her box on the long counter of Ho’s, and it landed with a heavy thump. “Less talking, more work,” she said. “It might take a miracle to transform this place in only one hour.”
I studied the restaurant, again reflecting on the fact that a 1950s diner had previously been in this location. Ho’s still retained red vinyl booths and checkerboard flooring. They’d even kept the swivel barstools lined up along the counter. “This place has never really screamed ‘Taiwanese’ to me.”
“It’s the authentic food cooked in here that draws in our customers,” Nik said in an irritated tone. I wasn’t sure which hurt him more: that I’d put down his family’s restaurant or that I knew the dishes he referred to didn’t come from his own hands. Mrs. Ho still didn’t trust her son to do more than serve and wipe down the tables.
I leaned toward the kitchen door. In fact, I could hear some banging around in there. Maybe she’d already started preparing. Dad should also be there, and maybe Roy Yamada. All members of AAROA, they’d bonded over their stories about immigrating to America and also the fact that they’d lost their spouses within the past ten years. Mr. Yamada had been widowed the least amount of time. His wife had died last year after a bout with aggressive cancer.
Celine clapped her hands together twice to get Nik’s and my attention. “Here’s what I’m envisioning,” she said. My cousin was a foodstagrammer, and while she loved her food shots on Instagram the most, I could see her creative brain working as she laid out her Thanksgiving design plan. She wanted to decorate the tabletops with scented spice candles, arrange a line of painted pumpkins along the counter, and pin a garland of colorful walnuts against a wall.
“How do you know so much about Thanksgiving anyway?” I said. “Isn’t it an American holiday?”
“I live in Hong Kong,” she said, “not Antarctica.”
“We’re not even having turkey per tradition,” I said as I shook my head at Nik.
“News flash,” he said. “Nobody likes turkey. Usually it comes out too dry.”
“I like turkey,” I said, grabbing a few orange candles and bunching them together on a table. “I’m not sure why we have to do hot pot anyway.” I liked veggies and meat simmering away in hot broth as much as the next person, but I had looked forward to the holiday’s typical stuffing and candied yams.
“My restaurant, my rules,” Nik said, as he lined up a few pumpkins along the counter.
I wanted to make a sharp retort about his mother really owning the place, when the front door swung open. Jeffery Vue, wearing a faded black suit and tie, had arrived.
“Friends, how can I help?” he said, sweeping his hands wide, their huge motion mimicking his booming voice. Jeffery had been president of the Asian restaurant owners’ club even back when I’d started helping out after my abbreviated time attending college. I didn’t think he ever wanted to leave the position. He was a social man who loved gatherings.
On my dim sum personality assessment scale, I labeled him as char siu bao, or barbecued pork bun. He had the same kind of rotund appearance as the steamed treat and overflowed with sweet talk. Jeffery had even snared the woman of his dreams with his honeyed mouth. Although he’d taken his “merry time to do so,” according to his internal calendar.
The man was in his forties, about ten years older than me, but I remembered to use a respectful title to greet him. “Hello, Mr. Vue, good to see you,” I said. “Did you bring your date?”
I tried to peer behind his broad body to catch a glimpse of her. I didn’t know anything about the mysterious lady. No one in the association had met her yet.
“She wasn’t free this evening. Family obligations of her own,” he said.
“A shame.”
“Thank you for showing up early, Mr. Vue,” my cousin said. Celine moved toward him in her goldenrod sweater dress with suede boots, which she told me she’d selected to match the autumn season. “You can assist with the garland.” She handed him a clear jar full of prepainted walnuts in various colors.
He accepted the container and blinked at its contents. “What am I supposed to do with these?”
“Put holes in them and string them together,” Celine said. “The drill and twine are in the box on the counter.”
Jeffery had just picked up the tool when the door to Ho’s burst open, as though by a strong gust of wind. Derrick Tran barreled through. “I’m here,” he said.
“Hello, Veep.” Jeffery raised the drill in his hand as greeting.
Derrick flinched at the movement. “I have a first name you can use, Jeffery.”
“But it’s so much quicker to say Veep,” Jeffery replied.
Derrick had been second-in-command in the association almost as long as Jeffery had been number one. I didn’t think the titles in the organization mattered much, though, because I couldn’t see the difference in their duties. All the members of the group seemed to pitch in to get the word out about local Asian restaurants.
“Maybe I won’t be VP anymore in a few months,” Derrick said. “Voting is coming around, and new leaders start in January.” Worry lines creased his pointy forehead, making him appear like the pot sticker personality I’d dubbed him. He’d always seemed an overdone example of the pan-fried version, too crispy and with abundant sharp folds.
“Don’t you worry your remaining hairs about that, Veep,” Jeffery said as he powered up the drill and bored a hole in a scarlet unshelled walnut. “Because I’ll remain in charge.”
Celine stepped between them and said, “I’m sure you can figure out how to work together. In fact, why don’t you both assist with the walnut garland? Mr. Vue, you can continue with the drilling. Once he’s pierced a few, Mr. Tran, you can begin stringing them together.”
“I know my way around a power tool as much as Jeffery,” Derrick said, grabbing for the drill. “And who’s paying for these decorations anyway? I hope they’re not coming out of the AAROA budget.”
Celine’s attempt at mediation didn’t seem to be working, so I abandoned my role crafting the centerpieces. “Why don’t I step inside the kitchen and help Mrs. Ho? Then someone can take over my duties.”
The two men blinked at me but didn’t relinquish their combined hold on the tool. Without waiting for a resolution, I hurried away.
Excerpted from Hot Pot Murder by Jennifer J. Chow Copyright © 2023 by Jennifer J. Chow. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved.