Six
SIX
SANA
Sana has never had her mother’s grace. Nor her mother’s anything, come to think about it, but on this particular morning, what she resents in particular is not having her mother’s grace, because here she is in front of Vera Wang’s World-Famous Teahouse, trying to make a good first impression, a nd of course, what she does instead is bump into a customer leaving the teahouse so hard that she makes him drop his bag.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.” That’s the other thing Sana does that annoys her mother. Don’t start your sentences with an apology. Stop apologizing so much. It’s not sincere, it’s irritating. She knows all of this, and yet she can’t seem to stop herself. She bends over to help the guy pick up his bag and only ends up bumping heads. “I’m sorry!” the apology darts out of her mouth without any thought.
“Don’t worry about it.” They both stand up and Sana gets a glance of him before he ducks out. Warm brown skin, just like hers, but he’s not Indian like her. Maybe Southeast Asian? Very attractive. Not that she’s here for that. It’s just kind of hard to not notice those huge eyes and that jawline.
Sana gives herself a little shake. She needs to focus. But focus on what, exactly? She’s not even sure why she’s here. Killers often come back to the scene of the crime. The thought is a toxic one, floating up and releasing poison all over. Sana winces. I’m not a killer. It’s not my fault he’s dead. He deserved it. Probably. She winces again. God, these are awful thoughts to have, aren’t they?
Thankfully, with a tinkle of bells, the door to Vera Wang’s World-Famous Teahouse swings open once more, jerking Sana from her mental spiral. An old woman peers up at her. The woman’s eyebrows are statement brows, and the statement is: I am fucking fabulous and don’t you forget it . “Yes?” the woman says. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, um, yes! I—is this Vera Wang’s World-Famous Teahouse?” The moment Sana says these words, she wants to kick herself. Because it literally says VERA WANG’S WORLD-FAMOUS TEAHOUSE right there, above her head, in huge, bright red letters. Don’t be repetitive, dear , her mother’s voice echoes in her mind. It’s better to say too little than too much. Her mother should know; her books are notoriously short, leaving her legions of fans starving for more.
The old woman smiles proudly. “Yes, it is. Oh my, very busy day for me. So many new customers!” She ushers Sana in. There’s no one else inside the small, dark teahouse.
Sana stands there, uncertain. So many new customers? As in... her and that one guy she ran into? The thought fills her with sudden sadness as she takes in her surroundings. It’s obvious that Vera Wang’s World-Famous Teahouse is past its best years.
“Sit, sit! I make you some tea. What’s your name?” The old woman, presumably Vera Wang herself, waves at the tables before bustling behind the counter.
Sana goes to the nearest table and perches gingerly on one of the chairs. “Um, it’s Sana. Sana Singh. I’m here because—”
“Let me guess, because of dead man?”
That startles Sana a bit. “Yes. I—I read about it in the obituary, and—”
Vera nods and gestures at the floor. “He’s there.”
“What?” Sana jumps up. When she looks to where Vera is pointing, she realizes with a mixture of horror and relief that there’s an outline of a man’s body drawn on the floor. Okay, so he—as in the dead body itself—isn’t actually there. She wills her heart to stop thumping quite so hard. The outline seems to have been drawn using a Sharpie. “Did you—did the police do this? I would’ve thought that they’d use tape.”
“Ah, the police. Useless, the lot of them.” Vera snorts as she sprinkles some tea leaves into a teapot. “No, of course they didn’t. I do myself. Good job, eh? I stay very close to body. Sometimes the Sharpie touched the body a little.”
Sana gapes at her. “The cops were okay with you doing that?”
“Oh, I do it while waiting for them to arrive. I even make some tea for them, all before they arrive. But are they grateful?”
There’s a beat of silence, then Sana rushes to fill it. “No?”
“Very ungrateful.” Vera pours hot water into the teapot and carries it on a tray to the table. “Sit, we have some tea. This is Qimen Hongcha from Anhui Province in China. Try,” she orders, serving Sana the drink in a teacup so small it looks almost like a doll’s teacup.
Sana does so, and it’s nothing like she’s ever tasted before, but at the same time it’s also somehow familiar. It’s smoky and smells of spring flowers. “So soothing,” she murmurs, taking a longer sip. Before she knows it, the tiny teacup is empty and Vera plucks it from her hand and pours her another.
“Now, what can I do for you, Sana?”
“Oh, right.” It takes a second for Sana to gather her thoughts after the beautiful tea. “Um, I’m... I have a podcast,” she says finally.
Vera’s eyebrows wrinkle together. “Oh dear. I’m sure I have some cream for that.”
“Um, no, it’s a sort of... Internet radio show?”
“Ah.” Vera’s face brightens. “Wonderful, you’re radio host?”
“Sort of, but it’s not like a real radio station or anything. It’s just me talking into a mic.” Her mother’s voice whispers: Never minimize your work, dear. If you don’t take it seriously, no one will. But the last time Sana took herself seriously, it led to her dropping out of school, so maybe her mother doesn’t actually know shit. “About true crime,” she adds quickly.
“Ah, and you want to talk about the man who die here.” Vera nods and takes a sip of her tea. “But why?”
“Why do I want to do an episode on it? Because, I mean, a man died in a tea shop, that’s gotta be suspicious, right?” Is it? Sana has no idea aside from that if it’s Marshall, then it must be suspicious.
Vera shrugs. “The police don’t think so. They say they don’t think there is foul play.”
No foul play. Sana nods, careful to keep her face neutral. “Um, can I ask you what you know about the case?”
“There is no case, I telling you, the police, they say is open-and-shut. He probably overdose on drugs, stumble into my shop, and die.”
“Right.” Had Marshall been using drugs? Sana isn’t sure about this, though at this point, nothing about Marshall should surprise her. “Well, just humor me. I don’t often get the chance to interview the sole witness to something like this. I need content. I mean, uh, not to sound crass. Sorry, that sounded terrible.”
“So you think something suspicious about his death?”
Is it just Sana’s imagination or is there a cunning glint in Vera’s eyes? She’s getting the sense that there’s something very much unsaid behind Vera’s words, but Sana isn’t quite sure what it is. Whatever it is, she needs to tread carefully. “I don’t... know one way or another,” she says, picking every word with care, “but I do think that there might be a story there.”
Vera leans back, her eyebrows arched at an alarming angle. “Mm,” she says, stroking her chin. It seems to Sana that Vera is greatly enjoying this, though she doesn’t quite understand why. “The boy that’s in here before you, he is from the Buzzfeed. He also thinks there is good story here.”
Buzzfeed? Why would Buzzfeed be interested in Marshall’s death? Do they have a true crime section? No, that’s so far off from their brand.
“I wonder why so many people are thinking this is good story,” Vera muses.
“Can you tell me everything you know about the man who died here?” Sana urges. The more Vera goes off track and starts musing out loud, the more on edge Sana becomes, convinced that the old woman knows something. Knows that Sana is hiding something. But she also senses that Vera herself is unwilling to part with some vital information.
“Well, I find him in the morning, on my way out.”
“How long had he been here by the time you found him? What time was it that you found him?”
“Before five a.m. I wake up early every morning. What time you wake up every morning?” Vera’s eyes narrow in anticipation of Sana’s answer.
“Um, early. So he came in here between... what time and five a.m.?”
“Well, I go up to my apartment early, maybe at four p.m. I am awake until eight p.m., maybe nine. He must have come in here sometime after that, otherwise I would have heard.”
Heat courses through Sana’s veins. Eight or nine p.m. That would be only a few short hours since she last saw him. The fear becomes so sickening that she nearly throws up then and there. She forces herself to take another sip of the hot tea. “And was he—what was the body like? Did you see his expression?”
Vera’s face turns somber. “Oh yes. Very unhappy. Very shock, so much horror in it.”
The fear becomes nearly overwhelming. He’d been in shock, horrified. Can she blame him? A huge tidal wave of self-hatred washes over Sana. Marshall had been a fucking asshole, there can be no denying that, but she hadn’t meant to—
“That is why,” Vera says, leaning forward conspiratorially, “I myself believe he is murdered.”
She says this so simply that it takes a while for the words to sink in. And when they do, Sana suddenly finds it hard to breathe. She knows. Vera knows.
Vera’s eyes travel from Sana’s face to Sana’s hands, and her expression morphs into a frown. “Oh my dear, your nails are so bad.”
“What?” Sana glances down and spots her nails, chewed down to the quick. Horrified, she balls her hands into fists, but why bother? It’s too late. Vera’s seen her nails. Is she putting two and two together, even now? Vera strikes Sana as someone who doesn’t miss much.
But then Vera suddenly says, “Who’s that?” and stands up so quickly that the wooden chair she’s been sitting in clatters to the floor, making them both jump in fright.
Heart halfway up her throat, Sana turns around and sees a Caucasian woman, carrying a small child, peering in through the cloudy shop windows. Vera is already striding toward the door, but before she gets there, the woman turns and walks swiftly away.
“Hey!” Vera calls out. “Come back! I see you!”
Sana runs to the doorway and looks at the woman’s hastily retreating back. Even with the toddler in her arms, the woman is surprisingly fast. Already she’s almost at the end of the block. Sana wants to run after her, but that would look suspicious, and she can’t afford to raise anyone’s suspicions. Not after what happened between her and Marshall.
Vera, who has no such compunctions, is already trotting after the woman. This is my chance , Sana thinks, and steps back inside the teahouse. She looks around, first at the gruesome outline of the dead body, then at the numerous drawers and cabinets. She’s not even sure what she’ll find here, not sure what in the world she’s even looking for, just that maybe Marshall might have left something that could vindicate her. She walks to the impressive wall of drawers behind the counter and takes a deep breath before opening one of them. A plume of dust puffs out, making her cough. Inside is some strange-looking root, all gray and shriveled.
“It’s cordyceps.”
Sana jumps and slams the drawer shut. Vera is back, slightly out of breath after chasing the woman. Her eyes are sharp, but her expression is one of open curiosity instead of disapproval, despite catching Sana snooping.
“Sorry!” Sana says. “I was just so curious.”
“Nothing wrong with a little curiosity,” Vera says. Then she adds, with that little glint in her eyes, “Although you know what they say about curiosity and cat.”
After that, Sana can’t leave quite fast enough. She hastily gives Vera her number in case Vera thinks of something, then hurries out of the shop, walking down the block and turning a corner before she bursts into tears.