Chapter 2
Two
“A table set for twelve, plus the host, you.” Detective Frost locks his gaze on me across my dining room table. “Thirteen suspects.”
“Twelve suspects,” I correct.
“Thirteen.” Elliot stands firm, eyeing me up and down like I’m a derelict he picked up off the streets. “The jury is still out on you.”
As he brushes past me, I stick my tongue out at his back. This guy is the most suspicious person to ever walk the earth. Maybe that’s a good thing, considering the circumstances.
My house is a war zone. Leftover plates and empty wine glasses litter the dining table.
My kitchen sink overflows with dirty plates and the carcass of last night’s turkey sits in a coagulated pool of its own basting juices.
Under normal circumstances, I would never have guests over with my house in this state of chaos, but I was a little distracted last night.
Mortified by the mess, I grab a tipped over wineglass. “Let me just clear this up.”
“No!” Elliot moves to block me. “Drop that wineglass. Don’t touch anything. This is a crime scene.”
“Um…” I slowly set down the wineglass. “Can’t I just tidy up a bit?”
“No.” He slips out his phone and starts snapping photos.
“Ohhhh.” I nod in understanding. Okay. Crime scene photos. Just like in CSI. Now we’re talking. We’re finally rolling up our sleeves and getting down to business.
I hover behind Elliot as he snaps photo after photo of the abandoned dinner table.
“Did you get that,” I say, gesturing to Aunt Cherry’s lipstick-stained wineglass.
“Don’t forget this hair. Did you see this hair?
I think it belonged to Ivy, my cousin’s wife.
Wait, you’re not— You’re not photographing it right…
” I follow him around the room. “I can take the photos while you investigate.”
Lowering his phone, Elliot nods to the head of the table. “Stand over there!”
“Go to my seat?”
“Yes,” he says, watching me move to the spot. “Far over there.”
Something tells me he didn’t actually need me that far away.
“Now…” He slaps his hands together. “Set the scene. I’m sure you have a Thanksgiving table setting mapped out months in advance.”
I arch an eyebrow, impressed. “How did you know?”
“You just seem like the type,” he mutters and quickly points to my right. “Who sat there?”
“My mom.”
“And next to her? The one with the green beans mashed into the tablecloth.” Elliot snaps a picture of the mess and glances expectantly at me.
“My sister Jen,” I grumble.
“Younger sister, I presume?”
My eyes dart to the side. “Yeah…”
“Let me guess. There’s an age gap. You’re … how old are you?”
“Thirty-three.”
“And Jen is…” He studies the smashed food. “Three?”
I sigh. “She’s twenty-four.” I hold up my hand at his surprise. “She didn’t have an accident. She’s just…” I shrug, trying to find the exact words to describe Jen.
How do I put this nicely? A whiny little brat when she doesn’t get her way?
“We had a tiny argument last night,” I say instead. “And she just smashed her beans into my tablecloth.”
Elliot frowns. “What was the argument about?”
I throw my hands up in the air. “I just noticed that she was eating her green beans with her hands and I merely suggested that she use a fork. Or a chopstick. Our family usually does an East-West potluck: turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing,” I explain.
“My parents used to run the banquet hall off Haymarket Square…”
He nods. “I know it. The Twin Dragons Seafood Palace.”
“After my father died, my mom sold it to my Aunt Cherry and Uncle Tony. Long story short, in addition to turkey and stuffing, we had the equivalent of a Chinese wedding banquet for Thanksgiving: roast suckling pig, garlic fried shrimp, braised bok choy, and your choice of utensils. But when I gently suggested to Jen to stop eating with her hands…”
“She picked up her fork and started smashing her green beans on my tablecloth.” I glance down at Jen’s handiwork in exasperation.
Nodding, Elliot slips a small reporter’s notebook out of his back pocket and jots something down. “Mmm hmm.”
As I fume over our argument last night, the obvious dawns on me. “You don’t think Jen pooped on my floor, do you?”
Elliot flips his notebook shut. “It’s not looking good for Jen.”
“But Jen is family! Even if she’s a brat at times, she couldn’t possibly do…” I caution a glance toward the Christmas tree and shudder. “She would never…”
“Your sister has shown a propensity toward spite,” Elliot says. “To defecate on someone’s floor is an act of spite. After you, she’s the second suspect.”
“After me?” I know Elliot has to be thorough as a detective, but this cloud of unfounded suspicion toward the victim is starting to get on my nerves. “Meaning I’m the prime suspect?”
“Then you’re saying Jen is the first suspect? You said, and I quote ‘She’s family. She would never…’”
“I don’t think she did it, but I definitely didn’t do it! If it was between the two of us, she’s more likely than me.”
Elliot shakes his head and makes a note of my comment. “Throwing your own sister under the bus.”
“Let me remind you,” I grit my teeth, “I’m the victim here. I’m the one who has been wronged. This is my house. My carpet. My Thanksgiving ruined. My cleaning fee. My psychological damage.” I march up to him and poke him in the chest. “You’re my employee. You’re supposed to be on my side!”
“I’m a free agent, Miss,” he says, “the only side I’m on is the side of justice.
You asked for my help in solving this heinous crime and I’m going to solve this crime, which means leaving no stone unturned, no suspect written off.
I’ve worked many cases that may appear clear cut at first, but when you chip away at it, you unravel many layers of deceit and subterfuge.
” He takes a step back and jams his hands into the pockets of his wool trench coat.
“I had a case once, brought to me by a pretty broad just like you—”
“Broad?” I scoff. “Are you for real?”
“Excuse me. A lovely lady just like you… Took out a life insurance policy on her late husband.” He shudders at the memory.
“Let me guess,” I say. “It involved a double indemnity clause about said husband dying on a train? And together with her lover, she manages to kill her husband on said train?”
Elliot scoffs, returning his attention to me. “That’s very silly. There are no double indemnity clauses involving trains in my experience.” He frowns and studies my face. “Interesting that your mind would dart straight to murder…”
“Oh, for the love of–” I take a deep breath and shut my eyes. “Do you honestly think I’m the kind of person who can just…” I march over to my Christmas tree and point at the stains on my carpet, “squat down in the middle of a party and defecate on my living room floor?”
“Miss,” Elliot mutters, “as far as I’m concerned, everyone is capable of defecating at a party. It’s just a matter of motive.”
Urgh.
I can tell this is going to be the beginning of an infuriating partnership, one that will result in hair loss. Two days in and I already want to rip out all my hair and bludgeon Detective Frost in the study with a candlestick.
Propping my hands on my hips, I tilt my chin up to meet his suspicious gaze. “What’s my motive, then?”
He narrows his eyes. “I can’t tell a suspect.”
“What about a paying client?”
“In that case, I can tell you,” he says matter-of-factly. “I believe you to be a raging narcissist who isn’t beyond crying wolf in exchange for attention, sympathy, and votes. Do you want me to go on?”
I’m stunned into silence. I just stand there with my mouth open making incomprehensible squeaks. “What is this? A criminal profile?”
He nods. “Just a casual one.”
“You think I’m a liar?”
“I never said that.”
“But you implied it,” I say.
He tips his head to the side. “Yes,” he says after a long pause.
“I suppose I did. If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe you’re a malicious liar.
You’re a people pleaser. You want everyone to like you and will do anything to make that happen, including telling little white lies to make yourself look better. ”
Wow. That’s it. I don’t have anything to add to his assessment of my character. Just wow.
I fold my arms across my chest. “I really don’t like you.”
Elliot considers my declaration. At last, he shrugs. “This is one instance where I’m absolutely certain you’re telling the truth.”
* * *
“Walk me through the scene, Ms. Lo.” Elliot moves to the head of the table. “It’s Thanksgiving Day…”
“I’m hosting,” I say.
“As per usual?”
“No,” I shake my head. “This is my third year hosting Thanksgiving. It’s a tradition to spend it with my parents, but after Dad passed, it just wasn’t the same. Last year, I closed on this house.”
I gesture vaguely to the pocket doors separating the dining room from the living room.
“This was my dream home. Jen and I used to walk by this house on our way home from school and imagine what it would be like inside this big Victorian birthday cake. See?” I nod to the Christmas tree, cozy in its nook.
“The bay windows used to glow during the holidays and it always smelled like cinnamon sugar and happiness.”
“‘Cinnamon spun happiness’ my dad used to say.” I glance down, realizing too late that I’ve been chewing on my thumbnail. I thought I'd rid myself of that habit years ago. Sheepishly, I jammed my hand in my pocket.
When I looked up again, Elliot was watching me carefully, a groove between his brow as if he was trying to piece together a difficult puzzle. He clears his throat and tips his head up to admire the coffered ceiling.
The big Victorian on the corner hasn’t changed since I made my fifth-grade vow to make it my home. It still looks like a frosty pink three-tiered birthday cake.
“Looks like you had your cake and ate it too,” he says softly.
I narrow my eyes, ready to pounce on any hint of sarcasm. The detective was sincere.