Aunty Lee's Chilled Revenge (16 page)

“There's no reason why he would attack you,” Aunty Lee said, “even if he attacked your sister—which we don't know he did. Wouldn't he just want you to leave him alone to get on with his new life?” From everything Aunty Lee had heard of the late Allison Love, it seemed much more likely that she would have been the one unable to let go.

Vallerie shook her head. “You don't know what people like Mike are like. He can't stand leaving loose ends. He always has to have everything cleaned up and laid out, and he'll
keep on at it until he can say ‘case closed.' That's the only way to explain why the vet clinic got burned down and that vet got killed as well as poor Allison—either by Mike or those crazy activists. Or both. Just go back and read some of the things they were posting online. People who write stuff like that are capable of anything. They won't stop till they get what they want. If they are behind it, they're doing it for spite and revenge. But if Mike is behind it, then it's because he wants to marry that Josephine. Maybe she got him to do it to show that he's made a break with his past before she would marry him or something. Or maybe it's the other one, that Brian. He's all dressed up posh now, but you should have seen how he looked five years ago. It's all just an act—don't be taken in by him. I've seen him sneaking around. He's sly and can't be trusted.”

The fear in Vallerie was definitely genuine. It was that fear bubbling up into panic that was making her eat savory prawn crackers by the handful now. But even if her fear was real it might not be directed at the right object.

“Brian would have no motive.” Aunty Lee gestured and Nina, who had come in through the kitchen, put a large, warm bowl of milky sweetened bean curd and a dish of mango chunks on the table between them. The smooth, silky curds would soothe the damage done to Vallerie's stomach by all the salty foods, and fragrant, sweet mango was supposed to be good for the temper as well as the complexion.

“Brian loves that bitch Josephine. Just watch how he stares at her when he's around. He's almost drooling. You can see he would do anything for her, even knowing he can't have her.
Some men are like that, but not Mike. Mike is the kind of man who would find a way to destroy a woman if he couldn't have her. Do you know he wouldn't even give Allison her money after the divorce? And it was her money—that was the court decision. But he paid his fancy, expensive lawyers to come up with how she could only draw living expenses from what was supposedly her money but couldn't use any of it without his permission. How was it her money then, tell me that?”

Aunty Lee tried to paint the best scenario. “At least there will be someone to look after your sister's children if they get married. They must be how old now—nine and eleven years old? If Mike gets married again at least it will provide a stable home life for them. And there may be other children.”

“No,” Vallerie said.

The way she looked at her frightened Aunty Lee, even though there was no way Vallerie could know about Josephine's baby. As Vallerie drummed her fingers on the table as if deciding how best to put what she had to say, Aunty Lee tried to figure out what was bothering her. Was it something Vallerie had said?

“Allison would rather have seen her children dead than living under the same roof as Mike's new slut!”

Aunty Lee started picking up empty packets on the table and on the floor around it. She had always found cleaning up the best thing to do when trying to think. That way, even if you didn't find an answer you at least got a clean house.

“What are you doing?”

“Just tidying up. We can reuse one of those bags—”

“Oh, just leave it,” Vallerie said carelessly. “The servant can clear it in the morning. That's what you pay her for, isn't it? I'll see you tomorrow.”

Aunty Lee waited till Vallerie had gone up the stairs before resuming her tidying. Nina came in and repeated, in essence, what Vallerie had said, and the two women finished clearing the space together, knotting the debris into plastic bags that would not tempt ants or cockroaches. Then as Nina sprayed a soapy wash and ran a damp cloth over the surfaces, Aunty Lee commented, “Vallerie seems used to having servants pick up after her.”

“No, madame.”

“No?”

Satisfied with the surface of the low teakwood coffee table, Nina rested her weight back onto her heels before gracefully rising from her squat. Watching her, Aunty Lee missed the knees of her youth and her youthful self who had taken them for granted.

“People like you, madame, you are used to having servants in the house. For you servants are like family members, lower than daughter-in-law but higher than gardener. For people like Madame Vallerie, they one day want to be your good friend, ask you about your family, your boyfriend, cry to you about their problems . . . then the next day treat you like dog shit. Move one chair also cannot. Got to shout for you to put down the mop, wash your hands, change your shoes, come upstairs to move chair a bit closer to the door for her. And then scold you for not coming faster.”

Aunty Lee took this in with interest. But one point rankled slightly. “I also ask you about your family, what.”

“You are different,” Nina said. But she refused to elaborate, changing the subject instead. “I put bowls of water under the legs of the table the mangoes are on so that ants cannot go up. But very ripe already. Must eat soon or will be wasted. I gave one box each to the neighbors and one box to Madame Cherril to bring home. Tomorrow I send one box to the police station.”

Aunty Lee knew the mangoes were ripe. The kitchen and most of the dining room were fragrant with the delicate odor of sweet fruit. The importer had brought them too ripe, which was probably why she had gotten them at so great a discount. Today people who only knew markets and supermarkets wanted firm, smooth green-plucked fruit. But these mangoes had the spongy feel beneath the skin that wrinkled slightly under your touch that told you they were at the peak of ripe perfection. It was the pause before rot set in. It was the same with people, Aunty Lee suspected.

Aunty Lee remembered how she had taken an excess of tree-ripened mangoes for granted. In the old days every house had two or three mango trees in the garden. Left to ripen on the tree, you heard them falling in the night, and in the morning children and servant girls ran out to collect them in competition with the monkeys and the squirrels and the chickens already feasting. (Of course that was only at the beginning of the season. As the season wore on the animals got a larger and larger share of the fruit.) It was just one of
the things she had thought was part of life and would last forever.

She knew Nina had brought mangoes in as a distraction—and it had worked. But Aunty Lee already knew—more or less—about Nina's family. And she had all kinds of plans and possibilities for Nina's future, which her helper would likely have pooh-poohed. But now what she was interested in was Vallerie Love's family. As far as Aunty Lee knew, Vallerie had no children of her own. Had she been talking to her dead sister's children? That was entirely possible of course, and Aunty Lee would not have thought anything of it if it had been done openly. But why would she deny it? That was something Aunty Lee meant to look into. That and recipes for mangoes.

Hotel

Of course Aunty Lee accompanied Vallerie to the hotel to collect her things. She had assumed they would bring Nina with them (Nina was a champion at packing big things into small spaces), but Vallerie said she didn't trust a servant touching her things. Aunty Lee almost asked Vallerie how she dared to put into her mouth food prepared by hands she didn't trust to put clothes into her bag, but reminded herself that Vallerie was a) shocked, b) bereaved, and c) a foreigner, and asked Nina to call them a taxi.

The Victoria Crest turned out to be a small business hotel that advertised hourly rates and backpacker rates.

Aunty Lee's morning phone call to the hotel had been taken by a girl whose accent suggested a recent arrival from mainland China. All Aunty Lee's queries had been met with
“Yes, you talk Chinese?” Aunty Lee had been forced to ask Nina for help, given Nina had picked up more Mandarin during her stay in Singapore than Aunty Lee had in all her life here. Nina got directions from the girl, who added, unprompted, that she had been promised a job in a five-star hotel in Singapore where rich single businessmen stayed on business trips, but once on the island found herself behind the counter in a budget hotel (that is, one or two stars) and was open to any job offers in any line. Innovation and enterprise were alive and well, Aunty Lee thought, but not all innovation was good for its parent enterprise.

Aunty Lee was prepared for a struggle to communicate. But at the hotel reception they were greeted by a young local (and English-speaking) woman.

“Hello, how may I help you?”

Vallerie said, “Give me my key,” without preamble, but Aunty Lee stepped in with her usual friendly, curious smile.

“Are you the receptionist? I think I spoke to someone else on the phone. What's your name?”

“My name is Melvinia, but everybody calls me Mel. Right now I'm the front desk receptionist and the room service order taker—even though officially we don't have room service. Sometimes we help out in emergencies. After all, the 7-Eleven is just next door. And I answer the phone. Oh, and I calm guests down when they get too worked up.” She spoke good English, with a comfortable Singlish accent. “Most of our staff quit when the police started coming in to question people, so I'm filling in until we get new people. How can I help you today?”

Aunty Lee plunged right in. “This is Vallerie Love. She and her sister were staying here when her sister was killed?”

“Yes, shocking, right?” Mel said with an exaggerated shudder that suggested more relish than disgust. She also looked at Vallerie with undisguised interest. “I remember seeing you around. So shocking, right?”

Murder had a way of breaking down social divides as well as the divide between life and death, Aunty Lee thought. Like hunger, death was no respecter of social class.

“Are you going to quit too?” Aunty Lee asked Mel.

“Of course not. Who would want to kill me? Anyway, I can't. It's a family business, so no escape, right? In fact I've been doing extra shifts since it happened. Half of the PRC staff quit right away. They said they were scared, but actually I think they are more scared that the police might come and check their papers. Then the last one quit less than an hour ago. She said the secret police called and cross-examined her on the phone. Even got a Mandarin translator to ask her questions! I told her it was probably just reporters trying to get a story, but you know what young girls are like—they want to believe the most frightening story.”

“Did a lot of reporters come in to ask questions?” Aunty Lee asked innocently.

“Not really.” The girl sounded disappointed. “The reporters just asked for a comment from the boss. And some other guests asked why there were police all around but nothing much. And now it's like everybody has already forgotten.” She was still young enough to be intrigued by a murder, something Aunty Lee had never grown out of.

“Everybody's already forgotten Allison. They've all gone back to their stupid, boring lives and completely forgotten her!” Vallerie burst in.

Aunty Lee guessed Vallerie Love had a lot more to say, but this was not the time and she interrupted smoothly: “Her sister would like to get her things from their room.”

“You look very familiar.” The girl stared at Aunty Lee. “Are you the one they call the Sambal Queen? The Shiok Sambal lady?”

“Yes, that's me.” Aunty Lee was pleased.

“And you solved some murders last time, right? I read about it in the Life! Section when they printed that review of your shop. Are you going to solve this murder?” The girl lowered her voice, her eyes darting around. “Are you recording this?”

“No.” The girl looked disappointed and Aunty Lee hastened to add, “But I would like to find out what happened. Do you think you can help me?”

“Of course! That's what I'm here to do! And I'm sure the management would want me to help also. Last night I heard Jacky saying we had to extend the stay for Miss Vallerie Love, he is not sure for how long. But we can't move out her things because the police said she wants to pack them herself. And the room they had was on the dead woman's credit card, so he said he is not even sure we are going to be paid for it. Every time Jacky tries to phone and talk to her about it she gets upset and cries and says that the police want her to stay in the country and she cannot leave her sister's body and she has nowhere else to go . . . we can't just throw her things out,
that would be so terrible. But she is not even staying here.” She suddenly remembered that the woman she was talking about was standing in front of her.

“But you're here to get your things now, right? That's good. What would you like to do about the room charges?”

Vallerie let out a low warble that Aunty Lee had learned to recognize as the beginning of one of her wails.

“Who is Jacky?” Aunty Lee asked quickly.

“He's my cousin. He's also the hotel's assistant manager.”

“He's a bloody poofter,” said Vallerie.

Jacky, the assistant manager of the Victoria Crest Hotel, was not only beautiful, he was wearing lipstick.

“I've been trying so hard to get hold of you!” he said to Vallerie, who winced and turned away from him. “And of course you are our famous Aunty Lee. I'm a great fan of yours, Aunty Lee! Welcome to the Victoria Crest Hotel! I am Jacky Kong. Welcome to Victoria Crest. Isn't murder so terrible? I had surveillance cameras set up all over the hotel—computer surveillance is a little hobby of mine and my grandfather let's me practice here. I was hoping I got some footage of the murderer but the police said there was nothing useful.”

“I wonder if we can get Vallerie's things from their room? I know it's a crime scene but . . .” Aunty Lee trailed off. “It's all cleaned up, isn't it? No blood or evidence left?” She hoped she was sounding like a squeamish old lady rather than a hopeful, inquisitive one.

“All my stuff better still be there!” Vallerie said.

“Actually we moved most of the things—the foodstuffs we mostly threw away—to the baggage storage area.”

Vallerie took a deep breath, ready to protest.

“Did you clear that with the police?” Aunty Lee asked, more for Vallerie.

“Of course! The police said no problem. They were keeping everybody out until they went in there in their cover-up suits and took samples and photos and everything. We couldn't even use the corridor and the room beyond it because they wanted to test the walls and floor and everything, but I don't think they found anything because they haven't arrested anybody yet. But yes, after they finished they told us we could go ahead and clear the room.”

“I can't believe you went into my room and looked through my stuff without even asking permission! I'm going to sue the shit out of all of you!”

“Why don't you see what they put in the storage?” Aunty Lee suggested quickly.

“Please take her to the baggage storage room, Mel,” Jacky said. “Quick quick. Let's not keep customers waiting, sister. I'll keep an eye on the desk for you.”

He settled himself behind the counter as a glum Melvinia led the grim-faced Vallerie away, Aunty Lee following. She was so caught up with taking everything in that she almost forgot she was still walking with a stick.

There were several suitcases along with a number of open bags. Aunty Lee looked into one and pulled out a pink plastic square divided into four square indentations and realized
what it was: the thin plastic base liner of the sort used to stabilize moon cakes inside the more posh, expensive boxes on sale. But there was no moon cake box. “You like moon cakes?”

“Don't know what they are,” Vallerie said. “Never saw that before.”

“Maybe your sister bought them.”

“No way in hell.”

Aunty Lee asked Melvinia, “Maybe they were a welcome gift?”

“Where we can afford to give welcome gifts? I think they were delivered to the hotel for one of them—Allison Love. One of the girls would have brought it up; we don't allow delivery people in the rooms.”

Vallerie was already shuffling inside the bags. She clearly wanted to make sure her “stuff” was intact. “Take your time,” Aunty Lee urged as she slipped away.

Aunty Lee leaned conspiratorially across the reception counter. “I have never seen a place where somebody was actually killed. It's like reality TV in real life, right? Maybe you should come with me. Just in case I do spot anything. I'm very fussy about how people clean places. You could think of me as a quality control inspector. Her sister was murdered here in your hotel. If you don't check the room properly and miss something, your next guest in the room will phone the police and ask them to come again!”

Either this convinced Jacky to give in to his own curiosity or he was really concerned about what future guests might
find (though Aunty Lee did not find this quite as likely). He pulled out a card stand that said
RING FOR ASSISTANCE
and put it on the front of the counter.

“There's nobody else here except me and Mel. But they can keep ringing until Mel comes back. At least that will give them something to do!” he said and pulled out a bunch of tagged keys from a drawer.

“You might be able to spot something our cleaners missed. Sometimes having an outside eye helps. At least it always seems to on TV, right?” Jacky led her to the elevator. “It's not as though we are so full up that we need the room. Half the rooms are empty right now. It's only during F1 or the Great Singapore Sale that hotels in this area are booked full.”

“There might be a sudden flooding or other disaster in the area,” Aunty Lee said encouragingly. “Then you would need all your rooms quickly and without warning. It's best to be prepared.”

“That's true,” Jacky said with resolute confidence. “There's so much construction going on here it's definitely possible underground pipes might get cracked or something.” He slid a key case out of his man bag and searched through tagged keys. “I haven't been inside the room myself. I don't know if there's anything—you know.”

The room where Allison Love had died was clean and drab and without any trace of blood or sinister atmosphere. It looked small for two people but was carefully, if blandly, styled with cream walls, beige curtains, and brown carpeting. Aunty Lee found the chemical odor of industrial-strength cleaner depressing.

Allison had clearly died in the bed closer to the door. The bedding and mattress had been removed, but there were dark stains seeped into the wooden slats of the bed frame and carpet beneath. It did not look like blood. Probably her bladder and bowel sphincters had relaxed in death. Aunty Lee sniffed and decided to leave analysis to the forensic technologists. Bodily fluids were fine, good, and necessary as long as they were inside the body, but once they emerged they were considered disgusting and repulsive. Aunty Lee shared this aversion, though it did not make sense to her. Perhaps it was survival instinct. Your insides were only on display outside of you if something terrible had happened. And that was probably why some people felt uncomfortable showing their feelings. For them feelings were also private things meant to be kept hidden, and for them to be displayed meant their lives had been torn apart.

“They must have decided to bring in a new mattress after all,” said Jacky. He was clearly both relieved and disappointed. “We had a discussion about it. The old mattress was less than a year old and was still under a cleaning contract, but her bowels . . .”

Aunty Lee stood at the entrance and looked around the room. It was much easier to get a sense of someone from a home they had designed than from a hotel room they had only just checked into before getting murdered, but she was sure she could pick up something. This was a small, functional room with two single beds against one wall and a television on a cabinet containing a small fridge against the wall facing them. There was a built-in cupboard housing a
safe at the entrance where Aunty Lee stood, and the window in front of her looked into the windows of the neighboring office block. Even without any other furniture there was barely room enough to walk around the beds. The door to the shower and toilet was at right angles to the room door. There was no sign of anything that might have belonged to the Love sisters.

“There's nowhere to sit and read,” Aunty Lee said.

“Oh, people who come here don't do much reading,” Jacky said. “Mostly day-rate people just come and dump their stuff here and then go to the casino or go shopping or whatever. Then they come back to dump their shopping and shower and go out to party. The hour-rate people only use the beds, if you get my meaning. The only reading they do is the 4D, TOTO, and racing results.”

“Jacky, were you here the day Miss Love was killed? It must have been so awful for you.”

“Oh yes, so shocking!” he said with relish. “It's the first time anything like that ever happened to me. There I was, sitting in the downstairs office, when right on top of me somebody was being killed. I can't believe it, I tell you!”