Reilly 04 - Breach of Promise (42 page)

“I’m not sleeping!” To her surprise, although her feet remained on the ground, her cheek had found its way to the cool, hard surface of the bench.

“If you say so, Ladyship.” Paul helped her to her feet. She straightened her jacket and turned her skirt back to face front.

“I must have dozed off. And don’t call me that.”

“Yes, you did and I’ll consider it,” said Paul. “Now how about lunch? It’s through the looking glass you know, napping before the meal.”

“I didn’t sleep much this weekend,” said Nina. “Now why do you suppose?”

“Better things to do,” said Paul, maneuvering himself into the driver’s seat. “You’ve finally got your head screwed on straight.”

Nina laughed at that.

“Hmmm. Exactly how hungry are you?”

“I have time for a quickie,” said Nina.

“I rise to a challenge,” said Paul, starting the engine to his van, whose roaring start soon settled into a purr.

“Food, I mean.”

“Oh, well.” He drove down the hill toward town.

“Where are we going?” asked Nina. “It’s so beautiful. Let’s eat outside.”

“I’m thinking Chinese,” said Paul.

“Anywhere with an outdoor patio?”

“I don’t think so. That’s not the Chinese way.”

“How do you know?”

“They hardly ever have windows. Some feng shui rule, I bet.”

Nina took her brush out and ran it through her tumbled hair. “You like Chinese food?” she said, wincing as she snagged a rat.

“Let’s just say, this food has an unusual provenance.”

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Another secret unveiled. Damn,” said Paul, pulling up in front of a storefront with a large parking lot in front of it. “Next thing, you’ll be finding out how many women I’ve loved and lost.”

“How many?”

“None,” he said, pausing and then adding, “so beautiful as you.”

“See Paul dodge,” said Nina, giving him a kiss. “But it’s okay. Your two ex-wives are persecution enough for me in the dark of night.”

The restaurant’s low, flat building had a fire-engine-red-lacquered sign, flanked by black tiles arching over pink walls trimmed with gold paint, the whole of which somehow created the impression of a grand Oriental pavilion.

“What’s this place?” asked Nina, climbing out of the van. “Looks like more than a restaurant.”

“It is. They rent rooms, too. Welcome to the Inn of Five Happinesses,” said Paul. He hurried ahead to pull the brass knob. The door opened, and the pleasant aromas of fresh food and spices wrapped around them.

Once seated, Nina ignored the menu. “I always have the same thing,” she said. “Cashew chicken.”

“Have something else if you want," said Paul. “No one’s forcing you.”

“No. I’m just telling you. I want cashew chicken.”

“Not in an experimental mood. Got you," said Paul, looking up with interest as a smooth-faced Asian man appeared silently beside him, notepad ready. “Okay. One cashew chicken. One vegetable chow mein. A dozen egg rolls. Steamed rice. Tea for two.”

The waiter dipped his head slightly and turned away.

“You must be awfully hungry," said Nina. “You plan to eat a dozen?”

“There’s always a doggy bag," said Paul.

“Hitchcock won’t eat that stuff.”

“For your bottomless pit of a son.”

“Remember? Bob’s out of town this week—” Nina began.

But Paul excused himself to wash his hands. She amused herself by watching the other patrons, some of whom were picking leisurely through an array of dishes, while others, obviously office workers on a limited break, shoveled it in.

Paul wandered toward the kitchen, pushing a pair of swinging doors aside like John Wayne, feeling like an unusually large intruder invading a foreign landscape.

Painted white, with a black and white tile floor, the kitchen was on the small side, and the several people inside, wearing white aprons over jeans, whacked and clanged and moved from one end to the other with the grace of a single organism. One whole wall was absorbed by a massive silver cook top. Hanging from the ceiling, copper and stainless steel pots shone as though polished by the warm moisture suspended in the air.

“No, no!” A boy who looked about twenty waved a flat wooden spatula at Paul. “You go!”

Over a wooden chopping block, a teenaged girl ignored him, slicing away at cabbage and spring onions, her knife glinting and sharp, hair that could only be described as scarlet in color standing up in a multitude of lengths like unmowed grass. A diminutive older woman wearing a hair net opened a pan to reveal an entire fish, head and all, sweating in clouds of steam. To her left, another boy ran a Hobart dishwasher, sliding huge trays of dirty dishes in one end and out the other.

“Smells good,” Paul said.

“Kitchen,” said the kid, stepping up to Paul. About a foot shorter than Paul, but tightly muscled, he stood his ground. “You leave now.”

Paul saw himself in a Jackie Chan movie, about to be chopped and flipped and tossed out the swinging door. “See, I’m taking a class in Chinese cooking,” said Paul as politely as he could. “And for our final we’re supposed to make egg rolls. Only problem is, I’m afraid I cut most of the classes. I really have no idea what I’m doing. So I thought, well, here I am eating egg rolls for lunch. No excuse for not watching how it’s done.”

“No!” said the boy, but the older lady who slid the fish expertly onto a platter spoke to him in Chinese, and he stepped back, glowering. Turning his back on Paul, he hoisted the tray on one arm and glided back into the restaurant.

“We’re a family business. He’s my disrespectful son,” she said apologetically, rinsing a massive steel strainer full of shrimp with the vigor of a triathlete. “He is very rude.”

“Not at all,” said Paul. “I know it’s not usual to let people in the kitchen. But I’d really appreciate it . . . .”

“Sure,” the girl piped in, giving Paul a smile her mother could not see. “It gets boring in here with nobody to talk to except my brothers and my mother. Come watch the expert. I bet I’ve made ten thousand egg rolls this year alone.”

The girl’s mother, who had never halted her movements for a second, tossed the shrimp, some steamed rice, and vegetables in a wok. From bottles next to the stove, she dashed a bit of this and a bit of that, watching poker-faced as Paul stepped up to stand beside the girl.

“I’m Colleen,” said the girl, giving her red lawn a toss.

“I’m Paul.”

“Don’t shake my hand unless your girlfriend is crazy about onions.” With her knife, she pushed a heap of fixings into a bowl and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. “Nothing gets rid of this smell.”

Nina had been dreaming about her fee again. She had moved on to a fantasy of buying a lakeside home with a dock and a fine boat on which she and Bob could learn to water-ski and sail. She would replace Matt’s lousy boat with a new one, top of the line for him and Andrea and the cousins. Then she would buy the Starlake office building, renovate, and take over the top two floors, hiring associates and promoting Sandy to supervise people besides Nina. Paul would not bug her about marriage. Their wild fling would go on for years and years until Nina decided unexpectedly to settle down or have another child, at which time he would settle into complete fidelity and become a marvelous father.

Content to play in her imaginary landscape for a while, some time passed before she realized Paul had not returned. Puzzled, she checked the restaurant’s restroom, finding it empty. As she walked back to the table she spotted him hunched over a plate of steaming noodles. The table was suddenly covered with dishes.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Fine, fine,” he chortled. “C’mon. Dig in. They really know how to cook here. Good food.”

She picked up her chopsticks and pointed them at him. “Where were you?”

“In the kitchen, learning how to assemble egg rolls,” said Paul. “It’s a family business. Mom supervises the kitchen. The two oldest sons, Tan-Kwo and Tan-Mo, clean up and serve. They use only the freshest cabbage in their rolls,” he said, biting down on one. “Mmm.”

“But you hardly ever cook. You grill. And then, only steak.”

“That’s true.”

“So?”

“So guess what? Dad had a heart attack two years ago. They’ve cleaned up their act. No more greasy bad stuff. Only fresh. And only pure.”

Nina tried to keep her patience. “What are you talking about?”

“Pure canola.”

She threw her napkin on the table, continuing to hold her sticks aloft. “Are you going to tell me what you’re talking about?” she said. “Don’t force me to torture you.”

“This restaurant catered Clifford Wright’s last meal,” said Paul. “Doc Clauson said he must have eaten peanuts in some form. They said they didn’t use ’em. He thought they were lying.”

“And?”

“They don’t use peanut oil anymore. They don’t serve anything with peanuts. They only use cashews.”

Nina heard the bewilderment in her own voice. “But aren’t cashews nuts?”

“He wasn’t allergic to nuts. He was allergic to legumes, and that includes peanuts.”

“How do you know that?”

“Various sources.”

“So . . . so he accidentally ate peanuts from somewhere else. What difference does it make?”

“Nina, if he didn’t have an allergic reaction to the lunch, what killed him?”

She pushed her plate away. “Paul, no. No, no, no.” She put a hand to her forehead and shook her head.

“Tan-Kwo in the kitchen says Clifford called the restaurant to check about the use of peanut oil in cooking before he touched his lunch. Wright told them then how serious the allergy could be, but they already knew about it.

“In spite of sounding like he’s just off the boat, that’s just an act. For most of the year, Tan-Kwo is premed at UC Berkeley.”

“Paul . . . you’re . . . you’re . . .”

“I spoke to Clifford Wright’s family this morning. They’re very distraught. They’d like to know more about what happened.”

Nina sat very still, her thoughts beating around in her mind like Ping-Pong balls. “If someone tampered with the jury, the judge will throw out the verdict. We’d have a mistrial. You’re suggesting someone spiked his food with peanuts.”

“Just considering the possibility.”

“You really think there’s something to find out?”

“It just doesn’t feel right to me.”

“Why can’t you just let this alone? Paul, if this verdict is set aside I am in so deep I might never be able to dig my way out. I bet everything on winning. I’m in hock up to my eyeballs.”

It was a plea. Paul’s brow furrowed.

“So, what are you going to do?”

He took her hand. “You tell me.”

They had an uncomfortable ride back to Nina’s car at the courthouse, during which she pled exhaustion and turned the radio up and closed her eyes to drown him out both visually and aurally. She gathered her things to get out of the car and stepped out. She held the door open and leaned in.

“Okay, Paul, do it. Damn you. I won’t sleep until you tell me you’re wrong.”

“That’s my Nina,” Paul said.

She slammed the door in his face.

Paul headed straight for the South Lake Tahoe police department to root out an old acquaintance, Sergeant Cheney.

Cheney welcomed him with a smile, motioning him to sit. He had a phone glued to his head, and a pen scribbling in one hand. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Yep.” This continued for several minutes, while Paul examined the photographs on Cheney’s desk, especially the one of his wife, a lovely toasty-brown-colored woman with hair lighter than her skin, looking much younger than the overweight Cheney.

Finally, Cheney hung up. The phone rang. He ignored it.

“Haven’t seen you around in a while,” he said. “If you don’t count the fact that you’ve been involved in two out of the five deaths I’ve investigated in the past coupla years.”

“I can see you’re busy,” said Paul. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me. I’ll keep it short.”

“Let me help you along,” said Cheney. He looked down at his papers. “Clifford Wright, white male, thirty-two. Died from a severe allergic reaction called anaphylactic shock, presumably from ingesting some form of peanuts. Have I got it so far?”

“Well, yes,” said Paul, utterly taken aback. “How did you know I was here about Wright?”

“I’m a detective, remember,” said Cheney, “and then there was that phone call just now from Doc Clauson. He says you came nosing around the medical examiner’s office this a.m. You got the Doc’s curiosity bump itching. He’s asked me, unofficially, to look into a couple of things.”

“Such as?”

“They use peanut oil at the Five Happinesses or not?” asked Cheney. “I’ll probably mosey over there this evening. I feel a hankering for kung pao prawns. They have that over there? You know?”

“I didn’t notice.”

Cheney clapped his hands together. “Figured you’d already been. Bet you noticed a bunch of things about peanuts.”

“Like, they don’t use them
or
peanut oil.”

“Seeing you here, figured they might not.”

“I guess you’ve already answered my question.” Paul got up to leave.

“Which was?”

“How final is the medical examiner’s ruling on Wright’s death? Legally, I mean. The family is hiring me to find out.”

“Now, how’d you hook up with them?”

“Called with my condolences and happened to mention that insurance companies don’t pay as well for a natural death. They’ll inherit more if somebody else hurried him along. Turns out Wright had a hefty life insurance policy. If I come up with some proof that Wright’s death was less than kosher, how hard will it be to get Clauson to change his ruling on the cause of death?”

“Oh, his report’s final. Unless he changes his mind.”

“He can change it.”

“Yep. Quick as popping one of those sticks of gum he’s always got lying around these days. But the real answer is, our files on that case remain open. And now you’ve opened up a brand-new direction for our ongoing inquiries. Keep in touch, why don’t you?”

“Be glad to,” said Paul.

Back in his car, he punched numbers into his phone. “Sandy,” he said. “Any idea how I could reach Wish?”