Aunty Lee’s Deadly Specials Page 4

  “Yes, it is traditional nasi lemak, coconut rice,” Aunty Lee said to a couple of curious guests. “My own traditional version of traditional nasi lemak. The rice is cooked with coconut cream and flavored with pandan”—screw pine—“leaves grown in my own garden. That’s why the smell is so fragrant. There’s also nasi kunyit—yellow rice—to go with the chicken buah keluak, and white rice because some people prefer white rice. This is my own anchovy sambal paste, if you want you can buy from my shop. One bottle, keep in the fridge, can last you four weeks, but you’re sure to finish before then. I make it using tamarind juice, dried chilies, anchovies, garlic, and onions, very shiok. These are hard-boiled quails’ eggs, easier to eat than chicken eggs. And more sambals—today I brought my cockle sambal and cuttlefish sambal also. These I’m not selling in bottles, if you want, you must come to the shop. You can try them with the roasted peanuts or put on the fried chicken.”

  There was also stir-fried kangkong (water spinach), achar (pickles), and generous portions of Aunty Lee’s favorite garnishes: sun-dried anchovies fried to a rich savory crunchiness and crunchy peanuts roasted in golden-brown rice-paper-crisp skins.

  Aunty Lee stepped back to let the guests pick their own food. That was another thing she liked about buffets—you could learn so much about people by watching how they picked food items off the buffet table. At the last family outing to the Ritz-Carlton buffet, Mark’s wife, Selina, had persisted in taking large portions for everyone at the table despite their saying that they wanted to help themselves. She had eaten hardly anything herself, piling her food onto Mark’s plate and saying, “Eat it, don’t waste,” more like a mother than a wife.

  Selina needed to have children quickly, Aunty Lee thought, then she could focus her energy and attention on looking after them. And Mark? Mark helped himself to what he liked best. Three oysters, perhaps, with a wedge of lemon and capers. Aunty Lee wondered whether Selina had been trying to get Mark to serve her. She would bring it up with Mark another time, along with the suggestion that it was time to start a family. Nina would call this interfering, but if Aunty Lee did not talk to Mark, who would? Wasn’t this her responsibility as a mother substitute? (Aunty Lee conveniently forgot both ML’s children had been grown up when she married their father. They had been welcoming but hardly in need of mothering.)

  But Selina already thought Aunty Lee was a kaypoh busybody, so it would hardly make any difference. Aunty Lee was glad Mark was married, even if his wife made it clear she didn’t trust her. Married men were always easier to handle. And as for Selina? With life as with food, a little sourness often brought out the best in the rest of the meal.

  Mark would never have helped to cater a celebration buffet like today’s, especially if they were being paid to do so. More familiar with inheriting than earning money, Mark Lee had been trying on and discarding careers since dropping out of two different Ph.D. programs because he lost interest in them partway through. Though supportive of his last venture, Aunty Lee had suspected from the start it would only be a matter of time before Mark tired of the wine business. The best thing that had come out of it was Cherril. Cherril had been one of the regulars at Mark’s wine-tasting sessions and her husband’s sister had been one of the women whose murders Aunty Lee had solved. Cherril had time on her hands until the children started showing up. And after that? Aunty Lee was sure she could persuade Cherril that it would be good for her children to have a working mother as a role model. Perhaps they could help create a children’s menu for Aunty Lee’s Delights . . .

  The two women were very different. Cherril, an expert in food and beverage service, could greet and seat customers in nine different languages and handle potentially life-threatening emergencies in high heels. Aunty Lee talked to customers in Singlish, treated them as guests in her own home, and only wore shoes that made her feet happy. But the two women bonded over a common love of current gossip—what Aunty Lee called “caring about people” and Cherril described as grassroots culture.

  The only problem now was Mark’s reluctance to formalize the handover of the business to Cherril. Was it the contents of the specially constructed wine room he found it difficult to let go of? Or was it Cherril’s eagerness to take over? Was Aunty Lee’s stepson one of those people who only valued what someone else wanted, the archetypal Singaporean who joined lines because anything worth queuing up for must be worth having?

  Aunty Lee shook herself. Mark and Cherril had already agreed to the handover and would sort things out between them. It must be so nice to be someone like Mabel Sung, Aunty Lee thought. You founded your own successful law firm and when you wanted to make your daughter a partner you just did it, without having to worry what your son thought about it. Aunty Lee looked around for Mabel Sung and her daughter, but neither seemed to be in the vicinity.

  Aunty Lee did not cope well with spare time on her hands (the buffet was already set up and there was nothing more to be done till people started eating seriously and top-ups were needed). Aunty Lee looked to see whether Cherril and Nina could use her help but they were standing together by the giant drinks coolers, equally idle and unemployed.

  Aunty Lee decided it would be wrong not to take the opportunity to explore the way that rich people lived—in particular that little pool house that might be a guesthouse or private chapel.

  Aunty Lee’s late husband used to tease her for her kiasu, kaypoh, em zai see approach to all food and all life. Kiasu in Singaporese meant “scared to lose,” a very Singaporean trait that induced citizens to take excessive precautions against being left out or left behind. Aunty Lee went further, going out of her way not only to be the first one in on whatever was happening but doing her best to make sure no one else was left out. As for being kaypoh, or busybody-like, as far as Aunty Lee was concerned what everyone else did was of great interest to her . . . which therefore made it her business. And her being em zao see, or not afraid to die, especially when following her nose or her instincts, probably explained why she usually got what she wanted. Right then she wanted to find out more about how people lived in this place.

  Because the little building on the other side of the swimming pool looked oddly out of place. Unlike the graceful (though modernized for air-conditioning) pseudo-Grecian colonial look of the main house, this obviously new construction was all brown brick and red trim with something greenish on the walls. It made Aunty Lee think of a factory-packed moon cake that had begun to turn moldy.

  It triggered Aunty Lee’s “Other People’s Place” response: Can I live there? How would I decorate it if I lived there? Size-and location-wise, it made a very pretty little dower house or granny flat. She could happily live (with Nina of course) in something that size if either Mark or Mathilda decided to move en famille into the Binjai Park bungalow. Entertaining and major celebrations would of course continue to be held at the main house and Aunty Lee would continue to be in charge of the kitchen operations . . . But the decoration would definitely need to be seen to . . .

  Aunty Lee peered at the wall for a closer look (if she had had a scraper at hand, she would have cleaned it up) and saw that what she had thought was mold was really thick paint. Green dots were painted on the wall—in fact, standing back, she saw that what she’d taken to be a creeper was actually a mural painted on the side of the building, cleverly seeming to send tendrils around the pipes. Aunty Lee prodded at a painted leaf with a tentative finger. It had a slightly spongy texture, as though the paint had puffed up after settling on the brick. Or as though it was cake icing. Aunty Lee wondered whether the artist who had done this would be willing to decorate cakes . . . he or she had real talent. Aunty Lee might make Singapore’s softest sponge cakes but her decorating skills stopped at arranging peach slices on them. She could not resist scratching at the paint with her fingernail just to see how firmly it was anchored to the painted wall . . . Suddenly a hand grasped her wrist firmly and pulled her away from the building.

  “Rosie Lee! How lovely to see you! You
r food all looks so good!” Mabel Sung said chattily to Aunty Lee as she linked an arm through Aunty Lee’s and led her back toward the buffet table. Mabel sounded slightly breathless, as though she had been running. Aunty Lee wondered whether to feel flattered by her welcome. Most clients, however friendly or concerned, did not expect her to be anchored to the food display.

  “It looks so professional. I mean like a restaurant or hotel caterer would do.”

  Aunty Lee agreed. It was not enough for food to taste good (which her food definitely did), and the range of the heated food display trays now gracing Mabel Sung’s poolside tables would not have looked out of place on any four-star hotel buffet counter.

  Mabel was wearing a pink-and-white floral-print dress. She looked older in person than in her photographs—somewhere in her late sixties, Aunty Lee thought. Her broad face still showed scars of adolescent acne and her assertive, commanding manner made her high, breathy little-girl voice a surprise.

  “I’m sure everybody going to love it. My assistant says your otak is the best in Singapore! If you want to hand out cards for your café, I don’t mind. You can treat this like a chance for free advertising. I’m sure your business will go up. All the people coming today are big fans of local food and they don’t mind spending if it’s as good as yours!”

  Mabel paused, giving Aunty Lee the chance to bond with her by offering to waive the cost of the brunch. Such a generous gesture, it was implied, was enough to transfer her from paid caterer to old family friend. But Aunty Lee had already inherited far too many family friends from her late husband to take the bait.

  “Your assistant already sent me the ten percent deposit. Can I pass you today’s bill?”

  “Oh, today’s party is all company expenses. If you just send an itemized bill to the company, somebody there will take care of it.”

  “If your company people are here today, maybe I can pass the bill to one of them?”

  Rich people, Aunty Lee thought, were the hardest to pin down when it came to money matters. They thought nothing of writing a check for a twenty-thousand-dollar donation if it got their name up on a wall but they never had enough change to leave a tip at the café.

  “Henry, look who’s here—”

  Henry Sung had already spoken to Aunty Lee. In fact it was he who had shown her where to connect the power supply for the chafing dishes and had unlocked the garden tap (“Can’t have the gardener using water without supervision”) for her.

  “Hello, Rosie.”

  “Did you see all the food? Doesn’t it all look wonderful? Rosie, you’re so clever. You must think about running classes for young women. Nowadays none of this younger generation knows how to cook,” Mabel said.

  “Mum, if she teaches the young women to cook for themselves, she’ll lose all her business, ha ha!”

  Aunty Lee beamed genially at Henry Sung. His wife ignored him.

  “Or shall I just pass the bill to Mr. Sung?” Aunty Lee asked.

  “Oh, Henry doesn’t have anything to do with this. Today’s party is hosted by my law firm. My husband is the medical side of the family. He has nothing to do with the law side of the family. We girls run the law business by ourselves. This is real feminism, you know. You know Sharon was in school with your husband’s girl . . . what was her name—Maureen? Maria? That one never came back from studying in England, right? Children grow up so fast. One day they are in school and the next day they are taking over the family business.”

  “This is Cherril, my new partner, who is taking care of the beverages side of the business for me.” Aunty Lee waved Cherril over to join them.

  “Hello, Mrs. Sung, Mr. Sung.” Cherril Lim-Peters smiled. “Would you like to try our new ginger–honey–almond milk freeze?” Henry accepted a glass, but Mabel Sung did not believe in wasting time on unimportant things or people.

  “I’m just going to put together a plate for Leonard. My son is not feeling well enough to join us today but he doesn’t want to miss your wonderful food. He’s been so looking forward to it. That’s your famous chicken buah keluak, right? I must take some of that for him.”

  Watching Mabel ladle huge servings onto plates her husband was commandeered to carry, Aunty Lee offered her a tray, which was graciously accepted, along with porcelain ramekins for achar and sambal.

  “I’ll be right back after I bring these up to him.”

  “These drinks are good—try one!”

  “Don’t be stupid, Henry. You know Lennie can’t take cold drinks.”

  There was definitely some underlying tension and resentment there, Aunty Lee thought. But with long-married couples, long-held resentments were sometimes the only thing that kept them together. She watched as Mabel Sung and her tray of food were stopped at the foot of the stairs by a slim, brown-skinned Chinese man.

  “What?” Mabel demanded. “Not now! Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  The man said something in a low voice that Aunty Lee could not catch despite her best eavesdropping skills. However, she had no difficulty hearing Mabel’s response.

  “I don’t see what for. None of the other guests are going up to the house, why should you bring her there?”

  Perhaps to use the toilet, Aunty Lee thought. Sometimes rich people overlooked the most obvious things. And it was obvious from everything she saw around her that the Sungs were rich people.

  The man looked insistent. Again he said something Aunty Lee could not make out. Aunty Lee reminded herself to dig out ML’s old hearing aid with its adjustable volume. Aunty Lee could still hear what she was supposed to hear but she needed artificial assistance to listen to everything else. She grabbed several ondeh-ondeh and headed toward them.

  Mabel Sung’s lips set in a grim line and she shook her head but said, “Okay, okay, okay,” to the thin dark man, who looked annoyed as Aunty Lee joined them.

  “Mabel, you must take some of my ondeh-ondeh for your son to try. Very fresh, I made specially this morning. Sir, you want to try? You take one bite, the gula melaka inside will burst out in your mouth!”

  “This is Edmond Yong,” Mabel Sung said. “He’s a doctor and he’s helping to look after my son. Edmond, of course you recognize our famous Aunty Lee?”

  “I’m Dr. Yong, pleased to meet you. I am the doctor in residence responsible for Leonard Sung’s health.”

  “Is something wrong with your son?” Aunty Lee asked with hopeful interest.

  “Oh no. Please don’t be alarmed. Nothing whatsoever is wrong. I just need you to excuse our charming hostess for a moment.”

  Aunty Lee thought Dr. Yong looked more like a poor relative than a guest or resident doctor. He was obviously familiar with the place and people but seemed socially awkward. Aunty Lee could tell his English, rather like Cherril’s, had been learned in school rather than “absorbed with mother’s milk.” He was not one of those who had coasted through school thanks to tutors and connections to emerge with an impressive degree and even more impressive sense of entitlement. Aunty Lee was fond of such characters. She liked Mabel Sung more for hiring him.

  Aunt Lee watched as the young doctor introduced Mabel Sung to a young woman with long hair. Now his manner reminded Aunty Lee of an irritatingly ingratiating insurance agent. And the woman? Aunty Lee’s first impression was that she looked like a match for Mabel Sung. She was probably in her thirties, but the makeup she was wearing made her look older. She was dressed for a business meeting rather than a brunch party and was clearly unfamiliar with her surroundings. Moreover, she was looking around with a mixture of impatience and contempt designed to show that she was not impressed. Aunty Lee could not hear most of the conversation but could tell that the three were talking in Mandarin. It was the woman’s Mandarin accent that marked her as coming from China rather than Singapore or Malaysia. In addition to English and Malay, Aunty Lee could shop, gossip, and eavesdrop in Hokkien, Teochew, and Cantonese. Surely she should be able to follow a simple Mandarin conversation? But no. All Aunty Lee could tell was that t
he woman was the dominant party in the dialogue and Edmond Yong was deferring to her. Indeed, even Mabel Sung was deferring to the woman, which Aunty Lee found very strange. Mabel Sung looked like she was eager to please, and even a little afraid of, the long-haired woman.

  Aunty Lee looked around for Cherril and found her staring in the same direction as she was. “I can’t believe it! What’s that guy doing here?”

  Aunty Lee said, “He is here looking after the Sung boy. You know him, ah?”

  “Like a bodyguard?”

  “He said he’s a doctor, so I suppose like a medical bodyguard. The Sung boy is supposed to be sick,” Aunty Lee said. “How do you know that man?” All her Aunty senses were tingling and she was picking up discomfort, awkward memories, embarrassment . . . this was no mere acquaintance of Cherril’s. “Ex-boyfriend, ah?”

  “No way!”

  “But he’s a doctor, right?” Aunty Lee pointed out, even more intrigued. On the Singaporean marriage scale, doctors generally outranked lawyers like Cherril’s husband. Even if Cherril found this particular doctor personally unappealing, she would not have dismissed him so vehemently unless there was a story there. Aunty Lee was always ready to hear a good story. To be on the safe side, she took the tray of celery and watermelon shooters Cherril was carrying and put it on the table beside them.

  “His name is Edmond Yong. He used to have a clinic at Bukit Timah Plaza,” Cherril said. She pulled out an insulated carrier from where it had been concealed under the overhanging tablecloth and emptied crushed ice into a large glass bowl. Thanks to her years as a flight attendant on Singapore’s premier airline, Cherril could lift weights like a bodybuilder while looking like a ballerina.