“Sorry, sweetie—”
Too late. Emma’s mouth opens wide and she emits a piercing wail. The only time Emma isn’t quiet or shy is when she cries.
Both officers look like they want nothing more than to run out of the house.
“Sorry, this really isn’t a good time,” Julia says, which is a strange thing to say, isn’t it? It’s not the thing to say to officers who are trying to talk to you about your spouse’s demise. Is it? Who knows what the proper thing to say is? Julia is sure she looks guilty. She feels guilty, asking herself what an innocent person would say, as though she isn’t innocent. But then again, she isn’t. She has so much to hide, and part of her is grateful that Emma is shrieking because it gives her an excuse to kick these officers out. She stands, grunting under Emma’s weight.
“All right, if you do think of something, give us a call.” Officer Gray has to shout to make herself heard over the din. She takes out a business card and places it on the coffee table before she and her partner stand and stride toward the door. Julia notices the striding, so confident, with a definite destination in mind. She can’t remember when the last time was that she’d walked with such sureness. Nowadays, she walks with her shoulders rounded, her head perpetually bent to the ground, eyes glued to the top of Emma’s head.
At the door, Officer Gray pauses and turns to face Julia. Their eyes meet, and Julia almost sobs because there is so much pity in Officer Gray’s eyes. But then Officer Gray’s gaze slides down to the trash bags, and Julia goes cold as she watches the officer’s expression harden. There is no way that she doesn’t spot the PlayStation this time, along with the silk ties. She must know these are bags filled with Marshall’s things, lined up by the door as though Julia had foreseen his death. Officer Gray says something, but Julia can’t hear her above Emma’s wails. Then she shouts, “We’ll be in touch.”
Julia doesn’t wait for them to turn and walk away before shutting the door and hurrying over to the sofa, where she nurses Emma. She doesn’t even realize she’s crying until a tear plops on Emma’s cheek, and after that there’s no use trying to stop the sobs from shuddering through her body.
FOUR
VERA
It is 8:55 p.m., almost a whole half hour past Vera’s bedtime. She can’t remember the last time she failed to fall asleep at eight thirty p.m.; Vera goes to sleep very promptly every night. She’s never understood people who have difficulties sleeping. For Vera, sleep, like most other things in life, is a matter of discipline and willpower. Every night, as she slaps on her numerous moisturizers, she tells her body that it is almost time for it to retire for the night, and it never disappoints.
Except for tonight. Tonight, Vera finds herself lying in the dark, rolling the hem of her blanket between her thumb and index finger restlessly. For the sixth time, she takes a deep, forceful breath and mentally demands that her brain shut down for the night. Like a surly teenager, her brain ignores her, remaining stubbornly awake.
When the red numbers on the clock turn to nine p.m., Vera gives up trying to beat her consciousness into submission and rises. She gives an annoyed huff and shuffles out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. She turns the kitchen light on and winces at the sudden brightness. When her eyes finally adjust to the light, Vera potters about, making herself a nice cup of caffeine-free chrysanthemum tea. As she works, she chides herself for being silly. Why should the mere discovery of a dead body in her little shop make her lose sleep? She’s being indulgent, that’s what she’s being.
But then again, a small voice pipes up, it’s not the dead body, is it? It’s the other thing.
Vera sighs. Sometimes, she hates her own mind for being so astute. The kettle boils then, so she pours the water into her mug and watches as the dried chrysanthemum flower unfurls gently before toddling over to the dining table. She sits down and automatically, her eyes flick to the tissue box in the middle of the table. Unbidden, memories from earlier that day flood her consciousness.
* * *
• • •
By the time the police arrive, Vera is relatively calm. Well, her heartbeat is a little bit elevated, but since the dead man is lying just two paces away from where she sits, Vera supposes this is acceptable. She’s prepared for the cops—she’s boiled enough water for three whole teapots and prepped each pot with a pinch of Longjing tea paired with ginkgo leaves, a combination known for sharpening the mind and ensuring that the police officers will do their best investigative work here. Maybe they will be so impressed by how clearly their minds are working after just one sip of Vera’s magical tea that the station will become regular customers. Maybe they might even spread the word to other precincts and she’ll soon have to fulfill regular bulk orders to all of the police departments in the whole of the Bay Area.
She’s also tidied up the shop a little. Well, around the body, of course. Vera has watched enough CSI to know that she mustn’t touch the body itself in order to preserve any traces of the culprit’s DNA, but she’s not about to let a whole swarm of police officers into her tea shop without sprucing the place up a little. She’s gone upstairs to the apartment and fetched a particularly pretty vase, as well as an ancient framed photo of herself in her twenties, just so they know that she used to be quite the looker in her time. She almost swept up the broken glass from the front door but remembered that it was probably evidence. She’s very proud of her crime scene; it must surely be the most pleasant crime scene the cops have ever been to.
When the cops arrive, Vera greets them at the door with a tray of freshly brewed tea, but they actually push her aside—gently, of course, but still—and tell her, “Ma’am, please stand out of the way.”
“But—” It takes a second for Vera to gather her mind as three officers tromp into her tiny shop. “I have prepare some tea for you. You better drink it now, before you start investigating. It is Longjing and ginkgo leaves, known for clearing your mind.”
The first police officer, the one who pushed her aside like she was a child, barely spares her a glance. “Ma’am, we’re not going to eat or drink anything here. Gray? Can you?” He gestures at another officer and cocks his head at Vera.
Officer Gray, a kind-looking Black officer who looks about Tilly’s age, walks toward Vera. She’s wearing a polite smile. “Ma’am, can you step outside for a moment? I need to take your statement.”
“Oh, no, thank you,” Vera says quickly. “I need to stay and make sure your friends don’t miss anything.”
“What the—?” the first officer mutters. “Hey, ma’am, who drew the outline around the deceased?”
“Ah.” Vera swells with pride. They have noticed just how helpful and resourceful Vera is. “I do it. I save you some work.” Vera knew what was supposed to happen at crime scenes—the police would draw an outline around the body using tape, but unfortunately, Vera was rather short on tape, so she had to make do with a Sharpie. She had been ever so careful as she drew the outline, making sure to leave about a half-inch gap between the Sharpie tip and the body so she didn’t come into contact with it. The resulting outline is, if she may say so, excellent—both accurate and clear. She should tell the cops to switch from tape to Sharpie.