Four
VERA
So maybe it was a slight exaggeration when Vera told Millie that she has access to information that most people aren’t privy to. But what is life without a little exaggeration now and again? Or, as Vera likes to call it, a little razzle-dazzle.
The truth is, Vera has no idea where to even begin looking for Thomas. She looks down at her trusty notebook, in which she has jotted down everything Millie told her about Thomas. Apparently, his full name is Thomas Smith. Unfortunate, that, because when Vera did a search of “Thomas Smith” on the Google, it came up with about twelve million Thomas Smiths. His birth date is September 7, 2001. He is Chinese-Indonesian, but apparently his family has been in Indonesia for so many generations that he doesn’t speak Chinese. Not much to go on. Vera takes out her phone and enlarges the image of Thomas, zooming in on his face. He really is very good-looking. She tries googling “Thomas handsome San Francisco” and gets a whole lot of rubbish results. She scrolls through them, slowing down at the images of topless men, before her sensibilities get the better of her, then she slams down the phone and mutters, “What a waste of time.” Though that last Thomas with the six-pack was maybe worth a second look…
As Vera pries one side of the phone up for another guilty look, it rings. “Aiya!” She jumps, flipping the phone up into the air. She makes a frantic grab for it before it can crash to the floor and catches it just in time. She taps Answer and presses the phone to her ear. “Yes, hello, this is Vera Wong speaking!”
“Ma? You okay? You sound kinda out of breath.”
“Tilly. Yes, I’m okay, what silly question to ask.” Vera flaps a hand at her face, trying to cool it down. Of course the universe would have her son call right now. “Why you call?”
“Selena told me about the phone scam, and I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“Oh, that.” Somehow, even though it happened only earlier this morning, it feels like much more time has passed. That’s what getting involved in a proper case does for you , Vera thinks smugly. Modulating her voice so it comes out flippant and casual, she says, “Silly boy, no need to worry, it was very small issue only.”
“Okay…” Tilly doesn’t sound convinced.
“Anything else? I am very busy, you know,” Vera says quickly, to stop him from asking her more questions.
“Uh, well, if you’re sure you’re okay. Oh, I also wanted to ask if you’re still up for feeding Chichi this weekend? I could just ask Oliver—”
“Aiya, of course I am still up for that. Mothers do everything for their children, especially Chinese mothers.” If Vera were completely and ruthlessly honest with herself, she might have admitted to feeling a frisson of excitement at this point, because being alone in Tilly and Selena’s house means snooping will be achieved.
Unfortunately for Vera, the rest of the day whizzes by with a steady stream of customers wanting this tea and that tea—both the drinking kind and the gossiping kind—and so she doesn’t have much time to do another search for Thomas—both Millie’s kind and the kind with washboard abs. At some point, Riki messages her with a sheepish apology for not telling her about siomay Bandung and she huffs, making a mental note to surprise him with the dish next Sunday.
···
The next evening, which is a Tuesday, Vera goes to Tilly and Selena’s place after closing up the tea shop. She lets herself in, then calls out for Chichi. The cat slinks past her leg, and Vera pats it lightly on the back. “Are you lonely, dear?” she says, bustling to the kitchen and finding the stack of cat food and a few short instructions written in Tilly’s handwriting. She pours out a can of food for Chichi, then straightens up and looks around the house.
They’ve done a satisfactory job with the house. Some might even say an “amazing” job, but Vera is not one for overt praise. She can tell which were Tilly’s touches—the bookcase filled to the gills with thrillers and fantasy novels, the coffee table that is lovingly made out of repurposed crates, and the black-and-white photos adorning one wall of the living room. And the rest, well, the rest must be Selena’s. Vera strolls around the house, admiring Selena’s effect on the living space. The kitchen cabinets, which have glass doors, are filled with rows of mismatched cups and bowls. Though not a single one comes from the same set, the riot of colors somehow comes together to paint a beautiful picture. Vera smiles at that. Tilly used to live in a gray apartment with all-white plates and bowls. She likes this for him. The sofa is lined with colorful cushions, all of them mismatched and yet, like the cups, they somehow work together, transforming the space into something warm and inviting. Then there are the houseplants. Selena has a green thumb. Who would’ve thought? The plants are everywhere, their vines snaking across Tilly’s books and around lampshades. Ah, Selena. What a catch. Vera thanks the ancestors for bringing such a wonderful lady into Tilly’s life. Then she prays to the ancestors to watch over Tilly and make sure he doesn’t do anything to mess this up.
A loud thump from the bedroom makes Vera jump. She whirls around, her arms up. “I know kung fu!” she shouts. She doesn’t. Slowly, Vera creeps toward the bedroom, her hands still in the stance she reckons is martial arts–esque.
Vera slinks her arms through the crack in the doorway and flaps them a little just to show whomever’s inside that she means business. When there is no reply, she peeps around the door. Chichi looks at her guiltily from the dresser. Well, as guiltily as a cat can look, which isn’t very.
“Aiya, Chichi. You nearly give me heart attack. Bad cat. Bad.” Vera hurries over to retrieve the fallen object. Her heart, which was racing just moments ago, stops. Because what’s fallen from the dresser is a briefcase, and it isn’t Tilly’s. She picks it up and puts it upright on the dresser. Then she shoos Chichi out of the bedroom, closing the door tightly behind her. Outside of the bedroom, Vera smiles. She is proud of herself. A lesser person might get curious. A lesser person might give in to their curiosity. A lesser person might start snooping. But that’s not Vera, is it? No, Vera is a pillar of her community, a respectable woman with a thriving, busy life of her own to live. She does not need to snoop. She is fulfilled, content, totally and utterly—
The door to the bedroom swings open. Vera stands in the doorway, casting a long shadow across the bedroom, breathing hard. “Aiya, to hell with it,” she says, and strides in, then grabs the briefcase with a firm hand. It’s locked. Yet another sign that she shouldn’t pry. But there is no stopping Vera now. Like a shark that’s scented blood in the water, all of her senses have left her, and she is operating through primal instinct alone. Without hesitation, she reaches into her hair and pulls out a hairpin. These silly built-in briefcase locks are so flimsy. If Selena did not want anyone breaking into it, then she should’ve invested in a padlock. The lock practically springs open at the barest touch of Vera’s hairpin, so can Vera be blamed for opening it? Okay, yes, in truth it took Vera nearly fifteen minutes of fiddling with the hairpin before she managed to get the briefcase open.
And then it’s wide open, like a yawning mouth, and Vera stares at the treasure trove in front of her. Swallowing, she takes out the folders and places them with reverence on the coffee table. There are three folders in total. Three murder cases. Vera bites her lower lip to keep from squealing with childlike excitement. She allows herself a mental squeak. Eee! So exciting! Taking a deep breath, she opens the first one. Oh dear.
It’s a sadly not uncommon case: domestic violence that ended fatally. Vera winces at the photos and closes the folder with a heavy heart. She’s relieved to know that the abusive husband was apprehended at the scene of the crime, but sadness weighs on her narrow shoulders at the thought of the poor woman. And poor Selena, having to go through crime scenes like this one and study all the details to give to the prosecutor. No wonder she is often so tense. Vera makes a mental note to brew Selena some chrysanthemum tea to help her relax.
She opens the next folder. An armed robbery. Ooh. She reads the reports with wide eyes, the scene unfolding in her mind’s eye. Three armed robbers had burst into, of all places, a hedge fund. Vera doesn’t know why a fund that deals with hedges is worth robbing, but she soldiers on. In the ensuing chaos, one of the employees was shot. The police arrived soon after, and a shoot-out occurred, during which one of the robbers was killed and the other two apprehended.
“Wah,” Vera says, shaking her head. “Terrible stuff. Awful.” She opens the third and last file eagerly.
A dead body had been fished out of the water at Mile Rock Beach a day ago. Age approximately between twenty to thirty-five, Asian American male, five foot ten, 175 pounds. A John Doe. Suspected suicide.
How young to have taken his own life. The sadness weighing on Vera’s shoulders presses down harder. She thinks back to last year, when she came across Riki, Sana, Oliver, and Julia. Before meeting them, she’d assumed that young people nowadays were making up problems when there weren’t any to be had. What could possibly plague them? They’re so lucky, what with the Internet and smartphones basically opening up the world like a fat oyster, glistening with nothing but endless possibilities? But the more she learned from the four youngsters, the more she realized that though they are armed with new technology, their burdens are equally as deep as hers, if not worse. They live in a world full of unchecked capitalism that requires them to move at breakneck speed or threatens to leave them behind. So now, Vera is more attuned to the needs of the younger generation. She wishes she’d met this mysterious John Doe (what a name, she thinks, very spy- esque, like James Bond) so she could’ve stuffed him full of homemade food and well-meaning unsolicited advice.
Sighing, Vera turns the page. And freezes. Because there, in front of her, are photos of John. And he isn’t John at all but Millie’s missing friend Thomas.
···
The next two days plod along with excruciating slowness. Having taken photos of Thomas’s file, Vera returns the folders to Selena’s briefcase, locks it, and places it back on the dresser. Selena really should think of a new hiding spot if she really doesn’t want people to find this stuff. Then, Vera walks home with a troubled mind, torn between wanting to update Millie on what she has found and also not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. Still, she assures herself, there is no one better to receive bad news from. Coming from Vera, there is also added reassurance that it will be accompanied by a hot meal to stave off the sharp edges of sorrow.
But then Vera remembers that Millie hadn’t actually given her a contact number or any other way to get in touch with her. “Aiya!” How could Vera have missed such an obvious detail? “I’ll be back,” Millie had said, and like a complete fool, Vera had nodded and waved goodbye. Some sort of detective she is.
And so there is no choice but to wait patiently for Millie to return, and that is exactly what Vera will do. The next morning, she takes Emma to the park, where she tells off other children for various things, like not greeting their elders and for pronouncing their R s as W s. “Sorrrrry,” Vera says. “Not sowie.”
The little boy looks at her with plain confusion on his face. “I said that.”
“No, you say, ‘Sowie.’ Just because you’re—how old are you? Three? Yes, you are old enough to enunciate.”
“What is enun-sit?”
Vera sighs. Clearly there is no hope for this one.
The next day she spends with Sana and two of her friends, both of whom are artists. They take her to San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, where she complains about the ridiculousness of modern art. “I can do that,” Vera says, pointing to a concrete canvas that has been painted completely black. “I do for big discount, only fifty thousand dollars, a steal. Call the museum manager.”
Sana merely laughs and squeezes Vera’s arm. “Oh, Vera. You’re so tetchy today.”
“I’m not tetchy!” Vera says tetchily.
“It’s true though,” Sana’s friend says. “I mean, anyone could do that black thing. The only problem is, we didn’t think to do it before this dude did.”
Her other friend adds, “And we’re not white men, so we can’t just hand in a completely black canvas and say it is symbolic of the hopelessness of life and be lauded as artistic geniuses.”
Vera can’t help but smile at that. She likes Sana’s friends, even if one of them has purple hair and the other one has an eyebrow piercing. After that, she herds them back to her tea shop, where she feeds them to bursting and sends them home with containers filled to the brim with food.
The third day, Vera wakes up just about ready to scream with frustration. She’s been grateful for the company the past couple of days, but Thomas’s death has been quietly eating away at her. As she opens up the tea shop, she slips her phone out and opens up her Images folder for the umpteenth time, zooming in so she can read his case file again even though she’s pretty much memorized it by now.
Thankfully, during the late afternoon lull, the door tinkles open and Vera looks up, and there she is.
“Millie!” she cries, hurrying out from behind the counter.
Millie freezes, as though not expecting such an excited greeting. She looks like she has half a mind to turn and run away, but then Vera says, “I find your friend!” and Millie gasps.
“Come in, sit down,” Vera says, switching to Mandarin. “I’ll make us some tea.”
Millie perches gingerly on the chair as Vera bustles around and starts brewing tea. She chooses to make chrysanthemum tea, which she sweetens with rock sugar and dates, for its soothing effect. Now that Millie is actually here, Vera finds herself embarrassingly nervous, so she makes small talk as she fusses with the tea. To her credit, Millie answers all of Vera’s inane questions with impressive patience, even though she must be bursting with curiosity about poor Thomas. Only after Vera pours the tea does she sit down with a sigh. She waits for Millie to take a sip of the soothing tea before she breaks the news.
“I’m so sorry, my dear girl, but I’m afraid I have bad news for you.”
Millie utters a small gasp, the teacup halting halfway from her mouth. “Is he…?”
“He is—well, there is no easy way to say this, but Thomas is dead.” Vera catches Millie’s hand before she can drop the teacup, guiding her hand gently until the cup is placed on the table.
“How?” Millie whispers.
In answer, Vera takes out her phone and shows Millie the pictures she took of Thomas’s file. She is thoughtful enough not to show Millie Thomas’s dead body, just a photo of his face. “This is him, yes?”
“I—yes. How did you get these?”
“Ah, I cannot reveal my sources.” It’s a line Vera has heard numerous times on CSI , and she finds great pleasure in finally being able to say it herself.
Millie stares at the image of her dead friend. “He’s dead,” she mutters hollowly.
“I’m sorry, dear. And here it says, ‘Suspected suicide.’ Was he having a difficult time?”
Millie laughs, a choked, humorless sound. “Yes, I suppose you could say that. We all are, to be quite honest.”
Vera’s instincts prick up. Here is another young person in need, and what she needs is Vera. “Maybe you can talk to me, tell me why you’re having a hard time.”
“I can’t.” There is such finality to Millie’s tone that Vera knows better than to keep pressing.
Though she wants to, of course. It goes against her every instinct as a Chinese mother not to pry. But she has a feeling that if she does, she is bound to chase Millie away. So instead, she changes tack. “Is there a reason why the police think Thomas’s name is John?”
Confusion clouds Millie’s face. “I don’t understand.”
“Here, see? It says John Doe.”
“Oh. I think that’s just what they call people they can’t identify. The female version is Jane Doe.”
Vera frowns down at the image in her phone. “John and Jane Doe. Strange names for unidentified people. Well, anyway, why wouldn’t they know who Thomas is?”
Millie’s shoulders hunch up even smaller. “I don’t know.”
“Shall I go to the police and tell them his real name?”
If Millie were to shrink even more, she’d turn into a 2D line. “I don’t think Thomas is his real name either.”
Vera narrows her eyes. It doesn’t take a super sleuth like herself to know that Millie is hiding something. But again, she senses that Millie is like a jittery bird. Step toward her too quickly and she will take flight, and Vera has a feeling if that were to happen, she would never see Millie again. A soft tread, that’s what this needs. Aiya, she hates soft treads. She has always marched like an army general looking for a new recruit to bully, and now look at her, measuring her steps like a guilty child. Still, Vera prides herself as the odd old dog who can learn new tricks.
And now, she is about to reveal some important information to Millie, and Vera has prepared herself so she’ll catch every minute detail on Millie’s face when she does her dramatic reveal. Keeping her eyes on Millie, Vera scrolls to the next picture. “Did you know, though, that Thomas—or whoever he really was—was a social media star?”
Millie stares. The next image is a shot of an Instagram profile of someone named @XandaPanda. @XandaPanda has 1.1 million followers and what looks like a roaring social life filled with fancy parties and private jets. And @XandaPanda is undoubtedly Thomas. Vera herself had been extremely confused when she saw this in the police file, because isn’t this proof of Thomas’s identity? Vera had logged on to the Instagram herself and looked up @XandaPanda. According to his bio, he is “Xander Lin, dreamer and entrepreneur.” Why the police report hasn’t identified him as Xander Lin is beyond Vera’s understanding.
“Do you think this could be his real name?” Vera says.
Millie doesn’t answer. She’s still gaping in complete shock at the photo. She zooms in and Xander/Thomas’s laughing face expands across Vera’s phone screen. “I—this can’t be possible. Is that a private jet? But Thomas never—he wouldn’t be able to—” she sputters. Then, with a frustrated sigh, she says, “I have no idea what this is, but it can’t be Thomas. Even though it looks very much like him.”
Vera looks hard at Millie, trying to sense if she’s lying, but finds no traces of dishonesty. “Okay,” Vera says finally. “Don’t you worry about this. I will take care of it.”
Millie looks at her with wide eyes. “What do you mean? What’s there to take care of?”
“I’ll find out everything about Thomas or Xander or whoever he was. Why he died, why this, why that. Trust me, dear, I can smell an unfinished story miles away. Now, why don’t you give me your phone number so I can text you once I find something?”
Millie blanches, clearly not wanting to give Vera her number.
Soft tread, Vera reminds herself. “That’s all right. Here, take my number. Call me every afternoon so I can give you updates, okay?” Then she stands and goes around to the back of the counter, where she takes out a container. “I made you some almond cookies to take home.”
Is it just her, or does Millie look like she’s about to burst into tears? Vera pats Millie’s hands gently and pretends not to see the trembling of Millie’s chin. Millie nods wordlessly at her, takes the cookies, and rushes out the door. Vera sighs. Oh, young people nowadays. Everything seems to be so complicated for them. It’s a good thing they have her around to solve their problems for them.