Page 24 of Vera Wong's Unsolicited Advice for Murderers

Poor Riki turns red and sputters, “I’m not—um, I’m not constipated.”

Vera simply tuts as she serves up an extra-large portion of fish and black fungus on Riki’s plate. “I can always tell just from looking, you very constipated.” She turns her attention to Sana, who visibly shrinks back in her seat. “And you, you seem very chilly, too much yin. You should have more heaty foods, that will increase your yang. Here, spicy garlic tofu, will warm you up.” Sana sighs,probably relieved that Vera isn’t talking about her bowel movements. Vera side-eyes Oliver, and the back of his neck prickles. “And for you, Oliver, I make rice wine chicken with glutinous rice. Very comforting. I think you are needing some comfort food, yes?”

His stupid throat closes up at that, because, yes, Oliver does need comfort food, and a Chinese version of chicken soup sounds like something he would kill for right now. He nods as she spoons fat chunks of chicken, so tender that it’s falling off the bone, and rich broth into a bowl. It smells heavenly. Like coming home, Oliver thinks, inhaling its rich, complex scent.

For little Emma, Vera serves up a bowl of stewed beef noodles, and from somewhere in her pocket, Vera produces a pair of child’s chopsticks. The chopsticks are attached to each other at the top, so they’re easier to use. She places them in Emma’s hand and says, “Now you eat like a big girl, because you are my assistant, okay?” Emma nods and spears the chopsticks into her bowl, using them to shovel the thick noodles into her mouth.

Everyone digs in, and for a minute, the only sounds around the table are of cutlery clanging against bowls and plates. Vera is busy serving up more food onto people’s plates. Oliver has just taken two bites of his chicken stew when a pile of braised pork belly appears on his plate, alongside a mound of garlic-fried bok choy. He can’t remember the last time he gathered with other people and ate together like this. He can’t remember the last time he had food this good, food that doesn’t just fill you up, but also nourishes you, body and soul. With every bite, Oliver can feel the love and care that have gone into the preparation, and both his stomach and his heart are being fed right now.

“This is so good, Vera,” Sana says. She spears a chunk of tender pork belly and inhales its scent, closing her eyes. “Oh my god, thisis amazing. It’s just got that home-cooked taste that you know you’ll never find at any restaurant. I feel like a kid again.”

“Mm.” Riki nods, his mouth full of cod. He swallows and says, “To be fair, I’ve never had black fungus before, but I know what you mean. This food tastes familiar somehow. It’s kind of addictive, actually.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Julia says. “It tastes like food your grandma would make you.”

Vera smiles a quiet, knowing smile, then turns to Emma. “How is my sous chef doing? Wah, you almost finish it already!”

Emma grins and opens her mouth, showing a mouthful of half-chewed noodles. “I eat the yummy noodles.”

“Close your m—” Julia starts to say, but Vera says, “Oh yes, very good. You eat the yummy noodles,” and Julia’s mouth snaps shut. She stares at Vera. For a second, Oliver wonders if Julia is annoyed at Vera for the interruption, but she doesn’t seem irritated. She seems more... curious, looking at Vera in what Oliver can only describe as wonderment.

When Vera stands to give Emma a second helping of noodles, Julia mutters, “I’ve never seen her eat so well before. Usually I have to spoon-feed her, and she’ll be screaming and throwing the food everywhere.”

Oliver raises his eyebrows at her. “I guess not even two-year-olds can say no to Vera,” he says under his breath.

She laughs, and it’s a familiar laugh. For a moment, she looks just like the teen he was best friends with so many years ago. “I can’t imagine anyone saying no to Vera,” she whispers.

Oliver’s about to answer when he feels something wet tap his forearm. He turns to see that Emma has placed a noodle across his arm.

“Eat,” Emma says in that very serious way that only two-year-olds can muster. “ ’S good for you.”

“Oh my god, Emms,” Julia says, wiping her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” And it really, truly is. It’s the first time Oliver’s received a gift from his niece, and he does not intend to refuse it. He pinches the noodle between his thumb and index finger and says, “Hey, thanks, Emma.” Then he slurps it up with exaggerated noise and goes, “Mm-mm. You’re right, that was really good.”

Emma nods solemnly, and Oliver feels a fierce wave of love for this little kid who looks so much like Julia. It tears him up that he’s already missed out on so much of her life. Then Emma grabs another noodle with her bare hand and places it on Oliver’s open palm. “Eat more. ’S good for you.”

Maybe he should’ve thought twice about slurping up that first noodle.

•••

Oliver can’t remember the last time he’s felt so stuffed. Happy too. Full and satisfied and warm. Emma went into a food coma after her third bowl of noodles, and Julia picked her up and put her in her bedroom, so now there’s just the four adults plus Vera, gathered around the coffee table. They’re all wearing slightly glazed expressions, their brains only half functioning after the feast.

And that’s when Vera goes, “Okay, so now we talk real business. Which one of you here kill Marshall?”

It seems as though everyone not only stops talking but stops breathing as well. The air in the room freezes and it’s dead silent. Then someone coughs. Riki. He gives a choked laugh before clearing his throat. “Vera, come on.”

Vera deadpans him. “You think I’m not being serious? Why?”

“Wha—” Riki gestures helplessly. “Because—I don’t know, it’s ridiculous. And it’s kind of disrespectful of you to go to his widow’s house and accuse someone of murder?”

“Disrespectful?” Vera blinks, as though she’s just been slapped, and Oliver gets it. In Chinese culture, respect only flows in one direction, from the younger to the older, like a river. The older generation doesn’t owe the younger ones respect; if any is given, it is done so out of kindness and generosity, not necessity. So for someone as young as Riki to tell Vera that she’s crossed a line is inconceivable. Oliver is so torn. Part of him, of course, agrees that Vera has indeed crossed a line, coming into Julia’s house and openly accusing one of them of killing Marshall. But the other part of him, the one that’s been raised by two very traditional Chinese parents, is squirming with discomfort.

Before he can respond, Vera turns to Julia and takes her hand. “My dear,” Vera says, “I am sorry. I don’t disrespect you. I just want to solve your husband’s murder, is okay?”

“Uh...” Julia’s mouth opens and closes, and no words come out.

“Maybe you should leave it up to the police,” Oliver suggests.

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