Free Murder on Bamboo Lane by Naomi Hirahara

carried something so heavy on the plane back home.
    I read the title out loud: “
The Bone People
.”
    “It’s a classic. I read it during my flight. The author’s part Maori.” Lita dives back into her travel bag. “And I got something for Benjamin, too.” It’s a CD of music from a New Zealand reggae band.
    “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” I say. Louder, in my head:
You really shouldn’t have, Lita.
    “He likes reggae, right?”
    The basketball game must have ended, thankfully, because Grandma Toma then joins us.
    “Dorothy, my, don’t you look so festive in your costume!”
    Grandma Toma puckers her lips as if she’s found something sour in her mouth.
    “I got you something, too, from New Zealand.” Lita takes out a tiny sweater that could be worn by a third grader.
    Grandma Toma frowns deeper. “It’s too small. And I don’t need wool in Southern California.” She then heads for her seat at the dining room table.
    “Oh, I guess I misjudged,” Lita says to the rest of us. “She just seems so small when I imagine her.”
    Dad takes the sweater from Lita. “That was very thoughtful of you. I’m sure that we can do something with it.” Dad, forever the peacemaker. Something tells me that he will be busy tonight.
    We start eating without Aunt Cheryl. We’re about halfway through our meal when the doorbell rings three times in a row. Aunt Cheryl is not used to being kept waiting, but Mom takes her time going to the door.
    “You brought salad from the grocery store?” I hear Mom’s voice. “At least you could have gone to one of those take-out places in Little Tokyo.”
    “Listen, I’m here. Let’s not make a big deal out of this, okay?”
    I exchange looks with Noah. It’s going to be an interesting evening. Holding a little blue bag from Tiffany, Aunt Cheryl finally makes her way to the dining room.
    “Hello, everyone,” she says, and Grandma’s face immediately lights up. She can’t wait to get up and enfold her oldest daughter in her arms. Aunt Cheryl is older by three years, making her Grandma’s favorite, according to Mom. She very well may have a point.
    After embracing, Aunt Cheryl takes a better look at Grandma. “Mom, what are you wearing?”
    “I got you something from New Zealand.” Lita bursts from her seat. She doesn’t like to share the spotlight, and with Aunt Cheryl there, all attention is on Ms. LAPD. Lita places something oval and green in Aunt Cheryl’s palm. “Kiwi soap.”
    “Oh,” Aunt Cheryl says, looking a bit confused. “Thank you?”
    As Aunt Cheryl settles in at the table, I concentrate on finishing my plate: the bits of chicken, Korean kalbi, musubi, pickled cabbage and crumbs of pork tamale. I’m thankful that my aunt’s sitting on the other side, because I don’t know what I’ll say if she asks me about Jenny. Susana asked—well, almost demanded—that I keep her identity a secret. She didn’t know that I’d soon be sitting at the family dining room with an assistant chief of police.
    “Well, I have to go,” Lita announces after about thirty minutes. She rises, tossing one of her colorful scarves around her neck.
    “What? No birthday cake?” Dad asks.
    “I have a date with someone I met in my salsa class.”
    Neither Mom nor Grandma Toma looks that disappointed at Lita’s exit. Both Noah and I, however, get up to give her a hug good-bye.
    When we return, there’s a cake on the table. It’s from Porto’s in Glendale, and this one, like all the others they make, is a stunner. It’s chocolate adorned with a sliced strawberry, a kiwi (Lita would have liked that) and the strange husk of a tropical fruit. There are stupid jokes about placing eighty-eight candles on the cake; Mom, of course, opts for eight. Grandma blows the candles out in a couple of tries. Taking my slice with me, I release Shippo from Noah’s room to take a pee in the backyard.
    As Shippo sniffs around, I take a seat on the back porch. I’m finishing the last bit of