Free Murder on Bamboo Lane by Naomi Hirahara Page B

was here,” I say, and my mother conveniently ignores me. I decide not to push my luck, and leave Shippo to peacefully nap in Noah’s dirty clothes.
    The camera is on a tripod in the living room, aimed toward my parents’ flowered couch, where we all sit.
    “You better not mail these Christmas cards to any of my friends,” Grandma warns Mom as the camera flashes shot after shot.
    Mom keeps going back and forth between her seat on the couch’s arm and the camera to make sure we all look good. Grandma, who has a blinking issue, only has her eyes fully open in one picture, the same picture in which I’m not smiling.
    “That’s fine,” I say. I’m with Grandma on this. The fewer people who receive our family Christmas card, the better. Mom finally relents because she decides that she can Photoshop a smiling face from another photo over my frowning one.
    “I have to get going,” I finally say. I have nowhere to go, but I’ve had my fill of family time. Shippo apparently has also had enough of my brother’s bedroom, since he practically runs out when I open the door.
    Mom follows us outside. “Tell Benjamin not to study so hard. We miss seeing him.”
    Me, too
, I think.
Me, too.
    • • •
    It’s still relatively early, nine o’clock, but I’m afraid to call Nay, in case the group from earlier in the week has decided to continue the party into Saturday night.
    I have other friends I could call, but all they want to know is if I know of any cute policemen they can date.
    With Shippo riding shotgun, secured in his doggy seat belt, I guide the Green Mile down Figueroa and notice the lights in one of the corner Catholic churches are still on. A banner out front announces a health fair that was scheduled for there today. The thing about Catholic churches, especially those in the hood, is that they are always open 24-7.
    I’ve visited this church a couple of times. Not for mass—I stopped going after high school. Dad’s the only Catholic in our immediate family. He goes to a parish in Little Tokyo; again, he likes hanging out with Japanese people more than we do. Grandma Toma calls herself a nonpracticing Buddhist, which I think may work for Buddhists, but to be a nonpracticing Catholic is an oxymoron. So I’m officially not Catholic, though I occasionally stop by the office next to the chapel here to chat with the priest.
    Father Kwame is from Ghana, on the west coast of Africa. He’s small, way smaller than me, in both height and weight. I’m usually pretty proud of being bilingual in English and Spanish with a smattering of Japanese. But Father Kwame speaks seven languages, including Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese and Thai, which puts me to shame.
    I leave Shippo in the car but crack the window open so he can get some fresh air.
    After ringing the doorbell for Father Kwame’s office, I hear the priest’s voice over the intercom.
    “Hi, Father. It’s Ellie Rush.” Shippo whimpers from the car.
    The buzzer immediately sounds, and I open the door into the small, carpeted reception area.
    “Ellie, you are looking well,” Father Kwame welcomes me. “Come in, come in. Have some tea with me.”
    I look back at the Green Mile, Shippo’s tongue sticking out of the crack.
I haven’t forgotten about you, sweetie.
“Ah, would it be okay to bring in my dog?”
    “Of course, of course. Sister Agnes took her cat with her to her apartment.”
    We sit in his corner office. Shippo seems to somehow know we’re in a semi-holy place, because he puts his paws together in front of him on the floor. Father Kwame brings me tea in a cup and saucer and returns to his chair behind his desk. A floor lamp in the corner makes the room feel cozy and intimate.
    “How was your health fair?” I ask after taking a sip of the tea.
    “Full house, as usual. Line around the block. But you didn’t come to talk about our fair.”
    What gives me away? I take a big breath and begin. “I kind of feel lost, Father. Like my friends